The Eagle Catcher (18 page)

“That's just it,” she said, sitting up on the edge of the sofa away from him. “Jeff Miller thinks he's already found the murderer. He's not looking for anybody else.”

Larry swung his legs down to the floor and slowly sat up. She knew by the way he pulled off his tie and tossed it onto the coffee table that he didn't like the drift of the conversation. Everything was simple to him, black and white.

“Who wanted the tribal chairman dead?” Vicky asked, letting her thoughts tumble out. “Why have some Arapaho wells suddenly gone dry? What had Harvey been working on? Why would anybody care enough about what he had written in that history of his to tear the files apart?”

“Why do you care so much?” Larry was looking steadily at her. There was silence between them. After a minute, Larry slumped back against the side of the sofa, his gaze still on her. “Now what?”

“John O'Malley ...”

“Who?”

“Father John is going to put the history files back together. Maybe he can figure out what's so important in them. I intend to look at the oil angle. There has to be some reason for Harvey's murder.” She heard the hope in her voice. What was she hoping for? That Larry would understand ?

Larry put his arm around her and pulled her close. She liked the warmth and comfort of his body—it was easy to succumb. “You don't have to be so tough,” he said. “Not with me.” Brushing back her hair with his free hand, he removed her dangling silver earring and took the lobe of her ear between his lips. Then she felt the tip of his tongue in her ear. After a moment, he said, “No more talk.”

Afterward, Vicky lay on her side and, in the golden light slanting through the half-closed blinds, watched Larry sleeping. His brown chest rose and fell with quiet rhythm above the top of the sheet crumpled around his waist. She would have to give him an answer, but not yet. She wanted to put it off a little longer.

F
ATHER JOHN TURNED the Toyota onto Seventeen-Mile Road, following the procession of pickups and old cars that had departed from Circle Drive as soon as Harvey's funeral Mass ended. The procession moved slowly down the middle of the blacktop, then veered right onto a narrow dirt path that led to St. Francis Mission cemetery. The cemetery sprawled across a brown bluff. Father Brad drummed his fingers against the metal frame around the passenger window. A black prayer book and a small container of holy water sat on the seat between them next to the tape player.

Easing the Toyota to the side of the path, Father John stopped behind the other trucks and cars. A white canopy fluttered in the hot wind over a casket and opened grave a short distance away. Already seated in metal chairs under the canopy were Harvey's family, Will Standing Bear, and several other tribal elders. The singers hovered over the drum, and Arapaho families crowded around, filling in the dusty, barren spaces between adjacent graves.

Grabbing the prayer book and holy water container, Father John swung out of the Toyota and made his way along the narrow dirt paths between the graves. Each grave was covered with brightly colored plastic flowers and crosses of weathered wood. Some had carved inscriptions: “Lovely Mother.” “Here lies a Good Man that Cared for Children.” “A Generous Man with a Good Heart.” The white canopy over Harvey's casket snapped against its ropes, and the hushed whisperings of the crowd dissolved as the priests approached.

The young priest gasped, and Father John saw immediately what had caught his attention. On top of Harvey's casket sat a large brown saddle, stirrups and straps coiled against the polished wood. Father John shot a knowing glance at his assistant, meant to say he would explain later how Arapaho chiefs, in the Old Time, were always buried with some belongings so they would have what they needed in the spirit world. Harvey would be buried only with his saddle, the symbol of his worldly goods.

Opening the prayer book, Father John began reciting out loud the ancient Catholic prayers for the dead, asking God to bless the final resting place of His servant, Harvey Castle. Then he handed the container of holy water to Father Brad and, walking slowly around the casket, dipped the sprinkler into the water and flung it across the casket and the saddle. People in the front rows blinked as drops of water rained upon them.

When he had finished the blessing, Will Standing Bear stepped forward.
“Jevaneatha neshait hideniau hethehe vedaw nau neyesawathawid jethee hevedathu, ”
the elder prayed, the words soft and lilting. Holding himself perfectly still, with head raised and shoulders thrust back, the old man gazed across the knoll to the plains that stretched endlessly away. White clouds sailed across a sky as blue as the sea, and the canopy billowed in the breeze. Then, the elder said: “No matter what has happened, we must keep God's commandments and walk in His road all our lives.”

The singers stirred around the drum. Two men started turning the wheels attached to the wide belt under the casket. Slowly the casket descended into the earth as drumbeats punched holes in the air. Suddenly Anthony stepped forward and held up his hand. The wheels stopped turning, and the drumming stopped. Leaning over the grave, Anthony picked up the saddle. He held it out to Father John. “It is for you,” he said.

Again the steady beat of the drums sounded across the knoll of the cemetery and drifted into the wind as the wheels began cranking. Father John watched the casket descend, the saddle heavy in his arms. He felt the moisture of tears on his cheeks at this double gift. He had the pleasure of receiving the saddle that had belonged to his friend, but since he didn't own a horse, he would have the additional pleasure someday of giving the saddle to someone who needed it.

The drumming continued several moments after the casket had been lowered. Harvey's family and the other mourners stood with heads bowed, and Father John let his gaze roam across the cemetery and onto the plains shining in the sun. Then he looked up. A golden eagle circled overhead. It swooped toward the group around the grave, then rose and glided west toward the foothills of the Wind River Mountains, wings outstretched. After a moment it circled back. Father John realized that everybody was looking up into the sky. Whenever the eagle came, it brought a blessing and the promise of harmony. It brought hope.

No one said anything, but the crowd, almost as one, had looked away from the sky and was watching a white Miata nudge its way along the dirt road past the line of parked vehicles and stop. Melissa Bennett got out and walked tentatively around the other graves toward Harvey's. Anthony had started through the crowd toward her, and as soon as she spotted him she ran into his arms.

It's no longer a buzz on the moccasin telegraph, Father John thought. It's out in the open now for all the world to see: Anthony's motive for committing murder.

“
W
HAT DOES MELISSA Bennett's family think about her and Anthony?” Father Brad's voice rose over the wind crashing through the cab of the Toyota.

“Just what you might guess.” Father John flipped down the visor against the noonday sun dancing on the hood and washing across Seventeen-Mile Road. The idea of judging others by the color of their skin made his own skin crawl, which was why he'd usually turned down invitations to the Cooley ranch. But Melissa was different. There was hope for the young. Harvey's saddle shifted across the bed of the pickup, and thudded against the side.

As soon as they'd gotten into the cab, Father John had explained the double gift to his assistant who didn't say anything at first. Then, shifting in the seat and looking out the side window, he'd said, “You know, this isn't a bad place.”

Father John had glanced sideways at the blond priest in the black wool suit who looked like a Wall Street banker and wondered if, maybe, he'd been too hasty. He was always quick to size up people, and lately he was turning out to be wrong more often than right. You could never tell about anybody. After all, he looked a little like a banker himself today, in his black shirt and slacks. Realizing Father Brad had said something about leaving, he pulled away from his own thoughts and gave the young priest his full attention.

“You weren't around yesterday when the Provincial called,” Father Brad was saying, “so I grabbed the chance to talk to him about a job teaching in Chicago or maybe St. Louis. Wherever there's a prep school vacancy.”

Father John felt his grip tightening on the steering wheel. The next governor of Wyoming was demanding his ouster from St. Francis at the same time his assistant of less than three weeks was asking for a transfer. The Provincial must wonder what in hell was going on.

“Nothing personal,” the young priest added quickly, “but you've got to admit reservation work is pretty dull, except for when somebody gets murdered, of course, and I suppose that doesn't happen very often. It's too bad people like the Cooleys and Jasper Owens and some of the folks from Riverton and Lander aren't parishioners at St. Francis. It would make an assignment here more interesting.”

Father John glanced at the speedometer and let up on the gas pedal. For a moment he'd thought this assistant was beginning to see beneath the surface of things. Why should he have expected that of Father Brad before his time? At least there was potential with this young priest, he was becoming convinced of that. He wished Father Brad had waited awhile before talking to the Provincial, that was all.

“When will you leave?”

“Depends on available jobs. By the way, the Provincial wants you to call him ASAP”

Message delivered, Father John thought. He had no intention of calling the Provincial any time soon to hear about his next assignment.

The parking lot in front of Blue Sky Hall was already filled. It looked as if more people had come to the feast and the giveaway than had attended Harvey's funeral. Father John wheeled the Toyota into the vacant field across the road, and he and his soon-to-be-gone assistant walked in silence over the hard-packed ground past the old cars and pickups.

A couple of Arapaho men waited in front of the hall, doormen with John Deere caps pushed back on their heads. “Come on in,” one said, pushing open the door. The hall looked much the same as at last night's wake—the same people milling about, except now there was the buzz of conversation. The table along one wall was covered with food: Hamburgers, potato salad, baked beans, steaming corn, and fry bread. The air was thick with the odors of fresh coffee, onions, hot oil, and dill pickles.

“What's over there?” Father Brad asked, nodding toward the end of the hall. He didn't point, and Father John felt a stab of pride. This assistant had figured out, in a short time, that Arapahos considered pointing rude.

Father John explained that the items Harvey's family would give away were stacked on the table—blankets, shawls, star quilts. “It's the family's way of thanking people for all they've done during the last couple days. In the Old Time ...” He stopped, glancing at the young priest to see if this was a gift he wanted to receive. A hint of interest sparked in Father Brad's eyes, and Father John plunged on, explaining how Arapaho families used to give away the dead person's tipi and belongings, everything except for the things needed in the afterlife, which were buried with the corpse. Chances were that Maria and Rita had already quietly given away Harvey's personal items to people they knew could use them.

Father John spotted Maria seated in a circle of grandmothers not far from the table. Leaving Father Brad with a group of Arapahos who had come over to welcome them, he strolled over to the old woman. Maria held out a thin hand to him. Her other hand clutched the knitted shawl around her shoulders, even though the day's heat had settled over the hall like a shroud.

“Don't forget your promise about Anthony,” Maria said, reaching for his hand. Her eyes, watery and clouded, locked on his.

Rita stepped away from the knot of people close by. Placing one hand on her mother's shoulder, she bent down, bringing her face close to the old woman's. “Anthony's gonna be fine. He's home now, isn't he?”

Maria ignored her daughter and kept her eyes on Father John. There was no mistaking the fear born out of memory, fear that the injustices of the past might be repeated in the present.

Anthony was talking to several young Arapahos in the center of the hall. He looked around, then started over. Anyone would know the young man had just buried someone he loved, by the sadness in which he moved.

Father John walked through the crowd to meet him. There were thousands of words he might say, all of them inadequate. Shaking Anthony's hand, he managed, “I can't tell you how much your gift means to me. I'm deeply touched.”

Anthony nodded and said something about Harvey wanting him to have the saddle. Father John knew that wasn't quite true. Harvey hadn't planned to die.