The Dream Stalker

by Margaret Coel

  Father John saw the stunned look of recognition and disbelief on Vicky’s face. She kept her place a moment, staring at the woman, then suddenly twisted past him. “Please don’t let me keep you, Father O’Malley,” she said, grabbing her raincoat and flinging it over one arm. She picked up the briefcase, the black bag. In an instant, she was through the door.

  Father John brushed past the other woman and caught up with Vicky just as she was about to step onto the front stoop. He took hold of her arm. “Wait, you don’t understand.”

  “Oh, you’re wrong.” She pulled away from him. “I finally understand everything, Father O’Malley.” Then she was marching down the sidewalk, the black bag slung over one shoulder bouncing against the raincoat still on her arm.

  Father John could sense Sheila Cavanaugh behind him, could smell her perfume. He took a deep breath before he turned to face the most beautiful woman he wished he’d never met.

  26

  Vicky gripped the steering wheel, scarcely aware of her nails digging into the palms of her hands as the Bronco plunged down Seventeen-Mile Road. Thick clouds pressed downward, parting occasionally so that the Bronco seemed to dive in and out of a wet mist. “How could you be so stupid?” The sound of her own voice startled her.

  For almost three years now, she had yearned for a man who had always seemed exactly as he appeared—a good man, a whole man. He was a priest, and she had respected that reality, had worked hard to keep her own feelings in check. When that had become difficult, she had stopped calling him, had gone out of the way not to see him, even though there had been many instances, many legitimate excuses, many times she had longed to pick up the phone and hear his voice.

  She had scarcely acknowledged her own feelings. Except for the other evening in her kitchen, when they’d been so close, and for the first time she had allowed herself to dream that perhaps . . . things could change. Priests left the priesthood everyday. They married.

  But not priests like John O’Malley. That was the truth of it, the reality she could never get around. How could he leave the priesthood? It was his dream, and the power of his dream made him who he was. What drew her to him, she had always thought, was the very thing that kept him from her. She had never thought it was something else.

  She gripped the steering wheel tighter. Her knuckles blanched, her palms stung. How could she have been so wrong? All that time, there was another woman strolling into his study, just as she had this morning, perfectly at home. An everyday occurrence. His own housekeeper had told her to go right in. This woman with sun-gold red hair and green eyes and skin as clear and white as the china she probably kept stacked in one of her cabinets.

  Sheila Cavanaugh. One of his own people. She was probably from Boston—the broad words, the swallowed r’s, just like his. How long had she been here? Had he brought her with him when he’d first come to St. Francis? It wasn’t possible. She would have heard the rumors. The moccasin telegraph would have never stopped buzzing. When had this woman come? Where did he keep her? Vicky had heard about such women—the women who consorted with priests. She did not want to be one of them.

  She swerved into the oncoming lane and passed a pickup. Another fast swerve, another pickup. The mist clung to the windshield, and she flipped on the wipers. They made a screeching noise, like that of a small, hungry animal. She had to think rationally, to bring her feelings under control. She could not allow the sense of loss to overtake her. She could not lose what she never had. “Do not cry for something you never had,” Grandmother Ninni once told her. “It does not cry for you.” She would be okay as she was. Hisei ci nihi. Woman Alone.

  Vicky wheeled into the parking lot in front of the tribal offices at Ethete. She set the Bronco next to the cement curb, switched off the ignition, and waited, watching the tiny specks of rain accumulate on the windshield. It was several minutes before she felt some semblance of control again.

  She opened the glove compartment and removed the small tape recorder she used to take depositions. She checked to make sure the tape inside was new. One hundred and twenty minutes—more than enough, she thought. She checked the buttons. Everything worked. Pushing the On button, she clipped the recorder inside her purse near the top. If she didn’t snap the purse closed, the recorder would pick up voices. She would only have to reach in and press the Dictate button to start the recording.

  As she walked up to the double glass doors of the tribal office building, Vicky felt herself trembling, as if the cool mist had crept inside her. The lobby was deserted except for the receptionist and a young couple who occupied two of the metal chairs against one wall. The woman tossed back her black hair and thumbed through the pages of a magazine, ignoring the man leaning toward her, his voice earnest and low. The odor of stale cigarettes mingled with the chemical smells of floor wax.

  Vicky walked past the couple to the desk against the far wall. The receptionist glanced up from a computer monitor, her fingers resting on the keyboard. One of the Bushy girls, Vicky thought. Iola Bushy, in her twenties now, pretty, with wide eyes that gave her a look of surprise.

  “I’m here to see Lionel,” Vicky said.

  “You got an appointment?” Little furrows appeared in the young woman’s forehead, as if she were trying to remember.

  “Just tell him I’m here.”

  The receptionist raised both shoulders, a fierce gesture, like that of a bear rearing up to protect her cubs. “Sorry. Not possible. Lionel’s in a real important meeting with the tribal council right now.”

  It crossed Vicky’s mind that Iola Bushy was sleeping with Lionel Redbull. She shook the notion away. Was this what she would think about every woman she met? That every woman had someone to love, while she had no one? She had to do better than that, she told herself, forcing her thoughts back to the moment. The receptionist’s fingers had begun tapping the keys in a sharp clattering rhythm.

  “Call Lionel out of the meeting, Iola.”

  “What?” The young woman stopped tapping and sat back, eyes wide with shock.

  “You heard me. Call him out of the meeting.”

  “I can’t do that, Vicky. Lionel will get real mad at me.”

  Vicky recognized the way Iola spoke the man’s name. It was the way any woman spoke the name of the man she loved. She’d been right. She said, “Tell him I know what’s missing.”

  The receptionist hesitated. Finally she gripped the edge of the desk and pulled herself toward the phone. Her fingers raced over the buttons. A moment passed. Iola stared past Vicky toward the glass front doors. Suddenly she started apologizing—“I’m so sorry, Lionel”—and delivered the message. Then she was quiet, surprise and hurt mingling in her eyes. Replacing the receiver, she said, “His office is on the right.”

  “I know where it is.” Vicky started down the hallway past a procession of frosted glass doors. She reached inside her purse and fingered the cool plastic recorder, groping for the Dictate button. Just as she was about to press it, one of the doors opened. Lionel stepped out. He wore blue jeans and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Beyond him, Vicky could see the tribal council members seated around a conference table. A voice drifting into the hallway was cut off as the project director slammed the door. “What the hell’s this all about?” he asked. He moved in front of her.

  Vicky yanked her hand out of the purse. She hadn’t expected him to appear like this. She realized with a sinking feeling she hadn’t managed to press the Dictate button.

  27

  “I’ve found some information you’ll be interested in.” Vicky locked eyes with the man in front of her. Was she mistaken, or did the smallest trace of fear come into his expression?

  Lionel Redbull turned on his heel and started down the hallway. Vicky hurried to catch up and strode alongside, wondering if she dared reach into her purse and search again for the button. She decided against it. The man pushed open a door with black lettering on the frosted glass: TRIBAL PROJECT DIRECTOR. She followed him through the d
oorway.

  The office was small, the walls lined with a desk, file cabinets, a couple of straight-backed chairs. The air was filled with the musty odor of stale smoke and perspiration.

  “Make it quick, Vicky.” Lionel stood in front of her again. She could smell the sourness of his breath.

  She stepped past him and sat down in one of the chairs. Deliberately she opened the purse on her lap, aware of his eyes on her. With her left hand, she pushed through the jumble of contents until she located a small spiral notebook and a ballpoint. As she extracted them, her right hand found the recorder and one finger pressed down on the Dictate button. She set the purse down carefully at her feet, leaving the flaps open.

  Lionel grabbed the other chair. The legs screeched across the tile floor as he swung the chair around in front of her and straddled the seat. He set both arms across the back. “You’ve got one minute,” he said.

  Vicky opened the little notebook and glanced at the notes she’d scribbled to herself. Reminder notes that had nothing to do with this. She looked up. “I’ve been studying some old geologic reports.”

  “So?”

  “So I understand why your consultants forgot to mention the great volume of water pumped into the oil wells north and south of the Legeau ranch.”

  Lionel drew back, a quick reflex. She thought his face actually took on a lighter shade. His eyes stayed on hers. “What are you talking about?”

  “We know where the water pools, don’t we, Lionel? An underground lake makes the Legeau ranch a highly risky site to store radioactive materials.”

  “You have no proof.”

  “Oh, you’re wrong. I found the geologic reports, reports you obviously didn’t know existed.” She kept her face a mask, praying it wouldn’t slip, that he wouldn’t see she had nothing.

  Lionel drew in a long breath and slowly let it out. “What do you want?”

  “How much did you pay the consultants in Denver to forget about the water, as well as any other factors that might make the site unsuitable?”

  “Other factors?”

  “Come on, Lionel. We know they exist.” Vicky shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I have proof the underground lake exists. I want the same amount you gave the consultants.”

  The man let out a loud snort. “If you think I’m going to give you $250,000, you’ve gone round the bend, lady.”

  “Two hundred fifty thousand dollars.” Vicky let the words hang in the air a moment. The consultants could have asked for more. The information they’d agreed to withhold was critical; it determined whether the facility would be built. It always amazed her the way greedy people grasped at the first money they saw, rather than angling for more, as if they couldn’t bear the risk of missing any of it, not the smallest part.

  “You’re playing a dangerous game, Vicky.”

  “Yes, I know. I got your threats.” She was taking a chance. She hoped the recorder was working.

  “You didn’t heed them.”

  “You missed me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When you tried to run me down in front of my office. When you tried to get into my house. When you followed me from the public hearing.”

  “You got me all wrong.” Lionel was shaking his head.

  “I know how desperate you are to get the facility,” Vicky went on, prodding. “You’ve probably already stashed a large part of the grant money in some secret bank account. You hired consultants you could bribe. You threatened me. And when Matthew Bosse found out what you had done, you killed him.”

  Lionel leapt off the chair and wheeled around. He brought a fist down hard on the edge of the desk and stood over it a moment. Vicky could see the muscles twitching in his forearm, the blue vein standing out in his neck. She gripped the edge of her chair to keep from jumping up and running out. Silence filled the office. From down the hallway came the lazy thud of a door slamming.

  Finally he turned to her. “Okay, so I sent you some threats.”

  “How did you get into my office?” Vicky asked.

  The Indian smiled a long moment. Finally he said, “There’s a real pretty little gal that cleans the offices in your building. Let’s just say she likes me a lot. Anyway, I was only tryin’ to get you to back off. All it did was spur you on. But I had no intention of carrying out the threats. Whatever’s been goin’ on, I had nothing to do with it. Somebody shot Matthew, but it wasn’t me. I don’t know who’d do such a fool thing, just when we’ve about got this facility wrapped up, unless it was one of the enviromaniacs around the rez. Matthew was working for the facility just as hard as I was.”

  “You’re saying Bosse agreed to bribe the consultants?”

  “No. No. No.” Lionel gave his head a hard shake. “Bosse wouldn’t have gone for that. He thought the report was accurate, and he never found out otherwise.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “What are you, some kind of prosecutor?” Lionel leaned toward her, his eyes narrowed into black slits.

  Vicky said, “I assumed he must’ve found the same information I found.”

  “Well, he didn’t. He would’ve told me. Then he would’ve kicked my ass off the reservation. He wouldn’t have wanted money, like you.” Lionel straddled the chair again and smiled at her. “We’re alike, you and me. We see a chance to make some real money, we grab it. There’s a lot of opportunity here. Once the facility is built, I’ll be the director, and that means I’ll have a lot of, let’s say, discretionary funds at my disposal. I imagine I’ll need a smart lawyer working by my side. We’d make a hell of a team. Maybe we ought to get better acquainted.” He reached his arm around the chair and took her hand. “You’re a very sexy lady.”

  Vicky pulled her hand away. “Do you drive a black truck, Lionel?”

  “What’s this? You only sleep with guys who drive black trucks?”

  “Is that what you drive?”

  Lionel shook his head again, a little smile playing at his mouth. “I can buy one today, that’s what you like.”

  “Who do you know who drives a black truck?”

  Lionel drew back, still staring at her. After a long moment he said, “A lot of people, Vicky. Hell, Paul Bryant rented one at the airport a couple days ago. What’s this got to do with you and me and our new partnership?”

  Vicky picked up her purse and got to her feet. She’d taken enough depositions to have developed an ear for the truth. Truth had its own sound, its own authority. Here was a man filled with greed, willing to go a certain distance to turn a dream into reality. But did that distance include murder? She didn’t think so. Murder was a line he probably wouldn’t cross. But she had seen the look on his face when she asked about the black truck. Maybe he hadn’t tried to kill her, but he knew who had.

  That thought brought her back to the conspiracy theory. Who was he working with? If it wasn’t Bosse, then who? Paul Bryant? A shiver ran through her. She didn’t want to believe it was Bryant.

  Vicky adjusted the wide black strap of her purse over one shoulder, hoping the Dictate button hadn’t clicked off. “Do we have a deal for $250,000?”

  “I want the documents you found.”

  “Of course.”

  “Plus . . .” Lionel laid one hand on her shoulder and moved it slowly, caressingly down her arm.

  “This afternoon.”

  “That doesn’t give me much time to get you a check.” His fingers were running up and down her arm, like a pianist tapping the keys.

  “Cash, Lionel.”

  He withdrew his hand. “Jesus, Vicky. That will take some time.”

  “Six P.M. At my office.”

  “What about your secretary?”

  “I’ll be alone.”

  “This will put an end to it? Your opposition to the facility? You’ll even support it?”

  Vicky swallowed hard. “Yes,” she said, stepping past him, scarcely believing her bluff had worked. He must be under a lot of pressure, she thought, with Bosse’s murder and the FBI ag
ent asking a lot of questions, some of them undoubtedly about the facility. The last thing Lionel would want to surface was the kind of information she claimed to have.

  Just as Vicky was about to open the door, she felt the hard pressure of his hand on her arm. “Your purse,” he said.

  Her heart gave a little lurch. Still gripping the metal knob, she turned slowly to face him. “What?”

  “How do I know what’s in your purse? How do I know you haven’t been taping me? And I just spilled my guts.”

  Vicky stared at him. Slowly she began sliding the strap from her shoulder. She handed the purse to him. “I’m a lawyer,” she said, struggling to keep her tone even. “I could be disbarred for the conversation we’ve just had. I could also be charged with a crime. Why would I be stupid enough to create the necessary evidence?”

  He glanced at her, his hands gripping the purse.

  “You’re right about us being alike, Lionel. We want the money. It’s there for somebody to take. Why not us?”

  He was still watching her. Then he glanced down at the purse, hesitating. She felt as if her heart had stopped beating. The silence of death crept over the room. Abruptly he handed the purse back.

  Vicky swung open the door and stepped out into the hallway. She started toward the lobby, aware of the sound of her own footsteps, her legs numb and shaky beneath her.

  She was shaking all over as she turned the key in the ignition and willed the engine into life. The tape recorder was probably still running—she didn’t dare to look. Lionel might be watching through a window. She waited until the Bronco was plunging down the highway, until the tribal office building had disappeared from the rearview mirror before she groped inside the purse, hit the stop button and then the rewind button. She had what she’d come for. She had the evidence to stop the nuclear facility.

  28

  Vicky parked the Bronco next to the curb in front of the FBI office in Riverton. She had kept an eye on the rearview mirror all the way from Ethete. No one had followed her, she was sure. For long stretches on Seventeen-Mile Road, the Bronco had been the only vehicle in sight. She had driven past the turn-off to St. Francis Mission, fighting back the urge to wheel to the right. There would be no more turning into St. Francis Mission.