The Story Teller (32 page)

Inside, the building was as quiet as the last time she was here. The door to Father John’s office was closed. She rapped twice, waited, and rapped again. Then she pushed the door open. The office looked as if it had undergone a spring cleaning, books neatly stacked in the bookcases, a daisy blooming in a pot on the filing cabinet, and piles of papers arranged on the desk, instead of tumbling across it. Unlike his desk.

Just as she closed the door she heard the soft noise of a chair scuttling across the floor. She made her way down the corridor, past the closed door that led to the archives, and stopped at an opened door. A man with close-cropped sandy hair and light, plastic-rimmed glasses sat at a small table across from a desk, tapping on a typewriter. “Father Geoff?” she said.

He swung around, a startled look in his eyes. “You must be Vicky Holden.”

She gave him a smile, but it was not reciprocated.

“He’s not here, if you’re looking for Father O’Malley.” The priest turned back toward the typewriter.

“When will he be back?” Vicky persisted.

The priest leaned back in his chair, his profile to her. “I suppose you won’t be satisfied, will you, until you have won him completely over to your side.”

Vicky was quiet a moment, trying to comprehend what the man was saying. Then: “I’m afraid you misunderstand.”

Father Geoff swiveled toward her. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is when you keep coming around? How hard it was for him after your little trip to Denver?”

Vicky could hear the sound of her own breathing, could feel her heart speeding. “I know what you think,” she said, “and you are wrong. You have misjudged Father O’Malley and me.”

“Have I?” His eyes were as gray and impenetrable as the surface of a lake.

She turned on her heels and retraced her steps down the corridor, past Father John’s office, through the heavy front door, slamming it hard behind her. She was flushed with anger. What right did this priest have to assume anything about her, about her life, about her most private feelings—feelings she did not even want to admit to herself? She flung open the door to the Bronco and slid onto the seat.

Another truck wheeled past as she was about to back onto Circle Drive. She watched it pull in behind several other trucks parked at the far end of the mission in front of the old school. Pushing the gear into drive, she started after it.

Two men were already unloading large sheets of wallboard when she parked beside them. A hot gust of wind caught her skirt as she got out. “Is Father O’Malley here?” she called.

“Inside.” One of the men jerked his head backward.

She hurried up the steps. The minute she walked through the door, she spotted Father John partway down the shadowy hallway, talking to three workmen. As if he’d sensed her presence, he turned around and walked toward her. Even in the dim light, she could make out the reddish line on his cheek, the mark on his forehead.

“Welcome to the Arapaho Museum,” he said. Then, glancing back at the workmen, he explained, “We have our first visitor.”

Vicky still felt shaky with anger. She wished she could have stepped into his arms, felt the comfort of his touch. She started circling the entry, forcing herself to focus on the way the light cascaded down the new staircase, the taped drywall on one side of the hall, the smells of plaster and fresh-sawed wood. “So, it’s really happening,” she said after a moment, when she felt more in control. “I didn’t think it would happen so soon.”

“So soon?” Father John said. He moved closer. “What are you saying?”

She let out a long breath. “The provincial—Father Rutherford, I believe his name is—said he’d been considering the museum after meeting with you.” She made another circle. “He probably would have approved it even if I hadn’t called.”

“You called the provincial?” There was a mixture of amusement and incredulity in Father John’s voice.

“That’s what I came to tell you,” Vicky said. “The provincial and I had a long talk last week. I told him I’m the attorney in charge of reclaiming a great many Arapaho artifacts and that we had no place to store and exhibit them. I told him how desperately we needed this museum.”

Father John started laughing. “He’s too busy to take my calls, but you call him up and have a long chat.” He folded his arms and leaned back against the wall, shaking his head. “The provincial’s assistant called last week and gave me the go-ahead on the museum. I thought I’d witnessed another miracle.”

“Yes,” Vicky said, making another little circle, “we lawyers often work miracles.” She stopped, catching his eye. “What do you mean, another?”

“I got a call from Doyal last night. The University Press in Colorado is going to publish Todd’s thesis.”

Vicky closed her eyes a moment, allowing the sun cascading across the entry to warm her. “How wonderful,” she said. “A permanent record of all the places in Colorado where the people had once lived. Some of the lands may belong to us again someday, if I have anything to say about it.” She gave him a long smile. “The tribe has hired me to negotiate with the bureaucrats in Washington over claims to the lands promised the Sand Creek tribes.”

Father John was nodding, smiling at her. “That’s good news. The bureaucrats don’t have a chance.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Vicky said. “They’ve stalled for more than a hundred years. They’ll probably stall a few more, but eventually—”

“Eventually, you might see justice.”

“It would be nice.” She glanced around. “I wish Todd could be here to see it. I wish he could see this.”
She waved toward the corridor with the new wallboard—the museum taking shape.

Father John was quiet a moment. “It’s going to be hard to find the kind of director he would have been.”

Vicky made another little circle. “I have a suggestion,” she said. “There’s a young Arapaho woman, Lindy Meadows, who works in a museum in Florida. Maybe—just maybe—she’s ready to come home. You could call her—”

Father John held up one hand. “But you could get through.”

“Fair enough.” Vicky laughed. “In the next month or so boxes of artifacts will be arriving here. We’ll be getting most of the items listed in the inventory.”

“Most?”

“Not every item falls under the rules of NAGPRA. But all of the sacred objects will be returned.”

“The ledger book?” Father John said.

“The ledger book.” Vicky held his eyes a moment. “After Emil and his associates stand trial for murder, kidnapping, theft, and a lot of other charges, the ledger book will finally come home. It belongs to Charlie Redman and No-Ta-Nee’s other descendants. They’ve agreed to place it here in the old school with the rest of the artifacts.”

“We’ll display it right here,” Father John said, sweeping one arm toward the shaft of sunlight in the center of the entry. “In a large Plexiglas display case. It will be the first thing people see when they visit the museum. They will read it. Scholars will study it. Everyone will know the true story of Sand Creek.”

Vicky kept her eyes on the entry. In the column of sunshine, she could imagine the display case with No-Ta-Nee’s ledger book propped inside, opened and inviting. “It will be beautiful,” she said.

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