Eye of the Wolf (18 page)

Father John followed her to the front door. Reaching around, he pulled the door open. “Will you be okay?”

“I'll be fine.” She reached for his hand and held it in hers a moment. Then she tugged her gloves out of her coat pockets and started down the sidewalk for the Jeep, pulling on her gloves as she went.

Father John waited until the Jeep had started around Circle Drive before he went back to the study. He dropped down at his desk and stared into the shadows washing over the bookcases. Well, this was awkward. The minute he called the Provincial to suggest that his new assistant go back into rehab, Father Ian McCauley would suggest that it was time for the pastor to be sent elsewhere.

THE RECEPTION AREA
of Riverton Memorial felt muffled in the wet snow that had fallen during the night. Moisture glistened on the vinyl floor that ran across the lobby and down a wide corridor. A few people occupied the chairs against the walls, hushed conversations drifting toward the desk with the small sign that said “Information.” Father John stopped at the desk and waited, drumming his knuckles along the edge, aware of the dull headache that seemed to have connected to the soreness in his cheek.

He'd slept badly, tossing in a wilderness of anger and sadness: anger at Adam Lone Eagle—what was the matter with the man?—and sadness at the raw hurt in Vicky's eyes. But another idea had hovered at the edge of his mind. Vicky was free again. She had no one to turn to—
Hi sei ci nihi,
Woman Alone—except for him. She'd needed him. Dear God, his assistant was right. He was a dry alcoholic who needed people to need him, just as he'd needed a drink.

Two minutes must have passed before a slim, dark-haired woman who looked about forty emerged from the door behind the counter, carrying a paper cup of coffee. “Hello, Father,” she said, her face breaking into an easy smile. He recognized her. She was often on duty when he came in. “You here about the girl you brought into emergency” she said.

Edith Bradbury was the girl's name, he said, unsure of whether the woman had the information. Could she tell him what room she was in?

The woman looked over at a computer screen and tapped several keys on the keyboard. “Down the hall, first door beyond the nurse's station,” she said without looking up. “Wait a minute.” Her fingers ran over the screen. “Looks like Edith Bradbury's checked out.”

“Checked out?”

The woman took her eyes from the screen and rested them on a spot beneath the counter where she'd set the paper cup, a faint look of longing in her expression. “Good news, I guess,” she said. “She must've had a good night or the doctors wouldn't be letting her go.”

“You're sure she's gone?”

Her gaze shifted back to the screen. “Well, the records say she checked out.”

“Can you tell me where she went?”

The woman hesitated. “Well, Father, even if I could . . .”

“Edie's coming with me.” It was a male voice, rumbling like a bassoon over the faint buzz of conversations.

Father John turned around. Jason Rizzo was striding down the corridor, dressed the same as yesterday. A uniform, Father John thought, black leather, silver chains and studs, blue jeans wrinkling around the thick legs, and high-top, snap-up black boots.

“Where are you planning on taking her, Rizzo?” Father John said. He could hear the alarm bell sounding in his voice. Professor Lambert could be right. If Edie Bradbury had gone back to Rizzo, then it was possible she'd helped Rizzo take out his revenge on Trent. Or was it that Rizzo had helped her?

He tried to push away the thought.

“Now let me just see here.” The man ran one hand over his chin, as if he were searching for stubble. “I'm asking myself, is there any reason why this here priest needs to know my business? You know the answer I keep getting, coming through loud and clear?”

“Where, Rizzo?”

“Where? Where?” The man lifted one foot and took a step forward, then another, his boots stomping hard on the vinyl. He could have been a giant advancing toward the counter.

“We don't want any trouble, Mr. Rizzo.” The woman's voice sounded faint and shriveled. “I can call security.”

“You folks are good at calling security. I ain't forgot that little number over in emergency.” Rizzo jabbed an index finger at the desk. “That's a little grudge I'm gonna worry about settling up later. Right now, all I'm worried about is getting my woman out of here and back where she belongs, with her own kind.”

Father John shouldered past the man. He caught the look of surprise that flashed in Rizzo's eyes and kept going down the corridor. The blond head and white shoulders of a nurse floated above a nurse's station. A man in green scrubs was pushing a gurney through a side door, a limp plastic bag dangling from the top of a metal pole.

A heavy hand, like a weight, gripped his shoulder, and Rizzo's voice rang in his ear. “You hold up there.”

Father John yanked himself free and turned around. Little black stubs poked from the pores in the man's face; his breath was fueled with a mixture of coffee and whiskey.

“You got a problem, Rizzo?” he said.

“Yeah, I got a problem with you sticking your nose in our business, Edie's and mine. Why don't you just get out of here.”

“I will as soon as I see her.”

“Maybe she don't wanna see you.”

“Edie can tell me so.” Father John headed past the station, and the blond head tilted up from the stack of paper on a clipboard, eyebrows lifting above the light-colored eyes.

“Everything all right?” she chirped.

The first door on the right stood ajar, a wide enough slot that Father John could see the thin arm with squares of white bandage resting on the armrest of a wheelchair. He rapped on the door, then pushed it open.

The girl seemed to flinch, or had he imagined it? She looked small and shrunken in the wheelchair. A talented student, Professor Lambert had called her. Creative, with a flare for words. Dear Lord, a killer? This small girl with a red coat draped over her shoulders, bunching up in back, holding a black plastic bag that bulged at odd angles, like a bag of captive animals trying to escape from her lap.

Edie kneaded her fingers into the plastic bag. “I thought you was Jason,” she said, her voice a monotone.

“I'm here.” Rizzo pushed past and stationed himself behind the wheelchair.

“You don't have to go with him,” Father John said.

She rolled her head around and glanced up at Rizzo. “What difference does it make?”

“You ever think that maybe Edie knows what's good for her?”

“Jason's right.” The girl seemed to be trying to make her voice bigger. “I gotta stick to my own kind. I shouldn't've gotten mixed up with that Indian.”

“Listen to me, Edie,” Father John said, leaning over the small figure in the wheelchair. “You need your family now.”

“Yeah, like I have a fricking . . .” She stopped, pulled in her lower lip, and looked away. Finally she said, “Besides, I called my mom this morning, and you wanna know what she said? ‘So what'd you do, Edie. Cut yourself again?' Then she says, ‘I don't wanna hear about your trouble. You got nothing but trouble. Follows you around like a sick puppy. Bobby don't want any of your trouble around here, so just leave us alone.' That's what she said, and that's what I'm gonna do. Soon's I called Jason, he said he'd come over and get me after . . .”

“After what?”

The girl went quiet, as if she'd like to pull back the words.

“None of your business,” Rizzo said. He set a glovelike hand on the girl's shoulder. There was the dark smudge of a tattoo above the knuckles. Then he was squeezing the girl's shoulder, and Father John caught her wince against the pain.

“Let her go,” Father John said, and to his surprise, the man's hand seemed to relax until he was patting at her shoulder. Father John pushed on. “Let me guess, Rizzo, you wanted an apology, right? You wanted to hear how sorry she was for leaving you and going with an Indian.”

“Mud people.” Rizzo let out a snort. “We can't get ourselves contaminated by mud. Edie's gonna get herself back on track. She's my woman, and I'm taking her out of here.”

Edie was gnawing on her lower lip, her teeth working it like a piece of leather, and Father John wondered if Jason Rizzo knew about Trent Hunter's baby.

“You ask too many damn questions,” the girl said. “I don't know why you came to my place yesterday. I mean, if you hadn't showed up, it'd all be over. So you did your good deed. So forget about me, okay?”

“Let me help you, Edie.”

“Why don't you just get out?”

“Yeah, good idea,” Rizzo said.

“You know where you can find me.” Father John set a hand on the girl's other shoulder. He could feel the bony knob poking through the red coat. She wasn't much more than a child, he thought.

As he turned toward the door, Rizzo lunged forward, blocking the way. Father John feinted right, and as the other man took a step in that direction, Father John went left. He reached for the doorknob, but Rizzo's arm shot past. His hand gripped the knob, and Father John could make out the tattoo of a wolf head.

The man leaned against the door. Folding his arms across his chest, he tilted his head back and ran his tongue over his lips, enjoying himself.

“What're you gonna do?” he said, flexing his shoulders, throwing a quick glance at the girl in the wheelchair, as if he expected applause.

“I'll tell you what you're going to do, Rizzo,” Father John said. “You're going to step aside.”

“If I get damn good and ready.”

“Let him go.” The girl's voice had a surprising surge of determination.

“Shut up.” Rizzo sent her another glance, but there was no smile attached.

“You're going to step aside now,” Father John said. “This is a hospital, man. You have a point to make, make it someplace else.”

The other man stared at Father John a moment, then started laughing—a raw, hiccupy noise. “Well, I just might do that, Indian priest, next time you come around poking your nose into our business, me and Edie's.” He took his time about peeling himself away from the door.

Father John threw the door back and started down the corridor. Another nurse—squat and gray haired—was heading his way, clipboard in one hand. She stopped in front of him. “You're Father O'Malley,” she said, as if to confirm her own conclusion. “I gave her your message.” She waved the clipboard in the direction of Edie's room, then shrugged. “Maybe she knows what she's doing.”

He didn't think so. He gave the nurse a smile, thanked her, and walked the length of the corridor and across the reception area. Outside he brushed a trace of snow off the pickup's windshield with his arm and drove out of the parking lot, “Mira d'acerbe” mingling with the hiss of cold air spewing from the vents.

HE SPOTTED THE
tan SUV parked in front of the administration building as he came through the canopy of cottonwoods that spilled onto Circle Drive. Not a vehicle that he recognized, but visitors were always dropping by St. Francis Mission, wanting to see the Catholic church with Arapaho symbols on the walls and in the stained glass windows. Whoever the visitors were, Father Ian had probably already offered to give them a tour. The man really did want to belong. Father John had to give him that.

He hurried up the concrete steps and let himself through the door. Ian's voice droned down the corridor. He was at the far end with a tall, broad-shouldered man in blue jeans and a blue jacket that hung open in the warmth of the old building. The priest was waving a hand toward the portraits of the past Jesuits at St. Francis Mission lining the walls—the pairs of solemn eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses that, Father John thought, seemed to be forever watching over the place. The
other man gave his full attention to one of the portraits, as if it were the most interesting thing he'd seen today.

Father John shut the door behind him and stomped his boots, spattering moisture over the mat.

“Here's the pastor now.” Ian started toward him, ushering the visitor ahead. “John, meet Liam Harrison, reporter for the Associated Press.”

“Great to meet you, Father O'Malley.” Liam Harrison thrust out a large hand. He couldn't have been more than twenty-five, with dark hair combed back from a handsome, intelligent-looking face and hazel eyes lit with curiosity. He had a grip like an iron vise.

“What's this about?” Father John asked. He knew the answer. He'd read it in the tone of the young man's voice, even before the other priest said, “Mr. Harrison's doing a story on the Shoshone murders.”

“That's right,” the reporter said. “Father McCauley here has been filling me in on the background of St. Francis Mission. I figure whoever shot those Shoshones out at the Bates Battlefield wanted everybody to know it was an Arapaho job. So the killer sent you a message, intending for you to find the bodies. What do you say, Father?”

“Sounds as if you've already made up your mind.” Father John glanced at Ian. He wondered what his assistant had given the reporter along with the mission's history.

The reporter emitted a little laugh—the nervous laugh of a student unsure of the matter about to be discussed. His fingers curled around a pen, which he began tapping against a small notebook cupped in his other hand. “If you don't mind, Father, I'd like to ask you a few questions. Looks like the Shoshones were killed in revenge for an old massacre.”

Father John gestured toward the door on the right. There was no getting around it—he was going to have to talk to this reporter. He followed the man into his office and asked him to have a seat. Then he took off his coat and hat and tossed them over the coat tree. “Where did you get your information?” he asked.

The reporter had shrugged out of his own jacket and settled his large frame into one of the side chairs, the notepad balanced on his thick
thigh, pen laced between thumb and forefinger. Father John walked around the desk and dropped into his own chair. A red light was flashing on the phone.

“I'm sure you know the rules, Father O'Malley.” Liam Harrison waved the pen into the space between them, a friendly, open smile on his face. “We're both in the confidential business.” He paused and looked up at the ceiling a moment, considering. Finally, he said, “I can tell you this much: we received an anonymous phone call from somebody who thought we'd be interested in a story about two tribes squaring off against each other.”

“Man? Woman?”

The reporter shrugged. “I probably shouldn't tell you this, but it was hard to tell. You know, a garbled voice. Doesn't make any difference. My editor thought the story worth pursuing so . . .” He shrugged again. “Here I am, pursuing it.”

Father John glanced away a moment. The story on the national news last evening, and now the Associated Press running a story. He could see the headline: “Tribal War on Wind River Reservation.” He looked back at the young man. “You should talk to Detective Burton,” he said.

“Oh, I've talked to Burton and several deputies who went to the site. Had a long interview with the coroner. Pretty gruesome, from what I hear, the victims being posed like the bodies on an old battlefield. Whew! There's got to be somebody sick out there. Who do you think could have made that taped message that Father Owens got?”

“I don't know,” Father John said.

“You don't know, or you won't tell me?” The reporter bent his head and jotted something on the notepad.

“The investigation is still going on.”

“Can you confirm the caller left a message that led you to the battlefield?”

“You seem to have everything you need for your story.”

“I need your confirmation.”

Father John didn't say anything for a moment. In the back of his mind,
he could hear Eric Surrell's voice:
Montana wants war, and that's what he's gonna get
. And now this—a reporter chasing down rumors and anonymous calls for a story that would sell newspapers and feed the kind of mindless hysteria that could run like a wildfire through the reservation.

“Look, Harrison,” Father John said, leaning forward and clasping his hands on the desk. “You don't have a story yet. I suggest you wait until the investigation is completed.”

“You're entitled to your opinion.” The reporter was grinning again. “My editor and I disagree. If those Shoshones were killed out of revenge, there's no telling what might happen next. The way I see it, this is one helluva story that could start a cycle of revenge, you get my drift. Revenge killings leading to other revenge killings, just like in other tribal areas around the world. Africa. Balkans. Middle East. Turns out, we got our own tribes holding onto old grudges. This story resonates with current events, and we intend to be out in front with it.”

The man drew in a long breath and leaned forward, one hand pasting the notepad to his thigh. “I would think you'd welcome the story, Father. Nothing like a little publicity to get the detective motivated to solve the case. We can help get out the truth.”

The truth, Father John thought. Frankie Montana out for revenge? A pregnant girl left behind and a white supremacist thug, either one of whom could be out for revenge? The truth could be anything.

“How about the phone message?” The reporter pushed on.

“No more comments.”

“Ah. Well, in that case, it looks as if I've been wasting my time. I had hopes that since you're a former history professor . . .”

“High school teacher,” Father John said. Lord, let the man get one fact right.

“Historian, all the same. I had hopes you'd be concerned about old tribal animosities showing up in the twenty-first century.”

Father John got to his feet. “I think we're done here,” he said.

Harrison stood up, slid the notepad and pen into his shirt pocket, and bunched his jacket under one arm. Then he jammed his fingers back
into the shirt pocket and pulled out a white business card, which he snapped down on the desk. “Should you have second thoughts, I'd be interested in anything you have to say.”

“I'll see you out.” Father John walked around the desk and motioned the man ahead. He followed him across the corridor, past the watchful eyes in the portraits, and opened the door. The man hurried down the steps, stuffing his arms into his jacket as he went, shoulders squared, as if he already had the story.

“You're going to want to listen to the call that came in while you were out.” Father Ian's voice came from behind him, the man's boots clacking on the wood floor.

Father John headed back to the office, the other priest a few steps behind. “I didn't want to say anything while the reporter was here,” Ian said.

Father John walked over to his desk and stared at the phone. There were usually messages when he got back to the office, the red light flashing. What was it about this message that seemed so different? So like an ominous intruder.
You're going to want to listen
 . . .

Not again, he thought. He glanced over at the other priest waiting in the doorway, hands jammed into the pockets of his khakis. “I was just coming in when I heard the phone ringing,” Ian said. “The answering machine took over before I could get it.”

Father John pressed the mailbox key and bent over the desk. The scattered papers, the folders and envelopes, the paperweight and stray pens all blurred around the black plastic telephone. “You have one new message,” the telephone voice announced.

A half-second passed, and then the high-pitched, scrunched voice of the robot, “Listen, Indian priest.” A pause, then,

“Another body at Bates,” Father John heard the hollow note in his voice.

“I decided to . . .”

The other priest hesitated, and Father John glanced up. “To do what?”

“I called the sheriff's office right away and played the tape for Detective Burton. He's probably out at the battlefield by now. I would have gone myself, but that wouldn't have left anyone at the mission.” An accusatory note had seeped into the other priest's tone.

Father John nodded. There was nothing at the mission Ian McCauley couldn't do, no need he couldn't meet. He could even stop by a bar for a drink. Who would know? Not the Provincial, Father John thought as he crossed the room.

“I'm going to the battlefield,” he said, grabbing his jacket and hat and heading for the door.

IT WAS THE
same caller, he was sure, the same distorted, alien voice. He'd sensed the malevolence wafting down the line like a bad odor.
There's got to be somebody sick out there,
Liam Harrison had said. Whoever had made the call had access to a recording studio, and, according to Vicky, Frankie Montana had worked at the reservation radio station. Father John wondered about Jason Rizzo and his gang of supremacists. Which one of them worked at a studio? It was a question he intended to bring up with Burton.

He could see the vehicles ahead, huddled among rocks and brush at the mouth of the canyon. Exhaust from one of the vehicles curled into the air. Dark uniforms were darting about. Other figures moved through the shadows in the canyon. An ambulance was parked between
two SUVs, and what looked like the coroner's van stood over to the side. He could feel the muscles tightening in his stomach. How many bodies this time?

Father John left the pickup behind an SUV and started past the vehicles. Burton had stepped away from a couple of uniforms and was heading toward him. He looked like a bull plowing over the snow, his bulky frame encased in a black coat, a black cowboy hat tilted back on his head.

“Figured you'd show up.” He waved a bulky arm toward the canyon. “Another homicide. Looks like a replay of the last massacre.”

Father John winced at the man's choice of words. And yet . . . it was true. Trent Hunter and the Crispin brothers
had
been massacred.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Maybe you can tell us.” Burton cocked one shoulder in a “come on” sign, swung around, and headed back into the canyon.

Father John started after him. Their boots crunched the snow and the wind hissed through the boulders. The air was colder in the shadows of the canyon, washed with ice. His fingers felt numb inside his gloves, and he lapped his gloves together to work the circulation back.

There were other deputies ahead, close to the place where he'd found the three bodies. They glanced around and started pulling back. One officer peered into a camera pointed toward the ground. Light flashed over the snow.

It was then that Father John saw the body, snow drifting over the blue jeans and dark jacket, around the dark head. A single black braid dug like a thick finger into the snow. He stepped past Burton, moving in closer, swallowing hard against the nausea in the pit of his stomach. He forced himself to look down at the body and the purple mass of blood, tissue, and fabric in the center of the man's chest. There were dark splotches of blood in the snow.

And the body had been posed. Right arm bent upward over the head, left arm folded below the hole gaping in his chest, and both legs crooked
backward with the knees ahead of the rest of the body, as if he'd been running.

Father John knelt in the snow and made the sign of the cross over the body. “God have mercy on you,” he said out loud. “God forgive you whatever wrong you might have done and show you His infinite mercy. May you rest in peace.”

He stayed in place for a long moment, still fighting down the surge of nausea. The smell of death filled his nostrils.

“Any idea of who he might be?” Burton asked.

“I know him,” Father John said.