The Drowning Man (31 page)

“The combination,” she said. “What's the damn combination?”

The man was still at his side, shoving the pistol into his ribs.

What was it Norman had said? One-eight-zero? You'll remember one-eight-zero.

Father John gave the woman the numbers, his lips so tight he could barely form the words.

“Damnit, I need some light.” The woman was jiggling the metal circles below the clasp, leaning into it, back curved under her plaid shirt. The light bored into the briefcase as the clasp snapped open. She lifted the lid and stared at the stacks of bills, yellowish green in the light. She picked up a stack and flipped through the edges. The bills crackled in the quiet.

“Looks like it's here.” She replaced the stack, closed the lid, and lifted the briefcase. “Get him back into the truck,” she said, looking at the man with the pistol.

Father John felt an immense quiet settling over him, every part of him focused on this new reality. There was never going to be any exchange. Had he really believed that the couple would take the money and that he would drive the Drowning Man back to the reservation? He could identify them; Gianelli would have had them under arrest within a few hours. But Marjorie Taylor and Andy Lyle intended to take him somewhere else and kill him.

He said, “If you intend to shoot me, you'll have to do it here. The same place where you killed Raymond Trublood seven years ago. What story will you use this time? There isn't any Indian around to take the blame.”

“You don't know shit.” This from the woman, moving toward the door, spitting the words back over her shoulder. “Hold it.” She stopped walking and stood very still, head tilted into the thin shaft of light cutting across the barn. “Somebody's out there.”

“Could be it's…”

“Shut up, Andy.” She spun around and glared at the man a moment, then turned to Father John. “You brought the cops, didn't you?” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “That SUV I seen out on the highway, that was the cops. Damn glyphs have been nothing but a shitload of trouble. We were doing fine, Andy and me, without them. Jesus, Andy, cut that light.”

Darkness swallowed the beam of light. Father John was aware of footsteps crossing the barn, the dull thud of an object being pulled from the wall. It was a moment before his eyes began to adjust. In the slivers of moonlight breaking at the edges of the log walls and outlining the big double doors, he could see the woman inching sideways. She had a shotgun braced against her right shoulder. Andy Lyle was moving around to the other side. An elongated black shadow of a man with a gun slid over the walls.

“Don't do this,” Father John heard himself say. “Put the guns down.” It was like speaking into a black tunnel.

“Nobody's taking me from this ranch.” The woman hissed the words.

“You sure about this, Marjorie?” There was a shakiness in the man's voice. “Maybe we could get out the back.”

Father John wasn't sure what happened first—the back door flying open or the big sliding doors crashing back. Floodlights had bathed the barn, blinding him for a couple of seconds—that he remembered, groping through the light, and his own voice shouting: “Don't shoot! Don't shoot!” And the sound of his voice lost in the blast of gunshots. He dove to the ground and clawed his way through the dirt behind the petroglyph.

“Put your guns down and come out with your hands over your head!” The voice from outside was magnified. It reverberated around the barn.

“Go to hell!” Marjorie Taylor shouted, the words nearly lost in the volley of gunshots and the sounds of horses screaming and hooves stomping.

Bursts of orange light flamed in the floodlight, a bullet pinged against the petroglyph, chips ricocheted about and peppered Father John's face. He crouched against the rock, covering his head.
God, don't let anyone die.

Then came the silence, like the silence at the end of the world. He'd just managed to untangle himself and peer around the edge of the glyph when noise erupted again. The horses whinnying and boots thumping the ground, an engine growling, voices shouting. He was aware of men moving behind him—when had they come through the back door?—and of dark uniformed figures looming in the wide doorway ahead, black cutouts in the white light, rifles swinging side to side like cannons swiveling about, zeroing in on the next target. On the ground inside the door was the crumpled figure of Marjorie Taylor. A few feet away, Andy Lyle lay stretched on his back, arms flung out, as if he had been lifted off his feet and knocked backward by some superhuman force. The blood blossoming on the front of his shirt had a deeper red cast in the white light. The metal pistol on the ground beside him gleamed against the dirt.

Father John felt the hot muzzle of a gun against his neck. “Get to your feet,” a man's voice said.

“For godsakes, that's Father John.” Another voice attached to the boots stomping behind the glyph. “You all right, Father?”

The muzzle pulled back, and Father John got to his feet. “I'm okay,” he said. He didn't recognize either man—sheriff's deputies in brown uniforms, like the other brown uniforms tramping about the barn, bending over the bodies of Marjorie Taylor and Andy Lyle.

He remembered starting toward the bodies just as Gianelli came through the door. The fed made a straight line for him, parting the floodlight. “Jesus Almighty Christ,” he said. “What the hell do you think you're doing? You could be dead.”

VICKY WATCHED MICHAEL
Deaver lift himself out of the black SUV, grab a briefcase from the backseat, and come up the sidewalk flooded with morning sunshine. She glanced at her watch: 8:25. She'd been waiting in the entry to his office for twenty minutes. When she threw open the glass door, the prosecutor's head jerked backward, traces of surprise and amusement in his expression.

“Can't wait to hear what brought you out so early, counselor,” he said, shouldering past her.

“I left you several messages yesterday afternoon,” she said.

Deaver bent toward the inside door next to the white plaque with his name and
County and Prosecuting Attorney
in black type. The thick ring of keys jingled in his hand as he maneuvered one of the keys into the lock. “I make it a point not to check my messages on weekends,” he said, pushing the door open.

“It's an emergency, Michael.” Vicky followed him across the reception area with chairs pushed into the wells of the scrubbed desks, down the corridor to his office on the right.

“I'm sure.” He slapped the briefcase onto the desk. “Need some coffee?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Well, I need coffee.” Deaver retraced his steps across the small office and disappeared again into the corridor.

Vicky dropped onto a chair in front of the desk and tugged a yellow pad out of her briefcase. A phone had started ringing in the outer office, a door slammed somewhere. There was the sound of a running faucet and the clink of metal. She found a pen and wrote the date across the top of the pad, then the name: Michael Deaver.

The prosecutor was back, angling his large frame past the corner of the desk, patting at the front of his blue shirt, running one hand through his hair. “Just the smell of coffee revives me,” he said, perching on his chair. “So what's the emergency?”

“My client, Travis Birdsong…”

“Oh, yeah.” Deaver shrugged. “Mr. I-Never-Did-Anything-I-Was-Framed. Why does it not surprise me that you're still on his case? Don't you ever give up?”

“Not when my client is innocent. He wants to make a deal.”

“No kidding! A deal. What kind of deal does he think I would possibly want to make with him?”

“Travis can give up a murderer, Michael. He can give you information on a criminal ring that's been looting artifacts in the county for years. Does that interest you?”

“That a fact?” Deaver rocked back and forth for a moment, as if he were on a trotting horse, then jumped to his feet. “Ah, coffee smells good and ready. Sure you don't want some?” He darted around the desk, past her chair, and out the door, not waiting for an answer.

Vicky jabbed the ballpoint at the pad, making a series of half circles. The phone had started ringing again in the reception area. She drew a miniature figure in the center and gave it truncated legs and arms, long spindly fingers. She could hear Deaver's footsteps padding back down the corridor.

“Somebody get that damn phone,” he yelled. “Anybody out there yet? Christ,” he said, coming through the door. He set a mug on the desk in front of her and dropped back onto his chair, cradling his own mug in both hands. “Too much to ask people to get to work on time?” He slurped at the coffee. “So who's the murderer Birdsong's gonna give me?” he said, nodding toward the other mug. “Better have some coffee. Only way to start the day.”

Vicky picked up the mug and took a sip. “He can give you Benito Behan's killer,” she said. The mug was warm in her hands, and she realized that she'd felt chilled all morning. She'd been up for hours; it was still dark beyond the bedroom window when she'd finally given up tossing and turning and had headed into the shower. She'd munched on a piece of toast before she'd left the apartment. She could feel the coffee sloshing in her empty stomach.

She realized that Michael Deaver was staring at her, working at his coffee, watching her across the rim. “You're kidding, right?” He set his mug on the desk. “I take it you haven't heard the news. We've already identified the people responsible for the homicide. Marjorie Taylor and Andy Lyle. You know them?”

Vicky didn't say anything. The sound of a ringing phone seemed to come from a great distance.

“They're dead, Vicky. Case closed. I'm not making any deals for dead murderers.”

Vicky got to her feet and braced her hands against the edge of the desk. “What happened, Michael?”

“I got the call late last night…”

“A call you returned.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waved away the reprimand. “Caller ID says the sheriff, I take the call. Everything came down last night. You're behind the news, counselor. Father O'Malley was on his way to get the stolen petroglyph. Had a quarter million dollars in a briefcase, which he was gonna turn over to Taylor and Lyle.” He shook his head. “The man took a big risk. Could've ended up dead. They picked him up, blindfolded him, and took him out to the Taylor Ranch. Riverton PD and the sheriff's department had been watching for the good pastor's red pickup. They saw him leave it in a parking lot and get into a brown truck.”

“What kind of truck?”

“What does it matter?” The prosecutor gave a halfhearted shrug. “I don't know. Chevy truck, I think the sheriff said.”

Vicky stepped backward and gripped the top of her chair. “What happened, Michael?”

The prosecutor shrugged. “Sheriff's officers surrounded the barn. The woman started firing a shotgun before the deputies got control of the situation, and Lyle was backing her up with a pistol. You got two nutcases shooting at anything that moves, and the only things moving were deputies. They didn't have any choice.”

“What about Father John?”

“He's okay.”

Vicky sank back into the seat of her chair. She felt weak and shaky, tossed about in the waves of relief coming over her. “They tried to kill me,” she said.

“What?”

“They ran me off the highway when I was coming back from Rawlins. They shot at me out on the highway by the Taylor Ranch.”

“Yeah, I heard about those incidents. State patrol and sheriff are investigating. Nobody's been charged.”

“It was Marjorie Taylor and Andy Lyle.” She'd thought it was two cowboys, but behind the masks—She had to fight off the urge to laugh. But then she would start weeping. She'd
told
Marjorie and her foreman that she intended to visit Travis on Friday; they had followed her. Then, yesterday, when she'd left the ranch, they must have taken a back road and come out on the highway behind her. Determined to kill her then, finish what they'd bungled earlier.

And now they were both dead. Vicky pressed her hand against her mouth and swallowed hard. The relief she felt was so strong she could almost taste it. She was aware of the man leaning across the desk, watching her, concern and impatience mingling in his expression.

“You don't have anything to worry about,” Deaver said. “They won't be coming after you again.”

Vicky nodded, then ran her fingers over the moisture that had started leaking from the corners of her eyes. Finally, she said, “They were part of a gang of artifact thieves, Michael. They were working with an outsider. The Indian was the intermediary.”

The prosecutor was shaking his head. “Look, we're going to find the evidence that connects Taylor and Lyle to Behan's homicide. Sheriff's deputies are still searching the ranch house, office, barn, the whole damn place. Mark my words, won't be long until they come up with the knife. They were involved in the theft of the petroglyph, and the Indian ended up dead. Now they're dead, Vicky. End of story.”

“I'm telling you, Michael, it's a bigger story. They were part of the gang seven years ago. They were responsible for stealing the petroglyph then. They killed Raymond Trublood and made it look like Travis was guilty. It worked, Michael. They got away with murder.”

“Oh, God.” The prosecutor lifted his eyes to the ceiling. “Here we go again. Let me state for the record, there is no evidence. The guilty party was convicted. His name is Travis Birdsong.”

“Then why is someone trying to kill him?”

“What?”

“You heard me. Word is out at the prison that someone has a contract to kill my client. It's curious, isn't it? Anyone who might get in the way of whoever is behind the thefts ends up dead. Raymond Trublood. Benito Behan. I started looking into Travis's case, and suddenly I became a target. Travis knows too much, Michael. He can blow this whole ring out of the water. He can identify whoever is running it. He can give you names, dates, times, meeting places for the petroglyph that was stolen seven years ago. He knows who's in charge. We want a deal. Travis will tell what he knows, and you ask the court to overturn the conviction. He's innocent, Michael.”

“Sorry, not interested in any conspiracy story about rings of thieves that steal artifacts from public lands.” The man shook his head and flicked his fingers at the mug. “Not my jurisdiction. Take your story to Gianelli. Maybe he can convince me that what your client knows is so damn important I oughtta get my office involved. Stealing artifacts isn't exactly a big crime, you know what I mean? Worth five years max in some federal prison, and you count on your fingers the number of thieves doing that kind of time.”

“Travis could be killed to keep him from talking.”

“He can make a report to the warden. They'll put him in isolation.”

“Whoever is running things gave the order to kill Behan. He's given the order to kill Travis. He's tried to kill me.”

A buzzer sounded. Deaver stared at the phone a moment, then picked up the receiver. “Yeah?” he said. A moment passed. “Tell him to hang on. I'm just winding up here.

“Sheriff's on the line; I gotta take the call,” he said. “Look, manslaughter case seven years ago was solved. Homicide last week, solved. Stolen petroglyph, recovered. My guess is, Gianelli's gonna tell you the same thing. This case is over.”

Vicky stuffed the yellow pad into her briefcase and started for the door. She turned back. The prosecutor was tapping the phone keys, pressing the receiver to his ear. She had the sense that he was making an effort to keep his gaze on the desk, ignoring the fact that she was still there. The man was like a block of stone, and she was chipping at stone with words. Flimsy tools lost in the air.

She pulled the cell out of her briefcase as she hurried down the corridor. Outside in the bright sunlight, she pressed the key for the office. Annie's voice interrupted the rings: “Lone Eagle and Holden Law Offices.”

“It's me, Annie.” Vicky started down the sidewalk toward the Impala at the corner of the lot.

“Adam's been wanting to talk to you.” There was a light nervousness in the secretary's tone. “Wait a sec. I'll put him on.”

Vicky folded herself behind the steering wheel, turned the ignition, and rolled down the windows. Cottonwood branches lifted like an umbrella over the lot; the breeze blowing through the Jeep felt cool.

“Vicky, where are you?” It was Adam's voice.

“I'll be in later,” she said, dodging the question.

“Bud Ladd over at the BLM called first thing this morning. What's going on, Vicky? He's spouting fire. Said you're trying to blackmail him.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“He didn't like the newspaper article, Vicky. Neither did Norman. I thought we had agreed.”

“We agreed that I would manage the BLM case, and that's what I'm doing, Adam.”

“When are you coming to the office? We have a lot to talk about.”

“I'll be in later,” she said, her finger searching for the end key.

We have a lot to talk about.
Vicky fit the cell back into her briefcase and closed her eyes a moment. She was going to have to convince Gianelli that Travis had information on a ring of artifact thieves. Then Gianelli might be able to convince Michael Deaver to help her get Travis's conviction overturned.

She punched in the number for the local FBI office. “Be there, Gianelli,” she said over the whirr of a ringing phone.

 

“
THEY PICKED YOU
up at 7:45 on Main, right?” Gianelli said. The fed looked like he'd been stuffed into the side chair, Father John thought, two-hundred-and-some pounds of linebacker muscle that hadn't yet started running to fat. A small notepad in his left hand, pages scribbled in black ink flipped back, ballpoint in his other hand poised over a new page. “That right?” the agent said again.

Father John got up and walked over to the window in his office. A few white clouds drifted lazily across the cobalt sky. “We've been over this a dozen times,” he said. Lines of sunshine and shadow crisscrossed the mission grounds. He could feel the warmth working through the walls of the old building. He watched Walks-On dart around the corner of the residence and trot across Circle Drive, intent upon something in his dog world.

“People think of things later,” Gianelli said behind him. Last night, the agent had ticked off the list of charges that he could file against him: obstructing justice, impeding a federal investigation, withholding evidence. “Only reason I'm not charging you,” he'd said, “is because Father McCauley called and told me you were on your way to make the exchange. I'm going to assume he called on your instructions. Don't say anything.” He'd thrown up one hand when Father John had started to correct the man's impression. “You okay?” he'd said, and his tone had seemed to soften.