The Spider's Web

Table of Contents

 

BLOOD MEMORY

 

 

 

 

THE EAGLE CATCHER
THE GHOST WALKER
THE DREAM STALKER
THE STORY TELLER
THE LOST BIRD
THE SPIRIT WOMAN
THE THUNDER KEEPER
THE SHADOW DANCER
KILLING RAVEN
WIFE OF MOON
EYE OF THE WOLF
THE DROWNING MAN
THE GIRL WITH BRAIDED HAIR
THE SILENT SPIRIT
THE SPIDER’S WEB

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This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Copyright © 2010 by Margaret Coel.

 

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

 

Coel, Margaret, 1937-

p. cm.

eISBN : 978-1-101-45991-1

1. O’Malley, John (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Holden, Vicky (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 3. Fiancées—Crimes against—Fiction. 4. Serial murderers—Fiction. 5. Wind River Indian Reservation (Wyo.)—Fiction. 6. Arapaho Indians—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3553.O347S555 2010

813’. 54—dc22

2010008231

 

 

I would like to thank Virginia Sutter, Ph.D., and Jim Sutter for generously advising me on the Arapaho Sun Dance. Merle Hass, director, Sky People Higher Education, was gracious and hospitable as always in making me welcome on the Wind River Reservation. Fred Walker in Boulder took the time to talk to me about various weapons and suggest the type that different characters would be likely to use. My nephew John Dix read over the baseball scenes and made helpful suggestions on what Father John should do and say. Father Tony Short, S.J., was kind enough to share some of his experiences as former pastor of St. Stephen’s Mission on the Wind River Reservation. My friends Karen Gilleland, Beverly Carrigan, Sheila Carrigan, and Carl Schneider read the manuscript in various stages and offered wonderful and insightful comments, as did my husband, George, always my first reader. And the late Bishop Bernard Sullivan, S.J., one of my first writing teachers, a wise and gentle man whose memory inspired the character of Bishop Harry Coughlin. My agent, Richard Henshaw, and my editor, Tom Colgan, were, as always, most helpful and encouraging.

Niatha:
The Arapaho word for spider,
a creature capable of mysterious things.

 

Also the word for white person.

A WASHED-OUT SKY spread over the reservation, and darkness was coming on fast. The humps of the Wind River range loomed like dark smudges on the horizon. Ahead, the asphalt road crawled over the rises that passed for hills on the plains. Every now and then the truck’s engine gave a raspy cough, as if it might spit out the dust churning beneath the wheels. The taste of dust drifted through the open windows.

Roseanne Birdwoman shifted her gaze between the two men in the front seat. Lionel Lookingglass, bent over the steering wheel, stiff black hair bristling from the ponytail that trailed down his white tee shirt past the knobs of his spine. Dwayne Hawk, riding shotgun, black hair cut short above the missing piece of his left ear. Gray lines of sweat ran around the thick neck of his red shirt. Outsiders, both of them. Showed up on the rez about a year ago. They were talking to each other now. Grunting noises lost in the wind, punctuated by nods and Dwayne’s fist thumping the dashboard, nothing she needed to know about. The sour smells of beer and sweat cut through the dust.

She adjusted her legs in the cramped backseat and looked out at the brown plains rolling past. God, what had possessed her to come with these losers? She could have said no thanks, when the white truck skidded into the yard, barely missing the wood stoop. “Party time, Roseanne,” Lionel had yelled. “Over at Berta’s place. Get your ass out here.”

Why had she gone outside? They would have driven off and forgotten about her. They would have found some other girl. But she had been so lonely. Sitting around the house when she wasn’t dragging herself to work, listening for the phone to ring over the drunken rants of Aunt Martha or the loud snoring noises when she finally collapsed. Sometimes Roseanne would think the phone had rung. She would pick it up, her heart pounding, hoping it was Ned. But there would be only a buzzing noise. She had loneliness to thank for the fact she was now on her way to a stupid, drunken party.

The truck took a sharp right turn that sent the rear end into a skid. Roseanne crashed against the door, aware of metal biting into her ribs. They were on a side road that had faded into a dirt washboard. The lights of Arapahoe twinkled in the dusk ahead.

“What are you doing?” She gripped the front seat and pulled herself forward.

Dwayne turned halfway around and gave her a raised-eyebrow look. “Don’t you wanna see Ned?”

“You didn’t say we were picking up Ned.”

“He’s back on the rez, ain’t he? Time he got out and enjoyed himself.” Dwayne was looking at her out of slanted eyes. “You still got the hots for him,” he said.

“Shut up.”

“She don’t like getting dumped for no white girl,” Lionel said. He was laughing under his breath. “No white girl’s gonna take your man. We’re gonna get him for you.”

“Maybe the white girl don’t wanna let him go,” Dwayne said.

“We’re gonna find out.” Lionel curled even farther over the steering wheel. The truck bounced and skidded over the hard earth before the tires settled back into the tracks.

Then they were in Arapahoe, white frame houses and propane tanks passing outside, towels and sheets and blue jeans blowing on outdoor lines. Trucks and cars littered the dirt yards. She spotted a crumpled two-wheel bike with the seat jutting sideways. Another turn, and Lionel hit the brake. They slid to a stop a few inches from the corner of a yellowish, sun-bleached house. Lionel laid on the horn and stuck his head out the window. “Come on, Ned!”

Roseanne felt as if the wind had sucked all the air out of the cab. The dry, dusty smells of the plains mixed with the sour odor of beer made her stomach turn over. She thrust her head out the opened window away from the house and tried to lean into the wind that washed across her face. Lionel was still shouting, and now Dwayne had joined in, shouting and beating a fist on the passenger door that sent the truck into a rocking motion.

“He’s not here,” Roseanne heard herself say. “Let’s go. I need a drink.”

“Truck’s here,” Lionel said.

Roseanne pulled her head inside and looked at the house, the black truck parked next to it, the left reflector smashed, the bumper dented. The images spun like a whirlwind: last April, a cold evening, part rain, part snow, and snow banked along the roads, and the roads silvery with ice. They stopped at the convenience store at Ethete. Ned maneuvered the truck into a U-turn and backed toward the gas pumps. They’d had a couple of beers, and there was the hard bump and the squeal of metal against metal. Roseanne threw out both hands to brace herself against the dashboard.

“Sonofabitch!” Ned had slammed out of the truck and walked back. She had expected him to get back in, gun the engine, and squeal the hell out of there before somebody came running out of the store, but the next thing she knew, he was filling the tank. The sounds and smells of rushing gasoline drifted through the cab.

Ned had left for Jackson Hole not long afterward. “Construction projects going on there,” he’d told her, “and they need electricians. I got a job right in the town of Jackson.” She had nodded, trying to take it in through the dread building inside her because this was the end, she knew. He’d said he would send for her as soon as he got a place. Maybe they’d get married. Had he really said that, or had she imagined it? Heard what she wanted to hear? She couldn’t remember now.

The truth was, Ned had wanted to go away for some time. Nothing had been going right, not the electrician’s job in Lander, not his plans to save the down payment on a ranch. That was his dream, a ranch. He had to get back on track, or he was gonna choke to death, he said. She felt the same way, with the dead-end job stocking shelves at Walmart. So his going would be the chance for both of them, only he hadn’t sent for her. When he came back a couple of weeks ago, she had gotten her hopes up again. They would be together, things would go on as before.

Then the white girl showed up.

“I’m gonna get him.” Lionel opened the door, kicked it back, and jumped out. He was drunk, pushing himself off the hood and staggering toward the house, finally lurching for the railing and pulling himself up the wooden steps. Dwayne got out and staggered after him.

“Why don’t we just get the hell outta here,” Roseanne shouted. Then she pushed herself into the seat again and tried to ignore the tiny spark of hope firing inside her. Maybe the white girl had left. It made sense. She couldn’t have felt at home in the house where Ned grew up, where his grandfather died. All those memories everywhere she turned. Arapahoe. Arapahoe. Ned might come to the party after all, but he would take his own truck. She would run over and jump in beside him. They could talk, put things back the way they used to be.