The Drowning Man

by Margaret Coel

  “Hi, Father.” It was a duet that cracked between soprano and baritone. Rows of white teeth flashed in the almost identical brown faces.

  “You seen me catch that fastball?” one of the boys asked.

  “Nice glove work,” Father John said.

  “Yeah.” The boy grinned.

  “Me, too.” The other boy punched his brother on the arm.

  “You’re both looking good.”

  “You two Babe Ruths get washed up for supper.” Norman closed the door and waited until the boys had disappeared through the living room, the thud of their sneakers receding into some other part of the house, before he said, “You might have something.”

  “Maybe the fed will help us get the glyph back without paying all that money.” This from Lea who stood at the counter, threading the towel through her hands. “Maybe you oughtta call him.”

  Norman was already reaching for the phone on the wall. He grabbed the receiver and began jabbing at the buttons. Then he handed the receiver to Father John. “You tell the fed what happened,” he said.

  Father John pressed the plastic against his ear and waited through the automatic message: “Federal Bureau of Investigation. Leave your name and number and we’ll get back to you.”

  “Father John,” he said. He felt his voice swallowed in a vacuum. “An Indian stopped me at Ethete with a message for the tribes. Said they can get the Drowning Man back for a quarter million. It could be the same man who tried to ransom the other petroglyph seven years ago. I’ll be at the mission in about an hour.”

  He pressed a key, then handed the receiver back to the councilman, who studied the keypad as if he were debating making another call. After a moment, Norman started tapping out a number. “I’m gonna have to inform the rest of the Joint Council about this tomorrow,” he said, “but I oughtta let the natural resources director know right now that the Indian’s around trying to sell us our petroglyph.” He stared across the kitchen, clamping the black receiver against his ear. “Could mean the petroglyph’s still around.” The faintest note of hope sounded in his voice. “You know the new director? Mona Ledger?”

  Father John nodded. He’d met her once at the tribal offices.

  Norman slammed the receiver back into its cradle. “She’s not answering. Took some of her staff up to the canyon to photograph the glyphs, check the records of where they’re located on the slopes.” He hesitated. “Check to see if any more are missing and keep an eye on things for a while. Construction gets started, they’ll have to clear out. Joint Council’s asked Vicky and Adam to come up with some plan to persuade the BLM that the logging companies oughtta take an alternate route into the forest.”

  Father John tried to focus on the rest of what the man was saying: how he’d keep trying to reach the natural resources director, how he’d call Herbert Stockham, chairman of the Shoshone Business Council, and tell him something had come up. It was like trying to concentrate on the rest of the aria after the tenor had hit a flat note. The other notes faded into the background, leaving the flat note to clash and bang around in your head. Vicky Holden and Adam Lone Eagle. They were law partners. It was only natural for their names to be linked together in the same breath, the way their lives were linked. It was good, he told himself, struggling to shake off the familiar sense of loss that washed over him. You can’t lose what was never yours, he told himself. You can only lose the possibility. He knew from years of counseling others that sometimes that was the greater loss.

  He heard himself saying he would drive up to the canyon tomorrow and tell the resources director, as if his own voice could override his thoughts. It surprised him, the sudden need to drive across the open, flat spaces and into the wilderness of Red Cliff Canyon, a sacred place.

  The councilman grasped at the offer. “That’d be great, Father,” he said. “Mona’ll be glad to hear we might get the glyph back.”

  3

  THE SUN WAS riding over the peaks of the Wind River Range, the brightness fractured in the pickup’s rearview mirror as Father John turned into the grounds of St. Francis Mission. He headed through the tunnel of cottonwoods that emptied into Circle Drive, then started around the drive past the mission buildings rooted in the dry earth with the wild grasses and shrubs. Looming on the left was the flat-faced, stucco administration building. Across the narrow alley that led to Eagle Hall and the guesthouse in back was the small white church decorated in blue and red Arapaho symbols, the steeple rising among the branches of an ancient cottonwood that tilted toward the roof. The stone-block school building that was now the Arapaho museum stood straight ahead. About thirty yards farther around the drive was the two-story red brick residence.

  Familiar, Father John thought, as he came around the drive. The buildings, and the wind ruffling the grasses, the light shimmering through the cottonwood branches. He could have found his way about St. Francis Mission by the sound of the wind, the feel of the earth beneath his boots. It was home.

  A Boston Irishman at home at an Indian mission on a reservation in the middle of Wyoming! He’d arrived nine years ago, fresh out of rehab at Grace House, filled with gratitude that Father Peter, the pastor, was willing to take a chance on an assistant still getting accustomed to sobriety. He could picture the old priest striding across the grounds that first day, a small man with a craggy face, a head of thick white hair, and the energy of a bull. “You’ll like it here,” he’d said. “Place gets to you. People get to you. Day will come when you won’t be able to imagine yourself anywhere else.”

  He’d doubted that would be true, but he hadn’t contradicted the old man. He was glad to be out of rehab, glad for a job and the chance to prove himself. He’d stay at St. Francis Mission a year or so, he’d told himself, long enough to prove to the provincial that he could be trusted to resume his old academic track. He would return to teaching American history at one of the Jesuit prep schools and continue work on his doctorate. The road ahead had been clear and steady. He’d tried not to think about whether he would be steady enough to follow it.

  Then something had happened. He wasn’t sure when it had happened. A gradual settling in, like a tree putting down roots. He’d become part of the mission and the reservation and the lives of the Arapahos. When Father Peter’s heart started to give out and the old man went to a Jesuit retirement home, Father John became the pastor. It had seemed right, a normal progression, as if his entire career had been heading toward a small Arapaho mission in the middle of nowhere. We go by the way we know not… The words of St. John of the Cross struck Father John as truer than he could have ever believed. Still, he’d started to dread the phone call from the provincial that would send him somewhere else.

  Dinner at six. Expect you’ll be on time. He could hear the housekeeper’s voice in his head as he drove toward the residence. He’d assured her he’d be home for dinner today, but that was before he’d known there was an Indian in a gray Ford sedan waiting to pull him over. Father Ian McCauley, his assistant, had probably been on time. Ian seemed to be doing everything right these days, and Father John was happy about that. Of course, he was happy. It was about time the mission had two priests who wanted to stay.

  Except that Father John was on borrowed time. That was a fact. Six years was the usual length of an assignment, and each time the phone rang, he half expected the provincial to be at the other end with news of his next job. Sometimes in the middle of the night, he’d stare into the smudged darkness and wonder where he might be sent, what sort of place. But it was as if a curtain would draw itself over the images stuttering into his mind, and try as he might, he could never picture himself in another life.

  As he parked next to Father Ian’s blue sedan, he caught sight of a white SUV plunging through the tunnel of cottonwoods. He got out and waited until the vehicle pulled in beside him. Ted Gianelli jumped out and pushed the door shut. The sharp clack reverberated through the stillness. They shook hands. The fed’s palm was dry and firm: his grip strong.

  �
��Got the good news,” Gianelli said. He was over six feet tall with trimmed black hair flecked with gray and the broad shoulders and thick pectorals of the Patriots linebacker he’d once been. He wore blue jeans, a white shirt that took on a pinkish cast in the setting sun, a brown leather vest, and cowboy boots.

  “Good?”

  “Initial contact about the missing petroglyph? I’d say that’s good. It means the petroglyph’s in play. Thieves want to unload it. Where can we talk?”

  Father John ushered the fed up the sidewalk and into the entry of the residence. The air was warm and thick with the odors of fried chicken. Walks-On, the golden retriever he’d found in the ditch on Seventeen-Mile Road a few years ago—nearly driving by, glimpsing what he’d thought was a bag of trash—bounded down the hallway and skidded to a stop on the wood floor. Father John reached down and scratched the dog’s ears. He’d pulled over—thank God, he’d pulled over—picked up the injured animal and taken him to Riverton, where the vet had removed his left hind leg and saved his life. Father John had brought him home then and named him Walks-on-Three-Legs, Walks-On for short.

  “We can talk in my study,” he told Gianelli, but before the agent could step through the door on the left, Walks-On leapt ahead and made for the matted spot in the carpet where he liked to sleep, next to the worn leather chair behind the desk.

  Gianelli dropped onto one of the side chairs that Father John kept for visitors, reached inside the front of his vest, and extracted a small notepad and pen. “Start at the beginning,” he said, holding the pad in one hand, the pen poised a few inches away. “Where were you exactly and what happened?”

  Father John had to step over the dog to get to his own chair. He sat down and, patting the dog’s head, told the agent about the Indian in the gray Ford sedan who had followed him to the gas station at Ethete and delivered a message that, he’d said, was for the tribes. He hurried on, staring across the study, trying to relate the exact words that the Indian had used.

  “Who was he?” Gianelli said.

  “Nobody I’d ever seen.”

  “Wyoming plates?”

  “Colorado.”

  “You get the number?”

  Father John could see the license plate emblazoned on the back of his eyelids. He told the fed: the letters MAS, the three numbers.

  “We’ll pick him up.”

  “The tribes don’t want him picked up.”

  The agent’s head snapped back. “It’s not their call.”

  “They want the petroglyph returned, Ted,” Father John said. “The Indian is only the messenger boy. Somebody else has the glyph. If you arrest the Indian, whoever has the glyph could disappear, and the tribes will never see it again. It happened seven years ago.”

  “Yeah, I read the reports.” Gianelli jabbed the pen into the air. “The agent here then solved the case. Two thieves, Raymond Trublood and Travis Birdsong, had a disagreement over the money and Birdsong shot his partner. Why waste the taxpayer’s money charging Birdsong for theft of an Indian artifact on public lands, which might have put him away for two or three years, when the man was going to prison for voluntary manslaughter? The case went inactive.”

  “Could be that the Indian who delivered the message seven years ago stopped me today.” Father John leaned forward and clasped his hands on the desk. “After Trublood was killed, contact was broken off and the tribes lost the glyph. They don’t want to lose the Drowning Man.”

  “You want the truth, John?” The pen was poking the air again. “It’s probably already lost. Sold to some art dealer who doesn’t care about the pedigree of his merchandise. Everything’s already ratcheted up to another level. First thing the dealer needs is proof of the petroglyph’s value. The Gazette gets an anonymous phone call that the glyph has been stolen. A large rock with a picture carved on it? Who cares? They send out a reporter to confirm the theft and find out how important it might be. The reporter contacts a local antiques dealer and learns that the glyph is worth a quarter of a million dollars. The story makes the front page of the Gazette. See where I’m going?”

  Father John nodded. “The dealer uses the newspaper article to get the price he wants.”

  “Exactly. Sure, he’ll try the tribes first on the chance they can raise that much money fast. If they don’t come up with the money, he has the newspaper article to prove the petroglyph’s value. You can bet he already has buyers lined up. He’s probably telling them he’s got somebody else interested, meaning the tribes, which only whets their appetite. They may even top the quarter million and walk off with the glyph before the tribes can pay the ransom money.”

  “These buyers…” Father John reached down and ran his fingers over the dog’s back. There were footsteps in the hall, the thump of the front door closing: Ian on his way to the social committee meeting. “…don’t care that the petroglyph is a stolen sacred object?”

  The agent gave a little laugh and shook his head. “That’s what they like. It makes the glyph even more desirable. We’re talking about people who already have all the Picassos and Renoirs they want. They’re looking for something different, something none of their friends has. Gives them status, the way they see it, to have an ancient sacred object on their patio or displayed on a living room wall where they can show it off. There’s a lot of rich people who’d like to get their hands on a petroglyph. It’s even possible…”

  The agent broke off and stared into space a moment, considering something, turning it over in his head. Finally, he said, “We’ve got a theory that some folks might actually order what they want. Tell a dealer about a petroglyph, and leave it to the dealer to arrange for some locals to cut it out. We think that’s what happened seven years ago. A dealer hired Trublood and Birdsong to get a beautiful glyph, paid them a chunk of money, nothing close to what the dealer intended to collect, of course. There was no reason for the dealer to contact the tribes. He already had the buyer. Most likely, the buyer balked at the price, wanting a bargain. So the dealer put the pressure on by having the Indian contact the tribes. He was just haggling over price. It was a done deal. Could be the same scenario now. Our best chance will be to pick up the Indian and see what he knows and who he’s working for.”

  Father John got to his feet and stepped over to the window. The sun had set, and the sky was beginning to fade into silver. Lines of blue shadows had started to trace the mission grounds. If the Indian refused to talk, the Drowning Man would be lost forever, like the last glyph. But there was still a chance—a small chance—that the tribes could reclaim this glyph. He walked back to the desk. The agent was scribbling on the notepad. “What about the man who might call me?” Father John said.

  Gianelli didn’t look up, just kept writing. “That’ll be the dealer.”

  “Suppose I let him think the tribes have the money and are willing to pay.”

  In a swift, hard motion, the agent drew a long black line under whatever he had written. He glanced up. “You know what you’re saying? We could be dealing with Rambo, ready to take out anybody who gets in his way or tries to pull something.”

  “I could set up a meeting…”

  “Not going to happen.”

  “We can stall for time, Ted, keep him from selling the glyph to somebody else. If he thinks he can get the money fast, he’ll agree to a meeting.”

  The agent pushed himself to his feet and crossed to the window. He stood quietly for a long moment, staring outside, framed in the silver light of evening. Finally he turned around. “You’ll do it my way, understand? This will be between us. I don’t want Norman or anybody else involved. I don’t want anybody else at risk. We can’t take any more chances than necessary. When the guy calls…”

  “You think he’ll call?” There it was, the doubt that he’d been trying to hold at bay, intruding itself in the conversation. The man had to call, Father John was thinking. Everything depended on the man with the petroglyph calling.

  “He’ll call. When he does, you play him along. Make hi
m want to stay in the game. Say you need the proof that he didn’t read about the glyph in the newspaper and decide to shake down the tribes. Tell him that if he delivers the proof, you’ll arrange for the quarter-million payment. You sure you want to do this?”

  “It’s the only chance, Ted.”

  “We take it one step at a time, okay? You call me the minute you hang up. I’m going to be involved in the meeting. You understand? Maybe we don’t know who we’re dealing with, but we do know one thing: Folks that trade in illegal Indian artifacts aren’t nice people. They operate with their own set of rules, and they have one goal in mind—money. They’ll do anything for money. There was a gang working in Nevada that…” He went back to his chair and sat down. “Forget it,” he said.

  “What happened, Ted?”

  The fed stared at him a moment, then waved his hand, as if he would’ve liked to wave away his own reluctance. “Gang was stealing artifacts over two or three years. Digging archeological sites, taking ancient tools, arrowheads, corncobs, hammerstones, clay figurines, baskets, that kind of thing. Looting everything they could get their hands on and destroying the sites while they did it. Even helped themselves to several rare petroglyphs. Somebody in the gang contacted the Paiutes, offered to sell them the glyphs and some of the other artifacts.”

  “An Indian?”

  Gianelli nodded. “Stranger to the area. Never was identified. One of the tribal councilmen got a phone call ordering him to put a hundred thousand dollars in a piece of luggage, leave it in a locker at the Reno airport, and mail the key to a post office box. The artifacts would be returned. The councilman followed instructions exactly, except for one detail. He called the BLM agent in the area, and the agent called in the FBI. Agents were watching the post office, but nobody ever showed up. Two days later, the councilman was shot to death. Not nice people, like I said.”