Watching Eagles Soar (8 page)

Father John said another prayer over the grave before following the last of the crowd across the cemetery. He saw Vicky leaning against the door of the Toyota, squinting into the sun. “Nancy's no longer a suspect,” she said when he reached her.

He drew in a long breath, feeling a sense of relief. He'd spent the past three days dreading the phone call, the news that Nancy Starbird had been arrested for murder.

Doors slammed; an engine backfired; a rust-smeared pickup wheeled past, tires crunching the gravel. Vicky waited; then: “The coroner's report says Amos was probably killed about four thirty, at least an hour before his body was found. Mary Wilson swears she saw Nancy in her yard about four thirty. According to the fed, there was only one call to Hank's Garage all afternoon. It was made from a pay phone at Ethete at exactly four o'clock. Amos left right away. In twenty minutes, he would've been at the bend on Seventeen-Mile Road where somebody was waiting, so he turned down Bull Bear Road—a dead end.”

Father John glanced at the slowly moving pickups, the little clouds of dust clumping in the hot air. “Somebody wanted to make sure Nancy wouldn't take the blame,” he said.

Vicky nodded. “Whoever called Mary Wilson used the same pay phone at Ethete.”

Father John wasn't surprised. “Where will the investigation go from here?”

Turning her gaze at some point behind him, Vicky said, “The fed still has other leads. Amos got in his share of bar fights and he owed money to a few people in town. But . . .” She paused, keeping her eyes on the distances. “The fed will never solve this case. He doesn't know the old Arapaho ways.”

Father John followed her gaze past the dirt-mounded graves, plastic flowers drooping in the heat, toward the line of pickups snaking around the curved drive and out onto Seventeen-Mile Road, carrying the elders and grandmothers, the women and the warriors of the Echo Hawk Clan.

He felt the soft pressure of Vicky's hand on his arm. “It was all of them, John,” she whispered. “All of them.”

“I know,” he said.

Hole in the Wall

The Seventh Commandment: Thou shalt commit no adultery.

V
icky Holden sensed another presence in the office. She looked up from the legal brief on her desk. Bertie Eagle Cloud stood in the doorway, black hair falling around the shoulders of her white tee shirt, worn blue jeans stretched tight around thick thighs. She raised her arm. In her hand was a black pistol.

“Bertie!” Vicky sat motionless, her breath caught in her chest. From outside came the muffled hum of late-afternoon traffic on Main Street in Lander, the sharp retort of an engine backfiring.

“I shot Ralph.” The arm began to waver. Falling, falling, the nose of the pistol dropping toward the carpet.

“Let me have the gun.” Vicky slowly rose to her feet and crossed the small office. Reaching down, she slipped the cold, hard metal from the woman's hand. “Come sit down,” she said, guiding Bertie to a barrel-shaped chair in front of the desk.

She walked around the desk and set the gun inside the center drawer before sinking into her own chair. Clasping her hands to still the trembling, she leaned toward the other woman. A client, of sorts. Last year she had helped Bertie negotiate a new lease for her convenience store at Ethete on the Wind River Reservation. Just a month ago, Vicky had run into Bertie and Ralph at the Ethete powwow. They sat together watching the dances—an Arapaho couple sliding into middle age.

Bertie said, “I give Ralph fair warning. I tol' him, ‘You take up with that whore again, I'm gonna kill you.'” She rearranged herself in the chair and folded her arms across the heaving chest. “He can't have some other wife. He ain't some great chief in the Old Time. He's got one wife for twenty years now, and that's me. Well, he goes off with that whore Liz Redman anyway. I didn't have no other choice.”

Vicky was quiet. Outside, the traffic sounds seemed far away; the golden light of sunset glowed in the window. “Is Ralph dead?” She heard the hushed sound of her own voice.

“I missed the bastard.” Bertie's head tilted in an angle of defiance. “I should've grabbed Ralph's rifle instead of that pistol. I can shoot the thirty-ought-six. I got an elk with it last month. It would've hit Ralph, instead of putting a hole in the wall. Next time I'm gonna use the rifle.”

Vicky lifted herself out of the chair, walked over, and perched on the vacant chair next to Bertie. “Listen to me. There's not going to be a next time.”

Something changed behind the woman's narrow eyes. “I thought you was gonna understand, Vicky. I don't got a choice. He took up with that woman again. I got every right . . .”

“Not to kill him.” Vicky emphasized each word. “Whatever Ralph has done, it's not worth spending the rest of your life in prison.”

The woman let her gaze roam around the office. “Next time I'm gonna use the rifle.”

Vicky drew in a long breath. Bertie had just confessed to a crime of assault with a deadly weapon. “I must advise you to turn yourself in to the police,” she said. “I'll go with you.”

“If I'd found the thirty-ought-six, that bastard wouldn't still be walkin' around.”

“If you turn yourself in, it will go easier for you,” Vicky said. “Maybe Ralph won't press charges.”

Bertie laid both hands on the armrests, propelled herself upright, and started for the door. “I think I remember where he put it.”

“No, Bertie!” Vicky got to her feet. The woman was already through the waiting room, flinging open the door.

Vicky ran after her. “Wait,” she called as the woman hurried along the outside corridor that led to the second-floor offices. She turned into the stairway. The clip-clop of footsteps echoed against the wood walls. And then she was on the street below, arms swinging, thick legs pumping toward the black pickup at the curb.

“No, Bertie,” Vicky shouted over the railing, as the woman folded herself behind the steering wheel. Another moment, and the pickup pulled into traffic, engine growling, blue exhaust bursting from the tailpipe.

Vicky knew with a cold certainty that Bertie Eagle Cloud intended to finish the job she had started. She had to warn Ralph.

She ran back to her desk and flipped through the Rolodex until she found the couple's listing. Then she picked up the receiver and punched in the number. The electronic ringing buzzed in her ear. There was no answer. Ralph was probably at Liz Redman's house. She tapped out the number for information. One, two, three rings before the operator came on the line. “Sorry.” The voice sounded bored. “No listing for Liz Redman.”

Vicky slammed down the receiver. She would have to warn Ralph herself. But Liz Redman lived near the Wind River on the eastern edge of the reservation—an hour's drive away. By the time she got there, it might be too late.

She lifted the receiver again and called the Bureau of Indian Affairs police on the Wind River Reservation. Another operator, and finally the familiar rumble of the police chief's voice. “Art Banner here.”

“It's Vicky,” she said, her mind searching for the words that would protect a client, yet notify the chief of an imminent danger. She said, “Bertie Eagle Cloud just left my office and . . .”

The chief cut in: “So that's where she's been. My boys been lookin' all over the rez last couple hours.”

Vicky was quiet a moment. Ralph must have already pressed charges. “What's this about, Art?”

A long intake of breath sounded over the line. Finally, the chief said, “Ralph Eagle Cloud's dead.”

“Dead.” The word sank into the office quiet like a boulder falling to the bottom of a lake. Her mind replayed the slow-motion image: Bertie retreating down the corridor, sliding into the pickup, on the way to kill a man already dead.

“What happened?” she managed.

“Got himself shot over at his girlfriend's place, damn fool,” the chief said. “We got an anonymous call somebody heard a gunshot at the house. Couple of my boys checked it out, and there was Ralph on the living room sofa with a thirty-ought-six slug in his chest. The girlfriend was standing there in some kind of shock. Still holding on to the rifle.”

Vicky shook her head, trying to fit the pieces together. “He was shot with a rifle?”

“Wouldn't surprise me if it turns out to be his own gun. My boys held the girlfriend until the FBI agent got there. He took her into custody on suspicion of murder. We went to the convenience store to give Bertie the bad news. Clerk said she didn't come in today. Didn't find her at the house, either.”

“She's on the way home now,” Vicky said.

The chief drew in another long breath. “Sure gonna be tough on Bertie. Ralph might've fooled around some, but he wasn't a bad sort. I'm gonna ask Father John to drive out to Plunkett Road and give her the bad news.”

Vicky said, “Bertie's a client. I'll drive over, too.”

She started to hang up when the chief said, “What was on your mind?”

“It's not important.”

* * *

F
ather John O'Malley wheeled the Toyota pickup onto Plunkett Road, a narrow strip of gravel snaking through the open plains of the Wind River Reservation. A cloud of dust rose ahead, and out of the dust appeared a light brown Bronco, metal trim glinting in the sun. A sense of relief washed over him. He was usually the sole bearer of heartbreaking news—the part of his job as pastor at St. Francis Mission that he never got used to. But it looked as if Vicky Holden was also on her way to see Bertie Eagle Cloud.

He followed the Bronco into the dirt yard that sprawled in front of a yellow cubelike house, the only sign of human habitation he'd seen for miles. A white propane tank stood at one side on spindly legs, and nearby, a rusty pickup sloped into the dirt. He let himself out and walked over to Vicky, who was standing at the door of the Bronco.

“How did you hear?” he asked.

“Banner.”

They walked across the yard to the house. The front door was ajar, and he rapped on the thin wood. From inside came a thud, like that of a cabinet hitting the floor. Father John pushed the door open a few inches. “Bertie?”

Another thud. He glanced at Vicky. “Stay here.”

He stepped into the small living room. A sofa, two chairs, and television console stood mutely along the walls. There was no one around.

The thuds started again, hard and rhythmic, like the beat of a drum. He walked into the kitchen and down a hallway, following the sounds to a bedroom. Clothing and papers tumbled over the bed and dresser and crept across the floor. Bertie stood in the closet, her back to him, several large boxes at her feet. She yanked a stretch of shirts and dresses off hangers and tossed them behind her into the room. Then she reached up and tugged at a cardboard box on the top shelf, white tee shirt stretching around rolls of flesh. The box crashed to the floor.

“Bertie!” Father John said. “What are you doing?”

The woman swung around and glared at him. “Why'd you come here?” Her gaze shifted sideways, and he realized Vicky had come down the hall and was standing behind him.

“I told you, Vicky.” Bertie stepped over the boxes, shaking a fist. “I'm gonna find that rifle. I got my rights. You bringing Father John round ain't gonna change my mind.”

“It's not what you think,” Vicky said. Her voice was gentle.

Father John stepped across the room and took Bertie's hand. “Let's go into the living room and sit down, Bertie. We have bad news.”

The woman tilted her head and fixed him for a moment with clear, steady eyes. Then she shouldered past and disappeared through the door. Father John and Vicky followed her into the living room.

“So, let's have it.” Bertie plopped onto the middle cushion of the sofa. Vicky sat down beside her.

Father John pulled over a straight-backed chair and sat facing them. “I'm sorry, Bertie,” he began—it was never easy—“Ralph is dead.”

“Dead!” The woman's mouth gaped open, formed around the word. She turned to Vicky. “That bastard can't be dead.”

Vicky nodded slowly. “The police found him this afternoon at Liz Redman's house. He was shot. Liz has been arrested.”

“No!” Bertie was shaking her head. The black hair swung around like a veil. “What right's that whore got to shoot him? I got the right. I should've finished him off when I had the chance. If I'd've found the rifle instead of that pistol, I could've done it. I wouldn't've put no hole in the wall.”

“Sshh,” Vicky said, patting the woman's hand. She might have been trying to soothe a child. “Ralph's dead, Bertie. Let it be.”

Father John was quiet. He saw the picture: at some point Bertie had tried to shoot Ralph with a pistol, and Vicky knew about it.

Suddenly Bertie was working her way off the sofa, heaving herself upright. “I wanna see that bastard.”

Father John stood up and reached out one hand, steadying her. “You may not want to do that.”

The woman brushed past him. “I'm goin' to that whore's house.”

* * *

T
he wooden house might have been dropped onto the flat stretch of plains—a collection of boards with streaks of faded white paint and a roof that sloped over the small front stoop. Yellow police tape stretched around the perimeter of the dirt yard. Parked on the graveled road in front were a couple of four-wheel drives and two white Bureau of Indian Affairs police cars. Father John parked behind the last car. In the rearview mirror, he saw the Bronco sliding to a stop. The passenger door swung open and, in a half second, Bertie had stepped over the tape and was grinding her way toward the porch.

Father John let himself out and waited as Vicky came around the Bronco. “Bertie's in shock,” Vicky said. “She rambled on and on all the way over here. She never shut up.”

Suddenly Bertie's voice split the air: “I got my rights. I'm the wife.” Chief Banner stood on the stoop blocking her way.

Vicky hurried up the steps. “Come on, Art. You know she has the right to see her husband.”

“She may have the right, Vicky, but it might not be best.”

Father John joined them. “We've already gone over this,” he said.

The chief shrugged and led the way into a small living room crowded with uniformed policemen and several men dressed in slacks and dark sport coats. There was a hush of conversations. Ted Gianelli, the local FBI agent, huddled with a group in front of the sofa pushed against the opposite wall. A photographer bent down; light flashed through the room. As he stepped aside, Father John saw the body slumped over the edge of the sofa.

Bertie lurched forward. “He's dead!” It was a scream. “He's really dead.”

Gianelli stepped over to the woman. He wore a dark blue sport coat and gray, wrinkled slacks. The red tie draped down the center of his white shirt looked like a streak of blood. “You've seen him, Bertie. Let's go outside and let the lab technicians finish their job.” He took her arm—an unsuccessful attempt to turn her around.

Bertie jerked away. “That whore shot him.”

Gianelli drew in a long breath. “Liz says she found Ralph when she got home from work. The rifle was next to the sofa. Says that's all she remembers. But the police found her standing over him with the rifle in hand. Looks like she fired twice. One shot missed and blew a hole in the wall.”

For the first time, Father John saw the broken wallboard, the dark hole boring into the wall above the sofa. He glanced at Vicky. She was staring at the wall.

Banner spoke up. “My boys found two rifle cartridges on the floor. Crime boys dug a thirty-ought-six slug out of the wall.”

Vicky glanced from the chief to the FBI agent. “What are you saying? That the same gun hit both Ralph and the wall?”

Both men nodded. “Thirty-ought-six,” Gianelli said.

The murmur of conversations over by the sofa punctuated the quiet. Father John saw the look of shock and comprehension cross Vicky's face, and he understood.