The Ghost Walker (27 page)

Marcus emitted another tight, hopeless snort. “Last time some lawyer got me a deal, I went down for three years. I don’t want no lawyers. You talk to Chief Banner for me, Father, okay?”

Father John’s instinct was to insist they go to Fort Washakie right away, to insist on driving them there. But he knew that would lead to an argument, and there wasn’t time to argue. Not when Ty might be waiting outside. He’d probably already called Gary, who might burst through the door at any moment.

Father John said, “You both have to leave this house now.”

“Nobody knows Marcus is here,” said Jennifer. “We hid his truck in the garage out back.”

Father John ignored her. He was thinking where to send them. The guest house was a possibility, but he had already told Vicky to take Susan there. He prayed Vicky had taken his advice.

Suddenly the girl blurted out, “That’s how come you want to know about the trucks. You seen them. They followed you here, didn’t they?” She sprang to her feet, gripping Marcus’s arm. He looked stunned, as if he’d had the air knocked out of him.

“We gotta get out of here,” the girl said. “We can go back to the motel.” She took a deep breath and said, “We was hiding at that motel out north on the highway after those cowboys beat him up, in case they came lookin’ for us.”

Father John got to his feet. His legs felt cramped and stiff. “You leave first. Go out the back door. They’re watching for me to come out the front. I’ll wait until you drive away before I leave. I’ll call you at the motel as soon as I talk to Chief Banner.”

Jennifer darted across the room and disappeared through a doorway. Marcus followed her. After a minute, they were back, wearing their parkas. The girl had one boot on and was hopping around as she pulled on the other, grasping a little pile of clothes under her arm.

Father John let them out the back door and watched as they disappeared around the dark hump of a garage. After a moment, a truck, headlights off, slid down the alley. He shut the back door quietly and waited about five minutes before going out the front. The street was clear, with tiny specks of snow fluttering in the hollow glow of the streetlights.

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T
he Toyota crept through the streets of Riverton, empty except for the 4×4s and sedans parked alongside the curb. Almost invisible snowflakes, like dots of rain, touched the windshield. The clouds were breaking up. It might stop snowing soon. Father John kept one eye on the rearview mirror—nothing but darkness. He began to breathe a little easier as he swung out onto the highway and headed south. It was possible Ty had passed Herb’s place earlier without seeing the Toyota pull into the parking lot.

Suddenly headlights appeared behind him. He pulled out to pass a semi, watching to see if the headlights also pulled out. They stayed back. Just short of Arapaho Junction, he turned onto Seventeen-Mile Road, darkness swallowing the space in the rearview mirror. Another mile and he wheeled into the mission. The grounds glistened with new snow, and the buildings stood out in ghostly relief against the faint moonlight.

He parked in front of the priests’ residence and hurried inside. The hallway stretched ahead, silent and gloomy in the darkness. Somewhere beneath the floorboards the furnace was hissing, but the house felt almost as cold as outdoors.

He flipped the wall switch in his office, strode over to
the phone on his desk, and punched in 911. He waited, thumping his fist against the desk top. The instant the operator came on the line, he said, “This is Father O’Malley. Put me through to Chief Banner.”

The operator began explaining that the chief was off duty. “This is an emergency,” Father John interrupted. He could almost taste his own impatience.

The line went dead for a couple of minutes. Then he heard, “Jesus H. Christ, John. It’s past midnight. Don’t you priests ever sleep?”

Father John sank into the familiar chair behind his desk and related everything Marcus had told him. He had the chief’s attention—he sensed the intensity in the silence at the other end of the line.

“Where’s Marcus now?” Banner asked.

“He wants to come in, but he needs some assurance he won’t go back to prison.”

“He’s violated probation, for Chrissake. The feds are probably gonna drop him down the prison hole and leave him there,” the chief said. “But that kid doesn’t have a choice. He can’t hide forever. Those white men will find him eventually. If he wants to save his lousy skin, he’s gotta get himself over to Fort Washakie.”

“He won’t do it, Banner. You know Marcus. He’ll take his chances. Soon as he figures out how to leave the old people so they’ll be okay, he’ll take off.” Father John felt certain of this. Otherwise Marcus would have been gone by now. There was good in him. “You need him, Banner. There are murderers and a synthetic heroin lab on the reservation.”

Father John could hear the chief take in a couple of deep breaths before telling him, “I’ll get back to you first thing tomorrow.”

“What about tonight, Banner?”

“Jesus, John. Give me a break.”

There was a click, followed by the dial tone, and Father John pushed in Vicky’s number. He let it ring a long time, his anxiety growing. Finally he slammed down the receiver, pulled on his parka, and strode back into the frigid night. Crossing the center of the mission, he followed the rutted road toward the guest house. “Please be here,” he said out loud into the cold air.

The small house looked as if it had drifted with the snow into the clump of cottonwoods, the leafless branches laced together above the peaked roof. There was no sign of Vicky’s Bronco. He could hear his heart pounding. She wasn’t at home. She wasn’t here. Where was she?

As he got closer, he saw the churned snow outside the front door, the tire tracks running toward the far side of the house, and the glint of the rear bumper just past the corner. Thank God, Vicky’s rational side had won out. He was about to knock, then decided against it. Vicky and Susan both needed their rest. First thing tomorrow, he would try talking to Vicky again. He had to convince her that Susan should go to the police, for her own safety.

*    *    *

The house where the Jesuits of St. Francis Mission had lived for more than a century groaned in the quiet. Father Peter was asleep upstairs, Walks-on in the corner of the kitchen. A few minutes ago the dog had pattered down the hallway, toenails clicking against the linoleum, and stuck his head through the doorway. Then he had pattered back, a sentry assured all was well.

Father John stood at the window in his study, sipping hot coffee and waiting for Banner’s call. The moonlight
outlined the humps and swales of the white landscape, while, in the distance, the black mass of the Wind River Mountains rose into the silver sky. He was trying to figure out the missing part of the syllogism. Locate the missing part and the conclusion is obvious, he used to tell his students. Somewhere on the reservation three white men had set up a laboratory to produce a drug called fentanyl, a synthetic heroin. They had hired two Indians to deliver the drug to Denver, from where it could be transported across the country.

Who had the capability to produce and distribute synthetic heroin nationwide? A drug cartel? The thought of a drug cartel moving onto the reservation sent an involuntary shiver down his spine. Yet it made sense. A drug cartel could handle the entire operation. And it would know how to handle the profits—run the cash through offshore banks, launder it through legitimate businesses. What was it, then, that bothered him?

He whirled around, spilling coffee onto the carpet, and started pacing in front of the desk. Marcus had said he and Rich brought the cash back to the reservation. Suitcases full of cash! That was it—the missing piece he hadn’t been able to locate. How could anybody dispose of that kind of cash in the middle of Wyoming? Deposit it? Maybe, but banks would report any amount above ten thousand dollars. And a constant influx of large deposits into the area’s small banks would attract a lot of attention. No, banks were too risky.

Maybe the cartel intended to ship the profits back to Denver or to Los Angeles. He imagined large semis stashed with money rolling down the highway. But if that were the case, why bring the cash back to the reservation? Unless . . .

Father John stopped pacing and stared out the window
again. He could hardly believe what he was thinking; it was preposterous, but it could work. The cartel intended to launder the drug money right here by constructing a large recreation center that would eventually metamorphose into a casino. It would be a closed system on an Indian reservation—production, distribution, and money laundering. He’d heard about something like this on the big Navajo reservation a few years ago. He’d never imagined it would happen at Wind River.

Father John drained the last of the coffee and stared into the night. Maybe he was grasping at straws, hitching onto some outlandish theory to save St. Francis Mission. So far he’d batted .500 with his theories. It wasn’t Marcus Deppert’s body in the ditch; it was Rich Dolby’s. But Gary was the killer; he had been right about that.

If this new theory came close to the mark, it meant Nick Sheldon, the Los Angeles lawyer, dispatched here to buy St. Francis Mission and build a recreation center, was in charge of the entire operation. He had purchased the two Jeeps under the name of Steve Nichols, his own initials reversed. And Sheldon answered to the cartel—the Z Group.

Father John debated about returning to the guest house to wake Vicky. He wanted her to know they were up against an organization more powerful and deadly than either could have imagined. Rich Dolby and Annie Chambeau had gotten in the way and had paid with their lives. The people who worked for the Z Group wouldn’t hesitate to kill again.

He pulled back his cuff and checked his watch. Ten minutes past two. He’d wait until daylight. If he woke Vicky now, she’d spend the rest of the night worrying. Besides, it was still just a theory. He had no proof.

The jangling telephone broke into his thoughts. He crossed back to the desk and picked up the receiver, hoping the ringing hadn’t awakened Father Peter. He knew the old man had taken the hall phone up the stairs with him when he went to bed.

“John, you there?” It was Banner.

“Yes.” Father John was surprised. He’d hoped Banner would contact the FBI agent right away, but he’d been prepared to wait until morning.

“Radio call just came in from the Riverton police.”

Father John closed his eyes, afraid of what Banner would say.

“They got a double homicide. Indian man, white woman, both about twenty-five. Night clerk at the Buffalo Motel on the north side heard the shots about thirty minutes ago and called the police. Looks like a real professional job. Perpetrator’s long gone, as you might expect. No positive IDs on the bodies yet.”

Father John’s mouth went dry. His breath came in quick, burning gulps. “Marcus and a woman named Jennifer Smith,” he managed.

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Banner said. “That poor son-of-a-bitch. He should’ve gotten his ass over to Fort Washakie like I told ya.”

“I’m going to the motel.”

Banner said, “Yeah. I thought you might want to do that.”

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