The Story Teller (29 page)

V
icky read the “Departures” signs. The plane to Riverton left in fifteen minutes. She started running, weaving past the other passengers, the roll-on luggage, her own carry-on bumping against the sides of the moving walkways. The signs pulled her to the last gate on the DIA concourse.

She stopped at the desk, handed her ticket and driver’s license to the attendant. “You’d better hurry,” the woman said, handing back the license with a stamped ticket. She rushed past a second attendant who was starting to close the door and hurried down the gangway, her heart thumping against her ribs, dimly aware of the footsteps clumping behind her.

The meeting with Steve had taken longer than she’d anticipated. He had gone over and over her theory, examining each detail until she’d wanted to scream: “I’ve got a plane to catch.” Finally she had grabbed her handbag, announced she would call the moment she found the ledger book, and fled from his office.

“If it’s there,” he’d called after her, and she’d realized he was still unconvinced; still believed her theory was concocted out of thin air, out of a wish that the Sand Creek ledger book existed and that Todd Harris had not been involved with drugs.

She’d driven as fast as she dared to DIA, one eye on the rearview mirror, dreading the sound of a siren, feeling
as if everything was moving in slow motion: the long drive, the line at the rental-car checkout, the shuttle to the airport. Slow motion, even as she’d run through the airport.

The plane was almost empty—a few businessmen in suits near the front, laptops on extended trays. Other passengers sat scattered about the small plane. She found her seat near the center. No one claimed the seats around her.

As she stuffed her carry-on into the overhead, she sensed a presence behind her, pressing toward her. She gave the carry-on another push and ducked toward the window, realizing someone was following her into the seat. As she sat down she stared in surprise at Emil Coughlin. A casual, relaxed look about him, in khaki slacks, a blue polo shirt opened at the collar. He might have been going on a cruise.

“I hope you don’t mind a seatmate for the short trip to Riverton, my dear,” he said, settling beside her.

Vicky felt herself stiffen. “What are you doing here?” Even as she asked the question she realized with a sickening sense that she knew the answer.

“Joining you for a lovely flight to Riverton on this beautiful Sunday,” he said. “I was on the phone in the concourse when you whizzed by, and I was delighted to discover we were to take the same plane. There are so few passengers.” A nod around them. “I decided to join you. We can use this opportunity for a little chat. Save some time later, perhaps.”

Vicky kept her eyes on him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The professor held up a thin, suntanned hand, his attention on the flight attendant going through the safety drill. They were pulling back from the gate, a slow, rocking movement. And then the drill was over and they were rolling across the pavement, taxiing down the runway, lifting off.

He turned toward her. “I have you to thank, my dear. When you said you were going to follow Todd’s footsteps, I realized I had been wasting my time. I could follow his footsteps to the ledger book. I told myself, I’ll simply go where he went after he took the book from me.”

Vicky gasped. “From you!”

The professor seemed to study her a moment. “Ah, I see I’ve told you something you didn’t know. Yes, of course he took the ledger book from me. Came right into my office like a common thief and removed it from my briefcase.” He gave a little laugh. “Well, I suppose I must give him credit for figuring out I was the one who removed it from the museum.”

Vicky realized her first instinct had been right. She said, “Todd told you immediately that he’d found the ledger book.”

“Oh, my, you’ve misjudged the poor boy.” The professor drew in a long breath, as if he were about to enlighten a particularly dim student, then went on: “Todd didn’t tell me at all. Todd and I had a bit of a misunderstanding some time ago. In fact, I believe he was most unhappy to have me as his adviser, but he was so far along on his thesis, he was reluctant to start with someone new. At any rate, he seemed of the opinion that several Indian artifacts I had come across in the most out-of-the-way places—forgotten towns across the West where no one else goes—well, he seemed to think they belonged in museums, that I didn’t have the right to dispose of them as I saw fit. But museums have so much, they can’t possibly display everything they own. You have seen the storage basement at the museum, have you not?”

Vicky said nothing, and he hurried on: “A vast storehouse of treasures that can never be fully exhibited. Who can blame private collectors for wanting to enjoy something beautiful within the confines of their own
homes? Collectors are willing to pay a great deal of money for such privileges and”—he gave a little shrug—“I married a woman with very expensive tastes. Hardly the tastes I could afford on a professor’s salary. I’m sure you understand.”

He glanced across the aisle at the empty seats. “Unfortunately Todd did
not
understand. I’m sure that’s why he neglected to tell me about the ledger book, but I found out anyway when Rachel Foster called to inquire as to the value of a ledger book on Sand Creek that had been found by a graduate student. I told her, of course. One-point-three million dollars, uncut. Probably more if sold page by page. I knew immediately that Todd had stumbled across the definitive evidence about Sand Creek he’d been looking for.”

Vicky could feel the anger and disgust colliding inside her: Rachel Foster had known about the ledger book all along.

“What a blow when the book turned up missing!” Emil Coughlin gave a little laugh. “After all, Rachel Foster has a reputation as the most organized curator in the nation.” Another laugh. “She would be the first to tell you. How could she admit the museum had owned such a treasure and had managed to lose track of it? And then, adding insult to injury, had allowed the book to disappear?”

The professor shifted in his seat, turning toward her. “I’m sure she suspected I took it, but how could she ever prove it? She’s smart enough to realize that inevitably suspicion would fall upon her and her protégé, Bernard Good Elk. Oh, how she adores that blustering fathead. Considers him the definitive authority on Native American ethnohistory. And there they were, she and Good Elk, with an exhibit on Sand Creek that denies Arapahos had been there, and a ledger book that proves otherwise. Between you and me”—he dropped his voice to a conspiratorial tone—“she was probably most relieved
to have the book disappear. She would not want to see her protégé’s career in ruins.”

Emil Coughlin threw his head back and emitted a series of snorts, a parody of laughter. Then, glancing at the attendant in the aisle, he cleared his throat and ordered a Scotch on the rocks. The attendant set a small bottle and a glass of ice on his tray. Turning toward Vicky, he said, “And you, my dear?”

Vicky shook her head. She watched him unscrew the bottle cap, splash the clear liquid over the little cubes in the glass, and take a long draft. After the attendant had moved down the aisle, Vicky said, “So you went into the stacks, found the Smedden carton, and removed the ledger book. Then you took the records from the filing cabinet.”

Emil Coughlin drew his lips into a thin line. His eyes took on a vacant look, as if he were seeing himself in the museum library, approaching the bank of files. “How foolish of the museum not to have transcribed the old records into the data system. It was Rachel’s every intention to do so, of course, but like so many executives of public institutions, she must work with limited funds. Those pitiful scraps of paper with notations scribbled all over them comprised the only record of the Sand Creek ledger book.”

Another sip of the Scotch, a long, satisfied sigh, and Emil Coughlin went on: “It was so easy. I had free access to every part of the museum, of course. The staff was used to me poking around after the weeks I had spent verifying the Plains Indian artifacts. A fine job I did.” He held up the glass of Scotch, a toast to himself. “You owe me a debt, my dear.”

Anger curled inside Vicky, like a rattlesnake ready to strike. “How many other Arapaho artifacts did you help yourself to?” she asked.

“Another misjudgment on your part.” The professor gave her a long, appraising look. “I would hardly remove
any item stored in full view of every staff member. Besides, most of the artifacts had been collected recently enough that records are on computer. Much more difficult to deal with, although . . .” He set the glass on the tray and rubbed his chin a moment. “The idea of destroying computer records intrigues me, my dear. It is worthy of consideration.”

He lifted the glass. “May I propose a toast to the end of a painful journey for both of us? I was rather fond of Todd Harris, you know.”

“You killed him.”

Emil Coughlin took a long sip. “Well, not technically. I’m afraid I must leave that sort of thing to my associates. Unfortunately they sometimes get carried away with their work. If only Todd hadn’t been so stubborn. If he had been willing to cooperate and return the ledger book to me, I would have made it worth his while. I am a reasonable man. It was all so unnecessary.”

He leaned back and gave the glass a little shake. The ice made a tinkling noise. “At least my associates understood the necessity of planting heroin on the boy’s body. Even shot heroin into his arm, I believe. The girl, also. I must say, it had the desired effect of sending the police chasing their tails in the wrong direction. The other girl . . .” He gave a little shrug. “Well, we didn’t bother with the drugs. What difference would it make? I had started thinking about what you said, and it came to me in a flash, one of my most brilliant breakthroughs. I knew exactly where Todd had hidden the book.”

He drained the glass and waited as the attendant cleared his tray. When she was gone, he said, “And now we will go to St. Francis Mission, where Todd left the ledger book.”

“Why would he take it there?” Vicky asked, struggling for a reasonable tone. She might convince him otherwise.

“The most logical place, my dear. His roommate admitted
readily—well, after a bit of persuasion—that he went to the reservation last weekend. Now, why would he do that? To seek advice from that mentor of his, Father O’Malley, of course. Todd spoke of him often, how much he admired and respected him, trusted his advice. Imagine the poor boy’s ideal—a washed-up history teacher.” The professor gave his head a quick shake, mock sadness in the gesture.

Vicky turned toward the window. Riverton lay in the distance, streaked in sun and shadow. Surrounding the town were the open, rolling plains of the reservation.

“I can scream,” she said, bringing her eyes back to the man beside her. “I can tell the attendant you are a murderer and a thief, and you have threatened me. The Riverton police will meet the plane when we land.”

“Oh, my dear!” Emil Coughlin let out a guffaw, as if he’d just heard an exceedingly funny joke. “A highly respected professor such as myself? Without a weapon of any kind?” He glanced down—the polo shirt, the khakis. “How could I have gotten on the plane with a weapon? What threat could I possibly be to you? I’m afraid you would appear quite hysterical.”

He stopped, his eyes traveling over her now. “On the other hand, the police might take your story seriously. In which case, I would have to invent a more likely story. Let me see. I would simply explain we’d had a lovers’ quarrel. Yes, that’s it! We are lovers. I like that story very much.”

Vicky pulled back, feeling the hard roll of the window ledge in her ribs. A crackling noise burst over the intercom, followed by the pilot’s voice announcing that they were about to land. She sensed the plane angling downward.

The professor was still talking: something about how he would not have to invent a story after all, how he’d been on the phone with his associates when he’d
seen her at DIA, how Father O’Malley had just driven into the mission.

“What are you saying?” Vicky heard the note of panic in her tone.

Emil stared at her, surprise in his eyes. “Why, didn’t I tell you? My associates arrived at St. Francis Mission this afternoon. How fortuitous that Father O’Malley happened to drive up, just when they were running out of ideas of where to look for the ledger book. I’m sure they made quite a greeting party for your friend. If for some reason I were not to arrive at the mission thirty minutes after this plane lands, I gave them specific instructions. Need I say that unlike me, my associates are armed. If you want to see your friend alive, I suggest you do exactly as I instruct you.”

Vicky stared out the window again: the treetops reaching upward, the shadow of the plane elongating below. And then they were down, bumping and speeding on the landing strip. She could call his bluff, she was thinking. She could start screaming. And then would begin the long wait for a police car to creep toward the waiting plane, the explanations, the stories. And the minutes would tick by—ten, twenty, thirty. And then what? Three people were already dead.

The scream hardened into a lump in her throat. She couldn’t take a chance with John O’Malley’s life. She couldn’t bear the thought that anything might happen to him.

The plane had stopped moving. The door ahead was open, and hot air flowed along the aisle. There was the sound of seat belts clicking loose, of overheads snapping open. The businessmen in front were already moving toward the door. In a series of slow, deliberate motions, Emil Coughlin lifted himself out of the seat, pulled down her carry-on, and stepped back, motioning her into the aisle.

As Vicky slipped out he took her arm and leaned
close, so close she could smell the Scotch-sour breath. “You will walk with me through the airport,” he whispered. “We will take your car. You did leave your car in the lot, I hope. It will save us precious time.”

Vicky shrugged away from his grip and started along the aisle. She hurried down the steps, aware of the heavy clump of footsteps on metal behind her. The sun flooded the tarmac with a hot, white light.
Now,
she told herself. Run across the tarmac, through the building and out to the front lot where she’d left the Bronco. She could probably outrun him. But to what end? He would simply stop at the first telephone, and John O’Malley would be dead before she reached the mission.