The Drowning Man (3 page)

Father John drove past the vacant dirt parking area in front of the tribal building. He'd been bluffing back at the gas station, but it might work. There was always the chance a bluff would work. If the Indian thought he was serious, he'd get hold of his boss, whoever he was. And the man would call. He would call—Father John was sure of it—because the quickest, easiest shot at making money on the petroglyph was to sell it back to the tribes.

Father John reached over and fumbled for his cell phone in the glove compartment, which, for no reason he had ever figured out, Arapahos called the jockey box, finally dragging it past the crumpled maps and papers. He pressed the keys for information and got the number for Mickey Wolf. He had to slow down while he tapped it out. He jammed the cell against his ear and listened to the intermittent buzzing noise, followed by the sound of Mickey's voice over the wails of an infant.

“Hello?”

Father John said that something had come up. Could he take a rain check?

“No problem, Father,” Mickey said. “We're not going anywhere.”

Father John promised to stop by before the new baby went off to school.

A little rumble of laughter came down the line. “I'll tell him. See ya, Father,” Mickey said before the line went dead.

Father John slowed the pickup and pulled the wheel to the right. He bumped over the barrow ditch and across a weed-patched field, then came out onto a narrow dirt road that wound past the backyards of two houses before plunging into the front yard of a small frame house with what looked like a new coat of gray paint. He stopped close to the wood stoop that jutted from the front door, turned off the engine, and waited. If Norman Yellow Hawk, one of the councilmen on the Arapaho Business Council, was home and wanted a visitor, he'd let Father John know in a couple of minutes.

NORMAN YELLOW HAWK
straddled the straight-backed kitchen chair like a child. He wrapped mitt-sized hands around the coffee mug on the table and regarded Father John with half-closed eyes, as if he were chasing an idea somewhere in his head. Father John could hear the water boiling on the stove behind them. The kitchen was attached to the back of the house like an afterthought, filled with the odors of hot tomato sauce and basil. There was the sound of children playing outside, and every once in a while, one of Norman's boys darted past the window next to the kitchen table.

“You ever seen the Indian before?” the councilman asked.

Father John shook his head. He took a sip of the hot coffee that Norman's wife, Lea, had set before him.
Stay for supper, Father?
she'd wanted to know. He'd thanked her and explained that he had to get back to the mission. AA meeting tonight, and Elena, who had managed the residence, prepared the meals, and looked after the priests at St. Francis Mission for more years than she or anyone else could remember, would have kept his foil-wrapped dinner warm in the oven.

“It's possible that someone here knows him,” Father John said. “He didn't want to go to the tribal offices.”

Lea moved away from the counter where she'd been tearing lettuce into little pieces and dropping them into a bowl. She was a pretty woman with blue-black hair smoothed around her head into a pony-tail, a soft-looking face, and dark eyes that shone with worry. She wiped her hands on a towel, tossed it over to the counter, and set one hand on her husband's shoulder. “Remember what happened last time, Norman,” she said.

“Yeah, I remember.” Norman didn't move away from his wife's grasp. He stared at the window with a longing in his expression, eyes following the two boys tossing a baseball back and forth, shouting, laughing. Free. Beyond the dirt yard, the open plains stretched into the distances. “Last time a petroglyph was stolen, one of our Arapaho boys ended up shot to death,” he said. “The other is still locked up down in Rawlins.”

“An Indian came to the office to see you then.” Lea tapped an index finger on her husband's shoulder. “Said he could get the petroglyph back.”

“Two hundred thousand dollars.” Norman rolled his head and glanced up at his wife. “Looks like the price went up. Now he wants two hundred and fifty for the Drowning Man. Bastard thinks we have that kind of money lying around in a slush fund someplace.”

Father John took another drink of coffee and pushed the mug back. He set his forearms on the table and leaned toward the man across from him. “Who is he?” he said.

“Middleman, the fed called him. SOB probably doing the dirty work for some artifact dealer those Arapaho cowboys got hooked up with. You remember them, don't you, Father? Raymond Trublood and Travis Birdsong? Birdsong kept insisting he was innocent, never killed anybody. The way I figured it, they sold the glyph to some dealer that passed it on to rich folks for a lot of money. Lots of people looking for Indian art, you know. Don't care that buying stolen artifacts is illegal as hell. Before the dealer went to a lot of trouble, I figured he sent his middleman to see if we wanted to buy back our own petroglyph!”

He shook his head and glanced about the kitchen. Lea had moved back to the counter and was energetically chopping a tomato. The scrape of the knife on the wood block mixed with the muffled voices of the kids outside. “Wouldn't that have been something,” Norman said. “Bastard might've gotten less money than some rich folks would've paid, but he could have turned the glyph faster without much risk.
Don't call the fed, or the deal's off.
That's what the Indian said. His boss figured we'd want that glyph back so bad we'd do whatever he said, and you know what? He was right.”

Norman turned his head toward the window again, the same longing working beneath the surface of the tightened muscles in his face. “Indian told us we'd be contacted about making the exchange,” he said. “Then Trublood was shot. Last we heard about the petroglyph.”

“We'd better let Gianelli know the Indian could be back,” Father John said. He'd known Ted Gianelli, the local FBI agent, for five or six years now. He was a good investigator. Like a dog with a bone, Gianelli didn't give up.

“No fed.” The councilman took another gulp of coffee. “After Trublood's murder, there were feds, sheriff's deputies, police swarming all over the rez. Newspaper stories every day. It was all over the TV. That Indian vanished into thin air, and so did the petroglyph. Probably propped against a wall in Tokyo now, wouldn't surprise me none. Same thing's going to happen to the Drowning Man if we go to the fed. News will be all over the moccasin telegraph tomorrow.”

“Look, Norman,” Father John said, trying to fit together a logical argument. “It's a different situation now. Nobody's been murdered.” He paused.
Lord, let that be true.
“There probably won't be a lot of publicity. The article in today's newspaper could be the extent of it.”

“The gossip will start up, I'm telling you. We tried to keep it quiet about the Drowning Man, and what happened? Big article in the
Gazette.
Problem is, stealing a petroglyph is a federal crime, so last week, soon's that ranch hand came to the tribal offices and said the glyph was gone, we had to notify the fed. Two days later, a reporter started nosing around, asking questions. How many glyphs in the canyon? What're they worth? That white man out at the antiques place on the highway—Duncan Barnes, you know him?—gave the reporter what she was looking for. Glyph's worth a quarter mil, he tells her. Next thing I know,
Gazette
's screaming how thieves stole an ancient petroglyph worth a fortune.”

Norman raised one hand in a kind of salute before Father John could say anything. “We notify the fed about the Indian, that'll be all over the papers, too. How there's a big investigation, and the fed's looking high and low for the stolen glyph. The Indian will get nervous and disappear like last time, and we'll never see the Drowning Man again.”

The councilman went back to his coffee, eyes watching the window over the rim of his mug. The late-afternoon sun glowed in the glass like a neon light. Outside, the kids looked like blurred, dark figures darting for the ball that flew between them.

Father John sipped at his own coffee. He had the sense that came over him sometimes in the confessional. There was more, something else that Norman hadn't told him. He waited, giving the Indian as much time as he needed.

After a long moment, Norman said, “Truth is, Father, petroglyphs aren't the only artifacts missing. Thieves have been robbing us for some time. Digging in the mounds beneath the glyphs, taking bones and ancient tools. We try to keep it quiet, but news gets out. Probably brought the thieves here looking for a petroglyph, the idea of making some big money. Right now, we have enough problems with the logging that's gonna start up in the Shoshone Forest. Lumber companies want to widen the road through Red Cliff Canyon so they can drive their trucks up and down. It'll destroy the canyon.”

The Arapaho set his coffee mug down hard on the table, and Lea moved back and set her hands on his shoulders again. “We want this glyph back with the people where it belongs,” Norman said. “Can't put it back in its proper place in the canyon, but we can protect it. Protect the spirit. Keep it in a safe place.”

“Let Gianelli help you.”

Norman was already shaking his head, as if he'd anticipated the suggestion. “Bottom line, Father. No more publicity and no outsiders trampling over the mountainside. Tribes've gotta handle this.”

Father John finished his coffee. Lea had turned back to the counter and was rinsing dishes under the faucet. The sounds of the kids blurred into the noise of rushing water and clinking glass. After a moment, he said, “There could be more publicity…”

“There'll be publicity, all right, if we call in the fed.”

“Either way, it doesn't matter. The story in the paper didn't come from Gianelli. He wouldn't have gone to the newspaper. The reporter must have come to him, and he'd had to confirm that the petroglyph was missing.”

“You're saying somebody tipped off the reporter?”

“How many people knew the Drowning Man was gone?”

The councilman shifted sideways away from the window and stared at the doorway that led into the small living room at the front of the house. Patterns of light played over the braided carpet on the vinyl floor. The shadow of a sofa hugged the far wall. Finally, he said, “Joint Business Council. That's six Arapahos and six Shoshones. Couple of people in the tribal offices.” He shrugged. “Could be more.”

“The news made it onto the moccasin telegraph,” Father John said. “The
Gazette
reporter must have heard the gossip and contacted Gianelli. How long will it be before word gets out that the thief wants a quarter-million-dollar ransom? There'll be another front-page article. Gianelli will read about the Indian in the newspaper.”

Norman gripped the edge of the table and hauled himself to his feet. He stood still for a moment, black, unseeing eyes moving over the kitchen, chasing a new and unwanted idea in his head now. Then he exchanged a quick, almost imperceptible glance with his wife and stepped around the table. He flung open the back door. A gust of warm air, filled with the scents of dust and sage, floated into the kitchen.

“Hey,” he called. “Time for supper.” He leaned sideways, pushing the door against the wall with the weight of one shoulder, and waited as the two boys filed past, brown arms swinging at their sides, the knees of their blue jeans gray with smudged dirt.

“Hi, Father.” It was a duet that cracked between soprano and baritone. Rows of white teeth flashed in the almost identical brown faces.

“You seen me catch that fastball?” one of the boys asked.

“Nice glove work,” Father John said.

“Yeah.” The boy grinned.

“Me, too.” The other boy punched his brother on the arm.

“You're both looking good.”

“You two Babe Ruths get washed up for supper.” Norman closed the door and waited until the boys had disappeared through the living room, the thud of their sneakers receding into some other part of the house, before he said, “You might have something.”

“Maybe the fed will help us get the glyph back without paying all that money.” This from Lea who stood at the counter, threading the towel through her hands. “Maybe you oughtta call him.”

Norman was already reaching for the phone on the wall. He grabbed the receiver and began jabbing at the buttons. Then he handed the receiver to Father John. “You tell the fed what happened,” he said.

Father John pressed the plastic against his ear and waited through the automatic message: “Federal Bureau of Investigation. Leave your name and number and we'll get back to you.”

“Father John,” he said. He felt his voice swallowed in a vacuum. “An Indian stopped me at Ethete with a message for the tribes. Said they can get the Drowning Man back for a quarter million. It could be the same man who tried to ransom the other petroglyph seven years ago. I'll be at the mission in about an hour.”

He pressed a key, then handed the receiver back to the councilman, who studied the keypad as if he were debating making another call. After a moment, Norman started tapping out a number. “I'm gonna have to inform the rest of the Joint Council about this tomorrow,” he said, “but I oughtta let the natural resources director know right now that the Indian's around trying to sell us our petroglyph.” He stared across the kitchen, clamping the black receiver against his ear. “Could mean the petroglyph's still around.” The faintest note of hope sounded in his voice. “You know the new director? Mona Ledger?”

Father John nodded. He'd met her once at the tribal offices.

Norman slammed the receiver back into its cradle. “She's not answering. Took some of her staff up to the canyon to photograph the glyphs, check the records of where they're located on the slopes.” He hesitated. “Check to see if any more are missing and keep an eye on things for a while. Construction gets started, they'll have to clear out. Joint Council's asked Vicky and Adam to come up with some plan to persuade the BLM that the logging companies oughtta take an alternate route into the forest.”

Father John tried to focus on the rest of what the man was saying: how he'd keep trying to reach the natural resources director, how he'd call Herbert Stockham, chairman of the Shoshone Business Council, and tell him something had come up. It was like trying to concentrate on the rest of the aria after the tenor had hit a flat note. The other notes faded into the background, leaving the flat note to clash and bang around in your head. Vicky Holden and Adam Lone Eagle. They were law partners. It was only natural for their names to be linked together in the same breath, the way their lives were linked. It was good, he told himself, struggling to shake off the familiar sense of loss that washed over him.
You can't lose what was never yours,
he told himself.
You can only lose the possibility.
He knew from years of counseling others that sometimes that was the greater loss.