The Lost Bird (32 page)

He flipped the switch inside the door. Soft white light flooded down the aisle and lapped across the pews as he turned toward the door on the right. A bronze-colored sign in the center said
RECONCILIATION ROOM
. He opened the door and flipped another switch.

In the middle of the closet-sized room were two chairs, side by side. Between them, a wooden grate with armrests on both sides. He had spent hours in this room, sitting in the chair on the far side of the grate, leaning on the armrest, listening to the fears and pain, the regrets and sorrows, the firm amendments to sin no more.

He glanced around the room: the cream-colored stucco walls, the crucifix hanging above his chair, the
painting of Jesus with black hair and the sharpened features of the Arapaho—a forgiving Jesus, arms outstretched toward the people. He walked around the chairs, checking the legs, the stand on which the grate was balanced. No sign of a tape.

He sat down on the priest’s side and leaned toward the grate. The church was perfectly still. A faint smell of cedar lingered in the air. He ran his hand along the top of the armrest, then underneath. Nothing but smooth, vacant wood. Then his fingers touched the hard lump jammed against the stand beneath the armrest. He slid out of the chair and down onto one knee. Gray duct tape held a small plastic box against the stand. Taped next to the box was a pocket-sized recorder.

He pulled the duct tape back slowly and slipped out the plastic box. Then the recorder. Holding them in one hand, he got to his feet and retraced his steps, snapping off the lights as he went. Outside he handed the box and recorder to Gianelli. “Here’s your proof beyond a reasonable doubt,” he said.

•   •   •

Gianelli’s Jeep led the parade of vehicles around Circle Drive: the chief’s police car, Leonard’s pickup. Megan turned away silently and started down the alley toward the guest house, leaving Father John and Vicky standing in front of the church. He took her arm, and they started across the grounds to her Bronco out on the straight stretch of road where she had left it.

“The media will have a feeding frenzy,” she said. “Movie star stolen from parents as infant finds Indian father after thirty-five years. No publicity department could have dreamed up a better public relations campaign.” She stopped and turned to him. In the shadows,
he saw the light dancing in her eyes. “There are others like Sharon, looking at themselves in the mirror, wondering where they belong. Maybe they’ll find their way home.” They started walking again. “Like the birds,” she said quietly.

They reached the Bronco, and he opened her door. The keys still dangled from the ignition, a flash of silver in the gathering darkness. She slid inside, and holding the door, he leaned toward her.

“Vicky,” he began, reluctant to let her go, searching for the words that would allow her to return, that would ensure they could still be friends. “I wish it hadn’t happened. I wish Father Joseph . . .”

She reached out and touched his hand. “I know,” she said.

32

A
rectangle of light from the lamp fell over the study, framing the desk and wingback chairs, a patch of carpet. The residence creaked into the night. Father John read again through the names Vicky had given him. Esther and Thomas Tallman. Rayleen and Lucas Holden. Betty and Cyrus Elk. Marie and Russ Mason . . . The list covered the page. A litany of loss. The next weeks would be filled with prayer services and counseling sessions for families riven again by the pain of thirty-five years ago.

The moccasin telegraph had beaten the nightly television news with the story: famous doctor and well-known local attorney arrested on charges of kidnapping, interference with parental custody, endangerment of a child, conspiracy. Murder charges were pending. Hunting guide held on charges of kidnapping, burglary, assault with a deadly weapon, conspiracy.

The phone had hardly stopped ringing. Voices hushed with shock. Could the unspeakable be true? He promised to let people know the minute he had any more news. He promised to schedule a special Mass where everyone could come together to grieve
and pray for courage. He’d refilled his coffee mug two, three, four times—he’d lost count—trying to bolster his own courage.

Another jangle into the quiet. Reluctantly he reached for the receiver.

“John?”

He knew the Provincial’s voice. “How are you, Bill?” he said.

“I expected you to be on a plane to Boston.” The voice was sharp with impatience.

“Yes, well, there’s been a new development. The FBI and police have arrested Joseph’s murderer.”

“I’m watching CNN, John. I’m listening to a reporter standing in front of the Lander courthouse talking about how a mission priest led the authorities to an alleged murderer and operator of a black-market baby ring. What is going on out there?”

“Trust me, Bill. It’s over. The mission will soon be back to normal.”

“Trust you? Trust you?” the Provincial’s voice boomed through the line.

Father John moved the receiver a couple of inches away. “Remember, Bill, you don’t have anyone else who wants this job.”

He hung up, folded the list of names, and set it in the center drawer. Just as he was about to switch off the light, a soft knock sounded, and Megan slipped past the door, into the scrim of light. She perched on one of the wingback chairs. She had tied her hair back, but a couple of red curls corkscrewed around her face. The blue eyes were filled with pain.

“You okay?” he asked.

She gave a little nod. “Not really. I keep thinking about that jerk outside the church this morning. How
he came up behind me and rammed something hard in my back and said, ‘Just walk real ladylike to the tan Jeep over there.’ I was shaking all over, I was so scared.”

She had told him the same story earlier. It had produced the same stab of guilt that he felt now. “Megan,” he said, allowing her name to float in the air a moment, like a melody. “I’m so sorry about everything that has happened to you here.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” She shook her head. “Besides, you came after me today. You know, Uncle John, that was a very dumb thing to do. You could have gotten killed. It was just what my dad would’ve done.”

She catapulted to her feet and walked to the window, beyond the light. Turning back, she said, “I didn’t tell you that I called Mom this morning before Mass. I told her if she didn’t tell me the truth, I would never go home again. She said I didn’t have to threaten her, that she’d already decided to tell me. So . . .” She paused. “Now I know what happened.”

Father John didn’t say anything. The silence drifted into the shadows. After a moment she walked back and stood in front of the desk. “Promise me you won’t tell Dad that I ever doubted . . .” She stopped. Her eyes glowed feverish in the light. “Promise me you’ll keep this a secret. I don’t want to hurt him.”

He nodded. “A good secret to keep.”

She exhaled a long breath. “I’m going home for a while before I go back to New York. I’m leaving tomorrow, right after the court hearing for Markham and the others. But I’ll be back to testify at the trials.”

Father John got up, walked around the desk, and took her hand. He would miss this niece of his, this
part of himself. “When you come back, the guest house will be yours. It will probably be quiet around here.”

“Quiet,” she repeated. “Well, that will take some getting used to.”

33

“
H
e’s not going to come,” Sharon David said.

“He’ll be here.” Vicky glanced at the profile of the woman next to her in the Bronco: large, black sunglasses balanced on the bridge of her nose, blue scarf wrapped turban-style around her head. A movie star.

Outside the window the pale yellow sun arched into a morning sky of clear-rinsed blue. Vicky had picked up the actress at the dude ranch at a quarter to six—more than an hour ago. They had driven to Ethete and turned down the dirt road to the Sun Dance grounds. Clumps of scrub brush dotted the grounds, and dried leaves scuttled in the breeze. This was where Russ had said he wanted to meet his daughter—a sacred place.

There was no sign of reporters. No cameras or microphones, no shouted questions. After Markham’s arrest last week, hordes of reporters had descended over the area. They camped outside the courthouse and swarmed over the reservation. They set up a permanent post outside the dude ranch and outside her office.

She had become adept at dodging microphones and
ignoring cameras. Her own face stared at her from television screens and the front pages of newspapers, along with photos of Sharon David darting into the ranch house, Gianelli caught midway up the stairs of the courthouse, and John O’Malley hurrying across the mission grounds.

“I wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t come.”

“He’ll come,” Vicky said. Then: “Why do you say that?”

“What happened changed his life. It changed mine. I don’t blame him for not wanting to try to remake the past. It’s impossible, you know.”

Vicky nodded. She did know.

“Nothing can make it all right,” the actress went on. “I lost the chance to grow up here with my own mother and father, my own family, my own people. My father lost his daughter. And more. He lost his wife. Nothing can change that. It doesn’t matter what happens to the famous Jeremiah Markham and the others.”

“You’re wrong, Sharon,” Vicky said. “It does matter. Markham will spend the rest of his life in prison, where he belongs.” She didn’t say that he would probably be sent to a medium-security federal prison. The doctor was willing to explain everything in exchange for such a sentence. He was already leading Gianelli and the U.S. attorney through the tangled web of a black market that extended from the clinic in Lander to Denver, Seattle, San Francisco, and Los Angeles—the cities where he had sent Dawn James to deliver the tiny infants. And the doctor was willing to testify against Luther Benson, who would probably also spend the rest of his life in prison. No doubt the doctor would also testify against his hunting guide, who
had been charged with kidnapping, assault, breaking and entering, and theft.

“Let’s go, Vicky,” Sharon said. “My father doesn’t want anything to do with me, and I can’t blame him.”

“That’s not true.” Vicky let her window down a few inches. The cool morning air washed inside, restoring her own confidence. She glanced at her silver wristwatch. It was past seven. “He’s your father. He’ll be here.” Yesterday Vicky had received the laboratory report on DNA tests that proved Sharon David was the daughter of Russ Mason.