The Spirit Woman (13 page)

“Don't give me your blarney.” Elena ran a spoon around the large bowl cradled in her arms.

“No need for any oatmeal this morning, Elena.” Father John helped himself to several pancakes, which he drenched in syrup. He felt almost grateful to the man across from him. “I see you two have reached a truce.”

“Truce?” Elena's head swirled sideways. “If that's what you wanna call it. Father Kevin's not gonna ask me any more darn-fool questions, and I'm gonna get my work done.”

“That's right,” Kevin said. “No more questions. Besides, I had a good interview with Betty Crooner yesterday.”

“What did she say, that old woman?”

“Told me how the Arapahos and Shoshones learned how to farm.”

“Hah! Her people are Sioux. Didn't marry up with the Arapahos till the thirties. What's she know? You asked the wrong woman, but I'm not talkin' anymore.”

“I understand, Elena.” Father Kevin took a bite of pancake, his eyes fastened on the woman.

“My grandfather learned all about farming.” A plop on the griddle, a little sizzling noise. “How to plow and sow the seed and run the irrigation lines. Real hard work, and they weren't used to it, none of them warriors. They liked riding out and getting buffalo. They were hunting experts. Could show some of the hunters around today a thing or two.”

Kevin said, “I asked Mary how they had managed to keep the values they lived by as warriors—you know, honor, courage, and generosity—when they became farmers.”

“Good, I'm glad you pestered her and not me.” Elena scooped up a stack of hot pancakes and dropped them onto the plate. Father John reached for another one. “ 'Course that old woman only knows what she's heard from folks that was here. My grandfather told me they felt like warriors some days, out there in the fields. Especially when they was herding cattle and working with horses. Weren't nobody better at horses than Arapaho warriors.”

Father John took a long draw from his mug, washing down another forkful of pancake with the hot coffee, and waited for the rest of it.

“So ranching was in keeping with the warrior way of life,” the other priest said, a musing tone.

“That's nothin' but one of your questions. You're not foolin' me.” The housekeeper pivoted around, hands set on her hips. “I tol' you, I'm not telling you any more. Besides, ranching was a lot like the hunt, so the warriors were still ridin' out, like they always did. Made it easier to hold on to the old ways. And they were still gettin' meat for the people.” She turned back to the stove. “Sure glad I wasn't the one you were bothering with all your questions.”

Father John finished off his coffee and got to his feet. “Thank you both for the delicious breakfast and enlightening conversation,” he said. He retraced his steps down the hallway and shrugged into his jacket. Then he let himself out and started for the administration building. A black truck was parked in front.

Lester Running Bull sat upright in one of the side chairs, hands curled over the ends of the armrests, strands of blue-black hair showing beneath a red baseball cap. He looked like a marathoner, Father John thought, poised at the starting line, muscles tensed to bolt out of the office at the sound of the gun. Alva was in the other chair, a small woman with a thin, narrow face shadowed under a row of black bangs. They had been in his office thirty minutes, the tension between them as palpable as a swollen tumor.

Father John had swung his own chair around the desk, past the packed cartons. He'd been packing the last two days: the books and opera tapes he carted from assignment to assignment, old letters, notes to himself, past sermons—the detritus of his life. He sat facing the couple. He preferred a circle for counseling sessions, but this was like a knife-sharp triangle.

“We're gonna be just fine,” Alva said, a barely perceptible note of fear running through her voice. “I'm real sure of it, now that we're comin' for counseling.”

Father John said, “What else would you like Lester to do?”

Alva blinked several times, as if she were trying to round up the herd of thoughts stampeding through her head. Finally she drew in a long breath and turned slowly toward her husband, who sat stone-faced, his eyes trained across the room. “I don't know,” she began, halting, biting at her lower lip. “He's been real good to me now.”

Father John turned to Lester. “What would you like Alva to do?” he asked.

A second passed. Quiet filtered around them, and Father John let it remain. Epiphanies came into the quiet. Finally Lester said, “She oughta quit makin' a big deal out of everything. Everybody fights once in a while. Can't expect to get along all the time. I don't see why she was thinkin' of leaving me. She's got no cause to do that.”

The woman began rummaging through a floppy, ruglike bag. She found a tissue, which she ran along the ridges of her cheeks. “I told you, I'm not leavin' you, Lester. Vicky tore up those divorce papers.”

Lester let out a snort of laughter. “ 'Bout time Ben Holden got some control over that wife of his.”

“You know they're not married anymore.” A look of perplexity came to Alva's eyes.

“They're gonna be.”

“How's the anger management group going?” Father John said, changing the subject.

“Just fine, Father.” Lester shifted uneasily in his chair. “You don't have to worry about nothin'.” He shot a sideways glance at his wife. “Come on, let's go.”

“I didn't see you last week,” Father John persisted.

“What?” Lester's eyes narrowed.

“At the AA meeting.”

“Oh, yeah.” The man gave a little shrug. “Well, I got me some things to do, you know. Can't be runnin' to meetings all the time.” Another glance at his wife. “We're done here.” He stood up and motioned Alva to her feet, nudging her upward with a fleshy hand. Then he pulled their jackets off the coat tree and handed her one.

“Will you be at next week's meeting?” Father John asked. He would not be there, he realized.

“Yeah, sure.” Steering his wife out the door now.

Alva threw a glance over her shoulder. “We'll be back, Father.”

“Father Kevin will be here,” he heard himself saying as the couple disappeared into the corridor. He'd heard the new pastor moving about the other office; he'd be taking over this office soon.

After the front door had thudded shut, Father John went back to packing the books on the bookshelf behind the desk. His thoughts were on Alva and Lester.
He's going to kill her,
Vicky had said. And yet, when Alva first came to see him three weeks before, she'd said two things, almost in the same breath: she loved Lester and she was going to divorce him. He'd suggested the woman bring her husband the next time, and they had both come several times since. Lester had agreed to go to anger therapy; he'd agreed to attend AA. People can change, Father John told himself, with God's grace. He cleared the top shelf and started on another row of books, setting them carefully into a large carton. He'd been packing for almost two days now, but there was still another shelf to clear, the file cabinet to go through, a couple desk drawers left untouched. The phone had rung almost nonstop and people had been stopping by—a stream of traffic pulling around Circle Drive, a steady hum of motors.

Late Wednesday, he'd seen the blue SAAB go by. When he'd walked back to the residence, the car was still in front of the museum. It had given him a stab of satisfaction. Lindy must have found the old letters, and Laura had come to look through them for any mention of Sacajawea.

And yesterday and today, Howard Elkman's brown truck had lumbered past his office. He'd expected the elder to appear in the doorway, but he hadn't come in. When Father John glanced outside, he'd seen the truck in front of the museum. The museum would be here, after he was gone, and he was glad about that.

He'd just started filling another box when the phone jangled. Another parishioner wanting him to come to supper, he thought. Another elder asking him to come for a last visit. There wasn't enough time. The airline ticket had arrived in yesterday's mail, a white envelope stiff with the heavy paper inside. Tuesday, five A.M., Riverton to Denver. Eight-thirteen P.M., Denver to Milwaukee. A one-way ticket.

He stepped around the cartons and picked up the receiver. “Father O'Malley,” he said.

“This is Theresa, Father.” The voice crackled over the line. “That friend of yours, the historian? She said she'd come over yesterday. She didn't show up.”

“I'm sorry, Grandmother,” he said. It was strange. Laura had seemed anxious to talk to the woman. He stepped over to the window, stretching the cord over the top of the desk. The blue SAAB wasn't at the museum today, and he hadn't seen it yesterday. “I'll see if I can reach her and get back to you,” he said. He hit the disconnect and shuffled through the piles of papers on his desk, finally locating the paper triangle that Laura had given him. He pushed in the numbers.

A woman's voice, little more than a whisper, as if she'd just awakened, floated over the line: “Mountain House.”

He asked for Laura Simmons.

“Sorry, not in.” A hint of enthusiasm came into the voice now. “You can leave another message.”

“Another message?”

“Yeah, I don't mind. I just run 'em up to her room and put 'em on the door. She gets quite a few.”

He gave his name and number, thanked her, and hung up, an uneasy feeling coming over him, like a slow chill. He tried to examine it logically. There was no reason to feel uneasy. Laura Simmons had probably gotten lost in some archives Thursday and forgotten about the appointment with Theresa Redwing. It could happen. He'd often lost the sense of time when he was caught up in research.

He finished filling the last carton and smoothed a strip of brown tape over the flaps. The gray afternoon light seeped through the window; it would be dark soon. The phone started ringing again, but before he could work his way past the cartons, it stopped. The sound of Kevin's voice broke through the quiet, followed by hurried footsteps. The other priest leaned around the doorjamb, his face half-obscured in the shadows of the corridor. “The FBI's calling,” he said.

Father John lifted the receiver.

“John? What's going on?” Gianelli sounded tense and distracted. “I've been trying to reach you all afternoon. Line's always busy.”

Father John ignored the comment. “What's happened?”

“Thought you'd like to know. Your tip paid off. We have a positive ID on the skeleton. Checked the dental records for Charlotte Allen. A perfect match. The FBI closed the case when her car was found up by Sacajawea Ridge. All the evidence indicated she took herself on a long hike, got lost, and couldn't find her way back. Now we know Charlotte Allen was murdered. Somebody parked her car up there to make it look like she'd gone hiking. Just what I need.” The agent let out a raspy sigh. “Another homicide to solve around here, and this one twenty years old.”

Father John was quiet a moment, Theresa's voice sounding in his head.
Your friend didn't show up, Father.
And Vicky's:
Laura's doing the same kind of research as Charlotte did, John. She could be in danger.

He thanked the agent, pressed the disconnect lever, and punched in Vicky's number.

T
he square bungalow that Vicky had called home for the past four years sat behind a row of leafless trees, a dark block sliced by shadows. Lately Ben had gotten there before her. Lights twinkled in the windows, the faintest music floated outside. He'd even started dinner. But he'd called this afternoon to say he had to go over the books at the ranch. She wasn't disappointed. She had a briefcase full of work—depositions to read, a will to draft, the endless, dull minutiae of her practice.

She parked in the driveway and made her way across the yard, moist and soft with melted snow, like tangled wild grasses along the riverbanks. She let herself in and found the light switch. A well of light filled the center of the small living room and lapped at the sofa and chairs and small tables, the desk and bookcases arranged around the white walls. A red light blinked on the answering machine on her desk.

She dropped her coat and briefcase on the sofa and started for the kitchen, pushing the message button on her way. A woman's voice followed: “Better not come by tonight, honey. My ex is on a tear. He might show up. Call me tomorrow.” Vicky stood motionless, staring into the refrigerator, the door handle cold in her hand. She pulled out a bottle of water, slammed the door, and walked back into the living room.