The Thunder Keeper (10 page)

Except—the name of a murderer.

By the time he turned into the mission grounds, he knew what he had to do. He was going to have to find a man called Eddie who didn't want to be found.

He drove down the straightaway lined with cottonwoods that moved lazily in the rain. As he turned onto Circle Drive, he saw Father Don's blue sedan parked in front of the administration building.

F
ather John parked next to the sedan and hurried inside. Down the corridor, past the door to his own office, a mixture of surprise and foreboding taking hold of him. Some part of him, he realized, hadn't expected Father Don to return.

He stopped at the opened door at the far end of the corridor. Papers stacked neatly on the desk; books upright in the bookcases, as if Father Don had just stepped away.

He retraced his steps to his own office and sank into the leather chair with creases and folds that matched the contours of his own body. He reached for the phone. The other priest was probably at the residence. He was about to dial the number when he noticed the flashing light on the answering machine. He set the receiver down and pushed the button.

“Todd Hartley at the
Gazette.
” The voice was unfamiliar. “Like to talk with you as soon as possible.”

Father John jotted down the number the voice rattled off, wondering what the reporter wanted. He could have talked to Slinger, heard that the pastor at St. Francis wasn't buying the suicide verdict on Duncan Grover.

A whirring noise on the machine, then the voice of
Father Bill Rutherford, the Provincial: “Call me, John. It's very important.”

Father John swiveled around and stared out the window at the rain. So Elena was right. Don Ryan was leaving, and the Provincial was about to deliver the usual promise: no need to worry; another man on the way. As soon as he could find another Jesuit eager to spend time on an Indian reservation. In the meantime . . .

In the meantime, he'd be alone. People streaming through the office, telephone ringing, sick people to visit, meetings to attend. Even with an assistant, he was always behind.

He tried to shake off the foreboding. He was jumping to conclusions. Father Don had returned, a good sign the man might stay awhile. He was probably over at the residence, eating a sandwich, visiting with Elena.

Before he returned the calls, he wanted to check out Eddie. He picked up the phone, dialed information, and got the number for Howard and Fergus in Denver. A couple of seconds passed, and he had Vicky's voice mail. “Please leave your name and number . . .”

She was five hundred miles away, and the reality brought a mixture of longing and reprieve. He was a priest; he wanted to keep his vows. Temptation was easier to overcome when it was five hundred miles away.

He told her voice mail that he was trying to find a Pueblo Indian named Eddie who could be involved in the recent death of a man named Duncan Grover. A so-called suicide. Someone at the Denver Indian Center might know Eddie. Anything she could find out would help. He ended by saying he hoped everything was well, then disconnected the call, not trusting himself to say more.

Next he dialed the Provincial's office, aware of the
muscles across his shoulders clenching against the possible bad news.

“Father Rutherford.” The voice interrupted the first ring.

“John, returning your call.” At the seminary twenty years before—a lifetime ago—they'd been friends. “What's going on?”

“You haven't heard?” Disbelief edged the Provincial's tone.

Now the tension was like fists gripping his shoulders. “You'd better fill me in.”

“A lawsuit's been filed against the Province, the Society, the Archdiocese of Milwaukee, and St. Francis Mission.”

“Lawsuit! What are you talking about?”

“I'm afraid Don Ryan's been unjustly accused—”

“Don Ryan?”

“—unjustly accused of sexual misconduct toward a young woman—”

Father John cut in: “Mary Ann Williams.”

“You know her, then?”

“I've met her.” His throat felt tight with anger.

“She's hired lawyers who think Catholic priests are a bunch of perverts and sexual predators. They've won some big cases with a few bad apples.” A sigh of weariness floated over the line. “Show me the organization that doesn't have bad apples. Anyway, the lawyers have filed a lawsuit charging Don Ryan—a fine priest, excellent teacher with an unblemished record—with manipulative and sexually opportunistic conduct and breach of fiduciary duty and a lot of other legal jargon. Our lawyers are working on the complaint, but we may have to see this through to trial.”

“Suppose she wins?” Father John could still see the
young woman running down the steps of the administration building.

“She's asking a million and a half. Since she claims the misconduct continued at the mission, St. Francis would have to pay its share. She's demanding punitive damages for post traumatic stress disorder plus loss of income after she quit her job in Milwaukee and moved to Riverton. If we lose, our insurance will pay part, but we'll still have to sell some of the mission land, perhaps the strip along the highway.”

Father John looked back at the window, the rain sweeping through the cottonwoods, blurring the field where the Eagles practiced. Anger smoldered inside him like a wildfire ready to break out, and once started, he knew, hard to control. How dare Don Ryan put the mission at risk! It belonged to the Arapahos. They had laid the stone in the buildings, set the steeple on the church, painted the symbols on the walls. It was only a legal technicality that, more than a century ago, the chiefs had asked the Jesuits to come and educate the children and had given the Jesuits enough land for a mission.

He tried to focus on what the Provincial was saying, something about Don Ryan being distraught, going back to Milwaukee for a retreat.

“We should offer to settle, Bill,” Father John said.

“Settle? I'll take that as a momentary lapse in your judgment. The woman's lying, impugning the character of a fine priest. Our lawyers assure us we'll win at trial, that a jury won't believe her. There's no proof that he coerced her in any way.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Two consenting adults, John. There was no taking advantage of.”

“We both know that makes no difference. If he was
counseling her, that sets up a special relationship. The victim can't consent.”

“The woman should still accept the consequences of her own actions.”

The front door opened and shut, sending a blast of cool air through the office. Don Ryan stepped into the doorway, his face lost in the shadows of his slicker hood.

“Couple more things.” There was a sharp tone of authority in the Provincial's voice. “Our lawyer will be in Riverton day after tomorrow to interview you. “I'd also like you to refer any media questions to me. Understand?”

He understood. Todd Hartley from the
Gazette
already had the news. Now he wanted a statement from the pastor at St. Francis. Father John dropped the receiver in the cradle.

“Sit down,” he said to the man in the doorway.

The other priest pushed the hood back, came across the office, and dropped into a side chair, like a penitent, eyes puffy and red, dark lines etching the corners of his mouth.

“I take it you've heard.” He threw up both hands in a kind of supplication. “I'm afraid I let myself get carried away back in Milwaukee, didn't use the soundest judgment. There was a brief”—he swallowed—“encounter that didn't mean—”

“Don't bullshit me.”

The other priest's head snapped back. He stared at him a moment, some kind of debate going on behind the red-rimmed eyes. Finally he said, “I fell in love with her.”

“Why didn't you tell the Provincial the truth?”

Don Ryan dropped his gaze to the floor. “What difference would it make? I have no intention of leaving the priesthood. A priest forever, according to the Order of Melchizedek and all that.”

“Is that what you told Mary Ann Williams before she followed you here?”

The sound of the rain outside crowded into the space between them. After a moment the other priest said, “I couldn't stand the thought of losing her. You know what I'm talking about.” He looked up, locking eyes with him. “Your reputation isn't as pure as snow,” he said. “You're not exactly known as Saint John O'Malley around the Province. There's a lot of speculation about you and the Arapaho lawyer lady.”

Father Don shifted forward. “Why don't
you
stop bullshitting
me
with your high-and-mighty attitude? The only difference between us is that Mary Ann decided to sue me.”

Father John rose out of his chair, and the other priest shot to his feet. Leaning over the desk, Father John said, “I don't care what you've heard; you've got it wrong.” He stopped himself from trying to explain the truth. What was the truth? That he and Vicky never had an affair? No promises made? That was only part of the truth. What about the unspoken promises, the longing, the immense sense of loss when she'd left? He didn't take his eyes away from the other man's. It was a thin line that divided them.

“Tell the Provincial you want to settle,” he said.

“I can't do that.”

“You said you love her.”

“I have a career, a reputation.”

Father John gripped the edge of the desk, aware of his knuckles popping white through his skin. “You'd better get out,” he said.

He stayed at his desk a long time, until the rain had stopped and darkness had begun to creep outside the window, until he heard the engine in the blue sedan turn over
and saw the vehicle swing around Circle Drive, headlights flashing past.

Still he waited, bolted in place by the realization that he might have put St. Francis at risk himself. His throat was as dry as sandpaper. He wanted a drink. One drink, and he would be calmer, he knew. But there was no alcohol at the mission, and he was grateful for that.

Finally he got up and walked over to the window. The mission was as peaceful in the rain as an Arapaho village in the Old Time. He would not call Vicky again, he resolved, and he wondered how he would keep the resolve. Temptation is strong—how often he'd said the words to penitents—but God's grace is stronger. He would find Eddie on his own. The man was out there somewhere in the grayness that spread beyond the mission.

He went back to the desk, dialed the reporter's number, and left a message. “Father John O'Malley. I'm on my way to Lander to talk with you.”

T
raffic crawled down Main Street, splashing water over the cars and pickups parked at the curb. It had stopped raining, but moisture hung in the air like a faint memory. Father John found a parking spot a half block past the redbrick building that housed the
Gazette
offices and walked back along the storefronts. The smell of fresh grass mingled with the odors of exhaust and gasoline.

Just inside the front door was a tiled lobby, plastic chairs on each side, a counter directly ahead. The silver-haired woman behind the counter looked up from an opened newspaper and regarded him over half-moon glasses. “Father O'Malley,” she said, drawing in a long breath that expanded her ample chest. “What can we do for you?”

“Good to see you.” He recognized her—third pew from the back, ten o'clock Sunday Mass, four or five times a year. Once she'd caught him outside after Mass and pumped his hand for several seconds, assuring him that if there was ever anything the
Gazette
could do for his Indians, he had only to ask. Well, he was here to ask.

Refer any media to me.
Bill Rutherford's voice still echoed in his head. Well, not exactly. The Provincial had
said, “I'd like you to refer any media to me.” It was a preference, not an order. He smiled at the slight Jesuitical difference.

“Todd Hartley in?” he said to the woman.

“I'll check.” She flashed a reassuring smile, as though the fact that it was close to quitting time made no difference, and reached for the phone. “Father O'Malley to see you,” she said. Then: “He'll be right out, Father.”

Father John tapped his fingers on the counter and fielded the woman's efforts at small talk. How were things at St. Francis? Fine. Fine. Busy as ever, I assume? Oh, yes. Very busy.
Where was the reporter?

Finally the door next to the counter swung outward and an overweight, round-cheeked man with wire-rimmed glasses and thinning blond hair walked into the lobby. He looked about thirty, despite the paunchy stomach and tell-me-something-new expression in the set of his jaw.

“Hey, Father.” The reporter extended a pudgy hand. His grip was moist and nervous. “Didn't expect to see you today. Matter of fact, didn't expect you'd want to talk to me at all. Provincial's office has been stonewalling me on the Father Ryan lawsuit, telling me to talk to the lawyers.” He shrugged the massive shoulders. “You know lawyers. Never want to talk to reporters. Come on back.”

Father John nodded toward the woman, who was leaning over the counter, eyebrows raised, mouth ajar—
What's going on?
—and followed Todd Hartley into the newsroom past three vacant desks with computers, newspapers, folders, and metal sorting shelves crowding the surfaces. The reporter dragged a chair over to the last desk. “Have a seat,” he said. Then he walked around and dropped his bulky frame into a swivel chair and began fumbling through a stack of papers.

“Vicky Holden's sure making a name for herself in Denver,” he said.

Father John sat down and hung his cowboy hat on his knee. He didn't say anything. This wasn't about Vicky.

“Handling a real important law case.” The reporter pushed on. “
Navajo Nation
v.
Lexcon
. Could impact the interpretations of natural resource law. We've been following it pretty close. Great human interest story, too. Local Indian goes to big city and makes good.”

Father John managed a half smile of recognition. He'd been following the story in the
Gazette,
each article conveying the sense that Vicky had disappeared into another space-time continuum, leaving him with an acute sense of loss.

Finally Todd Hartley pulled out a spiral notebook, flipped the top, and jotted something on the blank page. He looked up. Expectancy filled his expression. “Well, Father, what comment do you have on the lawsuit filed against your assistant, Father Don Ryan?”

Father John waited for a couple beats. “I'll give you a statement,” he said, “but then I have another story for you.”

“Great!” A look that almost passed for glee came into the reporter's face. “So what do you have to say about the lawsuit?”

There was little he could say. Most of what he knew his assistant had told him in confidence. He couldn't repeat it to anyone, let alone a reporter. He said, “It's an unfortunate situation for everybody involved.” He was thinking that in two days he would have to give an interview to Don Ryan's lawyers.

The reporter kept his pen poised over the notebook, waiting. “That's it?” He let out a gust of breath. “That's
your statement on a one-point-five-million-dollar sexual misconduct suit?”

Father John glanced across the newsroom: the light falling in slats across the crowded desktops, the raincoat dangling from a coattree. He brought his eyes back to the reporter, who was tapping his pen impatiently on the notebook. “Father Don Ryan was at St. Francis three months,” he began, selecting the words that he wanted to read in tomorrow's paper. “He's a hardworking, dedicated priest. Very popular with the people, who, I'm sure, are going to miss him.”

The reporter scribbled something onto the page. “So he's left the mission?”

“He left today to return to Milwaukee.” That was a nonconfidential fact.

The reporter was still writing. “St. Francis is party to the lawsuit, Father. Should judgment go against Father Ryan, how will the mission pay its share of the damages?”

Father John drew in a long breath. He could see the headline:
MISSION TO SELL LANDS
. The box-store developers would tramp into his office.

“You'll have to ask me that question if and when it happens,” he said, struggling to mask the anger still smoldering inside him at what he'd come to think of as Don Ryan's selfishness. Not unlike his own, which made it even more appalling, as if he'd happened past a mirror and unexpectedly caught a true vision of himself.

The reporter shook his head. “Okay, Father O'Malley. I get the picture. You Jesuits are circling the wagons, gathering around to protect one of your own, no matter how guilty the guy might be.” He sat back, locking eyes with him for a long moment. Finally he said, “What's the other story about?”

“Duncan Grover.”

There was a flicker of recognition in the reporter's eyes. “The suicide?”

“He was murdered.”

“You don't say!” The reporter's eyes widened behind his lenses. “Coroner's report says he jumped off a two-hundred-foot cliff at Bear Lake.”

Father John waved away the objection. “The coroner's report is wrong. I believe Duncan Grover was thrown off a ledge.”

“What makes you think so?”

Father John cleared his throat. Careful, careful, he told himself. He began explaining: Grover had a job waiting at the Arapaho Ranch, he'd been taking instructions from a medicine man, he'd gone to Bear Lake, a holy place, on a vision quest. A man like that didn't kill himself.

Hartley had begun scribbling on another page. After a moment he looked up. “Any evidence somebody tossed him over the cliff?”

Father John was aware of the hum in the fluorescent lights overhead, a pipe knocking somewhere, the splash of traffic outside. He didn't have any evidence. He had a confession that he couldn't use. He said: “There was a warrant out in Colorado for Grover's arrest on robbery charges. He'd been hanging around with some tough characters. He came up here to start over. Somebody could have followed him and killed him. The killer could still be in the area. It could be a man named Eddie.”

“What's your source, Father?”

Father John pushed back against his chair. If he gave the reporter Ali Burris's name, the girl would deny she'd ever heard of Eddie. “Let's just say,” he began, “I have an anonymous source.”

Hartley let the pen drop onto the notebook. “Sorry, Father. I can't print a story based on your anonymous
source. I need names, telephone numbers so I can confirm—”

“You rely on anonymous sources all the time, Hartley.” Father John reached across the desk and lifted a folded newspaper. “How many anonymous sources did you use in this issue?” He tossed the newspaper aside. “Check out the warrant in Colorado. Check out the Denver Indian Center where Grover and Eddie hung out. You're a reporter,” he said. “Go after the real story.” He was thinking that a reporter asking questions might convince Slinger to reopen the investigation.

“I don't know.” The reporter rubbed his pudgy hands together.

“Here's your lead. ‘Father John O'Malley, pastor of St. Francis Mission, has asked Detective Slinger to reopen the investigation into the death of Duncan Grover. O'Malley claims that someone by the name of Eddie followed Grover to the reservation from Denver. The man may have information on Grover's murder.' ”

“What's this really about, Father?” The reporter pushed back in his chair. “What do you care whether some Indian from Oklahoma committed suicide or got himself murdered?”

“I told you. There could be a killer in the area,” he said. “In Lander. On the res.”

“I get it.” The reporter shifted his weight forward, picked up the pen, and began tapping the notebook again. “The
Gazette
prints this”—he hesitated—“news article, and the murderer, if the murderer is in the area, starts worrying about how much you know. He might have to pay you a little visit. That's it, isn't it? You're trying to draw Eddie out.”

“You know a better way to stop him?”

“Stop him?”

“He killed once. What's to prevent him from killing again?”

“And you could be the next victim.” Todd Hartley tossed the pen across the desk and got to his feet. “You're playing a dangerous game, Father.”

Father John stood up, facing the man. “You'll run the story?”

“I don't know if my editor's gonna go for it, Father. It's pretty transparent. But I've had a bad feeling about that suicide. Never heard of an Indian killing himself on a vision quest. Something not right about that.” He was shaking his head. “I'm trusting that you're giving me a straight story, Father.”

“Thanks.” Father John shook the other man's hand.

“You might not be thanking me if the killer comes looking for you.”

He gave the reporter the most nonchalant wave he could manage and, setting his cowboy hat on his head, made his way back across the newsroom and through the vacant lobby, where a metal curtain had dropped over the counter. He had to turn the key in the door to let himself out.

 

H
e drove out of town on 789, veering onto Rendezvous Road, plunging through the late-afternoon shadows that crept over the southern part of the reservation. Every mile or so a house appeared in the open spaces, as if it had erupted from the earth. Todd Hartley was right, he thought. Drawing a killer to himself—to St. Francis Mission—could be dangerous. The article would probably appear in tomorrow's paper, and he was going to have to watch his back.

He turned east on Seventeen Mile Road and, after about
a mile, slowed for a right into the mission grounds. He felt a calm certitude settling over him. One way or another, he and Eddie would cross paths. Let it be before anyone else dies, he prayed.