The Drowning Man (18 page)

She walked along the railing that overlooked the first floor, digging in her bag for the key. The doors across from the railing were closed and mute. White letters on the placard next to the first door glinted in the light that streamed from the fluorescent fixture at the top of the stairs:
Lone Eagle and Holden, Attorneys at Law.
She crossed the corridor and started to insert the key.

“About time you showed up.” A man's voice boomed into the quiet.

Vicky spun around. Stepping out of the shadows of an alcove that led to the elevator was a heavy-set man with black hair pulled back from a broad forehead that loomed like an arch over his shadowy eyes. Then he was coming toward her—thick shoulders and enormous chest, silver belt buckle lodged between his blue jeans and the folds of his red plaid shirt.

“What do you want?” Vicky took a couple of steps backward toward the railing, out of the man's path. She could guess who he was: the long nose and flared nostrils, the way his mouth curved up at the corners in a kind of perpetual sneer. Everyone in the Trublood family shared the same traits. She tried to remember what John O'Malley had said about Raymond's older brother: Hugh had spent time in prison on an assault charge.

“You remember my little brother, Raymond?” The man was close now, no more than two feet away. Little pricks of sweat stood out on his forehead.

“I remember him.”

“Went to the powwows, Raymond did. Rode in some rodeos.”

“Why are you here?” Vicky stepped back into the railing.

“You know what I did when that jury said Travis Birdsong was guilty of killin' my little brother? I took my shotgun and went out on the prairie and started pullin' the trigger. I shot up the ground and I shot up the air. If that no good sonofabitch had been around, I would've shot him to pieces. He deserved to be dead for what he did to Raymond, but instead he was gonna be sittin' in prison for fifteen years. And you know what?” He was shaking a fist in her face, and Vicky moved backwards, the top rail digging into her hip. “That didn't make me feel much better. Travis Birdsong should rot there like the stinkin' shit he is.”

Vicky threw a glance at the row of closed doors. The building was vacant. There was no one else here. She slid the key along her palm, until it protruded between her fingers, and locked eyes with the Indian leaning toward her. His breath reeked of tobacco and something else, something spicy. “What makes you so certain Travis killed your brother?” she said.

“You gotta be kiddin' me.” He glanced around the building—the corridor, the stairs, the entry below. “Everybody knows Travis killed him. That's why he's gonna stay in prison, you understand?” His jaw was clenched now, the words forced past tight lips.

“I think you'd better go,” Vicky said. Her fingers were clasped so hard around the key that it felt like part of her hand.

His arm shot around her. He grabbed the railing, blocking the way to the stairs, enclosing her in a little circle. “You ain't told me what I want to hear,” he said.

Vicky was aware of the intermittent hum and thrust of traffic on Main Street, the screech of a truck grinding down. It was as if the noise came across a far distance. She locked eyes with the man leaning over her. “I remember Grandmother Missy,” she said.

“What?” Hugh Trublood jerked his head backward. “What're you talkin' about?”

“I remember Grandmother at the powwows. She used to make delicious fry bread. She raised you and Raymond, didn't she?”

The man was staring at her, the mixture of disbelief and questions moving through his black eyes. “Broke her heart when Raymond got killed,” he said.

Vicky nodded. “It must have also broken her heart when you went to prison for assault. That wasn't what she had hoped for you.”

A long moment passed before Vicky sensed his grip on the railing begin to relax. Hugh Trublood stepped back. It was a long moment before he said, “We got an understanding, all right?”

Vicky started around the man, conscious of the warm feel of the key jammed between her fingers, almost expecting him to grab her. He didn't move. She crossed the corridor to her door, jammed the key into the lock, and looked back. Hugh Trublood was still watching her, and she realized he was waiting for her answer.

“I'm going to Rawlins tomorrow to talk to Travis,” she said. “I'll know then what I have to do.”

“That Indian gets out of prison,” he said, “I'm holdin' you responsible.” He left his gaze on her a moment, then turned and started down the stairs, taking his time, thick arms rigid as logs at his side. Then he was out of sight, his boots thudding across the tiled entry below. The door slammed shut, sending a little vibration through the floor.

Vicky let herself into the office, shut the door, and leaned against it, giving herself a moment to quiet the trembling that had taken hold of her. It was a potent combination, she was thinking. Grief. Frustration. Anger. A man like Hugh Trublood could be dangerous.

“
FIRST TIME I
heard the stories of the petroglyphs…” Ellie Nighthorse paused, and Father John watched the black eyes dart among the other members of the liturgy committee. She was a large woman, leaning back against her chair, the dark flesh of her arms crossed over a white blouse. The stories weren't for everyone, he knew, and for a moment he wondered if he should leave, make some excuse about having to finish some work this evening. The meeting had gotten under way an hour ago. Nobody had even looked at the agenda. Nobody was interested in anything other than the fact that another sacred petroglyph had been taken.

Amos Walking Bear shifted in the chair beside him. “It's okay,” the elder assured the woman. “Nobody here but us.”

Us.
The word fell like a soft blanket over everyone at the table. He was one of them, the Indian priest. Ellie cleared her throat and went on with her story: How Grandfather was still a boy when he went up to Red Cliff Canyon. Rode his pony there by himself in the winter, 'cause he wanted to be with the spirits. Wanted to ask the spirits to show him the road he oughtta follow. There was snow everywhere, Grandfather said. Snow covering the ground and pushing down the branches of the pines, and it was real quiet. That was what he remembered about the canyon, how quiet it was, like the world had stopped.

Ellie Nighthorse hesitated again. She tilted her head back so that her black hair folded like a scarf below her head, her eyes gazing upward, as if there were an image on the ceiling of the boy riding into the white silence. She went on: Turned the pony up the mountain, and the snow was so deep, that pony got to be a high trotter. Grandfather couldn't see the petroglyphs and he was getting worried, he said, like he wasn't worthy to see the images of the spirits. So he closed his eyes and hung on to the pony, and he prayed. He said, “If I am worthy, please show yourselves.” When he opened his eyes, he seen them. Up the slope, straight ahead, and it made him laugh, he said, he was so happy. So he laughed into the silence, and the sound of him laughing kept coming back at him.

That was when he heard the sounds of the village, he said. That was the special part, the sounds of drums and singing, the horses neighing and dogs barking. He heard the clinking sounds of the warriors making tools. The village was right in front of him, spread in a circle all around the petroglyphs, the white tipis lifting up like snowdrifts, little campfires burning in front, and people coming and going, women tending the cooking pots over the fires with babies strapped on their backs. He seen all of it, he said, before the village and the ancestors vanished into the boulders, and all that was left was the pictures they'd carved in the rocks, so we'd remember. That's what the ancestors want, Grandfather said, for us to remember who we are.

The room went as quiet, Father John thought, as that winter day. The boy had most likely fallen asleep on his pony and had seen the village in a dream, except for the note of certainty that rang in the woman's story.
That logic of yours,
Amos had told him when he'd first come to St. Francis,
it don't account for everything.

Amos cleared his throat, and the dark heads above the table swiveled in the elder's direction. “Thank you for that story, Ellie,” he said. “We gotta get the petroglyph back for the people. That's what Travis wants, too.” The old man held his shoulders in a straight line, like a bulwark against the sudden coldness in the atmosphere. “That's a fact,” he said. “Travis has got respect for the ancestors. He didn't take the Drowning Man. Didn't take our other petroglyph seven years ago. Didn't kill nobody, either.” He turned to Father John, the deep-set black eyes of an old warrior sending out an appeal for backup. “That's the truth, ain't it, Father?”

“If anyone can find out what happened, it'll be Vicky,” Father John said, trying to meet the elder's expectations. He was aware of the way the other pairs of eyes had begun scouring the surface of the table. Respect for an elder invaded the room like the memory of a melody. No one would contradict Amos, yet everyone at the table, Father John realized, had decided seven years ago what had happened.

Ellie reached across the table and coaxed the agendas that she'd distributed earlier back in her direction. “Maybe we better set up another meeting,” she said, arranging the papers into a neat stack. “That okay, Father?”

Father John said that was okay. There was only one thing that mattered, one thing on everyone's mind. He waited until the committee members had filed out of the hall, Amos first, the others marking the same halting pace behind the old man, ready to leap forward should he falter. Then Father John folded the chairs and stacked them against the wall. He turned out the lights and headed across the mission.

Red taillights flickered through the cottonwoods toward Seventeen-Mile Road. The growl of engines reverberated across the mission. The only vehicles left on Circle Drive were the old Toyota and Father Ian's blue sedan in front of the residence. The religious education meeting must have also let out early. No one could talk about anything but another lost petroglyph. A deserted feeling fell over the mission, like that of an Arapaho village that had been abandoned. The people made the village; they made the mission.

Father John heard the high-pitched notes of a ringing phone, like the sound of a train in the middle of the night. He hurried up the sidewalk to the residence. The front door swung open before he could reach for the knob. Father Ian stood in the doorway, backlit by the light in the entry.

“Call for you,” his assistant said, thrusting the cordless phone toward him.

Father John took the cool plastic object and, shouldering past the other priest, crossed the entry into his study. He knew who was on the other end; he could sense the malevolent presence. He dropped into his chair behind the desk and pressed the receiver hard against his ear. “Father O'Malley,” he said.

“You get your proof tonight.” The same raspy voice, the slow intakes of breath, as if the man were struggling to draw enough oxygen into his lungs. “You listening?”

“I'm listening.”

“Drive north on Federal. You'll see the gray sedan. No feds and no police. You listening?”

“Where will I find the sedan?” Federal would be a long stretch of shadows bunched around the dark, faceless buildings behind arcs of streetlights. There would be a small procession of vehicles stopping at the red lights, jumping forward to close the space left by the vehicles ahead.

“It'll find you.” The line went dead.

“Emergency?” Father Ian's voice cut through the quiet.

Father John set the receiver into the cradle and glanced up at his assistant standing in the doorway. “I have to go out for a while,” he said.

“This about the stolen petroglyph?” Disapproval rang in the other priest's voice.

Father John nodded. He got to his feet and headed into the entry. The other priest had to step back to give him room—disapproval even in that. He'd told Ian about the ransom message after the Indian had stopped him in Ethete.
A mistake,
he thought now. “Stay out of it,” his assistant had warned. “It really isn't our business, John. We've got the mission to run. Isn't that right? We need to concentrate on increasing attendance at Sunday Mass. Get more people involved in the programs. Be an influence for good here, help the people with their problems. Isn't that our mission? Be reasonable, John. Let the FBI handle the petroglyph business.”

He started to explain, then glanced at Ian's hard-set face. It would be like talking to a rock. The other priest was shaking his head, mouth drawn into a tight line.

And yet—here was the thing that had nagged Father John in the middle of the night—Ian could be right. The stolen petroglyph wasn't his business—their business. Their business was to run the mission, and Father Ian McCauley—oh, there was no doubt about it—intended to run St. Francis Mission the way it should be run, on a sound financial basis, raising money from corporate donors—his latest suggestion—and tailoring the programs to fit the budget. Well, that would be a different approach. There was no doubt about it. Ian McCauley would be the perfect replacement when the provincial sent the pastor somewhere else.

But other voices had cut through the nighttime wilderness. Amos Walking Bear's. Norman Yellow Hawk's.
We gotta get our petroglyph back.
He knew that when he closed his eyes again, he'd see the grief and fear in the black eyes arranged around the table this evening. The Drowning Man could become part of everything else that had been lost.

Father John headed outside, conscious of his assistant standing in the entry, the sense of disapproval blowing like a gust of wind down the sidewalk after him.

In ten minutes he was in Riverton, driving north on Federal, scanning the parking lots in front of the stores and restaurants and office buildings. He'd waited until he'd turned off Seventeen-Mile Road before he called Gianelli and told him the meeting was set. The gray sedan would be somewhere on Federal. The Indian would probably be the one who handed over the proof that they had the petroglyph. The caller had said no police, no feds.

“We're on this, John,” Gianelli had said and clicked off.

Where was the sedan? He thought he'd spotted it a block back, sunk in the shadows of a parking lot, but as he slowed down, searching the vehicle for some sense of familiarity, he'd seen that it was a Chevy. The Indian had driven a Ford.

A horn blared behind him. Father John glanced up, expecting the sedan to materialize in the rearview mirror. A light-colored pickup crowded his bumper. He pushed down on the accelerator and went back to checking both sides of the street. The supermarket lights blazed through the plate glass windows, glass doors sliding away for people moving in and out. Cars and pickups were scattered in irregular rows around the parking lot. The redbrick façade of the city hall and the police department looked black against the gray night sky. Three police vehicles were parked on the side. And across the street, empty parking lots stretched in front of darkened, flat-faced shops. Gas station, restaurant, lights still blinking in the windows, a few vehicles outside. On the corner ahead, a large, block-shaped motel.

He saw the gray sedan then—in the corner of the motel's parking lot, pointed toward Federal, the dark shape of the Indian behind the steering wheel. Father John flipped on the blinker, but before he could swing into the lot, the car shot out into his lane and continued north.

So this was the game. The Indian leading him somewhere else to give him the proof. Speeding off somewhere, two taillights bobbing in the darkness, then veering into the oncoming lane and jumping ahead of another vehicle. Father John pressed down on the accelerator and caught up to a truck. He waited for an oncoming vehicle to swoosh past, then pulled out—the accelerator tight against the floor, the Toyota shimmying and bucking. The truck's headlights swung right and extinguished themselves; the lights of Riverton fell back. He had the sense of plunging into a black pool after the blurry red lights that kept getting smaller and smaller.

Then the lights started to grow. This is where the Indian would give him the proof, Father John thought, on a deserted highway. But the sedan kept going. Ahead, on the left, the dark shape of a building came into view.

This would be it. Except that the Indian didn't pull over. A package of some sort flew out of the car's window and skidded over the highway in the rim of the Toyota's headlights. Father John lost sight of it for a second before it jumped back into the light, then lay still and deserted in the middle of the road. The Indian's taillights were dissolving into a single red glow.

Father John hit the brake pedal and skidded to a stop. The package was behind him now. He could make out the light-colored shape, but maybe he was only remembering where it had landed. He started backing up, hugging the side of the road to make certain that he didn't run it over.

He stopped next to the package, got out, and picked it up. An oversized white envelope, the contents firm, as if whatever was inside was solid and true. He slid back behind the steering wheel. Leaving the door open, he worked in the dim overhead light until his finger had loosened the flap. A warm gust blew into the cab and sent a dust cloud rolling through the yellow headlights. An animal somewhere was making a chirping noise.

He had the sense that someone was watching from the darkness, staring into the light that flooded out around the Toyota, like a peeping Tom staring through a lighted window. He tore back the flap and glanced around. On the other side of the road was an old log cabin that looked abandoned, slivers of starlight filtering through the gaping doors and windows. The porch sloped across the front, and part of the roof was missing.

He turned his attention back to the envelope and pulled out the contents. Two pieces of cardboard. Flattened between them, an eight-by-ten photograph of the Drowning Man. He held the photograph up in the light flaring from the ceiling. It was either the petroglyph or a good imitation. The carved gray image loomed out of the pinkish stone: a human figure, truncated arms and legs flailing through the rippling water. He could make out the chisel marks along the edges of the stone. To the right, propped up against something, was the front page of this morning's
Gazette.