“He’s lying,” Wentworth said.
“Jesus, Buck.” Fear mingled with the panic in the other man’s voice. “Baider’ll kill us.”
“He’s bluffing, you damn fool.”
“I didn’t want no part of murder, Father.” Delaney moved forward, holding out the flashlight in a kind of offering.
“Shut up, you fool.” Wentworth swung the pistol toward the other man.
“Baider’s using you,” Father John said. “How many more people are you going to kill for him?”
The flashlight jumped in Delaney’s hand, tossing light over Wentworth and the still bodies of Ali Burris and Eddie Ortiz. Father John realized something was different about Eddie: the hands curled into fists. The Indian was conscious.
“You got it all wrong, Father,” Delaney said. “The boss says we take care of this last job—”
“Baider’s lying.” Father John tried to straighten his shoulders. He coughed, and for a half second his muscles froze with pain. The bitter taste of blood was in his mouth. An image of Vicky flashed in his mind. Alone in Denver, determined to find out what Baider Industries didn’t want her to know. She would follow every lead, probe and probe, until, finally, she came face-to-face with a man who had people killed.
He took in a short breath, then another. “Wake up, Delaney,” he managed. “Baider’ll keep using you and Wentworth here to do his dirty work. Wentworth’s too dumb to understand. You’ve got to save yourself, your own soul.”
“Shut up, you damned priest.” Wentworth lunged forward. The pistol crashed against Father John’s ribs.
He doubled over. His rib cage had sprung apart; his lungs filled with acid.
“Let’s get this show on the road.” Wentworth was coming at him again, swinging the pistol overhead like a sledgehammer.
Father John dodged to the side as the metal slammed into the cliff. Clenching his fists, he went for the man, jabbing at the stomach beneath the slicker. The man pedaled backward, then caught himself.
“I’ll kill you!” he shouted, coming forward again, head down, like a bull. The lightning snapped overhead, outlining the rage in his eyes. He gripped the pistol in both hands.
Father John pulled his arms in close to his sides, fists still clenched. He had no breath; he was on fire with pain. The barrel of the pistol looked as large as a black tunnel coming toward him.
Suddenly Wentworth was scrabbling sideways, howling like a trapped animal. Delaney was riding his back, slamming a fist into the man’s head, jerking his arm up, grabbing at the pistol. Shouting: “No more, Buck. No more.” A flashlight skittered across the ledge, throwing crazy patterns of light around.
The crack of gunfire mingled with the sound of thunder as the two men moved toward the cliff, bulls locked in combat, stumbling over Ali’s crumpled legs, nearly falling onto Eddie. Then they were grappling backward, propelled by the momentum and the force of their grunts and shouts.
Thunder came again; the sky was white with lightning. The men stopped struggling. Suspended on the edge: two figures outlined against the sky. Father John realized they were falling.
He dove toward them, grabbing at fistfuls of the plastic slicker, the red baseball jacket, his fingers digging for skin and bone—something to hold on to. Everything was blurred. The rain beat on his head and shoulders. Pain exploded inside him. He felt the slicker slide through one hand. Wentworth was falling over the edge, clawing at Delaney as he fell, grabbing on to the other man’s legs.
Father John held on to Delaney’s arm as hard as he could. He dug his boots into the sandstone trying to counter the force pulling the man down.
He could feel Delaney start to go.
A shadow moved at his side, and Eddie reached out and grabbed Delaney’s other arm as the man dropped over the edge.
Suddenly Father John felt the pressure release, and Delaney was free. Wentworth had let go. A high-pitched scream rent the air for a terrible moment, then was lost in the sounds of the rain.
“Hold on!” he shouted. Eddie was still gripping the man’s other arm, but Delaney was like deadweight dangling in space. Father John could feel the red jacket start to slip through his hands. Like a jolt, it came to him that Eddie had let go and that he and Delaney were going to fall together into the darkness.
And then: a tightness around his waist, arms squeezing his rib cage. The pain made him retch, but he was steady now. He had a good hold on Delaney.
“Grab onto the edge!” he shouted.
Slowly Delaney’s free hand came up and grasped for a purchase. Finally the fingers wrapped around a jagged piece of sandstone.
“Get ready!” Father John shouted again. “We’re going to pull you up!”
He was already pulling, praying Eddie would hold on. Delaney’s body started to rise over the edge: the light matted hair, the red jacket scrunched under his arms. And then the man was on his belly, legs extended into the darkness. Father John managed another hard yank, then another, until Delaney was sprawled motionless across the ledge.
He dropped down on one knee. The pain hit him like a bolt of lightning. There was no air. Seconds passed. Finally his breath started again, hard and fast, each breath like an inhalation of fire. He could hear his heart pounding. The thunder boomed overhead, a cacophony of sound that shook the ledge. “Wentworth’s dead,” he heard himself say.
“Thunder killed him,” Eddie said. He was standing at the edge looking down. “Thunder came and destroyed the evil.”
Below, a light was moving through the darkness. There was no question now: the light was coming up the path. Father John felt a surge of relief. Slinger had gotten the message.
Delaney was sobbing beside him, a low, guttural noise. Father John laid a hand on the man’s shoulders. “You’re gonna be okay,” he said. Then he crawled over to the girl. The ledge was wet and cold beneath his hands. He picked up the thin wrist and probed once more for a pulse.
“They hit her pretty hard,” Eddie said behind him. “I thought they killed her.”
Delaney’s sobs rose into a long-sustained howl, like that of a wounded animal.
The pulse was there, faint but regular. “She’s alive,” Father John said.
“O’Malley. You up there?” Slinger’s voice sounded fuzzy in the rain.
“We need help!” he shouted down at the light wavering below.
There were the sounds of boots scratching over wet rock, someone gasping for breath. A minute passed before Slinger hauled himself over the boulders and onto the ledge, shining a flashlight about. The light stopped on the girl. “Medic!” the detective shouted.
A couple of uniformed officers were coming up behind him. One of them bounded forward and went straight to the girl. He checked her throat and wrist, then shone a flashlight onto her face. She looked like a sleeping child, eyelids flickering a moment before she awoke.
“No!” she screamed. The small body began to shake, pulling back toward the cliff, as if she could disappear into the sandstone with the spirits.
Father John leaned closer. “It’s okay, Ali. It’s over.” She stared up at him out of eyes wild with disbelief.
“Eddie?” she said finally.
“I’m here.” The Indian moved between Father John and the medic and took the girl’s hand.
“You want to tell me what the hell happened up here?” Slinger said.
“I need a phone, Slinger,” Father John said.
The overhead light flickered inside the detective’s cruiser. Outside was only the darkness and the rain pounding on the roof.
Slinger lifted his head from the notebook balanced on the steering wheel. He’d been scribbling for the last five minutes.
It had taken almost an hour to walk down the path. An officer leading the way, shining the flashlight ahead, then Eddie and Delaney and two officers carrying Ali in a tarp.
Father John had followed the tarp, every step sending shock waves through him. Slinger was beside him, grabbing his arm from time to time to stea
dy him. He must’ve been stumbling, he realized. He felt weak and dizzy with pain.
On the way down he’d managed to tell the detective about the diamond deposit in the valley, about the boss in Denver—Baider—ordering Buck Wentworth and Jimmie Delaney to kill anyone who found out about the deposit, about the fight on the ledge and Wentworth’s body somewhere below on the cliffs.
After the two officers had gotten Ali into the back of a van, the medic insisted on taking a closer look at him. He’d crawled into the van beside the girl. The soaked jacket came off, then the shirt that clung to his skin. Fingers probed at him. “Got a broken rib, maybe two,” the medic announced. Finally the tape, tightening around him. Father John had groaned with the pain.
“You’ll want to get an X-ray at the hospital . . .”
He had no intention of going to the hospital. He’d managed to get out of the van and stumble through the rain, past the sedan with Eddie and Delaney in the backseat, to another sedan where Slinger was bent over the notebook.
He’d crawled into the backseat. “I’ve got to warn Vicky Holden before—”
“Before what?”
“Before Baider kills her.”
“Look, Father, we’ve got a team coming up to try and retrieve whatever’s left of Wentworth’s body. Soon’s we wrap this up, we’ll send an official report to the Denver police.”
That’s when he’d said he had to use the phone now.
The detective looked across the seat at him. “Take it easy, Father.” He reached inside his raincoat and handed him a black cell phone.
Father John dialed Vicky’s number at home. He could make out the numbers on the dashboard clock: eight-oh-five. She should be home. He concentrated on the electronic buzz of a phone ringing somewhere in Denver, barely aware of the tape digging into his skin. His own pain receded in the distance.
“Pick up,” he said into the receiver. “For god’s sake, pick up.”
31
The sound of the phone startled her, erupting as it did out of the silence that enveloped the house. Vicky stood in the entry a moment, gripping the doorknob, staring into the shadows. No one was there, and yet something was different. She tried to make out what it might be. An unfamiliar odor. Aftershave? Perspiration?
The phone continued ringing.
She fumbled for the panel of light switches next to the door. The house burst into light: living room on the left; dining room straight ahead. She tried to shake off the feeling of uneasiness that clung to her like a fever.
Five, six rings now. Vicky crossed the dining room and picked up the cordless phone. Black letters floated into the green readout space: FREMONT COUNTY SHERIFF.
“Hello.” Her voice sounded shaky.
A shadow moved. The phone jerked out of her hand and clattered on the floor. A muscular arm encircled her waist, a hand clamped over her mouth. She felt the pain rip across her shoulders as she spun around. Her head was jammed back into the rocklike muscles of a man’s chest, her cheek buried against the fabric of a coat. Metal buttons pulled at her hair and dug into her scalp. She couldn’t breathe.
She felt herself floating upward, watching a scene below: the woman—who was she? So small inside the man’s grasp—struggling, arms flailing, head tilted back, eyes wide in disbelief and fear locked on the ceiling.
The hand moved away from her mouth and gripped her shoulder. She gasped with the pain. She couldn’t breathe: where was the air? Her heart was bursting inside her chest. Finally she caught a breath, then another, and forced herself to relax. The man’s grip loosened.
She waited for two heartbeats, and then, with all of her strength, she rammed her elbow back into the man’s ribs. His hand came up to her face, a reflexive motion, and she bit hard into the fleshy palm.
“Bitch!” The voice sounded like thunder.
She was free. A bulky man in a black coat was pedaling backward. She stumbled against the telephone stand, knocking it to the floor, and started for the entry.
The blow came out of nowhere. She crashed against the wall, her legs melting beneath her. The shock gave way to an explosion of pain in her face. She tried to scream, but no sound would come.
The fist rose again, and she drew inward against the stuccoed wall, steeling herself for another blow.
“Enough.” Another male voice sounded through the pain. “She won’t be any good to us unconscious.”
The man in the black raincoat still loomed above her, his breath coming in jagged bursts of air ripe with garlic and old cigarettes. She felt the pressure of his grip on her shoulders as he jerked her upright and propelled her past the dining-room table and into the living room. She stumbled out of her shoes, her feet in nylons skidding over the wood floor. She crashed against the coffee table and fell onto the sofa, the knobs of her spine bumping against the armrest.
The second man slipped past and dropped onto the coffee table. He smoothed the flaps of his raincoat over his thighs and gave her a long, tolerant smile.
She’d seen him before: in the entry to the Equitable Building the day she’d gone to see his father. She’d gotten it all wrong. She’d assumed Nathan Baider was still in charge of the company, that he’d had Vince Lewis killed to keep the diamond deposit secret. But it was his son, Roz. Roz who’d been having an affair with Jana Lewis. Roz was the one Jana had confronted about her husband’s murder, and he’d had her killed, too.
Roz Baider leaned toward her. “My apologies, Ms. Holden,” he said. He adjusted the flaps of his raincoat again around his gray suit pants.
“Get out,” she managed through the pain.
He gave her a benign smile, the kind he might bestow on a naughty child. “We’re all reasonable people here.” He glanced up at the large man moving like a black shadow above his shoulder. “Allow me to introduce Kurt, my security chief, who, incidentally, never saw a lock he couldn’t pick. I’m afraid your lock posed no challenge whatsoever.”
Vicky shifted her gaze to the man in the black raincoat. He’d been with Roz at the Equitable Building, but she’d seen him somewhere else: in the black sedan passing her on I-25. As she stared at him, his features rearranged themselves into a satisfied grin.
“Kurt may get a little overzealous at times,” Roz Baider said. “Unfortunately there’s been some necessary violence . . .” Another shrug. “There’s no need for more, I’m sure you agree. I see no reason that we can’t come to an amicable understanding.”
Vicky took in several breaths. Her mind was focused into a pinprick of clarity. Be thoughtful. Survival depended upon it.
“Tell me something,” she said. She was thinking, Keep them talking. Death could come in the silences. “What makes you think you can mine diamonds at Bear Lake? It’s a sacred place. Surely you know that. It’s been sacred to my people for centuries, longer than anyone can remember. You’ll never get permission to mine there.”
“You think I want to operate mines the rest of my life?” A note of incredulity sounded in Baider’s tone. “My dear woman, I have no such intention.”
She stared at him. How could she have gotten it wrong? She’d seen the satellite image, she had the evidence.
“I know where the kimberlite pipe is located,” she said. Her head and shoulders throbbed.
“Of course you do. You’ve been a busy little bee, running up to Laramie this morning to talk to Charlie Ferguson, going to Global Vision this afternoon.”
The image of the black sedan flashed again in her mind. Following her to Laramie, shooting past on I-25 this evening, Kurt’s face averted. She understood. He’d taken the Speer exit before she’d reached it and he’d come here. The sedan was probably in the alley. At what point had he called Roz? “I’ve got her. She’s on the way home. We’ll have a little surprise party waiting.”
“The diamond world’s a very small place,” Roz Baider was saying. “Soon as you left Ferguson’s office, he called my father—they’re colleagues, you see. He wanted to know if we’d stumbled on a pipe at Bear Lake
. Very unfortunate.” He shook his head. “Alarmed the old man for no reason. Caused somewhat of a problem at the office, I’m afraid. I have no time for problems.”
“Your father doesn’t know about the deposit, does he?” Vicky said, her mind still grappling with this new image of what was going on.
Baider leaned toward her, the narrowed eyes as opaque as stone. “My father prefers to concentrate his energies on golf. In any case, he no longer understands the diamond world. With rebels taking over the mines in Africa, the rush is on to develop new mines. Naturally the major diamond companies are eager to find deposits in the United States. The Loesseur Group, for example. Perhaps you’ve heard of them? No? Major competitor for DeBeers. Loesseur has agreed to buy Baider Industries, after a great deal of effort on my part, let me add.”
He paused and ran his tongue over his thin lips. “Let’s just say that Loesseur lost interest for a while, after one of our mines played out, but as soon as they heard about the rich deposit we’d located at Bear Lake, they changed their minds. They’re eager to extend their operations into this region.”
“You can’t sell what you don’t own, Baider.” Vicky made her voice strong. “You don’t have a mineral lease on the area. You don’t have any authorization to explore.”
“True, true.” Roz Baider nodded for a long moment. “We’re selling information, my dear. Information about a rich deposit. Loesseur will take care of the legal technicalities and begin operations.”
Vicky felt a chill run through her. A company that competed with DeBeers, with deep pockets to pay for the environmental study required for a mining permit and fleets of top-notch lawyers, would be able to withstand any challenges the tribes might offer. She said, “A mine will destroy the Bear Lake Valley.”
Roz Baider was grinning at some image in his head. “I can assure you that Loesseur will not operate a mine long.”
“You talk too much, Roz.” Kurt stepped forward, the massive body throwing a shadow over the other man.
“What are you saying?” Vicky kept her eyes on the man perched in front of her. “Loesseur wouldn’t buy your company if they didn’t intend to operate a mine.”
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