Eye of the Wolf (7 page)

“It's no big deal.” The girl shrugged again. Moisture glistened on her cheeks. “I mean, we got things settled so there wasn't any more trouble from my boyfriend, I mean, before I met Trent. Jason Rizzo's his name. He's one of them white supremacist guys, always talking about the pure Aryan race and how it can't be contaminated, and all that crap. I don't know why I ever got involved with him, except I was real lonely, you know, and this girl I was working with over at the thrift shop says her boyfriend's in prison, and he's got this buddy, Jason, that's looking for somebody to write to. So I figure, what the heck. Poor guy's in prison, probably lonely like me, so we start sending letters back and forth, and he seems like a real nice guy. Then he gets out of prison and moves to Riverton, and he's expecting me to be his girlfriend, but I see he's real scary. I was his girl for a while, but I was looking to get away from him, and then I met Trent. He helped me get away. Said, ‘Come on, Edie. You can go to school. You can make something of yourself.' Gave me the guts to walk out, 'cause I knew that he was gonna protect me if Jason came after me. So I moved in with Trent in a little house behind a big, old mansion over on Pershing.” The girl caught her face in both hands. Her shoulders began shaking, the sobs coming in jerky spasms.

Father John waited until the sobs were quiet, and then he said, “What happened, Edie?”

She dropped her hands and started lacing and unlacing the tissue again, keeping her gaze on some point beyond his shoulder. A moment passed before she said, “It pissed Jason off real good, Trent being Indian and all. About a month ago, Jason and two guys he hung out with waited outside for Trent to get home from work. They beat him up real bad.”

Father John sat back against the wood chair, turning over in his mind what the girl had said. Shoshone man, missing four days. And out at the Bates Battlefield, three dead Indian men who might be Shoshone. Dear God, was it possible? Somebody had followed Trent Hunter around,
waiting for a chance to kill him? Finally corralling him and two other men and shooting all of them? Then mistaking Father Owens for the Indian priest and sending a message to make certain the bodies were found?

He tried to shake off the idea. He was catching the girl's fear. It was like a virus. The bodies hadn't been identified. There was no proof that they were Shoshone. No proof that Trent Hunter was dead.

The answer was probably simple, straightforward, logical. It was possible—he didn't like the idea—but it was possible that Trent had simply decided to disappear into the reservation. Maybe he'd had enough of the white world: classes, work, a pregnant, white girlfriend with a violent ex-boyfriend. Maybe he'd just walked away.

And yet the girl could be right. Maybe it wasn't like Trent Hunter to walk away.

He said, “I think you should go to the Riverton Police.”

“Police?” Her voice rose in surprise. The blue eyes went large for an instant, then narrowed into slits of concentration. “Trent never wanted to call the police, even after Jason beat him up. He said the police don't like Indians. They never side with Indians.”

“Listen, Edie.” Father John tried to catch the girl's eyes, but they were darting about the office. “Trent could be hurt. He might have had an accident. His car could be off the road somewhere.” He was thinking about the pickup Burton had found at the battlefield. He hurried on. “I know a detective who will take his disappearance very seriously. He'll check with the sheriff's office. He won't stop looking until he finds Trent.”

He got to his feet, not waiting for a reply. Leaning across the desk, he picked up the receiver and tapped out the number to the Riverton Police Department. One ring, and an operator was on the other end. He gave his name and asked to speak to Detective Mike Perry.

The girl pushed her thin body out of the chair, stumbling forward a little, shaking her head. “I don't know,” she said. “I don't know if I should go to the police.”

“Hey, Father John. How's it going?” The detective's voice boomed down the line.

“Hang on a minute,” Father John said. Then, cupping his hand over the mouthpiece he said, “I can go with you, Edie.”

She stared at him a moment with bleary, hopeless eyes, then shrugged and turned away.

He removed his hand and said, “I have a young woman here, Mike.” Then he told the detective that Edie Bradbury's boyfriend had been missing since last Friday. His name was Trent Hunter, Shoshone, a student at the college. He'd had a couple of run-ins recently with a white supremacist, and he might be in trouble.

The detective let out a little whistle. “Sounds like we better have a talk. How soon can she get over here.”

“We're on the way.” Father John replaced the receiver and turned to the girl who had moved into the doorway, glancing between the office and corridor, the front edges of her coat bunched in one hand.

“It's okay, Father,” she said. “I can do it.”

THE ADMINISTRATION BUILDING
was suspended in quiet for a moment. The ringing phones, clack of Father Ian's computer keys, banging doors, and boots shuffling in the corridor as people came for counseling or meetings—the usual noises seemed to have stalled. Father John stood at the window and watched the blue sedan snake around Circle Drive, engine clanking, black clouds of exhaust spitting from the tailpipe. Then the girl was gone. The clanking blended into the hum of traffic out on Seventeen-Mile Road.

He stepped back to his desk, picked up the phone, and dialed the number to St. Aiden's.

“John!” Father Nathan Owens' voice burst down the line. “My God, are you all right?”

Father John assured the man that he was okay.

“The radio says you were wounded.”

A small wound. Still assuring the man. Nothing that wouldn't heal in a couple of days.

“You could have been killed.”

True, Father John was thinking. He might have died out there with the other three men.

“If anything had happened to you,” the other priest was hurrying on, “I never could have forgiven myself. I shouldn't have gotten you involved, John. It was unconscionable. I should have figured out the message and gone there myself.”

“You didn't know someone would try to shoot me, Nathan.”

The line went quiet for a moment. Then the other priest said, “I don't like this, John. That frightening message, and three men shot to death. The moccasin telegraph says they're Shoshones. I hope it wasn't an Arapaho who did this. It'll tear the reservation apart.”

“Listen, Nathan,” Father John said, “Detective Burton from the sheriff's office will probably want to talk to you.”

“He's already called. He'll be here in thirty minutes. I intend to give him the tape.” The other priest paused. “Be careful, John,” he said. “Whoever killed those poor men is very evil. There's no telling what else he may do.”

Father John thanked the man and dropped the receiver back into the cradle. Then he went down the corridor in search of Father Ian. He found the man hunched over sheets of paper lined up in front of him, elbow braced on the edge of the desk, chin resting on one fist.

“How's it going?” Father John swung a wooden side chair around and straddled it, folding his arms over the back. He hadn't meant to leave the new priest alone so much. Here only a few weeks, still getting a feel for the place, and yesterday evening, it had been up to Ian to explain the bleak financial situation to the parish council and assure the members—this from the pastor, himself—that no programs would be cut in the summer. There had been no chance to talk to the man since the meeting. Ian had gone to bed by the time Father John had gotten back to
the mission last night, and he wasn't around this morning. And Edie Bradbury had appeared first thing.

He could see that his assistant was poring over the budget, which the man had volunteered to handle.
Good at numbers, John. BA in finance, you know.
Father John had thrust the budget into the man's hands, wondering if it was just a stroke of good luck that his assistants usually had a background in finance or accounting that made them eager to take over the budget, or if the Provincial, knowing the pastor's lack of interest, made a point to send a man who might put St. Francis Mission in the black.

“You could say everything's hunky-dory.” Ian looked up. Flecks of light seemed to have attached themselves to the man's eyes, like paint splashed on dark stones. His hair was mussed, as if he'd been combing it with his fingers. Beneath his eyes were the dark half-circles of a man who hadn't been sleeping well. “That, of course, is not the case with the budget.”

“Sorry I missed the council meeting,” Father John said.

“No problem.” Ian backed his elbow off the desk and leaned into the armrest of his chair. “A couple of phone messages when I got in this morning. People wanting to know about the bodies you found at someplace called Bates.” The man shrugged and cracked a thin smile. “Priest stumbles onto dead bodies in the middle of nowhere? I must have missed something in the job description. That the usual routine around here?”

Father John shook his head and looked away a moment. God, he hoped not. The images of the bodies were still there, floating in front of his eyes.

“So, how'd you get that?” Ian jabbed a finger toward the Band Aid on his face.

Father John lifted his hand and pressed at the edges of the small wound. A burning sensation ran through his cheek, which surprised him. Sometime during the night, the pain had receded into a dull throb, and this morning, the throb had dissolved into numbness. He locked eyes with the other priest and told him about the telephone message and the fact that he'd guessed the bodies might be at the site
of an old massacre, all of which Ian seemed to take in with mute acceptance, as if figuring out the clue in obscure phone messages were just another part of the job that he would become accustomed to. He didn't want to talk about dead men. He didn't want to relive the horror. Father John asked how the meeting had gone.

“Ah, the meeting.” Father Ian gripped the armrests, pushed himself to his feet, and walked over to the window. “I don't know how you've done it, John,” he said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Run this mission on hope and prayer and convinced the parish council that hope and prayer are legitimate business tactics. The council is in complete agreement with you that there's no need to cut back on anything. What are we going to pay the religious education teachers with? Prayers?”

Father John drummed his fingers on the top of the chair, listening to the
click click click
noise that punctuated his thoughts. This was his fault. He'd never wanted to dive into the abysmal swamp of the mission's finances, never wanted to admit that St. Francis couldn't afford the programs it offered, never wanted to cut back. Just the opposite. He'd added programs every year, and he
had
convinced the parish council that the little miracles would arrive in the mail, unsolicited and unexpected—checks falling out of envelopes with return addresses in towns he'd never heard of and scribbled notes that read, “Use this to help the Indians.” The funny thing was, the little miracles had occurred, and the mission had gone along, lurching from one potential financial disaster to the next, always bailed out at the last minute.

He got to his feet and, leaning over, gripped the top of the chair. Donations were always smaller as summer approached, but this year, they had been almost nonexistent. He should have been the one to break the bad news to the council that the miracles hadn't arrived. Ian was right. They would have to cut back.

He said, “We'll schedule another meeting.”

“Already done.” Father Ian jammed his hands into the pockets of his
khakis. “I suggested that we revisit the situation next Wednesday evening. That work for you?”

Father John nodded. He waited a couple of beats before he said, “How are things with you?”

The other priest took a step backward, tilted his head, and stared up at the ceiling, as if the answer might fall out of the cracked plaster. “You mean,” he locked eyes again with Father John, “am I avoiding the temptation of demon rum, whiskey, vodka and staying off the bottle?”

“This can be a lonely place.”

“Loneliness.” The other priest drew in his lower lip, considering. “Was that your excuse?”

Father John didn't take his eyes away. The man not only had a finely tuned way of avoiding uncomfortable subjects, he was also good at turning things around, so that, all of a sudden, the conversation between the superior and the priest under his supervision was about the superior.

He said, “There are a lot of excuses. Take your pick.”

The other priest gave a dry, brittle laugh. “You want the truth, John? I never needed an excuse. I liked to drink, that was all. Do I want another drink? What do you think?”

Father John was thinking that they were a pair. The truth was, they could both get drunk right now. Drive over to Riverton, buy a couple of bottles of Jim Beam, and sink into the soft, quiet fog of alcohol. He said, “I guess we both have to make the decision every day to stay sober.”

“What works for you, John? You've been making that decision every day for what? Nine years?”

“About that,” Father John said. He could count the days. “The work here. The people. AA. Prayer.” The list was short, he knew, and fragile. “Listen, Ian, we can help each other. Any time you want to talk . . .”

The other priest threw up both hands. “I had enough talking in rehab. Enough trying to invent my childhood anxieties. Truth was, I had good parents, good friends, good schools. The all-American suburban middle-class childhood, that was mine. Played soccer and tennis. Never hung out with the druggies, because, frankly, I had my own drug.”

“I wasn't suggesting we explore your childhood,” Father John said. “But if the thirst gets too strong . . .”

“We can have our own little rehab group.”

Father John didn't say anything. He might have been facing a mirror. The cocky priest with a chip the size of Boston on his shoulder in his superior's office that afternoon—what? ten years ago?—and the superior had told him that he had a choice. Go into rehab at Grace House or take an office job in a back room someplace and drink himself to death. His choice. Odd, when he thought about it now. He'd replied that he wanted to think about it.
Think about it!
As if there really was any choice between life and death. He'd been at Grace House four months before he'd decided to choose life.

Watching the muscles work in Father Ian's cheek, he wondered if the man had left rehab too soon, before he'd made
his
choice.

“See you at AA tonight,” Father John said, starting into the corridor.

“Hold on,” the other priest called, and Father John turned back. Ian came across the office and thrust a wad of miniature sheets at him. “Telephone messages,” he said.

Father John thumbed through the sheets as he walked back down the corridor: Jennie Antelope, Mary Blue Eagle, Les Walker. And all of the messages were the same:
Who could have killed those men? What happened, Father?
He could sense the undercurrent of fear in the questions, as if the fear itself had invaded the pieces of paper.

Father John dropped into the leather chair at his desk and stared at the name on the last sheet: Charles Lambert.
Please call back
. Next to the name was the phone number.

He swiveled toward the bookcases, running his gaze over the spines of the books wedged into the shelves. Novels, books of poetry among the books on opera, philosophy, theology, American history, the Plains Indians, the Arapahos. He could read the story of his own life in the titles.

There it was.
The Way of the Warriors
. The author's name was in small blue type: Charles Lambert, Ph.D. Father John pulled out the book, opened the back cover, and studied the black and white photo.
Probably in his seventies with white, curly hair, like the mane of an old lion, and piercing, intelligent eyes that stared into the camera. The man was a professor of history at a small college in New York, the author of dozens of scholarly papers and articles and five books on the American Indians. He had read two of them, Father John thought. And now the man was teaching at the local college.

He reached across the papers scattered over his desk, picked up the receiver, and tapped in the number. A couple of seconds passed before the buzzing noise stopped.

“This is Professor Lambert.” A rich bass voice, with the resonant tones of an opera singer.

Father John gave his name.

“Ah, Father O'Malley. Kind of you to get back to me.” The voice paused, then hurried on. “Perhaps you may have heard of me. I've been writing about the Plains Indians for many years.”

Father John said that he was familiar with the man's work.

“Ah, splendid!” That seemed to please him. “Now that I've retired, my wife and I have come to the open spaces of the West from where I've drawn much of my inspiration. A wonderful place in which to write, wouldn't you say?” He hurried on, not waiting for a response. “Naturally I've missed teaching, so I'm giving a class at Central Wyoming College this semester on the Plains Indian wars. I see in the newspaper that you are the one who found the bodies at the Bates Battlefield. I was hoping we might be able to sit down for a chat about the unfortunate event.”

Father John nudged his shirt sleeve back and glanced at his watch. Almost l0:30. He was thinking that Charles Lambert was one of the last persons to see Trent Hunter before he disappeared. “Where are you?” he asked.

“I'll be in my office at the college for another hour,” the professor said, enthusiasm riding through the bass voice. Then he gave the directions to his office.

“I'll be there in twenty minutes,” Father John said.