The Man Who Fell from the Sky (21 page)

Father John went over to Julia and thanked her for her stories. The old woman looked up, blinking him back into memory. “My stories, yes, my stories,” she said, and he realized that she was about to sink again into the space that she occupied most of the time. He leaned in closer. “One other thing, Julia. Did your grandmother ever mention the name of the hired hand?”

She started shaking her head before he had finished the question. “She said, ‘Let it be. What's done is done.' But one time I
heard her talking to my mother. She said Walking Bear seen Jesse get thrown from his horse.”

One of the Walking Bears. Never owned a spread of their own. Hired out on ranches. It made sense. Father John thanked the old woman again.

Charlotte stood by her mother, an arm around her shoulders. She smiled at Father John as she said, “You did great, Mom.”

“Did I?” Julia said.

*   *   *

OUTSIDE FATHER JOHN
checked his cell. A voice mail from Macon Walking Bear. He got into the pickup, pressed the callback button, and listened to the ringing of a phone somewhere in Oklahoma.

“THIS IS MACON
Walking Bear. You called me.”

Father John thanked the man for returning his call. A hot, dry breeze whipped around the pickup. The air tasted of the West, of dust and dried sage and pine trees and asphalt leaking heat. He had parked in the shade of a tree, but arrows of sun lay across the passenger seat and the heat rose toward him. He left the driver's door open and sat crosswise behind the wheel, one boot on the pavement, explaining to the man on the other end that he was the pastor at St. Francis Mission on the Wind River Reservation.

“I remember the place. Sent my son to school there.”

“I'm calling about James.”

The line went silent, and for a moment Father John thought the connection had been cut off. Then the voice said, “What about him?”

“I understand he graduated from college and worked in the oil fields.”

“Yeah, that's true. Always was smarter than the cousins. Accounts for why I moved the family to Oklahoma to be close to my wife's people. They were a smart bunch, real good educations, not like that bunch of Walking Bears on the rez. I didn't want James to be like them. After he got out of school, he got real good jobs, made a lot of money.”

“Did he ever . . .” Father John took a moment to parse the words and arrange the question. “Show an interest in the treasure Butch Cassidy supposedly buried in the mountains here?”

“That old myth!” Macon Walking Bear chuckled, or perhaps he was coughing up phlegm. “Swore up and down from the time he was a kid that one day he'd find that treasure. Had a collection of maps when we moved off the rez. Always sure one of them was genuine.” Another gravelly noise came down the line. “I never took much notice of those old stories myself. Folks got to believe in something. I figured if James wanted to believe in a treasure, it was all right with me.”

Father John leaned his shoulder against the seat. He was thinking that Cutter could have come here to find a treasure he had always believed existed. Which meant he had left a good job, moved away from family. Which meant he was serious. How serious was he? Enough to murder a cousin and perhaps cause the death of another?

And something not quite right here, something off. He could sense it. The logic made sense: local boy grows up with rumors of a treasure, moves away, but never forgets and one day, he returns. He could still see the brown-faced boy smiling out of the photo, and he tried again to fit the image into the features of the man who had come to the mission. Looking for his roots. And remembering a boarding school he had never known.

“You still there?”

“Sorry,” Father John said. “Do you think your son came back here to look for the treasure?”

“He always talked about going back, but he was too busy working, never got to go anywhere. Hardly ever came home. I guess that's what happens. You get your kids up and educated, and they leave you.”

“What do you mean?” Cutter's father didn't know his son had moved here? “He seems to be settling in here just fine.”

The line went silent again. Then, a strangled sob, like the sound of a branch breaking. “Who are you?” The words were shaky and uncertain.

“I'm the pastor . . .”

“You're an impostor. What do you want? What are you trying to sell me?”

“I don't understand,” Father John said, but he was beginning to understand. He pushed on: “Tell me about James.”

“My son is dead. You call me with some fool story about him being on the rez! What do you want?”

“Mr. Walking Bear,” Father John said, taking his time. “There is a man here who claims to be your son. I'm sorry.”

“Who? Who would claim such a thing?”

“I was hoping you could help. I know this is painful . . .”

“You don't know anything.”

“Do you mind telling me how your son died?”

“Yeah, I mind.” Silence again, but this time it came with a heaviness, as though the man's grief and thoughts had moved ahead of his words. “It was an accident, they said. They said James was up on an oil rig inspecting some equipment when he slipped and fell. James had crawled all over oil rigs for years. He was
sure-footed as a mountain goat. They said he hit his head and it killed him. Now you tell me there's somebody there . . .”

“I am so sorry about your son,” Father John said. He waited a moment before he went on. “The man here calls himself Cutter. The Walking Bear cousins said they recognized him.”

“They're fools. I thought about sending word up there that James had been killed, but I never got around to it. We left that bunch of Walking Bears behind. The family we belonged to was here in Oklahoma.”

“Did James ever mention anyone named Cutter?”

“James was Cutter! He was the best at cutting out the cattle that needed branding. He was the best . . .” Another sob broke in. “The best at everything he did. Sure he used to talk about taking a vacation and going to the rez to look for treasure. Uncle of mine named Luther Walking Bear always claimed he had Butch Cassidy's map, which was a lie, but it got the kids excited. He was going to ask my uncle if he could see the map. When my uncle died, James figured one of the cousins took the map. He thought he could make a deal. The cousin would let him see the map, and he'd share whatever he found. A dream was all it was.”

A dream he could have passed on to someone else, Father John was thinking. “Did he ever mention anyone he worked with?”

“James had a lot of friends. Everybody liked him.”

“Anyone he might have told about the treasure?”

“Didn't talk about it to strangers. Didn't want people thinking he was nuts. But there was one guy—give me a minute, I'll come up with the name. This guy was a treasure hunter. Used to take off from time to time to hunt for gold the Spanish buried in Colorado. James said he never found anything, but he liked the hunt.” Another pause before the man went on. “He showed up here after
James got killed, said he was real sorry. Big, good-looking fellow, reminded me of James. His name just came to me, Mike Nighthorse. He was with James when he fell.”

Father John told the man again how sorry he was. Then he asked if he had heard that two of the cousins, Robert Walking Bear and Dallas Spotted Dear, had died. Mysteriously, he said.

Macon Walking Bear said nothing, but the sound of his breathing rushed over the line like the wind. “That impostor around when they died?”

“It's possible,” Father John said.

“You got to root him out. You hear me? You got to root out evil.”

*   *   *

ROOT OUT EVIL.
Dear Lord! Is that what the man who had made himself into Cutter Walking Bear was? Evil. Father John stared at the cell in his hand for a long moment after the line went dead. He had told the dead man's father that he would take the information to the FBI agent. The wind had picked up and was whipping through the pickup and banging the door against his leg. He slid inside, closed the door, and called Gianelli's office.

“Sorry, Father.” A polite voice on the other end, a new recruit, maybe, anxious to please. “Agent Gianelli isn't in, but I can try to reach him and give him a message.”

“Ask him to call me,” Father John said. “It's urgent.”

He put the pickup into reverse, then shifted into forward and followed a sedan onto the street. The light at the intersection ahead was green, and he sped up, close behind the sedan, making a left as the light switched to red. He made another left onto Highway 789 and called Vicky's office, the cell tight against his ear, waiting
for Annie's voice. The phone rang several times before the robotic voice told him to leave a message, and that was strange. Annie was in the office every weekday, nine to five.

He had slowed down for the right turn into the reservation. Ahead, the steeple of St. Francis Church poked through the cottonwoods and rose against the clear, blue sky. He pressed hard on the gas pedal and drove on. A left onto Rendezvous Road. He was close to Lander when he tried Vicky's office again. The same message; no one in the office. He realized he was weaving across the lanes and tried to concentrate on holding the pickup steady as he called Gianelli again. The same polite voice assured him he would pass on the message the minute the agent called in.

Vicky was in court. He kept reminding himself. In court. In court. She was safe.

*   *   *

“WHERE ARE WE
going?” Vicky gripped the steering wheel; her knuckles rose into small white peaks. A part of her knew exactly where Cutter would take her. He had forced her down the back stairs and out into the parking lot. Her car, he'd said, not that old wreck of a rental. Besides he had left it six blocks away and walked to her apartment. No sense in alerting her he was here, now was there? He had handed her the keys she had taken from the bowl.

He was laughing to himself. Congratulating himself. He ignored her question, and she asked it again.

“Let's say you were so distraught over the death of your client . . .”

“What are you talking about?” The two-lane road ahead lifted itself into the foothills, the same road she and Ruth had taken to Bull Lake. The same road she had driven alone when she had found the piece of map at the campsite.

“I'm through playing games with you.” A new menace in his voice, as if he were no longer engaged, as if whatever happened next would happen on its own. “We could have been a great couple, you and me. I know you saw it. What is it about you? So suspicious, asking questions that were none of your business, pushing all the time. I never liked pushy women. I wanted you to trust me. Stop asking questions and trust me.”

“You killed Robert.” The words surprised her, welling up from someplace deep inside.

“Dallas told you that?”

“It's true, isn't it?” The road started to wind upward. Around each bend she could see the roofs of the reservation shimmering in the sun, an ordinary day, people going about their lives. The red and blue lights of police cars flashed in the distance. She pushed on: “Dallas told me how you killed Robert.” It was a lie, but it was all she had. “He told Gianelli, too.”

“Really?” Cutter laughed to himself again, and the sound was like the gurgling of water deep inside a pipe. “Too bad Dallas is dead. That leaves only you. I doubt any judge would allow that kind of hearsay, but you're the lawyer. Maybe you know some way to get around it. Can't take any chances, can we?”

“You dragged Robert to the lake and threw him in.” She was making it up now, imagining how it must have happened. She waited for Cutter to object, but he stayed quiet, and she went on. “There's a steep drop-off. You made sure Robert was in the deep water, while you stayed where it was shallow and kicked him under.”

“Kicked?” Cutter flinched forward. He lifted the gun and pushed the muzzle into her neck. Show him nothing, she told herself. Not the tremors running through her body, not the fear thumping inside her. A lifetime passed, as she maneuvered the Ford
around another bend. He would not kill her here. A plunge off the side of the road, and he would die as well.

She felt the pressure release, the cold, hard muzzle move away. “The fool couldn't swim. All I had to do was watch him flail around trying to keep his face out of the water and put a boot on his back. God, he took a long time to die, and that fool cousin of his shouting how we had to help him, get him out before he drowned. Well, that was the point. I told Dallas to shut up or he'd be in the lake with him. That Indian turned white, so I knew he couldn't swim, either. That was my mistake, my only mistake besides being taken in by you. What a shame. You and me could've made a great team.”

“Your mistake?”

“Not killing that sonofabitch right then. Not throwing him into the lake. I got to thinking, it might look strange. Two men, both drowning? Of course, it would've made perfect sense. Robert got himself in too deep and his cousin went after him. Yeah, that was my mistake, leaving Dallas around to shoot off his mouth, drag you into it. Soon as I realized he was talking to you, there was nothing else I could do.”

“You killed him.”

“It was an accident. Just like Robert drowning. Accidents, both of them. I admit I helped a little. Got Dallas to agree to meet me up here where nobody would overhear us making plans. Oh, he was greedy. Kept thinking he was going to get some of the treasure, so he drove up here. All I had to do was bash him in the head with a rock, stuff him back into the cab of his truck, and push it over the edge. Damaged the front of my truck, was the only problem.”

An awkward silence stretched into minutes. He had told her everything, but what difference did it make? He intended to kill
her. They would go to the lake, where he would force her out of the car and march her into the water, and she would go. Because otherwise he would shoot her. In the water, she would have a chance. She could swim, but how far would she make it? To the far side of the lake? She swallowed the laugh that bubbled up inside her, crazy and wild. The water was freezing; she would go under in minutes.

She drove around another curve. They were high up the mountain now, in the area where Dallas's truck had gone off the edge. She could see the lake below in the distance, silent and glistening.

“Take it easy, my love.” The menacing voice again. “We're going to take that dirt road down to the lake nice and slow so you can enjoy the view.”