The Drowning Man (5 page)

“An Indian?”

Gianelli nodded. “Stranger to the area. Never was identified. One of the tribal councilmen got a phone call ordering him to put a hundred thousand dollars in a piece of luggage, leave it in a locker at the Reno airport, and mail the key to a post office box. The artifacts would be returned. The councilman followed instructions exactly, except for one detail. He called the BLM agent in the area, and the agent called in the FBI. Agents were watching the post office, but nobody ever showed up. Two days later, the councilman was shot to death. Not nice people, like I said.”

Gianelli slipped the notepad into his shirt pocket, then got to his feet. “So you'll follow the rules,” he said, and Father John wasn't sure whether it was a question or a command.

He followed the agent back into the entry and let him out the front door. Across the mission, he could see the dark hulks of pickups parked in front of the administration building. Headlights of other pickups were bouncing through the cottonwoods. He glanced at his watch. Almost eight o'clock. The social committee meeting was about to start, and AA would get under way in Eagle Hall in a few minutes.

Gianelli was halfway down the sidewalk when he turned back. “Call me the minute you hear from the dealer,” he said.

Father John nodded, then closed the door and started down the hallway to the kitchen, Walks-On skittering ahead. He would feed the dog, and maybe grab a couple of bites himself before he headed over to the AA meeting.

“YOU READ THIS?”

Amos Walking Bear filled up the doorway. One hand gripped the handle of the walking stick planted in the carpet to balance his bulky frame; the other waved a folded newspaper into the office.

“Nice to see you, Grandfather,” Vicky Holden said, using the term of respect for the Arapaho elder. She got to her feet and came around the desk. The old man had burst through the door just as Annie had pressed the intercom key and told her that Amos wanted to see her. Vicky took hold of his arm and started to guide him forward while, at the same time, shoving the door closed against the clack of computer keys and the bleat of the ringing phone. The sounds retreated into the distance as they crossed the office, Amos following the walking stick that jabbed at the carpet. The old man had a musty odor about him, a mixture of sage and dust, like the landscape of the Wind River Reservation. Beneath the sleeve of his rough plaid shirt, Vicky could feel the tenseness in his muscles.

Amos settled himself into one of the twin upholstered chairs in front of the desk and let out a sharp exhalation of breath. He flapped the newspaper against one thigh.

“How can I help you, Grandfather?” Vicky walked around the desk, sat down, and stole a quick glance at the small clock at the corner of the desk blotter. Only about ten minutes before she would have to leave for the meeting with the Joint Arapaho and Shoshone Business Council in Fort Washakie. On the agenda was the Bureau of Land Management's plan to widen the road in Red Cliff Canyon. The Forest Service had recently opened parts of the Shoshone Forest to logging, and the timber companies had convinced the BLM that the best route was through a sacred canyon. The tribes wanted the road stopped. Last week, the Joint Council had asked Holden and Lone Eagle to look into the matter. Adam, her law partner—
more than just that,
she thought—had left early. Some other business to take care of, he'd said. He'd meet her at the council chambers.

Adam wouldn't like her to be late.

“They did it again.” The elder leaned forward and slapped the newspaper against the edge of the desk. Threads of silvery perspiration glistened in the lines of his brown face. His hair was still black with strands of gray that looked as if they had been painted on, the way warriors in the Old Time had painted their hair. He had deep-set eyes beneath the cliff of his forehead, which made it seem as if he were staring out of the shadows at the newspaper folded to the article with the black half-inch headline: “Rock Art Stolen.”

“I saw the article,” Vicky said, not wanting to read it again, wishing that she hadn't already read it, as if the reading itself had made it real. Yesterday morning, alone in her apartment after Adam had left—still in her robe, the sun slanting through the kitchen window—she'd been sipping at a cup of coffee, eating a piece of buttered toast when she'd opened the paper and read the headline. She could still taste the mixture of coffee, toast, and acid that had risen in her throat. Who could have done such a thing! Chiseled out a petroglyph that had been in Red Cliff Canyon for who knew how long? A thousand years? Two thousand years? So long ago that time had not counted, time had not yet begun.

“It's terrible,” she said.

“Terrible,” Amos repeated, nodding his massive head—a slow lifting and dropping over his chest. She could see the white scalp in the pencil-wide part through his dark hair. The walking stick tapped out a steady rhythm on the carpet. “The monster that killed Raymond Trublood up at the Taylor Ranch seven years ago is back. Still doing his evil, taking another one of our glyphs. Wouldn't surprise me if he up and shoots somebody else, like he shot Raymond, and puts the blame on some innocent man like my grandson, Travis.”

Vicky nodded. She was beginning to understand what had brought Amos Walking Bear the thirty or forty miles from his house on the reservation to the law offices of Holden and Lone Eagle on the Main Street of Lander. It wasn't just the petroglyph. She felt as if she'd put on a pair of glasses that brought the blurred world into focus. She'd been working at the law firm in Denver seven years ago. She'd heard about the stolen petroglyph—a brief mention in the
Denver Post,
maybe an inch or two, pushed by more important events to the bottom of a column of news briefs.

After she'd returned to the reservation, she heard the gossip about Travis Birdsong. How he'd been seen running out of a barn after Raymond Trublood was shot to death. The two Arapahos, barely into their twenties, had been working at the Taylor Ranch when one of the petroglyphs in Red Cliff Canyon was chiseled out of a rock. Dust and chips from the rock had coated the bed of Raymond's pickup. A novice detective could have put the case together: Travis and Raymond had stolen the petroglyph, sold it on the black market, and argued over whatever money they'd gotten.

Except that Amos Walking Bear had never accepted his grandson's guilt. The old man had gone into seclusion for more than a year, not attending any of the tribal celebrations or ceremonies, not seeing anyone who came to check on him. People had left food at the front door.

They were still leaving food almost six years ago, when Vicky had come home and opened her own law office in the vague hope that her people would trust her with the issues that mattered—protecting the reservation's oil and gas, water, timber, and other natural resources that outsiders were always trying to get their hands on. Instead, she'd slowly built a practice handling divorces and DUIs and adoptions, and writing leases and wills, while the tribe sent the important cases to lawyers in Casper and Cheyenne. It wasn't until she'd teamed up with Adam Lone Eagle, a Lakota, that the tribal council, which her people called the business council, had begun sending important cases their way.

“This here's proof.” Amos slapped the newspaper onto the desk. The blotter skittered sideways. “This is what we need to help Travis.”

Vicky was quiet a moment. It was strange. When she'd first learned of Raymond Trublood's death, she'd thought of his grandmother, Missy, who had raised him. She remembered the old woman making fry bread at the powwows, the gnarled hands kneading the thick dough. How hard it must have been for her, Raymond's death. And here was an old man still grieving over his grandson in prison.

“I'm not sure I'm following, Grandfather,” she said finally, afraid that she was following, that the old man really believed another stolen petroglyph proved Travis was not the thief who had stolen the glyph seven years ago. Not the man who had killed Raymond.

“Same thing like before.” The elder settled back and propped the walking stick against one leg. A door slammed somewhere in the office, sending a ripple of disturbance through the walls. An engine backfired on the street two stories below. “The killer goes up to Red Cliff Canyon 'cause he knows that's where the spirits carved their images. Dozens of images up there, some of 'em easy enough to chisel out. He can take his pick. Made himself a pile of dough seven years ago, so now he's back wantin' more money. Look at that.” He pulled his body from side to side, working his way to the edge of the chair, and thrust a tightened fist toward the newspaper. “Took the Drowning Man this time. Some dealer says that petroglyph's worth a quarter million dollars. Enough to take the chance on gettin' it out of the canyon without anybody seein', that's what the thief figured. He done it soon's the snow started to melt and before the tourists started goin' to that dude ranch.”

“Grandfather,” Vicky began, searching for the words. There was the muffled sound of the phone ringing in the outer office. “There's no proof the same person took both petroglyphs.”

“What're you talkin' about? Read that article. They was both stolen the same way. Chiseled around the edges. Pried outta the rock with a crowbar.”

“But anybody could have done that.”

“He done it! The monster that killed Raymond and sent my grandson to prison. He could've taken some other glyph. There's lots of 'em in the canyon. Some of 'em so small, he could've taken the whole boulder, hoisted it onto a flatbed. No! He wanted a petroglyph just like the last one. Two thousand years old, and the picture still sharp, like the spirits had carved it yesterday. Hear what I'm sayin', Vicky?”

The old man gripped the edges of the armrests, as if he might propel himself out of the chair. The walking stick slid sideways and made a thudding noise on the carpet. “You gotta get my grandson's conviction overturned. Get the governor to pardon him. You gotta do whatever it takes to get Travis out of prison. He's gonna die there, Vicky. I'm tellin' you, it's killin' him bein' in a cage. Every time he calls, I hear the sadness in his voice. He ain't the same, Vicky. He's lost hope. Now he's gonna get some hope.”

The buzzer sounded. Vicky stretched out her hand and pressed the button on the intercom. “Yes?” she said.

“Joint Council meeting's gonna start in twenty minutes.” Annie's voice was sharp, businesslike. “Adam's on the line, wondering where you are.”

Vicky told the secretary to let Adam know that one of the tribal elders had stopped in. Then she pushed the button again.

“You gotta help Travis,” Amos said, as if there hadn't been an interruption, as if nothing else mattered. He hadn't taken his eyes from her. “You can see him down at the state prison. He already seen his counselor and filled out the form sayin' you're gonna be his lawyer now, so you got the right to visit him.”

In Rawlins, Vicky was thinking. A good two-hour drive. Travis might have listed her as a visitor, but she would have to file another prison form agreeing to be on Travis's list. And that was
if
she decided to talk to him.

She held the old man's gaze. His eyes were rheumy and red rimmed, mixed with worry and determination. He would not give up, she realized. He'd latched onto the new theft as the proof he needed to clear his grandson. How could she turn him down? It was Amos and the other elders who had stood behind her, encouraging her, telling her not to be discouraged when the Arapaho Business Council and the Joint Council reached out to other lawyers—white and male, as if they couldn't trust her, an Arapaho woman—telling her to be patient, that eventually her own people would come to her. It had been a thin strand of hope she'd held onto, even when the grandmothers had clucked and called her
Hi sei ci nihi,
Woman Alone, and gossiped about how she had stepped out ahead of the men, become a lawyer, tried to make herself a chief.

“Did Travis's attorney file an appeal?” she asked.

The old man didn't take his eyes away. For a long moment, he sat perfectly still, turned to stone. Finally he said, “Harry Gruenwald was the bastard's name. Said he was gonna appeal. Said no way was Travis guilty. Then he up and disappears. Some defense attorney, lettin' Travis rot in prison.”

No appeal? Vicky was thinking. Travis's lawyer should have filed an appeal. And after seven years it would be too late, but she might be able to file a petition for post-conviction relief. The judge might reverse Travis's conviction and grant a new trial if there were new evidence. The theft of another petroglyph hardly met that criteria.

“Before I talk to Travis,” she heard herself saying, “I'll have to see the trial transcript.” If Gruenwald had mentioned an appeal, it was possible that he might have ordered a printed copy of the transcript before he dropped the idea. “It might contain something that would give us grounds to reopen the case.” She doubted that was true.

“You got the grounds right here,” Amos said, thrusting his fist again at the newspaper.

“I'll call you, Grandfather.”

Amos stared at her a moment. Finally he gave a little nod. He leaned over and picked up the walking stick. Balancing both hands on the knob, he levered himself out of the chair and started toward the door.

Vicky jumped to her feet and, hurrying around the old man, opened the door and ushered him ahead. She followed him across the outer office, past Annie, who looked up from the computer monitor and nodded toward Amos. Vicky opened the outer door and waited as Amos moved into the corridor. He turned back, rheumy eyes studying her again. “I knew you was gonna help Travis,” he said.

Vicky didn't say anything. She tried for a smile—
a half smile,
she thought. She felt as if her face were cracking as she watched the old man thrust his weight around and start down the corridor in the direction of the elevator, his shadow broken along the railings that edged the stairway. She didn't know how she could help Travis Birdsong. The fact that another petroglyph had been stolen meant nothing. It certainly didn't prove that the same thief had shot Raymond Trublood seven years ago. It wasn't the type of evidence she could use to file a petition. She should have explained that to Amos, been more forceful. Why hadn't she been more forceful?

She closed the door and started back toward her own office. Past the opened door on the left, she could see Roger Hurst hunched over his desk. Two years out of law school, eager and smart, Roger was the assistant that she and Adam had hired to handle cases like Travis Birdsong's. She should have suggested that Amos Walking Bear talk to the new assistant, but she could never turn away one of the elders. That was the truth of it, and it clung to her like a heavy blanket on her shoulders as she walked to her own desk and pulled out a legal pad. She scribbled Travis Birdsong and District Court trial transcript on the top sheet, then took her briefcase out of the bottom desk drawer and went back into the outer office. She tore off the sheet and handed it across Annie's desk.