The Dream Stalker

by Margaret Coel

  She slammed out of the Bronco and ran up the sidewalk. Inside the office next to the entry, the secretary was bent over an opened filing drawer. “Gianelli in?” Vicky asked from the doorway.

  The secretary closed the drawer and started toward the desk. “I’ll tell him you’re here, Ms. Holden.”

  Vicky crossed the entry and ran up the stairs against the opposite wall. “Wait,” the secretary yelled from the doorway.

  In the center of one of the doors on the second floor she saw a plastic plaque with Gianelli’s name. She rapped on the door. The muffled sounds of some opera floated toward her and mixed with the hard, quick sounds of her own breathing. Suddenly the door swung open. The agent stood beside it, one hand on the edge. “Vicky, what’s happened?”

  “I’ve got it.” She stepped past him.

  “What have you got?” Gianelli slammed the door and crossed the office. He sank into the squat, wide-backed chair behind the desk and gestured for her to take one of the two straight-backed chairs on the other side.

  “I know what’s been going on,” Vicky began, the words coming in a rush. “Lionel Redbull bribed the consultants who prepared the environmental report for the nuclear storage facility. He admits he threatened me, and he may very well know who killed Matthew Bosse—”

  “Wait a minute.” The agent spread both hands in the air, palms toward her. “These are serious allegations.”

  “You bet they are.” Vicky rummaged through her purse, extracted the recorder, and popped out the tape. She handed it across the desk. Gianelli picked it up and turned it slowly in his hand, black eyebrows knit together in a bushy line. “It’s all there,” she said.

  The agent exhaled a long breath before lifting himself out of the chair and walking to the stereo cabinet. He flipped several switches. The music stopped, an abrupt falling off, as if the aria had ended in midnote. After a second, Vicky heard the sound of her own voice. Gianelli took his chair again, staring at her as Redbull’s voice, then hers, wafted through the room.

  The tape ended, and Gianelli was quiet, his eyes still on her. After a moment he said, “I can’t believe you did that. Why in God’s name didn’t you bring your suspicions to this office? Do you realize the danger you’ve placed yourself in?” He sounded as if he were scolding one of his children.

  Vicky leaned forward. “Lionel Redbull admitted what he’s been doing. He never would have admitted it any other way, and you know it, Gianelli.”

  The agent raised his eyes to the ceiling a moment. “Well, now you’ve started it, I guess we’re going to have to finish it.”

  “Lionel will be in my office at six o’clock.” She glanced at her watch—less than three hours to go. “I can tape him paying me the $250,000. You’ll have all the evidence—”

  “Hold on,” Gianelli interrupted. “You’re not going to be there.”

  “Of course I’ll be there. How else can we prove he’s using the grant money to pay bribes?”

  The agent shook his head. “You heard what Redbull said. You’re playing a dangerous game, Vicky. Somebody’s stalking you, somebody’s tried to kill you, and if it isn’t Redbull it’s whoever he’s working with. We don’t know how big this thing is, who might be involved. You’ve just set yourself up to be murdered. I’m not going to let you meet him and whatever thugs he happens to bring along. Forget it.”

  Vicky jumped to her feet and began pacing the small office. “I know the dangers,” she said. “I’m willing to accept them.”

  The agent said, “Lionel can deny he meant anything on that tape, you know. He can turn the tables on you. He can claim you tried to blackmail him and he only went along to get the evidence on you.”

  Vicky stopped pacing and leaned over the desk, gripping the edges. “Not if you back me up. Don’t you see, Gianelli? The facility must be stopped. This is the chance to stop it. When the joint council learns that critical information was deliberately left out of the report, the vote will be canceled. And everybody will start wondering what else was left out. They’ll question all the data in the report; they’ll start questioning the safety. It will be the end of the facility.”

  Gianelli set both hands on the desk and pushed himself to his feet. “You’re a hard woman to convince, Vicky. You sure you understand what this involves?”

  She nodded.

  “Okay, I’ll fix you up with a body mike. I’ll be there, too.”

  “I have to be alone. If Lionel gets any hint you’re around, he’ll run for sure. Then he’ll certainly deny everything on the tape.”

  “Is there someplace in your office where I can be out of sight? And I don’t mean under the desk.”

  Vicky closed her eyes, trying to focus her mind on the office: the receptionist’s office, her private office, the back hall, hardly big enough to turn around in, with a door to the restroom, another door to the back stairs.

  “There’s no place,” Vicky said, opening her eyes. “He’d be sure to check the back hall and restroom.”

  “I don’t like it, Vicky.” Gianelli shook his head, and his entire upper body seemed to shake. “I can be outside somewhere, close by. And I can ask the Lander PD for assistance, but if anything goes wrong . . . I can’t guarantee we can get up to your office in time.”

  Vicky sank into the chair. She didn’t want to face Redbull alone—he frightened her. She had heard the crush of the desk under his fist. She understood a man’s violence. She had been married to a violent man. She drew her breath in slowly. “Gianelli,” she said, “I just don’t see any other way.”

  29

  The clouds clamped together, like a sheet of steel hung from the sky. A slow, rhythmic drizzle ran over the windshield. Father John stared past the wipers at the asphalt on Seventeen-Mile Road, shiny as a mirror. He stopped at the intersection, then joined the traffic heading into Riverton. At the corner of Federal Boulevard and Park Avenue, he wheeled left and continued for a few blocks, drawing up in front of the low-slung modern building that housed the Riverton Library.

  The librarian raised both eyes over the rimless glasses perched at the end of her nose. A slim silver chain dangled from the earpieces and hung over her white sweater. “Father O’Malley, I believe you have some books overdue.”

  She was right. Two books, one on the Civil War, another on the war on the Plains, both waiting until he found the time. He never seemed to have the time. He fished in the small pocket of his blue jeans and brought out a dollar bill.

  “Oh, I don’t want your money,” she said, pushing his hand away. “Keep it for those Indian kids. I’ll just renew the books.” She began tapping on the keyboard of the computer that occupied the counter.

  “I’d like to see some old newspapers,” he said.

  She shook her head. “You history people. You don’t like anything unless it’s old. What’s wrong with today’s paper?”

  “How about the Central Wyoming News from thirty years ago?” He clasped his hands and set them on the counter.

  “Oh, dear me,” the librarian said. “That will take some work. We don’t have old newspapers on microfilm like some libraries. We’re working on it, but it’s a major job. And the cost . . .” She rolled her eyes.

  “Do you have the newspapers?”

  “Oh, yes, they’re stored in the basement. They’re bound in very large books. I’ll have to ask someone to bring them upstairs. If you want to come back in a couple days, I’m sure I can make them available to you.”

  “What if I just looked at them in the basement?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” the librarian said. “It’s highly irregular.”

  “It won’t take long.”

  She glanced around the reading room. They were the only ones there. “I’ll show you.”

  He followed her down wooden stairs that felt solid beneath his footsteps. A strip of light shone through the open doorway above. Along one side was a wall of red bricks held together with thick cement, the foundation wall. He smelled the musty odors of mildew
ed paper and dried ink, the transmitters of history.

  At the bottom of the stairs, the librarian flipped a switch, and a yellow light illuminated a space the size of a small gym. They walked across the cement floor, down aisles of metal shelving stuffed with books, papers, and cardboard folders.

  “What are you looking for, Father?” The woman glanced over one shoulder, her voice reverberating in the cool space.

  “A murder thirty years ago on the reservation.” Polite conversation. He didn’t want to go into details.

  Another glance over the shoulder. “Good luck, Father. There are so many murders on the reservation.”

  They stopped in the shadows next to large bins along the far wall. Each bin held a stack of gigantic books bound in black cloth. On the spines, embossed in gold, were the words Central Wyoming News and dates. The earliest, 1880.

  The librarian walked along the bins, touching the spines in a tender gesture. She stopped, her fingers resting on one volume. “This is what you’ll want. You can work at the sorting table.” She nodded toward a wooden benchlike table in the shadows next to the adjoining wall.

  Thanking her, he lifted the volume from the bin and carried it to the table. The sound of footsteps filled the dead air as the librarian made her way back among the shelves and up the stairs.

  He laid the top cover back gently. It crackled with stiffness, resisting the intrusion. He could smell the dust as he ran his hand along the top page, flattening the slight hump in the middle. January first. The murder would be front page news, he thought. He could skip quickly from front page to front page. Then the librarian’s comment came to him: so many murders on the reservation. He would have to check all the pages, skipping only the sports and comics and classifieds. He sighed at the thick stack of newspapers beneath his hand as he began turning the pages. He glanced quickly down the columns.

  Suddenly he stopped. What was he thinking? The cowboy had told him the exact date Tinzant Legeau was murdered. “I seen it all. Today’s the day.” Gabriel Many Horses had called the mission on the anniversary of the murder.

  Father John lifted almost half of the newspapers and rolled the thick stack onto the side. He spread a smaller stack over the first hump, then thumbed through several more pages until he came to May sixth, the day of the murder. Locating the last page, he pushed that issue onto the hump and began scanning the front page of the next day’s issue. No mention of a murder.

  He found it on page four, a two-inch article tucked near the bottom under the headline RANCHER MURDERED. The basic facts: Tinzant Legeau, age 71, found murdered in the barn at his ranch in Wildhorse Flats. Head bashed in. Murder weapon appeared to be a shovel.

  In the newspaper two days later, he located another small article with the headline COWBOY CHARGED IN RANCHER’S MURDER. Anton Hooshie—the article called him a drifter—was arrested and charged in the murder of Tinzant Legeau. Trial date was set for August fourteenth.

  A flip through more pages, and Father John had the article about the murder trial. In the federal court in Casper, Anton Hooshie was found guilty and sentenced to life in prison. Testifying for the prosecution was the only eyewitness to the murder—Gabriel Many Horses.

  Father John read through the article again, the cowboy’s words reverberating in his mind: I seen what happened. An old murder, a lie that sent an innocent man to prison. A heavy weight to bear for thirty years. I can’t keep it inside no more.

  Father John took his time closing the volume, smoothing the pages section by section—the records of lives lived. He set the top cover in place. In his mind, the pattern was beginning to arrange itself into a logical sequence. No one had benefited more from the death of Tinzant Legeau than his nephew and heir, Alexander.

  And just as Alexander was about to reap his greatest rewards, the cowboy had reappeared. In a moment of spoken truth, Alexander Legeau’s dream would have been destroyed. But Gabriel hadn’t been sure where to find Anton Hooshie, the man he’d sent to prison. So he’d dropped a couple of postcards into the mail. He’d met Matthew at Betty’s Place. And Matthew had confronted Alexander Legeau. Somehow Legeau had then arranged to meet the cowboy himself one night. He’d picked him up outside Betty’s Place minutes after Many Horses had called the mission. The realization made Father John feel almost sick. It was always sickening to visualize the human face of a murderer.

  Vicky was still in danger; she would be in danger as long as Legeau was free. Father John stuffed the volume of newspapers back into the bin and hurried through the aisles of metal shelving. He took the stairs two at a time and burst through the door. The librarian looked up, startled, as he ran across the library. “Find what you were looking for, Father?” she called as he slammed out the front door.

  Gianelli’s office was about a mile away. Father John was there in two minutes, tires squealing as he set the Toyota next to the curb. He jumped out, throwing the door shut behind him, and ran through the drizzle. He let himself in and started up the stairs just as the agent swung around the second story railing. He was in a dark slicker, the hood pulled around his face.

  “Thank God you’re here,” Father John said.

  The agent passed him on the stairs. “Whatever it is, John, save it for later. Call just came through. I have to get out to the reservation.”

  “This can’t wait, Gianelli. I know who killed Bosse and Many Horses.”

  “For God’s sake, John.” Gianelli stopped about halfway down the stairs, gripped the bannister, and turned around. “We can talk later.”

  “Vicky’s in danger now.”

  “Damn right she’s in danger. How’d you know?”

  “What?”

  The agent drew in a long breath. “Vicky was supposed to meet Lionel Redbull at her office at six o’clock. He thought she had some information about the Legeau ranch that would scuttle the facility. He was going to pay her for it, just like he paid off the consultants, and she would get the whole transaction on tape. We had it all worked out. Soon as it happened, I would’ve arrested him. Only . . .”

  “What, Gianelli, what?” Father John could feel his heart thumping.

  “Redbull was just found in his truck out in back of the tribal offices. Face shot off.”

  “My God, Gianelli!” Father John shouted. “Legeau killed him to stop him from talking to Vicky! And now he’s going to kill her. How could you put her in that kind of danger? How could you let her do that?”

  “Let her?” Now the agent was shouting. “You don’t understand anything about that woman, do you? She was determined to do it! I just left a message on her answering machine that she should get the hell away from the office. And Eberhart’s sending a couple cars over. They’ll be there in minutes.”

  “What if Legeau gets there first?” Father John pushed past the agent and ran down the stairs. He could hear the other man’s footsteps pounding after him.

  “She’ll be okay.”

  “God help you if she isn’t!” Father John yelled as he slammed out the door.

  30

  Vicky stood at the window watching the intersection below. Cars and pickups rolled past, splattering in the rain. Other cars pulled up at the stop signs before dashing across Main: people on their way home from work. She slipped a hand past her blouse and felt again for the tiny microphone clipped to her bra between her breasts. Then she took in a long breath and exhaled slowly, trying to ignore the fear inside her. She glanced at her watch. It was already a few minutes after six, and none of the vehicles seemed to be stopping.

  Maybe Lionel wasn’t coming. He could’ve changed his mind and decided to go to the FBI himself, to accuse her of blackmailing him. But if he tried to turn the tables, he ran the risk of prompting an investigation on how he’d allocated the grant money. He couldn’t win. He had no choice but to come for the documents.

  The phone jangled in the outer office, startling her. Vicky kept her post by the window. She didn’t want to miss Redbull’s arrival. The answering machine would take the
message. She’d turned down the volume so no other voices would interfere as the recorder taped whatever Redbull said.

  The rain danced across the window, ran into little pools on the sill outside. Vicky debated about calling the tribal offices. Something might have delayed the project director, some unexpected meeting. That was it! He’d been delayed, tried to call her, and she had allowed the machine to take the call. He probably thought she’d changed her mind.

  Vicky pivoted around and hurried to the outer office. Just as she was about to push the Message button, she heard the slurry of footsteps in the corridor, soft and slow. Not what she had expected. She had expected Lionel to bound up the stairs and burst through the door, anxious to get the documents. It was his violence, she knew, that frightened her.

  The footsteps crept closer. Vicky stood still, scarcely breathing, all her senses waiting for the next footstep to fall. So unlike Redbull. She pushed in the Message button, keeping her eyes on the door, expecting it to fling open. The message was barely audible. She leaned over the desk, close to the machine. For a moment, she didn’t recognize the voice. Then she realized it was Gianelli’s. A pang of fear shot through her; she had trouble catching her breath.

  The agent repeated her name. “Vicky. Vicky. Vicky. If you’re there, pick up. It’s important.” Her name again, then: “Get away from the office, do you hear me? Redbull’s not coming. Somebody shot him. Get out of there fast.”

  Vicky jerked her head up, eyes still fixed on the door. The whir of the tape, the sound of her own breathing filled the office. A shadow moved across the frosted glass pane, the knob began to turn. In an instant, her mind calculated the distance to the door—to the bolt. Ten feet, twelve, a thousand. She couldn’t make it.