Eye of the Wolf (14 page)

“The baby's okay.”

Father John glanced at Tomas. His jaw was clenched. His hands lay like rocks dropped onto the thighs of his blue jeans. He might have been turned into stone.

“We don't need this,” Tomas said finally. “Forget it, Marie, anything you're thinking. That girl's got a white supremacist baby in her belly, and we don't want anything to do with it. Trent never said one word about a baby.”

“A child's always a blessing,” Hanson said. “
Dam Apua dame mash. The Creator is with us.
”

“Not a white supremacist child. No way would Trent ever break up with that girl if she had his baby.”

“Break up?” Father John heard the astonishment in his voice. Edie Bradbury hadn't said anything about a breakup. “When did that happen?”

“Two, three weeks ago, I guess,” Tomas said. “Called here and said, ‘Don't worry, Dad. I'm gonna break it off. Gonna tell Edie it's not working out and get my own place.' ”

Father John sat back in his chair. The girl said that Trent hadn't been
home
since Friday, yet there hadn't been any sign of Trent's things at the house. “Do you know if he moved out?”

“Called me next day and said he'd found an apartment in a basement by the college. Said it was gonna be real convenient and quiet. No more trouble from the girl's white friends.”

“She gonna be okay?” Marie moved to the edge of her chair.

“I tol' you, honey.” Tomas patted her hand. “We can't be worrying ourselves about that white girl. Let her white friends take care of her.”

“The detective will want to know everything you've told me,” Father John said. He kept his voice low, although what difference did it make? Everybody in the living room had been listening in on the conversation.
The moccasin telegraph would be bursting with gossip the next few days.

Tomas nodded. “I already told that detective everything I know. I told him, take a good look at that girl and the gang of troublemakers she hangs with. Maybe they're the ones want to get a war started on the rez, so Indians can kill one another off.”

Father John drained the rest of the coffee, then got to his feet. “Call me if there's anything I can do to help you,” he said, setting one hand on the man's shoulder a moment. Then he turned to Lou Crispin who was staring up at him out of red-rimmed eyes. “Anything at all,” he said.

Motioning for them to stay seated, he started back across the room.

“There's something else you can do.” The elder's voice came from behind him.

Father John turned around. Hanson was holding onto the back of a chair, and one of the other men, Father John realized, had a hand on the old man's arm. For a moment, Father John thought the elder was going to ask him to stay in touch with the girl, make sure she was okay. Instead, he said, “Tell the Arapahos we don't wish 'em harm. And if you talk to that detective, tell him he's got to find the killer real soon. No tellin' how long we can keep the likes of Eric Surrell from goin' off and lookin' for their own revenge.”

Father John shook the elder's hand, the palm as rough as rawhide. He could feel the old man's eyes trailing him past the groups of people—the nods and half-smiles—until he'd let himself out the front door.

FATHER JOHN TURNED
onto Trout Creek Road and peered at the snow-streaked asphalt rolling toward him, unable to shake the image of Edie Bradbury curled on top of the bed, the blue-red slices in her arms, the blood crusted on the bedspread. A flare for capturing history in brief, pithy images, Professor Lambert had said of the girl. Edie, Trent, the Crispin brothers—they were all in the class. It was hard to imagine the girl with a rifle, pulling the trigger—one, two, three times.
Afterward, posing each body to look like a fallen warrior. Recording the message somewhere and placing the telephone call, wanting the bodies to be found before the snow covered them. A poet yearning for her work to be appreciated.

It was hard to imagine.

And yet,
no reins on that girl,
Tomas had said. And she was carrying the child of the man who had broken up with her.

He wasn't sure when the pickup had appeared in the rearview mirror, brown and weaving across the road. It was coming closer now, so close he could see the three dark heads bobbing above the dashboard, the white teeth flashing in brown faces. They were enjoying this, taking up the whole road and then speeding up until they were riding the tail of the Toyota.

The first hit was like a nudge. Father John felt the rear tires spin, knocked out of sync a moment. He let them settle back into a regular rhythm before he pressed down on the accelerator, trying to put space between himself and the brown pickup that was also speeding up. The next hit was a loud crash of metal against metal. He had the sense of being airborne, the pickup loping down the road and swerving to the side as the other pickup rammed the tailgate hard. His head snapped forward into the windshield and the front end plowed into the borrow ditch.

The engine whined for a moment, then shut off. In the rearview mirror, he watched the doors of the pickup swing open. He recognized the three men tumbling out of the cab: Eric Surrell and the men who had left the house with him. Eric planted both boots in the snow, leaned down, and lifted out something from behind the seat.

They were coming up his side of the pickup now, single file. Funny, he thought. Like baseball players marching out to the field, Eric in the lead carrying the bat.

FATHER JOHN PUSHED
the door open and jumped out just as the bat rose in the air and smashed down onto the pickup. The thumping noise reverberated through the quiet. A dent the size of a baseball appeared on the top edge of the bed. The vehicle seemed to jump sideways, then settle back, shuddering under the force of the blow.

“Hey!” he shouted. “What're you doing?” He stepped around the door, placing the shield of metal and plastic and glass between himself and the three men who were crouching forward, like wolves moving in for the kill.

“Your turn, priest.” Eric Surrell held the bat up and out, ready for another strike.

Father John waited, his breath an icy lump in his throat. He was barely aware of the moist air stinging his face and the dull throb of pain in his cheek. Everything was moving in slow motion. He didn't take his eyes off the man with the bat. Come on. Come on.

“We got a message for Arapahos,” Eric shouted. He adjusted his weight from one leg to the other. The others pulled back, giving him room to swing. “You're gonna be the delivery boy.”

One more step.

Eric pulled the bat up higher. The instant he stepped into the swing, Father John threw his weight against the door, crashing it against the man and knocking him into the side of the pickup. He stumbled sideways and jabbed one hand against the front seat, scrambling for balance. The bat dipped in his other hand, and Father John grabbed hold of the man's arm and yanked him forward, then sideways, pulling him against the edge of the door. The bat slid downward, planting itself like a pole in the snow as Father John rammed the man's arm up behind his back and slammed him into the side of the pickup. There was a snapping noise, like the sound of boots stomping on ice. Father John felt something in the man's arm slacken, and Eric gave a howl that ripped out of his lungs and cut into the air.

The other men were coming to life. Out of the corner of his eye, Father John could see the surprise slip from their faces, giving way to a red anger that glowed like burning coals through the gray cold. They started forward. Father John swung Eric around and shoved the man into them. Then he scooped up the bat and stepped away from the pickup, giving himself a good five feet from the men stumbling forward, trying to steady Eric, who was still howling with pain and screaming, “My shoulder! My shoulder!”

Father John fixed the bat into place over his right shoulder. He could feel his hands tighten into the familiar grip. It felt natural, except for the leather gloves he was wearing. He was the pitcher again, the rare pitcher who was damn good up at bat. He could bat at .382, but that was twenty-five years ago. Twenty-five years ago, but he could still swing a bat. He knew that for a fact.

One of Eric's buddies, a tall man with squinty eyes and black braids dangling over the fur collar of his jean jacket, had moved past the others. He looked like a wrestler, arms bent, elbows pointed outward, legs
planted a couple of feet apart. His eyes were black slits in his brown face. “Okay, priest. Looks like it's you and me.”

“You want to try me? Come on.” Father John moved the bat up and down. With the right swing, he could break the man's arm.

The Indian hesitated. “Throw the bat down. Let's see what kind of man you are.”

“The bat's mine,” Father John said. “You're going to have to take your chances.”

Eric let out another yelp. “Sonnuvabitch,” he screamed.

“Get him, Lester!” The man holding onto Eric shouted.

A couple of seconds passed. The Indian kept shifting his gaze from the bat to Father John. Father John could almost read the argument playing out behind the squinting eyes. The man was weighing his odds. The priest was twenty years older, but he was taller and in better shape than he'd expected. Maybe he was fast with the bat. He could be real fast and strong. He could hit him. Maybe he'd get hit before he saw it coming.

Finally, something in the Indian's expression seemed to deflate, all the confidence and energy leaching away. He put up both hands in an awkward sign of peace. “We come to send a message to that Arapaho,” he said. “Tell Frankie Montana we aren't gonna sit around and do nothing while he kills our people. He wants war, he's gonna get it. Tell him we're ready.”

“That's all you want, then take off,” Father John said, keeping his grip tight, his hands glued to the bat. “Get your friend to the hospital.”

The Indian took a step backward and glanced around at Eric, who was doubled over, moaning, his good arm looped over his dislocated shoulder. The other Indian had an arm around Eric's waist, keeping him on his feet.

“Shit, Lester,” the man shouted, steering Eric back toward the brown pickup. “Let's get out of here.”

Lester kept moving backward, his eyes on the bat. When he reached the tailgate, he swung around and lunged for the brown pickup. He slid
in behind the steering wheel as the Indian with Eric shoved the man into the middle and crawled in behind him. The doors slammed shut, the engine turned over, and the pickup started backing up. Then it pulled around and shot down the road in the direction of Fort Washakie.

Father John waited until the dark vehicle had blurred into the fading daylight before he stepped back to the stalled pickup. He set the bat inside, leaning it against the passenger seat, close at hand. Funny, he hadn't been aware of how chilly it was, but now the cold bit through his jacket and settled in his bones. The wind had picked up. He could hear it whining through the trees behind him like an animal. It made a whistling noise as it gusted through the cab.

He slid inside and turned the ignition. The engine sputtered and shut off. He tried again, and this time it caught. He shifted into reverse, then into forward and back into reverse, easing on and off the pedal, rocking the Toyota out of the mud and snow in the ditch, still watching the rearview mirror for the brown pickup.

It was no use. He was stuck. He was about to give up and get the shovel out of the box in back when he shifted again into reverse and stomped down on the accelerator. The pickup jumped backward, free.

He steered the vehicle into the lane, then shifted gears and drove east. Another couple of turns and he was speeding down Seventeen-Mile Road. There was no other traffic, no sign of life, except for the small houses set back from the road here and there. He gripped the steering wheel hard. He'd managed to stay calm and logical, but now that it was over—or was it over? Now Eric had another score to settle. He could feel the anger creeping like fire through his chest and into his throat. His mouth was as dry as dust. If Lester had made a move, he would have swung at the man with all his strength. God, he could have killed him, and he didn't care.
He didn't care.

He made himself take several deep breaths to tamp down the anger. Gradually he felt his grip relax on the wheel. The muscles in his chest and arms also began to relax. He kept his eyes on the road unfurling ahead. He could breathe easily now. “Lord, help me,” he said out loud,
his own voice lost in the noise of the wind gusting over the half-opened window. Let me care.

THEY KNEW SHE
was here.

Vicky had seen the blinds moving in the front window as she drove through the slush and mud into the yard. Frankie and his friends were inside the blocklike house with faded yellow paint and a wooden stoop with part of the railing hanging loose, she was sure. She'd parked the Jeep close to the stoop and waited for the door to open. Nothing had happened. The silence of the afternoon pressed down over the house, yet she had the sense that somebody was moving about inside and eyes were watching her through the slats. She left the engine running and waited. If Frankie Montana wanted to see her, he would come out. That was the Arapaho Way.

A couple of minutes passed. Still no sign of anyone. Vicky turned off the engine, picked her way up the soggy steps, and knocked on the door. Her knuckles made a heavy thudding sound through her glove. This was not the way she'd been brought up—pushy and loud and insistent—but Frankie was probably looking at three homicide charges and the man was too pigheaded to realize the danger he was in. It was his mother who was doing all the worrying.

Vicky knocked again and glanced around. Across the road, little gusts of wind kicked up powder puffs of snow that looked like white tumbleweeds blowing across the fields. This was foolish, she was thinking. Trying to find a client who didn't want to talk to her and had no idea he even needed a lawyer, when she should be working on the wolf management proposal. God, Adam was right.

Adam.

Adam wasn't always right, and, something else: she knew now that she couldn't trust him. Why couldn't she trust him? She pounded hard on the door. “Frankie!” she called. “Open up.”

The door cracked open about two inches and a pair of dark eyes
peered out slantwise. A whiff of something putrid and acrid floated past the opening.

“What do you want?” It was a woman's voice, sharp and suspicious.

“Tell Frankie I have to talk to him,” Vicky said. A drinking house, she was thinking. Probably a drug house. The place where Frankie and his friends hung out and got stoned.

The woman opened the door wider, a mixture of distrust and curiosity moving through her thin face. She was still a teenager, Vicky guessed, dressed in jeans and a baby blue tee shirt that looked too small. She had the reddened eyes and the lifeless look of a meth addict.

“Who are you?”

“Frankie's lawyer. Will you please get him.”

“Wait a minute.”

Vicky placed one hand on the door trying to hold it open, but it slammed shut. She was conscious of the wind gusting around the yard now, pitting her face with little flecks of moisture. She gave the door another rap. “I'm not going away,” she shouted.

A couple of minutes passed before the door inched open again. “He's not here.” The girl was in the shadows, and her voice sounded far away.

“Right,” Vicky said, starting down the stoop. “Tell him not to call me when he gets arrested for murder,” she called over her shoulder.

“Wait!”

Vicky looked back. The girl had opened the door wider and jammed herself into the opening. “You think Frankie's gonna get stuck with them murders?”

“I'm positive of it.”

“He's innocent.”

“A lot of innocent people end up in prison.”

“He's not here. I'll see if I can find out where he is. Okay?”

Vicky said that she'd wait in the Jeep. It was obvious the girl didn't want to invite her inside, which was just as well because she didn't want to go inside. She didn't want to see whatever was there. It was enough to get a whiff of the odor.

She crawled back into the Jeep and turned on the engine, trying to fight back the sense of futility that had dropped over her like a heavy blanket. At least the girl seemed to glimpse the trouble that Frankie could be in.

Warm air was exploding from the vents as the girl came out of the house. Coatless, hugging her arms in the cold wind, she loped for the Jeep, and Vicky realized that she was almost barefoot, nothing but thin-strapped sandals kicking and sliding through the mud and snow.

Vicky rolled down the window, and the girl stuck her head in the opening. Specks of moisture clung to her long black hair and speckled the shoulders of the blue tee shirt. Behind the masklike set of her face was evidence that the girl might have been pretty not long ago—the finely pointed nose and full lips, the sharp cheekbones. She kept rubbing at her thin arms, which were purplish red with cold.

“Frankie says he'll see you at the office.” She seemed to find this amusing. For an instant the masklike face cracked into a barely perceptible smile.

“And where might that be?” Vicky asked. She was tired of this game.

“Cowboy over in Riverton.”

“The bar?”

“He said you'll find him at his desk in back. Unless he feels lucky and decides to shoot some pool.” Also amusing, judging by the little laugh that gurgled out of the girl's throat.

“Tell you what . . .” Vicky had to stop to swallow back the disgust, a hard knot rising in her throat. A beautiful, young Arapaho girl mixed up with Frankie Montana, hanging out at a drinking house, strung out on drugs. “Frankie can call my office and make an appointment.”

“I know you're Vicky Holden.” The girl was leaning into the Jeep. Her breath had the sour smell of someone much older, someone sick. A kind of terror had come into her eyes. “You gotta help Frankie. All kinds of deputies been asking questions around the rez.”

“Did they come here?” Vicky gestured with her head toward the house. No one inside would have opened the door, she was thinking, and
unless they had a warrant, Detective Burton could only guess what was inside. But the next step would be a warrant, and who knew what circumstantial evidence Burton would find that could tie Frankie to the murders.

“Not yet. But they're gonna come around. I just don't wanna . . .” She hesitated, a debate playing out behind her eyes. “I don't wanna be here when they show up.”

“Is that why you want me to help Frankie? To keep the law from poking around?”