The Lost Bird (33 page)

“Let’s go.” The actress shrank against the door, behind the dark glasses, the swirl of blue silk around her hair. “I’ve been looking for my parents for a long time. When I came here, I knew I had come home. I had found the missing part of myself. I was one of the people. It will have to be enough.” She groped for the door handle. “If you don’t start the car, I’ll get out and walk.”

Vicky turned the key dangling from the ignition, sensing the reluctance in her fingers. The engine came to life, and the Bronco started forward across the bare dirt, bouncing over washboard ruts. The leaves crackled like fire beneath the tires. A gust of wind washed over the hood and roof as she wheeled toward Ethete Road.

A brown truck was slowing on the road. It turned and started toward them. Russ Mason was behind the wheel. The silver band on his cowboy hat sparkled in the sun.

Vicky rocked to a stop. Over the shush of the breeze, she heard the gasps of the woman next to her. The truck slid to a stop a few feet away. Russ got out and stood for a moment at the opened door—head
high, shoulders back, like a warrior. He had on a black cowboy hat, a white shirt with a silver bolo tie dangling in front, and sharply creased blue jeans stacked over black cowboy boots. Raising his right hand, he tipped his hat toward the woman on the passenger side.

Sharon yanked off her sunglasses and tossed them onto the dashboard. They clanked against the windshield. Then, dipping her head, she began unwinding the blue scarf. She tossed it over the glasses, where it rippled like water in the sun. She ran her fingers through her black hair, letting it fall free around her shoulders, and pressed her palms against her cheeks a moment. Her hands were unadorned, the nails clear.

Drawing in a long breath, she got out and closed the door. Vicky watched as Russ stretched out his arms and Sharon David stepped into them.

After a moment they started walking away. In the rearview mirror, Vicky caught them moving toward the Sun Dance area, arm in arm, heads bent together—nodding, nodding.

She stepped on the accelerator and drove around the truck. In the breeze drifting past her window came a faraway murmur of voices and the tinkling of laughter as high and light as the whistle of an eagle bone.

34

F
ather John said the prayers of the Mass slowly. He offered the prayers for the people and for Cyrus Elk. Yesterday Father John had stopped in at the hospital. The old man was unconscious, but Father John had talked to him anyway. He’d told him that the son he had thought he’d lost thirty-five years ago was alive somewhere. Cyrus had seemed to relax, his expression became calmer, his sleep quieter. Father John wasn’t surprised when the call came later from Cyrus’s granddaughter saying the old man had passed away.

The congregation joined in the prayers, a reverent murmuring that filled the church. Leonard stood at his elbow, the musicians huddled around the drum beating out the rhythms of the hymns, voices high-pitched and mournful. When he walked to the lectern, a cloud of quiet fell over the pews. He had spent last evening working on the sermon, coaxing out of himself the words he wanted to say. Later on today, two graves would be exhumed in St. Francis Cemetery.

Now he pushed his notes aside and clasped his hands, looking out over the upturned faces. “You are a people who have suffered much,” he began. “There
were times in the past when your children were taken from you. Now they have been taken again from you.”

He stopped. His eyes roamed the congregation. Sitting in a front pew were the Mason family: Sharon David, Russ, a middle-aged woman, and two teenaged girls who looked a lot like the movie star. Vicky sat in a back pew. Beside her, shoulders erect, head angled slightly in suspended judgment, was Ben Holden. The narrowed black eyes in the handsome face, watching him.

Father John went on: “May God have mercy on those who were a party to this injustice. May God have mercy on those who knew and did nothing.”

A hush fell over the church, as if breath itself had been stopped. He saw Vicky’s eyes close, her head drop. He said, “Please try to remember that the Shining Man Above does not forget you. In your pain, please try to remember His love for you.”

As Father John stepped back, Will Standing Bear rose from the front pew and walked to the lectern. He cleared his throat—a low growl into the microphone, echoing across the church. “We have heard the words you say to us, Father. We take them to our hearts, and they comfort us. Now we must think what we are to do for the future. We believe our children are alive. We believe they will return someday, just like Sharon David has come home to the people.”

He was quiet a moment, drawing in a long breath. “We’re gonna start a registry.” The words boomed through the church; people moved in the pews, reaching out, clasping hands. “Arapaho families and people that have been adopted can put their names on the registry. We’re gonna try to get families matched up.
We’re not gonna stop workin’ till all our children out there”—he waved toward the stained glass windows and the world beyond—“find their way home.”

The elder brought the snake of the microphone closer. “I’m askin’ Father John here to keep our registry at St. Francis. Everybody’s gonna know exactly where it is. Won’t be no confusion. The registry’ll be in the same place, don’t matter how long it takes for families to get matched up.” The old man glanced back at Father John. “I’m askin’ you, Father, to do this for the people.”

Father John kept his gaze on the elder: the black eyes as deep as pools, the leathery face. He searched for the words. “Thank you for your trust,” he managed.

•   •   •

Father John waited with Esther Tallman a few feet from the open grave. It was marked by a small wooden cross with the words
GEORGE REDWING TALLMAN, BELOVED SON
. Gathered close by was the Tallman clan—Esther’s children and grandchildren, nieces and nephews. Their pickups and trucks lined the narrow road circling the perimeter of St. Francis Cemetery. A warm wind swept across the bare-dirt cemetery, rattling the plastic flowers and tossing little spirals of dust into the air. It whipped at the back of Father John’s windbreaker.

Banner and Gianelli stood at the edge of the opened grave, their eyes on the man shoveling dirt into a growing pile at their feet. Close by were a couple of U.S. attorneys, the local lawyer representing Benson, and two lawyers in blue suits and tasseled loafers, gray with dust, who had flown in from Los Angeles to represent Markham.

Suddenly Gianelli turned away and walked over. “It’s just what we expected,” the agent said. His voice was nearly lost in the swoosh of the wind. “Nothing in that coffin except a few rocks.”

Banner joined the agent. The police chief’s face was flushed, his eyes angry. Turning from side to side, like a chief in the Old Time addressing the people, he said, “We got the evidence to put those bastards into hell.”

Father John slipped an arm around Esther’s shoulder. She was trembling. “All these years I been thinkin’ of my boy like he was livin’ somewhere else.” She spoke so quietly, he had to bend his head to hear what she was saying. “Every day I wonder, what’s he gonna do today? Maybe he’s gonna take a trip to some place far away. Maybe he’s gonna see the world. Or maybe he’s gonna ride his pony out on the plains. Every day I think he’s doin’ something different.” She straightened her shoulders and raised her chin. Peering at some point on the horizon, she said, “He’s thirty-five years old now. He’s tall and handsome like his father.” She gave a little sob.

The other members of the clan started forward, arms reaching for the old woman. Father John stepped back as the family embraced her, enclosed her in their circle. He watched a moment, then started along the rows of graves toward the center of the cemetery, where another man was shoveling dirt. The Holden grave was also being exhumed. “We can establish a pattern by exhuming two graves,” Gianelli had explained earlier. There was the steady, monotonous scrape of a metal shovel against the hard-packed dirt.

Across the cemetery, Father John could see a line of pickups snaking along the road, a brown truck in the lead. It passed the parked vehicles of the Tallman clan
and stopped. The driver’s door snapped open, and Ben Holden got out, tall and confident looking in dark blazer and tan cowboy hat. He strode around the truck and pulled open the passenger door. His eyes never left the woman inside.

Father John stood still, barely aware of the pickups moving along the road and obscuring his view for half seconds. He watched Vicky slide out of the truck and wait as Ben closed the door behind her. She was looking up at Ben, telling him something, and he leaned toward her. There was an air of expectancy and solicitude about him, like that of a lover.

It was as it should be, Father John thought. She had the right to some happiness. She had the right to reclaim her own family, to reclaim the man who had once been her husband and who still wanted her. Of course Ben wanted her.

Father John pulled his gaze away and stared across the cemetery at the expanse of plains that ran into the horizon and melted into the everlasting blue sky. The days and weeks and months ahead would be filled with work, he told himself. There would be counseling sessions, prayer services and special Masses, the registry to get up and running. There would be no time for his thoughts to drift into what ifs or maybes. The people here needed him; he had obligations and he would honor them. They would consume him.

A gust of wind caught at his windbreaker. He pulled up the zipper and started again toward the grave. The attorneys had already positioned themselves close to the edge. Members of the Holden clan were also making their way along the rows of graves and, out of the corner of his eye, Father John saw Gianelli hurrying over. From behind came the scuffing sound of footsteps,
and then the blue flash of Banner’s uniform at his side.

“The Holden clan’s here.” The chief sounded out of breath.

“I know.”

“Vicky’s come with ’em.”

“I know.”

“Moccasin telegraph says Ben and Vicky might be gettin’ back together.”

“I know.”

They stopped. In the other man’s eyes, Father John saw the quiet look of understanding. He rested a hand on the chief’s shoulder and said, “Thanks, Banner.” Then he turned and went to meet the Holden clan.

Looking for more?
Visit Penguin.com for more about this author and a complete list of their books.
Discover your next great read!