The Story Teller (16 page)

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F
ather John drove north on Sheridan Boulevard, enveloped in the sounds of Puccini. He had slipped the tape of
Turandot
into the player on the seat beside him, and when “Nessun dorma” began, he nudged the volume so loud that at a red light people in nearby cars were staring at him. For an instant he felt like a kid with a boom box. Didn’t everyone love the soaring melody, the force of emotion, the beautiful noise? He often had an opera blaring in the Toyota, but he was usually driving through the open spaces of the reservation.

He was beginning to long for the reservation, the peacefulness of the mission with sunshine mottling the buildings and grounds, the sound of the breeze rustling in the cottonwoods. It looked like it would be a while before he could go home—he thought of the reservation as home. He’d spent part of the morning with Mary and Doyal, reminiscing about Todd, the happy times, the accomplishments in a short life. It was a myth that bereaved families didn’t want to talk about the one they’d lost—it was all they wanted to talk about.

Tomorrow he would say the memorial Mass. Then the old people would take Todd’s body to the reservation for burial. He would be laid in the Middle Earth, the sacred ground, Doyal had said, although Mary had argued that this ground was also the Middle Earth, the
traditional land of the
Hinono eino.
The boy could rest in peace at Mount Olivet cemetery near the foothills.

Doyal had won out, and Father John was glad. Todd should be buried where the earth remained unbound and free. The Holy Old Men would purify his body with the sweet smoke of cedar and paint circles on his face with the sacred red paint that would identify him to the ancestors. There would be singing and drumming to guide his spirit into the sky world. How many times Father John had witnessed the ancient ceremony, yet it always seemed new and comforting, as if he were witnessing the spirit being gently lifted into the next world.

He would say the Mass tomorrow at St. Elizabeth’s, the old stone church that stood in the center of the Auraria campus. After leaving Doyal and Mary, he’d driven across the city and made arrangements with the pastor, Father Cyprian. He still had to call his own assistant, Father Geoff—a call he dreaded. It would be a while longer before Geoff could take any time off. One of the priests at St. Francis had to be available in case there were any emergencies. There were always emergencies.

A turn right, and Father John slowed through the streets of North Denver, where there was little traffic and fewer people to stare from passing cars. He exhaled a long breath, remembering. He’d been about Geoff’s age—in his fortieth year—when he’d been assigned to St. Francis Mission. Hardly the assignment he’d hoped for at a Jesuit university like Marquette or Georgetown. Perhaps at some point in the future, the provincial had explained. One could never predict the future, could one? And Father John had understood: one could never predict when an alcoholic priest might take the next drink. Best for him to remain at an obscure mission in the middle of Wyoming where he could be hustled back to Grace House, if necessary, with minimum disruptions, the least amount of scandal.

He’d had to ask the location of St. Francis Mission—he was ashamed to think of it. And after he’d arrived in the vast spaces, where the earth and sky melted together on the far horizons, he’d felt more alone, more isolated. He’d spent the first months in a frenzy of work, trying to outrun the thirst that bounded after him, a demon threatening to devour him.

How important it had been to get away from work once in a while and backpack through the Wind River Mountains, where he could think and pray. When had he discovered that he did his best thinking and praying in the midst of his work, among the people? That St. Francis Mission was where he belonged?

He guided the Toyota onto one of the service roads that ringed the Regis campus and parked behind the residence. Sliding the tape player off the seat, he slammed out of the Toyota. The last act of
Turandot
floated into the afternoon heat.

The Jesuit residence was quiet and cool, a sense of desertion about it. The provincial and his assistants were probably still in the mountains. His boss had hurried past him at the door of the refectory this morning, circled by a group of black suits and white collars. He’d managed to stop Father Stanton long enough to learn that the provincial was on his way to Camp St. Malo near Estes Park. So much cooler there. Do him a world of good.

“I can drive up there,” Father John had said.

The other priest had shifted from one foot to the other, glancing over his shoulder at the provincial and his aids moving down the corridor. “Impossible. He’ll be tied up all day with various administrators.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

“Father O’Malley . . .” the other priest had begun while he kept one eye on the retreating figures, “I’ve spoken to the provincial about your desire to open a museum. He fully supports my decision. We fail to see
how a museum at an Indian mission would be either practical or desirable. I suggest you return to St. Francis, where, I’m sure, a great deal of work awaits you.”

“I intend to stay in Denver until I see the provincial.” Father John had struggled to conceal his irritation.

The other priest had shrugged, muttered something like “As you please,” and scuttled after the others.

Now Father John started up the stairway, boots scuffing at the wood, the last notes of
Turandot
bouncing off the stucco walls. Suddenly there was the sharp
whump
of a slammed door: “Ah, is it yourself, Father?”

He glanced around. Brother Timothy stood at the foot of the stairs, chin uplifted, cheeks flushed, as if he’d been hurrying. “You had a visitor, Father.”

Father John turned down the volume. “A visitor?”

“A Native American woman, she was.”

“When was she here?”

“You only just missed her.”

Father John ran down the stairs and back out the door, leaving it ajar. He saw the Taurus about to turn out of the parking lot, and sprinted after it, reaching the driver’s side as the car inched forward.

Vicky turned, a startled movement, like that of a deer caught in a hunter’s sights. A look of relief crept into her expression. “I’ve got to talk to you,” she said over the dropping window.

This was not a social visit, he knew. There were never any social visits between them. She was here for a reason. He motioned her back through the lot, a cop directing traffic, then waited as she pulled into the slot she had probably just vacated behind a van. He hadn’t seen her car when he’d come in.

She got out and tilted her head toward the grass and shady trees of the campus. “Let’s take a walk,” she said.

They walked down the narrow sidewalk between the residence and a stand of oak trees. He had the player
in hand. The opera began again, the music floating softly around them. She always needed to move, he was thinking—around a room, across a campus, when she was upset, when she was trying to sort through something, as if her whole being were summoned to the task.

Sunshine splashed across the lawn that ran down a gradual slope to the small lake bordering the campus. When they reached the dirt path that trailed around the lake, she turned and faced him. “I just came from Todd’s apartment,” she said. “The Lakota girl, Julie, had been staying there, but there’s no sign of her. She probably took off for the Rosebud. Somebody ransacked the apartment. They took Todd’s computer.”

“His computer!” Father John understood. Todd’s thesis would be on the computer.

Vicky whirled about, took a few steps away, then came back. The shadow of a branch fell over her face, making her eyes even brighter. “Suppose Todd’s murder and the missing Arapaho ledger book are connected,” she said.

“What are you saying?” Her theories had made sense in the past. Like a laser beam, her instincts had a way of drilling into the center of things.

Vicky went on in an urgent tone that cut through the sounds of music coming from the player: “Todd’s adviser told me Todd had been documenting the sites of Arapaho villages and battlegrounds in Colorado. One of the sites was Sand Creek.” Her chest rose and fell as she gulped in quick, short breaths.

Father John said nothing, waiting for her to go on.

“Sand Creek,” Vicky repeated. “Charlie Redman said his ancestor, No-Ta-Nee, had written the ledger book about the people’s last days in Colorado. Don’t you see, John? The last days were at Sand Creek. After the massacre, the people fled their lands here. They never came back. What if Todd had found the ledger book?”

Father John gave out a little whistle. If that was true, Todd had found the only Arapaho account of the massacre.

Vicky walked back and forth, carving out little circles in the dirt path, explaining how she’d seen the museum storage space—like a cavern; how the ledger book might have gotten lost on the shelves over the years. Suddenly she stopped, a kind of desperation in her eyes. “Suppose someone didn’t want the real story of Sand Creek told. Suppose that person took the book from the museum and sent two thugs after Todd to make sure he wouldn’t tell anyone about the book. They found him in a parking lot near campus last Monday night and killed him.”

“Hold on.” Father John held up one hand. “Even if the ledger book was lost, the museum would have records.”

Vicky was shaking her head, staving off any objection. “Whoever took the book would make sure the records also disappeared The old records are kept in filing cabinets. A lot of people have access to them. The entire museum staff. Rachel Foster, the curator. Or the consultants hired for special projects. Emil Coughlin, Todd’s adviser, helped verify the Plains Indian artifacts for the NAGPRA inventories. A Cheyenne historian consulted on the Sand Creek exhibit—Bernard Good Elk. He teaches here at Regis.” She tilted her head toward the campus buildings that sloped up from the lakeshore. “Do you know him?”

Father John gave a short nod. He’d met the man a couple of times: black braids and round face, eyes narrowing as they’d appraised him—white man, missionary, failed historian. He said, “Good Elk is highly respected, Vicky. He wouldn’t be involved in something like this.”

“Even if the ledger book disproves what he’s been claiming the last few months? That only Cheyennes are
entitled to the Colorado lands promised the survivors of Sand Creek?” Vicky started pacing again. Then, her voice softer, she said, “The book will be destroyed.”

“Destroyed? A ledger book?”

“Oh, John.” She dropped her head into her hands a moment. “Once it gets into the hands of a dealer, it will be sold page by page.”

Father John turned away, his eyes on the lake, the sun dancing across the surface, the ducks floating among the lily pads at the edge. Everything Vicky said made sense. It was possible, even logical—except for the faulty premise. Bringing his eyes back to hers, he said, “There’s no proof the ledger book was in the museum.”

“What are you saying?” A mixture of alarm and incredulity came into her voice. “The storyteller saw it . . .”

“It’s not proof, Vicky,” he said.

She stared at him a moment, eyes flashing with anger. Then she pivoted abruptly and started up the slope toward the Taurus. He caught up with her, took her arm, and turned her toward him. The opera was soft between them. “Look,” he said. “Maybe we can find the proof.” He kept his hand on her arm. Her skin was soft. He saw that she didn’t pull away from his touch, but stood there, close to him. He went on: “Whoever has the ledger book won’t wait to sell it. The book can link him to Todd’s murder. He’ll want to get rid of it. There’s a place on Broadway, a row of shops that sell rare books and Native American artifacts. I go there every chance I get when I’m in Denver—just to browse. Maybe one of the dealers has heard of an Indian ledger book that’s come on the market.”

“Let’s go talk to them,” she said, finally pulling away.

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