The Drowning Man (32 page)

But now the irritation was back. “When it's all over, people remember the details. It's the details that are important.”

A shadow lengthened from the corner of the administration building, and Lloyd Elsner walked across the front, picking his way around the stoop. Then the old priest was gone, absorbed into the shadows of the trees on the far side of the building. He was like a broken piece of pottery, Father John thought. Pitiful but dangerous, with still-sharp edges.

He kept his gaze on the mission a moment, aware that the agent was waiting, impatience crackling the air like electricity. From the rear office came the clack of Ian's computer keys. St. Francis would return to normal soon. His parishioners would return. There would be meetings at Eagle Hall, kids darting about the grounds, the Eagles practicing out on the field. Tomorrow, he would put Lloyd Elsner on an airplane, and he would go…where? To a retirement home in a rural area in Wisconsin, Bill Rutherford had said. A secure place where he could be watched, and Father John intended to make certain that the provincial kept his word.

He turned back to his desk and sat down. “The man called the mission yesterday afternoon and gave me instructions,” he began. Then he went through the whole story again, probably for the third or fourth time. He could hear the hesitation in his voice. The images were carved in his mind: the flare of gunshots, the bodies stretched in the dirt, the uniforms rushing into the barn, shouting, cursing. The sound of horses screaming. He tried to relate all of the details—
details are important.
Gianelli filled the top page of the notepad in his hand, then flipped the page and started on the next.

“I think we can wrap this up,” he said when Father John had finished. “Taylor and her foreman had quite a scam. Steal the petroglyph, hold the tribes up for a quarter million. Probably started thinking they wouldn't get anything if the glyph went to a dealer, so they decided to kill the Indian and cut their ties to the outside world. Nearly worked.”

“Why did they try to kill Vicky?”

The agent locked eyes with him a moment. “We don't know it was them.”

“Brown Chevy truck.”

“Probably a thousand in the county.”

“Then who, Ted?”

“There are a lot of folks who aren't happy about her taking Birdsong's case. Ask Norman. Ask your parishioners.”

Father John stopped himself from saying that he didn't have any parishioners.

“Taylor and Lyle were opportunists,” the agent went on. “They saw what happened seven years ago. Two Indians got away with stealing a petroglyph. They sold it and came to blows over the profits. Fast-forward to this summer. Taylor and Lyle decided to steal another glyph. They hedged their bets, got into contact with Behan on the chance that the tribes might not pay. But once they realized the tribes were willing to pony up a quarter of a million, they decided to collect the ransom themselves.”

It made sense, Father John was thinking. It even seemed logical, and yet…the reasoning was slightly off, not quite right somehow. “How did Taylor and Lyle know how to contact Behan?” he said.

And then he understood. “They had to have been part of the theft seven years ago.” Father John held up one hand before the agent could object. “It wasn't the Indian that they contacted. They contacted the dealer. He's the one who has been operating gangs of artifact thieves. He's the one who sent Behan here with a message for the tribes, just as he did before. Listen, Ted,” he leaned over the desk, locking eyes with the man on the other side. “Taylor and Lyle could have shot Raymond Trublood and set up Travis to take the blame. Travis could be innocent.”

The phone started ringing, and Father John reached for the receiver before he realized that it wasn't his phone. The agent was tugging at the cell clipped onto his belt. “Gianelli,” he said, clamping the plastic object against one ear, not taking his eyes from Father John's.

A couple of seconds passed before he said, “I'll wait for you at the mission.”

He pressed a key and stuffed the cell back into its case. “That was Vicky,” he said. “She's on the way over.”

VICKY DROVE THROUGH
what passed for a morning rush hour in Lander, then turned onto Highway 789 and stayed in the wake of a truck with tires almost as high as the Impala's hood. Outside her window, the narrow ribbon of the Popo Agie River shimmered in the sunshine. Past Hudson, the truck continued down the highway as she turned onto Rendezvous Road and plunged into the reservation, the breeze lifting little clouds of dust over the asphalt.

She'd felt a surge of hope when Gianelli said he'd wait at the mission. John O'Malley would be there and together—they were always stronger together—they had a chance of convincing the fed that Travis Birdsong knew enough to stop a gang of artifact thieves. If Gianelli could convince Deaver that Travis had important information, then—the best she could hope for—Deaver wouldn't object when she asked the court to overturn Travis's conviction, grant a new trial, and release Travis on bond. She had to get Travis out of Rawlins before someone killed him.

Vicky gripped the wheel hard; she could feel her knuckles popping against her skin. First, she had to convince Gianelli.

When had the brown truck pulled onto the road? It wasn't there a few moments ago. She'd found herself still checking the rearview mirror—it had become a habit during the last three days. One eye on the road ahead, one eye watching for the truck. And now it was there.

“They're dead.” She shouted and pounded the steering wheel, then made herself draw in a deep breath. The two people who had tried to kill her were dead.

And yet…there was something about the truck that caused her heart to start thumping: the way it matched her own speed and maintained the same fifty yard distance, the two dark cowboy hats framed in the windshield.
Breathe
, she told herself again. She wasn't out on a highway alone like before. She was on the reservation. There were turnoffs onto dirt roads that led to houses. The small town of Arapahoe was ahead, white houses with dark roofs dotting the horizon. She could drive into town, honk her horn, yell out the window. Doors would fly open, people would run outside. What could the cowboy hats do with her own people shielding her?

It was as if the Impala were on automatic, taking itself down the road while her eyes stayed on the truck. She reached blindly for her briefcase on the passenger seat and extracted the cell. Her fingers fumbled for the feel of the 911 key. Still the same distance behind, the same, unvarying speed. She felt slightly sick.

A woman's voice came out of the void. “Emergency.”

“This is Vicky Holden. I'm being followed again by two men in a brown truck. I think it's the same men who are trying to kill me.”

“Where are you, Vicky?” The operator
knew.
The state patrol investigator had said he'd alert the emergency operators. At the first sign of the truck, all Vicky had to do was call.

“Rendezvous Road, a mile or so south of Arapahoe.”

“Wind River police are on the way.”

She pressed the end key, set the cell on the console, and made herself take in another deep breath.
In and out, in and out.
She kept her own speed steady. The turnoff to Arapahoe spilled into the road ahead. She could speed up, race into town, honking and shouting for help, and…

People would think she was mad. The brown truck would drive on, of course. It would disappear, and she would be in town with people gathering about, jabbering and shaking their heads, staring out across the plains toward Rendezvous Road where, if she was lucky, there might be a little cloud of rising dust. The moccasin telegraph would bog down for days with the story.

The truck was still there, still the same, steady pace. There was no sign of a police car. She'd never make it to the mission. She shifted her foot to the brake pedal and slowed for the left turn. The truck also began to slow down. Her heart was banging in her ears. The cowboys would shoot at her again; they'd shoot at anyone nearby. She would bring snipers to her own people.

Then the truck banked to the right. She stared into the mirror, scarcely able to believe what she saw—the left side of the truck perpendicular to the road. Then the rear end swayed and bounced across the barrow ditch, and the truck headed east on a dirt road, the top of the cab visible above the brush, swirls of dust rising behind.

Vicky felt her hands relax on the steering wheel; her heart was beginning to slow into its regular rhythm. There were so many brown trucks. She couldn't fall apart every time she spotted one. Besides, Marjorie Taylor and Andy Lyle had died trying to collect the ransom for the stolen petroglyph. As soon as Travis had a deal, Gianelli would arrest the dealer that they had been working with.

But another thought hung like a shadow at the edges of her mind. What if Marjorie Taylor and Andy Lyle hadn't tried to kill her? What if the cowboys had been Raymond Trublood's brother and somebody willing to help him? She was still trying to get Travis released from prison. She had no intention of giving up. What if Hugh Trublood felt the same?

Vicky tried to blink back the thought. It was crazy. Andy Lyle with the dark mask and dark hat, that was the cowboy who had shoved a shotgun out the window at her and pulled the trigger. He was dead. Marjorie Taylor peering through her dark mask over the steering wheel—she was also dead.

She stopped at the sign on Seventeen-Mile Road, picked up the cell, and called 911 again. She gave her name and told the operator that the brown truck had turned off. It hadn't been following her after all. She tried to ignore the warm flush of embarrassment that crept into her cheeks.

“Officers are on the way, Vicky.” The operator's tone was soothing, as if it were perfectly logical for Vicky Holden to report any brown truck in the vicinity. “They'll probably want to contact you anyway.”

Vicky thanked the woman, hit the end key, and sat at the stop sign for a moment, glancing both ways on Seventeen-Mile Road, still gripping the cold plastic cell, almost expecting the truck to appear. An SUV lumbered past, then an old white sedan spitting puffs of black exhaust. The truck was gone. She made a right, then another right past the sign with
St. Francis Mission
in black letters—a comforting sign, she thought.

She drove between the stands of cottonwoods, past the school on the right, sunshine sprinkling the asphalt. Just as she was about to swing into Circle Drive, the brown truck loomed in the passenger window: cutting past the edge of the baseball field, barreling through the brush and wild grasses, it bore down on her. She felt as if her bones had fused together. She couldn't catch her breath. The cowboys had turned onto the dirt road to throw her off. They'd guessed where she was going. They'd followed the road a short distance, then headed cross-country for the mission.

She had brought them to St. Francis! And they were going to kill her.

The Impala seemed to bank into the turn on its own. She pushed down the gas pedal and shot around Circle Drive, rocking sideways, tires skidding. The engine roared in her ears. The truck was bucking in the rearview mirror, turning onto Circle Drive, not more than five…four car lengths behind. The mission was empty and quiet, suspended in time. There was no one around, no sign of life apart from John O'Malley's pickup in front of the residence and Gianelli's white SUV parked outside the administration building.

She drove for the SUV, pulled in on the far side—a flimsy shield of metal and fiberglass between her and the truck—and jumped out, leaving the engine running, the door hanging open. She threw herself around the front of the SUV and started across the infinity of space between the vehicle and the front steps of the building. At the edge of her vision was the brown truck, pulling a U-turn, engine roaring, gravel shooting around the tires. And the shotgun…

She saw the shotgun clearly, the long black metal jutting out the passenger window, blocking everything else—the steps, the administration building—as if it were the only thing in the world, and she realized with a sharp surge of panic that she was in the open. There was no place to duck, no place to hide. She tried to reach the steps, paddling as fast as she could, but the steps kept retreating. Her arms and legs were numb, heavy weights. She felt as if she were drowning.

A shadow lengthened around the corner of the building, coming out of nowhere. Then, at the edge of her vision, she saw the old man with white hair loping toward her, the black slits of his eyes fixed on the truck.

“Go back,” she screamed, trying to wave numb arms. “Go back!”

The force of the man's weight crashed against her, and she felt herself falling sideways in slow motion, scrabbling for balance, clawing the air. She was abruptly conscious of the old man knocking into her again, pushing downward in an explosion of gunshots. A hot, sharp pain ripped through her as the sidewalk bucked upward and slammed into her shoulder. Another gunshot. The percussion roiled over her; the ground rocked beneath her. She felt the heavy weight of the old man pressing her downward, and the darkness of his body merged with the darkness that closed around her.

 

“SHOTS!” GIANELLI SAID.

Father John was already on his feet, lunging for the window. He took it in at once—the brown truck whipping around the drive, the black barrel of a gun receding past the window, the two bodies crumpled together on the sidewalk a few feet from the front steps. And the blue Impala parked next to the SUV.

“Vicky!” He was running now, across the office, down the corridor.

“Hold it!” Gianelli was already at the front door, gripping a revolver that he'd pulled out of a holster somewhere. There was the noise of a vehicle boring into gravel. The fed started inching the door open, and this was strange—the man was quiet, rooted in place, focused—while Father John felt himself flying apart.

“Wait,” Gianelli said. Even his voice was calm and controlled.

“They're leaving.” Father John pushed past him, rammed the door open, and threw himself down the steps. “Brown truck with two cowboys,” he yelled to the man behind him.

“John, get down!” Gianelli yelled.

Father John dropped next to the crumpled bodies: Lloyd Elsner half covering Vicky, an arm flopped across her back, the man's legs twisted grotesquely to the side, like the truncated, angled legs of a petroglyph, and the blood matting the dark shirt and pooling onto the sidewalk.

A motor raced, wheels screeched. Father John looked up as gunshots burst through the air. The truck had hurled itself into a U-turn and was barreling toward the administration building, cowboy hat leaning out the passenger window, the long barrel of a shotgun leveled on the white police car swerving in behind. Another police car shot out from the tunnel of cottonwoods and drove onto the grass in the center of Circle Drive, then turned left and rammed the side of the truck.

There was the crack of another gunshot. Father John saw Gianelli crouched at the side of the steps, revolver trained on the truck. The police car rammed the truck again—a deafening crunch of metal against metal. Then another shot, and the truck's right front tire burst into a fireworks display of black shreds. The vehicle skidded across the brush and bumped to a stop against a cottonwood, with the two police cars pulling alongside. A blur of light blue uniforms swarmed the truck. Gianelli bolted down the sidewalk and through the brush.

Father John took hold of Vicky's wrist, probing for a pulse. She lay pinned under the old priest, but her right hand was flung free—lifeless—and that was the hand he was holding now. His heart thudded against his ribs. His pulse galloped, almost obscuring the faint beating in the blue veins of her wrist.

“Vicky,” he said, dimly aware of the blue uniforms milling about across the drive, the angry voices shouting and barking orders, and Gianelli hunched down beside him now, fingers searching for Father Lloyd's carotid artery. There was a rapid scrape of footsteps, and Father Ian drew up next to the agent.

“My God, what's happened here?” The other priest placed a hand on the old man's head.

Father John felt Vicky's hand moving beneath his own. She was beginning to stir, and he had to brace himself against the rush of gratitude and relief flooding over him.

He brought his lips close to her ear. “Can you hear me?” he said, making his voice as steady as he could manage.

Her hand was squeezing his then. “He's heavy,” she said. “I can't move.” Her voice was a whisper so faint that he had to keep his head near hers.

“Vicky, listen to me,” Father John said. “Were you shot?”

“There's no pulse.” Gianelli pulled back and got to his feet. The flaps of his leather vest hung open, and Father John could see the black straps plastered against his white shirt and the black handle of the revolver in the holster under his armpit as he walked over to the SUV. He yanked open the door and lifted out a radio. “Get some backup to St. Francis Mission. There's been a shooting. Two people down. Wind River officers have stopped the shooters.”

“Dear God, the poor old man,” Ian said, his hand cupping the top of the man's head.

“He pushed me away.” Vicky was moving now, trying to slide out from under the dead weight of Lloyd Elsner. “He pushed me down.”