The Drowning Man (30 page)

FATHER JOHN PARKED
in the vacant slot across from the entrance to the bowling alley. Constellations of light broke through the darkness: neon red and white bowling pins twinkling in the plate glass windows, an iridescent river of white flowing through the double glass doors, yellow circles flaring from the light poles scattered about the lot. He pulled the boxlike briefcase across the passenger seat and walked over to the curb. At the first break in the traffic, he jaywalked across the street, his fingers welded to the handle of the briefcase. Odd how heavy it seemed.

He'd reached the tribal offices that afternoon just as Norman Yellow Hawk and the Shoshone councilman Herbert Stockham had pulled into the lot. A black sedan was waiting. Father John had parked next to the truck and hurried around to the driver's side as Norman lowered the window.

“The man called,” Father John said. “He wants to make the exchange tonight.” The door swung open, and a corpulent man with a ring of gray hair around a pinkish dome lifted himself from behind the steering wheel and started limping over, as if he were trying to work out the kinks in his thick legs.

“Tonight?” It was a duet, Norman and Herbert uttering the word at the same time.

“You sure you want to go through with this?” Norman said.

“Mr. Yellow Hawk.” The corpulent man worked his way down the side of the truck. “If you'll come with me, we can take care of the matter. I'm sure you'll be relieved not to have so much cash in the office.”

Norman kept his eyes locked on Father John's. Finally he looked in the direction of the banker. “We're in your debt for coming out on a Sunday afternoon, Mr. Mooney. It's just come to our attention that we may need to hold on to the cash for a little longer. This here's Father O'Malley.”

The banker turned toward Father John and stuck out a fleshy hand with brown blotches on the top. “Al Mooney, bank president.” The man's handshake was brief and perfunctory, his palm moist. “I know it's not my business why these two good men want to hold on to a wad of cash, but naturally, Father, I wonder if there's any trouble that we—that is, the bank—could help with.”

“Appreciate your concern.” Norman was staring at the man through the opened window. “Sorry to inconvenience you. We'll be coming in tomorrow to deposit the money. Bring it during regular business hours.” He gave the man a salute with his index finger.

“Well,” the banker said, a slow drawl, “I guess you people know what you're doing.” He'd started backing away, crashing against the side-view mirror, tilting it forward. “Sorry,” he said, pulling the mirror back into place and finally extricating his wide girth from the narrow slot between the two vehicles.

It wasn't until the banker had stuffed himself back into the sedan and driven away that the two tribal chairmen got out of the pickup. “Money's inside,” Norman said, ushering Father John and Stockham along the sidewalk to the front door of the tribal offices. “Two hundred and fifty straps. Bundled up real tight with rubber bands. One thousand dollars in each strap.”

 

A QUARTER OF
a million dollars, Father John thought, and he was standing in the dark on Main Street, traffic flowing past, headlights bouncing over the pavement, holding on to a brown leather briefcase that might be crammed with papers and files and books, the usual paraphernalia of a Jesuit priest, the pastor of a small Indian mission. Isn't that what people would think as they drove past? The Indian priest, probably on his way to some meeting.

The four-door, brown Chevy truck veered out of the right lane. Father John felt his fingers tightening around the handle of the briefcase. Two cowboys in a brown Chevy truck had followed Vicky, run her off the road, tried to shoot her. But there was only one cowboy in the truck slowing alongside the curb.

The passenger door flew open, and the driver—dark shirt and pants, dark cowboy hat pulled low, dark gloved hand motioning him—leaned over the passenger seat.

“Get in.” It was a woman's voice, and he realized that he wasn't surprised. It was what he should have expected. Raymond Trublood had been shot to death on a ranch owned by a woman. Yet a part of him had expected the raspy voice of the man on the telephone. What did surprise him was that the woman had come alone.

Except that she wasn't alone. Father John sensed the presence of someone else as he got into the cab, wedged the briefcase behind his legs, and slammed the door. There was a scuffling noise as someone rose from behind the seat. The truck shot back into the traffic, engine growling, and Father John saw the wide black cloth thrust over the rim of his cowboy hat in front of his face. Then the rough cloth was pulled tight against his eyes. The world went black. He pressed the heels of his boots against the briefcase.

“What is this?” he said.

“We're goin' for a ride.” A baritone voice behind him. Father John tried to detect some connection with the caller's voice. There was none.

His hat had come off, fallen somewhere. He could feel the blindfold pressing against his temples. He raised his right hand and poked at the blindfold, but it was like a rubber band around his head.

A cold metal object about the diameter of a quarter—the muzzle of a gun, he realized with a spasm of panic—pushed against the back of his neck. “I wouldn't do that if I were you,” the man said.

“Where's the petroglyph?” Father John managed.

“You'll see it.”

“I expect you to bring me back to my pickup with the petroglyph.”

There was a thumping noise, as if the woman were pounding the edge of the steering wheel. Laughing quietly and pounding the wheel.

“I don't see you have anything to worry about,” the baritone voice said. “Unless you tipped off the police or your FBI buddy. See anything?”

“The usual,” the woman said, but the amusement had drained from her voice. “White SUV a couple of cars behind. Looks like it's turning off.”

They were driving straight ahead. If he was right, Father John thought, they wouldn't turn off until they came to 287 and went north. But how long would that take? He was in a stagnant world; there was no way to gauge the passing time.

The man had sat back, because Father John was aware of a cleared space behind him where the air could circulate unimpeded. The only sounds were the rhythmic whirr of the tires, the hum of the motor and the air conditioning, the barely perceptible exhalations of breath—his own and that of his captors, and all of it in a syncopated rhythm. Every once in a while the woman readjusted her position; he could sense the faint vibration running through the console between them.

God, what had he gotten himself into? Hurtling through a black world with two thieves—most likely murderers—and nobody knew where he was.
Our only chance.
The words kept repeating themselves in his head, like a mantra, and oddly enough, there was comfort in them, even a strain of logic.

“Where are you taking me?” he said, mainly to break the quiet, assure himself with the sound of his own voice in the blackness.

“Why don't you just shut up.” The woman's voice, sharp at the edges and impatient.

“Now that was a stupid question,” the man said. “If we wanted you to know, we wouldn't've blindfolded you, would we?” He gave a snort of laughter.

Still on the same road, and how much time had passed? Ten, fifteen minutes? They should be nearing the highway, which must have been the case because the car was slowing down, the motor backing off. There was the jerkiness of the brake being tapped, followed by a sliding halt, a halfhearted attempt at stopping and turning right at the same time. They were on Highway 287 now, Father John was certain, traveling faster, the wheels droning on the hard-baked asphalt. He could hear the swish of passing vehicles in the oncoming lane.

And in the blackness, like an image burned into his retina, was the bright picture of the Indian sprawled on the bed in the dingy hotel room, the reddish-brown blood-soaked shirt and sheet and—strange, this—the cowboy boots with the scuffed toes and worn-down heels placed neatly side by side at the foot of the bed.

“Damn,” the woman said. “Another SUV back there.”

“Lots of SUVs around.” The man didn't sound concerned.

They were taking another right turn, going slower now. A dirt road, pebbles spitting through the undercarriage, tires slipping. The car bounced over some kind of rut, throwing him forward. He thrust out both hands and braced himself against the dashboard. The briefcase slid sideways toward the door, and he jammed his heels against the side, a reflex motion, he realized.
Our only chance.

They swung right again and bumped down an incline, the engine straining in low gear. Finally the truck rocked to a stop. The ignition clicked off, doors opened in sequence: rear door, driver's door, his door.

“Get out,” the man said.

Father John reached for the handle of the briefcase, but it was sliding out of his grasp. He kicked his heels hard against it, holding it in place. “I'll take it,” he said into the blackness, gripping the handle.

“Have it your way.” The man's voice came across a chasm, as if he were already walking away.

Father John pushed at the blindfold until he could see the jittering glimmer of a flashlight swiveling about, punching through the blackness. He got out of the truck, keeping the briefcase close to his side. As he started after the retreating sound of the man's footsteps, he felt the pressure of a hand on his arm. “One foot in front of the other,” the woman said.

The ground was rough, covered with unexpected ridges that jammed against his boots and put him off balance. For an instant, he saw himself tottering down the corridor of the prep school where he'd taught, one foot after the other with such effort—such concentrated effort—to appear sober. Sober as a judge, his father used to say when he was the drunkest, and that's what Father John would tell himself, over and over, tottering along, sober as a judge.

There was the sound of a door skidding on the dirt, and Father John stumbled across a threshold into what smelled like a barn. The air was stale, infused with odors of manure, leather, and old wood. The ground was hard-packed with dirt. Over to the right somewhere, horses were snorting and moving about, knocking against posts of some kind.

“You want to see the petroglyph? Have a look.” The man's voice came out of the blackness.

Father John switched the briefcase to his left hand and, with his right, began fumbling with the knot at the back of his head. He managed to pull it loose, then ripped the cloth away, and tossed it onto the dirt floor. The light was dim, nothing more than the narrow flood of a beam. Still, it took a second for his eyes to adjust. At the end of the beam was the dark figure of a man, cowboy hat pulled low so that he seemed faceless. In the shadows he could make out the outline of a door, the tack and horseshoes against the back wall, the saddles flopped over wood benches, and six or seven stalls, heads of horses bobbing above the gates. He glanced around at the woman planted a few feet behind him, as silent as the shadows.

“Where's the petroglyph?” Father John said, and in that instant, the light beam arched to the left and swept across the top of a gray, flat-faced rock. The beam started moving closer until all the light was focused on the carved white image of the Drowning Man. The image seemed to lift off the rock and float into space.

Father John walked over to the petroglyph. He'd seen it from the road, up the mountain slope, the sentinel of the canyon. He had never seen it this close. And now he couldn't take his eyes away. The image seemed to be looking back at him, the eyes wide and intent. Sticklike arms protruded from the sides, thin lines of fingers moving—they seemed to be moving!—paddling through water. The legs were also moving, truncated lines kicking sideways with squared feet, treading the invisible water. He could sense the water in the arcs billowing about the figure as it tried to move from the underworld into the light world. And that was what was so wonderful, the sense of life in the carved image.

He could hear the shallow spurts of his own breathing. The craftsmanship, the artistry of a shaman two thousand years ago—it was an amazing piece of art. He might have been in the hall of some great museum, drawn by a painting or a sculpture against the wall, drawn
into
it.

The beam flipped away and the Drowning Man retreated into the shadows.

“What was that?” the woman said. “You hear anything?”

“Forget it. You're just nervous.” The man moved in close. “The money,” he said, pulling at the briefcase.

“Not until the petroglyph has been loaded into the back of the truck.”

“You don't seem to get it, Father O'Malley.” The flashlight jumped up and down, blinding him a second before it dropped away. In the man's other hand was the silvery glint of a pistol. “You're not in any position to negotiate. We want the briefcase.”

Father John allowed the briefcase to slide away, his eyes fixed on the pistol. Then he glanced sideways. The woman took the briefcase, dropped it onto a bench, and was fumbling with the catch. He was struck by the roughness of her white hands moving in and out of the light, the hands of someone used to shoeing horses or pitching hay. Fine lines of wrinkles creased her neck.