“How can I help?” Jane said.
“This is hypothetical.”
Jane tipped her head in acknowledgment.
“I need an informal profile, your gut feeling about someone.”
“Male or female?”
“Male. Arapaho.”
“Hypothetical situation and hypothetical male.” The woman smiled. They had played this game in the past. “Tell me about him. Any idea of his age?”
“Late twenties.” Vicky shrugged. It was a guess, and she could see in the way Jane nodded that she knew it was a guess. “He admits to killing another man in self-defense, and he insists upon remaining anonymous. But he knows he needs help.”
Jane gave a barely perceptible nod; her hands rested on the ends of the armrests. She didn’t say anything, and Vicky went on: “He calls a lawyer several times, but refuses to give his name.”
“What is his tone?”
“Frightened and tense. He weeps. He claims he didn’t mean to kill the man, but he had no choice.”
“He had no choice because the other man was trying to kill him?”
Vicky glanced away. She had assumed that was the case, but Kiki could have threatened him in some other way. “He doesn’t make that clear,” she said.
“What else does he divulge?”
“He has served time in prison. He mentions something about parole, and he’s afraid he’ll be charged with manslaughter or even murder and be sent back to prison. He doesn’t want his son to grow up without a father.”
Jane pursed her lips a moment, then she said, “That’s quite a lot, you know. What does he want?”
“He wants assurances from the FBI that he won’t be charged. He thinks the lawyer can convince Agent Gianelli that it was an act of self-defense.”
“Based on nothing but his version of what happened? No evidence or eyewitnesses? Just his word?”
Vicky sat back and studied the black leather bag in her lap. She admired the way Jane cut into the heart of the matter. “Gianelli couldn’t give any such assurances, of course. But let’s say the lawyer talks it over with him anyway, so that she can tell the caller the next time he calls what the fed said. The lawyer believes the caller’s story and is trying to gain his trust. She hopes he might come forward.”
“What would make you believe him?” Jane said. “Hypothetically.”
Vicky took her eyes away. “The sadness in his tone,” she said. “The fact he was worried about his son growing up without a father. I think he believed that sooner or later, he would be implicated in the death. He was trying to settle matters ahead of time.”
“A man who refuses to give his name, contacts you by telephone . . .” Jane stopped. “There’s something you haven’t told me?”
“He called one night and asked to meet me at a house in Ethete,” Vicky said. “And I went.” She waited for Jane to say the word hanging between them—foolish—but Jane said nothing, and she told her how he had gotten into the backseat of the Jeep. “He said he needed assurances before he came forward. He wouldn’t let me turn around.”
“So you’ve never actually seen this man, and you can’t identify him.”
“Not exactly,” Vicky said. Then she told her that she was sure the man had followed her into Wal-Mart. “I got a glimpse of him, enough that I could identify him.”
“You’re certain it was the same man?”
Vicky was quiet a moment. She had no way of knowing whether the man in Wal-Mart wasn’t just a random motorist who followed too closely on the Jeep’s tailgate and went into Wal-Mart along with a couple hundred other people that day. What proof that it was the same man on the telephone? Except for the way he stood inside the door, looking about, looking for her. The air of despair and fear about him, the same despair and fear she had heard in the voice on the telephone.
She pressed her spine against the hard ridge of the chair. “I’m certain,” she said. “How would you profile him?”
Jane drummed the fingers of one hand on the armrest. “Impulsive and reflective,” she said, “an unusual combination. He followed you into Wal-Mart, presumably to make contact. An impulsive action, but reflection set in. He had second thoughts and didn’t make contact. Better to remain anonymous and call you. He also killed a man in self-defense, he says. Another impulsive act, uncontrolled by thought. Later the thought processes set in and he realized he had created a problem for himself, one that might take him away from his son. With me so far?”
Vicky nodded. Everything Jane said confirmed her own theory. “He’s frightened.”
“He is motivated by a strong fear of abandonment,” Jane said.
“Abandonment?”
“Not only for his son—that he could be forced to abandon his son—but for himself. Most likely his own father had abandoned him.” She lifted both hands, palms up, and spread the fingers. “We don’t know why, and in any case the reason wouldn’t matter to a child. With respect to that trauma in his life, he holds on to the child’s point of view, aware only of the pain. If he reveals too much of himself, you may also abandon him. You could let him down. That is his fear. It is much safer—an act of self-defense, you could say—to call you on the phone or contact you from the shadows. He does not trust easily. I would venture to say that he does not trust at all, especially the authorities. He needed an interface between himself and the authorities, which explains his impulse to contact you, a lawyer and an Arapaho.”
“Someone else could be charged with murder in the case,” Vicky said.
“Ah!” Jane shifted in her chair, both hands brushing at the armrests. “If that occurs, you won’t hear from this anonymous, hypothetical person again. His fears would be banished. His son would be safe, and neither he nor his son would have to fear abandonment. He would be confident that the matter had been put to rest in the best possible manner and he would no longer fear being drawn in.”
“I need to find him,” Vicky said. She knew Jane was waiting for her to go on, and she said, “The truth could come out. A witness might reconsider.” Troy, she was thinking, would be forced to admit on the witness stand that he hadn’t actually seen Jason Bellows beat Kiki into unconsciousness. Any defense attorney worthy of the name would drive that point home to the jury. “And even if the other man is convicted,” she pushed on, “the caller might still come under suspicion at some point in the future. It can take years sometimes for the truth to come out. He will always live with that possibility. And something else . . .”
Jane put up her hand. “My question for you is why you would want to find this man.”
“I think he regrets what happened and wants to clear the record. I heard the regret in his voice, the need to tell the truth and make things right. I can help him, but not if he remains in the shadows. I became a lawyer to help people with no reason to trust the authorities and no hope. I want him to know there is reason to hope.”
“Then I should give you the rest of the profile.” The look on the other woman’s face had changed, something dark and foreboding had come into her eyes. “We are discussing a man who has already killed another human being. An impulsive act because he considered himself under threat. He did what he had to do. The regret that you believe you heard in his voice is regret at the possible consequences to himself and to his son, not regret over killing a man. Should he consider himself free, he would not want to be located. He would see the possibility that you might find him, identify him, and force him out of the shadows as a serious threat to his own life. That makes him very dangerous.”
“You’re saying . . .”
“He could kill you, Vicky.”
VICKY SAT OUTSIDE in the parking lot, listening to the motor idling, the vents humming with the first surge of warm air. Students hurried past in groups. A few trudged through the snow alone. “I have a little boy,” the voice on the phone had said, and then the snuffling noise of tears that wouldn’t hold back. “I gotta take care of him. I can’t leave him.” Jane could be right. If she
found him, he would believe that she would give him up to Gianelli. Kiki had threatened him somehow, and he had killed him. He could kill again.
She shifted into reverse, backed out, then crept forward down the rows of vehicles, the voice still running through her head like a melody that takes hold, and the sadness in the voice, the despair and fear. She had become a lawyer for people like this, she had told Jane. She was aware of the numb tightness in her hands curled over the steering wheel. He said he had killed in self-defense, and she had believed him. She still believed him, that was the thing.
She stopped for a red light, tugged her cell out of her bag, and called the office. “Hey, Vicky.” Annie’s voice on the other end. “Everything okay?”
Everything was fine Vicky told her. “I want you do some investigating.”
“What?”
“You’ve been wanting more responsibility, Annie. I need you to get the updated list of parolees in Fremont County from the U.S. attorney.” She could sense the hesitation at the other end. The firm had no right to the information. The list was available to law enforcement officers, not to defense attorneys. She could call the U.S. attorney herself, but it was more likely that he would talk to an investigator from the firm than to one of the attorneys. She pushed on: “Tell him we have reason to believe a parolee is involved in Kiki Wallowingbull’s murder.”
“I don’t know, Vicky . . .”
“You can do this. Make him understand we’re working on his side, the side of law enforcement.”
“Okay,” Annie said after a moment. “It might take a few days.” She let another second pass before she said, “Oh, Susan called. Wants to talk to you.”
The light had changed, traffic started, and Vicky eased the Jeep through the intersection, guiding the tires into the parallel ruts in the snow. She thanked Annie and waited until she was stopped at another red light before she called Susan. The first ring and Susan picked up, as if she had been staring at her phone, waiting for her mother to call her back. “Hi, honey,” she said, but Susan was talking over her. When was she coming to LA? Did she remember her promise?
“How about this weekend?” Vicky heard herself saying. And the moment she had said the words, the idea seemed obvious, as if she had been contemplating it for weeks, which she had, in a way, looking for a break in her schedule. And now it had come. Adam would be on the Crow Reservation for a few days, the court date hadn’t yet been set for the civil case that the water consortium had filed against the tribe, and Troy Tallfeathers was no longer a client.
And the anonymous caller—the hopeless voice, the man in the shadows—would not call again. She would have to find him.
“Really? Are you kidding?” Susan yelling. Vicky could imagine her dancing around her desk the way she had danced around the living room as a little girl who had just gotten a piece of candy. “I can’t wait for you to meet Brett,” Susan said. “You’ll like him, Mom. He works for a law firm, you know.”
No, she didn’t know, Vicky was thinking. Susan had said so little about him, yet Vicky had heard the excitement and hope in her daughter’s voice with every mention of Brett. “I’ll book my flight right away,” she said. “You’re sure this weekend is okay? You’re not busy?”
“Make it a long weekend, Mom,” Susan said.
22
THE PICKUP BOUNCED over the frozen ruts in the driveway. Father John hit the brake and skidded to a stop at the corner of the brown house with the front door painted neon green. Behind the house, the barn had weathered into the color of moss. An ancient pickup streaked with orange rust looked as if it were leaning against the barn. He cut the engine and waited, watching the house through the sunlight that sparkled on the hood. Felix Painted Brush would have heard the pickup coming up the driveway. If he were home and wanted company, he would come outside.
The pain had settled in, like a hot iron on his skin. He had been awake most of the night, the pain throbbing at the core of him, his ribs so sore he’d had to sit up in the living room, and his throat pinched with thirst. A shot of whiskey, two, three shots, and the pain would dull. He had contemplated going to the emergency room where the doctors would do a better job of taping his ribs than he had done. But the doctors would hand him painkillers. An alcoholic always recovering, with a fistful of painkillers! It made him want to laugh. There would be no visits to the emergency room. He would be back on whiskey within hours.
Sometime around dawn he had noticed the snow had stopped, and now the sky looked as if it had been painted blue and the sun was beating down. Still, he could see his breath on the windshield.
It was a couple of minutes before the side door on the barn creaked open and the old man’s head poked around the edge. A puzzled expression at first, then—gloved hands fiddling with his glasses, pushing them against his nose—the expression transposed itself into surprise and even, Father John thought, pleasure.
He got out of the pickup and started along the side of the house, wincing with the pain that cut through him like a knife. He fingered the cut over his eye. He had plastered on a Band-Aid this morning, and he wondered how he would explain. Felix was coming toward him. A tall man in his late seventies, bone thin and bundled in a denim jacket that looked several sizes too big, thick braids of gray hair hanging down the front. A crosshatch of deep lines etched the brown face. “Hey, Father!” He raised a gloved hand and squinted into the sun. “Long time no see. What’d you do? Run into a door?”
“Something like that,” Father John said. No doubt the news would be on the moccasin telegraph before long. He hurried into the polite pleasantries: How you been? Getting along pretty good. Heard there might be more storms coming. Yep. We need more snow. The old man shook his head. Missed us while you was in Rome, did you? Couldn’t wait to get back to the rez?
“How did you know?”
Felix dipped his chin into the collar of his denim jacket and gave a snort of laughter. “We had bets on how long it’d take you to get back.”
Father John laughed. A sharp, deep pain shot through him, and instinctively he wrapped an arm around his middle.
“I give you two weeks. Lost that bet real bad. Henry over there”— Felix nodded toward the empty expanse of snow; Henry Lone Bull’s house was at least two miles away—“won the bet. Said it’d take six months before your boss gave in, but everybody knew you’d keep pestering him ’til he did.”
Father John had to swallow another laugh. He had kept up a steady stream of emails to the provincial all the time he was in Rome. How well the people here knew him.
“Come on in.” Felix was smiling. He led Father John onto the path shoveled through the snow to the back door, head bent forward, back rounded into the task. Both arms swung at his sides. “Got some coffee brewing,” he hollered over one shoulder. “Figured I was gonna get pretty cold stripping the stalls and laying in new beds for the horses.”
“I can help you,” Father John heard himself saying. He was still holding on to his side. Lord, he wasn’t going to be much help.
The old man stopped and hauled himself around. Father John could see the pinpricks of light dancing in the brown eyes. It was too late to mention the broken ribs. “Don’t mind saying that’d sure be great,” Felix said. “Four hands are better than two. Let’s get us some coffee first.”
Father John followed the old man onto the stoop that had been shoveled to a clear glaze and into the small kitchen stuck onto the back of the house like an afterthought. Moist smells of coffee and something else—burned eggs and tobacco and neglect—hung in the air. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink; other dishes and pans littered the counters and spilled over onto the stove top. He could see a corner of the linoleum floor curling up, and strips of blue plastic had started to peel off the seats of the chairs. The top of the table was somewhere beneath the stacks of cereal boxes and canned food. Three years ago Mercy Painted Brush had dropped dead on the kitchen floor. He had said the funeral Mass, blessed the grave at St. Francis cemetery, and made
an effort that first year to stop by every week to see how Felix was doing. But the visits had become less frequent, more haphazard. Whenever he happened to be in the area.
Felix had peeled off the denim jacket and hung it over a hook behind the door. He moved to the counter, rummaged in a cabinet a moment, and lifted out two mugs. “Make yourself at home,” he said out of the corner of his mouth, his attention turned to pouring the coffee. He carried the mugs over, hands shaking as he nudged a cereal box out of the way. Coffee sloshed onto the table.
Father John waited until the old man took a seat before he let himself down on the chair, holding his breath a moment against the pain. He managed to get his jacket off and let it fall behind him, then he took in the rich aroma of the coffee for a moment before he took a sip. He could feel the old man waiting.
Finally, he set his mug down and said, “I’ve been looking into Kiki Wallowingbull’s death.” The hot coffee seemed to quiet the screams in his ribs.
Felix nodded, as if he had suspected as much. “Not that bad a kid,” he said. “Came to visit an old man a couple times.” He smiled at the memory, then took a drink of coffee. “Few days before he got killed.”
“Andrew’s worried that Kiki’s death will be written off as part of a drug deal gone bad,” Father John said. “Could you tell me what you told him, Grandfather?” He held his breath, hoping he hadn’t sounded rude.
But the old man was shaking his head so hard that the pair of braids swung over his red plaid shirt. “The boy give up that drug life, said he learned his lesson. Didn’t want nothing more to do with drugs. Lot of young fellows take a wrong road for a while. Hell . . .” He glanced up out of the corners of his eyes. “Took a few wrong roads myself. Spent a couple years in jail before the army got me. Took a bullet in the leg over in Korea. I got me an honorable discharge and come back to the rez. That’s when the elders got a hold of me and said, time you grew up, got responsible, remembered you’re Arapaho. You got responsibility to the people. Kiki was in that same place, seeing he had responsibilities. Wanted to do something right for his grandfather, make up for all the grief he give him. Only thing . . .” He paused a moment and sipped at the coffee. Then he said, “You could see all that anger boiling inside him. I told him he was gonna have to fix it, let it go, but he didn’t listen. Didn’t surprise me when I heard he was dead.”
The Silent Spirit (A Wind River Reservation Myste) Page 21