The Spirit Woman (26 page)

“Fingerprints!” Father John shouted. “Becker was her boyfriend. Of course his fingerprints are in her car.” Vicky shook her head and looked away. He went on, making an effort to lower his voice. “Crow Wolf probably wore gloves when he drove Laura out to Sacajawea Ridge and beat her to death.”

A low sucking noise punctuated the silence at the other end, as if the chief had just taken a drink of something hot. “I'm sorry, John. Crow Wolf isn't on the res. He lives in Laramie.”

“He's here, Banner. He's still trying to find Charlotte Allen's journal. He's involved with Hope Stockwell, and she could be in danger. You could pick him up, ask him some questions, keep him from harming anyone else.” Father John felt his stomach muscles tightening. What if Hope tried to end the affair tonight? “We can be at the police department within the hour. We'll fill you in on the details.”

“You mean, fill me in on your theory? I can't haul Robert Crow Wolf in on some vague theory. What kind of hard evidence are you talking about?”

No evidence. No fingerprints. Nothing written down. Just a series of propositions that yielded a simple, elegantly logical conclusion. “Believe me, Banner, it makes sense.”

There was another sigh edged with exasperation. “It's already been one hell of a long day, John. Two bad accidents, couple assaults. I was just heading out the door when you called, and the minute I hang up, I'm going home. Maybe priests and lawyers work all the time, but I like to go home once in a while. Take your theory to the fed when he gets back tomorrow. He's gonna tell you he's got the Simmons case wrapped up.”

Father John set the receiver in its cradle and lifted the phone book attached to a metal chain. He flipped through the white pages. “We've got to warn Hope,” he said, taking in the number. He fished another quarter out of his jeans pocket and started dialing.

“Let me talk to her.” Vicky took the receiver from his hand. A moment passed. “Grandmother,” she said, “it's Vicky Holden. Is Hope there?” She glanced up, giving him a half smile of success. Then: “Hope, I'm a friend of Laura Simmons. I have to talk to you about something very important.” Another moment of silence before she went on: “Tonight, Hope. We have to talk tonight. I'll be there in forty minutes.”

She hung up slowly and turned to him. “She's waiting for an important call, probably from Crow Wolf.”

Father John nodded. “We'll get over there right away. I have to call Kevin first.” He plugged another quarter into the slot.

“Kevin? What's he have to do with Crow Wolf?”

“Crow Wolf could show up again looking for the journal,” he explained. The phone was ringing; he could imagine the shrill sound echoing through the quiet of the administration building. He was about to hang up and try the residence when the buzzing stopped.

“St. Francis Mission.” Father John felt a surge of relief at the sound of Kevin's voice.

“It's John,” he said. “Everything okay?”

“Sure.” The other priest sounded tense.

“Make sure Leonard locked up the museum,” Father John said. “If he's still around, ask him to stay until I get back.”

“He's already left.” The tense voice again.

“Are you sure everything's okay?”

There was a pause. “When will you get back?”

“As soon as I can.” Father John replaced the receiver again, an uneasy feeling gnawing at him.

“What is it?” Vicky asked as they walked through the dining area and out the glass doors. The snow licked at his face.
Think logically.
“Kevin's been handling things by himself most of the day,” he said. “He's probably tired.”

“It'll take some time to convince Hope that Robert Crow Wolf isn't who she thinks he is,” Vicky said as she climbed into the Toyota. “I know you want to get back to the mission. Just take me to the Bronco. I'll drive over to see Hope.”

He walked around and got in behind the wheel, the uneasiness chafing like a bur in his skin. “Are you sure?” he said, turning the ignition. The engine spurted into life.

“I'm sure.”

He pulled into the traffic and after several miles headed west on Seventeen Mile Road. She'd handed him a hamburger, which he munched as he drove. Except for the lights twinkling from the occasional house by the road, they were surrounded by the flat, white plains.

“Suppose Hope won't listen to me,” Vicky said.

It was possible, he thought, chewing on the lukewarm beef. Banner called the idea crazy; Gianelli would probably say the same thing tomorrow. “We need evidence,” he reminded her.

Yes, she understood all about evidence. She was a lawyer, had he forgotten? She took a bite of her own hamburger. After a moment she said, “If I can get Hope to admit that Crow Wolf is the one who promised her the Sacajawea memoirs, it would support our theory.”

“It's not physical evidence.” Father John turned right on Ethete Road.

“It's something, John,” Vicky said as he slowed, pulled into the yard, and stopped behind the Bronco. A mantle of white draped over the hood and windows. The house was dark.

“Aunt Rose's bingo night,” Vicky said, gathering up the remains of their meal and crumpling the bag. She gripped the door handle and got out. Then she leaned back. “What time does your plane leave tomorrow?”

His plane. He'd forgotten about his plane. He was packed; he was ready to go. “Five in the afternoon,” he said.

“I can meet you at Gianelli's office in the morning. Call me as soon as you get ahold of him.”

He promised.

He waited until the Bronco's taillights flicked on before he started to back out.

V
icky eased the Bronco to a stop in front of Theresa Redwing's stoop and hurried up the snow-slicked steps. The front door flew back as she was about to knock. A young woman stood in the opening, a small figure framed by the light shining behind her.

“Oh! I thought you were someone else,” she said in a voice airy with disappointment.

“You must be Hope,” Vicky said.

The door opened wider, and Theresa Redwing sidled next to her granddaughter. “I told Hope I didn't want her going nowhere till she seen you. Arapaho lawyer drives all the way out here to tell her something, it's gotta be important.” The woman reached down and took Hope's hand, leading her back into the room. Vicky followed.

“You sit down right over there.” Theresa gestured with her chin at an easy chair and closed the door. “The two of you can have a good talk while I get us some coffee. Cold night like this, you can use some hot coffee.” Her eyes stayed on Vicky a moment before she disappeared into the kitchen beyond the small living room.

Vicky glanced at the young woman, who was truly beautiful, she thought, with thick, glossy hair framing an almost perfect face, a coppery complexion, and dark, almond-shaped eyes that watched her with a mixture of distrust and annoyance. “You could be in danger, Hope,” she said softly. She didn't want to alarm Theresa.

“What?” Hope pulled back the sleeve of her red cable-knit sweater and stared pointedly at her watch. “Whatever it is you're talking about, you'd better tell me. I don't have a lot of time. I'm expecting a call.”

“From Robert Crow Wolf?”

Hope's head snapped back. Vicky caught the effort just below the surface of the blank, unreadable expression. She pushed on: “He's promised you the Sacajawea memoirs, hasn't he?” A leading question, she knew, but this wasn't the courtroom.

“Suppose he has.” Hope moved past her and plopped down on the sofa.

“When did he promise them?” Vicky perched on the chair across from the young woman. She might have been her own daughter, only a few years older than Susan. “After you decided to break off a relationship with him?”

“My relationship with Robert is none of your business.” The dark eyes blazed with indignation.

“You're not the first woman he promised the memoirs,” Vicky said. “He's used them as an excuse before to get what he wanted.”

Hope met her gaze. “I have a right to the memoirs,” she said. “I'm the one who's descended from Sacajawea, not your white friend. I don't care what she told you. Robert never had any intention of turning the memoirs over to her.”

“He's a dangerous man,” Vicky said. Her throat felt tight and dry. She
had
to make the woman understand. “He promised Charlotte Allen the memoirs twenty years ago. He promised Laura the same thing. Both women were beaten to death.”

Hope let out a high-pitched laugh, an imitation of merriment. “You're saying Robert beat someone to death? That's ridiculous. He's the kindest, gentlest . . .” The faintest hint of a blush came into the dark cheeks. “The most handsome, brilliant man I'll ever meet.” Suddenly the girl's tone dropped a couple of notes. “If you want to know who killed your friend, try her boyfriend, the guy the police allowed to drive out of here free as a bird and go back to Colorado. He's the one who killed her.”

“What about Charlotte Allen?”

“How do I know what happened twenty years ago? Maybe she had a boyfriend.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, it wasn't Robert. He was at Berkeley then.”

“He was on the res that fall, researching his dissertation.”

Surprise flickered in the blank eyes.
Hope Stockwell didn't know everything about Robert Crow Wolf.
Vicky pushed on: “He's a historian. Why would you ever suppose that he'd turn Sacajawea's memoirs over to you instead of publishing them himself if the memoirs really existed?”

The young woman drew her lips into a tight line, grabbing a half second, Vicky thought, to consider the answer she'd probably used to convince herself. “It's simple,” she said finally. “Robert's already made his reputation, and now it's my turn. The Sacajawea memoirs will jump-start my career. I'll be like a bronco bursting out of the chute, is the way he puts it. My dissertation will be published, no question about it, and I'll have my choice of teaching positions on the best history faculties in the country.” She held up the palms of her hands, as if to ward off any disagreement. “Besides, Robert and I are in love.”

“The Sacajawea memoirs don't exist,” Vicky said.

“I told her that.” Theresa crossed the room and set a plate with three mugs on the table in front of the sofa. “If those memoirs had gotten out of that fire, folks would've heard about it sooner or later. None of the descendants could've kept a secret bottled up for a hundred years.” She handed around the mugs filled with coffee. Steam licked at the rims. Then she sat down on the sofa next to her granddaughter.

“Robert's a scholar, Grandmother,” Hope said in a respectful tone. “He's been doing research on the reservation for a long time. He's found a lot of documents no one else ever discovered.”

“He's telling you a big story 'cause he wants you to keep on with him,” Theresa said. “A man old enough to be your father, and he's already had himself a couple wives and a lot of girlfriends. He's probably got a girl-friend in every little town between here and Laramie. You know what's good for you, you won't have nothing more to do with him.” She took a long drink of coffee, staring at her granddaughter over the mug.

“Grandmother, please. You don't understand how things are today.”

“And what's that supposed to mean? You think I wasn't young and pretty like you once upon a time? That I don't know how an old stallion can sidle up to a young filly and make her all jittery with the wanting? Oh, I knew all about smooth-talking, good-looking guys making all sorts of empty promises before I figured things out and settled down with the real good man that was your grandfather. Don't tell me, young lady, that I don't know about Robert Crow Wolf and his like.”

“They aren't empty promises, Grandmother.” Vicky heard the struggle for respect now in the young woman's tone. “Robert's gone to get the memoirs. I expect to hear from him at any moment, and this whole conversation will be meaningless.” Hope got to her feet. Locking eyes with Vicky, she said, “I really have nothing more to say to you.”

“Hope!” Theresa scooted forward, as if she might bolt off the sofa. “I won't have such rudeness here. It's not our way.”

Slowly Vicky rose out of the chair. “Robert Crow Wolf is lying to you, Hope,” she said. “He's after Charlotte Allen's journal because it incriminates him in her murder. He beat Laura to death trying to find out where she'd hidden it. He's still looking for it. Sooner or later Robert's going to be charged with two homicides. He's desperate. There's no telling what he might do to try and save himself. You must stay clear of him.”

“This is crazy.” Hope edged back toward the shadowy hallway next to the kitchen. “You're talking crazy. I don't want to hear any more.”

“Please trust me,” Vicky said. “I'm telling you the truth.”

“Shut up! Shut up!” The young woman clapped her hands over her ears, turned, and fled into the hallway. There was the hard crack of a door shutting.

“What should we do?” Theresa said, almost in a whisper. The old woman had pushed herself upright. She stood wedged between the sofa and the coffee table, the color drained from her face.

“Try to talk to her, Grandmother,” Vicky said. “And don't let Robert Crow Wolf into the house.”