Eye of the Wolf (17 page)

TELEVISION LIGHTS FLICKERED
past the doorway and into the shadows of the entry, background voices unintelligible in the quiet. The odors of fried chicken and hot oil funneled from the kitchen. Elena would have left dinner in the oven, a plate wrapped in aluminum foil. Father John tossed his coat and hat on the bench and went into the living room on the right. Father Ian slumped on the sofa, head pillowed back into the cushions, long legs stretched out in front. He looked disheveled in the white glow of the television, denim shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest and khaki slacks that could have been slept in. Hair standing out in clumps around his forehead and eyes at half-mast. He was thumping at his chest with his knuckles, the slow, hypnotic rhythm of a man trying to keep himself awake.

“Authorities in Wyoming have confirmed that the murders of three Shoshone at the site of a nineteenth-century battle between Shoshones and Arapahos could be revenge killings.” The voice of an attractive,
blond woman bundled in a bulky jacket, hair flying in the wind, floated from the television.

Father John stepped closer to the TV. The woman was at the Bates Battlefield, the canyon stretching behind her, the boulder-strewn slopes rising on either side. Then a map of Wyoming filled the screen, a red arrow pointing to the battlefield.

The voice went on, “A spokesman for the Fremont County Sheriff's Office, in charge of the investigation, says they are looking into the possibility that the homicides are the result of ongoing feuds between the two tribes on the Wind River Reservation. According to well-known Western historian Charles Lambert, Shoshones and Arapahos are traditional enemies. What is known as the Bates Battle was a massacre of Arapahos by Shoshones in eighteen-seventy-four.”

The map dissolved, and the woman came back on screen. “The sheriff's office refuses to characterize the homicides as the first salvo fired in a new tribal war, but I've talked to numerous people here, and they fear that is exactly what has occurred. Back to you, Clint.”

Father John walked over and pushed the power button. He watched the screen fade from gray into black, conscious of the hollow space opening inside him. It was if the blond woman's words had confirmed his own fears, made them real and imminent, like the past looming up in front of him.

He made himself turn back to the other priest on the sofa. “We'd better talk, Ian,” he said.

The fist stopped thumping, but the man kept his gaze fixed on the TV. It was a moment before he pulled himself upright and leaned forward, slowly taking his eyes from the screen, as if he'd just realized that the news program had disappeared.

Father John turned on the table lamp and perched on the ottoman. This might be an interrogation, he was thinking; Ian, the suspect and he, the interrogator.

Well, get on with it.

“When did you start drinking again, Ian?” he asked.

For the first time, the other priest faced him, eyes tightened in contempt.

“Always the first to know, another alkie.” He spit out the words.

“You could say we have the nose for it,” Father John said. Oh, he'd developed the nose early. When was it that he'd first discovered it? Halfway up the flight of stairs to the apartment he'd grown up in—two bedrooms, sitting room, and Pullman kitchen hardly big enough to turn around in—over his uncle's saloon on Commonwealth Avenue? On up the steps, and the putrid stink from above hitting him with a force that rocked him backwards, and he knew his father was drunk again. It was so obvious, the smells, and yet he'd always told himself that no one could tell. No one else had the nose.

“When, Ian?”

“I had a couple drinks this afternoon. A drink now and then doesn't mean anything.”

“We both know better. You want to talk about it?”

“You wouldn't get it,” Ian said. An absent look had come into his expression, as if his thoughts had wandered somewhere else.

“Try me.”

The other priest took a moment, then shrugged. “Okay, here it is. I'm going to hit a hardball straight at the guy on the mound.” When Father John didn't say anything, he plunged into it. “I thought this would be a good assignment. I could get involved with the people, help them, maybe bring a little consolation and hope, and maybe they'd do the same for me. An isolated place out of the craziness where I could get my life back. It worked for you.”

“So far.”

“You know what I think?” Ian McCauley was warming up now, gripping the bat harder, ready to whack the fastball. “You got yourself a nice little fiefdom here, where you're the lord and master, and you can do anything you like.”

“What?” Father John wasn't sure what he'd expected, but this wasn't it.

“Don't pull the denial act on me. I'm a priest, too, and I've put in my time in the confessional. I've heard it all. I know all the subterfuges and lies.”

“What are you talking about?” Father John said.

“Everywhere I go, the social committee and religious ed meetings, AA, morning Mass, I get the same question: Where's Father John? Nothing can start around here, nothing's quite right unless the almighty presence graces the room. I'm your man, I tell them. Well, the look on their faces! The perfect picture of misery. What's it like to be loved like that?”

“It'll take time, Ian. Give the people a little time to get to know you.”

“Over at the senior center yesterday, the elders said to be sure to tell Father John to come by again soon. Today at the hospital, I walked into Louis Birdsong's room and the man's face fell into the bedsheets. ‘Hey, Father,' he says, doing his best to cover up, ‘I thought you was Father John.' ”

“I've been here almost nine years,” Father John said. “They're used to me.”

“Well, I drove out of the hospital lot and kept driving. Past the bars, and there are a helluva lot of bars in town when you're not looking for one, and pretty soon, I started looking and I ordered myself a double whiskey.”

Father John leaned forward, clasping his hands between his knees, his eyes on his boots. “So what do you think, Ian? Is this going to be a problem?”

“What do I think? Alkie's lie, didn't you know?”

Oh, he knew. Father John kept his eyes lowered. He could lie with the best of them. One drink was all he'd had, he'd told the superior back at the prep school when he'd been teaching. One drink doesn't hurt anybody. Lies and lies.

“It's not going to be a problem,” Ian said. “I've fallen off the wagon before and climbed back on.”

Father John looked up. The man had been watching him, calculating the next move, the next lie. “I can call the Provincial and arrange for a short stay in rehab,” he said. “A refresher.”

“I said, it's not going to be a problem.”

“It can't do any harm.”

“You don't want me here, do you?”

Father John leaned back. “What makes you say that?”

“Let's be honest. You've run off every assistant the Society has sent out here. You don't want the competition. You call the Provincial, and I'll be out of here tomorrow.”

“Not necessarily. I'll recommend . . .”

Ian cut in. “What I don't get is how you've managed to stay here so long.”

“You're talking in riddles, man,” Father John said, not trying to hide his growing irritation.

“I've heard the rumors.”

Ah, here it was, Father John thought. The rumors about Father O'Malley and the Arapaho lawyer on the reservation, how there was something more than just friendship between them. Dear Lord, he'd thought those rumors had died a natural death.

“Whatever you heard is wrong,” he said. “Vicky Holden and I have worked together. That's all.”

Ian was smiling and shaking his head. “Soon as your assistants figure out what's going on, you get them out of here before they can blow the whistle.”

Father John stood up. “Let's get something straight,” he said. The other priest pushed himself to his feet and faced him. “There's no drinking at St. Francis Mission. No bars, no double shots of whiskey, no bottles. Nothing. You've got one last chance.” He let this hang between them a moment, then, tossing his head in the direction of the kitchen, he said, “Get yourself some coffee and something to eat. I'll take the social committee meeting tonight.”

“No way.” The other priest shook his head. “It's my committee, and I'm the priest who should be there. You're going to have to get used to the competition, because I intend to stay.”

Father John turned and walked back across the entry and into his study. He dropped down into the old leather chair that had adjusted itself to the contours of his back and snapped on the desk lamp, aware of the footsteps ascending the stairs and clumping down the upstairs hall, the sound of the shower coming on. His own little fiefdom, Ian had said. Well, that was a new idea. He'd only been aware that he was happy at St. Francis. He felt that he belonged here. And the trust in the brown faces looking up at him when he said Mass, the people hurrying over when he walked into a meeting at Eagle Hall, the expectant tone in the voices on the phone saying,
Can you come over, Father
? He felt
needed
here, that the Arapahos needed him more than he needed a drink. He felt safe.

He tossed a pencil over the stacks of papers on his desk. Which was the reason that the Society of Jesus didn't usually leave priests in one assignment more than six years. They might start to feel safe, secure in their own little fiefdom, start making plans—God, he had so many plans, so much he still wanted to do—new programs and classes, new coat of paint on the buildings, new pews for the church. They were the same, he and Ian McCauley, fighting the same thirst, wanting to belong.

He swiveled around and flipped through the stack of opera CDs on the bookshelf, then set
Il Trovatore
in the player, and tried to work his way through the stack of mail. Over the sounds of “Soli or siamo!” and “Il balen del suo sorriso” came the clank of dishes in the kitchen, the footsteps in the hall, and, finally, the front door thudding shut.

He was heading into the kitchen for his own dinner when he heard the knocking. He turned around and walked back down the hall. A cloud of wet air blew into the entry when he pulled open the door. Vicky stood on the other side, hands jammed into her coat pockets, flakes of moisture—or was it tears?—on her eyelashes.

“May I talk to you?” she said.

“Come in.” Father John stepped back to give her room. Something must have happened. He could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she'd come to the residence—only when she'd felt she had nowhere else to go.

“Let me take your coat.” He closed the door behind her.

“I think I'll keep it,” she said, hugging her arms now. Her face looked pinched with worry, and he wondered how long she'd been driving around.

“We can talk in the study.” He nodded toward the doorway behind her, although she knew where the study was. When she came to the residence, they'd always talked in the study. It seemed safer there, less personal, an envelope of ordinariness and business. “I'll get you some coffee.”

He hoped the coffee was still hot. He watched her turn into the study, struck again at how small she seemed, and vulnerable, beneath the steel armor that she'd taught herself to wear. Then he walked back to the kitchen, found a couple of mugs in the drain on the counter, and poured out the coffee. Plumes of steam rose over his hands. He could feel the heat working through the mugs as he walked back.

VICKY WAS IN
the side chair across from the desk, strips of shadow and light playing over her face. “Mira d'acerbe” drifted through the study. She reached up and took the coffee that he handed her. Then Father John walked around the desk and turned down the volume. He came back and sat on the chair next to her. “You okay?” he asked.

“What about you?” Vicky gestured to the Band-Aid on his cheek.

“It's nothing,” he said.

“A bullet is nothing? I heard you were wounded at Bates.”

He shrugged, trying to put it aside, and finally she said, “I agreed to represent Frankie Montana today.”

“I thought you'd represented him all along.”

She gave a little laugh and took another sip. “I'd excused myself and suggested he find another lawyer. Adam and I . . .” Vicky paused and looked away. “We've been working with the Arapahos and Shoshones
on a plan to manage wolves on the reservation. Looks like other big cases will come our way.”

“You're a good team,” Father John said. He used to think he and Vicky were a good team. “I'm glad it's working out.”

She dipped her head toward the mug and took a long sip of coffee. Avoiding his eyes, he thought, not wanting to reveal something—whatever it was that had brought her here tonight. He'd had years of experience counseling people, watching the ways they avoided the truth.

“Things don't look good for Frankie,” she said. He could hear the avoidance in her tone. “Burton's interviewed him.”

“He's interviewing a lot of people. Probably everybody who knew Trent Hunter and the Crispin brothers.”

“Frankie's the one the murdered men had filed an assault complaint against. Even Frankie admits they had an altercation Friday night at Fort Washakie. He claims they assaulted him, but if they were alive to show up at the tribal court, the judge might not agree.” Vicky took another drink, then gripped the mug in both hands, as if she wanted to draw the warmth into herself. “It doesn't take a mind reader to figure out what Burton's thinking. Frankie had the motivation to shoot all three men. He owned a rifle, which conveniently disappeared before the murders. And he doesn't have an alibi.”

Il Trovatore
was still floating around them. Father John could feel Vicky's doubt working its way under his skin. It was contagious, like a virus.

“Frankie lied about where he was on Saturday, and he's counting on his mother to perjure herself, which she'll do, I'm sure.”

Father John didn't say anything. He didn't want to press her for an explanation of why she was so certain Frankie had lied. There were ways in which she knew things, just as there were for him. Lawyer and priest. People confided in them, and they kept confidences. He sat back and took a long drink of his own coffee, his eyes on the woman next to him. She was staring straight ahead, her face almost unreadable, except
for the tiny blue vein that pulsed in her temple and the slightest tremor in her lower lip.

“Why Bates?” She shifted toward him. “I keep asking myself, why would Frankie go to the trouble of killing the Shoshones at the Bates Battlefield? He could have shot them anywhere on the reservation. I'd be surprised if Frankie even cares about a massacre that happened a hundred and thirty years ago.” She stopped, then hurried on. “The
Gazette
said you found the bodies after somebody had left a telephone message. What was it, John?”

Father John got to his feet. He set his mug on the desk, turned off the opera, and ejected the CD. Then he opened the side drawer, withdrew the tape of the telephone call, and inserted it into the player. He pressed another button and looked over at Vicky.

The crackling noise, like paper being crunched near the mike, burst out of the machine, then the mechanical voice. It could have been the voice of a robot moving stiff-legged across the floor.
This is for the Indian priest
 . . .

The voice was as chilling as when he'd first heard it. He could feel the evil, like a presence, invading the space between them. When the message ended, he pressed the off button and turned back to Vicky. Her face had gone rigid, stonelike, drained of life.

“The killer,” she said, nodding toward the silent tape player. “He must have had access to a recording studio. He knew how to change his voice. He knew how to get the exact sound that he wanted. That takes a pro, John.”

“Burton's probably already checked the studios in the area.” Father John sat on the edge of the desk, facing her.

“Two years ago,” Vicky began, hesitancy in the way she was reeling out the words, “for all of three or four weeks, Frankie had a job at the radio station on the reservation. He was on the air for two hours every day playing Indian music. Carlos Nakai, Bill Miller, Joanne Shenandoah, people like that.”

She stood up and walked past him to the window. Pulling the slats
apart with her fingers, she stared out for a moment into the yellow glow of light shining over Circle Drive a moment. “Frankie's managed to land a half-dozen jobs in the last several years, which gives Lucille hope.” She let the slats drop and turned back, something new settling behind her eyes, a mixture of weariness and resignation. “As soon as Burton finds out that Frankie worked in a radio station, he'll see that Frankie's charged with three counts of first-degree murder.”

“Look, Vicky,” Father John began, “just because Frankie once worked at the studio doesn't mean he had access recently.”

“Knowing Frankie, he probably has an extra key.” Vicky threw both hands into the air and walked over to the desk, then pivoted about and headed back to the window. Pacing. Pacing. “Somebody could have let him in, a buddy at the station who would never admit it. There's any number of ways Frankie could have recorded that message.”

Father John was quiet a moment, watching her carve out a small circle on the carpet. She always paced when she was upset, when she was trying to work something out. He was struck by how much he remembered about her. Weeks went by when he didn't see her, then she appeared again, and so many little things popped into his mind, as if they'd only retreated into the background, waiting to be summoned.

He said, “You said yourself that Frankie probably doesn't care about what happened at Bates.”

“He must have overheard the Shoshones talking,” she said, making her way around the circle. “That's it, John.” She stopped almost in midstep. “He overheard them at the bar talking about going to the battlefield. They were taking classes at the college. Maybe they had to visit the site for a class.” She stepped forward and bent her head toward him. “That's it, isn't it? They had to visit the site.”

Father John nodded. It was starting to make sense, everything she said. “They were in Professor Lambert's class. The man blames himself for the fact that they went to Bates.”

“Oh, God.” Vicky combed her fingers through her hair and resumed pacing. “What kind of lawyer am I, taking a client like Frankie
Montana. He's guilty, and he belongs in prison. They should throw away the key.”

“You don't have to do this. There are other lawyers . . .”

She swung around and fixed him with a hard glare. “You sound like Adam. Let him hire a twenty-seven-year-old two years out of law school who needs the work. So throw Frankie to the wolves. You know what, John?” She walked over and stood in front of him. “Maybe I could go along with that, if I didn't mind seeing Lucille's face every night when I closed my eyes, and if I didn't know that, the day they locked up Frankie, it would destroy her. I'll defend him with everything I've got, and you know what? If we win, the bastard will probably go out and kill somebody else. So walking around right now is some poor fool who doesn't even suspect . . .”

“Whoa, Vicky! Stop!” Father John pushed himself off the desk and placed his hands on her shoulders. He could feel her shivering beneath the thickness of her wool coat. “What's going on? What's this all about?”

Slowly, her face began to crack, like a sheet of ice starting to break up, and little by little, the dark, distorted thing that was below the surface began to seep into the cracks. She was starting to sink beneath his hands, and for a second, he thought she might crumble to the floor. He pulled her close. His own breath felt warm in her hair. “What is it, Vicky? Tell me.”

She was weeping silently against his shirt. It was a moment before she pulled back and began patting at her cheeks. Then she was running her fingers through her hair, tossing the strands sideways, as if she could toss away all of it, whatever had worked up from below the surface.

“I'm falling apart,” she said.

“No, you're not.” He kept his voice calm, reassuring.

“I'm looking for an excuse, any excuse to dump Frankie, as if that would make any difference between Adam and me.”

This was about Adam, Father John was thinking, and he realized that somehow he'd known that. “What's going on?” he said.

“A man comes into your life.” Vicky tilted her head back and was
staring at the ceiling. “You think this is a good man. This is going to work. This time, I'll make it work. We have the firm and we have an important project, one that matters. If we do a good job helping the tribes come up with a plan to manage wolves, we'll continue to get jobs.”

“There's no time for Frankie Montana.”

“Right.” Vicky was hugging her arms.

“Can't you and Adam work this out, Vicky? Frankie hasn't been arrested. And if he is, couldn't you take a little time from the firm to handle the case?”

“That's so like you, John. So rational.”

Rational. It was the second time in the last couple of hours he'd been called that.

“It's not the kind of firm we are,” Vicky was saying. “DUIs, divorces, rent disputes, defending the Frankie Montanas on murder charges. We've already talked to tribal officials about other projects. New oil leases, agreements to open natural gas deposits. Important issues, John, and the tribe will hire us, because Adam's one of the partners. He's Lakota and he's a man.” She paused, then hurried on, her voice edging toward hysteria. “They like him and they trust him. People trust Adam, John. That's the thing about Adam. He seems so . . . so right on.”

He had it now, Father John was thinking. Pieces of the puzzle locking themselves into place. “You don't trust Adam,” he said.

“It's over between us.”

“Because you're going to represent Frankie? Because you want to help Lucille?”

Vicky was shaking her head. “Adam's involved with someone else.”

Father John had to look away from the pinpricks of pain in her eyes. A wave of disbelief and anger washed over him. What was the matter with Adam Lone Eagle? Didn't he know what he had?

“Are you sure?” he said, bringing his eyes back to hers. In the pain that was still there, he knew the answer.

“I know,” she said. “I had years of experience with Ben. I learned my lesson well.”

“Like a nose for alcohol,” he said.

“What?”

Father John shook off the question. “Some things you just know,” he said. “I'm sorry, Vicky.”

She started crying, standing there so still, arms dangling at her side.

Father John put his arms around her and pulled her to him again. “I'm truly sorry, Vicky. I wanted it to work for you. I wanted you to be happy.” What a waste of happiness, he was thinking. What a huge, sad waste.

“Oh, excuse me.”

Father John lifted his eyes over Vicky's head. Father Ian was in the doorway, a mixture of incredulity and amusement in his expression.

“I didn't know you had a visitor,” he said.

Vicky took a step back, patting at her cheeks again, then smoothing the front of her coat. “I was just leaving,” she said.

“This is Father Ian McCauley,” Father John said. “Ian, meet Vicky Holden.” But his assistant already knew who she was. Father John could tell by the glance the man threw at him—like a fast pitch, daring him to take a swing.

“The social committee needs the list of parishioners released from the hospital in the last month,” Ian said.

Father John turned away and began shuffling through the stacks of papers and folders on his desk, finally retrieving the file with “Hospital/ Home” on the tab. He handed the file to the other priest.

“Good.” Ian dangled the folder from one hand and started backing up. “Nice to meet you,” he said to Vicky before he disappeared around the door. His boots clacked in the entry, then a cold gust erupted into the study.

“That was embarrassing,” Vicky said.

“You have nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“I didn't mean to fall apart like that. I'd better get going.”

“Take a few minutes. I'll get you more coffee.”

Vicky put up the palm of one hand. “It's just going to take some getting used to, having my plans rearranged.” She walked over and picked up the bag she'd dropped on the floor next to the chair. “Thanks for listening. I needed somebody to talk to,” she said, fixing the strap of the bag into the curve of her shoulder.