Eye of the Wolf

by Margaret Coel

  The other priest gave a dry, brittle laugh. “You want the truth, John? I never needed an excuse. I liked to drink, that was all. Do I want another drink? What do you think?”

  Father John was thinking that they were a pair. The truth was, they could both get drunk right now. Drive over to Riverton, buy a couple of bottles of Jim Beam, and sink into the soft, quiet fog of alcohol. He said, “I guess we both have to make the decision every day to stay sober.”

  “What works for you, John? You’ve been making that decision every day for what? Nine years?”

  “About that,” Father John said. He could count the days. “The work here. The people. AA. Prayer.” The list was short, he knew, and fragile. “Listen, Ian, we can help each other. Any time you want to talk . . .”

  The other priest threw up both hands. “I had enough talking in rehab. Enough trying to invent my childhood anxieties. Truth was, I had good parents, good friends, good schools. The all-American suburban middle-class childhood, that was mine. Played soccer and tennis. Never hung out with the druggies, because, frankly, I had my own drug.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting we explore your childhood,” Father John said. “But if the thirst gets too strong . . .”

  “We can have our own little rehab group.”

  Father John didn’t say anything. He might have been facing a mirror. The cocky priest with a chip the size of Boston on his shoulder in his superior’s office that afternoon—what? ten years ago?—and the superior had told him that he had a choice. Go into rehab at Grace House or take an office job in a back room someplace and drink himself to death. His choice. Odd, when he thought about it now. He’d replied that he wanted to think about it. Think about it! As if there really was any choice between life and death. He’d been at Grace House four months before he’d decided to choose life.

  Watching the muscles work in Father Ian’s cheek, he wondered if the man had left rehab too soon, before he’d made his choice.

  “See you at AA tonight,” Father John said, starting into the corridor.

  “Hold on,” the other priest called, and Father John turned back. Ian came across the office and thrust a wad of miniature sheets at him. “Telephone messages,” he said.

  Father John thumbed through the sheets as he walked back down the corridor: Jennie Antelope, Mary Blue Eagle, Les Walker. And all of the messages were the same: Who could have killed those men? What happened, Father? He could sense the undercurrent of fear in the questions, as if the fear itself had invaded the pieces of paper.

  Father John dropped into the leather chair at his desk and stared at the name on the last sheet: Charles Lambert. Please call back. Next to the name was the phone number.

  He swiveled toward the bookcases, running his gaze over the spines of the books wedged into the shelves. Novels, books of poetry among the books on opera, philosophy, theology, American history, the Plains Indians, the Arapahos. He could read the story of his own life in the titles.

  There it was. The Way of the Warriors. The author’s name was in small blue type: Charles Lambert, Ph.D. Father John pulled out the book, opened the back cover, and studied the black and white photo. Probably in his seventies with white, curly hair, like the mane of an old lion, and piercing, intelligent eyes that stared into the camera. The man was a professor of history at a small college in New York, the author of dozens of scholarly papers and articles and five books on the American Indians. He had read two of them, Father John thought. And now the man was teaching at the local college.

  He reached across the papers scattered over his desk, picked up the receiver, and tapped in the number. A couple of seconds passed before the buzzing noise stopped.

  “This is Professor Lambert.” A rich bass voice, with the resonant tones of an opera singer.

  Father John gave his name.

  “Ah, Father O’Malley. Kind of you to get back to me.” The voice paused, then hurried on. “Perhaps you may have heard of me. I’ve been writing about the Plains Indians for many years.”

  Father John said that he was familiar with the man’s work.

  “Ah, splendid!” That seemed to please him. “Now that I’ve retired, my wife and I have come to the open spaces of the West from where I’ve drawn much of my inspiration. A wonderful place in which to write, wouldn’t you say?” He hurried on, not waiting for a response. “Naturally I’ve missed teaching, so I’m giving a class at Central Wyoming College this semester on the Plains Indian wars. I see in the newspaper that you are the one who found the bodies at the Bates Battlefield. I was hoping we might be able to sit down for a chat about the unfortunate event.”

  Father John nudged his shirt sleeve back and glanced at his watch. Almost l0:30. He was thinking that Charles Lambert was one of the last persons to see Trent Hunter before he disappeared. “Where are you?” he asked.

  “I’ll be in my office at the college for another hour,” the professor said, enthusiasm riding through the bass voice. Then he gave the directions to his office.

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Father John said.

  9

  A LIGHT SNOW—more like rain than snow—started falling through the dim columns of sunshine as Father John drove to the campus that straddled a hill on the western edge of Riverton. He left the pickup in the parking lot and, pulling down the brim of his hat, plunged past the fountain with bronze figures leaping into the snow. Ahead was the beige brick building with the black, peaked roof streaked in white and the sign in front that said, “Main Hall.” His boots cut fresh tracks, yet there were students about, floating like specters between the buildings.

  He let himself through the heavy wood door that snapped shut behind him. Down a corridor of beige walls and plum-colored carpeting, past the half-wall of windows that overlooked the library, up the staircase into what resembled a waiting area with a couple of chairs pushed against one wall and a desk that looked as if it had never been used. The entire floor had a deserted feel, the faintest trace of something lingering behind—human smells—as if students and professors had hurried out minutes earlier. He walked down a row of closed doors. Next to each door was a small white placard that shimmered under the fluorescent ceiling light and announced each professor’s name in black print: Egan, Mussey, Chandler, Lambert.

  Father John rapped twice. The sound was muffled by his glove, and he gave a sharper rap.

  “Yes, yes. Come in.” The same bass voice on the telephone, tinged now with fatigue.

  Father John opened the door and stepped into a closet-sized office that looked surprisingly neat. In a pair of bookcases against the opposite wall, books were lined up in neat rows, probably in alphabetical order, unlike his own books toppling against one another and jostling for space. A man could quickly put his hand on a book here. At a right angle to the bookcases was a small desk that protruded into the center of the room, the top as shiny as glass. It was bare apart from the telephone and a metal hook-necked lamp that threw out a circle of light. The man looking up at him from the desk looked much like the photograph on the book jacket: the white mane of hair framing a sculptured, still-handsome face, with the prominent nose, the strong chin that slanted forward, and the lines of concentration worn into the broad forehead, as if he had spent long hours pondering difficult questions. He had a slight build with thin shoulders and a stalklike neck that gave him the look of a man who had been much larger and still seemed to inhabit the space he had once taken up. The collar of a light blue shirt showed above the brown sweater that bunched over his shrunken chest.

  “Professor Lambert?” Father John had stopped himself from calling the man “grandfather,” the term of respect he’d gotten used to addressing Arapaho elders by. “I’m Father O’Malley,” he said.

  The older man had started to lift himself from his chair, a slow unfolding of elbows and knees, knobby hands curled around the armrests, the faintest shadow of pain crossing his face.

  “Please don’t get up.”

  Charles Lambert sank downw
ard and righted his thin frame against the back of the chair before he reached out to shake Father John’s hand.

  “Good of you to come, Father.” The man’s grip was firm and definite, sinews of steel formed through the years. “Please sit down,” he said, nodding toward a metal chair almost hidden behind the opened door. “I hope you won’t mind that I made a few inquiries and discovered that you are another toiler in the field of history. A former history professor, I believe.”

  Father John had to smile at that. The mistaken notion clung to him like his own shadow. “I taught American history at a Jesuit prep school,” he said.

  The professor’s eyebrows shot up, and Father John wasn’t sure if the man was disappointed in the truth or disappointed in his source of information. He stuffed his gloves inside his jacket pocket and unsnapped the front. Then he nudged the chair over and sat down.

  “Ah, well, no matter.” Professor Lambert spread his hands on the polished desk and leaned forward. His eyes were light blue and very bright, laserlike, Father John thought. “You may be aware, Father,” the man went on, “that I have been teaching and writing about the wars on the plains for a very long time.”

  “I’m familiar with two of your books.”

  “How nice.” He seemed to take this in for a moment, glancing away and smiling to himself. “At any rate”—the blue eyes back again—“when I retired from my position back East, it seemed natural to remove myself to the place that has inspired my work. My wife and I have settled into a bungalow three miles east of town, a quiet, peaceful location on a lane off of Monroe, where I was able to finish writing Tribal Wars. I’m pleased that the book will be published in two weeks.”

  He paused—the professor allowing time for the student to absorb an important piece of information. “You may wonder why I am telling you this, Father. Be so good as to indulge me.”

  “Go ahead.” Father John removed his cowboy hat and hooked it over one knee.

  “Tribal Wars will upset the commonly held belief that the Plains Indian tribes were one happy family. As a history professor . . .” Another pause. “As a history teacher, you know that the Plains tribes were very different people. Different languages, cultures, histories. Ah, the sad truth is . . .” The professor shifted in his chair, blue eyes turning upward for a moment to the Charles M. Russell poster on the wall above the desk. “The tribes waged war with one another most of the time. Crow and Sioux. Cheyenne and Pawnee. Arapaho and Shoshone. Naturally I’ve included the Bates Battle in my book. I was able to uncover new information about the motivations for the battle.”

  The professor leaned forward as if he were about to take Father John into his confidence. Light from the desk lamp shone in the man’s blue eyes. “Arapaho warriors had committed depredations on settlers in the area, which, naturally, alarmed Captain Bates, who was charged with protecting the white settlers. Shoshone scouts spotted the Arapaho village in a canyon in the badlands and informed the captain. Indeed, the Shoshones guided the captain and his troops to the village and joined in the attack, prompted on their part, I believe, by a pervasive fear. That fear, Father, became the motivation. There’s no question but that the Shoshones feared the Arapahos were about to invade their land, which is ultimately what occurred. By the time of the battle, Shoshone lands had been greatly diminished. It was only natural that they should take steps to prevent any incursion onto the reservation.”

  “An attack at dawn on a sleeping village, Professor?” Father John didn’t try to soften the irritation in his voice. “It was inexcusable.”

  “Yes, yes.” The white head nodded, the knobby hands fluttered over the desktop. “One might make the argument that the long war for ownership of the Great Plains was inexcusable, but nevertheless, it was waged among the tribes themselves, and ultimately, with the United States Army. A war, of course, which the tribes were bound to lose. As scholars, we must do our best to lift the veil of confusion and reveal the motivations behind the actions. Sometime, Father, we must have a discussion on the purpose of historical research: to condemn or to illuminate?”

  Professor Lambert took a moment to reposition himself in the chair. A trace of amusement moved through his expression at some new idea. “When a colleague at the college implored me to teach a class on the tribal battles, I acquiesced,” he said. “Quite an exceptional gathering of students for a small college. Twelve of my thirteen students are Native American. Here on the plains, it is the descendants of the conquered who are most interested in the battles waged for the land. I suggested to the students that they visit the Bates Battlefield. When I read in this morning’s paper that the dead men are most likely native, naturally I grew concerned . . .”

  He let the rest drift between them a moment before he continued. “It has occupied my thoughts all morning, Father. It occurred to me that you may know the identities of the dead men.”

  Father John shook his head. He reached inside his shirt pocket, pulled out the folded sheet of paper with the telephone message written on it, and slid it across the desk. “The killer called the priest at St. Aiden’s, Father Owens, and left this message. The voice was distorted, like the voice of a robot. It’s impossible to know whether it was a man or a woman.”

  The professor picked up the paper and held it in the circle of light. A shadow flitted across his face. “How did you come upon this?” he asked.

  Father John explained that when the other priest couldn’t make sense out of the message, he’d taken a chance and called him.

  Pushing the paper back, Lambert said, “I find the phrasing oddly familiar. Perhaps the creative endeavor of one of my students, although I hope that is not the case.”

  Father John waited while the man seemed to turn his attention to the Russell poster again. After a moment, Lambert said, “A young woman, the only nonnative student in the class, by the name of Edith Bradbury. I would say she fancies herself a poet, although I suspect her attempts at poetry may be crude. However, she does have a flare for brief, pithy images.”

  Father John refolded the paper and pushed it back into his shirt pocket. “Are you saying she could have written the message?” It was hard to believe. The girl had been so distraught—so lost—at Trent’s disappearance.

  “No. No. Absolutely not.” Lambert was waving both hands over the desk. “I would not be qualified to judge her poetic endeavors, which, in any case, I have not seen. Naturally I do not require my students to write poetry. I can only say that the piece is . . .” He hesitated, as if he were choosing from the words tumbling in his mind. “Reminiscent of her writing. Nothing more. I’m sure the same could be said of many other students.”

  Father John let a couple of beats go by before he said, “I understand that Edie’s boyfriend, Trent Hunter, is also in your class.”

  “A fine student, Father.” A slow smile came into the old man’s face, as if this were a more comfortable subject. “Very serious and dedicated young man,” he went on, “but preoccupied, it seems to me. I surmise that he carries a heavy burden, between school and work. No doubt he also has family obligations. I don’t have to tell you that tribal people place great emphasis on family relationships. Please tell me that Trent Hunter is not among the dead.”

  Father John explained that Edie hadn’t seen Trent since Friday and that she had filed a missing person’s report with the Riverton Police.

  “Oh, my.” Professor Lambert squared the chair to the desk and gazed up at the Russell poster again. “I’m afraid that I witnessed a very unsettling occurrence in the parking lot two weeks ago.” He swiveled back toward Father John. “A carload of what I can only describe as toughs in black leather jackets drove into the lot, shouting and cursing, banging on the sides of the car as though it were a drum. They circled Trent and the girl in a menacing manner and began pelting them with empty beer bottles. I’m afraid the couple was quite helpless, clutching each other and attempting to duck the missiles. I got the impression that the girl may once have been involved with one of
the toughs, who seemed to be in a jealous rage. I shouted at the assailants, but who am I? An old man, unable to frighten them away. At long last, some fine sturdy lads came running into the lot, and the car immediately drove away. Naturally, I hurried back to Main Hall to call security, but when I returned, the culprits had vanished.”

  “Did Trent tell you who they were?” Father John asked. He had a good idea: Jason Rizzo and his white supremacist friends.

  “When I returned to the parking lot, Trent and Edie were gone. At the next class, Trent assured me that the problem would solve itself and there was no need to report the incident to the police. I sensed that he had come to a resolution, but I chose not to pry. Oh, dear, Father. I’m afraid I made a terrible mistake. I should have reported the matter to the police myself. Now . . .” His head was shaking, and he clasped his hands together to stop the trembling. “Trent might be one of the men killed at the battlefield. And the others, they could all be my students.”

  “Detective Burton is handling the investigation,” Father John said. “He’ll want to talk to you.”

  “Of course.” The professor patted at the folds of his brown sweater. A thin hand darted down the V-necked front and fumbled at the pocket of the blue shirt, finally drawing out a small container, which he flipped open. He touched his index finger to his tongue, then dabbed at one of the small white pills in the container and lifted it to his mouth.

  “Can I get you a drink of water?” Father John got to his feet, wondering how he was going to carry water from the fountain in the hall.

  “Water would be fine.” The professor nodded at a cooler wedged between the desk and the bookcase.

  Father John crouched down, opened the lid, and took out one of the cool, plastic bottles. He removed the lid and handed the bottle to the professor, who threw back his head and took a long drink. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his thin neck.

  “Ah,” he said, leaning back and wiping at his mouth, balancing the half-full bottle on the armrest. “I’m afraid that my doctor has warned me against getting upset. Naturally the possibility of my students having been shot is most upsetting.”