The Spider's Web

by Coel, Margaret

  “What?” Dwayne flinched and blinked a couple of times.

  “Why do I get the sense that you know the truth?” Father John said.

  “You’re smoking, man.”

  “You and Lionel could take the fall unless you tell Gianelli what you know.”

  “You think we’re stupid?” Dwayne said. Lionel was weaving on his feet behind him, still clasping the towel that had started to turn into quivering red jelly. The towel had started to slip so that blood ran out of the wound. “You think we want to end up like Ned? No way we’re going in and snitching.”

  The kitchen went quiet, except for the sound of Walks-On’s nails scraping the floor and Dwayne’s quick gulps of air. Father John could hear the sound of a truck on Seventeen-Mile Road. The noise seemed to come from a great distance. He had guessed right, he was thinking. Someone else was in the burglary ring. The general who mapped out the plan of attack. Selected the houses, most likely, checked on security, determined when the owners would be away, then called in the troops—Ned and the two Indians in his kitchen. Whoever it was, this general, the two men were afraid of him. And yet they would be charged with Ned’s murder, unless they could get Marcy Morrison to change her story. So they had come out of hiding to find the girl. They had gone after Roseanne, too, wanting to intimidate her, keep her from linking them to the burglary ring and Ned. The minute the link was made, Gianelli would assume that Ned had been holding out. Or maybe Dwayne and Lionel had wanted to keep him from snitching about the burglary ring, after he had decided to turn his life around. Either way, it would look as if they had reason to kill.

  But they wouldn’t snitch on the general. They didn’t want to end up like Ned.

  Ned had also been frightened of the general, Father John realized. It explained why he had agreed to rob houses again in Jackson Hole, after moving there to make a new start. It explained why he came back and why he went to Donald Little Robe, searching for the courage to remain firm in his resolve, hoping to find it in the Sun Dance.

  “That’s it!” Dwayne rammed a fist into the cabinet door. His other hand lowered the gun. “Enough! Where is she? I want the answer now! You got one second, and that stupid dog is dead.”

  “Shoot him now!” Lionel shouted. “Sonafabitch bit me hard. Jeez, I’m gonna need stitches.”

  “First the dog,” Dwayne said. “Then you, Father. Start with your knees. How’d you like that? Take out one elbow, then the other. Fix you up pretty good, huh? Or you want to start with the elbow first? Where is she?” He grasped the gun with both hands.

  “Drop your weapon!” Bishop Harry stood in the doorway, both hands gripping the long-nosed silver Flintlock pistol. Pink, hairy legs—bird legs—hung below the red plaid robe cinched at his waist. The blue collar of his pajamas sprang around his neck. His gray hair was mussed, standing out in thin strands, as if he had stepped on an electric wire.

  Dwayne turned his head toward the old man, a startled, bemused look on his face, as if an apparition had materialized out of nowhere. The gun started to move in the old man’s direction. “You couldn’t shoot a barn with that thing.”

  “I am aiming at your heart,” the bishop said. His voice was like the thud of a bass drum. “Would you like to gamble with your life?”

  “The old goat’s gonna kill us.” Lionel sounded as if he were about to start weeping.

  Dwayne’s arm started downward in slow motion, reluctant and hesitant, the gun steady in his hand.

  “All the way. That’s it,” the bishop said as Dwayne’s hand slid alongside his thigh. “Now let your gun fall to the floor, nice-and-easy-like. There you go.” The gun clunked onto the floor. “I suggest you turn around and find your way out of here. The same way you came in, I would suppose.”

  “Let’s go,” Lionel said. He had already kicked the door back, and he threw himself out into the little porch off the kitchen. Dwayne was behind him, tossing nervous glances over his shoulder. The bishop stood like a statue, pointing the pistol at the man’s back. Dwayne yanked open the outer door, and both men ducked out, knocking against each other in the doorway, then disappearing into the darkness. Boots drummed on the wooden steps. In a minute, an engine fired. There was the noise of gravel scattering beneath tires. A tremor ran along the floor as the vehicle passed by the side of the house, thumped across the field and out onto Circle Drive. Another moment, and the noise was absorbed in the mission quiet.

  “I figured the best thing was to get them out of here,” the bishop said. “I’ve encountered men like that. They are frightened and desperate. You never know what they might try.”

  “You were right,” Father John said, still holding Walks-On’s collar as he crossed the kitchen and slammed the door, not wanting the dog to bolt after them. He could feel the tension begin to drain out of the dog’s muscles, and he let him go. Walks-On jumped up and placed his paws on Father John’s chest, doing a little dance on his rear leg. “Good boy,” Father John said, patting his head. “You did good.”

  “I’m going to check on the girl.” He took hold of the dog’s collar again and guided him downward. Bishop Harry was already in the hall, tapping on the phone, the Flintlock on the table. Father John hurried past, yanked open the door, and headed down the steps. Then he started running. Across Circle Drive and through the field, across the drive again and down the alley between the church and the administration building, dodging in and out of the dim lights flaring from the streetlamps. The thudding sound of his boots filled his ears. The guesthouse was dark. There was no sign of life. He walked past the house, checking for the red pickup. It was gone.

  He double-backed to the front and knocked on the door. “Marcy,” he shouted, his own voice reverberating out of the vacuum that he knew was inside. He knocked harder, then tried the knob. The door swung into darkness. He reached around and flipped on the switch. The little table lamp next to the sofa cast a faint shield of light across the linoleum floor. “Marcy!” he called again, but she was gone. He crossed the small living room, flipped on the switch in the bedroom that was little more than a back porch and stared at the narrow, empty bed. The tangle of sheets and blankets, the empty whiskey bottle and pop cans on the floor, the only signs the girl had ever been there.

  He let himself out and retraced his steps down the shadows in the alley. From somewhere in the distance, beyond the darkness and the black sky ribboned with stars, came the wailing noise of sirens.

  24

  “YOU’RE CERTAIN ABOUT the intruders.” Ted Gianelli planted himself in a triangle formed by his white SUV and two BIA police cars. The light bars flashed red and blue stripes over his face. Tubes of yellow headlights shot across Circle Drive into the field of wild grasses.

  “Dwayne Hawk and Lionel Lookingglass,” Father John said. Walks-On leaned against his leg.

  “Let’s go over it again. They burst through the kitchen door. The dog attacked Lionel, and Dwayne pulled a gun and threatened to shoot both you and your dog until Bishop Harry brought out his howitzer. If they show up at the ER, we’ll arrest them. They can’t be too far away. Every cop in the area is looking for them. What did they want?”

  Father John told him they were looking for Marcy Morrison. The front door to the residence stood open, and light spilled out onto the sidewalk. He could see the bishop and the officers in the kitchen, the bishop gesturing and the officers stepping around carefully, as if they were stepping over the traces of Lionel’s blood.

  “You think they found her?”

  Father John shook his head. “She left before they arrived.”

  Gianelli looked in the direction of the alley blurred in the darkness. “You think she got word?”

  “I don’t know,” Father John said. Then he told the agent that the girl had left the mission earlier today and might have talked to someone. He could hear the false note clanging as he spoke. It was illogical. Marcy Morrison hardly knew anyone on the rez. Who would she have talked to? Who would have warned her that Hawk and Lookinggla
ss would come for her tonight? They had gone after Roseanne this afternoon, but Roseanne hadn’t spoken with them. In any case, he doubted that Roseanne knew where Marcy was staying. Nothing was making sense.

  “Moccasin telegraph,” Gianelli said. “Somebody must have spotted her pickup near the mission. Word got back to Hawk and Lookingglass. They’re out there somewhere.” He punched a fist toward the darkness on Seventeen-Mile Road. “What else did they say?”

  “They said Marcy lied about them killing Ned,” Father John told him. “They had nothing to do with it. He was already dead when they stopped by to pick him up. They’re desperate to find the girl.”

  Gianelli interrupted: “And do what? Scare her enough to change her story?”

  “What if they’re right?” Father John could still see the pinched, frightened look on Dwayne’s face, the desperate way his hand gripped the gun.

  “If they’re innocent, why are they hiding? Why don’t they come in and tell their version of what went on?”

  “A couple of Indians who probably have records?” Father John said. “Their word against the word of a white girl?”

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m telling you how they’re looking at it,” Father John said. “They’re not thinking straight. They know they’re looking at more prison time for burglary and they think they’ll be charged for a homicide they claim they knew nothing about. They’re scared to death.”

  “Scared enough to break into your kitchen and hold you at gun-point? Piling up felonies as high as that roof.” Gianelli hitched his thumb toward the residence, then he went quiet, the blue and red lights washing over him. Father John could almost see the thoughts behind his expression. “You believe them, is that right?” he said.

  “Marcy’s the only one who witnessed what happened,” Father John said.

  “We’ve established that. The girl with a bruised face and black eyes, curled in a fetal position, in shock. No weapon, no gun residue on her hands.” He paused for a long moment, letting his gaze run over the vehicles and the residence. “Hawk and Lookingglass left a Walther .32 caliber in your kitchen. Not the weapon used on Ned. Forensics says that was a .380 caliber. Why would the girl lie, unless she’s protecting someone? What do you have that you’re not telling me?”

  Father John shrugged. “A theory, that’s all.”

  “Yeah? You and your theories, all logical as hell, I’m sure. Better give it to me.”

  “I think the burglary gang was bigger than Ned and those two,” Father John said, nodding toward the light spilling out of the house, the bishop and the officers still huddled in the kitchen where Dwayne and Lionel had been thirty minutes earlier. “I think somebody else called the shots, somebody with influence over Ned. After he went to Jackson Hole to start over, somebody managed to convince him to break into homes there.”

  “You’re saying this person had something on Ned?”

  “Could be,” Father John said. He hadn’t thought about it like that, but it was possible Ned had more to hide than a series of break-ins. Maybe he was threatened with exposure. And yet that didn’t make sense because Ned could have exposed the whole burglary ring. But he didn’t, and that was the point. He didn’t give up Dwayne or Lionel or anybody else. “I think somebody had an even stronger hold on Ned,” he said. “He was struggling to free himself.”

  “Anybody talk to you about this, mention any names?”

  “No.”

  It was a moment before Gianelli said, “So when Ned moved back to the rez, presumably in an effort to get away from the burglary ring, it was the last straw for this person of influence. He broke into the house and shot Ned to keep him quiet, and Ned’s fiancée is protecting the real killer.” He made a sucking noise with his breath. “I’m going to talk to Marcy Morrison again. Any idea where she might have gone to?”

  “No.”

  “She could be in more danger than she realizes.” Gianelli shook his head, and the colored lights ran together across his face. “Not just from Hawk and Lookingglass, but from whoever she thinks she’s protecting.”

  THE BRICK BUNGALOW that served as Vicky’s law office was suffused in the shadows of the evergreens around the yard. The windows were black panes; the night-light hadn’t been turned on. Quiet had settled on the whole neighborhood: the other bungalows up and down the street, the cars and pickups at the curbs. Moonlight floated through the trees. Vicky pulled into the driveway and got out. She could barely hear the traffic out on Main, two blocks away. Here, everything seemed on hold until morning.

  And something was different about the house. She felt a prickly sense of unease as she walked across the grass, dodging the ponderosa that rose high above the roof. Without the night-light glowing in the windows, the house was like a vacant hull. Not that the light was actually effective in warning away burglars, she supposed, but at least it allowed her to believe it would work. It provided its own peace of mind. It wasn’t like Annie to leave for the day without turning on the light.

  The outer screened door was ajar. It made a faint creaking noise in the breeze. Vicky started to unlock the main door, then realized that it wasn’t locked. She stepped inside, holding her breath. She kept the door open as she ran her other hand along the wall and flipped the switch. In the light that flooded the reception room, she took everything in at once: the opened pizza box on the floor, the slices of pizza spilled onto the carpet with the crumpled paper napkins, the plastic glasses overturned on Annie’s desk, the dark liquid puddle at the base of the computer, the papers and folders scattered over the desk.

  Vicky stood very still, listening. There were no sounds. “Annie?” she called into the quiet of the interior. “Roger?” Nothing. She waited a moment, then pushed the door back against the wall, allowing the night in, the soft, warm breeze blowing over her arms. She stepped over to the desk, tapped at the keyboard and watched the screen come to life: page 5 of the Martinson contract. She tried to picture what had happened: Annie working late, making a few more corrections Vicky had requested, ordering pizza. Roger had stayed late, too, not wanting to leave her alone—not with a crazed ex-husband with a restraining order against him still in town—so the pizza was giant-sized. There were two Cokes. And then what?

  Vicky picked up the phone and tapped the key for Annie’s cell. She held her breath, waiting for the buzzing noise, moving around the desk so that she was between the desk and the opened door, unsure of what might be hiding in the shadows. Annie’s husband hiding somewhere? In Roger’s office, in the hallway, the restroom, the little galley kitchen? The phone rang once, twice. She willed herself to think logically. Annie and Roger had left in a hurry. Run out the front door without locking it. Maybe run out the back door. Run away from Robin.

  A third ring, broken off by Annie’s voice: “Oh, God, Vicky! Is that you?”

  “What happened?” Vicky said. Her own voice sounded shaky and false, the voice of a stranger who had wandered into her office.

  “Robin,” Annie said. The name came like a sob. “He came to the office. I told him he had to leave, I was calling the cops.”

  “Annie, listen to me,” Vicky said. “Are you all right?’

  “He grabbed hold of my arm and yanked me out of the chair. I was working on the contract. Roger and I had eaten some pizza . . .”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m okay.” Annie was crying now, great sobs that burst like static over the line. “Roger’s here.”

  “Where? Where are you?”

  “In the ER.”

  “I’m on the way,” Vicky said.

  SHE COULD SEE the Lander Valley hospital on the hill when she was still a block away—the bright light over the driveway that curved under the portico, the white ambulance parked to one side, surrounded by the darkness and the wide, black sky. She accelerated into the curve, pulled up next to the ambulance, and ran across the pavement. She pushed past the double-glass doors. Annie was huddled in one of the blue
plastic chairs that lined the wall, alone in the waiting room except for the woman behind the counter. Vicky hurried over to her: the black, scared eyes, the red bruise like a birth-mark on her cheek.

  Vicky sank onto a chair and slipped an arm around Annie’s shoulders. She could feel the tremors beneath the thin cotton blouse, the wisps of black hair on her skin. Annie lifted her hand from the folds of her skirt, and Vicky gasped. A red and purple bruise ran from Annie’s wrist, halfway up her arm. “Have you seen a doctor?” she said. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m okay,” Annie said, and so much bravery in her tone, such steady determination, that Vicky had to bite her lip to keep from crying. “I’ve had worse than this,” Annie said.

  Vicky could feel the truth of it. It was the truth for her once, but that was in a life that had faded away, like the far distances faded into the vastness of the plains and allowed new realities to sweep in between. “What about Roger?”

  “He’s gonna be okay,” Annie said. “A broken rib. Some bruises. Broke his glasses.” She gave a forced laugh. “You know how blind he is without his glasses.” She shifted around until she was facing Vicky. “He had just gone into his office when Robin burst in. He must’ve been watching us, waiting for Roger to leave. Roger came flying out. He pulled Robin off me, punched him in the chest, made him let go of my arm. I don’t know what would’ve happened if he hadn’t been there,” she went on, her voice rising a pitch. “Robin would’ve forced me to go with him. He could’ve killed me.”

  Vicky put both arms around her and hugged her. “You’re okay now,” she said. She could feel Annie sobbing silently against her shoulder, the moist tears seeping into her blouse.

  “Oh, I know,” Annie said, pulling away and straightening her skirt over her knees. “Soon’s the cops pick him up, he’ll go back to prison. I won’t have to worry about Robin Bosey for a long time.”