“Good to see you again,” Sheldon said, leading Father John into the living room. Its decor gave it the soulless feeling of a department store: plump white sofa, black easy chairs, ornate wood desk pushed against the far wall, a couple of small wood tables with polished tops. The air smelled of some kind of chemical and stale cigarette smoke. And whiskey. He could have identified that in a field of sage.
Sheldon said, “Apologies for last night, all those TV people descending upon you. I had no idea Channel 7 was on to the story.”
Father John nodded noncommittally. Sheldon was lying. The television news announcement had been perfectly planned. Enough time before next week’s business council meeting to rally supporters behind the recreation center, but not enough time for much opposition to develop. Sheldon and the Z Group had hit a homer and were rounding the bases before the outfielders even saw the ball.
Sheldon had started toward the L-shaped dining area that extended off the living room, and Father John followed. “Take a look at this beauty,” the lawyer said, placing one palm on a large Plexiglas case that sat on the oblong dining table.
Just yesterday Eden Lightfoot had assured him the plans weren’t final, but here, in miniature, crawling over the grounds of St. Francis Mission, was the recreation center. The contour of the land, the open spaces and arroyos, the knoll that held the cemetery, the Little Wind River winding along the southern edge, and the cottonwood trees on the riverbank where Chief Black Night had brought his people a hundred years ago were all captured in the model.
The mission buildings were gone. St. Francis Church, the administration building, the school, Eagle Hall, the guest house and priests’ residence, even the old school, were all replaced by an enormous building that crept across Circle Drive. The perfect casino, Father John thought. He said, “Bowling alleys, movie theaters, gyms, restaurants, and everything else in one building?”
“Efficiency.” Sheldon slapped the top of the Plexiglas case. It made a hollow sound. “Mom bowls while Dad works out and the kids play miniature golf in the same building. No sweating in the summer or freezing to death in the winter going from place to place.” He stopped and drew in a long breath. “A boon to everybody in the whole area, but, of course, the Arapahos will benefit most. The center will provide jobs and good, clean family fun. It will help to ameliorate some of the problems here, problems I understand, you’re personally familiar with. Why, I heard you brought some poor drugged-out Indian girl to the hospital just yesterday.”
Father John allowed the comment to float in the air, but it bothered him. How did this outsider know about Susan? He let the question drift away. He’d been here long enough not to underestimate the random wires of the moccasin telegraph system.
“I don’t believe the Arapahos want this,” Father John said.
“Don’t want jobs? You must be joking.”
“Now that the news is out, the people will want a say in the matter.”
Sheldon smiled indulgently. “Ah, yes. Eden Lightfoot has informed me of your hopes for a general council. He assures me he has already spoken with some of the elders. They only wish to maintain the traditional Arapaho beliefs. They have no interest or, may I say, understanding of modern economics. Eden has assured me they will leave this matter in the hands of the business council, unless of course someone like you should insist they become involved. That would be unfortunate. Of course, any opposition on the part of the elders would eventually be overcome. But naturally the Z Group is anxious to avoid costly delays.”
“I can’t tell the elders what to do,” Father John said, starting into the living room.
“Father O’Malley.” The lawyer’s voice behind him sounded calm, friendly. Surprised, Father John turned back. Sheldon had folded his suntanned arms and was rocking on his heels. “We’re both men of the world here, even though you happen to be a priest. Let me be candid. In what way might the Z Group make your life more comfortable? Perhaps an extended vacation? A sabbatical, isn’t that what you Jesuits call it? Relax on a warm, sunny beach somewhere. I know a great spot in Antigua. Stay as long as you like. And you could certainly use decent wheels for your next assignment. Maybe a little sporty job. I’m sure you’ve seen the Lexus SE 400 coupe? Beautiful.”
Father John thrust his hands into the pockets of his parka. “And what do you want for all this bounty, Sheldon?”
“Well, of course, it would be nice if you could support the recreation center. But I respect you, Father O’Malley. I realize that isn’t possible. We will content ourselves with the support of the Jesuit Provincial. All I ask of you is—how shall I put it—your noninvolvement. You simply do nothing.”
“All of that to do nothing?” Father John smiled. “It’s not enough, Sheldon.”
Just as Father John was about to let himself out the front door, the lawyer said, “Let me emphasize something, Father O’Malley.” A lawyer’s tone now, taut, precise. “It would be most unwise of you to encourage the elders to interrupt the normal processes of this matter. Do I make myself clear?”
Outside, the cold air slapped at Father John’s face. He brought the brim of his cowboy hat forward as he cut across the snowy front yard to the Toyota. There was a lot of money riding on this deal, probably more than he had realized. The Z Group didn’t want any interference, and Sheldon’s job was to ensure there wouldn’t be any.
He’d been warned. He didn’t like warnings.
26
Three men stood on the cement bay in front of Big Phil’s Backcountry Wheels. Shoulders hunched, hands jammed into the pockets of tweed overcoats, the salesmen exuded the confidence of those who work for a thriving dealership located at the busiest intersection in town. As Father John slipped out of his Toyota, another salesman wheeled alongside him in a large blue van with BIG PHIL’S splashed in red letters across the side.
He slid off the seat and started toward the Toyota, his boots scraping the snow-packed asphalt. Perhaps thirty years old, with his blond goatee and mustache he looked like a cowboy dressed up for the city. “Afternoon, there. You lookin’ to replace that pickup, today’s your day. We got some fine deals. Couple of pickups”—he gestured toward the rows of trucks, vans, and Jeeps stretching around them—“Big Phil’s in a piss-hurry to move out, make room for new models comin’.”
The salesman ran a gloved hand over the Toyota’s tailgate, the way he might appraise a horse. “Whoa. Somebody clipped you real good. Major dent here. Paint damaged.”
“Is Big Phil in?” Father John asked.
“You here to see the big man himself?” The salesman’s face lit up as if he’d encountered some kind of VIP without knowing it. “Follow me.” He led the way up the concrete stairs edged with metal bars, past a wall of windows, through the double glass showroom doors. They crossed the green-and-white-tiled floor, threading a path between a shiny black pickup and a red Jeep. Two men hovered over the Jeep, their voices floating through the nearly empty showroom.
The salesman paused at the doorway to a glass cubicle. “Somebody to see you,” he called before heading back across the showroom.
Phil Beefer unfolded his lanky frame from the leather chair behind the desk, rising half a head above Father John, and extended a hand easily large enough to palm a basketball. Father John looked up into a long face with concave cheeks, a chin that jutted forward, dark eyes behind clear, plastic-framed glasses, a thatch of gray hair.
“You must be Father O’Malley. Saw you on television last evening,” the dealer said. “Shame they’re gonna be closin’ down St. Francis Mission. Wife and I been to Mass there a few times. Pretty little church.” Beefer craned sideways and looked out the front plate glass. “Looks like you could use a new pickup.”
“That Toyota and I are stuck with each other for a long while,” Father John said as he took one of the twin black leather chairs Beefer indicated. Alongside the desk stood a narrow table devoted to a computer, monitor, and keyboard. Silver-framed photos lined the walls: Beefer and a plump
, smiling woman surrounded by children dressed for the sixties, seventies, eighties. Basketball teams posed for the publicity camera; young Phil Beefer stealing the ball, going for a lay-up, racing downcourt.
Folding himself back into his chair, the dealer said, “If I can’t sell you a new truck, what can I do for you?”
“A young man on the reservation is missing,” Father John said, unsnapping his parka and placing his cowboy hat on one knee. Warm air from the overhead vent swept across his head and face. “His name is Marcus Deppert. He’s taken a job delivering Jeeps to Denver. I was wondering if he’s been working for you.”
Beefer’s head was shaking. “We don’t make deliveries out of state.” Suddenly he swirled sideways and began tapping the keyboard. Tiny yellow letters and lines appeared on the black monitor. “No customers by that name.”
Father John fought back his disappointment. He was about to get to his feet when the big man, still bent toward the monitor, tapping an arrow key, said, “Hold on a minute. He might’ve been one of those Indian guys that picked up a couple Jeeps for a customer a while back. What did you say the name was?”
“Marcus Deppert.” Father John settled back in the chair and allowed himself to feel a flicker of hope.
The dealer peered at the scrolling screen. After a moment, the yellow letters stood still. “Here we go,” Beefer said. “I remember now. Outfit called High Country Tours bought two red Jeeps last November. Sent two guys for ’em. Rich Dolby was one. The other was your man.”
High Country Tours didn’t ring any bells. “Any names with that business?” Father John asked.
“Says here the owner’s name is Steve Nichols.” Beefer swirled back, facing Father John. “Unusual deal. This Steve Nichols called up, said he was starting a tour business in Lander, and placed the order. Everything was done by phone. Courier delivered a certified check, and Nichols sent two Indians to pick up the Jeeps.” The big man shifted in his chair, as if uncomfortable with the memory. “Tell you the truth, Father O’Malley, I wasn’t keen on releasing ’em. Those Indians looked like a couple losers. Giant hangover types, you know what I mean? I wouldn’t want ’em drivin’ any vehicle I owned, but they had notarized letters saying we should give ’em the Jeeps.”
“Any address?” Father John heard the excitement in his own voice. Maybe the Depperts and Loretta Dolby had been right; maybe Marcus and Rich were delivering Jeeps, if not for a dealer, for some private party.
Beefer turned back to the monitor. “Post office box downtown.”
“Post office box.” Father John felt as if he were back in his dream—watching a shadow disappearing ahead, always out of reach. He was chasing ghosts.
Big Phil had flipped open a phone book and was running one finger down a white page. “No Steve Nichols listed.” He turned to the yellow pages. “No High Country Tours either. A guy starting a new business oughtta get listed in the telephone book first thing.” He shut the book and clasped his hands on the top. “Strange deal, start to finish. You think something might’ve happened to this Indian kid?”
Father John heard the parent’s concern in the man’s voice. “I hope not,” he said.
“I hear nobody’s found that body you saw. Hope it’s not one of those two Indians. They looked like trouble for sure, but you hate to see anything bad happen to ’em. You always hope they’re gonna straighten out.” The big man leaned back in his chair, staring at some point beyond Father John. After a moment, he said, “Come to think of it, there was a white girl with ’em. Nice lookin’, too. I remember wonderin’ what she was doin’ hanging around two guys like that.”
“White girl?” Father John felt another surge of hope. Annie Chambeau had said Marcus left her for a white girl.
Beefer rose out of his chair and, looming over the desk, waved toward the plate glass window. Before he could refold himself, the cowboy salesman was back in the doorway.
“You remember those two Indians picked up the red Jeeps a few weeks ago?” Beefer asked.
The salesman’s face looked blank for a few seconds before comprehension crept into his eyes. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Father O’Malley here would like to talk to the white girl with ’em. Dark hair. Kind of tall with a great figure. Real pretty. You paid her a lot of attention while I was squaring things away with the Indians. You just hittin’ on her, or she a friend of yours?”
The salesman’s eyes darted from Beefer to Father John, as if this was some kind of test and he wasn’t sure of the correct answer. “I seen her a few times over in Riverton at Herb’s place. Jennifer somethin’-or-other.”
“There you have it,” Beefer said, turning his eyes on Father John as he waved the salesman away. “Anything else I can help you with?”
Father John glanced at the basketball photos on the wall behind the car dealer’s desk. “As a matter of fact . . .”
“Say no more.” The dealer sat back at his desk, pulled out the center drawer, and extracted a checkbook. Grabbing a ballpoint pen from a stand that looked like a miniature basketball, he began scribbling. “I’m happy to make a donation. Might show how folks around here appreciate St. Francis Mission. How about a couple hundred?”
“I could use a thousand,” Father John said.
The dealer stopped scribbling and looked up, surprise and amusement in his eyes. “That’s a lot of appreciation.”
Father John began explaining. The mission had sixth-grade boys who could shoot a basket across the schoolyard. They had talent and potential, but no gym to play in and no coach to bring them along. St. Francis had the gym, but no money to heat it and no money to pay a coach.
“You gonna be the coach?” Beefer asked, ballpoint poised over the check.
Father John laughed. “I’ve lined up somebody who knows the game. Patrick Banner.”
Beefer dropped the pen and swirled around. Reaching up a long arm, he plucked one of the photos from the wall as if he were snatching a rebound. “See that kid there? My youngest. Best damn center in the state. You know who stopped him from bein’ high school All-American? Patrick Banner. Every match-up between Lander and Indian High School, Banner’d block him so hard he’d only get a few shots, and they were off. Or that Indian kid would steal the ball and rack up points himself. And you expect me to help pay his coachin’ salary?”
“The kids would appreciate it.”
Beefer leaned back and laughed, a large, raspy sound. Then he lifted his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Patrick Banner, huh? You got him for sure?”
“He’s just out of the army. Hasn’t connected with a job yet.”
Grabbing the ballpoint pen, the dealer resumed scribbling. He tore off the check and handed it across the desk. “I expect him to teach those kids every damn thing he knows.”
Father John reached out to shake Beefer’s hand as they both got to their feet. “The kids and I thank you,” he said. “You realize they’ll be outscoring Lander High School in a few years.”
“I’ll be there to see it,” Beefer said. “’Course, I’m not gonna like it much.”
As Father John started across the showroom, he spotted the blue van at the edge of the bay. “One more thing,” he said, stepping back into the cubicle. “Since the kids will miss the school bus, I’ll have to get them home after practice.”
Big Phil looked across the showroom toward the expanse of plate glass and folded his arms across his chest. “Okay, you got the van. But only on loan for basketball season. I’ll have somebody bring it over to the mission.”
Father John started to thank him again, but the car dealer held up one hand, like a policeman stopping traffic. “You ever decide on another line of work, Father O’Malley,” he said, “come see me. I can always use a damn good salesman.”
* * *
The cowboy salesman walked over as Father John was about to back the Toyota away from the bay. He rolled down the window, and the goatee and mustache came toward him, along with the stale odor of cigarettes and garlic. “S
ay, Father, I been thinkin’. I could stop in at Herb’s place and get that waitress’s last name and telephone number. Talk to her for ya, if you want.”
“No, thanks,” Father John said, his boot resting lightly on the gas pedal. The Toyota began rolling backward. He would talk to her himself.
27
Vicky fed a quarter into one of the phones lining the wall at the end of the hospital corridor and tapped out the number to the Arapaho ranch. The hospital was shrouded in silence. A lone nurse sat at the station, her head barely visible above the counter. “Pick up,” Vicky said under her breath to the electronic ring. She’d been trying to reach Ben all day. He had the right to know about Susan.
Suddenly the ringing stopped. “Yeah?” It was a man’s voice.
Drawing in a long breath, Vicky asked to speak to Ben.
The line went quiet for a few seconds. Then, “This his wife?”
“Former wife. It’s important I reach him.”
“He ain’t here no more.”
“What do you mean?” Ben was the ranch foreman. It was a good job, a natural for him. He wouldn’t just leave.
“Ain’t you heard?” Again, the silence. Vicky knew what he would say before he said it. “Ben took sick.”
Sick. Why was it so hard for her people to speak the words? Ben was drinking again. He’d been sober six long years, and now . . . She felt her stomach curling into knots. “Where is he?”
“Don’t know. His cousin’s tryin’ to find him. You ask me—”
Vicky replaced the receiver. She didn’t care to hear what he and the other cowboys thought about her visit the other night. They would blame her. Maybe she was to blame. She leaned onto the phone, trying to recover her own bearings. She had a sick, drug-addicted daughter to look after, and she could not depend upon her child’s father. She had thought she could depend upon John O’Malley, but now . . . Now she was alone. Woman Alone was the name the grandmothers had given her, and she realized it was a gift, a prayer-wish that she would have the strength to live her new life. She ran a finger under her eyes to stop the tears and walked down the antiseptic corridor to Susan’s room.
The Ghost Walker Page 15