The Drowning Man (8 page)

Mona turned and faced Father John. “But now we know looters have been after the mounds,” she said, her voice tight with anger. “And if construction gets started, the patina buildup on the glyphs could be affected, which will skew the radiocarbon results. It's a disaster.”

They stopped in front of a series of images carved into the walls of the rock outcropping. No one spoke for a moment. Father John was struck by the silent majesty of the images: a procession of figures—humans, birds, animals—moving across the gray expanse of boulders that shouldered against one another.

Fast Horse swept a hand toward the images. “Every glyph is more beautiful and interesting than the next,” he said, elements of excitement and awe working in his voice. “The most dominant figures here are birds, or, if you like, anthropomorphic figures with wings for arms and bird-claw feet. These spirits inhabit the sky realm above the earth.”

Father John followed the man's hand. Carved into the rock faces were images of large, lumbering birds and small, delicate birds, all primitive and fantastic, yet filled with a sense of motion and life.

“We know the old stories about the spirits carving the images,” the man said, shooting a glance at Mona, “but archeologists say the images were carved by shamans. Holy men who put themselves into hallucinogenic trances to obtain spiritual knowledge and power to help the people. Maybe they ingested peyote, or some other seeds or herbs that produced the desired effect. Then they traveled through the three realms of the world, middle earth, or the legged realm, above the earth in the sky and below the earth in the waters. Different creatures dwell in each realm. Humans, of course, live in the middle earth. Once out of a trance, the shamans chiseled the images of their experiences. The birdlike images reflect the experience of flying, of being above the earth, among the birds.”

Fast Horse stepped closer to the end of the outcroppings. “Image like this,” he said, one hand stretched toward a small petroglyph, “looks like a turtle. There are similar images that reflect frogs or lizards, the kind of creatures that move among all three realms, as the shaman must have done in his trance. The Drowning Man”—he nodded across the slope in the direction from which they'd come—“was unique. The shaman had obviously traveled into the world below, the world of water. He carved out wavy lines around the figure to give the sense of waves and ripples and the sense of drowning that he must have experienced.”

“Before he emerged into the middle earth,” Father John said.

A look of appreciation came into the dark eyes of the two Arapahos. Fast Horse nodded. “The drowning image is a symbol of life,” he said. “Of coming into the world. Of being born.” He glanced across the slope. “Over there about a mile is the boulder that the glyph was taken from seven years ago. We have photos of that glyph. It had the same motif of drowning. It's possible both stolen glyphs were carved by the same shaman. He was a great artist. The images were clear, chiseled deep into the rock. Had fine proportions. You looked at them, and you felt like you were moving underwater. The archeologists said they were the most accomplished glyphs in the canyon, the best executed pieces of art. Whoever took them knew exactly what he wanted.”

“Do you really believe the same thief took both glyphs?” There was a note of astonishment in Mona's voice. “Those Arapaho cowboys working down at the Taylor Ranch stole the first glyph and sold it. One of them was shot to death. The other's in prison.”

“I'm not saying the same thief came up here and took both glyphs.” The man shook his head. “But the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that somebody wanted the two images carved by the same artist.”

“That implies that whoever is behind the thefts is familiar with the petroglyphs in this canyon,” Father John said.

“You got it, Father,” the Arapaho said.

 

FATHER JOHN LED
the way back across the mountain, Mona's boots crunching the brush behind him. Before they reached the boulder where the Drowning Man had been, he veered right and started zigzagging down the steep slope, not wanting to see again the gray, defaced rock. A juniper rose out of a clump of rocks and obstructed the path. He pushed aside one of the branches and waited until Mona had gone ahead before he went after her, conscious of the branch swishing into place behind him.

When they reached the road, Mona turned around and looked at him. The color of her eyes was almost black in the bright sunshine. He could see the fear in them. “There's something he didn't tell you,” she said. “There are other glyphs similar to the Drowning Man up there. The same shaman chiseled four or five other images.”

He had the picture. If the same person was behind two of the thefts, he could come after the others. No wonder the natural resources director was camping here, guarding the canyon. But she couldn't guard it forever.

“How accessible are the other images?” he said.

“They're all accessible when it comes down to it, aren't they? If somebody wants them enough.” She paused and looked away, watching the road, as if the thief might materialize out of the brightness. “What do we do now?”

Father John took a moment before he said, “We wait.”

THE EVENING WAS
warm with a pale light bathing the façades and shining in the windows of the two-story brick buildings along Main Street. “How does an ice cream cone sound?” Adam said when they had finished dinner in the small restaurant with plank wood floors and stuccoed walls. Ice cream sounded good, Vicky told him, and he guided her out of the restaurant and down half a block to the ice cream parlor.

And there they were, she thought, strolling along the sidewalk past the red, yellow, and white flowers that sprouted from planters at the curb, licking double scoops of chocolate ice cream, the endless feeling of summer in the air. That was how dinner had gone, as if Adam's mood had lifted; they had no worries, no disagreements, nothing but time to enjoy each other's company, and for long moments Vicky had allowed herself to believe it was true. The law firm had faded away, no longer the three-hundred-pound monster that at times seemed to wedge itself between them. Whatever it was that Adam had wanted to talk about, he hadn't brought it up, and neither had she.

They crossed the street and veered into the small park that ran along the banks of the Popo Agie River. Vicky climbed onto the top of a redwood picnic table, and Adam perched next to her. At a nearby table, a family was clearing away the remains of a picnic. A blond, pretty woman who looked about seven months pregnant was folding a red and white checkered tablecloth while a tall, slim man, a black baseball cap turned backwards on his head, hoisted a cooler and started toward the brown van parked at the side of the road. A boy about eight and a little girl who looked about two years younger, both blond and white-skinned with reddish sun stripes across their cheeks, skipped back and forth, hauling wads of paper plates and napkins to the trash container.

In that moment, unbidden, as if she'd turned a page in an old, forgotten album, the photograph had sprung before her eyes, and Vicky saw her own kids: Lucas and Susan, black-haired with brown faces and skinny brown arms and knowing black eyes. They'd gone on picnics, she and Ben and the children. Picnics right here in this little park. She pulled her eyes over to the river rippling over the rocks, streaked with light. There had been good times with Ben, before the drinking and the whoring, before he'd ever hit her. Those were the times she tried to remember, and yet the memories always had a way of plunging down into the dark tunnel of the bad times.

“I have to go to Casper for a few days.” Adam's voice was quiet beside her. She was aware that he was also looking at the river. “I'm sorry, Vicky, but I'm afraid you'll have to handle the details on the BLM proposal,” he said. The secretary of the Joint Council had called just before they'd left the office to say that the council wanted them to proceed. “Handle the negotiations,” Adam was saying. “That's if you can get the BLM to agree to negotiate. We'll work together, of course. We can talk by phone.”

Vicky glanced at the man beside her. She felt a little catch in her throat at the hard set of his jaw, the way he kept his eyes straight ahead, as if it was the river he was talking to. He'd practiced law in Casper for several years; he owned rental houses there. Every few weeks he had to drive the 120 miles to take care of business—broken lease, new tenant, damaged roof, plumbing that had stopped working. But this was different somehow. She could sense the difference in the silent gulf that had opened between them.

She asked the same question she'd asked earlier: “What's going on?”

“It's not important.” Adam took a moment before giving her a sideways glance. “You know there's always something with rental property.” He shrugged, then went on. Renters up and gone, no notice, trash left behind. He'd have to have the place renovated. Too bad his properties were in Casper. He should think about selling them and investing in Lander.

Vicky didn't take her eyes away as he talked, conscious of the gulf widening, as if Adam Lone Eagle were receding on the opposite shore of the river. He was lying.

Vicky got off the table and made herself walk over to the trash bin, taking her time, placing one foot in front of the other.
Relax, relax
, she told herself. After all, she was an expert on lies; she'd heard them all from Ben, the master of lies.
Don't wait up. Got some business to attend to tonight. Trust me, trust me.
She tossed the remainder of her cone into the trash and watched the chocolate ice cream dribble into a pile of paper cups and plates.

She could feel Adam's eyes boring into her back. After a moment, she turned and walked back to the table. It was starting to get dark, as if a blue curtain were falling over the park. The family had left. Their picnic table had a deserted look; there were tire tracks in the dirt where the van had parked. She slid her bag off the bench. “Don't worry,” she said, keeping her voice steady, empty of concern, as if she were addressing a stranger. “I'll take care of the proposal.”

“Vicky, Vicky.” Adam reached out and took her hand. “Sit down,” he said, leading her back up onto the table beside him. “I'm not going to lie to you anymore.”

Anymore!
Vicky kept her gaze on the pickups and sedans crawling along Main Street, faint headlights flickering into the dusk. She felt something hard forming inside her, like a wall growing around her heart. She gripped the edge of the table, trying to fight off the urge to jump down and walk away.

“It's Julie,” he said.

Vicky didn't say anything. Her mouth had gone dry; she was conscious of her tongue pushing against the back of her teeth. Adam's ex-wife lived in Casper. Why hadn't she put it together? All those trips to Casper on business, when it had been Julie.

“She's been having a rough time, Vicky, and…” Adam paused. She could hear the quick intakes of breath. “She doesn't have anybody else.”

“You're not married to her anymore,” Vicky heard herself saying.

“She's the mother of my son. I can't turn her down when she needs help. She lost her job a couple of months ago, so I moved her into one of the rental houses. She maxed out her credit cards, so I paid them off and gave her some money to carry her through until she found another job. Now the IRS is after her. Seems that she's neglected or forgot to file her income taxes the last five years, so I have to help her get it straightened out.”

“So all the business trips to Casper…”

“I didn't think you'd understand.”

Vicky started to slide off the table. She felt the warm pressure of his hand on her arm and jerked away. “This is what I can't understand, Adam. I can't understand why you lied.”

She swung around, dodging past his hand before he could take her arm again, and strode across the park. She darted through the traffic on Main and kept going past the storefronts, dodging the flowerpots and the lampposts and the occasional pedestrians strolling along, only half aware of her own image following like a shadow in the plate glass windows. A lazy line of traffic moved down the street, a tan sedan, a couple of trucks, a pickup with hip-hop blaring through the opened windows. She could make out the shape of the tan brick building on the corner ahead, the law offices of Lone Eagle and Holden on the second floor.

She was running now, across the pavement of the parking lot next to the building, weaving around the few vehicles still in the lot, toward her Jeep parked in a puddle of light from the street lamp. Another moment and she was driving out of the lot, barely conscious of the squealing tires and the honking horn as she pulled in front of a pickup, her own thoughts beating like a drum in her head: She did not need Adam Lone Eagle.

 

FATHER JOHN WEDGED
the pickup between Father Ian's blue sedan and a sleek, black sedan with Wisconsin license plates that stood in front of the residence. He hurried up the sidewalk and let himself in the front door. Walks-On was there to meet him as always. He patted the dog's head, trying to ignore the hard knot twisting in his stomach. Headquarters of the Wisconsin Province of the Society of Jesus were in Milwaukee, and St. Francis Mission fell within the province, which meant that the visitor was from the provincial's office. And he knew—maybe he'd always known—that the day the provincial decided to assign him somewhere else, he would send a messenger to deliver the news.

Father John glanced through the doorway to the living room on the right, expecting to find Father Ian and the visitor. No one was there. The hot odors of grease and fried meat—chicken or hamburgers—wafted down the hallway from the kitchen. There was the noise of a running faucet, the sound of metal clanking against metal. He could see the stout figure of Elena, white apron tied over a blue dress, bustling past the doorway. No one knew how old the housekeeper was. Every time the subject had come up, she'd told him that she was sixty-eight. It always made him smile. The woman had been sixty-eight for nine years.

He walked around the foot of the stairs and knocked on the closed door to his study, certain now that Ian had ushered the visitor out of the housekeeper's earshot. No sense in sending the news over the moccasin telegraph before the pastor had been told. Walks-On brushed against the leg of his jeans.

He knocked again, then pushed the door open into the small room. It was vacant, everything in place. Desk with papers sprawled over the top, bookcases along the walls, slants of late-afternoon sun spilling through the half-opened blinds.

He closed the door and went down the hall to the kitchen, Walks-On at his heels. “I see we have a visitor,” he said trying for a matter-of-fact tone, as if visitors from Wisconsin routinely showed up at St. Francis Mission.

Elena turned away from the sink, brown hands smoothing the front of her apron. She tilted her chin up and gave him an exasperated look. She was a mixed blood, with tightly curled gray hair that framed the smooth, round face of the Cheyenne and accentuated the dark, knowing eyes of the Arapaho. “Just waitin' for the pastor to show up for dinner. I got the table set in the dining room. Been tryin' to keep everything hot…”

“You know I was racing to get back.” He cut in, smiling at the old woman. They'd been over this before. She reminded him of his mother, always admonishing him to be home in time for dinner, and he, always assuring her of his good intentions. They both knew he was usually late. “Broke all the speed records,” he said.

“Don't give me your Irish blarney.” She brushed at the space between them with one hand. A smile wrinkled the corners of her mouth.

It was all so familiar, he was thinking. Familiar and comfortable, his life at St. Francis. He shook some dry food into the dog's dish and set it on the floor. This was the place where he could be the priest he wanted to be. The knot in his stomach pulled tighter. He would miss all of this: the mission, the people, all the little routines that had filled up the days.

“Where have you hidden our visitor?” he said.

Elena gestured with her head toward the door that led to the back porch. “Out on the patio. You want some iced tea?”

Father John waved away the offer and headed for the door. He crossed the porch, opened the outside door, and started down the wooden steps toward the two men seated on the webbed, metal chairs, facing the foothills that glowed gold in the distance, gripping half-full glasses of iced tea.

“Here's John now.” Father Ian jumped up, a tall, slightly built man with sandy hair and the nervous energy of a runner tensed for the starting pistol. He set his glass down hard on the table. The brown liquid shimmered in the light. “We've been waiting for you,” he said.

Bill Rutherford, the provincial himself, was getting to his feet, a slow unfolding upward, one hand depositing the glass on the table, the other gripping the back of the chair. They'd been in the seminary together, and Rutherford would have been voted the man most likely to succeed, if such a survey had been taken. Energetic and witty, the center of attention in every room he entered. They'd taught at the same prep school for two years, until their careers had diverged. A doctorate for Rutherford, a teaching position at Marquette, and finally the fast track into the top echelons of the Society, administering one of the largest Jesuit provinces, while Father John had stalled out, muffling the noise of loneliness in whiskey in the evening and blurring his way through classes in the day, on the fast track to rehab. It had been three or four years since he'd seen Bill Rutherford. The man looked thirty pounds heavier, with puffy eyes and a tiredness in the slope of his shoulders, as if he were carrying a heavy burden that he'd like to put down.

“John, how are you?” The provincial held out a fleshy hand. His grip was quick and routine. Father John was struck by the way the energy of the seminary student had leaked out of the man.

“This is a surprise.” Father John swung a metal chair from its perch against the back of the house and sat down at an angle to the other men, who had already resumed their own seats. So Rutherford himself, his old classmate, had come to deliver the bad news. He was aware of the oddest things: the sunlight stippling the grass, the breeze ruffling the leaves of the old cottonwood at the corner of the house, the cool air in the shade of the patio.

“What brings you to our neck of the woods?” He pushed on, as if he didn't know, and he wondered who he was kidding. Not the provincial, and certainly not Father Ian, who was perfectly capable of assuming the job of pastor. Which, he realized, was why he could be reassigned. The provincial had been waiting for a capable man to put in his place.