The Drowning Man (22 page)

Gianelli picked up the photo and stared at it, as if he wanted to memorize every part of the Indian's face as a kind of insurance that the man wouldn't get away again. “He leaves the motel, an unmarked car will be right behind him. Sooner or later he's going to take us to the petroglyph. We'll get it back, John.” He slipped the sheet of paper inside the folder.

Father John didn't say anything for a moment. It was a good sign, the fact that the Indian hadn't yet bolted. It meant that whoever was running things hadn't spotted Gianelli's car parked next to his pickup on the highway last night, even though he'd had the sense that, in the dark blankness of the log cabin across the highway, someone had been watching when the Indian had tossed out the envelope. He'd been sure that whoever was watching had driven past when he was stopped with Gianelli. He'd been wrong. It wasn't the first time, he thought.

He said, “If the Indian spots a police car tailing him, he'll notify his boss. He won't lead you anywhere near the petroglyph.”

“We're gonna have to take our chances.” Gianelli shifted his bulky frame forward and extracted another folder from the stack on the desk. He pulled out the large photograph of the petroglyph taken with yesterday's
Gazette.
“Look at this,” he said, flicking his fingers at the edge and sending the photo skimming across the desk. “Anything seem familiar?”

Father John picked up the photograph. It looked pale, washed out, as if it were fading into the white background, disappearing the way the petroglyph had disappeared from the face of the boulder. The Drowning Man was positioned in the center, the newspaper propped up somehow next to it so that the date, headlines, photos, and columns of text from the front page were clearly visible. Behind the petroglyph and the newspaper was what looked like an unfinished wall with horizontal boards fixed at intervals against vertical studs.

“It could have been taken in a warehouse or a barn,” he said, conscious of the agent watching him, expecting him to see something…

There was a small, dark splotch on the floor in front of the petroglyph. “Maybe a garage,” he said.

Gianelli clasped his hands on the desk. “So we've narrowed the location to several hundred places. It would take a year to check out all the garages, barns, and warehouses in Fremont County. Point is, I think the petroglyph is still in the area. Out there somewhere,” he said, tossing his head back toward the window, “in an old barn on a ranch, in a warehouse or garage in Riverton or Lander. Hell, it could be in a shed on the reservation. The boss hasn't taken it to Colorado or New Mexico or some other place to sell it. It's still right here, and he's salivating at the prospect of collecting a lot of cash for very little worry. He's sure now the tribes want that petroglyph back. He took the bait we threw him. He'll be in touch.”

“I hope you're right.”

“Do you?” The agent was shaking his head. “I think at this point, John, I'm going to move this away from you. It's too dangerous. The boss is running the operation. He and the Indian and even the locals have a lot riding on the outcome. They don't want any trouble. From now on, you're out of this, John. Understand?”

“I'm the one he'll call, if he calls again.”

“Oh, he'll call, all right, and that will be the extent of your involvement. He's delivered the proof and he'll want to set up the exchange. You'll tell him the tribes will only allow a tribal member to carry the money. There's an undercover officer with the Wind River police who will go in for the exchange. We need a trained officer handling this.”

“And then what?” Father John had a sinking feeling, as if the petroglyph itself were floating beyond his grasp.

“The officer will be wired. We'll know where he is at every minute. As soon as the exchange is made, we'll move in and make the arrest.”

“He'll never go for that, Ted, and you know it.” The aria had ended, leaving a sense of vacancy in the office.

“It's that or nothing. It's bad enough you drove out on the highway alone to get the photograph. Anything could have gone wrong if the Indian had figured out that we were watching your back.”

“You didn't have to watch my back.”

“This is my call. We're playing this my way.”

“I tell the caller that the tribes are sending somebody else, he'll call everything off. The Arapahos and Shoshones want that petroglyph back.”

“Well, your job is to convince him.” Gianelli swiveled his chair from one side to the other and beat out a rhythm against the edge of the desk with a pen. “Play him along; keep him on the hook. Don't forget that he's salivating at the idea of all that cash. Say you'll vouch for the money man and the tribes are anxious to get the petroglyph. Make him believe, John.” Gianelli did a drum roll with the pen. “Give him faith. Call me the minute you hang up.”

Father John leaned forward. He braced his elbows on his thighs and clasped his hands between his knees. “I have to be the one who makes the exchange.” That was the logical thing. He hurried on. “They're going to expect me to be there. The guy could get a feeling that things aren't right. It's too risky to substitute somebody else. We can't take the chance.”

Gianelli let a second pass before he said, “My way, John. Don't even think about anything else.”

The phone rang through the silence that dropped over the office. Gianelli took his eyes away and stared at the black object a moment, as if it were an intruder that had burst through the door. He watched as it rang again. Finally he reached over and picked up the receiver.

“Special Agent Gianelli,” he said, studying the top of the desk now, fingers flipping the edges of the folder. “Yeah, he's here.” Looking up, he held the receiver over the desk. “You better take this.”

Father John was already on his feet, reaching for the phone, the familiar knot starting to tighten in his stomach. Another emergency. Someone hurting, someone in need of a priest, and yet Father Ian was at the mission. He could have taken the call.

“This is Father John,” he said, pressing the receiver against his ear, realizing that whoever had tracked him to the FBI office in Lander was in need of him.

“There's been an accident, John.” It was Ian's voice, low and soft with concern, coming down the line. “Lander hospital just called. I thought you'd want to know.”

“What is it?” The knot turned into a piece of lead inside him.

“It's Vicky.”

FATHER JOHN TURNED
into the drive in front of the Lander Valley Medical Center on a bluff at the southern edge of town. The white façade gleamed in the fierce afternoon sun that lay over the parking lots. He'd raced out of Gianelli's office and down the steps onto the sidewalk, only vaguely aware of getting into the pickup and making a U-turn across Main Street, horns blaring around him. He'd driven through the intersection on a yellow that turned red, and kept going, traffic, storefronts, and parking lots flashing past. He could still hear Ian's voice in his head:
It's Vicky. It's Vicky.

He left the pickup in the space with the sign in front that said
Clergy
and sprinted across the drive, through the entry, and down a corridor to the emergency waiting room. He could have found his way blindfolded. So many emergencies, so many calls:
Father, can you come?

The woman behind the counter looked up as he burst through the door. “How'd you get here so fast, Father?” she said.

“How is she?” Father John strode across the small room and gripped the edge of the counter.

“It was a pretty bad accident. They brought her in about two hours ago.”

“I want to see her.”

“The doctors are still with her.” The woman stood very still for a moment, the ballpoint in her hand poised over a stack of papers attached to a clipboard. Then she dropped the ballpoint and turned toward the opened door behind her. “I'll get someone,” she said over her shoulder.

Father John slammed a fist into the top of the counter, making a dull thud that sent a ripple of motion through the Formica. He turned around. The green plastic chairs looked worn and tired, the seats rubbed to a shiny gray. The magazines on the side tables were puffy and wrinkled. A white ambulance rolled past the window that framed part of the parking lot. He squared himself toward the door across the room. Vicky was in one of the warren of cubicles that opened off the corridor beyond the door. He struggled against the impulse to go looking for her. A madman, shouting up and down the corridor, “Vicky? Where are you?”

God, this was crazy. He was crazy. The doctor would come and take him to her. If…

Please, God, let her be okay. Let her be…alive.

The door swung open. A short, stocky man in green scrubs balanced his weight against the frame and held onto the knob. “Father O'Malley?” he said. “I'm Doctor Mora. Come with me.”

Father John followed him into the corridor. He was absurdly aware of the way the fluorescent ceiling light gleamed in the bald circle on the man's scalp. “How bad is it?” he heard himself ask. His lips were so tight he could barely form the words.

The doctor waited a pace for Father John to fall in beside him before he said, “She was in shock. Has some nasty bruises, but no broken bones. I'm waiting for the results of the CAT scan on her brain before I rule out a concussion. I'd say she was pretty lucky.”

Father John realized that he'd stopped walking and was staring after the doctor who had gone on.
Thank God,
he thought. He could feel the energy draining from him, leaving him weak with gratitude.

The doctor glanced back. “I told her you're here,” he said, motioning him forward. “She's waiting to see you.”

 

THE FIGURE UNDER
the white sheet on the gurney looked so small that, for a moment, Father John thought the doctor had ushered him into the wrong examining room. The nurse standing at the counter threw him a smile, then went back to writing something on a clipboard. He moved closer to the gurney. A tube ran from Vicky's arm to the bag of clear liquid hanging on a metal pole. Her black hair fanned over the small white pillow. Her eyes were shut, but he could see the fluttering beneath her eyelids. He leaned close and placed his hand over hers. It felt like a lump of ice, and instinctively he started massaging her fingers and knuckles and the small tendons that stretched beneath her skin, aware now that she was looking up at him.

“You're going to be okay,” he said. With his other hand, he pushed her hair back, then bent over and kissed her forehead. Odd. Her hand was so cold, yet her forehead felt warm and clammy.

“They tried to kill me.” It was a whisper.

The nurse stopped writing and looked around. “The state patrol is investigating,” she said. “Someone reported the accident. A patrolman was there in twenty minutes.”

“It wasn't an accident,” Vicky said, a hint of her usual energy in her voice.

“Well, as I say, they're investigating…”

“What happened?” Father John wrapped his hand around Vicky's.

“I went to the prison to see Travis.” Vicky hesitated, and he could see that her gaze had gone somewhere else. She went on. “I was on the way back when a brown Chevy truck came up behind me. Full size, could have been a four-door. Two cowboys. I expected them to pass. Next thing I knew, they rammed my rear bumper. They wanted to run me off the road. I sped ahead, but they kept after me, so I…”

She hesitated again. The tears were coming now, thin threads of moisture glistening on her cheeks. Father John smoothed the moisture away with the palm of his hand. “You're okay,” he said.

Vicky gulped at a sob.

“Try not to upset her,” the nurse said, and Father John realized that she had spun around again, her eyes full of warning.

“I saw a flat place ahead,” Vicky said, “so I ran off the road. There was nothing but sagebrush and dust. It was so bumpy, and then…” She started sobbing again. It was a moment before she said, “I must have hit something and everything went black. The next thing I heard was a loud wailing noise, and I realized I was in an ambulance.”

“Did you see the men in the truck?”

Vicky lifted her hand against his in a gesture of futility. “All I could see were the black cowboy hats.”

Father John was aware of the door opening behind him. Doctor Mora moved alongside the gurney, clutching a large brown envelope. He stopped next to the nurse. “Good news,” he said, looking down at Vicky. “No sign of a concussion. When you feel strong enough, there's no reason you can't go home. You should take it easy a few days. You've had quite a shock.”

“I'll take you,” Father John said.

There was the sound of footsteps, and Father John glanced around. Another nurse stood in the doorway, her white uniform cinched tightly around a bulky waist. “Someone else to see…”

Adam Lone Eagle shouldered past the nurse, filling up the space between the door and the gurney. Father John had forgotten how tall and broad shouldered the Lakota was. He seemed to suck the oxygen out of the room.

“Vicky,” he said, his gaze fixed on her, as if they were the only two people there. “Are you all right? What can I do? What do you want me to do?”

Vicky's lips were moving, but there was no sound. Finally, she said, “Why are you here, Adam?”

“Annie called me. I came as fast as I could. Probably broke a few speed limits between here and Casper.” He threw a glance around, as if searching for approval. He locked eyes with Father John. “Obviously I wasn't the first to get here.”

“You didn't have to come,” Vicky said.

“What're you talking about? You're my law partner. You're my…” He glanced around again. “Of course I had to come. What's more important?”

He turned to the doctor. “How bad is it?”

Doctor Mora repeated what he'd said earlier, as if he were describing a specimen in a lab. Bruises, shock, no concussion. The patient was lucky. She might have been killed. She could go home.

“I'll take her home,” Adam said.

This, Father John knew, was directed at him. He squeezed Vicky's hand, then let it go. “We'll talk later,” he said. “Go home and get some rest.” He backed along the gurney, stepped past Adam Lone Eagle, and started down the corridor.

Back through the waiting room, down the other corridor, and out into a wall of heat. He let himself into the pickup that felt like a blast furnace, rolled down the windows, and drove back through town, sucking at the hot air. It was as it should be, he told himself. Adam would take care of her. They loved each other. But that was the problem. That was the thing that made his heart ache.

Then he was on Rendezvous Road crossing the reservation, replaying in his mind what Vicky had said. She had gone to see Travis Birdsong, and on the way back, two cowboys had tried to run her off the road. Whoever they were, they had known where to find her. But that wasn't really a surprise. The news had probably surfaced on the moccasin telegraph. The tribe didn't want her to take Travis's case, Vicky had said. Norman Yellow Hawk had tried to warn her away. People were waiting to see what she'd do, and Vicky's secretary could have dropped a casual comment that Vicky intended to visit Travis today.

Still, it didn't make sense. Why would anyone want to kill her? Where was the pattern, the thread of logic beneath the surface of things? It was like trying to make out the picture carved into a rock from a distance. The picture was there, if only he could bring it into focus.

The sun was dropping behind the mountains as Father John drove into the mission. Shadows were beginning to move across the plains, narrow blue columns of darkness creeping up the sides of the buildings. There would be no pickups around Circle Drive this evening, he knew. No one heading into Eagle Hall for a meeting. The social committee had canceled the monthly carry-in supper. The windows were gray, like the gaping holes in the abandoned houses of a ghost town.

It was a ghost mission, he thought.

Sounds of the TV floated out of the living room when Father John walked into the entry of the residence. Walks-On stood in the doorway to the kitchen, expectancy in the thud of his tail against the frame. Father John tossed his hat on the bench in the entry, went into the kitchen, and fed the dog. Then he walked back down the hall to the living room. The TV light flickered over Father Ian slumped on the sofa, legs stretched out on the coffee table.

“Any calls?” Father John said.

The other priest jerked his legs off the table, knocking a stack of magazines to the floor. “Must've been dozing,” he said, shifting toward the doorway. “Calls? No. It's pretty quiet around here. Elena made dinner.”

“Elena came back?” That was good, Father John thought. He'd wondered if she would ever come back.

“Said she didn't want the starvation of two priests on her conscience.”

“It's her place,” Father John said. The truth was, St. Francis belonged to the Arapahos. Better the priests should leave than the Arapahos.

“A plate's in the oven for you,” Ian said. “I took a plate over to Father Lloyd. He said he wasn't hungry, but I left it anyway. The man should eat.”

Father John backed away from the door and glanced down the hall at the shadows gathering in the kitchen. He could hear the dog pushing the dish around the corner. There was a feeling of emptiness to the old house. He crossed the entry to his study, sank into the chair behind the desk, and flipped on the lamp. A circle of light fell over the papers and folders that flowed across the surface. He set his elbows on the edge and dropped his head against his clasped hands, trying to swallow back the familiar thirst that came over him when he didn't want it, when he wasn't prepared, wasn't strong. Whiskey had made him strong. It was amazing, now that he thought about it, how strong he had felt with two fingers of whiskey inside him. One drink—one sip would make all the difference—and he would be strong and confident.

“God help me,” he whispered, yet his voice seemed to boom around him. It had been almost ten years since he'd had a drink. Ten years, and there wasn't a day—if he was honest, there wasn't a day—that he didn't want one.

The noise of the ringing phone came at him through the fog of his own thoughts, and he stared at the black rectangle of plastic a moment, trying to clear his head, before he lifted the receiver.

“Father O'Malley.”

“I understand you called earlier.” It was the voice of the provincial. They used to go drinking together, he and Bill Rutherford, on vacations from the seminary. A few beers at a bar, two, three, four shots of whiskey. A little relaxation. What difference did it make? No difference for Rutherford. He could stop.

Father John leaned over the desk. The rage that he'd been trying to tamp down all day was like a fire flaring up inside him again. “You sent a pedophile to the mission,” he said. “To the mission!”

“I can explain. Take it easy, John.”

“Take it easy? You lied to me about Lloyd Elsner. An old man, recovering from a heart attack. That's the story you told me.”

“I told you the truth,” Rutherford said. The words were clipped and cold.

“I want all of the truth, Bill. I want the whole story. The number of men who have come forward and accused Lloyd Elsner of molesting them when they were kids. How many did you settle with? How many free counseling sessions and apologies have you handed out? What happened? Couldn't you buy off David Caldwell?”