The Ghost Walker (20 page)

Vicky was shaking her head, and Father John saw the resistance in her eyes. His theory led to Susan, to the possibility Susan could be involved. How could she accept such a theory? “Do you know for a fact it was Gary who went to the girl’s apartment? Did she tell you? What proof is there Marcus Deppert has been murdered or that the body was his? What proof do you have of any connection between the body and the murdered girl?”

Silence filtered into the space between them. He had no proof. After a moment he said, “I hope I’m wrong. But if I’m right, you and Susan are in danger. Gary has already threatened you. When Susan is released tomorrow, you can take her to the guest house at St. Francis. I’ll leave the key under the rock by the front door and have Elena lay in some food—”

“John,” Vicky interrupted, impatience in her voice. “Gary didn’t want Susan to leave the ranch. Now it’s a moot point. She’s gone, and there’s nothing he can do about it. Besides, I’m hoping Susan is scared enough to agree to go into treatment tomorrow.”

Father John reached into his parka pocket and brought out his small spiral notebook and ballpoint pen. “One of my friends—a former Jesuit—runs a drug treatment center in Denver,” he said, scribbling on the paper. “This is his number.” He tore off the sheet and handed it to her. “It’s best you both leave the area until Banner can put together enough evidence to arrest Gary.”

“What?” Vicky let the sheet of paper flutter onto the table. “What are you saying? Have you already passed this bizarre theory on to Banner?”

He was surprised at the anger in her voice. “A girl has been murdered, Vicky. A young man is missing.”

The chair screeched against the floor as she got to her feet and leaned over the table toward him. “Oh, I concede
these men are probably here to deal drugs. Maybe they’re involved in murder, I don’t know. And neither does Susan. She is not involved.”

Keeping his tone calm, rational, Father John said, “She may know something that could help the police.”

“No.” It was like a slap. “Don’t you understand how sick she is? She almost overdosed last night. She could have died. She can’t handle a police investigation right now.” Vicky straightened herself. “I thought you were on my side. I thought you cared about me and Susan, but obviously I was wrong,” she said, slamming the chair into the table and wheeling around.

He watched her cross the cafeteria, dodging the rows of empty tables and brushing past the doorway. He was still watching as she disappeared into the elevator. Then he got slowly to his feet, relieved to see she had taken the paper with the Denver number.

*    *    *

He drove north on Rendezvous Road through the silver glow of evening. It might snow again tonight; the air felt heavy. In his mind he replayed their conversation. Why hadn’t he seen the raw emotional space he had blundered into? He knew the force of her love for Susan—charged with guilt and regret and sadness. Why hadn’t he handled things differently? He had wanted to warn Vicky, to protect her, but somehow he had succeeded only in pushing her away. It had happened so easily he was shocked.

At least she had taken the note he’d scribbled. If she wouldn’t go to the guest house, maybe she would take Susan to Denver. As long as Gary was free they were in danger; he felt sure of it.

He glanced at his watch. The religious education meeting would be winding up soon, but the AA meeting
would go on for a while. He would be late. It seemed to be a recurring theme in his life—missing appointments, showing up late—like the motif of an aria.

As he slowed the Toyota around Circle Drive, Father John saw the commotion in front of the priests’ residence. He pulled in beside two vans with
CHANNEL
7
CHEYENNE
emblazoned on the sides. What looked like a tripod stood on the sidewalk, spindly black legs under a gigantic spotlight. Snow fluttered into the white light. Father Peter, hands bunched in the pockets of his black coat, stood in the circle of light while two men trained boxlike cameras on him and a woman shoved a microphone in his face.

Father John swung out of the cab. Suddenly he was in the circle of light himself, a silvery object now waving in his face, a woman walking toward him. “Here’s the pastor now. Tell us, Father O’Malley, how does it feel to be the last pastor of St. Francis Mission?”

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T
he woman moved closer, looking at Father John expectantly. She was bundled in a black fur coat, but her head was bare. She raised a gloved hand and brushed the snowflakes from her eyes and cheeks. Snow clung to her short blond hair. Father John recognized her as the anchorwoman on the ten o’clock news, where, he suspected, St. Francis Mission was about to become tonight’s lead story.

“No comment,” he said, hurrying past her up the sidewalk toward Father Peter. He took the old man’s arm and gently turned him toward the front steps.

“Is it true you oppose the creation of jobs on Wind River Reservation?” The voice was shrill as the anchorwoman saw her story about to disappear into the priests’ residence. “Father O’Malley, can you explain to our viewing audience why you would stand in the way of jobs for the Indians?”

He was in a surreal world, caught in blinding light with blackness beyond, searching his pockets for the front door key. Father Peter waited on the step below, a shadow at the edge of the light as Father John fingered the key and jammed it into the keyhole.

“Could it be you are only protecting your own job, Father O’Malley? Isn’t it true that, given your background,
it would be difficult for your order, the Society of Jesus, to place you elsewhere?”

“That is an egregious calumny,” the old priest shouted.

Turning around, Father John saw the confusion and discomfort in the young woman’s face. She started to speak, faltered. “Could you explain for our viewing audience?”

“I’ll explain for you,” said Father Peter impatiently, as if reprimanding a particularly dim student. “It’s a damn lie.”

The young woman blinked. “I beg your pardon, Father, but—”

The old priest cut her off. “Father O’Malley is a highly trained historian. He would be in demand at any of the fine educational establishments the Society of Jesus operates. He would have his choice of positions as chief executive at any of the Society’s missions around the world. Choice of positions, young lady.”

“Isn’t it true Father O’Malley is an alcoholic?” Panic tinged the young woman’s voice.

Father John heard Father Peter draw in his breath, as he took the old man’s elbow again and ushered him to the top step. Then Father John turned back to the anchorwoman. “I am a recovering alcoholic,” he said.

The old priest jerked his arm away and squared his shoulders. “As are many of your colleagues, young lady. Perhaps some of your friends. Perhaps members of your family.”

The woman gasped. A stricken look came over her face as if she had been personally insulted and wasn’t sure how to respond. Gently and firmly Father John steered the old priest into the front hall and closed the door behind them. “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he said, helping Father Peter out of his long coat.

The sounds of car doors banging, metal clanking
against metal, and engines turning over filtered inside as Father John hung the coat and his own parka on the rack. Then he followed the old man into the study and slumped into the worn leather chair behind his desk.

Father Peter had taken one of the blue wingback chairs on the other side. In a voice still trembling with emotion, he said, “We are up against street fighters, my boy.”

Father John smiled at him. He’d always felt he could fight his own battles, and it had been a long time since anyone had stepped up to the bat for him. “What questions did she ask before I got here?”

“Questions that beg the issue. A common tactic when one’s premise is fallacious.” Father Peter rested his head against the chair and closed his eyes a moment. There were moments when he seemed very ancient.

“And what did you tell her?”

“
Macbeth.
Act five, scene five. ‘Blow Wind! Come, wrack! At least we’ll die with harness on our back.’ The Bard never fails me.”

“You quoted Shakespeare to them?” Father John threw his head back and laughed. The old man was beautiful. Then it hit him: All of Wyoming was about to get a good look at the priests of St. Francis Mission, one in his dotage, the other a selfish, alcoholic obstructionist.

A gurgling pipe somewhere, air swishing through a vent—the sounds floated through the silence in the house. Father John thought the old man had fallen asleep. Suddenly Father Peter’s head jerked forward, his eyes opened. He looked startled.

“I find it interesting,” Father John began, testing his own thoughts out loud. “The plan to sell the mission has been kept top secret. Not a word leaked onto the moccasin telegraph. Yet now it’s about to be announced on the ten o’clock news.”

“They have made the first strike, my boy, before you could develop any opposition. The Provincial also hopes to obtain your acquiescence by bringing public pressure to bear. Certainly he may sell the mission without your blessing, but it would look as if he were abandoning the people here. It would be what is known today as a public relations disaster.”

Father John swiveled around and stared out the window at the falling snow. Pale moonlight glinted on the glass. Clever, he thought. People across the state would support anything that promised jobs on the reservation. Even the Arapahos might choose jobs over St. Francis. He pulled the yellow paper out of his shirt pocket and unfolded it. The neat, precise handwriting gave him a start. They had still been friends, he and Vicky, when she’d gotten this information for him. The information was elliptical: Eden Lightfoot; Harvard MBA; brought four companies to Cheyenne Agency; rumors of commissions from companies; no proof, but left agency under cloud; investigation pending.

Father John laid the paper on the desk. It didn’t surprise him. He’d already guessed Nick Sheldon had the economic development director in his pocket. “Tomorrow I’ll drive out to see Thomas Spotted Horse,” he said.

“‘Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow . . .’” The old priest got to his feet. It was a kind of unfolding: First his head rose, then his back, then his legs. “Tonight we must attend our meetings.”

Father John checked his watch again. The religious education meeting had ended, but AA was probably still going on. He lifted himself out of the leather chair. It was beginning to feel like a charade, going through the ordinary routines of St. Francis as if the mission would exist forever.

The AA meeting was almost over when he slipped past the door into the small room in Eagle Hall. Ten or twelve people, a mix of men and women, occupied the folding chairs arranged in a circle. He saw a couple of new faces. Every week brought changes. People recovering for years fell off the wagon and no longer came to the meetings; people who had been drunk for years decided to climb on the wagon and join AA. His thoughts went to Annie Chambeau. What would she have done had she lived?

He helped himself to a cup of coffee from the metal pot on a side table then took a vacant chair. The others smiled at him before turning their attention back to Clarence Little Bear, who sat forward on the edge of his chair, elbows dug into his knees. “I was like the body on Rendezvous Road,” he was saying. “Hell, I was like the ghost wanderin’ around, not knowin’ where I was goin’, only I was still alive. Barely alive,” he added, emitting a short laugh. “’Til I come here to the mission, I didn’t think there was no hope for me.”

“Yeah.” Another man spoke up. “Every time I drove down Seventeen-Mile Road and seen the church tower through the trees, I’d think this ain’t no good for me or the family. I gotta do better. So one day I pulled in to the mission and took the pledge.”

Father John sipped at his coffee as the testimonials went on. The words varied, but the meaning was the same. Here at St. Francis, they had found hope.
Dear God
, he prayed silently,
help me to find the way to help the mission.

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