He didn’t take his eyes from the man on the other side of the desk, forcing himself to concentrate on the implications of what he’d just said, his mind still racing with thoughts of Lloyd Elsner. After the pickups and sedans had driven out of the mission, no one else had come. The kids hadn’t shown up for the baseball game, and he’d called the Riverton coach and forfeited. The mission was deserted. The phone hadn’t rung all day. Then, with the afternoon wearing on, the sound of the phone ringing had burst into the quiet of his study. He had sprung for the receiver, shouted the provincial’s name into the mouthpiece, and kept going on—“What have you done?”—when Gianelli’s voice had cut over his own. “John, it’s me, Ted. We need to talk.”
Now, locking eyes with the agent, Father John said, “What do you mean, you have the Indian? You arrested him? We’ll lose the petroglyph.”
“Take it easy, John.” Gianelli stopped swiveling and jerked one thumb in the air. “We know where he’s staying. Riverton PD spotted the sedan and followed it to a motel on the east side of town. He parked in the back for all the obvious reasons. Only way the police could have seen the vehicle earlier would have been from the alley. Manager says he checked in Monday evening and handed over cash for a week. Spends most of his time in the room. Keeps the drapes closed, TV going day and night. Manager heard him drive off a couple of times. Saw the Indian carrying bags of fast food into the room. No calls in or out, which means he has a cell. Lives like a hermit. A hermit with a cell.” Gianelli gave a little laugh and swung sideways.
“He’s waiting for the next instructions.” The boss, whoever he was, was calling the shots, Father John was thinking. The Indian was just the messenger. But the Indian knew who he was working for. He knew where the petroglyph was.
“Police got the vehicle identification number,” Gianelli said. “Dead end, like the license plates. The sedan was last sold five years ago. I suspect that car’s changed hands—legally and illegally—more times than a twenty-dollar bill.”
The agent turned back to the center of the desk, dragged over a file folder from the stack at one side, and flipped it open. He picked up a sheet of paper with a small photo at the top and pushed it forward. “We might have something. Recognize this guy?”
Father John studied the photo a moment, aware of the plaintive melody of “Voce di donna” washing the air. The black hair hung in braids, not slicked back; the face looked beefier, the eyes harder, and the shoulders more muscular. But it was the Indian all right—a younger, surlier version of the man who had pulled in behind him at Ethete and delivered the message. In small black print beneath the photo was the name Benito Behan.
Father John handed the paper back. “It’s the Indian. How’d you get this?”
“Sent out a memo to other FBI offices in the region.” Gianelli tossed one hand in the direction of the computer on the side table next to the desk. “Requested information on investigations into stolen Indian artifacts in the last three years. Responses have been coming in all week. You know how many of these investigations are ongoing? New Mexico, Arizona, Nevada, Utah, Colorado—agents are chasing after clowns digging up Indian burial sites, walking out of small-town museums with Indian artifacts tucked under their shirts, drilling petroglyphs out of rocks.” The man was shaking his head. “We’re talking about thousands of miles of prairie and desert and mountains with nobody around. By the time an agent gets a report of looting, the looters are hundreds of miles away hitting another area. And the artifacts have been sold. So long as there’s a market…” He shrugged. “It’s not going to stop.”
Gianelli picked up the sheet of paper and stared at it a moment. “Came in this morning from Nevada. Benito Behan, Navajo, thirty-eight years old, wanted in connection with the plundering of Indian graves on public land. Investigating agent believes he’s part of a gang that has been looting sites for years. Behan here was last seen in Denver,” he said, tapping at the photo. “Agents have gotten close to him, but they’ve always been about five minutes too late in picking him up. Seems that the man has an uncanny sense of survival. He knows when it’s time to move on.”
“It’s not time, not until he thinks he and his boss can collect the ransom.”
“His job is to handle the locals. He’s native. Fits himself into a reservation without drawing a lot of attention. That’s the way he worked in Nevada. Makes contact with locals who know where artifacts are located, sets everything up, arranges for the artifacts to be delivered to his boss. Goes away, and the locals disappear into the landscape. So far the Indian and the masterminds have managed to avoid arrest.”
“You’re saying that locals stole the petroglyphs in Red Cliff Canyon?”
“Who else knows where the oldest and most beautiful petroglyphs are located? This is a big area, John. Hundreds of square miles of wilderness, petroglyphs in a lot of places. That’s Behan’s pattern.”
Father John leaned into the back of his chair and stared at the stack of components on the bookshelf. The aria was nearing the end. Pattern—there was always logic in a pattern. He didn’t like the conclusion. After a moment, he said, “You’re saying that Travis Birdsong and Raymond Trublood were the locals. After Raymond was killed, Behan fled the area.”
“With the information we now have, that’s what it comes down to. Behan’s going to stay around until his job is done or until something goes wrong and he has to hightail it out of here. For the moment, he’s lying low in the motel. Sedan’s parked in the alley. The police have a surveillance crew across the street.”
Gianelli picked up the photo and stared at it, as if he wanted to memorize every part of the Indian’s face as a kind of insurance that the man wouldn’t get away again. “He leaves the motel, an unmarked car will be right behind him. Sooner or later he’s going to take us to the petroglyph. We’ll get it back, John.” He slipped the sheet of paper inside the folder.
Father John didn’t say anything for a moment. It was a good sign, the fact that the Indian hadn’t yet bolted. It meant that whoever was running things hadn’t spotted Gianelli’s car parked next to his pickup on the highway last night, even though he’d had the sense that, in the dark blankness of the log cabin across the highway, someone had been watching when the Indian had tossed out the envelope. He’d been sure that whoever was watching had driven past when he was stopped with Gianelli. He’d been wrong. It wasn’t the first time, he thought.
He said, “If the Indian spots a police car tailing him, he’ll notify his boss. He won’t lead you anywhere near the petroglyph.”
“We’re gonna have to take our chances.” Gianelli shifted his bulky frame forward and extracted another folder from the stack on the desk. He pulled out the large photograph of the petroglyph taken with yesterday’s Gazette. “Look at this,” he said, flicking his fingers at the edge and sending the photo skimming across the desk. “Anything seem familiar?”
Father John picked up the photograph. It looked pale, washed out, as if it were fading into the white background, disappearing the way the petroglyph had disappeared from the face of the boulder. The Drowning Man was positioned in the center, the newspaper propped up somehow next to it so that the date, headlines, photos, and columns of text from the front page were clearly visible. Behind the petroglyph and the newspaper was what looked like an unfinished wall with horizontal boards fixed at intervals against vertical studs.
“It could have been taken in a warehouse or a barn,” he said, conscious of the agent watching him, expecting him to see something…
There was a small, dark splotch on the floor in front of the petroglyph. “Maybe a garage,” he said.
Gianelli clasped his hands on the desk. “So we’ve narrowed the location to several hundred places. It would take a year to check out all the garages, barns, and warehouses in Fremont County. Point is, I think the petroglyph is still in the area. Out there somewhere,” he said, tossing his head back toward the window, “in an old barn on a ranch, in a warehouse or garage in Riverton or La
nder. Hell, it could be in a shed on the reservation. The boss hasn’t taken it to Colorado or New Mexico or some other place to sell it. It’s still right here, and he’s salivating at the prospect of collecting a lot of cash for very little worry. He’s sure now the tribes want that petroglyph back. He took the bait we threw him. He’ll be in touch.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Do you?” The agent was shaking his head. “I think at this point, John, I’m going to move this away from you. It’s too dangerous. The boss is running the operation. He and the Indian and even the locals have a lot riding on the outcome. They don’t want any trouble. From now on, you’re out of this, John. Understand?”
“I’m the one he’ll call, if he calls again.”
“Oh, he’ll call, all right, and that will be the extent of your involvement. He’s delivered the proof and he’ll want to set up the exchange. You’ll tell him the tribes will only allow a tribal member to carry the money. There’s an undercover officer with the Wind River police who will go in for the exchange. We need a trained officer handling this.”
“And then what?” Father John had a sinking feeling, as if the petroglyph itself were floating beyond his grasp.
“The officer will be wired. We’ll know where he is at every minute. As soon as the exchange is made, we’ll move in and make the arrest.”
“He’ll never go for that, Ted, and you know it.” The aria had ended, leaving a sense of vacancy in the office.
“It’s that or nothing. It’s bad enough you drove out on the highway alone to get the photograph. Anything could have gone wrong if the Indian had figured out that we were watching your back.”
“You didn’t have to watch my back.”
“This is my call. We’re playing this my way.”
“I tell the caller that the tribes are sending somebody else, he’ll call everything off. The Arapahos and Shoshones want that petroglyph back.”
“Well, your job is to convince him.” Gianelli swiveled his chair from one side to the other and beat out a rhythm against the edge of the desk with a pen. “Play him along; keep him on the hook. Don’t forget that he’s salivating at the idea of all that cash. Say you’ll vouch for the money man and the tribes are anxious to get the petroglyph. Make him believe, John.” Gianelli did a drum roll with the pen. “Give him faith. Call me the minute you hang up.”
Father John leaned forward. He braced his elbows on his thighs and clasped his hands between his knees. “I have to be the one who makes the exchange.” That was the logical thing. He hurried on. “They’re going to expect me to be there. The guy could get a feeling that things aren’t right. It’s too risky to substitute somebody else. We can’t take the chance.”
Gianelli let a second pass before he said, “My way, John. Don’t even think about anything else.”
The phone rang through the silence that dropped over the office. Gianelli took his eyes away and stared at the black object a moment, as if it were an intruder that had burst through the door. He watched as it rang again. Finally he reached over and picked up the receiver.
“Special Agent Gianelli,” he said, studying the top of the desk now, fingers flipping the edges of the folder. “Yeah, he’s here.” Looking up, he held the receiver over the desk. “You better take this.”
Father John was already on his feet, reaching for the phone, the familiar knot starting to tighten in his stomach. Another emergency. Someone hurting, someone in need of a priest, and yet Father Ian was at the mission. He could have taken the call.
“This is Father John,” he said, pressing the receiver against his ear, realizing that whoever had tracked him to the FBI office in Lander was in need of him.
“There’s been an accident, John.” It was Ian’s voice, low and soft with concern, coming down the line. “Lander hospital just called. I thought you’d want to know.”
“What is it?” The knot turned into a piece of lead inside him.
“It’s Vicky.”
22
FATHER JOHN TURNED into the drive in front of the Lander Valley Medical Center on a bluff at the southern edge of town. The white façade gleamed in the fierce afternoon sun that lay over the parking lots. He’d raced out of Gianelli’s office and down the steps onto the sidewalk, only vaguely aware of getting into the pickup and making a U-turn across Main Street, horns blaring around him. He’d driven through the intersection on a yellow that turned red, and kept going, traffic, storefronts, and parking lots flashing past. He could still hear Ian’s voice in his head: It’s Vicky. It’s Vicky.
He left the pickup in the space with the sign in front that said Clergy and sprinted across the drive, through the entry, and down a corridor to the emergency waiting room. He could have found his way blindfolded. So many emergencies, so many calls: Father, can you come?
The woman behind the counter looked up as he burst through the door. “How’d you get here so fast, Father?” she said.
“How is she?” Father John strode across the small room and gripped the edge of the counter.
“It was a pretty bad accident. They brought her in about two hours ago.”
“I want to see her.”
“The doctors are still with her.” The woman stood very still for a moment, the ballpoint in her hand poised over a stack of papers attached to a clipboard. Then she dropped the ballpoint and turned toward the opened door behind her. “I’ll get someone,” she said over her shoulder.
Father John slammed a fist into the top of the counter, making a dull thud that sent a ripple of motion through the Formica. He turned around. The green plastic chairs looked worn and tired, the seats rubbed to a shiny gray. The magazines on the side tables were puffy and wrinkled. A white ambulance rolled past the window that framed part of the parking lot. He squared himself toward the door across the room. Vicky was in one of the warren of cubicles that opened off the corridor beyond the door. He struggled against the impulse to go looking for her. A madman, shouting up and down the corridor, “Vicky? Where are you?”
God, this was crazy. He was crazy. The doctor would come and take him to her. If…
Please, God, let her be okay. Let her be…alive.
The door swung open. A short, stocky man in green scrubs balanced his weight against the frame and held onto the knob. “Father O’Malley?” he said. “I’m Doctor Mora. Come with me.”
Father John followed him into the corridor. He was absurdly aware of the way the fluorescent ceiling light gleamed in the bald circle on the man’s scalp. “How bad is it?” he heard himself ask. His lips were so tight he could barely form the words.
The doctor waited a pace for Father John to fall in beside him before he said, “She was in shock. Has some nasty bruises, but no broken bones. I’m waiting for the results of the CAT scan on her brain before I rule out a concussion. I’d say she was pretty lucky.”
Father John realized that he’d stopped walking and was staring after the doctor who had gone on. Thank God, he thought. He could feel the energy draining from him, leaving him weak with gratitude.
The doctor glanced back. “I told her you’re here,” he said, motioning him forward. “She’s waiting to see you.”
THE FIGURE UNDER the white sheet on the gurney looked so small that, for a moment, Father John thought the doctor had ushered him into the wrong examining room. The nurse standing at the counter threw him a smile, then went back to writing something on a clipboard. He moved closer to the gurney. A tube ran from Vicky’s arm to the bag of clear liquid hanging on a metal pole. Her black hair fanned over the small white pillow. Her eyes were shut, but he could see the fluttering beneath her eyelids. He leaned close and placed his hand over hers. It felt like a lump of ice, and instinctively he started massaging her fingers and knuckles and the small tendons that stretched beneath her skin, aware now that she was looking up at him.
“You’re going to be okay,” he said. With his other hand, he pushed her hair back, then bent over and kissed her forehead. Odd. H
er hand was so cold, yet her forehead felt warm and clammy.
“They tried to kill me.” It was a whisper.
The nurse stopped writing and looked around. “The state patrol is investigating,” she said. “Someone reported the accident. A patrolman was there in twenty minutes.”
“It wasn’t an accident,” Vicky said, a hint of her usual energy in her voice.
“Well, as I say, they’re investigating…”
“What happened?” Father John wrapped his hand around Vicky’s.
“I went to the prison to see Travis.” Vicky hesitated, and he could see that her gaze had gone somewhere else. She went on. “I was on the way back when a brown Chevy truck came up behind me. Full size, could have been a four-door. Two cowboys. I expected them to pass. Next thing I knew, they rammed my rear bumper. They wanted to run me off the road. I sped ahead, but they kept after me, so I…”
She hesitated again. The tears were coming now, thin threads of moisture glistening on her cheeks. Father John smoothed the moisture away with the palm of his hand. “You’re okay,” he said.
Vicky gulped at a sob.
“Try not to upset her,” the nurse said, and Father John realized that she had spun around again, her eyes full of warning.
“I saw a flat place ahead,” Vicky said, “so I ran off the road. There was nothing but sagebrush and dust. It was so bumpy, and then…” She started sobbing again. It was a moment before she said, “I must have hit something and everything went black. The next thing I heard was a loud wailing noise, and I realized I was in an ambulance.”
“Did you see the men in the truck?”
Vicky lifted her hand against his in a gesture of futility. “All I could see were the black cowboy hats.”
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