The Story Teller (27 page)

It looked as if the room had tumbled down, spilled across the wood floor: books, pictures, shards of pottery and china. The twin sofas lay on their backs, seats jutting upward in a grotesque parody. The glass top on the coffee table had been smashed; slivers of glass hung
like icicles around the chrome frame. Huddled on the floor near the corner where the hallway emptied into the living room was Marcy, knees pulled to her chest, head buried in the circle of her arms.

Vicky crossed the room, stepping around the detritus of her friend’s life. She squatted beside her, placing an arm around the fleshy shoulders, the knobs of her spine: so fragile, she was taken by surprise. “Marcy,” she said, “are you okay?”

Slowly Marcy’s face came upward; a mixture of wetness and makeup striped her cheeks. Her eyes were blurred and watery. “Oh, Vicky,” she said, swaying sideways, falling against her, “look what they’ve done.”

Vicky held her as if she were a child. “Who, Marcy? Who did this?”

Raising a hand, Marcy swabbed at her face, as if her fingers were a cloth. “I don’t know,” she said in a kind of whimper. “I went out to my encounter group. When I got back . . .” She flipped her hand toward the room. “I found this.”

Vicky exhaled a long breath. At least Marcy was all right, at least she hadn’t been here when they’d come. But what if her friend
had been
here? She said, “Did you call the police?”

A quick nod. “They just left.” The sobbing started again, a loud, racking noise. After a moment Marcy said, “All I wanted was some space where I could belong. When Mike left, there was this big black hole, and every time I tried to crawl out, I fell back in. So I found this house, and it sheltered me. I was just learning how to climb out of the hole, Vicky. I was almost out.”

“I’m sorry,” Vicky said. A wave of guilt and regret washed over her. It hadn’t been a stroll through the park, Marcy’s separation from Mike; it was a wrenching apart of something that had once been whole, just like her own divorce from Ben. She’d fled to Denver, throwing herself into classes and term papers, trying to
climb out of the darkness, grasping for that space where she could be whole again, while Marcy had come here, to a circle of new friends, new ways. Grasping, grasping.

Marcy pulled away, her eyes wide as if she were seeing the destruction for the first time. “Who would do this? Why would anybody tear my house apart? What were they looking for?”

Vicky leaned against the wall, numb with exhaustion and fear. Whoever had ransacked Todd’s apartment had been here this evening, ransacking the house where she was staying. What were they looking for? The diskette with Todd’s thesis? The link to the Sand Creek ledger book? Had Julie told them about it while she could still talk, before they finished beating her to death?

Was that what they were looking for? A diskette that experts could explain away? Is that what drove them to a frenzy of murder and rampage—beating two kids to death, trashing an apartment and a house, tearing up books and papers, pulling shelves off the walls?

Vicky leaned against the corner, the edge burrowing into her back. Slowly the realization came over her. This wasn’t about a diskette. This was about a ledger book. A ledger book worth $1.3 million.

Why hadn’t she seen it before? Todd must have taken the ledger book from the museum. Steve Clark had suggested the possibility, but she’d shrugged it away, not wanting to believe Todd would do such a thing. But what if he’d suspected the book was in danger? Suspected someone would destroy it? He knew the controversy over the Sand Creek massacre, knew the claims of at least one Cheyenne scholar. How could he not know? He passed the exhibit on Sand Creek every time he went into the museum. Something had filled him with so much fear he’d taken the book.

And they’d come after him. But he hadn’t given up
the book. So they’d gone after the girl who’d been staying in his apartment. And now—Vicky blinked at the debris strewn over the living room—they had come after her.

She helped Marcy to her feet and gently steered her down the hallway and into the bedroom. Whoever had broken into the house had been here, too: sheets and blankets thrown across the floor, the naked mattress askew on the bed frame, clothes and shoes heaped in front of opened closet doors.

Marcy stood in the middle of the room, like a patient waiting for the nurse to prepare the bed, while Vicky shoved the mattress into place and spread a sheet on top. Then she helped Marcy over to the bed and settled a blanket over her.

“They did this because of me,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

Marcy rolled over, wrapping the blanket around her. She didn’t say anything, and Vicky let herself out of the room, snapping off the light and closing the door softly behind her.

She walked through the small house, locking doors and windows, turning off lights. She found her handbag and clasped it to her. In the kitchen, the same disarray: cabinet doors flung open, drawers hanging out, pots, pans, and dishes tossed about. Nothing untouched. She lifted a butcher knife from the floor and carried it down the hallway. If they returned, she told herself, she would fight them with all her strength.

In the bathroom, she had to step around towels and bottles and shards of glass to turn on the tub. The smell of lavender filled the room as she sprinkled in bath crystals from one of the intact bottles. Stripping off her clothes, she let them fall over a wad of towels before sinking into the hot, creamy water. She lay back, the water lapping at her shoulders. The handbag lay on a
little table next to the knife, close enough so she could reach it.

First thing in the morning, she would take Smedden’s records and the diskette to Steve. Father John would be there—a logical, reasonable man. A priest. Together they would present the evidence that the book had been on the museum shelves last week. And the ransacked apartment, the girl’s murder, and now Marcy’s place ransacked—further proof that whoever had killed Todd was looking for the book. Steve would have to listen. And then a homicide detective would be looking for the killers. They would no longer be calling the shots.

She felt herself relaxing. The Sand Creek ledger book was still intact, still capable of telling its story. The killers didn’t have it yet. They didn’t know where it was. But she knew. The moment she’d realized Todd had taken the book, she knew. He had placed it in the safest possible place, and tomorrow she and John O’Malley would go and get it.

The water had faded to lukewarm when she lifted herself out of the tub, toweled off, and pulled on a clean T-shirt, letting the soft cotton fall over her body. She fixed her watch back onto her wrist: she would get up early.

Picking up the bag and the knife, she turned off the light and made her way to the bedroom. In the dimness of a light shimmering through the bedroom window—a passing headlight, perhaps—she pushed aside the messed blankets and pillows, making a small space for herself. She shoved the knife under a pillow, then pulled a blanket over her, the handbag at her side. She fell into an exhausted and dreamless sleep.

*   *   *   

Something hard pressed against her arm; fingers dug into her, shaking her. She blinked herself awake, groping under the pillow for the knife. Where was it? Then her fingers found the hard, cold metal, the indentations
on the handle. Gripping the handle, she roared upward, swinging out of bed, gulping in air, the knife in hand.

The figure looming over her jumped back. “My God!” Marcy screamed. “What are you doing?”

Vicky dropped the knife on the bed and sank down next to it. She was shaking. She made herself take several deep breaths, trying to calm herself, aware for the first time of the morning sunshine drifting past the window, Marcy holding a portable phone. She started to explain, to apologize.

Marcy interrupted. “Steve wants to talk to you.” She handed Vicky the phone and walked out of the room.

Vicky could feel her heart still pounding. She checked to make sure the handbag was in the bed before pressing the on button and muttering a good morning she didn’t feel.

“Where the hell were you last night?” The detective was shouting.

She told him she’d gone to Sand Creek.

“Sand Creek? For God’s sake, Vicky. Why didn’t you call me when you got back?”

“It was late, Steve.”

“You think whoever trashed Marcy’s house was after her? They were looking for you, Vicky, and whatever they think you might have. You were nowhere around. Marcy didn’t know where you’d gone. I’ve been worried as hell.”

“I know what they’re after,” Vicky said. “They’re looking for the Sand Creek ledger book.”

The line went silent. Then: “That’s what I figured you’d say.”

She was quiet a moment, debating whether to tell him she knew where it was. Last night, she’d been so certain, but now she saw the certainty for what it was: a hunch, an instinct. And this was a man who wanted proof. He didn’t even believe the ledger book existed.
Show me the proof,
he’d told her. She would find out first if the book was where she thought it was.

She said, “I’ve got the proof the ledger book was in the museum collections last week.”

“I’m at my desk,” he said.

Vicky pushed the disconnect button, then punched the numbers for Regis. Brother Timothy’s voice came on the line, and she asked to speak to Father O’Malley.

“Ah”—a long drawl—“the good father has left us to return to his mission.”

“He left?” Vicky blurted.

“I’m afraid the good father’s assistant was called away yesterday. A death in his family, I believe. There was no one at the mission. Naturally Father John felt it incumbent to return. He asked me to explain to you. Oh, yes. He said you would know what to do.”

“When did he leave?” Vicky asked.

“An early riser, Father O’Malley. He was gone at dawn.”

Vicky thanked the old man and hung up, trying to hold back the sense of abandonment flooding over her. He would not have left unless it was an emergency, and St. Francis without a priest was an emergency. She glanced at her watch. Almost nine o’clock. He could be halfway home by now, provided the Toyota pickup didn’t break down. She made a couple more calls. In a few moments she had a reservation on the noon flight to Riverton. She would be there by one.

She dressed in jeans and T-shirt, pulled on her sandals, and threw the rest of her things into the carry-on. Barring any major traffic holdups, she could drive downtown, meet Steve, give him Todd’s diskette and the Smedden record book, and still get out to DIA in time to turn in the rental car and catch the plane. She picked up her carry-on in one hand, her black bag in the other, and hurried down the hallway.

Marcy was in the kitchen pointing out the damage
to a young man with a clipboard—an insurance adjuster, Vicky guessed. She waited for a break in the conversation, then told her friend she was leaving.

“Hold on a minute,” Marcy said to the young man. Then she walked out front with Vicky. The sun blazed yellow out of a startlingly blue sky. A dog barked somewhere, a lawn mower whined—neighborhood sounds.

“I’ve been a terrible guest,” Vicky began.

Marcy shook her head and placed a hand on Vicky’s arm. “It’s okay,” she said. “I wish we’d had more time to visit, but last night—well, at least last night we had a little heart-to-heart.”

“I’m sorry about your house, Marcy.” Vicky kept her voice soft. “And about you and Mike.”

Tears welled in Marcy’s eyes. She turned away a moment, running one finger along both cheekbones. She looked like an overweight child, Vicky thought: shoulders hunched inside a baggy blue shirt, blond curls springing out of a clip on top of her head. After a moment she looked back. “I didn’t sleep much last night. All this”—a wave toward the house—“is a big bother, but at least it’s fixable. But Mike and I, well, that’s Humpty-Dumpty. I can’t put it back together, so I’m going to have to go on. There isn’t any safe space I can crawl into and hide, is there?”

That was true. There was no safe space. “You’ll be okay, Marcy,” Vicky said, laying one hand on her friend’s arm. She gave Marcy a smile and hurried down the sidewalk to the Taurus. She’d lost precious time—it couldn’t be helped. She’d have to drive like hell to keep to her schedule.

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