The Spirit Woman (21 page)

Wedges of snow flew out from the Toyota as he plunged north, trying to put as much space as he could between him and the lounge and the whiskey. He could taste the whiskey—
I could taste the blood
. Dear Lord, the burden of the past. Would they never be free? He held the accelerator down, ignoring the lift and sway of the rear tires. He had wanted to stay at the bar. One shot was all he needed, and the warmth would have spread into the nucleus of every cell, calming and focusing his mind. Everything would have fallen into place.

Stay away from the liquor, lad.
His father's voice.
It's the devil's own curse.
He'd been three sheets to the wind, his father, when he'd dispensed that piece of wisdom, spilling another two fingers of whiskey into his glass.

He might have been drunk himself tonight, he thought, lashing out at Vicky. Except that when he was drunk he didn't go to bars looking for a fight. He'd been a quiet drunk, sunk in an armchair in his room, grading papers for some history class, sipping at the whiskey. How ironic, he thought. He could control his anger better when he was drunk. What had he been thinking, confronting a man like Ben Holden, who rode herd all day, branded cattle, every muscle a sinew of steel?

He grimaced at what might have happened. The newspaper headline: MISSION PRIEST ARRESTED IN BAR FIGHT. He'd lived with humiliation before, but only in the eyes of his fellow priests, a few of his students. That was hard enough. His drunken bouts had never been broadcast to the public.

All of a sudden he understood why Vicky had grabbed the receiver. The humiliation! It was too much to bear.

He drove on, a homing pigeon, the route imprinted in his soul, only half-aware of the familiar swells of the earth beneath the snow. Gradually he began to feel calmer, enveloped in the vast white spaces and the endless black sky. His thoughts were steadier now. He'd lashed out at Vicky, he realized, because he couldn't do anything else. Just as Ben Holden had lashed out, because he couldn't do anything else. He and Ben Holden, paired failures at love.

He turned in to the mission grounds and left the Toyota next to the Harley. Snow lined the folds of the bike's cover. Inside the residence, he headed for the kitchen, where he started a fresh pot of coffee brewing even before he took off his jacket and hat. The house was quiet; Kevin could be asleep over his computer. When the coffee was ready, he topped off a mug and headed for the study, where he stood at the window a long while, sipping at the hot liquid, trying to quench the thirst.

He could break the vows; he wouldn't be the first priest to break his vows. He could stay here, he and Vicky together. He could find other work; he was a good counselor. He shoved the thought away. Help me, Lord, he prayed. I am weak, and the temptation is strong.

The clock on the mantel in the living room had chimed once—or was it two times?—when he'd finished off the pot of coffee and started up the stairs. He was halfway up when he remembered the phone. He went back, grabbed it from the hall table, and carried it up the steps as far as the cord would stretch. He would hear it ring if anyone needed a priest tonight.

T
here were more worshipers than usual crowding the little church: elders and grandmothers, gray-haired couples, young parents and kids wedged into the pews and standing at the back. The musicians huddled in a circle to the left of the altar, voices rising over the
thud thud thud
of the drum. Father Kevin sat in the front pew, head bowed in prayer.

It was his last Sunday Mass at St. Francis. Father John offered the Mass for the people, that they would be safe in God's care. For Laura Simmons, that she would be found safe. For Charlotte Allen, that she would have peace. For Vicky. For himself. He said the prayers out loud, reverently, quietly. The prophet Jeremiah: “I will bring you back to the place from which I exiled you.” And the gospel: “Jesus told the parable about a man who went on a journey . . .”

He'd written a homily, but he left his notes on the lectern and walked into the aisle. An expectant quiet filled the church. He looked around the congregation, memorizing the brown, upturned faces. He thanked them for all they'd given him. He promised to come back for a visit—for many visits, he hoped. He told them he would always keep them in his prayers and asked them to pray for him. Then he walked back to the altar and began the Eucharistic prayers. As he raised the bread and wine overhead—behold, the body and blood of Christ—he knew that he would have to leave this place. He was a priest. “I will go, Lord, if you send me.”

 

The crowd in Eagle Hall seemed even larger. A paper banner hung from the wall opposite the entrance: GOOD LUCK, FATHER JOHN. WE WILL MISS YOU. Below the banner were long tables laden with chicken, Indian stew, fried bread, potato salad, red and green Jell-O, and cake. A line moved slowly past; other people had already filled their plates and were seated at the tables set up around the hall.

Father John made his way among them, talking with different families, thanking them for coming. Father Kevin, he saw, was doing the same. He half expected the new pastor to whip out his tape recorder and settle at one of the tables where the elders were gathered. He saw Howard Elkman across the hall, waving, and he walked over. “Thank you,” he said, taking the vacant chair next to the old man. “You gave it a heck of a good shot.”

Howard folded his arms across the white braids hanging down his red shirt and leaned back, studying him. “What I wanna know is, how come it didn't work?”

“The provincial's a stubborn man,” Father John said. He stopped himself from saying that it didn't make any difference. He had decided to go.

Howard wadded up a napkin and tossed it across the table. His gaze took in the other elders—Roger Bancroft, Elton Knows-His-Horse—at the adjacent table. “Used to be tribal elders had something to say about the holy men we got around here. There's some things your boss don't understand, and he sure don't know what stubborn is.” The old man slowly raised himself to his feet. Picking up the empty mug in front of him, he walked stiffly over to the coffeepot on one of the food tables.

Father John resumed his rounds, shaking hands with the other elders, patting the toddlers on their heads. “You goin' away?” Bobby Red Owl ran over and tugged at his pant leg.

He lifted the child up to eye level. “I'm coming back to see you.” Then he hoisted him overhead until he almost touched the ceiling. “I expect one of these days you'll be this tall.”

The little boy surveyed the floor far below and giggled. “I'll be a giant,” he said.

As Father John set him back down he thought he saw Vicky at the food table, but it was someone else. He'd looked for her at Mass. Had he really thought she might come? After all he'd said last night? He would call and apologize the moment the feast ended. He didn't want to leave this way.

He made his way over to the table where Alva Running Bull was sitting alone. “How is everything?” he asked, dropping onto the chair beside her.

The woman's dark eyes flickered in comprehension. “Fine. Fine.” She threw a glance toward her husband, standing with a group of men near the door.

She's walking on eggshells, Father John thought. In his mind he saw Vicky, slumped against the wall.
She has to leave him,
Vicky had said.
Even Sacajawea left.
What had he done? Alva had made up her mind to get a divorce, then she'd come to him for help. What had he said? What inadvertent remark had shot like an arrow into the woman's heart and caused her to change her mind?

He leaned closer, his voice low: “Promise me, Alva, that if you feel the tension starting to build, you'll get away.”

“I'm sure things are gonna be fine.” Alva's eyes slid toward the door again.

“You'll call the Eagle Shelter?”

“Oh, Father. You worry too much.” Her voice trembled.

“Promise me, Alva.”

The woman bent over, lifted the floppy, ruglike bag from the floor, and patted at the folds. “Next time Lester gets drunk and starts after me, I won't be the one goin' anywhere. I got me a gun.”

Father John sat back against the chair, his eyes locked on the woman. Dear Lord, he thought, what kind of counselor misses all the signs?

“Listen to me, Alva . . .”

A small girl rushed around the table and began pulling at Alva's skirt, begging for more cookies. “You've had enough,” the woman said.

“We have to talk,” Father John hurried on. “Can you stay after the feast?”

She was shaking her head, patting the child's shoulder. “Don't let me hear no more about cookies.” Her eyes skittered again to the door.

“When can you come? First thing in the morning?”

Slowly the woman turned toward him and nodded.

 

By the time Father John left the hall, the only people still there were Elena and some of the other grandmothers, cleaning up the tables. He walked back to the residence, taking a diagonal path through the snow that glistened like diamonds in the sun. At his desk in the study, he tapped out Vicky's number. An answering machine again. He asked her to call him.

Suddenly it occurred to him that Ben might have fought off his driver and gone back for her. He flinched at the idea. Surely she wouldn't go with him—unless . . . unless he forced her. A sinking feeling washed over him. He called her office. Another answering machine.

He tried her again in the afternoon after the liturgy meeting, and later in the evening, the minute he'd returned from the AA meeting. The last time he tried, it was ten-thirty, the
click-click
of Father Kevin's printer upstairs echoing through the quiet of the old house. Still no answer. A new thought had begun to shadow him, chilling him to the bone. What if Toussaint thought Laura had entrusted the journal to her friend? He could have come for Vicky.

Father John picked up the phone again and dialed Gianelli's number. After one ring, the agent was on the line, sleepiness in his voice. Father John asked about Laura.

“Told you I'd call first news we get.”

“I'm worried about Vicky,” Father John said. “I've been trying to reach her most of the day. She's not at home or at the office. She's Laura's friend, and she was on the res yesterday looking for Toussaint . . .” He let the conclusion hang in the air.

The agent drew in a long breath. “I'll ask the Lander PD to check out her house and office.”

“Something else.” Father John hesitated, reluctant to divulge her secret. Finally he said, “The BIA police better send someone out to talk to Ben.”

Another sigh drifted over the line. “Vicky having trouble with her ex?”

Father John didn't say anything. After a half second the agent's voice broke the quiet. “Sit tight, John. We'll find her.”

Father John set the receiver down, every muscle tense with alarm. Charlotte Allen wasn't found for twenty years, and Laura Simmons was still missing. How long would it take to find Vicky?

He waited by the phone, drinking a pot of coffee, watching the shadows merging beyond the light from the desk lamp. It was after midnight when the phone rang.

Gianelli's voice: “Lander police say the house and office are undisturbed. No sign of a break-in or anything out of the ordinary. The Bronco isn't around. Ben Holden says he hasn't seen her since last night. You got him plenty worried, though. He's likely to go out looking for her.”

My God, Father John thought. Vicky had probably gone off somewhere to get away from him, and now he'd sent the man after her.

“Look, John”—a comforting tone—“let's not jump to conclusions. Most likely Vicky'll be in her office tomorrow morning. You can ask her where she went, but if she has any sense, she'll tell you it's none of your business.”

The agent was right. What did he want? To keep her safe, to control her? He was the same as Ben Holden, he thought as he hung up.

 

The red numbers on the nightstand clock winked 3:10 when he sat up in bed, half-asleep, trying to place the noise. Part of a dream, he decided. He'd been dreaming since he fell into bed, crazy dreams that he knew made no sense even while they cascaded through his subconscious. The noise came again. It was outside.

He was wide awake now. He got out of bed and walked over to the window. The mission slumbered in the snow; circles of yellow light floated down from the street lamps. Nothing out of the ordinary, except for the tracks of a fox crossing Circle Drive and disappearing among the cottonwoods. An animal, that was all.

He started to turn away when he saw the light, like that of a firefly batting against the library window in the museum. He pulled on his blue jeans and ran down the hall, stopping at the phone to call 911 and report a prowler before he headed downstairs, taking the steps two at a time. He threw on his jacket and was out the door, running through the snow to the museum.

T
he pinprick of light was still jumping in the library window as Father John ran up the porch steps and grabbed the doorknob. It froze in his hand. The prowler must have broken in through the back. He drew the master key out of his jeans pocket and pushed it into the shadowy slot, leaning into the door, then stepped inside. In the sliver of light from the streetlamps, he could make out the broken window beyond the staircase next to the rear door. Tiny shards of glass glistened like icicles around the perimeter of the frame. Footprints marked the pieces of glass scattered about the floor.

He moved along the wall on the left until his fingers found the light switch. He flipped it up. Light cascaded along the corridor, like water tumbling down a mountainside. He held his breath, listening for the faintest noise in the quiet. Nothing but the tinkling of broken glass in the drafty entry. He walked slowly to the library and stepped through the open door, flipping on the light as he went. The fluorescent bulb flickered a half instant, then burst into a preternatural white light that shoved the cartons and stacks into the shadows.