She wheeled around and ran into her private office, slamming the door behind her. Then she was in the back hallway, as if she had materialized there. When had she passed her desk, passed the chairs? Her purse—where had she left it? Her keys were in the purse. “Oh, God,” she said out loud. The purse was on her desk.
She dashed back to the desk. Someone was in the outer office; she could sense the human presence. She grabbed the purse, gripping it in the soft underbelly. The contents burped out and spilled onto the floor. God, the keys. She dropped to her knees, running her hand across the carpet, searching for the little clump of metal. Her fingers closed on something; there was no feeling in her hand, but the keys were there, inert things, like her fingers. She jumped up, ran into the hallway, and hit the back door, pushing the bolt with all her strength. It slid sideways, a loud, grating sound, and she was outside, racing down the stairs to the parking lot.
She sprinted for the Bronco, stumbling once on the gravel, rain spitting at her face. The keys faltered in her hand, missed the lock. She forced herself to concentrate, to jam the key into the tiny slot. She yanked open the door and threw herself inside, jabbing the key now into the ignition. The engine growled, and she was wheeling the Bronco through the lot, down the side street, past the black truck parked at the curb, a dark blur in the rain.
She took a sharp right and headed west toward the police department. Eberhart’s office was only a few blocks away. She was partway down the block when the black truck burst out of the alley, blocking her way. She slammed on the brakes, twisting the steering wheel into a U-turn. Tires screamed as the Bronco tore east, away from the police department.
She swung onto Main Street and drove north. As she made the right turn onto Highway 789, she glanced at the rearview mirror. The black truck was behind her.
31
Father John drove south through Riverton, stepping on the gas as the lights turned yellow, flying across intersections on the red. He swung west onto Seventeen-Mile Road. After a couple of miles, he headed south on Rendezvous Road, swerving around pickups, an occasional 4×4, any vehicle that got in the way. The air was heavy with clouds; the plains rolled past, as shiny as a mirror in the rain.
He let up on the gas pedal as he wheeled through Hudson, then stomped down for the final dash into Lander. He glanced at his watch: 6:25. The moment he turned into Main Street, he spotted the two police cars in front of the flat-roofed, two-story building squatting at the next corner. He parked behind one of the cars. The engine shuddered as he slammed out the door and started running up the stairway. A dim light glowed on the right. He swerved around the parapet and started down the corridor toward Vicky’s office on the left.
A police officer in the light blue shirt and navy trousers of the Lander Police Department stood inside the doorway. Beyond him, Father John could see other policemen milling about. “Where’s Vicky?” he yelled.
“Who are you?” The first police officer swung around as Detective Eberhart walked out of Vicky’s private office.
“Father O’Malley,” the detective called. “Any idea where Vicky might’ve gone?”
“She was supposed to meet Redbull here thirty minutes ago!”
Eberhart glanced at the uniformed officer. “We didn’t get the call from Gianelli . . .”
“When did you get here?”
“Fifteen minutes ago.” This from the uniform.
“My God. She was here alone.” Father John could feel the perspiration on his forehead. His palms were clammy.
Eberhart said, “Gianelli left a message. She might’ve heard it and got out of here.”
“What if she didn’t?”
The detective rocked forward, both fists clenched at his sides. “We got cars on the street looking for a black truck. If it’s out there, we’ll find it.”
“She could have gone home.” Father John spun around and started down the corridor.
“She’s not answering the phone if she did!” Eberhart yelled after him. “I got some cars on the way.”
Father John wheeled the Toyota into the street, almost sideswiping a passing sedan. Traffic inched through Lander. He thumped the steering wheel with one fist, cursing under his breath, until he finally reached the turn into the residential neighborhood where Vicky lived. There was little traffic, and he pressed down on the accelerator.
Two other police cars stood at the curb in front of Vicky’s house. He stopped behind the second car, the Toyota nudging the back bumper. He gave the door a sharp thwack and hurried up the sidewalk. The front door stood open about an inch. He pushed it into the living room and strode in after it. “Vicky,” he called.
A uniformed policeman emerged from the hallway. “Who the hell—?”
“Father John O’Malley. A friend.” The murmur of voices floated down the hallway from where her bedroom would be. They had found her. For an instant, he stood frozen in space, as if his blood had drained away, leaving nothing alive inside him.
Then he threw himself across the room toward the policeman who dodged sideways and reached out one hand, as if to stop him. Pushing past it, he took the short hallway in a couple of steps, following the voices into the bedroom, aware of the other policeman stomping behind him.
Two officers near the foot of the bed turned almost in unison, like guards caught by surprise. Father John’s eyes fell on the neatly made bed—a sea of reds and blues and golds that erupted into humps along the headboard and draped onto the carpet. In a glance he took in the entire room: the small chair with the blue cushions, the dresser covered with framed photographs, with glass bottles and little pink gadgets and gold tubes. An array of feminine paraphernalia that he only occasionally remembered existed—when he came across an ad in a magazine or found himself in the wrong aisle at Wal-Mart.
He heard himself exhale. She wasn’t here, yet she filled the room—the smell of her, the sense of her. And if he found her alive—she had to be alive—he would not lose her. It was a truth as real as the air he breathed.
“You’re that priest from the reservation, right?” one of the officers asked. “No sign of Ms. Holden. We’ve been over the whole house. The detective’s got every car in Lander on the alert for her—”
The phone on the table next to the bed emitted a loud jangle and, in two strides, the officer was beside it, lifting the receiver. “Burley here.” He threw back his head and stared out the window. After a pause, he said, “House is clean, no sign of the occupant anywhere.” Another pause, and he set the receiver in its cradle. He turned to the other officers. “Eberhart says they’re headin’ back to headquarters. Wants us back there, too. Except for you, Brandan.” He looked past Father John toward the officer who had followed him down the hallway. “Wants you to keep circling the neighborhood. Watch the house, case she shows up or . . .” He stopped, gulped in air. “Case anybody else shows up.”
Father John followed the officers outside. He sat in the Toyota, watching the two police cars roll down the street. He had to believe Vicky had gotten away—he couldn’t bear to think anything else. He forced himself to concentrate on where she would go.
She would leave Lander and go to the reservation. Maybe to St. Francis. That train of thought came to a halt, as if it had hit a wall in his mind. Before this morning she might have gone to the guest house, but not after she’d run out of his study concluding God-only-knew-what about Sheila Cavanaugh. It had taken only a few minutes to let Sheila know he was not interested in lunch or anything else. But Vicky was gone. He doubted she’d ever return to St. Francis.
But she’d go to the reservation. Banner’s men would be looking for her, he was sure, but they might not know about Aunt Rose or Grandfather Hedly and Grandmother Ninni. He started the engine and pulled into the street. Maybe he could catch Eberhart before he left Vicky’s office. The detective could radio Banner.
Light traffic moved through the dusk: stragglers on the way home at the end of the day. Father John set the Toyota next to the curb. The police c
ars were gone. He hesitated before shutting off the engine, then decided to see if Eberhart had left a man upstairs.
He took the stairs two at a time and strode down the dim corridor, boots thudding against the floor. The door to Vicky’s office was closed; the knob spun a quarter inch in his hand. He rapped hard on the frosted glass, waited, then rapped again. There was no sound inside, nothing but a sense of emptiness.
He turned and started back toward the stairs. In the glow of the light ahead, he saw the gun coming around the parapet, the squat silver barrel with a tiny hole. Then he saw the black glove that gripped the gun. He stopped, relief flooding through him—the killer had come back, which meant he hadn’t found Vicky.
Slowly the figure emerged from behind the parapet. Father John could make out the long, dark raincoat, the cowboy hat pulled low, the gun raised. Alexander Legeau, he thought, ready to kill again to protect his dream. Then the figure moved sideways into the scrim of light, and Father John saw it was not Alexander Legeau.
32
“Lily.”
“Don’t pretend you’re surprised, Father O’Malley.” The woman gripped the gun in both hands and pointed it toward his face. From the street below came the thrum of a motor, the ratcheting of gears. Normal sounds. Everything must appear to be normal, he told himself, his eyes on the woman a few feet away. A madwoman. “I expected Alexander,” he said.
“That’s a lie.” Lily tossed her head slightly. “Gabriel Many Horses told you what happened, didn’t he?”
“I spoke with him,” Father John said, moving slowly toward the woman. Keep her talking, he thought.
“I had no choice. Alexander could never bring himself to do what was necessary to save the ranch.”
“So it was you who killed Alexander’s uncle thirty years ago.” He inched forward. If he could divert her attention, he might be able to knock the gun out of her hand.
“I knew you knew when you showed up on our doorstep. Just wanted to let Alexander know about the funeral of an old friend, you said. So disappointing, Father. I expected more from a Jesuit. What you really wanted was some sign that Gabriel had told you the truth. You and Vicky Holden are just like him, trying to destroy my husband’s dream. What right do you have to destroy a man’s dream?”
The woman stepped back. The gun rode against the folds of her raincoat. He could see the line of silver buttons down one side. “No one will destroy my husband’s dream,” she said. “I will not allow it. Alexander is weak. I have to protect him.”
“Did you kill Tinzant to keep him from changing his will?” He was guessing, probing. Keep her talking.
“I didn’t want to,” Lily said. “I truly didn’t. I searched for some other way. But those two white nephews had shown up, and he started talking about a new will. And after Alexander had worked on the ranch from the time he was twelve years old. Would that have been fair, Father? To cut him out because he was a breed? I tried to talk to Tinzant. I threw myself on the old man’s mercy. But,” the woman said as she shook her head, “he just laughed at me. We were in the barn, and when he turned away, I grabbed the shovel and . . . Well, you know the rest, don’t you? Then Gabriel ran in like a fool and yanked the shovel away, but it was too late for the old man to change his will.” A hollow sound came into her voice, as if she were speaking from a distance.
Somewhere on the street, an engine kicked over. “So you paid Gabriel to swear it was Anton Hooshie who killed Tinzant. Why Anton, Lily?”
“He was a drifter nobody cared about. For the right amount of money—Gabriel was a greedy son-of-a-bitch—he agreed to swear he saw Hooshie and Tinzant fighting. What a shame Gabriel decided to get religion after all this time, just when the best part of Alexander’s dream was about to come true. Gabriel showed up at the ranch Monday afternoon. I hardly knew him. He looked terrible. He said he wanted to die with a clear conscience. I had to get him off the ranch before Alexander saw him, so I pretended to agree with him. I told him my conscience had been bothering me, too. It was time to tell the truth. I arranged to meet him later. I convinced him we would decide together on the best way to tell the truth. Of course the old man had to die. I had to take care of it, just like before.”
“You picked him up at Betty’s Place and drove him to the cabin. Then you shot him and cleaned out his pockets to make it look like a robbery.” Father John was close enough to see the faint lines etched in her face.
“Stay where you are!” she shouted. “I know what you’re thinking. I’m a very accurate shot, Father.”
He stood still. “Why did Bosse have to die, Lily? Or Redbull?”
The woman gave a little snort. “Gabriel met with Bosse. He told him the whole story.” She was quiet a moment, as if waiting for him to agree the murder made perfect sense. “Lionel was different. Such a fool. He thought the facility would just happen. He didn’t understand you can’t leave such things to chance. I had to direct him at every turn. Every turn.” She shook her head slowly, a terrible burden. “He actually intended to hire the usual consultants. But, of course, we couldn’t guarantee the results. And the moment Vicky Holden showed up saying she had some documents, he panicked. He couldn’t see she was bluffing. He told her everything. And if he told her, well, he might tell the business council or that company president, what’s his name, Paul Bryant, or the FBI agent. Don’t you see, Father?” She drew in a long breath. “Lionel was about to destroy everything. When he called and told me Vicky had paid him a visit, well, I knew he had to die.” She lifted the gun. “And now you have to die. I’m truly sorry.”
“Give me the gun, Lily.” Father John slowly stretched out his hand. “Gianelli knows the truth. Vicky taped her conversation with Lionel.”
The woman stepped back, regarding him. “I’m disappointed, Father. Lionel told me he checked her purse. She didn’t have a tape recorder.”
“Lionel was lying.”
“Please, Father. Don’t try to bluff me. It stops here with you and Vicky Holden. No one else will ever know what happened.”
A shiver ran down Father John’s spine. He’d been wrong. This madwoman had taken Vicky somewhere and had come back for him, intending to kill them both. “Where’s Vicky?” he asked, a hardness in the tone.
Lily’s mouth broke into a thin smile. “I would have killed her awhile ago if she hadn’t slipped out the back door. I caught up with her Bronco, but she’s a very evasive driver. So now we’re going to find her, you and I.”
“I don’t know where she is.”
“You must think I just dropped from the blue sky, Father. I figured Vicky would tell you about her plan to meet Redbull, and you would come here to protect her. I was right, wasn’t I? Now, I suspect, she’s gone running to you. Shall we go to the mission?”
Lily waved the gun, motioning him toward the stairs. She stepped out of the way of his reach. Her footsteps mingled with his as they started down. “Keep moving,” she said behind him.
A couple of pickups lumbered along the street, tires spraying water. Another car was approaching. He thought about whipping around, trying to hit away the gun, but he knew he wasn’t faster than a bullet, and she was an expert with a gun. Even if he succeeded in shoving away her arm, she could pull the trigger. The bullet might hit someone in a passing vehicle.
They reached the Toyota, and she ordered him to stand at the driver’s door while she walked around to the passenger side, the gun pointed at his face. Then she ordered him inside and let herself in beside him. He said a prayer that someone had noticed them, that someone would call the police.
33
The lights of oncoming cars glimmered on the wet hood as Father John drove across the reservation. He felt the weight of the metal weapon pressing through his jacket against his ribs. He was sure Vicky wouldn’t be at St. Francis. He thanked God for the misunderstanding this morning, for creating such a stubborn woman.
He said, “It’s not too late for you, Lily.” He used the tone of a counselor talking someone through
a crisis. There was so little time. They would be at the mission in twenty minutes; the woman was likely to fly into a rage when she saw Vicky wasn’t there.
“Don’t try to con me.” The gun pressed harder.
“You’ve only been trying to help your husband, Lily. You didn’t really intend to commit murder; you just didn’t see any other way. I’m sure Alexander would understand. He loves you. He would want you in a place where you could get the care and treatment you need. But if you kill Vicky and me, the FBI will have no choice but to see that you’re charged with first-degree murder. Think of Alexander, how hard it will be on him. We can go to Gianelli’s office right now and clear up everything.”
The gun pushed so hard he felt a stab of pain. “Would you like to die now, Father? I can always find Vicky on my own.”
He guided the Toyota along the dark stretches of Rendezvous Road. He knew the woman was capable of pulling the trigger, stomping on the brake, and pushing him out onto the asphalt. Time, he thought, time was what he needed.
He bore east on Seventeen-Mile Road and swung into Circle Drive. Light glowing from the overhead lamps gave the mission the eery feeling of another world. There were no vehicles in sight, and he breathed easier. Vicky wasn’t here. The mission looked deserted; the administration building was dark, and only a dim light shone in the windows of the residence. His assistant was probably having dinner in the kitchen. It was the quiet time between the work day and the evening meetings. He slowed in front of the administration building.
“Over there.” Lily jabbed against him.
He stared past the windshield at the rainy grounds. “Where?”
“The old school.”
“It’s locked, Lily. We don’t use it anymore.”
“You have keys. Park at the side. Vicky’ll see your pickup.”
“We can wait in my office.” Someone might come along, he was thinking. He might still get the chance to grab the gun. He did not want to go into the old school with its long hallways, stairs with missing boards, and broken bannisters. He wasn’t even sure the lights still worked. The last time he’d been inside at night he’d run off a couple of teenagers trying to roast hot dogs in a little campfire on the second floor.
The Dream Stalker Page 21
