The Eagle Catcher (24 page)

H
AVING ONLY ONE useful arm would not stop Father John. He would coach the Eagles' game this morning and then drive the Toyota over to the tribal offices where he'd find out what Harvey had discovered and what had gotten him killed.

Father John had drowsed off a few times during the night, only to be jerked awake by pain tearing down his shoulder and arm like a race car skidding across the pavement. The bottle of painkillers stood on the dresser and, about three o'clock, he'd flushed them down the toilet. They would've been like whiskey, numbing, calming, and he would've wanted more.

After watching the little pink tablets disappear in a swirl of water, he'd brewed a pot of coffee and sat at the kitchen table most of an hour. The strong bitter coffee eased him a little. If Homer Lone Wolf could keep his pledge, he would keep his, too.
God help me to keep it,
he prayed.

Father Brad had offered to stand in as the Eagles coach this morning, and Father John had considered it. His assistant was trying, he had to give him that, but this was likely to be the last summer Father John would have with the Eagles, and he wanted all of it.

 

The Eagles were on their feet hollering for Jonathan Little Bear to keep running, and Father John was yelling, too. The boy had hit a grounder to left field, made it to first base, and was looking around, satisfied, while the Riverton Buffalos scrambled for the ball. Finally the boy looked over at the bench and got the message. He put his head down and took off just as the left fielder gloved the ball and threw it in to second base. The kid on second base stepped out, caught it, dropped it, scooped it up and darted for the sandbag, but not before Jonathan slid in. “Safe,” called the umpire, one of the Buffalo fathers.

The Indian kids were jumping up and down, shouting. The Eagles had their first chance to score, and it was the bottom of the sixth. Father John glanced over at Jonathan's dad behind the bench. “All right,” the Arapaho said, shoving a fist over his head.

“You're up.” Father John motioned to the next batter. The kid grabbed the bat and ran for home plate. He was good when he was on. He could bring Jonathan in.

Keeping his eyes on the pitcher, Father John hunched over his right arm, instinctively protecting it. For the most part, his shoulder and arm were numb, except for occasional shocks of pain when it felt as if his muscles had contacted hot wires.

The batter swung wide at the ball, missing it by a foot. “Come on,” Father John said under his breath.

Another pitch. Another swing, closer this time. Jonathan, halfway to third, darted back. On the next pitch, the batter connected and sent the ball arching over the field. The right fielder pedaled backwards and leapt into the air, but the ball flew past, hit the ground, and spun out, the kid after it. Jonathan fast-tracked around third and into home with the batter on his tail. Jonathan's dad had both fists in the air and was jumping up and down. All the kids were shouting. A couple were even rolling on the ground in glee.

The Eagles were still behind by one run, but it was clear the momentum had changed. Father John patted both kids on the back and motioned up the next batter. He was glad the morning was cool, the sky overcast. Except for an occasional gust of wind, it was calm, but the clouds over the mountains looked ominous. And the air felt heavy, like a magnet that might attract rain. The plains stretched away into the far distances, and the great expanse of quiet swallowed up the shouting voices, the whack of the ball.

It was good here. He would miss it more than he could say. St. Francis Mission, the people—his friends, the Eagles. There was a connection between the kid on the Boston sandlot thirty years ago and the Arapaho kids up at bat in the middle of Wyoming. Baseball had taught him some useful lessons: play by the rules, be part of the team, do your best, learn from errors, enjoy the rewards. But his world was white. He wondered what useful lessons baseball had for these Indian kids in their world.

The next batter struck out, but the momentum was still strong. Then he saw Elena walking stiffly across the back field, an apron tied over her dress. Only an emergency would send the housekeeper outdoors in midmorning. He hurried down the sideline, his hand grasping his bad arm to hold it steady. It hurt to walk.

“Two white guys come to the house,” Elena said when he reached her. She was out of breath. “They don't wanna see Father Brad. They said they was gonna wait for you over in the church.”

Father John could see the dark Lincoln parked on Circle Drive. He had to walk all the way back to the bench, gripping his arm, to ask Jonathan's dad to take over as coach.

 

Jasper Owens sat in the last pew of St. Francis Church, just inside the wide double doors. The fronts of his suit coat bunched up against the polished wood of the pew, and his feet were planted squarely on the kneeler. The burly young man who had accompanied him to the Cooley pig roast lounged against the side wall under a window.

Father John took his time genuflecting. He was used to Arapahos gravitating to the church when they wanted to talk to him. It never surprised him to step inside at any time in the day or evening and find someone waiting for him, as if he had been expected. This was the heart of St. Francis Mission, the sacred space where Arapahos came to look at their lives, to unburden themselves, to pray for grace. But he wondered why Jasper Owens and his sidekick had come to the church.

“What can I do for you?” Father John whispered, slipping into the end of the pew. He kept his voice low and reverent. They were in the Presence of the Blessed Sacrament. His shoulder and arm were throbbing, and he worked his fingers gently past the buckles and into the thick fabric of the sling.

Jasper squared his shoulders and crossed one leg over the other. “You remember my assistant, Luke.” He nodded sideways at the dark-haired, muscular man. Father John didn't say anything.

“This is a real pretty church,” Jasper went on. “I been sitting here thinking it's been thirty years since I went to confession.”

Father John waited. An interesting opening. Maybe this oilman had a conscience after all. Maybe that's why he'd come here, to unburden himself.

“It's too late for me now.” Jasper smiled and shook his head.

“You think so?” Father John leaned his good shoulder into the hard wood comer of the pew, keeping his eyes on the bald, perspiring man a few feet away.

“Yeah. I didn't come here for confession. You know that, don't you?” The oilman hoisted himself to his feet. “Is there someplace private we can talk business?”

Father John realized he'd been hoping Jasper might take a different turn, and he felt a slight sense of regret as he gripped the knob of the pew in front and pulled himself upright. The kneeler clanked against the floor as Luke scrambled across the pew and followed them outdoors. The sky was hazy, and the breeze sweeping through the cottonwoods around Circle Drive felt cool, refreshing. The sounds of the Eagles' game floated over from the field.

“This is as private as it gets,” Father John said, gesturing to the sky. They had stopped on the sidewalk in front of the church. The oilman folded his arms across his chest and rocked back heavily on his heels, looking upward. “I'm a businessman,” he began. “In business you've got to make hard decisions and do what's best for the company, you understand? My grandfather founded Owens Oil and Gas Exploration almost seventy years ago, and Dad's run it for forty years. Soon as he retires, I'm gonna take over. Our company comes first. Maybe in your way of thinking that might not be right, but it's what I know. ‘Do your best for the company.' Yeah. I can still hear Granddad saying that.”

A faraway look came into the oilman's eyes, then he seemed to shake off the memory. “You know oil's been down the last few years. In the toilet, unless you're some damn Arab. All of us American companies are struggling to stay alive. We gotta watch the bottom line all the time. Can't stop, not for a minute.”

“Where are we going, Jasper?” Father John asked. He had a pretty good idea, and he hoped the oilman would get to the point before he reconsidered what he was about to divulge.

“You know, don't' you?” Jasper said, locking eyes with Father John. “Soon's I heard you were working on Harvey Castle's history files, I figured you'd put it all together. They don't let dimwits into the Jesuits, last I heard.”

Luke shifted from one foot to the other, a mixture of impatience and boredom on his face.

Jasper went on. “Next thing I hear, that Indian lawyer lady's poking around Marvin Antelope's office wanting to see his report on the reservation's oil wells. So I figure the jig's up, as they say in the movies.”

“Did you kill Harvey and Charlie?” Father John asked.

Jasper laughed out loud. Turning to his assistant, he said, “See, what did I tell you? The minute they figure out I've been draining off reservation oil, they're gonna jump to the conclusion I killed off two tribal councilmen to keep 'em from blowing the whistle.”

Redirecting his attention to Father John, he said, “I've gotta do whatever's best for my company, but murder would be stupid. We lease the rights to oil on reservations in six states. What d‘ya think the headlines would do to business? 'Oil executive murders tribal chairman and tribal councilman.'”

Father John studied the bald puffy-faced man in front of him. It was fascinating, in a strange way, that his only problem with murder was that it would be bad for business. After a moment Father John said, “I suppose you have alibis for the night Harvey was killed and the night somebody saw to it that Charlie didn't make the only curve on Seventeen-Mile Road.”

“Sure. Saturday night Luke and I went over to Hudson for steak dinner. You know the place where those big, juicy steaks hang over the plate. Then we hit a bar in Lander.”

“Harvey was killed in the early morning hours,” Father John said.

Jasper exhaled a long breath. “Well, I was home asleep by then.”

“An airtight alibi.”

“What can I say? I was alone. My wife's been out of town all month.” He threw both hands in the air. “Okay, the truth. She left me this spring.”

Father John was almost more surprised to hear Jasper had a wife than that she had left him. “What about you?” he said to the younger man waiting impatiently next to his boss. “I suppose you were home in bed too.”

“Yeah, but not alone.” Luke looked at the oilman and grinned.

“You gotta be kidding,” Jasper said. “Not that bimbo from the bar.”

“Hey, I wasn't alone.” Luke seemed to have started enjoying himself.

Jasper swung his shoulder around, dismissing the younger man. “I was playing cards over at the Elks the night Charlie Taylor had his accident. Anyway, why would I kill him? I figured Harvey Castle was the one who might've caught on to what I was doing. I got nervous that whoever broke into his office might have found some evidence and would come after me. Blackmail.” Jasper threw out both hands. “Geez, I need that like I need cancer. So I waited for a phone call or letter. Nothing. Then I decided it must've been something else the burglar was after, and I start breathing easier. Next thing I hear, you're going through the files. I get nervous again, so I told Luke, ‘Get over to Harvey Castle's office and see what the hell he knew.”'

Father John felt his face going red with anger. He sucked in his breath and dug his fingers into the contraption holding his arm to his chest. He had a strong urge to smash a fist into the face of the young man who was now grinning at him, to settle matters the way they were settled in the streets of Boston when he was a kid. Luke kept his eyes steady, daring him. Even with both arms, Father John knew he was no match for this young thug. He forced himself to take a deep breath. “So it's you I've got to thank for this.” He raised his shoulder slightly. A bolt of pain shot through his arm.

Luke seemed to relax, but his eyes were wary. “I had to get outta there before you saw me.”

Father John turned toward Jasper. “You owe me a tape player and a visit to the emergency room.”

“Fair enough.” Jasper fumbled inside his suit coat, pulled out a wallet, and removed a stack of bills. He peeled off a couple and held them out. Father John took them and stuffed them into the back pocket of his blue jeans. There were people who could use some cash right now. Ernest, for one. Homer in Denver with his sick baby boy.

“Why are you telling me all this, Jasper?”

“I'm glad you asked,” the oilman said, replacing the wallet in the inside pocket of his jacket, then adjusting the cuffs over those of his white shirt. “I want to know whatever Harvey found out about the drilling I'm doing into the southwestern part of the reservation. Any records he might've come across, I want them. All you gotta do, soon as you find ‘em, is make sure I get 'em. Nobody else is ever gonna know.”

“Don't, Jasper,” Father John said, holding up the palm of his only usable hand, but the oilman was plunging on. “Fact is, you and I both know the financial situation at St. Francis Mission is pretty sad. It's a real joke among us businessmen around here. You could do a lot for these Indians if you had, shall we say, a regular source of income.”

Father John was shaking his head. A few minutes ago he had been willing to give Jasper Owens the benefit of the doubt, to believe the oilman might actually regret what he'd done. He'd missed the measure of this man by a mile.

“Let me get this straight,” Father John said. “If I give the information to the FBI, it could prove you had a strong motive to murder two Arapaho councilmen. On the other hand, if I give the information to you, you can continue stealing oil from the reservation.”