“Sorry, Father.” It was the receptionist. “Mr. Gianelli left for the reservation first thing this morning. He hasn’t returned yet.” He thanked her, pressed the little metal bar, inserted another quarter, and dialed the BIA police department. The operator repeated nearly the same message: Chief Banner had been called out this morning and hadn’t returned, but she would tell him. . . . He set the receiver on the hook.
Inside the cab, he turned down the volume on Don Giovanni, twisted off the plastic cup of the thermos, and poured out some coffee, considering. Something must have happened—something important enough to demand the attention of both the FBI and the BIA police chief. The steam licked at his hand as he took a draw of the warm, black liquid. He felt a growing sense of unease. The riot last night at Blue Sky Hall, the threats against Vicky, an emergency this morning—what was going on? The nuclear waste facility had set the whole reservation on edge: Indians against Indians, Indians against whites. Sooner or later, somebody else might end up like the poor cowboy. He hoped it hadn’t already happened.
He twisted the cup back onto the thermos and pulled onto Highway 287. Forty-five minutes later, he drew up next to the gas pump at Betty’s Place, the gauge shuddering below Empty. He shut off the engine and pushed the Stop button on the player. “Deh vieni alla finestra” gave way to silence as he slammed out of the cab. After setting the nozzle into place, he watched the numbers tumble to ten dollars even—close to the last of the mission’s petty cash.
Betty was waiting behind the counter inside. She was another of the women on the reservation who could be anywhere between thirty and fifty, short, with a light complexion, a helmet of black hair, and dark, hooded eyes. A half-breed. Her white blouse was missing a button, and something blue poked through the gaping hole. She had tied a purple-checked apron high above her waist, just below her ample bosom. “How about a tuna fish sandwich, Father?” she said as he slid a ten-dollar bill across the glass counter.
“I only just partook of a sumptuous feast.” He laid one hand flat against his stomach. Not quite true. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast this morning. “But a cup of coffee . . .”
She motioned him past the shelves stacked with potato chips, Fritos, candy bars, and cigarettes and into a small eating area in back. The air was filled with the smells of chili and strong coffee. There was a quiet buzz of conversation from the people at the tables: elders and grandmothers, a couple of young women with three children. He smiled at the women, patted one of the kids on the head, stopped to shake hands with the old people. Then he took one of the vacant stools at the counter. Betty flopped a white napkin in front of him before setting down a mug of steaming coffee.
“I’d like to ask you something, Betty,” he began.
Her face froze. “Everybody’s wantin’ to ask me somethin’ all of a sudden.”
“Last Sunday,” he pushed on, “an old man came here. A cowboy. An Arapaho, but not from the rez. He was meeting some friends.”
“This about that murdered guy, ain’t it?” Betty’s voice was loud, as if she were addressing the tables. “I told the fed I didn’t see that cowboy use the phone out front at midnight last Monday. God Almighty, I close up at nine and I’m a happy woman ’cause I get to go home. I ain’t hangin’ around here to see who’s gonna use the phone. Now you show up wantin’ to know if I seen him Sunday. I tell you same’s I told the fed, Father. I don’t know nothin’ about him.”
Father John sipped at the coffee, aware of the quiet seeping through the small area. The woman was lying, and she was scared. He’d counseled enough people to recognize deception and fear when they surfaced. Whatever Betty might know about the cowboy, she had no intention of telling him here. Whatever she said would make the rounds of the reservation within the hour.
Maybe the woman wouldn’t talk at all, but he decided to take a chance. He slipped the ballpoint pen out of his shirt pocket and scribbled the mission’s number on the corner of the napkin. Then he tore it off and folded it.
“I don’t want no part of the trouble goin’ on,” Betty was saying, playing to the customers again. “That nuclear waste deal’s got everybody crazy. Them white protesters runnin’ all over the rez and causin’ a riot last night. That cowboy got hisself shot. Now the councilman’s gone and got killed. Well, I don’t want no part of it.”
“What councilman?” Father John held his breath.
“What councilman?” Incredulity edged the woman’s voice. “Ain’t you heard the news? Don’t you got a radio in that old pickup?”
What he had was Don Giovanni. He said, “What are you talking about? Who was killed?”
A chair scraped over the floor, and boots shuffled on the linoleum. Then one of the elders was standing next to him. “Don’t you know, Father? Somebody shot Matthew Bosse this morning.”
Father John closed his eyes a moment. He’d been afraid something like this would happen. “Dear Lord,” he said under his breath.
“Shot him in his truck.” A man’s voice came from one of the tables. “Yeah,” said a young woman. “Must’ve been on his way to work.” Another woman added: “I heard Lester Goodman come drivin’ along and seen the councilman’s truck in the ditch.” Father John felt as if he’d stepped into the nerve center of the moccasin telegraph.
Betty leaned forward, her bosom resting on the counter. “I heard he got his face shot off.”
The words hit him like a blast of icy wind. He jackknifed off the stool, dug two fingers into the small pocket of his blue jeans and set a couple of quarters on the counter. Then he held out his hand. “Thanks for the coffee, Betty.” As he shook her hand, he slipped the small piece of folded napkin into her palm.
Outside, the sun splashed warmth over the pavement, but Father John was cold with apprehension. Matthew Bosse murdered, his face shot off, like the cowboy. Was it just random violence, or was there some pattern? Maybe Vicky was right. Maybe the councilman had changed his mind about the facility. An influential man like Bosse changing his mind about hundreds of millions of dollars—that could have gotten him killed. But what did Gabriel Many Horses, an old cowboy, have to do with the nuclear waste facility? It didn’t make sense.
What did make sense was that Vicky was in grave danger. If the killer had stopped Bosse before he could explain his change of mind, sooner or later, the killer would stop an outspoken, determined woman like Vicky. He had to convince her to leave the area—at the very least, to come to the mission. There wasn’t much time.
He strode along the building to the metal box that housed the telephone, fished another quarter—the last one—from his jeans pocket, and dialed Vicky’s number. The same businesslike voice answered. No, Ms. Holden was not expected in the office today. She really couldn’t say where Ms. Holden was. Would he like to leave a message?
Father John spoke slowly, distinctly: “Can you reach her?”
“Uh, I don’t know.”
“Well, try. And tell her she must do what we talked about last night. Immediately. Do you understand?”
Again hesitation. Then, “Yes, Father.”
“Tell her I must talk with her,” he said before hanging up.
He got back into the Toyota. The engine came to life the moment he turned the key, and he pulled onto Ethete Road, passing two semis. Fifteen minutes later he slowed through Fort Washakie and slid into the no-parking zone in front of the BIA police department, a two-story red brick structure with the impersonal look of authority. A group of policemen were about to enter through the double glass doors, Banner among them. The chief glanced around, then walked toward the Toyota. “I just heard about Matthew Bosse,” Father John said as he slammed out.
Banner raised one hand and tilted the peak of his cap downward, his eyes narrow in the sunlight. “We got the call about eight this morning. Looks like somebody ran the poor bastard into the ditch and shot him.”
“In the face, Banner. Just like Gabriel Many Horses.”
The chief gave a little shake to his head, a
dismissing gesture. “Just dumb luck they both took a bullet in the face. Somebody robbed that cowboy. But Bosse . . .” He stared into the parking lot a moment. “The councilman made himself some enemies over that nuclear waste facility. Folks’re all riled up. You seen the riot last night. The councilman was right in the middle of it, swingin’ with the best of ’em. We had to pull Randolph March off him.”
In his mind Father John saw the heavyset blond professor with the other demonstrators at the mission. “Are you saying March might have shot him?”
The chief shook his head again. “March is one of the guys we know for sure didn’t pull the trigger. My boys arrested him and about thirty others, Indians and whites both, for assault and disturbing the peace. Got the Indians over in the jail.” He nodded toward the tribal buildings across the street. “’Course the protesters aren’t Indian, so I had to turn ’em over to the sheriff. They’re still locked up in the Fremont County jail. County judge’s gonna hold a hearing this afternoon. I suspect he’s not gonna want any more riots around here. Probably give ’em about thirty minutes to get their tails out of the area.”
“Look, Banner,” Father John said, “I’m worried about Vicky. Whoever killed the councilman is trying to kill her, too.”
“There you go again with your theories.” The chief held up one hand. “Vicky and Bosse been on opposite sides of this nuclear deal. Why would somebody want both of ’em dead? Doesn’t make sense.”
“Vicky thinks Bosse had a change of heart. Maybe that’s what got him killed. And Vicky may be next. Somebody’s been sending her threatening notes, and somebody tried to run her down in Lander. Then, last night—”
“Yeah, I know.” The chief raised one hand. “Somebody’s stalking her. Lander PD sent over a report on the attempted break-in.”
“What? What’re you talking about?” Father John wanted to grab the other man, shake what he knew out of him.
“Somebody tried to break into her house before dawn this morning.”
“Is she okay?” He heard himself shouting.
“Yeah, for now.”
“For God’s sake, Banner, you’ve got to give her some protection.”
“I’d like to, John. Believe me, I don’t wanna see anything happen to her. But she lives outside my jurisdiction. Police over in Lander say they’re takin’ care of it.”
Father John whirled around and started for the Toyota. Vicky was alone; nobody was looking out for her.
“You oughtta talk her into gettin’ out of here for a while,” the chief called out.
“I’ve already tried that,” Father John said as he got into the cab and slammed the door.
20
The asphalt shimmered in the late morning sun, the rain a memory as Vicky drove into the reservation. The turns in the road, the slim, green stalks of goldenrod and sunflowers spiking the ditches, the swales and dips of the earth seemed as familiar as the contours of her own body. She felt as if she could find her way across this land with her eyes closed, by the undulations beneath her feet, the set of the sun on her face.
She had intended to be at Matthew Bosse’s office early, but she’d stopped at her own office first to rearrange the day’s schedule. A crowd of Arapahos were waiting. They must have started out from the reservation at dawn, she’d realized, packed into a couple of pickups: two women, three grandmothers, and a couple of toddlers, all jabbering at once. Johnnie Macon and Kenneth Goodboy had been arrested at Blue Sky Hall last night and were still in jail at Fort Washakie. She had to do something.
It had taken several phone calls, the best part of an hour before she’d established they’d been arrested for disturbing the peace, and Goodboy was looking at an assault charge. A hearing had been scheduled before the tribal judge this afternoon. She had assured the families she would be there. Another thirty minutes of explanations and assurances had taken place before the crowd reluctantly filed out of her office.
She turned down the volume on the radio—Reba McIntyre singing about home and loss—and switched her thoughts to last night’s prowler. It occurred to her the prowler could have been after something in the house. She’d brought her briefcase to the hearing—anybody at Blue Sky Hall would have seen her carrying it. The prowler had probably been at the hearing, and maybe he’d assumed it held something important. Something he didn’t want made public. But what would it be?
The briefcase held the speech she’d planned to give, which simply restated the points she’d already made in public, and the yellow legal pad with her notes scribbled on a couple of pages. Nothing else. She’d left the environmental report in her office, and there was no sign that anyone had gotten into her office again. Besides, the report was free for the asking at the business council offices.
The Bronco wheeled through a wide curve, the body swaying sideways. The music stopped, and a woman announcer said something about another murder on the reservation. Vicky turned up the volume. “Councilman Bosse was found shot to death this morning in his Ford pickup at the edge of Yellow Calf Road, a short distance from his home. The BIA police estimate the murder occurred about 7:30 as the councilman was driving to his office at Ethete. This is the second murder this week on Wind River Reservation. Gabriel Many Horses—”
Vicky snapped off the radio and pushed hard on the brake pedal. The Bronco skidded in the gravel near the barrow pit before coming to a stop. She gripped the steering wheel, trying to still her trembling. “My God, my God.” She kept repeating the words, a kind of incantation against some evil spirit.
Slowly the realization crept over her, like fog moving over the plains: Her hunch had been right. Bosse had started to have doubts about the facility. Why? What had he found? Nothing she had said or written had changed his mind, she was sure of that. After her articles had appeared, the councilman had sent letters to the editor of the Gazette, determined to refute every question she’d raised about long-term safety.
But what if whoever killed Bosse thought she had found something and turned it over to the councilman? Exactly what she would have done—had she found anything. The train of thought made her blood run cold: the threats, the black truck screaming down on her and following her, last night’s prowler. She’d been kidding herself, pretending somebody was just trying to scare her off. Whoever had killed Bosse intended to kill her.
Vicky clamped her foot on the accelerator and whipped the Bronco into a tight turn across Highway 132, heading back the way she’s come. The sun-streaked plains flashed past her window. She had to get to Bosse’s house. It was possible Bosse’s wife, Agnes, knew whatever the councilman knew. She had to talk to the woman before the FBI agent cautioned Agnes against talking to anybody.
She wheeled the Bronco left onto Seventeen-Mile Road, then right on Yellow Calf Road, tires squealing into the morning stillness. Not far from the turn she saw the councilman’s pickup, nose sloped toward the barrow pit, yellow police tape stretched around the periphery. She gasped, pressing harder on the accelerator. There was nothing else in sight, nothing to break up the sunshine on the endless plains.
She drove on, rounding one curve then another, until she spotted the trail of pickups and automobiles parked in front of a white frame house. She slowed. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea, coming to pay condolences, to question the widow, when the house was filled with family and friends. Everybody knew she’d fought Bosse as hard as she could on the nuclear waste facility. They probably wouldn’t even let her in.
Maybe she should turn around, drive to Ethete, and call John O’Malley. No one would turn him away; he could talk to Agnes. Then the thought occurred to her he was probably here. She couldn’t spot the red Toyota, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t parked up ahead somewhere. She drew in a deep breath and set the Bronco into a space behind a black truck.
She grabbed her purse and got out, eyes glued to the truck. It looked like the truck from last night, the truck that had come screaming down on her in Lander. But there were dozens of black trucks in the area—on ev
ery highway, every road crossing the reservation. It was ridiculous to think whoever was stalking her would show up at Bosse’s house, especially if her theory was right and the same person trying to kill her had shot the councilman.
She threw her shoulders back and forced herself to walk past the truck. She had to think straight; this was no time to panic. It was just another black truck. Then it occurred to her the killer wouldn’t expect her to show up at Bosse’s house. She fished a pen and envelope out of her bag, turned back, and jotted down the license number before heading toward the house.
The knots of people around the cars in the driveway lapsed into silence as she moved through them. Before she reached the concrete stoop, the front door swung open. One of the grandmothers filled the doorway, the belt of her red-print housedress tied loosely around her middle, black bobby pins set at the temples of her gray hair. Vicky didn’t remember the woman, but she saw in her eyes that the woman remembered her.
She expected the door to slam in her face. Instead the old woman reached out, grabbed her arm, and pulled her forward. “Agnes been hopin’ you’d come,” she said. “She wants to see you.”
The name came in a flash: Goldie, Agnes Bosse’s sister. Vicky stepped into the hushed living room: elders and grandmothers whispering to one another from chairs pulled into circles; knots of people standing around, heads bent together; kids dodging and giggling around the legs of the adults. Who drove the black truck? Vicky wondered. It could be anybody in the house.
The house felt warm and close, as if the air had been sucked out. The smell of fresh coffee mingled with the odors of perspiration and aftershave. Her eyes roamed the room again; John O’Malley was not here. But through the archway that led to the kitchen, she glimpsed a small group: Lionel Redbull, the Legeaus, Paul Bryant. She hurried past, following Goldie down the hallway.
“Agnes been restin’,” the old woman said, rapping on a closed door. “She’s real tired and confused. That fed showed up soon’s they found poor Matthew out in his truck. Asked her all kinds of questions, actin’ like she oughtta know why some bastard shot her husband.”
The Dream Stalker Page 13