The Lost Bird (30 page)

“Wait at the residence.”

Vicky kept her face straight ahead. “Just drive. I know a shortcut.”

He clamped down on the accelerator, and the Escort leaped forward, rocking down the straightaway past the school, past the stop sign, and left onto Seventeen-Mile Road. Except for a pickup glinting in the sun ahead, the road was clear, and he pushed the pedal harder into the floor.

“They killed Joanne Garrow,” Vicky said, another kind of excitement in her voice. “I saw the news on TV.”

Father John didn’t respond. He knew that she knew they would also kill Megan. Outside the wind kept up a steady banging noise over the hum of the tires on asphalt.

“What happened?” Vicky asked.

Father John held the Escort steady. The wild grasses and scrub brush blurred past. “I don’t know for sure. Markham took advantage of the fact that there were a lot of people at the mission this morning. He sent his guide, the guy from Rock Springs. He must have had a gun on her; Megan wouldn’t have gone otherwise. Markham called five minutes ago. He wants the tape Joseph made.” He glanced at the woman beside him. “Joseph must have gone to see Joanne Garrow and taped the conversation. He probably tried to persuade her to tell the truth. He must have told her he intended to go to the authorities.”

“But he couldn’t prove any of it,” Vicky said. “The police would check the birth and death certificates. Everything would appear normal. So he had to tape the conversation. Then he must have told her he had the tape. Garrow got nervous and called Markham.”
She exhaled a long breath. “Where’s the tape?”

He slid the plastic box from his pocket and handed it to her. “I’ve got to make Markham think this is what he’s after.”

“What’s this? The best of opera?”

He glanced over at her. She was lifting the flap, pulling out the small plastic tape.

“How long do you think that’s going to fool a man like Markham?”

“Long enough to get Megan away.”

Vicky set the tape into his hand, and he stuffed it back into his jacket pocket.

Vicky said, “We have other evidence, John. I found Sharon David’s father. His name is Russ Mason. He doesn’t want to meet her until the tests confirm that she’s his daughter. Then he’ll give Gianelli a statement that he was told his baby had died.” She talked on about how she’d found the man, how other families might be united through the publicity about Sharon, how Ben might someday find his brother. Ben, Ben, Ben, punctuating her words.

Father John slowed through Fort Washakie and started the climb into the foothills.

“Take the dirt road ahead,” she said after a long while. “We’ll drive up the back way.”

He turned onto the road, still climbing. The hood angled upward. Ahead the road spilled into a meadow of wild grasses ringed with willows and ponderosas. He could see a small log cabin near the trees.

He pulled in at the side of the road about a hundred feet from the meadow. “Wait here,” he instructed, cutting the motor. He left the key in the ignition.

“You’re going to walk into that meadow?” Vicky placed one hand on his arm, as if to hold him in the
car. “You’ll be exposed. He’ll shoot you.”

“Not until he gets this.” Father John tapped his pocket and shot her an assuring smile as he got out. Leaning past the door, he said, “If I’m not back in ten minutes, get out of here as fast as you can.”

He shut the door quietly and started down the road. When he reached the meadow, he cut along the line of trees. There was a cold bite to the wind that whooshed across the open meadow and slammed his jacket against his chest. He worked his way toward the front of the cabin, then set off through the wild grasses. Parked next to the cabin was a tan Jeep and a green sedan. The cabin looked vacant: stone steps leading to a small porch with shaved-log poles that supported the sloped roof. “Markham!” he shouted.

The front door moved slowly inward. Father John stopped about twenty feet from the steps. A thin man in jeans, wearing a red blanket jacket and black-and-white cowboy boots stepped onto the porch. A white Stetson shaded a smooth-looking face: the jaw jutting forward in an angle of contempt, the eyes dark under the hat brim, and the pinched, scissor-cut mouth.

“Where is she, Markham?” Father John called.

The thin mouth broke into what passed for a smile. “I can assure you, your niece is perfectly fine.” He started down the steps. “You have the tape, I trust.”

“I brought it, but you won’t get it until Megan’s in the car.” Father John nodded toward the trees.

“I’m afraid you are not calling the shots, Father O’Malley. Give me the tape.” He was in the meadow, moving closer, holding out a thin, well-manicured hand.

Father John said, “The tape can send you to prison for the rest of your life, Markham. I have the only
copy.” The wind gusted around them, like steam bursting from a locomotive. “It’s yours as soon as you let Megan go.”

The doctor was shaking his head, coming closer. Father John could see the steel glint in his eyes. “You’re a stubborn man, O’Malley. I could order Randy to shoot you right now.” He gave a nod toward the cabin.

“But then you wouldn’t know where I put the tape. You could spend a lot of time looking for it in this meadow, and then you might not find it. But sooner or later someone else would find it.”

The doctor stopped. The thin lips drew inward, the eyes narrowed in a conscious assessment. He turned and walked back toward the cabin. “Bring her out!” he shouted.

In an instant Megan stumbled past the door, looking like a thin, scared child, Father John thought, in a white blouse and tan slacks, clumps of red hair falling about her face. Behind her was a young man with a thick neck and wide shoulders inside a bulky denim jacket. One hand pushed a pistol into Megan’s ribs; the other jerked her upward, maneuvering her across the porch and down the steps to Markham. Then they started forward into the wind, the doctor gripping the brim of his Stetson.

“Don’t believe anything they say, Uncle John!” Megan cried out. “They’re going to kill us both. I heard them talking.” She gave a sharp yank and pulled free. The guide lunged at her, snapping an arm around her chest and jamming the gun to the side of her head.

“Let her go,” Father John said as he moved toward them, fists clenched.

Markham stepped in front of Megan. He lifted one
hand and grasped the brim of his hat. “Now, Father . . .” A projected shout, as if he were addressing a crowd. “We are both reasonable men. You see that the girl is alive and well. But you haven’t told me where the tape is. How do I know you brought it?”

Father John pulled the plastic box from his pocket and held it up. It rattled in the breeze. “Let her go!” he shouted.

“You can’t expect me to do that until I’ve confirmed you’ve brought the correct tape.” Markham tilted his head toward the parked vehicles. “I must ask you to step over to the Jeep, Father O’Malley. It has a very good tape player.”

“Come on, Markham,” Father John said—grasping, stalling. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed something in the trees—a movement.
Stay away, Vicky!
He kept his gaze on the doctor. “Do you think I’m fool enough to bring you the wrong tape? This is what you want.” He waved the plastic box and plunged on, taking a chance. “Everything Joanne Garrow told Father Keenan.” He saw the flash of affirmation in the doctor’s eyes, followed by a series of blinks. “She admitted everything. How you took healthy, light-skinned infants and told the mothers their babies had died. How you sold the infants on the black market.”

“My God!” Megan struggled to turn toward the doctor.

“Shut up!” the guide shouted, jerking her back.

“Then you murdered your nurse and the coroner, didn’t you, Markham? What happened? Did they have enough? Did they tell you they didn’t want any more part in stealing the babies?”

The doctor flinched; he looked paler. “If that is
what Garrow said on the tape, she was lying. I am not responsible for murder. I have never killed anyone, Father O’Malley. Nor did I condone murder then or now. Unfortunately my associate thought such actions were necessary. My own actions were the best for the infants.” The doctor drew in a long, considered breath. “Surely you know the problems the infants were spared, the poverty and alcoholism. They were very fortunate. I can assure you they were placed with the finest families. Given opportunities they would never have had on the reservation. I’m sure today they are productive, happy people.”

“They are lost,” Father John said. “They are like the birds that flew away and never found their way back.”

The doctor gave a brittle laugh. “You’ve been on the reservation long enough to know what I say is true, Father.”

“How much were the babies worth?” Father John said, his throat tight with anger and alarm. The figure in the trees at the edge of his vision was slowly advancing.

A look of mock surprise came into Markham’s eyes. “Do you think it was about money?”

“Of course it was about money, Markham. You wanted a clinic in a big city like Los Angeles. You had big plans, big dreams. But your theories were controversial. Thirty-five years ago the banks probably laughed at you, isn’t that right? So you found a way to accumulate a large amount of cash very fast.”

Markham reared back, and for a moment Father John thought the man would lunge toward him. His muscles tensed in readiness.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” The
man’s voice cracked, and Father John caught the hint of desperation in his tone. “I have devoted my entire career to the well-being of infants. I have always done the best for them that was in my power. You’ve lost touch with the wider world, Father O’Malley. That is the world I sent the infants into for their own good. But people like you refuse to understand. That is why I must have the tape.” He held out a hand and came forward. “Give it to me.”

“Here it is.” Father John snapped his arm back and pitched the tape into the air, spinning it over the doctor’s head, like the curveballs he’d once sailed across home plate. The guide let go of Megan’s arm and grabbed at the wind as the tape spun away.

“Run, Megan!” Father John shouted, but she was already dodging, running—a white blur—as he lunged past the doctor. He swung his leg back and brought it forward with all of his strength, kicking at the pistol in the guide’s hand. There was a sharp crack, like a tree snapping in lightning, followed by a howl of anguish. The black pistol flipped up and hung in the wind before dropping into the grass. Like watching a film in slow motion, Father John saw the guide folding to the ground, clasping his hand to his chest and rolling in the grass; Markham bending forward with Megan clutching his back, nails raking his face; Vicky running, running, and throwing herself onto the grass.

Suddenly Megan fell back, and the doctor swung around, a fist raised over her. Father John slammed into the man, knocking him sideways as Vicky started screaming, “Stop! Stop!”

She was kneeling on one knee, working herself upright, the pistol in one hand, the other hand steadying her grip. The gun was pointed at Jeremiah Markham,
who stared up at her from the ground, eyes wide in disbelief. Little trickles of blood had started from the red scratches across his cheeks.

“Put the gun down,” he said in a shaky voice. “There is no need for this kind of violence. We’ve made our deal. You can leave. I have the tape.” He glanced nervously toward the place where the tape had landed. The other man was rolling and moaning a few feet away.

Vicky kept the gun on the man. “You monster. I could kill you myself.” Her voice was thick with fury.

Father John moved to her side. Reaching out, he ran his hand along the curve of her arm to her hand. It trembled under his own. Slowly he slipped the gun away.

“Stay down,” he ordered the doctor. Still keeping the gun on the man, Father John motioned to Megan and Vicky. “Go to the car.” He waited until they had run past the cabin and were out of sight before he began moving backward after them. “I don’t want to have to shoot you or your friend,” he said. “Stay where you are until we get out of here.”

When he reached the corner of the cabin, he jammed the gun into his jacket pocket and started running across the patch of meadow toward the trees. Megan and Vicky were ahead. He caught up, and they turned onto the dirt road. A man stood in front of the Escort, swaying from side to side. He had on blue jeans and a tan jacket. In one hand was a rifle. Father John grabbed the women and pulled them to a stop.

The man slowly raised the rifle and aimed it at them.

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