“Will you have dinner with me?”
“Mr. Bryant . . .” she began.
“Please”—he held up both hands—“my name is Paul. I’d like to call you Vicky, and I’d very much like for us to be friends. There’s a lot we should talk about, especially now with Matthew Bosse’s murder.” He shook his head. “A terrible thing. I can hardly believe it.”
Vicky drew in a breath and held it a moment. “I’m sorry, but I’ve work to do tonight.”
“I’m interested in the points on safety you’ve been talking about,” Bryant said, persistence in his tone. “I’m sure I can answer them to your satisfaction. And if I can’t, well . . .” He squared both shoulders and jammed his hands into the pockets of his raincoat. “I’ll have to reassess them. Believe me, Vicky, I’m interested in seeing that a safe storage facility is built here.”
Vicky felt her defenses relax. Maybe this was a chance to discuss her concerns about safety with someone who could do something. She hated the idea of the nuclear facility, would fight it with everything she had. But if the joint council voted to approve it—and it looked more and more as if that would be the case—she wanted it to be the safest facility possible.
As if he’d read her mind, watched it switching gears, Bryant suggested the steak house a couple of blocks down Main Street.
* * *
They sat in a booth next to a plate-glass window. A thin stream of cars and trucks lumbered past outside, as did an occasional pedestrian bundled in a jacket or raincoat. The restaurant was filled with the odors of steaming coffee and charred meat. Over the soup and salad, Bryant talked about the councilman’s murder, how hard it must be for his wife. He’d stopped by the house to pay his condolences as soon as he’d heard. But he didn’t believe Bosse had been killed over the nuclear storage facility.
“What makes you think so?” she asked, surprised.
“The majority of the Arapahos and Shoshones support the facility.” He raised his fork, making the point. “I know you’ve tried to change that, and I respect your efforts, but the fact remains . . .” The unfinished thought floated between them a moment. “If it hadn’t been for Councilman Bosse, my company wouldn’t have considered the Wind River Reservation. He called our attention to the Legeau ranch as a suitable site. It seems to me he was doing what the majority of the people wanted. Why would someone kill him?”
Vicky said nothing. She had no intention of divulging the theories she and John O’Malley had come up with: Bosse’s change of mind; the conspiracy to ram the facility through, even if it meant murder. This white man was a stranger. She knew nothing about him, and John O’Malley had a way of being right: Bryant could be part of the conspiracy.
She shifted the topic to the safety issues. The moment she mentioned the storage containers, Bryant smiled and began a familiar recital: layers of impermeable steel, the most reliable, the safest, tested and approved by the Nuclear Regulatory Commission. They’ll last a hundred years.
As if he’d read her doubts, he said, “And future science will produce even better storage materials and technologies.”
Vicky took a bite of lettuce soggy with oil, marveling at the faith white people placed in science, the offhand way they regarded the future. She told him the future was not an arrow shot into the distance. The future and the past, all of time, were part of the present.
Bryant was quiet, his eyes on her as a waitress with streaked blond hair, rouged cheeks, and thin red lips brought them each a plate filled with steak and baked potato. Butter and sour cream coursed through the potato. As the waitress backed away, Bryant began talking again, pointing out the strengths and quality of the materials enclosing the radioactive waste.
Vicky picked at the edges of the steak and thought about the work back in her office. She hadn’t opened today’s mail or returned her calls. There was sure to be a stack of messages on her desk. Suddenly Bryant’s words caught her attention.
“Of course, even concrete structures aren’t strong enough to contain radioactive materials in case of an earthquake or some other act of God,” he said.
Vicky stared at the man across from her. He had made her point exactly. “There are no construction materials strong enough to contain such a disaster,” she said, testing to see if she had heard him correctly.
Bryant gave a quick nod. “Fortunately the likelihood of an earthquake at the Legeau ranch is zero.” He set down his fork and leaned toward her. “But let’s just say, for the sake of argument, that some act of God occurs. A tornado, for example. With the facility at the Legeau ranch, the nuclear waste would melt down into the earth, where it would be contained. Radioactive exposure to the atmosphere or to underground water channels would be minimal.” His eyes held hers a moment. “Believe me, Vicky, if that weren’t the case, my company wouldn’t even consider the Legeau ranch.”
Vicky leaned back into the cushion of the booth and looked past the speckles of rain on the window at the sidewalk glistening with wetness. “How do you know the scientific reports on the ranch’s stability are accurate?” she asked.
“Because the studies were done by licensed geologists and hydrologists. The reports have passed the scrutiny of the Environmental Protection Agency. They’re accurate, Vicky.”
But what if they aren’t? she was thinking. She had never heard of the consultants who had prepared the reports. They weren’t the usual experts the tribe hired from time. And everything depended upon the stability of the earth at that particular location—the Legeau ranch. Suddenly she understood what she must do. It had been so obvious. Why hadn’t she seen it before?
The waitress appeared with a coffeepot and filled their cups. “You’re not from around here, are you?” She bestowed a smile on Bryant.
“No,” he said in a dismissing tone.
The waitress whirled about, carrying the pot to an adjacent table, and Bryant began talking about himself, as if the woman’s question demanded an answer. A native-born Chicagoan, he called himself. Lived all his life there, Lake Michigan in the backyard. Graduated from Northwestern, but took his MBA at Chicago. Then a number of interesting jobs. But the United Power Company offered the challenge he’d always wanted. Challenge and opportunity. After all, the country was full of nuclear waste, more generated every day. He liked running a company that was in the business of making sure nuclear waste was safely stored.
Another sip of coffee. Personal life hadn’t turned out so great. Divorced last year after fifteen years of marriage. You got used to the same woman, her likes and dislikes, knew what size to buy her. Rough, the breakup. No kids, though. Probably for the best, as things turned out. What about her?
Vicky drew in a long breath, wondering why she was drawn to divulge herself to this man. Before she knew it, she was telling him about her life: born on the reservation, married young, like most of the girls; two kids, Susan and Lucas, grown up and on their own now in Los Angeles. She hurried through the rest of it: the divorce thirteen years ago, the move to Denver for college and law school, the move back. It amazed her how deliberate it all sounded, like an arrow shot at a specific target, when in reality her life had been a series of adjustments to plans that didn’t work out.
The man across from her never took his eyes away. He was very handsome, she thought, with cheekbones and strong chin visible beneath rugged-looking skin, gray eyes with little squint lines at the sides, as if he’d spent long days peering across the waters of Lake Michigan, and a full mouth that broke into easy smiles. He sat in a straight, relaxed manner, an aura of certainty about him that, she suspected, never left him, whether in the clubs of Chicago or a steak-and-potatoes diner in Lander. He seemed honest, with an open mind, a good heart. On the wrong side of the issue right now, but a good man nevertheless.
It struck her she’d never been attracted to white men until she’d met John O’Malley. She felt a stab of pain at the thought of him; she was a fool to think about a priest. She drained the last of her coffee and forced herself to smi
le at the white man on the other side of the table.
The waitress swung by with the coffeepot and refilled their cups before stepping reluctantly away. They lingered, chatting about his life in the city, hers on the reservation. He helped her into her raincoat, and they strolled outside into the drizzle. When he asked where she was parked, she gestured at a point down the street. “I’ll walk with you,” he said, placing one hand on her elbow. His touch was firm.
Vicky held her raincoat closed, set the strap of her purse into the wedge of her shoulder, and bowed her head against the pinpricks of rain as they hurried along the sidewalk. Halfway past the parking lot next to the restaurant, she wrenched her arm free and stopped, frozen with shock. Bryant turned toward her. “What is it?”
At the edge of the lot, in the circle of the overhead light, stood a large black truck, chrome bumpers gleaming in the drizzle. Vicky dug into her purse until she found the envelope with the license number she’d jotted down at Bosse’s house. Hands trembling, she spread the paper open in the rain, glancing between it and the license on the truck. The numbers were the same.
Bryant followed her glance. “It’s the truck I rented,” he said.
Vicky reeled backward, as if he’d struck her. “You!” She shouted. “You tried to run me down. You followed me after the public hearing. You’ve been stalking me.”
“Vicky, what are you talking about?” Bryant came closer, tried to take her arm again, but she was walking backward, stumbling over a crack in the sidewalk.
“You’re trying to kill me.”
“That’s crazy!” he shouted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Vicky kept her eyes on the man, the way his mouth worked around the words. A part of her wanted to believe him, but she had heard so many people lie on the witness stand. People lied with such ease. “Someone in a black truck tried to run me down yesterday morning,” she said, forcing her voice into steadiness.
“Run you down?” A mixture of anger and concern crossed his face. He looked away, as if he needed a moment to absorb the information. Then he found her eyes again. “You must believe me, Vicky. I rented the truck yesterday afternoon. Lionel had been chauffeuring me around, but I wanted to drive myself. Just dumb luck the truck is black.”
Vicky let him take her arm again, and they moved under the restaurant awning, out of the drizzle. “I would never do anything to harm you,” he said. “I’m very attracted to you; I hope to get to know you better. There were moments in there”—he nodded toward the red-brick wall—“when I imagined you felt the same way.”
Vicky said, “I’ve reported the incidents to the police. They’ll want to talk to you.”
Bryant seemed to hesitate before he said, “I welcome the chance to clear my name of any suspicion. Most of all, I want you to believe me.” He moved closer to her, as if he were about to kiss her, and she stepped away.
“Let me see you home,” he said, disappointment and anticipation mingling in his expression. “I’d like to know you’re safe.”
“I’ll see myself home.” Vicky turned and started down the wet sidewalk toward the Bronco.
23
Father John spent most of the morning arranging the cowboy’s funeral. He made a half dozen phone calls: Fred Brush would make sure the grave was ready—Fred and his brother always dug the graves at St. Francis Cemetery; the mortuary would bring the corpse to the church; Max Ernie, one of the elders, would be the orator and take care of the painting; Jonathan Razon would bring the drum group. The cowboy deserved the sacred paint Ernie would place on his body, deserved the sound of drumbeats rising into heaven, conducting his spirit to the ancestors.
With the funeral arrangements made, Father John dialed Alberta Cavanaugh’s number. He wanted to give the woman another chance to say good-bye to her brother. Sheila answered. The funeral at nine o’clock tomorrow would be fine, she assured him. Anytime was probably fine; she doubted Alberta would be there. Then she asked how his day was going. He excused himself and rang off.
Next he tried Vicky’s office. She had not come in today. Even the secretary seemed perplexed. “She left a message on the answering machine this morning to cancel her appointments,” the woman explained, more forthcoming than usual.
Father John pushed down on the bar and tried Vicky’s home number. Pressing the receiver to his ear, he listened to the rhythmic buzzing noise, imagining the phone ringing on the desk in her living room. The answering machine came on, and he hung up. Maybe she had taken his advice after all and gone to Denver. He knew he was grasping for some logical explanation. It would be so unlike her to leave.
He forced his attention back to the mission. He’d asked Father Geoff for the financial records earlier, before his assistant had left for a meeting of the senior parishioners in Eagle Hall. Now Father John scanned the pages, searching the neat columns of numbers for some hidden asset, some deposit lost in the swelter of debits. His assistant had brought the accounts up to date. As of yesterday, debits exceeded assets, and nothing balanced. He pulled out some sheets of stationery from the side drawer and wrote several letters to people who had contributed to St. Francis in the past. We’re still here, was the gist of the messages. Still need your help.
Just before noon, he tried Vicky’s office again on the chance she’d picked up her messages. But the secretary said she hadn’t called in. He heard the worry in the woman’s voice as he struggled to keep his own anxiety in check, to keep his thoughts logical. He wanted to believe she had taken his advice and gone away for a while.
He slammed down the phone and strode out of the office. A few minutes later he was driving west on Seventeen-Mile Road, Carmen blaring from the player. He turned south onto Plunkett Road. The asphalt wound up an incline ahead, and Father John pressed on the accelerator. The engine roared with disapproval as it went into the climb. From the top, he spotted the small gray house in a cluster of cottonwoods, a creek loping along the periphery like a silver ribbon flung over the plains that were flushed with green from the rains.
Father John left the Toyota under one of the trees and walked across the soft dirt to the front of the house. The screen door hung out over the stoop, its mesh curling downward. He stepped around it and rapped on the wood door. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move.
He glanced around. A boy, maybe four or five years old, stood at the edge of the house, brown face smudged with dirt, eyes wide in curiosity. Long black hair hung around the shoulders of a worn blue jacket, and one knee poked through the slit in his jeans. “Hello, there,” Father John said. He didn’t move, not wanting to frighten the child. “What’s your name?”
The boy moved toward the corner of the house. “Jamie,” he said, dropping his eyes. It was impolite for Arapaho children to make eye contact with adults.
“You know a man named Clarence Fast?”
“Yeah.” A smile lit up the boy’s face. “Grandfather.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
“Yeah.” Jamie turned and disappeared beside the house.
By the time Father John rounded the corner, the boy was already in the back, waving for him to come on. He strode alongside the house. The gray paint crumpled in ridges on the boards. His boots sank in the moist, brown earth. When he reached Jamie, he saw the old man seated in a webbed folding chair in a sunny spot a few feet from the back door. He had pulled a white blanket over his shoulders. One leg was extended, the heel of his boot sunk into the dirt. The other leg was missing. A crutch lay alongside the chair. “You meet my grandson?” Clarence Fast asked.
The boy ran to a mound of dirt close to the chair and scrunched down. A pudgy hand reached out to gallop a tiny plastic horse over the imaginary plains.
Fast kept his eyes on the child. “I watch him while his mother’s workin’. She’s my brother’s granddaughter.”
Father John understood. In the Arapaho way, she was also his granddaughter, and her son, his great-grandson. He introduced himself an
d said he was from the mission.
“I figured that’s who you was.” The old man looked up, one hand shielding his eyes from the sun. He was in his sixties, with a rough, weathered face. He wore a jeans jacket over a dark plaid shirt, and blue jeans with one pant folded and pinned around the stump. “I sent my granddaughter over to the mission to find out about old Gab’s funeral.”
Crouching close to the chair, Father John took off his cowboy hat and began turning it between his hands. “I’m going to hold the funeral tomorrow at nine o’clock. What can you tell me about him?”
The old man took his hand from his eyes and, squinting, seemed to assess him a moment.
“I found his body,” Father John said.
The old man nodded, as if the explanation was satisfactory. “I ain’t seen Gab in more’n thirty years. Two days ago, my granddaughter went to the post office and brung me home a postcard. Doggone if it wasn’t from Gab. Wantin’ to meet me Sunday afternoon over Betty’s Place. Trouble is, Sunday’d come and went by the time I got the card, and old Gab was dead.” The Indian slipped one hand past his jeans jacket into the pocket of his shirt, brought out a postcard, and held it toward Father John.
Father John took the card. A photo of a cowboy flying off a bucking bronco on one side, the loopy, hurried scrawl of a dying cowboy on the other. “Don’t know where you is for sure. If this finds you meet me at Bettys you know the place Sunday in after noon. Gotta clear up some thing very important.” The cowboy had underlined the last two words.
Father John handed the postcard back. Gabriel must have sent a similar message to Matthew Bosse. Who else had he tried to contact? And what was so important he wanted to clear it up before he died?
“We was the best wranglers there was by the time we wasn’t much bigger’n Jamie here. Gab come up to the rez one summer with his grandfather. Liked it so much he stayed around.” The old man turned his eyes to the child, who was making little snorting noises as the plastic horse leapt over a mound of dirt. “We probably worked every spread in Wyoming one time or another.” He waved one arm overhead taking in all directions.
The Dream Stalker Page 16