The Drowning Man (26 page)

She held on to the wheel, struggling to still the shaking that convulsed her. Her mouth had gone dry, but hot moisture had started running down her cheeks. Odd. She must have been shot after all. She should feel pain, but there was nothing but the numbness and the shaking. She lifted her hand, wiped at the moisture, and stared at her palm, unable to comprehend why her blood was as colorless as water. It was then that she ran her tongue over her lips and tasted the salt and realized that she was crying.

The sound of gravel sputtering under tires made her glance at the rearview mirror again. Somehow, the blue sedan was now heading in her direction, crossing the lane, and slowing behind her. The motor turned off, and a light-haired man—God, he was just a teenager—slammed out of the driver's side and ran up alongside her. “You okay? You okay?” he shouted.

Vicky tried to locate the button to roll down her window, but her hand was shaking. She gave it up. She could hear him through the blasted rear windows. Her door sprang open, and the young man's face came so close that she found herself concentrating on the marks of acne that dotted his cheeks, and oddly she began to feel steadier. “You hurt?” he said.

“I don't think so.”

“I already called 911.”

Vicky shifted her focus to the phone waving in his hand.

“I seen the whole thing,” he said. “I seen the gun, I seen everything. You better stay in the car. Anybody you want me to call?”

Vicky felt the pressure of his hand on her shoulder and realized that she'd started to get out, but he was right. She shouldn't try to stand up.

She turned toward the windshield and studied the empty highway, the haze of heat blurring the asphalt in the distance. “Someone is trying to kill me,” she said. Then she asked him to call the pastor at St. Francis Mission.

“
YOU SURE IT'S
a photograph of the Drowning Man?” Norman Yellow Hawk balanced his elbows on his thighs, clasped his hands between his knees, and leaned forward. He kept his face unreadable, the set of his jaws, the sculptured look of his cheeks and forehead unchanged, despite the mixture of dread and hope alternating in his dark eyes.

“It's the petroglyph,” Father John said. Warm air gusted through the open window of his study and rippled the papers on his desk. Outside, a motor coughed into life, followed by the sound of tires mashing the gravel. The only penitent who had come to confessions this afternoon. He and Father Ian alternated Saturday confessions, and this had been Ian's week. It had surprised Father John that even one vehicle had been parked in front of the church when he'd walked over to the office, hoping to make a dent in the messages and bills piled on his desk. It was as if St. Francis had become part of the cemetery out on Seventeen-Mile Road that pickups and cars rumbled past.

“Got a minute?” Norman had leaned around the doorjamb about thirty minutes ago.

Father John had waved the councilman toward the chair angled next to his desk. Then he'd gotten to his feet, gone over to the small table behind the door, and poured some coffee into Styrofoam cups stacked by the coffeepot. He'd handed a cup to the councilman before settling back behind the desk.

“Thanks for coming by,” he'd told the councilman. “People have been avoiding the mission. I guess you know. Father Elsner will be leaving soon.”

Norman had nodded. “That's not why I'm here,” he'd said. Then he'd asked if there was any news about the petroglyph, and Father John had told him about the envelope tossed from the gray sedan out on the highway, and the photo of the petroglyph.

“Lot of glyphs look alike,” Norman said now. There was a distant look in his eyes, as if he were carrying on an argument with himself. “That Indian could've gone up to Red Cliff Canyon and gotten a photograph of some other glyph.”

“I saw the photograph,” Father John said, trying to reassure the man. “Gianelli thinks that the petroglyph is still in the area. In a warehouse or barn someplace. The thief wants to make a deal.”

“He called you back to make arrangements for the exchange?”

Father John shook his head. “He'll call, Norman.”

The councilman held onto the coffee cup balanced on the armrest and sat very still, as if the heavy possibility of losing the petroglyph pressed him against the chair.

“It's been almost two days.”

“He wants the money.”

“It's ready. Arapaho and Shoshone business councils agreed we gotta get the glyph back. Took most of the week, but we pulled some cash out of the operating funds and borrowed the rest against the oil and gas royalties. We've got the cash. The minute you hear from the guy, I'll see you get it. You make the exchange.”

“Listen, Norman,” Father John began. Gianelli must not have told the councilman about the new plan. “The fed wants to send in an undercover police officer…”

“I know what he wants.” Norman threw back his head. His eyes traced the ceiling a long moment. “You gotta make the exchange, John. That's what the guy's expecting. He's nervous as a bobcat. You start talking about how the Sho-Raps want to send in some Indian and you know what's gonna happen?”

Father John didn't reply. He knew exactly what would happen.

The councilman pushed on: “You're gonna be talking to yourself, because the guy's gonna hang up. Then you know what's gonna happen? He's gonna pack up the glyph and take off. How long you think it's gonna be before he sells that glyph? One day? One week?”

“Listen, Norman,” Father John began again. “Gianelli's handling the investigation. He wants the petroglyph back, and he doesn't want the tribes to lose a quarter of a million dollars. He knows what he's doing.”

Norman stood up, walked over to the table, and set down his cup. He turned back. “That's where you're wrong, John. The fed wasn't here seven years ago; he doesn't know what happened.”

“He has the records.”

“He doesn't have the instincts. Otherwise, he wouldn't be putting together this crazy plan that's gonna lose us another sacred glyph. We've lost too much already. Sites have been looted. No telling how many artifacts have been stolen. We're gonna find more disturbed sites, you can bet on it. Nobody but us gives a damn: not the fed, not the folks over at the BLM. Let the logging companies build a big road and run their trucks up and down Red Cliff Canyon. What difference does it make? Bring in more thieves, more diggers, run the spirits out of the place. How'd they like it if we was to build a highway through one of their cathedrals, start looting some of the art and other precious objects? We gotta protect what's holy, John, before there's nothing holy left on the earth. We want the Drowning Man returned. The people need that glyph.”

The telephone rang. Father John reached across the desk, conscious of the stillness and sense of expectation that invaded the office and the way the Arapaho's eyes followed the receiver as Father John lifted it to his ear.

“Father O'Malley,” he said.

“You the mission priest?” A man's voice, but not one that Father John recognized.

“That's right. How may I help you?”

“Oh, good. I wasn't sure I got the number right. You don't know me…” There was a shakiness in the voice, and it occurred to Father John that the caller was young, a teenager who had found himself in an adult world. “A friend of yours gave me your number. Vicky Holden. She asked me to call you. She had some trouble…”

“Where is she?” Father John was on his feet.

“On her way home now. Said to tell you she'll be there in thirty minutes.”

Father John thanked the caller and hung up. “Vicky's in some kind of trouble,” he said to the Arapaho.

“Trouble? What kinda trouble?”

“I don't know.” Father John walked around the desk.

“I told her not to get mixed up with that bum Travis Birdsong. What about the petroglyph?”

“We all want to get it back, Norman.” Father John grabbed his cowboy hat from the coat tree. She would have called him herself, if she could have, he was thinking, half aware of the councilman behind him as he started down the corridor.

“You gonna call me soon as you hear from the guy?”

She was on the way home. That was a good sign. But she'd wanted him to know there was some kind of trouble; she'd asked someone to call for her. She expected him to meet her.

“We'll have to talk about this later.” Father John held the front door for the other man. Then he passed the councilman on the steps and broke into a run across the grounds.

He was about to get into the pickup in front of the residence when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Father Lloyd coming across the drive from the direction of the museum. There hadn't been anybody else around: Norman's truck in front of the administration building, Ian's sedan at the residence. No other sign of life. Then the elderly priest had appeared, like a shadow falling across the grounds without warning.

Father John called over the top of the pickup's door as he got behind the steering wheel: “Let Father Ian know that I had to go out, will you?”

The old priest lifted one hand into the air in acknowledgment, a gesture that Father John caught in the rear-view mirror as he backed the pickup onto Circle Drive.

 

VICKY DROVE INTO
the lot behind the apartment building and parked in the space behind the sign that said, “Unit 205.” She'd spent at least an hour parked alongside the ditch out on the highway, answering questions the state patrol officer had thrown at her.
You know the two men? Ever seen them before?

No, she didn't know who they were. Yes, they had run her off the road yesterday.

Finally she'd convinced the officer that she was okay. She could drive home. She had to get away from that place.

She'd driven on automatic: across the reservation and into Lander, gripping the steering wheel, not wanting to check the rearview mirror, yet checking it all the time, expecting the brown truck to rise out of the asphalt. Carved in her mind was the image of the shotgun lifting over the windowsill, the barrel leveled at her, and the light flickering in the eyes behind the mask. The cowboy had wanted to kill her; he would have enjoyed killing her.

She let the engine run and closed her eyes against the nausea blowing over her like the hot wind gusting past the broken windows in the back. She sat very still.
Be still
—Grandmother's voice in her head—
like the quiet of the plains, the images of the spirits carved in the rocks. In the stillness, you can find your way.

“Vicky?” The familiar voice cut through the fog swirling about her. Her eyes snapped open, and she peered through her window into the eyes of John O'Malley. He was leaning down, one forearm resting on the sill. She fumbled for the door handle, pushed it down, and watched the door swing open by itself, as if it had a will of its own, except that—and this was odd; it was as if everything had a counterexplanation—John O'Malley had yanked the door open.

She started to crawl out, aware of the pressure of his hand on her arm, steadying her. Then, he leaned into the car, turned off the ignition, and closed her fingers around the keys. “Are you all right?” he said.

She was hanging on to the car to keep the world from whirling away: the asphalt, the parked cars, the red bricks of the apartment building, the man beside her.

“Vicky!” John O'Malley said. Now the weight of his arm slipped around her shoulders.

“He tried to shoot me,” she heard herself saying.

“What? Who, Vicky? The cowboys from yesterday?”

Vicky felt herself leaning into him, burying her face against his chest, unable to move. It was a moment before she realized that the front of his shirt was damp and that she was crying. She stepped back and ran the palm of her hand over her cheeks, mopping at the moisture, beginning to feel upright again, as if the world had regained its balance.

“Are you hurt?”

She shook her head. “I think I could use something to eat.”

“Come on,” he said, guiding her over to the Toyota pickup.

 

FROM THE TABLE
in the corner of the restaurant, they could see the traffic crawling along Main Street. Vicky kept glancing out the window as she told John O'Malley about the brown truck, the two masked cowboys, the shotgun gleaming in the sun. Talking, talking, taking a bite of the turkey sandwich she'd ordered, sipping at the cup of tea, watching for the brown truck. She was beginning to feel like herself, as if she'd finally managed to take herself in hand, get a grip on herself—yes, that was it. She was getting her grip.

“Those men in the truck,” she said. “They killed Raymond Trublood. They got away with murder. They don't want me to reopen Travis's case.” She turned back to the window and went on: “There's more, John. I think Travis and Raymond took the petroglyph seven years ago.”

That got his attention, she knew, even though John O'Malley didn't say anything. He set his sandwich down and began sipping at his coffee, not taking his eyes from her. She told him how Travis had tried to talk his lawyer into filing an appeal on a contingency basis. How Travis had said that he'd pay him as soon as he was free.

“Where was Travis going to get any money?” Vicky continued. “His grandfather had already spent everything that he and the rest of the family could get their hands on for the trial. There wasn't anything left for an appeal.”

“You think Travis was expecting payment from the sale of the petroglyph?”

Vicky nodded. “He didn't have the money yet, or he would have offered it up front to Gruenwald. He was
expecting
the money, but he had to be free to get it. I think he knows what became of the petroglyph, and the minute he was free, he intended to collect his share from whoever had sold it. It still doesn't make Travis a killer.”

John sipped at his coffee a moment. Finally he set the mug down and leaned toward her. “It makes sense,” he said. “Artifact thieves don't work alone. They work in tightly knit gangs. The man who contacted me…”

“The Indian.”

“His name is Benito Behan. Navajo. Gianelli says he's been the intermediary between a gang of artifact thieves who work around the West and the locals—the Indians who know where the artifacts in their area can be found. Travis and Raymond could have been the locals. They knew Red Cliff Canyon. They knew which petroglyphs were the oldest and most valuable. They could have cut out the petroglyph and delivered it to Behan. The Indian had already contacted the tribes. They were ready to pay the ransom, then something went wrong…”

Vicky cut in. “He's probably come back. He found other locals willing to do the dirty work. They stole the Drowning Man, and they expect to collect from the tribes. What's his name, Benito Behan? I think that Benito Behan doesn't want me to reopen Travis's case. He's afraid of what a new investigation might turn up. It could link him to both stolen glyphs. It could even link him to Raymond's murder.”