The Spirit Woman (28 page)

“So you made it look as if Laura had disappeared, just like Charlotte,” Father John said. “You tried to bury her and hide her car.”

“It would've worked, too, if some nosy Indian kid hadn't gone out riding and found the SAAB.” The pistol swayed back and forth. “You've stalled long enough, O'Malley. I want the journal now.”

Father John drew in a long breath and exhaled slowly. “What if I were to tell you, Crow Wolf, that I've already given the journal to the FBI?”

“Well, I'd have to shoot you both, wouldn't I? I can see the newspaper headlines: ‘Mission burglarized. Two priests shot to death.' Must've surprised the poor burglar who had no other choice but to kill them.”

“My God,” Father Kevin said. “The man is really crazy.”

“Just give me the journal.”

“I told you I gave it to the fed.”

Crow Wolf raised the gun. “Now look what you've done, Father. You've forced me to kill you and your friend. Believe me when I say I don't want to do this.” There was the slightest twitch in the finger looped around the trigger. “I'm certainly not a murderer, but you've given me no choice.”

“Wait,” Father John said. His mind raced for some way to buy time, to give him and Kevin a chance to catch Crow Wolf off guard. “The FBI doesn't have the journal yet.”

“You're lying. You'd swear your own mother was a whore to save your skins.”

“I called the agent today after I found the journal,” Father John said, the words tumbling out. “He was on his way to Colorado to arrest Laura's boyfriend.”

A little smile played in the Shoshone's eyes. “Perfect,” he said.

“He'll be by tomorrow for the journal.”

“I still say you're lying.” A hint of uncertainty clung to the Indian's words.

“If you use that gun, Crow Wolf, you'll never get what you want. You can tear the whole mission apart, but I guarantee you won't find it. The agent knows where I put it. He'll have it in his hands tomorrow.”

Crow Wolf drew back a few inches, as if he needed more space to consider the possibility. Finally he said, “You have one second to tell me where it is.”

“Not until we have a deal.”

The gun started waving again. “Seems to me you're not in any position to make deals.” He snorted. “Too bad Laura wasn't clever enough to figure that out.”

“It's simple, Crow Wolf,” Father John said. “Charlotte Allen's journal for our lives. I tell you where the journal is, and we walk out of here.” The words sounded hollow in his own ears. He was grasping. He pushed on: “You can go and get it. End of story.”

“What do you think I am? Some dumb Indian? I'm not letting you and your friend out of my sight until I have it.”

“He'll kill us.” Father Kevin gripped the edge of the table.

“That's the chance you'll have to take,” Crow Wolf said. “We're wasting time. Where is it?” He shot another glance about the room.

The man's crazy, Father John thought. Get him outside. Look for the chance. It was then that he saw the way. Alva's gun was in his desk. If he could get to his desk . . . He said, “The journal's in my office.”

“Lead the way, O'Malley.” Crow Wolf motioned toward the door. “I'll be right behind you. Don't try any tricks, unless you want a bullet in your spine.”

Father John turned slowly and walked through the door. The corridor reverberated to the sounds of their footsteps. He stepped out onto the porch and waited a half second until Kevin was at his side, then they walked in tandem down the steps and started along Circle Drive. The cold air bit at his face and hands. He could hear the raspy breathing noise behind them.

Suddenly a shadow darted through the snow. Walks-On! He'd left the front door ajar. The dog stopped a few feet away, then threw himself forward, barking and growling.

“Call him off!” Crow Wolf shouted.

Father John grabbed the dog's collar. “It's okay, boy,” he said firmly. He patted the dog's head. “Sit,” he ordered.

The dog dropped onto his rear hunches, a low growl rumbling in his throat.

“Keep going.” The gun jabbed into Father John's spine. They started around the wide curve in Circle Drive. Father John felt his heart lurch. In front of the administration building, almost hidden in the shadows, was Vicky's Bronco. My God—the thought flashed like lightning in his mind—if Crow Wolf finds her here, he'll kill her, too.

Father John veered sideways into the snowy field bounded by Circle Drive. Kevin stayed in step, as if he'd also seen the Bronco.

“Where you going?” The jab of the gun again.

“To my office.”

“Don't bullshit me, O'Malley. The office is up ahead in the administration building.”

“The journal's in my office at the house,” Father John said, keeping a matter-of-fact tone.

“J
ohn? Where are you?” Vicky shut the heavy wooden door and started down the corridor. The sound of her footsteps clacked into the silence that lay like a shroud over the administration building. Light cascaded around her, bouncing off the whitewashed walls and glinting in the framed glass over the portraits lining the walls.

“John?” she called again, easing toward his office, scarcely breathing, half expecting Crow Wolf to jump from the shadows. She stopped in the doorway, stunned at the evidence that John O'Malley was leaving. The surface of his desk was clear, so unlike the logical chaos of papers and folders she was accustomed to seeing here. Boxes were stacked about the floor, brown tape wrapped over the tops. One box was still open, and she could see the stack of books inside. The shelves behind his desk were empty.

A dog was barking somewhere outside. She whirled back into the corridor. How could she have been so stupid? The whole mission was lit up like a Christmas tree, but she'd gone to his office, assuming he'd be here. Crow Wolf wasn't stupid. He'd figured out that Laura had probably left the journal in the museum. He could be there now. Oh, God, she thought, let John be at the residence.

She was halfway down the front steps when she saw the three men coming along Circle Drive, then suddenly turning in to the field. John O'Malley was ahead; she knew by the slope of his shoulders, the way he walked and held his head, as familiar as a glimpse of her own image passing in a store window. Another man—the new priest—walked beside him, and behind them, Crow Wolf: the thick shoulders, the barely controlled rage in the jerky steps.

Vicky flattened herself against the cold, rough stucco wall and slid into the shadows. The barking was frantic now, and she realized Walks-On was sitting in the snow close to the museum. John and the others had already crossed the field. It was then, as they came into a circle of light, that she saw Crow Wolf had something in his hand. Jabbing, jabbing—a gun!—into John O'Malley's back. She heard herself gasp into the cold air.
Don't let him die.

 

Think! Father John told himself as they started up the sidewalk to the residence, the gun scraping the knobs of his spine. He could hear the tension in the Indian's quick gulps of breath. A misstep, a stumble, and the tension would explode.

He opened the door and walked into the study on the left. Walks-On was howling, like the sound of a wolf floating through the night. Kevin was so close behind him he could see the shadow of his shoulder. He reached over and turned the knob on the desk lamp. For a half second he caught Kevin's eye, and he knew the other priest understood. They would both die if they didn't get the gun.

“The journal, O'Malley.” Crow Wolf made a sharp hissing noise. “Get me the fuckin' journal.”

“Hold on, you'll get it.” Father John lifted one of the boxes he'd been packing and set it on the desk. As he pulled open the flaps he saw Kevin inching closer to the Indian's right. He reached slowly inside, easing around the corner of the desk toward the Indian's left, and began removing books and piling them next to the box.

“Come on, come on.” Crow Wolf's voice was nervous. He jerked the gun toward the carton.

Father John lifted out the large box of opera tapes he'd carefully packed in bubble wrap and strapped with large slabs of brown tape. He set the box next to the pile of books, turning sideways toward the man. “There it is,” he said.

It was only an instant, a flash of time, but it was what he'd been watching for. Crow Wolf dropped his gaze to the box, and Father John rammed into the man, sending him rearing backward. The pistol fell, and out of the corner of his eye Father John saw Kevin diving toward the gun. Then, a flash of movement: the Indian's boot rising and crashing into Kevin's head, and Kevin dropping onto the carpet.

Father John slammed a fist into the Indian's jaw, then landed another blow at the man's chest as they stumbled backward, knocking over one of the wingback chairs, Crow Wolf sloping against the wall, gasping for short, hard breaths. Then, like a volcano erupting molten fire, he reared upward, shouting and slashing out, a fury of fists flying at Father John's head and chest. He ducked sideways, managing a few more blows into the Indian's hard flesh, but the man kept coming. A disembodied voice—it might have been from a loudspeaker somewhere—shouting, “I'll kill you, I'll kill you,” and then Father John felt the pain sear his jaw as he caught an uppercut. He reeled back against the hard edge of the desk, struggling for the breath stopped in his chest.

The Indian swooped downward, then snapped upright. He was gripping the pistol in both hands, moving slowly backward now, taking careful, steady aim, and Father John could see the blackness of the nozzle pointed at his heart. “You've done enough, Crow Wolf,” he said. Pain ripped through his jaw. “Take the package and leave.”

The Indian was gasping, his chest rising and falling, his hands shaking. “Leave you to tell your lies to the FBI?”

“What difference would it make?” Keep him talking, Father John was thinking. Appeal to the man's reason, his logic. “Without the journal, there's nothing to link you to Charlotte. You can take the package and walk out of here. It's over, Crow Wolf. You're free and clear. Why risk any more murders?”

The Indian seemed to consider this a moment. His hands steadied, the gun held in place. “Why should I take the chance? With you and this other priest”—a quick nod toward the crumpled form of Father Kevin—“out of the way, no one will ever know.”

The Indian planted his boots and crouched slightly, the gun rising a quarter inch. Father John closed his eyes. “Lord, have mercy on us,” he said as the room crashed around him.

His eyes snapped open, the noise still reverberating off the walls and furniture. The Shoshone was staggering backward, face fixed in astonishment, the whites of his eyes narrowed into slits, arms dangling at his side like ropes hanging from the branch of a tree. A circle of blood soaked into the man's white shirt and was widening into the open front of his sheepskin jacket. The pistol slid out of his hand and clacked against the chair leg as the man folded onto the floor.

Father John wheeled around. Vicky was standing in the doorway, still pointing a pistol at the Indian, as if she expected him to rise up and come at her. He walked over and took the gun—Alva's gun, he knew, by the contours of the black handle. He set the gun on the desk before he took her in his arms and held her. He could feel her trembling against him.

After a moment he let her go and knelt beside Kevin, checking for a pulse in the priest's neck. He was alive. A red bruise was rising over his cheekbone. “Kevin,” he said, gripping his shoulders. The man's eyelids fluttered, his jaw relaxed as if he were trying to speak. “Wake up, Kevin,” Father John said again, shaking him lightly.

The eyelids opened, then dropped, then opened again. “What happened?” he asked in a groggy, disconnected voice. He began struggling to push himself upright.

“Don't move,” Father John said. The frenzied noise of the dog barking and yelping outside mimicked the turmoil in his own mind. “I'll call an ambulance.”

He got to his feet and stepped over to the crumpled form of the Shoshone. Blood covered the front of the jacket and spattered the wall and carpet. It seeped from the man's nose and the corners of his slackened mouth. He went down on one knee and found the inert carotid artery. “He's dead,” he said. There was no response, and he looked over at the doorway. Vicky was gone.

F
ather John picked up the phone and punched in 911. “There's been a shooting at St. Francis Mission,” he told the operator. “Get an ambulance over here right away.” He slammed down the receiver without waiting for a response, told the priest still slumped against the desk that he'd be right back, and bolted for the front door.

Outside, the grounds were quiet, a collage of light and shadow from the blazing windows and the circles of light under the streetlamps. He ran across the field. Vicky's Bronco was still in front of the administration building. He knew where she'd gone.

He turned in to Circle Drive, then in to the narrow alley that separated the church from the administration building. The moon hung just above the trees, lighting up the snow. The small, dark figure was running through the shadows ahead toward the banks of the Little Wind River. Walks-On ran alongside, looping about, barking, barking.

“Vicky,” he called. He ran faster, his boots pounding into the ice just beneath the thin surface of snow.

She turned in to the trees and disappeared in the mesh of shadows and moonlight. As she angled right he made a sharp right turn and came around in front of her. “Stop, Vicky,” he said, taking hold of her. Walks-On jumped against them, yelping and barking.