The Ghost Walker

by Margaret Coel

  Father John interrupted before the chief could recount any more ghost stories. “Let’s suppose the man who forced his way into Annie’s apartment finally found Marcus. Then who knows what happened? Marcus ends up dead, and the man dumps his body into the ditch. The man then murders Annie Chambeau before she can identify him.”

  Banner pursed his lips and squinted in thought. “Makes sense.”

  Father John continued, “Suppose further that, after the man dumped Marcus’s body, he had second thoughts and decided to retrieve it. Maybe he was afraid somebody might spot it, just as I actually did. So he was on his way back when I flagged him down.”

  Banner had swiveled sideways and was staring out the grimy window next to the desk. “All this supposes Marcus being dead, which we don’t know for a fact since we don’t have a body. And none of my boys has spotted any white man driving a gray Chevy pickup on the rez. Chances are the guy blew out of here with the blizzard, which means it wasn’t him that murdered the girl.”

  Father John swallowed hard. He had to thread his way carefully here. “I think he’s still here. His name is Gary. I don’t know the last name. He and a couple of other white men are staying at Lean Bear’s ranch.”

  The chief swiveled back square with the desk. His bushy black eyebrows shot up. “That so? Ben Holden know about that?”

  “He rented it to them.” Father John said nothing about Susan. He realized his instinct was to protect the girl as long as possible, just as it was Vicky’s. There would be time for Banner to question her later, after she felt better. In the meantime, he could check out the three men. Maybe he’d find enough evidence to arrest them without the girl’s help. He hoped so. He would sleep a lot easier if Gary were behind bars.

  Banner laid the ballpoint pen across the yellow pad and leaned back, lacing his hands behind his head. “You got any evidence that the guy in the Chevy pickup is the same guy who menaced the victim?”

  Father John shook his head. He had nothing. Now it was his turn to stare out the window. The afternoon sky glinted like steel, and the wind had started up, flicking a small branch against the window pane. It made a tick-tock sound, like an old clock. He could be way off base, in which case he had just implicated an innocent man in murder. The realization did not sit well on his conscience.

  He said, “It’s just a hunch. And there’s something else. I’ve heard Marcus took a job driving Jeeps to Denver. It’s possible he could be somewhere between here and there.” He realized a part of him was unwilling to close the door on the young man’s life.

  “New Jeeps? Used Jeeps?” The chief started writing again.

  “New, I assume,” Father John said. He should have been more thorough in gathering information.

  “Every gas station in Wyoming has a Jeep or pickup for sale out back. If Marcus is drivin’ used Jeeps, could take us a while to track him down. But only a couple of dealers sell ’em new. The dealer over in Riverton is pretty small. Big Phil’s place in Lander probably does most of the business in these parts. Owned by Phil Beefer. Remember him? He played center for the Denver Nuggets some years back. Helluva good man for a white man.” The chief glanced up. “Sorry. Sometimes I forget about you being one of ’em.”

  Father John absentmindedly waved away the apology. Phil Beefer’s name rang a faint bell, even though basketball went on around him, out there somewhere. Except for the national championships, which he usually watched so he could discuss them with the kids at St. Francis.

  “Problem is,” Banner was saying, “I can follow up leads on the rez, check with the Depperts and Marcus’s friends about his activities. But Lander isn’t my turf. Lander PD is handling the homicide investigation. All I can do is give Detective Loomis this info.” The chief stopped a moment, as if to underline the next point. “If Loomis agrees there’s some connection between Annie Chambeau’s homicide and Marcus Deppert’s disappearance, he’ll make inquiries.”

  “And if not, he won’t spend a lot of time looking for a missing Indian?”

  “Yep.”

  The tick-tock of the branch and the sound of a ringing telephone down the corridor punctuated the quiet. “There’s nothing to keep me from talking to the Jeep dealers,” Father John said.

  “I can’t officially instruct you to do that. ’Course, if you do it on your own, nothing I can do about it.” Banner grinned, as if they had reached some kind of understanding. Then, “Lean Bear’s ranch is on my turf. I’ll send a couple of my boys up the canyon to talk to this Gary fellow. You never know.” The chief shrugged. “Your hunch could be right.”

  Placing both hands on the arms of his chair, Banner leveraged himself to his feet. “I haven’t had lunch yet today. How about you?”

  Father John had ignored the hollowness in his stomach all morning. All he’d had today was the cup of instant coffee in Vicky’s kitchen. “Name the place,” he said.

  “Lana’s.” Banner picked up the phone and tapped the buttons. “Mind if Patrick comes along? I been wantin’ you to talk to him.”

  19

  Father John wasn’t sure how it was that Banner arrived at the cafe first. The chief hadn’t left the building before Father John drove out of the parking lot. Yet there was the white police car with the gold BIA insignia on the front door parked in front of Lana’s cafe as he drove up the snow-rutted driveway. The cafe, a one-story brick square, nestled against the foothills on a bluff overlooking the white plains. Dark skeletons of cottonwoods stood out against the horizon, and black smoke curled from the chimneys of the ranch houses in the distance. The afternoon sun hovered over the mountains, gripping the parking lot in frigid shade.

  The neon sign over the door spelled LANA’S in bright fluorescent green. Father John stepped inside. The smells of grease and fresh apple pie enveloped him. He waved to Turner, perched behind the counter. Lana cooked and waited tables; her husband collected the money and joked with the tourists traveling through Indian country. What’s it like being half of a movie star? Better’n not bein’ none. How come you looked so glamorous up there on the screen? Natural-born good looks.

  Father John walked past the vacant booths along one wall, the tables piled with dirty dishes. Four men were still at lunch in one booth, and behind them Art Banner sat across from a surly-looking young Indian with black hair, green eyes, and a lighter complexion than that of most Indians on the reservation.

  “You remember Patrick here?” Banner asked as Father John deposited his parka and cowboy hat on a nearby coatrack and slid into the booth beside him.

  “Welcome home, Patrick.” Father John extended his hand toward the kid, who looked about twenty-two years old. He’d met Patrick once before, when he’d been home on leave from the army. His hair had been cropped close to his skull then. Now it hung almost to his shoulders. Silver earrings dangled from each ear, and a beaded medallion hung from a cord around his neck. He was wearing a black T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

  “Yeah,” Patrick said. “Like warriors get a real big welcome around here.”

  “Our People honor warriors. It’s our tradition,” Banner said, his tone a mixture of patience and exasperation.

  Lana appeared at the end of the table. She was short and pear-shaped, with white frizzy hair. “What’s this? Some kind of special occasion? Police chief, returning warrior, and pastor all at the same table? I think I’m gonna faint with excitement.”

  “Before you do, bring us three of your world-famous hamburgers and a pot of coffee,” Banner said.

  “I got three pieces of famous apple pie, too.” Lowering her voice and glancing toward the adjoining booth, Lana said, “You want I should save ’em for you?”

  “Well, somebody’s got to eat ’em, I guess.” Banner laughed. Then, as Lana walked away, he added, “That okay with you guys?”

  “We don’t get much choice, do we?” Patrick shifted in his seat, as if to locate the perfect position for the next volley.

  Father John jumped in. “Tell me, Patrick. How’d
an Indian kid like you get saddled with an Irish name?”

  Before the young man could answer, Banner said, “His great-grandfather gave it to him. Hell, we didn’t even know Helen was expectin’. One day she was washin’ clothes. You remember that big scrub board your mother used to set in the sink and wash the clothes on?” Banner glanced at his son, then turned back to Father John. “She was scrubbin’ away when, all of a sudden, her great-grandfather, Patrick O’Riley, was standin’ in the kitchen. Dead thirty years or more, he was. So he says he sure would be obliged if she named the child after him.” Banner regarded his son again. “Good thing you turned out to be a boy.”

  Patrick rolled his eyes and gazed at the ceiling, as if he’d heard the story so many times it had taken on a life of its own separate from his.

  “Arapahos aren’t the only people that got ghost walkers.” Banner laughed and nudged Father John’s arm.

  Father John shot the chief a look of mock surprise. He couldn’t deny it. As Lana delivered the hamburgers and coffee, his memory slipped to the long-ago night his Uncle Daniel came to him in a dream, tall and handsome, a black Irishman with black hair and laughing blue eyes, not a responsible bone in his body, and an endless supply of funny stories and songs. Uncle Daniel could make the sun dance a jig. He was dressed in white—suit, hat, shoes, a white coat neatly folded over one arm as if he were about to embark on a cruise. He had come to say good-bye. Father John was ten years old. He sprang awake, jumped out of the foldaway bed in the living room he shared with his older brother, Mike, and padded down the hallway to his parents’ bedroom. His father’s head was nestled against his mother’s shoulder. He tapped his mother gently. “Uncle Daniel’s dead.”

  Both parents sat straight up in bed. “What’re you talkin’ about, boy?” his father said.

  Thinking about it now, it was what his parents didn’t say that seemed odd. They didn’t say, “That’s silly, ridiculous, irrational. Go back to sleep.” They got up and sat in the living room, his mother wrapped in a flower-printed robe, his father’s white legs visible beneath his flannel robe. When the phone rang, his mother said, “Well, that’s it, then.”

  No, Father John couldn’t deny his people’s ghosts. He had never been convinced that everything could be explained. He picked up the large hamburger in both hands and bit into it. It was juicy and delicious and made him realize how hungry he was. The young man kept his eyes down, working his way through his hamburger and ignoring both his father and Father John. Banner was right. It wouldn’t be easy for Patrick to make the transition back to the reservation. He recalled what Vicky had once said. “It’s hard to be one of the edge people.” He understood because he also dwelled in the edge space.

  “Any job prospects?” Father John asked. He was afraid he already knew the answer, but he hoped something might have turned up.

  Patrick shook his head, eyes still downcast. “Maybe in the spring. BIA police say they’ll have a couple openings.”

  “He’d be a good cop,” Banner said, as if the young man weren’t sitting across from them, silently chewing a hamburger and washing it down with coffee. “Trouble is, he doesn’t want to take something ’til then.”

  “He thinks I should be a waiter over in Riverton.” Patrick rolled his eyes again.

  “Oh, yeah, I keep forgetting,” Banner said. “Being a waiter isn’t dignified enough for warriors and basketball stars. So you’re just gonna sit around ’til spring, contemplating your warrior exploits and all the basketballs you dunked back in high school.”

  Father John set the rest of his hamburger down on the plate. Here it was, a little miracle. He’d forgotten Patrick Banner had played basketball for Indian High School during the long run when the Indian kids had shellacked every basketball team in the state. He’d been an all-star senior the first year Father John had spent at St. Francis, but he didn’t know Banner or his son then.

  He wanted to grab the kid and haul him over to St. Francis right away. He took a long sip of coffee, weighing his options. Patrick needed something to do until spring. The kids needed a basketball coach. But he had no idea how he’d come up with the money to heat the gym and pay a coach. And who knew whether St. Francis would still exist come spring?

  “Look, Patrick,” he said, plunging in anyway, “what would you think about coaching some kids over at St. Francis every day after school?”

  “You kidding me?” For the first time, Patrick’s face broke into a grin.

  * * *

  The wind sent little puffs of snow scudding over the highway ahead. Orange and scarlet clouds floated across the western sky and dipped around the white peaks of the mountains. It was midafternoon, but there was the hint of dusk coming on. Father John was thinking it would take a large miracle to make the school’s basketball team happen. Those two clowns—Nick Sheldon and Clifford Keating—had set the wheels in motion to close down the mission. Make that four clowns counting the bishop and the Provincial. And he had been so busy the last couple of days, he hadn’t gotten out to Thomas Spotted Horse’s ranch yet to find out if the elders might call a general council so the people could vote on whether to close St. Francis mission.

  He swung right onto Plunkett Road, the two-lane trail cut by the people in the Old Time that uncoiled across the top of a ridge like a rattlesnake, snow banked in the ditches. As he started into an easy curve, he glanced at the rearview mirror. The green Dodge truck was coming up fast again.

  20

  The truck was on his rear bumper. Father John stomped on the gas pedal as he rounded the curve. The engine shuddered, and snow blew back alongside the cab. He didn’t want to lose control, not with the snow-drifted ditches falling away on both sides. They were the only vehicles on the road. This was no drunk behind him. This was somebody who, cold sober, wanted to see him in the ditch.

  The truck was still there as Father John fishtailed onto Seventeen-Mile Road. He saw the truck make the turn and start to gain on him. It looked like the same driver he’d seen behind the wheel the first time: aviator glasses, hat pulled down on the forehead. He still couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman.

  Another truck appeared in the distance behind, and Father John let up a little on the accelerator. Aviator glasses wouldn’t put him in the ditch with a witness close by. The truck also slowed, keeping the same distance behind. They passed Givens Road, Arapaho Road, Blue Cloud Road. The sign for St. Francis Mission loomed ahead. Suddenly the truck was coming fast, the grille gleaming in the mirror. Just as Father John began to turn onto Circle Drive, he felt a hard thump and heard a long scratching noise as his head whipped backward. He skidded to a stop in a flurry of snow and jumped out. The Dodge truck flashed past the spiky cottonwoods lining Seventeen-Mile Road.

  Father John inspected the Toyota’s tailgate. It looked as if it had caught a fast pitch from a concrete ball. The left side was punched in and smeared with green paint. The top of the T was gone. He took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair. This didn’t make sense. If Aviator Glasses had wanted to run him into the ditch, he could have done so on Plunkett Road. Why had he followed him to the mission turnoff and rammed the Toyota just enough to dent it? A warning? Is that what the driver had delivered? A warning against what?

  He got back into the cab, uneasiness gripping him. His neck felt as if it were locked in a vise. He was grateful the Dodge hadn’t run him off the road. The Toyota wrecked . . . the idea made him shudder.

  He parked in front of the administration building and climbed the cement steps, part of which showed patches of snow. He made a mental note to ask Leonard, the caretaker, to take another swipe at them. The details of running the mission, he realized, were getting away from him.

  Inside, the dim light from the ancient glass fixtures along the ceiling washed over the corridor, illuminating the portraits of the Jesuits of St. Francis past that lined the walls. A mixture of kindliness and cruelty, generosity and greed, all the human conundrums, shone out from eyes framed by little round
glasses. A musty odor mingled with a faint smell, like that of burning oil, and the soft hum of the furnace in the basement seeped up through the wood floor. From further down the corridor came the tap-tap-tap sounds of Father Peter at his old Smith-Corona typewriter.

  Before Father John could hang up his parka in his office, the tapping stopped, and the old priest stood in the doorway. “The messages accumulate throughout the day. ‘Double, double, toil and trouble . . .’”

  Father John threw up both hands, palms outward, in the Arapaho sign of peace. “Any word from the Provincial?” he asked, taking his chair. Stacks of papers, unopened mail, and messages toppled across the desk.

  “The Provincial?” Surprise crossed Father Peter’s face. “You expected a call? Well, it would be welcome evidence he is aware of St. Francis Mission.”

  “He’s aware, all right,” Father John said. “He’s about to confine it to the Jesuit archives. Students will research how once upon a time the Society of Jesus worked with the Arapahos. Some enterprising young seminarian will probably write a dissertation.”

  The old man slumped against the doorjamb. “‘Can such things be, and overcome us like a summer’s cloud, without our special wonder?’”

  Father John was thumbing through the stack of telephone messages. He stopped at one with Urgent scribbled across the top in Father Peter’s wobbly handwriting. “Nick Sheldon called?”

  “Further bad news, I fear. He was quite annoyed not to find you in your office. I believe his exact words were you should call him immediately.”