The Ghost Walker (6 page)

To the left, Joe Deppert, swaddled in blankets, lay in one of two recliners that faced a black stove. Next to it sat a cardboard box with some kindling wood poking out of the top.

“How is Grandfather?” Father John whispered.

“Oh, he’s not asleep.” The old woman stepped over to the recliner and lightly thumped the pile of blankets. “We got company,” she said.

Joe opened his eyes. “Marcus?” His voice sounded soft and spongy.

“Father John, Grandfather. I stopped by to see how you’re doing.”

A bony hand came out from under the blankets, and
Father John reached over and clasped it. It felt like a brittle bundle of twigs.

“We thought you was Marcus when we heard the truck drive up.” There was a mixture of disappointment and fear in his eyes.

Deborah patted the top of the other recliner. “Sit here, Father. You want some coffee, don’t you?”

The old woman sidled through the archway as Father John draped his parka over the back of one of the wood chairs and laid his gloves and cowboy hat on the table. Then he sat on the edge of the vacant recliner. The fire cast an uneven heat; the room was drafty and cold by the door, stifling as a sauna by the stove.

“How’re you feeling?” Father John asked the old man. Two weeks ago, the doctors had removed both of Joe’s big toes. Diabetes.

“Soon’s I get these clunkers off, I’ll be good as new.” Joe yanked at the blankets to display the plaster casts. “I gotta learn to walk with no toes. Easier’n walkin’ with no feet.”

Father John smiled at the old man’s courage. Joe knew that’s what they would amputate next. “Has Marcus been coming by to help you out?” The young Arapaho was Joe’s grand-nephew, the grandson of Joe’s brother. Arapaho families were too close for words like nephew and uncle. Besides, Joe and Deborah had raised Marcus from about age twelve, after his parents had died.

Glancing toward the kitchen, the Indian lowered his voice. “Marcus is real good to us. Chops the wood and hauls in the logs. Does the shoppin’. Only he ain’t come around all last week. I don’t know what become of him.”

“I can get in some logs,” Father John said, nodding toward the cardboard box. Another cold snap like last
night, and Joe and Deborah could freeze to death in this flimsy house.

“No need to bother yourself.” Deborah padded slowly back into the room, balancing three coffee mugs on a plate. She handed one mug to Father John, another to her husband. Then she plopped down on the same wooden chair Father John had hung his parka on and took a sip from her mug. After a minute, she said, “Marcus’ll be by today for sure. He don’t forget us. You hear that, old man?” She scooted forward, staring at the back of Joe’s recliner. “Marcus ain’t the kind of boy that don’t respect his elders.”

Squaring herself against the chair again, as if the matter were settled, Deborah turned her eyes to Father John. “His new job he’s got drivin’ Jeeps to Denver takes a lot of time.”

Father John took a long pull of the lukewarm liquid. It had the taste of coffee brewed hours ago and warmed over several times. It worried him: two helpless old people, isolated in a drafty house two or three miles from the nearest neighbor. And where was Marcus? In a ditch somewhere? He shivered involuntarily. Is this what it was going to be like? Every time he heard of somebody missing an appointment, not coming around, was he going to jump to the conclusion that
that
was the body in the ditch?

He forced his thoughts back to what Deborah had said. Marcus had a job. Good news. Marcus Deppert was one of the kids he’d worried about, ever since the summer, a few years back, that Marcus had played left field for the Eagles—when he’d felt like showing up. Breezy and self-confident, that was Marcus. A little too smart in the wrong things. Since then, he’d spent three years in Leavenworth for dealing drugs. He was still on
probation. Father John sat back in the recliner. “Who’s Marcus working for?”

“He ain’t said exactly.” Joe shifted a little in the recliner.

“Well, it’s a good job.” Deborah hoisted herself to her feet and collected the empty mugs before shuffling back into the kitchen.

The old man motioned Father John to come closer. “I’m real worried about the boy. So’s his grandmother, only she don’t wanna say so. I told her we should get the police, but she says no, ’cause of him bein’ on probation. Could you check on him? Make sure he ain’t in no trouble,
Teenenoo Hiinooni’it
?” He used the name one of the four holy old men had given Father John a few years before. It meant “Touch-the-Clouds” and symbolized the heart of his life, what he tried to do as a priest—reach toward the Great Mystery Above. The name was meant to remind him of his duty and to give him the strength to do his best.

“Yes, of course, Grandfather,” Father John said. No missing persons on the reservation lately, Banner had said, but who would report Marcus missing? Only these two old people, scared of the police looking into what he might be up to.

“Where is he living now?”

“Got himself a place over in Easter Egg Village. First yellow house on Buffalo Road.” The old man drew in a long breath and let it out slowly as if he were releasing a sharp pain.

“What else can I do, Grandfather?” Father John asked.

Joe reached out and grasped his hand lightly. “Don’t listen to what that old woman says. We need some more logs in here.”

Father John had on his parka, gloves, and cowboy hat and was out the door before Deborah had reappeared
in the living room. By the time he’d knocked the snow off the logs and loaded up an armful, the old woman stood against the door, holding it open, eyes watchful and resigned. He brought in a couple more loads, filling the cardboard box, then stacking logs next to it. He offered to get them some groceries, but they both assured him they had plenty of food, and he promised to stop by again in the next day or two.

As Father John let himself out the front door, he saw Deborah had moved close to her husband’s recliner, and the old man was patting her hand as if to reassure her everything would be all right.

*    *    *

Father John parked in front of the yellow house on Buffalo Road. The houses in Easter Egg Village clustered on top of a bluff, each small bungalow splashed in a different pastel color—pink, green, blue, yellow, violet. Some Washington bureaucrat’s notion of what subsidized houses on an Indian reservation ought to look like. The sun had begun its descent behind the mountains, shooting red and pink flames across the sky. A pinkish glaze fell over the houses and the snow-covered ground.

Father John got out of the Toyota and started toward the house. The temperature was spiraling downward. It felt twenty degrees colder than when he’d left the old people forty minutes ago. The snow in front had been stomped down, pushed into little piles. Somebody had been here recently. He knocked on the door. No answer. Then he stepped sideways and peered through the window. The living room had the stillness of space bereft of human energy. A yellow-and-brown-striped sofa and a small dark chair stood against one wall. On the opposite wall was a TV on a cart, and next to it an opened
suitcase, half full. Marcus was either about to take a trip or he had just returned.

Father John headed back to the Toyota and drove two blocks to the pastel green house of Ike and Mary Yellow Calf. Ike was chopping wood out front, and as soon as Father John pulled up, the Indian set the ax against a pile of logs and came toward the pickup. Father John climbed out, and the Indian grabbed his hand, pumping it up and down with the same energy he’d probably put into chopping wood. He had on the kind of faded jeans, long-sleeved plaid shirt, and down vest most of the men on the reservation wore. His black Stetson sat back, revealing a line of even blacker hair. Little beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.

“I just stopped in to see Joe Deppert,” Father John said.

“Ah.” Ike dipped his forehead into one sleeve, brushing away the moisture. “Been meanin’ to get over there. How’s Grandfather doin’?”

“He and Deborah could use some help. They’re getting low on wood. Probably low on groceries, too, although they’re too proud to admit it. Marcus hasn’t been around lately.”

Ike cleared his throat, turned sideways, and spit onto the snow. “Don’t surprise me none. No damn good, that kid.”

Father John was surprised at the vehemence. “What do you mean?”

“Ever since he moved into the village, people been comin’ and goin’ all hours at his house. Parties all the time.”

“Deborah thinks Marcus found a job.”

Ike shook his head. “You know how it is with the grandmothers. They love the kids no matter what. They believe whatever the kids tell ’em.”

“Have you seen Marcus lately?”

The Indian’s forehead wrinkled into deep lines. “Matter of fact, it’s been quiet all week. Maybe him and that Rich Dolby he hangs with took their parties elsewhere.”

Father John jammed his hands into the pockets of his parka. He was thinking about what Banner had said: The Lander police broke up a party of Arapahos Friday night. Maybe Marcus was there, but it was a stretch. How many parties were there on any given night? Marcus Deppert couldn’t attend them all. Father John decided to talk to Rich Dolby’s mother, Loretta, who worked in the cafeteria at St. Francis Elementary School. Chances were she’d know the whereabouts of her son, and he might know the whereabouts of Marcus.

“Let me know if Marcus shows up,” he said, getting back into the Toyota.

Ike took the door and started to walk it closed, then paused. “Don’t worry about the old people. I’ll put the word out on the moccasin telegraph so folks’ll know to look in on ’em. Me and the wife gotta go into Fort Washakie tomorrow for groceries. We’ll get ’em a load of supplies.”

“You’re a good man, Ike,” Father John said. “Marcus’ll probably be along in a few days.”

“Wouldn’t count on nothin’ with that kid,” the Indian said, closing the door.

Father John swung the Toyota out of Easter Egg Village onto Seventeen-Mile Road and drove into the dusk. He wasn’t sure when the green truck behind him first came into his rearview mirror, but now he could see it coming up fast. He kept his own pace steady, giving the truck time to pass, if that’s what its driver wanted. There was no oncoming traffic, but the road was slick with snow and ice. The truck was close enough now so
he could almost make out the driver. He—or she—wore aviator sunglasses, even though it was starting to get dark, and a knit hat pulled low over the forehead. Suddenly the truck was right behind him, looming in the rearview mirror, as if the driver intended to run him off the road.

6

F
ather John stomped on the accelerator, and the Toyota shot ahead, tires yawing in the snow. He gripped the wheel and hoped the pickup wouldn’t slide into the ditch on its own. The truck started gaining; he could see it was a Dodge. As he banked around a curve, an oncoming vehicle flashed into view and, as if in response, the truck dropped back. By the time a dark sedan lumbered by, the truck was a distant shadow.

Father John kept his speed steady, one eye on the rearview mirror. A drunk, he thought, getting his kicks from trying to run an old pickup off the road. He’d had a lot of experience with drunks. There were two types: quiet and rowdy. He’d been the quiet type, drinking himself into a stupor every night while grading papers on the Missouri Compromise, the Western expansion, the defining battles of the Civil War. Aviator glasses—that was the rowdy type.

Father John passed the sign for St. Francis Mission and slowed for the turn onto Circle Drive, one eye still on the rearview mirror. The road behind was dark. The truck must have turned off at Miller or Bejan Lane.

He stopped behind the white Cadillac in front of the administration building and stepped out into the hardening cold. A deep purple stain spread across the late afternoon
sky, washing the snowy grounds in pale blue. He mounted the stairs and stamped his boots. The moment he stepped inside, the familiar, musty smell of the old building swept over him. Through the open door to his office partway down the hall came the low murmur of voices.

He stepped through the doorway. “Ah, the pastor himself in our midst,” said Father Peter, who occupied the metal folding chair reserved for the occasional overflow of visitors. His arms were folded across his flannel shirt; his head, with its ruff of white hair, rested squarely on his shoulders. The overhead light glinted in his blue eyes.