The Thunder Keeper

Acknowledgments

Prologue

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

THE THUNDER KEEPER

 

A
Berkley Prime Crime
Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

All rights reserved.

Copyright ©
2001
by
Margaret Coel

This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

For information address:

The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

 

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
http://www.penguinputnam.com

 

ISBN:
978-1-1012-2080-1

 

A
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
BOOK®

Berkley Prime Crime
Books first published by The Berkley Prime Crime Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
and the “
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

 

Electronic edition: October, 2002

J. David Love, Ph.D., retired research geologist, U.S. Geological Survey and acknowledged authority on the geology of Wyoming; W. Dan Hausel, senior economic geologist (metals and precious stones), Wyoming State Geological Survey, both of Laramie; Larry Loendorf, archaeologist, Durham, NC; Brad Henderson, Ph.D., satellite imaging data analyst, Boulder, CO; John Dix, former baseball player, Washington, DC; Virginia Sutter, Ph.D., member of the Arapaho tribe, Issaquah, WA; Mark Moxley, district supervisor, Lander, and Bill Hogg, inspector, Cheyenne, Wyoming Department of Environmental Quality–Land Quality Division; Swede Johnson, Jack Graves, Rebecca Fischer, and Kristin Coel Henderson, attorneys, and Sheila Carrigan, municipal court judge, Boulder; Beverly Carrigan, and Karen Gilleland, Boulder.

 

 

My children

My children

It is I who holds the thunder in my hand
I show it to my children
I show it to my children
Says the Keeper
Says the Keeper

 

 

In memory of
Margaret and Sam Speas
and for
Karen Gilleland
Hohów

F
rom the ledge high on the cliff, Duncan Grover could see the length of the valley running like a river out of the mountains and into the shadows of the plains. Bear Lake directly below glistened like a diamond in the moonlight. Above the ledge, the spirit that guarded the valley had carved its own image into the flat face of the cliff. The white figure seemed to be stepping out from the reddish sandstone: large, square body with arms outstretched in a kind of benediction, and round, all-seeing eyes behind the humanlike mask.

The world was silent, except for the faint stirring of thunder beyond the mountain peaks and the sound of the wind in the junipers and pinons. The wind smelled of rain. It was the last Friday in April, the Moon of Ice Breaking in the Waters, in the way in which his people, the Arapahos, marked the passing of time.

Duncan pulled the woolen blanket tighter about his bare shoulders and sat down cross-legged inside the circle he'd drawn through the loose gravel on the ledge. He would stay inside the circle for three days, as Gus Iron Bear, the
noto'nheihi,
had instructed. Here was everything he needed for his vision quest: a small fire of cottonwood chips, and sage, a pipe carefully wrapped in calico and
propped on two upright sticks, and a leather pouch filled with tobacco.

He tried not to think about the hunger gnawing at his insides like a small animal. His mouth was as dry as leather. He hadn't eaten or taken anything to drink for two days now, he guessed. He couldn't be sure. All of time had collapsed into the present.

He intended to follow the medicine man's instructions to the last detail. He didn't want to fail. He'd already failed so many life tests that he felt himself a mighty failure. But he'd been given another chance.

He'd spent three weeks preparing for the vision quest: days and nights of praying, fasting, and listening to the words of the
noto'nheihi.
He'd been cleansed in the sweat lodge, his heart softened so that it might be reshaped by the spirits. He'd prayed for strength, for the power to control his emotions throughout the ordeal of the quest, like a warrior seeking the power to control himself throughout the ordeal of battle.

Two days ago he'd driven thirty miles north of the Wind River Reservation to Bear Lake Valley. The spirits dwelled in the valley, and had dwelled there for countless old men, countless generations—as long as his people could remember. He'd removed his clothes and slipped past the icy crust still clinging to Bear Lake, surprised at how warm the water was, how comforting as it lapped at his nakedness and cleansed his spirit.

Then he'd wrapped himself in the blanket woven with blue, red, and yellow geometric symbols: the long lines that represented the roads humans must follow, the circle that represented the Creator, the center of all. Carrying only a small bundle that contained the pipe, the pouch, and some cottonwood chips and dried sage, he'd climbed up the mountain barefoot. Floated upward, it had seemed,
lifted into the sky by the spirit itself looming above, the rocks and pine needles as nothing beneath his feet. He found the ledge with no trouble. It was much larger than he'd expected, as large as a porch. It might have been waiting for him through the eons.

With his fingers he'd traced out the circle, his home on the ledge, then removed the pipe from the bundle and tapped in the tobacco. Before he began to smoke, he held out the pipe to the four directions, an offering to the four grandfather spirits that guarded the world. When he offered the pipe to the spirit of the west, the thunder keeper had answered. Thunder,
boh'o:o,
had crashed through the valley.

He'd waited for the thunder to subside before he'd turned to the sandstone cliff and raised the pipe to the figure of the guardian spirit of the valley.

“Remember me.” He spoke softly to the spirit. “I am poor. Every morning I will be poor. Take pity on me.”

Only after he'd made the offerings did he begin to smoke. The smoke had curled up toward the sky, lifting his prayers to the spirits. A sense of peace had come over him. He felt strong with confidence that the spirits would honor his quest.

Since then he'd dozed inside the circle, then awakened and prayed and smoked before dozing again, waiting—not expecting, simply waiting—for the time his guardian spirit might choose to come in a vision and bestow power upon him. To receive power in a vision—ah, that would be the strongest power of all. Then he would have the strength to follow the Arapaho Way. He could live a good life.

He wasn't sure when he became aware of the light flowing through the trees on the mountainside below, but now it caught his attention. Be attentive to all things—
the
noto'nheihi'
s voice in his head. He tried to concentrate on the moving light, emptying his mind of all other thoughts and possibilities. He felt his heart knocking against his ribs. He struggled to take in a deep breath and calm himself. He must be ready. The spirit was approaching.

R
ain scattered like shotgun pellets over the roof of St. Francis Church. From the distance came the sound of thunder, diffused and muted. Every time the front door opened, a blast of cool, moist air rattled the door to the confessional and swept through the cracks into the small cubicle.

Father John O'Malley slipped a bookmark between the pages of
Indian Country
and flexed his long legs into the shadows beyond the tiny circle of light from the lamp behind his chair. The rungs of the wooden chair dug into his back muscles. He should move one of the upholstered chairs from his office to the confessional, he reminded himself. The trouble was, he always forgot until the next time he heard confessions.

Just inside the door was another straight-back chair, so close he could shove it sideways with his boot. There was always a penitent who preferred the informality of talking to the priest face-to-face in the sacrament of reconciliation, but most of his parishioners liked the traditional anonymity of the confessional, whispering sins and failings, remorse and prayers from the tiny cubicle on the other side of the metal grate in the paneled wall to his left. Arapahos were traditional.

He glanced at his watch. Almost four-thirty. He'd been in the confessional since three. Every Saturday afternoon, between three and four-thirty, either he or whatever assistant priest happened to be assigned to St. Francis Mission on the Wind River Reservation could be found in the confessional. Usually they took turns. Today had been the turn of his new assistant, Father Don Ryan, but something had come up. Father Don had to go out. Could Father John possibly hear confessions?

It had been fifteen minutes since the last penitent. Father John stood up and stamped his boots on the thin carpet, trying to work the stiffness out of his legs. He was about to shrug into the jacket that he'd draped over the back of his chair when he heard the front door open. A stream of chilled air filtered into the confessional.

He sat back down.

Finally the door on the other side of the confessional opened, and a slim dark shadow slid across the grate. There was a noisy intake of breath, then another.

Father John felt his senses switch to alert, the way they had when he was a kid back in Boston, coming home from baseball practice after dark, spotting a gang of tough older boys under the street lamp down the block.

He said, “Do you wish to make a confession?”

“Yeah, I wanna confess.” A man's voice, the slightest midwestern accent. The man was not Arapaho.

“Please begin.” Father John bent his head toward the grate. In the dim patchwork of light, he could make out the protruding nose, the hooded eyes. The rest of the face was lost in shadow.

“I gotta tell somebody what happened.” The man spoke hurriedly. “But it's gotta be, what d'ya call it, confidential. Know what I mean? I remembered going to confession
when I was a kid, so I come here. You aren't gonna go blabbing, are you?”

For a moment Father John considered explaining the conditions required for a valid sacrament—intent to confess, sincere remorse, firm purpose of amending one's life—then thought better of it. The man was here, and he needed to confess.

He said, “Whatever you say in the confessional stays in the confessional.”

A long sigh, a mixture of relief and impatience, burst through the grate, leaving an aftermath of garlic and mint.

“I didn't mean for the Indian to get killed—”

“What Indian?” Father John interrupted.

“Up there on the ledge, watching. I didn't think the boss was gonna kill him.”

“What are you talking about?” Father John leaned forward, all of his senses alert. He could feel his skin prickling. The air was heavy around him, the sound of the rain far away.

“I'm trying to tell you, Father.” Impatience leaked through the voice. “Me and the boss went up the mountain to talk to the Indian. At least that's what I thought was gonna happen. Encourage him to mind his own business. Maybe punish him a little, know what I mean? The boss likes that. The Indian looked like he was strung out on dope. Sitting cross-legged like a beggar, his eyes glazed over. He was just staring up at the carving in the rock. Next thing I know, the boss hits him in the head with a pipe. Christ, I didn't even know the boss was carrying a pipe. Then he picks up the Indian like a sack of garbage and tosses him over the cliff.” The voice had begun to crack, remorse and despair leaking through.

Father John was quiet. He was trying to get his mind around what the man had said. There had been a murder.
An Indian thrown off a cliff. A couple of seconds passed before he was aware that the man in the shadows was waiting for him to say something.

“Did you go to the police?” he managed.

The man spit out a laugh, and the odor of garlic was so strong that Father John held his breath a moment. “You think I wanna be the next guy thrown off a cliff? The boss finds out I opened my mouth, I'm gonna be a dead man.”

“You witnessed a murder,” Father John said. “You have an obligation before God. You must try to make some amends. Whoever did this must be brought to justice.”

“Let me tell you about justice.” There was another forced laugh, another cloud of garlic. “I go to the police and I die. That's justice. Soon's I get what's owed me, I'm getting away from here. I don't want no part of any more murders.”

“More murders! What are you saying?”

“The boss is mopping up. He's gonna kill anybody gets in the way. The Indian was just the first. There's gonna be more murders.”

“Listen to me.” Father John kept his own voice low and firm. “The police—”

“Forget it, Father. I come here for confession, not some high-and-mighty lecture. I'm not going to the police.”

Suddenly the atmosphere changed, as if new air had rushed in to fill a vacuum, and Father John realized the man was getting to his feet: the protruding nose and hooded eyes rising upward into the shadows.

“Don't go,” he said, but the door on the other side was already open, the crack of light illuminating the thin figure in a red baseball jacket and blue jeans. For half a second light glinted on the bald head. The door slammed shut. There was the
tap-tap
sound of footsteps hurrying away.

“Wait!” Father John was on his feet, knocking the other chair into the wall. His jacket and book fell to the floor. He flung open the door and crossed the vestibule. No sign of the man.

He swung around and walked through the open doors to the main part of the church, his eyes searching the center aisle, the silent rows of pews, the altar. A red votive candle in front of the tabernacle on the left side of the altar blinked little circles of light over the ceiling. The church was empty.

He retraced his steps through the vestibule, past the confessional, to the front door. The knob was still moist with perspiration as he yanked the door open and stepped onto the concrete stoop.

“Wait!” he shouted into the rain beating down on the mission grounds, running in little streams across Circle Drive. The administration building, the Arapaho Museum, the priest's residence along Circle Drive rose out of the rainy haze like ships tossing in the sea. The only vehicles were his old red Toyota pickup and Father Don's blue sedan parked in front of the residence. There was no one around.

Father John hunched his shoulders against the rain and ran down the alley that divided the church from the administration building. Past Eagle Hall. Past the guest house, the rain plastering his shirt to his back and chest. He blinked the water out of his eyes. Still no sign of anyone, no footprints in the muddy alley. The man had evaporated into the rain, like a spirit.

Unless . . . unless he hadn't left the church after all. Unless he was still inside.