The Spider's Web (8 page)

Marcy Morrison lifted herself out of the pickup as a heavyset man with strips of brown hair combed over a balding pate got out of the Hummer next to her. “Hi, Father,” the girl said, giving a little wave. The bruise on her cheek had turned dark purple. Her eyes were lost in circles of blackness.

Father John went down the steps and shook hands with the gray-haired man. Probably still in his forties, maybe a year or two younger than he was, Father John thought, with a pinkish complexion and a smooth shave. The man’s palm was smooth; his fingernails glistened with clear polish.

“Reverend Larry Morrison,” he said. “I’m entrusting my little girl to this here”—he threw a glance around the mission grounds, his gaze lingering for a moment on the white stuccoed church, the blue and red stained-glass windows shining in the sun—“Catholic mission,” he said. “I take it you’re the pastor.” He looked over at the man leaning against the front of the Hummer. “My assistant, Reverend Angelo Crispie,” he said. Father John stepped over and shook the other man’s hand.

“I reckon you already know my daughter.” Morrison reached around and pulled the girl to his side, keeping a thick sunburned arm draped over her shoulders.

“How are you, Marcy?” Father John said.

“How am I supposed to be?” The breeze caught a snatch of her blonde hair and blew it across her face. She pushed the hair back. She looked like a little girl with thin arms dangling from the sleeves of a white tee shirt and thin legs beneath the cutoff blue jeans. She wore sandals, and the dust curled over her toes. She barely reached her father’s shoulders.

“Ned’s still dead,” she said. “Nothing’s gonna change that.”

“FBI agent’s making things difficult,” Morrison said. “I want to take Marcy home with me...”

The girl cut in: “I’m not going back to Oklahoma, Daddy.” She ducked out from under the large arm and looked up at her father. “We’ve been over that. It’s not happening.”

“You’d be safe there,” he said.

She shrugged. “Yeah, whatever. Soon’s they arrest those guys, I’ll be safe in Jackson Hole. I just want to get back to my own life. I mean, I want things to go on like they were. Well, not exactly like they were, ’cause Ned’s gone and all that, and we’re never gonna be getting married like we planned.” She swung toward Father John. “You get it, don’t you, Father?”

Father John hesitated. There was a look of desperation in the girl’s eyes, but something trivial about it, like the look in the eyes of students at the Jesuit prep school where he had taught American history, begging to be excused from yesterday’s class because they hadn’t heard the alarm. He had marked it off to the self-absorption that came with immaturity. But Marcy Morrison was no longer a teenager.

“I’m sure you want Ned’s killers found,” he said.

A startled look came over the girl. She flinched backward. “Well, naturally. I loved Ned.” She glanced up at her father. “We were gonna make a real family together. I mean, a really good family with everybody looking out for one another.”

Larry Morrison drew in a long breath that expanded his chest. He cleared his throat and stared down at the girl. “No sense in going off to places the good Father here has no interest in.” He turned his attention back to Father John. “I want assurances that my daughter will be safe here.”

“You know our so-called family was a big fake,” Marcy said.

“Marcy, please,” her father said, and the Reverend Crispie lifted himself off the front of the Hummer and moved in closer, like a body guard, Father John thought, on full alert.

“Everything was a lie,” the girl said, a controlled hysteria coming into her voice. “All that smiling and waving for the TV cameras, all that bullshit about how the family that stays together prospers together, only our family wasn’t exactly together, right? Not after Mom took off. I never blamed her, ’cause all I wanted to do was get the hell out myself.” She seemed to settle back inside herself. “Well, maybe I blamed her for not taking me with her. She should’ve done that.”

“When all this is over, I want you to go back into therapy,” Morrison said. A distant note had come into his voice, as if he were counseling a parishioner.

“Therapy!” The girl spit out the word. “You never could face it, could you? You’re the one needs therapy. Living a lie for a long time. That’s gotta take it out of you. My therapist told me that. She said I needed to distant myself from toxic relationships with my family. So I did, and I was gonna start over, get me a new family.” She started moving backward, holding out both hands. “Oh, my God. Now I get it,” she said. “You sent those Indians to kill Ned. You didn’t want me to have another family. You didn’t want me to have a new chance. You’d do anything to stop me.”

“That’s ridiculous, Marcy,” Morrison said. “I want whatever makes you happy. I told you we could have your wedding in the palace cathedral...”

“Where you could show the gazillion dupes—oh, excuse me, followers in the Lord of prosperity—what a happy family we are, and so progressive! I mean, the reverend’s daughter marrying an Indian. Wow, that would have brought in a whole bunch more money.”

Morrison stared at the girl a long moment, not saying anything. Then he turned to Father John. “My apologies, Father, for this little scene.”

“Little scene! Little scene!” Marcy shouted. “My whole life is falling apart, and you call it a little scene! Nothing ever mattered to you, did it? You drove my mother crazy. She had to get away to save herself. Well, you know what I think? I think she did save herself. I think she’s real happy somewhere. Tahiti, maybe. Yeah, I think of her in Tahiti, getting it on with some gorgeous guy with brown skin . . .”

“Stop it, Marcy.” Morrison held the girl in his gaze for a couple of seconds. Drawing in another long breath, he looked at Father John. “I’m afraid this was a very bad idea. The best thing will be to take her back to the hospital for further evaluation. It’s obvious this unfortunate incident has affected her balance.”

“Oh no you don’t,” Marcy said. “You’re not locking me up again in any crazy ward.” She leaned toward him. “You don’t have the right. I’m not your little girl anymore. Oh, Marcy’s rebelling again, causing trouble? Lock her up! I’m twenty-three years old. You’d need a court order, and you’re not going to get it.”

Father John put up one hand. “Hold on,” he said, glancing between the girl and her father. He was aware of the hulking shape of the body guard shifting from one foot to the other, watching the girl. Father John kept his gaze on Marcy. “It’s quiet here. It’s a good place to take a little time away from everything. I expect Gianelli will have the men in custody in a day or so, and you can go back to Jackson Hole.”

“You don’t understand . . .” Morrison began.

“He understands a helluva lot more than you ever did,” Marcy said. “Just go, okay? Go back to Oklahoma and all the love pouring out of those TV cameras. I shouldn’t have brought you into this. It’s none of your business, really. I can handle this myself. I’m good at handling things all by myself. I learned early.”

“I can’t leave without the assurance that she’ll be safe,” Morrison said, as if the girl weren’t standing next to him. Then he shrugged, as if absolving himself from whatever stood between him and his daughter. “I’ve hired a lawyer to see to her rights.”

“I don’t need a lawyer,” Marcy said. “You can unhire her.”

“Trust me in this.”

“Right. Just like in all the rest of it.”

“As I said, what I’m concerned about at the moment,” he went on, locking eyes with Father John, “is her safety.”

“Marcy can stay in the guesthouse.” Father John hooked a thumb in the direction of the alley that ran between the administration building and the church. At the end of the alley was the little guesthouse where all kinds of people had stayed—people in hiding, people looking for themselves, people needing time away. “We’ll keep it quiet that Marcy’s here,” he said. The tough part, he was thinking. If the truth got to the moccasin telegraph, Dwayne and Lionel would hear about it. But if the girl stayed in the guesthouse and walked the grounds when no one was around, it could work. He hurried on. “Gianelli will have the men in custody soon,” he said. He hoped he was right.

“I don’t call that assurances,” Morrison said, and the body guard gave a little laugh.

“There are no guarantees,” Father John said. He turned to the girl. “You’re a witness in a murder case. It’s up to you whether you feel secure staying here. If not, I’m sure Gianelli would find a safe house for you.”

“He offered.” Marcy gave a quick, dismissive shrug. “Policemen at the door, just like at the hospital. Wouldn’t that be lovely? Like those Indians wouldn’t hear about a policeman hanging around a house? No thanks. I’ll take my chances here.”

“Reverend Crispie will be close by,” Morrison said.

“What? Are you crazy? I don’t want that goon anywhere near me,” Marcy said. Out of the corner of his eye, Father John saw the Reverend Angelo Crispie square his shoulders and lower his head so that his chin set on his chest, staring at the girl out of slitted eyes. “Get him out of here,” Marcy said.

Morrison took his time removing a small folder from his shirt pocket and selecting a business card. He handed it to Father John. “In case of any trouble, call me at this number. My associate will be on the next plane to Wyoming.”

Marcy clasped her head in both hands and started walking around in a circle. “I don’t fricking believe what I’m hearing. You playing the role of the all-caring dad. A little late, isn’t it?”

Father John slipped the card it into his own shirt pocket. He hoped there wouldn’t be any reason to summon the man next to the Hummer. “I’ll show you the guesthouse,” he said to Marcy.

“Good idea. Why don’t you do that.” Marcy slid behind her father, walked back to the pickup and got inside. The engine growled into life. She backed up and rolled down the window. “See you on TV, Daddy,” she called.

Morrison kept his back to the pickup, his gaze on some point past Father John. There was something firm and resolute in his stare, his eyes as opaque as dark marble. “My daughter is very troubled,” he said, his voice low. “I’m sure you’re used to counseling people, but you can see she needs professional help. It would be for the best to leave her alone. No sense in her stirring up past issues. Don’t you agree?”

Father John glanced between the two men, the father and the bodyguard. He wondered who they wanted to protect, the girl or themselves. “Thanks for coming by,” he said.

He left them standing in front of the SUV and the Hummer and headed down the alley, in and out of the shadows that ran down the sides of the buildings, the breeze stirring in the cottonwoods and the pickup’s engine purring behind him. The guesthouse was a small white bungalow nestled in the trees. He unlocked the door, then went over and took the bag that the girl was struggling to lift out of the bed of the pickup. “The TV works,” he said, ushering her into the small living room with a kitchen in the corner. He immediately regretted the words. Probably the last thing she wanted to be reminded about was that her father was on TV. He set her bag down and nodded toward the refrigerator. “The refrigerator’s stocked,” he said. He had asked Elena to bring over some bread, milk, lunchmeat, and fruit. “You’re welcome to join us for meals at the residence, or you can take your meals here. There’s a nice walk along the river.” He moved toward the door and pointed in the direction of the Little Wind River that wound around the southern boundary of the mission.

The girl had flopped down on the sofa and crossed her legs. She swung one sandaled foot in his direction. “This is gonna be just fine,” she said, a calm, control in her voice. For an instant, he had the sense that he was talking to someone he had never met before, a total stranger. The girl who had shouted at her father and gripped her head—that girl was gone.

“I want to ask you something,” she said.

Father John was about to step out onto the stoop. He turned back. “What’s that?”

“You said you knew Ned.”

He nodded. Not very well, he was thinking. He hadn’t known Ned Windsong well at all.

“What about his girlfriend? You know her?”

“I thought you were his fiancée.”

“I mean before. The girl that hung around him before he came to Jackson Hole.”

“What about her?”

“So, you know her.”

Father John shook his head. “I never met her.”

She shrugged. “I was just wondering how she’s taking it. No way Ned’s ever going back to her now.”

“Is that what he wanted?”

“What?” The girl flinched backward. “Of course not. We was gonna get married.”

A HALF MILE down the road, Vicky spotted the cars and pickups jammed into the yard, the people milling about, dust lifting in the air. Everything just as she expected. A death on the reservation brought out all the relatives and friends. There would be gallons of fresh coffee, and kitchen counters groaning under casseroles, plates of fry bread, and cake. She had visited the houses of death since she was a little kid, staying close to her parents, wanting to run off and play with the other kids. She slowed for the turnoff into the yard, aware of the tension in her muscles. Beneath the camaraderie, the earnest, heartfelt wishes was always the horrible reality.

She parked behind a red truck and threaded among the people moving back and forth like tumbleweeds. Most of the faces were familiar. A few had been clients. Adoptions. Wills. DUIs. Minor assaults. The cases blurred together. Past the screen door, she saw the shadowy figures in the living room. The smell of fresh coffee wafted toward her as she rapped on the side of the door.

“Hey, Vicky.” Marie Adams, about her own age, with a large bust, rolls of fat around her middle and short, black hair, pushed open the door. A picture flashed in Vicky’s mind: three little girls, she and Marie and her sister, Ella, at the mission school, tearing about the grounds at recess, giggling in class. She and Ella were in the same class. Marie was a year older, which placed her in command, like a colonel over the troops. The day after Marie graduated from high school, she had joined the army. Twenty years later, she was back in the area living on a ranch, a retired sergeant with a white husband who, Vicky had heard, was also an ex-sergeant.