“The woman was crying. What happened?”
The other priest brushed some nonexistent dust from the top folder, then looked up. “She’s going through a divorce, has a lot of issues. I’ve been trying to help her.”
“Who is she?” Father John had never seen the woman before. She wasn’t one of the whites from Riverton or Lander who occasionally came to Sunday Mass at the Indian church.
“Mary Ann Williams.” The other priest’s voice was flat. He might have been describing the rain. “Lives over in Riverton.”
“How long have you been counseling her?”
“What is this? The Inquisition? What difference does it make?” Father Don jumped up and walked back to the window. His breath made a little gray smudge on the glass. “Sorry,” he said after a couple seconds. “I guess the session upset me, too.”
“She said we’re going to pay for what we’ve done to her,” Father John persisted. “What’s she talking about?”
“She said that?” The other priest swung around, a look of alarm in the pale eyes. Then, as if he had willed it so, the alarm dissolved into mild concern. “She has a depressive personality.” His voice was steady. “She’ll probably feel better tomorrow.”
“Somebody should check on her now,” Father John said. “Does she have family, friends in town?”
“How would I know?” The alarm returned.
Father John walked over and picked up the phone. “The Riverton police will send someone out on a welfare check.”
“The police!” Father Don was across the office, his arm flashing out, yanking the phone away. “You want a squad car to pull up in front of her apartment building? You want to send her over the edge?”
“She shouldn’t be alone,” Father John said. “Where does she live? I can go over.”
The other priest stared at him a moment. Then he went over to the coattree and grabbed a jacket. “Mary Ann doesn’t know you,” he said. “I’ll check on her myself.” He walked out the door. The sound of his footsteps receded down the corridor, and then the front door slammed shut, sending a ripple of motion through the old walls.
By the time Father John had locked up the administration building and walked over to the residence, darkness had descended through the fog. There was no sign of Father Don’s blue sedan.
The residence groaned like an old rocking chair as he let himself in the front door. Walks-On stood at the end of the hall, tail wagging into the kitchen. Elena had already gone home, but there would be a note on the kitchen table. Stew in oven, turn on coffee. He could recite the instructions by heart.
He went into the kitchen, shook some dried food into the dog’s dish, then dished up his own plate of stew and sat down at the table, his thoughts jumping between Duncan Grover and the woman running out of Father Don’s office.
After dinner, he put a tape of Faust into the player on the bookcase in his study and spent the evening at his desk working on the summer schedule: marriage preparation classes, religious-ed classes, Arapaho culture programs, new parent groups. And the Eagles baseball team: practice every afternoon, games every Saturday. A busy summer. No time for the loneliness to creep up on him, for temptations to take hold. If he kept busy enough, he wouldn’t think about a drink; he wouldn’t think about Vicky.
It was past midnight when he let the dog outside for a few minutes. Father Don still hadn’t come in, and he realized he’d been waiting for the other priest, half expecting the sounds of a motor cutting off in front, the front door opening. Surely, if the man had run into any trouble, he would have called.
He started up the stairs, bringing the phone from the hall table as far as the cord would stretch. He set the phone on the top step. He would hear it ring, in case someone needed a priest in the middle of the night.
The sky was clear with the promise of sunshine when Father John walked back to the residence after the early-morning Mass. He always enjoyed the early Mass—the faithful parishioners scattered about the pews, murmuring the prayers, the first daylight blinking in the stained-glass windows.
The front door opened as he came up the steps. His assistant stood just inside, as if he’d been waiting for him. He had no idea when the man had gotten in last night. Late, he guessed, because he’d tossed about a long while, going over in his mind what he’d learned about Duncan Grover: a twenty-five-year-old man running from something, getting ready to start a job, trying to start over. And a girl in a convenience store whom he might never find. Hardly enough to convince a white detective to launch a homicide investigation.
And in the back of his mind, like the relentless beat of a drum, the words in the confessional: There’s gonna be more murders.
“I have to talk to you,” Father Don said, turning into the study.
Father John followed. “What is it?” His assistant had the blanched, drawn look of a man who’d been up all night.
“I’m gonna need a little time off.”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.” Father Don jammed his fists into his khakis and began circling the study, an intent look in his eyes. “Just need a few days to myself. Thought I’d take a drive to the mountains. Find someplace to hide out awhile.”
“Hide out?”
“Do some praying, thinking. Sometimes you have to get away. You know how it is.”
He knew. He’d gone all the way to Boston a couple years ago and stayed two weeks. Still, Don Ryan had been here only a couple months.
“Does this have anything to do with Mary Ann Williams?” he asked.
The other priest yanked one hand from his pocket and waved it into the space between them. “Let’s not turn this into a big deal, okay? I’m taking a few days off, that’s all.”
“What happened last night?” Father John persisted.
“Nothing happened.” The other priest spit out the words. “I called one of Mary Ann’s friends. She came over, and I stayed until the friend got her calmed down.”
Father John walked over and sat down at his desk. His assistant was lying, and the man wasn’t any better at it than dozens of people he’d counseled, dozens of penitents in the confessional—lying to themselves first, hoping that if someone else believed the lies, then they could also believe, as if the believing would make them true.
He glanced up. “Take whatever time you need. I’ll be here when you get back, should you want to talk.”
Fifteen minutes later—he’d just taken a spoonful of the oatmeal Elena had set before him—Father John heard the front door slam and, a moment after that, tires crunching the wet gravel on Circle Drive.
“Well, I told you so.” Elena plunged a plate into the soapy water in the sink, disappointment etched in the set of her shoulders. Father John understood. Don Ryan wasn’t just another priest in a passing parade. Here for a few weeks, a year, then moving on. He was . . . well, he’d seemed to like the place.
“What makes you think Father Don won’t be back?” He heard the doubt creeping into his own voice.
“I told you before. He was never here,” Elena said after a moment. “His spirit was somewhere else.”
Father John finished the oatmeal. Considering. So many priests through the years. Elena knew. He was going to have to cut back on the summer programs, limit them to what he could handle. Until the Provincial found another assistant. He would be even busier than he’d imagined. Which meant he had even less time than he’d thought to convince Detective Slinger that Duncan Grover was murdered.
He thanked Elena for breakfast and asked her to tell anyone who stopped by that he’d be back later. Then he headed down the hallway, grabbed his jacket and cowboy hat, and left for Lander.
12
The Equitable Building spread over a quarter block at the corner of Seventeenth and Stout streets, massive stone towers with marble-paved floors and 1890s Tiffany stained-glass windows. Vicky found Baider Industries on the directory and rode the bronze-trimmed elevator up several floors.
She’d called this morn
ing to make an appointment with Nathan Baider. The founder of Baider Industries may have turned the company over to his son, but the old man was still calling the shots, Wes had said. If anyone knew why Vince Lewis had wanted to see her, she suspected it would be Nathan Baider.
“Mr. Baider’s schedule is full today.” A woman’s voice on the phone.
“Tell Mr. Baider I witnessed Vince Lewis’s murder,” she’d said.
“Murder!” A gasp burst over the line. “Mr. Lewis was in an unfortunate—”
She’d cut in: “Tell Mr. Baider what I said.”
After a long pause the woman’s voice had returned. “He’ll see you right away.”
Vicky emerged into another marble-paved vestibule and let herself through the glass doors across from the elevator. Instantly she was enveloped in the hushed silence of dark blue walls, clusters of chairs, and polished tables. Large photographs lined the walls on either side of a window that framed a view of the parking garage across the street.
“May I help you?” An attractive woman somewhere between thirty and fifty, with stylishly cut blond hair that brushed the collar of her red suit jacket, rose from behind the mahogany desk.
Vicky handed her a business card, which the woman studied for a couple of seconds, snapping the card between her red-tipped fingers. Finally she set the card down and said, “Wait here,” letting herself through the door on the right.
Vicky strolled over to an arrangement of photographs behind the desk, western landscapes with white-peaked mountains and sunshine streaking the endless plains. Above the landscapes, the clear blue sky.
On each photo, small white arrows pointed to barely perceptible disruptions in the earth. She leaned closer, studying the areas beneath the arrows: gouges, clumps of buildings, roads flung through the wilderness, trucks, and bulldozers. She realized the photos had been shot from a great distance—from airplanes, maybe even satellites.
Beneath each photo was an engraved gold plate: CRIPPLE CREEK MINE, CANADA; JENNISON MINE, CANADA; and three mines in Wyoming—LEMLE, BRIDGER, KIMBERLY.
She crossed to the opposite wall. Here the landscape photos were replaced by photos of various-sized diamonds shimmering in the camera’s flash. On the bottom frames were the identifying gold plates: THREE-CARAT YELLOW DIAMOND, KIMBERLY MINE, 1992. NINE-CARAT WHITE DIAMOND, BRIDGER MINE, 1993. SIX-CARAT BLUE DIAMOND, LEMLE MINE, 1996.
She strolled over to the glass-topped display case beneath the window. Flung out like grains of sand on a black velvet bed were dozens of diamonds. White, yellow, blue. Some as tiny as pinpricks, others as large as pebbles, all reflecting back the light and the colors in the room.
“They’re synthetic.”
Vicky swung around and faced the woman in the red suit.
“Synthetic?” She glanced again at the fiery stones. Was nothing what it seemed? Was everything a symbol of another reality?
The woman began explaining. The company could hardly keep millions of dollars in diamonds in the building. She gave a sharp laugh. What would the insurance company say? The stones were excellent cubic zirconia that could even fool a jeweler.
“The real diamonds are here.” She gestured toward the photos behind her. “Baider Industries has an international reputation for the quality of the diamonds we produce. Notice all the gems have the four Cs required of excellent diamonds—color, cut, clarity, and estimable carat size. We’ve produced the largest finished diamond found in North America: fifteen-point-six carats.” Slowly she took her eyes away. “Mr. Baider will see you now.”
Vicky followed the woman down a corridor as wide as a small room. From beyond the closed doors came the muffled sounds of voices, a sharp burst of laughter.
“Mr. Baider has an important meeting in ten minutes.” The woman paused at the last door. “Please be brief.”
She ushered Vicky into a rectangular-shaped office that resembled the reception area with similar chairs and polished tables arranged around green plush carpeting, similar photos of landscapes and diamonds on the walls.
Nathan Baider sat behind a perfectly cleared desk, hands folded on the shining surface. He looked more fit than she remembered, but she’d only spoken with him briefly at the emergency room. His cheeks and hands were sunburned and freckled, his gray hair tousled, as if he’d just come indoors. He wore a blue shirt and a dark tie somewhat askew, knotted in a hurry, she thought.
“Sit down,” he said in a gravelly voice accustomed to obedience. The pale blue eyes didn’t leave her as she crossed the office. She took the chair nearest to the desk. A few feet away, leaning against the wall, was a red-and-gold golf bag with the putter jammed halfway down. A minute earlier, she guessed, Nathan Baider had been putting a golf ball over the green carpet.
“Thank you for seeing me,” she began.
He cut her off: “What’s this about Vince being murdered?”
Vicky said, “I saw it happen. The black Camry deliberately ran him down.”
Baider drew in a long breath that expanded the fronts of the blue shirt. “About thirty other people saw it happen, Detective Clark says, and nobody else calls it murder.” He allowed the word to settle between them, his eyes steady on hers. “It was an accident, Ms. Holden. Some drunk weaving down the street, couldn’t tell the curb from a white line. Hit-and-run, that’s what it was.”
“I was on my way to meet Mr. Lewis when he was killed,” Vicky hurried on. There was little time. She half expected the secretary to appear and announce the meeting was over.
“Yes, yes.” The man waved one hand over the desk. “So you informed me after the accident. If Vince made an appointment with you, it must have been personal business.” He shrugged. “In any case, it no longer matters.”
“It was a matter of life and death,” Vicky said. “Someone killed him to keep him from talking to me.”
Baider was quiet a long moment. He seemed to be staring at some image behind his eyes. “A very large assumption. What’s your evidence, Ms. Holden?”
“Lewis’s own words.” She was thinking how she would demolish a witness on the stand for offering such evidence. How can you be certain of what Mr. Lewis meant? She hurried on: “Lewis’s job was to locate new diamond deposits, am I correct?” Slowly now, feeling her way, groping to express the idea that had been nagging at her since she’d learned that Vince Lewis was dead. “Is it possible he located a diamond deposit on the Wind River Reservation?” It sounded preposterous, even as she spoke.
Baider shook his head. “You’re correct about Lewis’s job. We’re always looking for kimberlite pipes that may be diamondiferous. Maybe you know the world market can no longer depend upon diamonds mined in Africa. Deposits in places like Angola, Congo, and Sierra Leone have been taken over by rebels. They’ve been flooding the world market with so-called conflict diamonds to finance their bloody wars. Damn conflict diamonds amounted to seven hundred million dollars a year until the industry got a certification program. Now diamonds traded on the world market gotta have certificates proving they didn’t come from rebel-held mines. Not as easy as it sounds.”
He shook his head and held up one hand, like a teacher about to make his point. “Much easier to certify diamonds mined in the United States. When we find a pipe, we file a claim. We have dozens of claims on the southern Wyoming border. The area is rich in diamond deposits. None in central Wyoming, I can assure you.”
Slowly the man levered himself out of his chair. “I’m sure Lewis’s accident was a great shock to you, Ms. Holden. I understand the urgency of your desire to find an explanation, but take some advice from a man who’s knocked around a bit. Accidents happen. Sometimes nobody’s to blame. Let it go, and put your mind to rest.”
The door swung open and the woman in the red suit leaned into the office. “Your meeting, Mr. Baider,” she said.
Vicky stood up, reached across the desk, and shook the man’s hand. “Thank you for your time,” she said. A waste of her own time, she was thinking. If what Baider said was true,
there were no claims filed on the res, no records of any deposits. She was chasing phantoms. And yet, Vince Lewis had died trying to tell her something that affected her people.
She walked back through the office, the secretary’s footsteps knocking behind her, and rode the elevator down. As the bronze doors parted, she spotted a younger version of Nathan Baider crossing the lobby—same height and build, same ruddy cheeks, tousled black hair that would be gray in a few years. Roz Baider, she guessed. The man was in a deep conversation with the stocky man beside him.
Suddenly Baider turned toward her. There was a flash of recognition in the man’s eyes, and she wondered if Nathan had told him about her. For half a second she thought he might approach her. Instead, he resumed the conversation with the other man. They swung past a planter and walked hurriedly to the entrance, wing tips tapping out a staccato rhythm on the marble.
It struck her that neither Nathan Baider nor his son wanted her to know why Vince Lewis had called, but she had her own theory, and that theory was beginning to take on a strength beyond its likelihood. For a brief moment she allowed herself to wish that John O’Malley were here. They could sit down together; she could test her theory against his logic. She considered calling him, then dismissed the idea. Not talking to him had made it seem easier to be so far away.
She dug through her black bag for her cell phone, dialed Laola, and asked her to check with the Wyoming Department of Environmental Quality for any authorizations given to Baider Industries to explore a diamond deposit in central Wyoming. Then she told the secretary to call Adam Elkman, the natural resources director on the reservation, and set up a phone interview as soon as possible. She would ask him if the company had requested permission to explore anywhere on the reservation. There was every possibility that Nathan Baider was lying. The company had some interest in the area. Otherwise, why had Vince Lewis tried to talk to her?
The Thunder Keeper Page 7