Eye of the Wolf (27 page)

“I tried to explain, John.” Ian elbowed past Harrison. “I told them you probably haven't heard the news, but they insisted upon hanging around.”

“You'd better tell me, Ian.” Father John said. He could feel the tenseness in the atmosphere.

“Bunch of Shoshones went on a rampage in Ethete.” This from Harrison, waving the notepad. “Smashed up seven or eight vehicles with bats, hurled rocks through the windows at the gas station. Police arrested two men, but the rest got away. Hightailed it back to their own territory. Folks over in Fort Washakie are claiming they don't know anything about the attack, putting on real innocent faces.”

“Looks like the first counterassault in a modern tribal war,” one of the women put in, dark haired with a bony, hawklike face, and the note of authority in her voice. “Did they send you any messages, Father?”

Father John was still trying to get his mind around the news. Skulking like a shadow at the back of his thoughts, he realized, was the possibility that Shoshones might retaliate for the murders at Bates, but he hadn't wanted to admit it. He hadn't wanted the shadow to emerge into the light.

“Was anyone hurt?” he asked.

“Not this time,” Harrison announced. Then he began hammering the questions: What do you know about Montana's escape? Is it true his lawyer helped him get out of the county? You and Vicky Holden are friends, right? What's their plan? Keep Montana out of jail while they plot a defense? Where d'ya think they went?

The questions rang like a gong in Father John's head. And his answers would determine what came next: the black headlines waving like banners in tomorrow's newspapers, proclaiming war between the tribes,
summoning
people to war. He could imagine the television news, the urgent voices filled with regret about the war that they had proclaimed.

He stole a glance at his watch. Ten minutes before the religious education meeting. Pickups would start rattling around Circle Drive at any moment. The reporters would have a field day swarming over his parishioners.

“You're asking the wrong man.” Father John stepped back and pulled the door open. The cold whipped through the corridor, and a couple of the reporters set about turning up their collars and snapping the fronts of their jackets. New questions were crowding into his mind, now. If Frankie Montana didn't lure the Shoshones out to Bates and murder them, who did? Who wanted to cause trouble on the reservation? Set Arapahos against Shoshones? Rip open old wounds and give the reporters the story they'd been hoping for?

He was only partly aware of ushering the reporters through the door, one arm swinging back and forth like a traffic cop—get out, get out—as if the motion of air could propel them outside. “Take your questions to Detective Burton,” he heard himself say, his thoughts stuck on Edie Bradbury and Jason Rizzo. He could see the girl, small and pale and blond, scared and hurt because Trent was going to break up with her. Turning to Rizzo . . .

She had turned to Rizzo at the hospital, it was true. Now the image of the man was in his head: big and round shouldered in his black leather jacket with all the metal studs and chains, the squinting eyes that had watched an Indian take his girl, the tattooed wolf running
across his knuckles. Maybe Rizzo had worked out an elaborate scheme to get revenge, prove to Edie how tough he was. Maybe he'd overheard Trent Hunter and the other Shoshones at the Cowboy Bar and Grill, talking over plans to visit the Bates Battlefield last Saturday. Or maybe Edie had told him . . .

Maybe. But where was the evidence? It was Frankie Montana that Burton had charged with the homicides.

He's not guilty.
The sound of Vicky's voice kept punctuating his thoughts, like the underlying rumble of a drum.

The reporters were out the door now, filing down the snow-swept steps glistening in the streetlamps, shoulders hunched against the falling snow. Liam Harrison was the last to leave, and Father John could see the reluctance in the forward pitch of the man's head. He was halfway down the steps when he swung around. “You surprise me, Father O'Malley,” he said, turning his face up into the glow of light. “You think that not telling us what you know is gonna stop the war? You got your head stuck in the sand, Father. This war's just getting started.”

Father John shut the door hard. He could still feel the tremor in his hand as he turned to the other priest stationed a few feet down the corridor. “The religious ed meeting is yours tonight,” he said.

Ian stared at him a moment. “Oh, that's great,” he said. “What am I supposed to tell them when they ask where the pastor is?”

“You'll think of something.” Father John reached around for the knob, pulled the door open, and headed out. He was backing the pickup into Circle Drive when he caught a glimpse of his assistant standing in the doorway, tracks of surprise and anger shadowing his face.

Father John shifted into forward and followed the other vehicles out to Seventeen-Mile Road. A few minutes later he was heading north on Highway 789 toward Riverton.

“
COWBOY BAR AND
Grill.” The red and yellow neon letters blinked into the snow from the sign over the parking lot. Pale streams of colored lights ran over the two or three pickups nosed against the brick building and across the snow churned up in the parking lot. Father John parked close to the front. The minute he opened the door, the smells of whiskey and beer slammed into him. He held his breath a moment and peered through the dim, smoky light of what might have been a log cabin, with log walls and plank floor. A couple of cowboys and their girlfriends sat at tables in the middle of the room, lingering over the remains of hamburgers and fries in plastic baskets with paper napkins poking over the tops, sipping at tall glasses of golden colored beer. Through a wide doorway, he could see other cowboys shooting pool.

Father John unsnapped his coat, headed over to the bar that hugged the wall on the right, and straddled a stool. The bartender moved down the other side of the bar. He had the look of a drill sergeant with a pale,
clean-shaven face and a bald head that shimmered in the lights flashing from the Coors sign over the bottles lining the back wall.

“What'll it be?” He slapped a white napkin onto the bar and fixed Father John with an annoyed stare. “You planning on eating, better get your order in right away. Kitchen's getting ready to close.”

“Coffee,” Father John said.

The man drummed his knuckles on the bar. The knocking sound cut through the buzz of conversations behind them. “You come into a bar for a cup of coffee and that's it? How about something to warm up the coffee?”

Father John lifted the palm of one hand off the bar and pushed away the suggestion. “I'm looking for somebody,” he said.

“If you're a cop, you gotta be new around here. I know all the cops. What're you? New FBI agent?”

“The pastor at St. Francis Mission.”

The man rocked backwards. New flecks of interest came into his eyes. “No kidding! You wouldn't be looking for your partner, now would you? Haven't seen him tonight, but sometimes he comes in later. Not looking for food, just like you. Only he likes a couple shots of Jim Beam.”

Father John didn't say anything. He glanced around at the smoke wafting over the tables, the cowboys leaning on elbows, balancing cigarettes between thumb and first two fingers, never moving the cigarettes more than an inch from their lips. It explained so much, he was thinking. It explained everything: the evenings away from the mission—just visiting folks, Ian said—the visits to the hospital that turned into long afternoons and missed dinners. Ian was here. But then, hadn't he known? Ian was a controlled alcoholic, wasn't that what he called himself? He could
control
his drinking, and it wasn't his fault—now was it?—that Father John couldn't do the same.

He turned back to the bar. A mug of coffee sat in front of him, a little ribbon of steam curling upward. He picked up the mug and took a sip. He could feel the hot liquid burning a line down his chest. “I'm
looking for a man named Jason Rizzo,” he said. “Does he come around here?”

“Ah!” The bartender thumped his fist on the edge of the bar. “I know who you are now. The Indian priest that found those dead Shoshones at Bates. You ask me, them Indians was nice guys. Never give me any guff. Used to come in here two, three times a week, order up hamburgers and coffee, maybe some beer, sit over there.” He nodded toward the table near the door where a cowboy had slipped his arm around the woman beside him and was blowing into her blond hair. “They was students at the college. Liked to sit around here and kibbitz, you know what I mean? Talk about whatever they was studying. Sometimes they'd sit over there with their books propped up in front of 'em, eating their hamburgers and not talking, just reading. Cops get that Arapaho that killed them yet? Hear him and his Arapaho lawyer hightailed it out of the county.”

“You know him?” Father John took another sip of coffee.

“Frankie Montana? Yeah, I know that Arapaho and that piece of shit, Rizzo.” He leaned down over the bar, and the sour smell of his breath floated upward. “They're the same, you ask me. Troublemakers. Couple months ago, I made Rizzo persona non grata, you get my drift. Shows his butt around here and my buddies”—he tossed his head toward the cowboys shooting pool in the back—“are gonna make him wish he'd gone someplace else.”

The man pulled a white towel out from beneath the counter and began snapping it against the edge. “Should've tossed Montana out the same time. Sitting over there.” He nodded toward the table in back. “Hell, I didn't mind pouring his beer, long as he was paying. He was always watchin' the Shoshones. Sometimes he'd start shouting how he was gonna beat their asses, show 'em Arapahos was boss, stuff like that. One night he came roaring in here shouting how the Shoshones stole his rifle out of his pickup and how it was my fault 'cause I don't run a secure parking lot where folks can leave things without them damn Indians making off with 'em, and how I was gonna pay him for
his rifle. That's when I said, ‘Montana, shut up, or you're outta here.' Hell, should've run him out then, except I'd get charged with discriminating against Indians. Should've done it anyway. Turns out he's a fucking killer. They ain't never gonna catch that Indian. Guy like that knows how to run and hide.”

“Why did you ban Rizzo?” Father John said.

The bald head was shaking, lights dancing across the scalp. The towel snapped two or three times. “Started a fight out in the parking lot with the Shoshones, 'cause one of 'em, Trent Hunter it was, took up with his girlfriend.” He gave a snort that sounded like he was blowing his nose. “White supremacist sure as hell didn't like that! One time he barged in here, took hold of the girl, and dragged her out of the chair. Dragged her across the floor like she was a rag doll. Would've dragged her on out the door, you ask me, if them Shoshones hadn't jumped up and went after him. I jumped over this here bar, and me and my buddies let him have a taste of this.” He made a fist and shook it over the bar like a club. “That's when I tol' him, ‘Don't show your butt around here.' ”

Father John kept working at his coffee. He didn't say anything. He knew from years of counseling not to interrupt a train of thought after it had started.

The bartender rolled his thick shoulders and went on, “She was a pretty thing, real thin and pale. Looked like a good wind would knock her over. Looked scared all the time, but for a couple months there, Hunter seemed to be looking out for her, you know what I mean? After a while, that Shoshone cooled off, you ask me. Maybe got tired of taking care of her, how do I know? Maybe got tired of waiting for Rizzo to jump out of the shadows, but I seen that she wasn't coming in with him lately. Couple of times she came in looking for him, that's all I know.”

“When was the last time you saw Montana?” he said.

“Bastard didn't show up for last couple of weeks. Happiest weeks in my life. Then, three, four days ago, he's back there in his so-called office, drinking beer.” He jammed a finger at the coffee mug. “Want a refill?”

Father John gave the mug a nudge. It was making sense, he thought, watching the steaming liquid arch out of the pot. Then the bartender turned around and began swishing the empty pot through the water in a sink. Frankie's story about somebody stealing his rifle out in the parking lot, and Lou Hunter's story about Trent breaking up with Edie. All making sense, adding up to . . . what? He was juggling a lot of propositions, none of which fit into a logical pattern. There was no logical conclusion.

But there was something. He took another draw of coffee. It washed down easily, lukewarm now. Neither Rizzo nor Montana had come to the Cowboy Bar and Grill before the murders, which meant they couldn't have overheard the Shoshones talking about going to Bates. And there was something else; Father John could still hear the voice of Lou Crispin:
My boys said they was gonna meet somebody.
Trent and the Crispin brothers had gone to Bates to meet somebody they had trusted. They would never have trusted Montana or Rizzo.

But there was still the girl. Hunter would have trusted the girl.

Father John drained the last of the coffee, pulled a dollar bill out of his jeans pocket, and pushed it across the bar. “Thanks,” he said to the bartender's back.

The man was still swishing the glasses. He stopped and turned around, wiping his hands on the towel tied at his waist. “You ask me, neither of them white girls oughtta be hanging around them Indians. Sooner or later, there's gonna be trouble. See what happened to them Shoshones? Shot dead out on some old battlefield. Could've happened to them girls, too, you ask me.”

“There was another girl?” Father John straddled the stool again.

“A real looker.” The bartender spread his hands under his chest, as if he were palming two basketballs. “You get my drift? Every cowboy in the place had his eyes bugging out when she came in the place.”

“Any idea of who she is?”

“Student, like them others, you ask me. Always carrying books. Propped 'em up on the table like the rest of 'em.”

“When was the last time she came in?”

“Right before them Shoshones got themselves shot. I remember it real clear, 'cause after I read about the murders, I got to wondering if she was ever gonna come back. Sure enough, I haven't seen hide or hair of her since. What a shame. Always tried to treat her real good. Fill up her Coke glass for nothing. I was hoping maybe she liked more about the place than just them Shoshones. It was good for business, with her popping in. Like I say, the cowboys got themselves a real eyeful.”

“What did she look like?”

“Like I say, a real eyeful. Some kinda body, I mean, like in your dreams. Real pretty, lots of dark hair and big, gorgeous eyes.”

Father John thanked the man again. This time he got to his feet and crossed to the door, one eye on the table where the cowboy and his girlfriend had their heads bent together, drawing on cigarettes, blowing smoke out of the corner's of their mouths. The same table where Trent Hunter, the Crispin brothers, Edie Bradbury, and another girl—
a real looker
—liked to sit.

He hurried past the building to the pickup, the wind whipping the snow about, pushing him along. There was another student, a girl. Somebody else who might know about Bates. Somebody else who might have had reason to lure the Shoshones to their deaths.

THE MISSION LOOKED
deserted. The windows in the administration building were dark and no vehicles were outside Eagle Hall; the meeting was over. Father John parked next to Ian's sedan in front of the residence. A faint light from the television flickered in the living-room windows.

Walks-On was waiting in the entry. He scratched the dog's ears, then set his coat and hat on the bench and went down the hall, the dog's nails clicking beside him. Through the arch to the living room, he glimpsed the figure of his assistant slumped on the sofa, legs extended across the coffee table. The man might have been asleep; Father John wasn't sure. Quiet, peaceful even, the dim light washing over his face.

In the kitchen, they went through the same routine, he and Walks-On. He shook out the dog's food, waited until he'd finished slurping the bowl clean, and let him out the back door. His own dinner was waiting in the oven, the odors of grease and fried chicken hanging in the air. After a few minutes, the dog was scratching at the door. Father John let him in and went back down the hall. He walked into the living room and stared at the television. The hawk-nosed, dark-haired woman on the screen, brushing at the snow blowing into her face, stood outside the convenience store in Ethete. Brown boards covered the store's windows. “This afternoon, a mob of Shoshones attacked the Arapaho community of Ethete. Authorities believe the attack was in reprisal for . . .”

Father John had lifted the remote from the coffee table and pushed the power button. He turned to the priest slumped on the sofa. “I want you to go back into rehab, Ian,” he said.

The man jerked upright and planted his feet on the floor. “We've been over this.”

“You're stopping at bars several times a week.”

“So what's the big deal? I can control it.”

“You say you like it here,” Father John said. “I think you hate it. So you're setting yourself up. You know you can't stay here and drink.”

The other priest began studying the dark television screen, as if he were trying to figure out what had become of the program. “You plan to take this up with the Provincial?” he said.

“I don't want to.”

“Yeah, I'll bet you don't.”

“I don't care what you tell the Provincial about me, Ian.” Father John went over to the phone on the table under the window. He picked up the receiver and held it out to the other priest. “Call him now, if you like.”

“He'll reassign you.”

“He's going to do that sooner or later.”

Ian waved the receiver away. He set his elbow on the armrest and blew into his fist a moment. “What're we talking about? How many weeks?”

“There's an outpatient program in town,” Father John said. “You could start there, see how it goes.”