The Ghost Walker (32 page)

“Oh, sorry,” Father John said, backing off the court. It was hard to restrain himself. He loved coaching kids. He couldn’t wait until spring when baseball season started and the Eagles suited up, but that was still three months away. He leaned against the cement wall, resolved just to watch. Patrick was doing a fantastic job.

Another field goal attempt by the Warriors. Then a turnover, and the Indians exploded downcourt. As Howard sank the ball, Father John heard a motor outside. He slipped through the door, wondering who the visitor might be. Not many visitors turned onto the narrow road that ran past Eagle Hall.

Reds, oranges, and pinks flamed across the western sky as the afternoon sun hovered above the dark ridge of the mountains. A Bronco stood in the middle of the road, silhouetted in the sunlight, and Vicky was walking toward him. She carried a package. He was surprised to see her—she had been in Denver the last couple of weeks.

“Father Peter advised me to look for you here,” Vicky said as she came closer. Her brown coat flowed over the tops of her boots. The sun shimmered in her black hair.

“How’s Susan?”

Vicky smiled. “That friend of yours and his wife run a very good clinic. I think Susan will make it this time, but . . .”

“It will always be a struggle.” He finished her sentence. It wasn’t just Susan he was thinking about. He was still struggling with the general anesthetic they’d given him to set his arm around a steel rod. The anesthetic had only whetted the thirst. It was like pouring gasoline onto a flame.

“It’s over,” Vicky said.

They were quiet a moment, then she went on, “It made the front page of the
Denver Post.
It looks as if you helped to thwart the plans of a major drug cartel.”

Father John raised his good hand and pushed his cowboy hat back. “All the plans hinged on the mission, which, it turns out, the Jesuits never intended to sell.”

“According to your Provincial?”

“According to some Scholastic in the outer office.”

Vicky shook her head and laughed. “May the next economic development director work to preserve our traditions, instead of trying to destroy them. Eden Lightfoot had everything upside-down. Jobs rated first with him, no matter the cost. And he wasn’t averse to accepting bribes along the way. He’ll be facing charges at the Cheyenne Agency as well as here.”

Father John drew in his lower lip. He had thought a lot about the economic development director. So much potential, so much waste.

Vicky was quiet, and he sensed something else on her mind. Finally she said, “I can’t help thinking if I hadn’t been so stubborn, if I had tried to convince Susan to go to the police right away, maybe she could have told them something that would have changed things. Maybe Marcus and the girl would be alive. Ty, also.”

“Oh, Vicky,” Father John said. “The world is full of maybes. Let’s try not to torture ourselves. God is forgiving.”

“Yes,” Vicky said, but he knew she wouldn’t let herself off easily. “It must be hard on the Depperts, and poor Loretta . . .” Vicky’s voice trailed off.

Father John told her how he had been spending as much time as possible with the old couple, how the Arapahos had rallied around, and how Ike Yellow Calf had made it his business to look after them. In some ways,
it might be easier for them than for Loretta. For her, it was very hard.

“At least her son has been properly buried now,” Vicky said. “His ghost can be at rest.”

Father John believed that was true. There had been the wake for both Rich and Marcus, and Thomas Spotted Horse had painted the bodies with the sacred red paint that would identify them to their ancestors. Father John had said the funeral Mass and blessed the graves at the St. Francis cemetery. And as the caskets were lowered, the elders had raised their voices in prayer, and the drums had pounded, the low, heavy sounds reverberating through the air, accompanying the ghosts to the spirit world where they would be at rest.

Vicky held out the package she was carrying. “This is for you. Because you kept the plank from striking my head and probably saved my life. And now you have that horrible cast on your pitching arm.”

He smiled as he took the package. It looked like a birthday present, wrapped in yellow paper flecked with red balloons and tied with red ribbon. She had to help him undo it. They almost dropped the whole thing in the snow, but he made a quick one-handed recovery. “This isn’t necessary,” he said.

“Yes, it is,” she said as he pulled back the last of the paper and read the black letters on the box: Stereo Cassette Player.

He felt like a kid, deliciously happy with an unexpected gift. Now he could listen to his opera tapes as he drove across the reservation. He couldn’t imagine which opera he would listen to first.
La Bohème
, perhaps. Puccini, certainly. “You’re right. This is absolutely necessary.
Hoho’u ho:3tone’3en.
”

Vicky threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, goodness,”
she said after a moment. “Arapaho is the most beautiful language in the world, but I wouldn’t believe it listening to you. You mustn’t let the elders hear you trying to speak it.”

They walked the short distance to the Bronco, and he shut the door after she had slipped inside. Whatever had made him cradle her head against the explosion, he thanked God he had done so. He watched until the Bronco backed all the way to Circle Drive and began moving around the corner of the administration building. Until it disappeared into the sun.

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