The Spider's Web (22 page)

“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 Lookingglass 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.”

“Where’s he staying?” Vicky said.

“Who knows?” Annie tried for a shrug. “Probably with his no-good cousin in Ethete. That’s what I told the cops.”

Vicky sat back, not saying anything. Behind the counter, a short woman with broad shoulders and short, brown hair leafed through a stack of papers; a blonde girl barely out of high school, bent over a computer screen. A practiced air about them of ignoring the waiting room. Robin Bosey could disappear into the emptiness of the reservation, she was thinking, a little house out at the end of a dirt road somewhere, a dilapidated building no one thought about any more, falling back into the earth. Like Dwayne Hawk and Lionel Lookingglass. Everyone looking for them, no one finding them.

A door at the end of the waiting room swung open and Roger walked out, blinking in the light. There was a naked look about him without the wire-framed glasses. His hair was mussed, a cowlick springing up at the crown of his head. He moved slowly, testing each step, holding one arm against his waist. In his hand was a little piece of paper, a prescription, Vicky guessed. A nurse in green scrubs trailed behind him, keeping a hand on his elbow.

Annie jumped to her feet and ran to him. For a moment, they held each other, Roger pulling her in close against his folded arm. Then Annie stepped back, but he didn’t let her go all the way. Instead, he guided her around to his other side as they came across the room.

“Are you a friend?” The nurse brushed past.

Vicky nodded.

“Good,” the nurse said. She was tall and severe looking, with blonde hair pulled back and fixed in a bun. “Mr. Hurst should take it easy for a while. He has a prescription that should check the pain,” she said. Behind her back, Roger waved the little piece of paper. “We’ve reported the incident as an assault, but the police had already been brought in.”

“Called them on our way to the hospital,” Roger said. “Any luck, they’ve got that bastard by now.” He leaned down and kissed the top of Annie’s head.

“I’ll follow you home,” Vicky said. The nurse had hurried ahead and was holding open the glass door. The night air was still warm, but the breeze had picked up, sweeping miniature tumbleweeds across the drive. They walked out to the parking lot, and Vicky waited while Roger settled himself into the passenger seat of Annie’s car. Annie shut the door, then went around and got in behind the wheel.

“Wait,” Vicky said, leaning over the top of the door. “Don’t go home. Go to Casper, both of you. Stay with your friend, Annie. Spend time with your kids.”