The Drowning Man

by Margaret Coel

  Father John was aware of the door opening behind him. Doctor Mora moved alongside the gurney, clutching a large brown envelope. He stopped next to the nurse. “Good news,” he said, looking down at Vicky. “No sign of a concussion. When you feel strong enough, there’s no reason you can’t go home. You should take it easy a few days. You’ve had quite a shock.”

  “I’ll take you,” Father John said.

  There was the sound of footsteps, and Father John glanced around. Another nurse stood in the doorway, her white uniform cinched tightly around a bulky waist. “Someone else to see…”

  Adam Lone Eagle shouldered past the nurse, filling up the space between the door and the gurney. Father John had forgotten how tall and broad shouldered the Lakota was. He seemed to suck the oxygen out of the room.

  “Vicky,” he said, his gaze fixed on her, as if they were the only two people there. “Are you all right? What can I do? What do you want me to do?”

  Vicky’s lips were moving, but there was no sound. Finally, she said, “Why are you here, Adam?”

  “Annie called me. I came as fast as I could. Probably broke a few speed limits between here and Casper.” He threw a glance around, as if searching for approval. He locked eyes with Father John. “Obviously I wasn’t the first to get here.”

  “You didn’t have to come,” Vicky said.

  “What’re you talking about? You’re my law partner. You’re my…” He glanced around again. “Of course I had to come. What’s more important?”

  He turned to the doctor. “How bad is it?”

  Doctor Mora repeated what he’d said earlier, as if he were describing a specimen in a lab. Bruises, shock, no concussion. The patient was lucky. She might have been killed. She could go home.

  “I’ll take her home,” Adam said.

  This, Father John knew, was directed at him. He squeezed Vicky’s hand, then let it go. “We’ll talk later,” he said. “Go home and get some rest.” He backed along the gurney, stepped past Adam Lone Eagle, and started down the corridor.

  Back through the waiting room, down the other corridor, and out into a wall of heat. He let himself into the pickup that felt like a blast furnace, rolled down the windows, and drove back through town, sucking at the hot air. It was as it should be, he told himself. Adam would take care of her. They loved each other. But that was the problem. That was the thing that made his heart ache.

  Then he was on Rendezvous Road crossing the reservation, replaying in his mind what Vicky had said. She had gone to see Travis Birdsong, and on the way back, two cowboys had tried to run her off the road. Whoever they were, they had known where to find her. But that wasn’t really a surprise. The news had probably surfaced on the moccasin telegraph. The tribe didn’t want her to take Travis’s case, Vicky had said. Norman Yellow Hawk had tried to warn her away. People were waiting to see what she’d do, and Vicky’s secretary could have dropped a casual comment that Vicky intended to visit Travis today.

  Still, it didn’t make sense. Why would anyone want to kill her? Where was the pattern, the thread of logic beneath the surface of things? It was like trying to make out the picture carved into a rock from a distance. The picture was there, if only he could bring it into focus.

  The sun was dropping behind the mountains as Father John drove into the mission. Shadows were beginning to move across the plains, narrow blue columns of darkness creeping up the sides of the buildings. There would be no pickups around Circle Drive this evening, he knew. No one heading into Eagle Hall for a meeting. The social committee had canceled the monthly carry-in supper. The windows were gray, like the gaping holes in the abandoned houses of a ghost town.

  It was a ghost mission, he thought.

  Sounds of the TV floated out of the living room when Father John walked into the entry of the residence. Walks-On stood in the doorway to the kitchen, expectancy in the thud of his tail against the frame. Father John tossed his hat on the bench in the entry, went into the kitchen, and fed the dog. Then he walked back down the hall to the living room. The TV light flickered over Father Ian slumped on the sofa, legs stretched out on the coffee table.

  “Any calls?” Father John said.

  The other priest jerked his legs off the table, knocking a stack of magazines to the floor. “Must’ve been dozing,” he said, shifting toward the doorway. “Calls? No. It’s pretty quiet around here. Elena made dinner.”

  “Elena came back?” That was good, Father John thought. He’d wondered if she would ever come back.

  “Said she didn’t want the starvation of two priests on her conscience.”

  “It’s her place,” Father John said. The truth was, St. Francis belonged to the Arapahos. Better the priests should leave than the Arapahos.

  “A plate’s in the oven for you,” Ian said. “I took a plate over to Father Lloyd. He said he wasn’t hungry, but I left it anyway. The man should eat.”

  Father John backed away from the door and glanced down the hall at the shadows gathering in the kitchen. He could hear the dog pushing the dish around the corner. There was a feeling of emptiness to the old house. He crossed the entry to his study, sank into the chair behind the desk, and flipped on the lamp. A circle of light fell over the papers and folders that flowed across the surface. He set his elbows on the edge and dropped his head against his clasped hands, trying to swallow back the familiar thirst that came over him when he didn’t want it, when he wasn’t prepared, wasn’t strong. Whiskey had made him strong. It was amazing, now that he thought about it, how strong he had felt with two fingers of whiskey inside him. One drink—one sip would make all the difference—and he would be strong and confident.

  “God help me,” he whispered, yet his voice seemed to boom around him. It had been almost ten years since he’d had a drink. Ten years, and there wasn’t a day—if he was honest, there wasn’t a day—that he didn’t want one.

  The noise of the ringing phone came at him through the fog of his own thoughts, and he stared at the black rectangle of plastic a moment, trying to clear his head, before he lifted the receiver.

  “Father O’Malley.”

  “I understand you called earlier.” It was the voice of the provincial. They used to go drinking together, he and Bill Rutherford, on vacations from the seminary. A few beers at a bar, two, three, four shots of whiskey. A little relaxation. What difference did it make? No difference for Rutherford. He could stop.

  Father John leaned over the desk. The rage that he’d been trying to tamp down all day was like a fire flaring up inside him again. “You sent a pedophile to the mission,” he said. “To the mission!”

  “I can explain. Take it easy, John.”

  “Take it easy? You lied to me about Lloyd Elsner. An old man, recovering from a heart attack. That’s the story you told me.”

  “I told you the truth,” Rutherford said. The words were clipped and cold.

  “I want all of the truth, Bill. I want the whole story. The number of men who have come forward and accused Lloyd Elsner of molesting them when they were kids. How many did you settle with? How many free counseling sessions and apologies have you handed out? What happened? Couldn’t you buy off David Caldwell?”

  “You’re not in a position to understand any of this, John.” Now the provincial’s voice was heavy with disappointment. “Perhaps we should talk tomorrow when you’re calmer and have a clearer head, when you’re….”

  Father John was on his feet. “You think I’m drunk?” He could hear himself shouting. Lord, he was providing the provincial with the kind of evidence he was looking for. “We’re talking about the pedophile you sent to my mission,” he said, the words measured.

  “Your mission?”

  “I’m the pastor here. These are my people. You had the moral obligation to tell me the truth.”

  “Let me ask you, John. Had I told you the truth, would you have taken Father Lloyd?”

  “No.”

  “Well, there it is. We have a sick man among us. Should I put
him on the streets? Where do you suggest I place him?”

  “There’s a school on the grounds. We have a baseball team. There are kids coming and going all day long. I was going to let him do some counseling.”

  “What? I told you Father Lloyd needed rest. A few routine tasks, maybe. He needs to pray and reflect. You had no right to let him resume counseling. The guesthouse was the perfect place. He could live quietly there. No one needed to know that he was at the mission.”

  “David Caldwell knew.”

  A sigh of fatigue floated down the line. “The man started hounding Lloyd three years ago. He finds out where he is and launches a campaign to get rid of him. I’ve moved Lloyd four times now. Obviously Caldwell discovered his location again. He’s like a ferret that can find anything.”

  “I want Lloyd Elsner out of here tomorrow.”

  “He’s an old man, John, with a bad heart. He’s not going to live long.”

  “You find him a home where there are no schools, no baseball teams, no kids.” He thought, We have become jailors.

  “Caldwell will come after him, cause the same ruckus, drive him out of wherever I send him. You don’t understand, John. He’s like a stalker.”

  “There were others, weren’t there?” Father John said. “How did you deal with them?”

  The line seemed to go dead. A second passed before the provincial said, “We made financial settlements, paid for counseling, offered our apologies. We did what we could. But Caldwell has refused all offers. He wants revenge. He wants to see Lloyd suffer. The abuse happened in Denver thirty years ago. We’ve turned the complaints over to the police there, but the statute of limitations on abuse has expired. Sometimes I think…” He hesitated, then hurried on. “Caldwell won’t rest until Lloyd Elsner is dead.”

  “You have to move him, Bill,” Father John said.

  “I’ll need some time to make the arrangements.”

  “There’s no time. The people have left the mission. They won’t come back until Lloyd Elsner is gone.”

  “Give me the weekend.”

  “I’m putting him on a plane Monday,” Father John said. Then he dropped the receiver into the cradle. Two more days, he was thinking. Two more days in a deserted mission.

  23

  A BELL WAS clanging somewhere. Vicky felt herself swimming against the dark undertow toward the insistent noise. Then the noise stopped. She realized that she was in her own bed with bright streaks of light outlining the edge of the blinds and that the phone had been ringing. On the nightstand, the red numbers on the clock shimmered through the glass of water that Adam had brought last night: 9:33.

  They had driven to her apartment in silence, she and Adam. What was there to talk about? The fact that she’d visited Travis Birdsong in prison? That would have brought another lecture on how they had agreed to restrict the law practice to important matters. Then what would she have told him? That two men in cowboy hats driving a brown truck had tried to kill her? She gave a little laugh, muffled in the pillow. The effort sent a ripple of pain through her rib cage. She could almost hear Adam’s voice: Let the criminal lawyers handle clients like Travis Birdsong. They love cases like that—hopeless cases of unjustly convicted murderers. They live for such cases. They make their reputations by winning reprieves.

  She had heard it all before. Silence was preferable. And there had been something else: She knew Adam Lone Eagle well enough to sense when he was angry. He had already guessed where she’d been.

  She remembered leaning back against the headrest, conscious of the rhythm of her own heart beating and the hum of the tires on the asphalt. She’d felt drained. She’d hurt all over; she’d hurt with each breath. She’d wanted to crawl into bed and sleep. And fix in her memory the feeling of John O’Malley’s lips on her forehead.

  Then, somehow, they were walking into the apartment building, Adam’s hand warm on her arm. She remembered the weightless sensation as the elevator rose to the second floor, and she was standing in her living room, clutching her bag, statuelike in the space between the front door and the counter that wrapped around the kitchen. Adam was at her side, his arm around her, holding her lightly, carefully. She remembered that. “What can I do?” he’d said. “What can I get you?” He’d led her down the hall to the bedroom. “I’ll get you a glass of water,” he’d said.

  She’d managed to undress, pull on a nightgown, and crawl into bed. Needles of pain pricked at her back, her hips, her ribs, working through the exhaustion that coursed through her. She was half asleep, vaguely aware of the warmth of a hand on her shoulder, and she was back in the hospital and John O’Malley was standing beside her.

  “Sleep.” It was Adam’s voice that had punched through the dream. “I’m going to stay with you tonight. Call me if you need anything. I’ll be on the sofa.”

  Now she threw back the sheet. It was warm and clammy; the flimsy nightgown stuck to her skin. She started to get up, but it was as if her body had stiffened like a fallen tree, and she had to lift herself out of bed piece by piece, leg, other leg, arms, shoulders, back. She stood up and started to stretch, trying to work out the worst of the stiffness. The odor of fresh coffee floated past the half-closed door. From the kitchen came the sound of a cabinet door snapping shut, paper rustling.

  She gathered a pile of clean clothes and made her way into the bathroom where she stood in the hot shower for a long while, leaning against the tiled wall, the hot water and steam soaking into her muscles. Then she toweled herself off, dressed in a tee shirt and blue jeans, and, smoothing back her wet hair, went down the hall to the kitchen.

  Adam sat at the counter, the Gazette opened in front of him, a mug of coffee at the edge of the paper. She felt his eyes following her as she poured herself some coffee and slid onto the stool next to him. “Good morning,” he said.

  “I didn’t intend to sleep so long.” She hadn’t slept through half of the morning since she was a teenager. “You should have wakened me.”

  “No way.” He smiled at her. “I checked on you. You were breathing. I figured you needed to sleep.” He got to his feet and pulled a set of keys out of the pocket of his khakis. “You are now driving a red Firebird,” he said, dropping the keys on the counter. “The Jeep will probably be at Mickey’s Garage for a week, but Mickey assures me he’ll have it in tip-top condition.”

  “Thanks, Adam.” Vicky reached for his hand, but he pulled away and walked around the counter. It struck her that he had wanted to avoid her touch.

  “Bagel?” he said, pulling an oversized bagel out of the brown bag next to the stove and setting it on a plate. “Cream cheese? Orange juice? I did a little shopping this morning.” He set the plate next to her coffee mug, then opened the refrigerator. In another moment, a tin of cream cheese and a glass of orange juice were in front of her.

  “Maybe we ought to talk about it,” Adam said. He remained standing on the other side of the counter, facing her, and there was something in his voice that made her look away. She pulled the bagel apart, spread a glob of the cream cheese on a piece, and took a bite. When she swallowed, it was as if the food had dropped into a hollow space. When had she last eaten? Sometime yesterday, when everything had seemed normal.

  Vicky could feel Adam’s eyes boring into her. She made herself meet his gaze. “I went to the prison to talk to Travis Birdsong.”

  Adam nodded, his gaze still fastened on her. For a moment, she felt like a child, trying to explain why she had misbehaved. The feeling went away, like a bat flapping past, leaving behind a spark of anger. “I’m going to take his case,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “You know?”

  Adam swung around to the phone, picked up a pad of paper, and handed it to her. “You had a call this morning. He wouldn’t give his name, but he said it was about Travis Birdsong’s case.”

  Vicky glanced at the number scrawled across the top page. A local number, not one she recognized.

  “Travis didn’t get a fair trial,�
� she said, locking eyes again with Adam.

  “I see. A murderer who didn’t get a fair trial. It’ll be pro bono, right?”

  “His lawyer was an incompetent drunk. He never filed an appeal, even though there were grounds.”

  Adam was shaking his head. “There are lawyers in Cheyenne, Denver, Billings—take your pick—who would love to take the case pro bono. Get a reprieve for some poor Indian deprived of his right to a fair trial, never mind that he killed a man. Get the poor guy out of prison, get into the newspapers, go on the talk shows, become an expert on TV, and then, what do you know, they’ve made their reputation as smart criminal lawyers, the kind that guilty people pay large fees to hire. Is that what you want, Vicky?”

  “That’s unfair, Adam.” Vicky dropped the piece of bagel onto the plate and pushed it away. She picked up the mug, then set it down. She would choke if she tried to take a drink.

  “What is it you want?” Adam jammed his fists into his khaki pockets and stared at her. “I don’t get it. We’re establishing the kind of practice that we agreed upon. Everything’s going our way. What is it with you? A raging need to get Arapahos out of prison?”

  Vicky got to her feet. “What I have is a raging need to make sure that my people have the same rights as everybody else. If you can’t handle that…”

  “You’re right about that. I can’t handle it. We don’t want the same practice; we don’t want the same things. Julie’s right…”

  “Julie! You discussed us with Julie?”

  “She’s my former wife, Vicky. I’ve spent the last few days trying to straighten out her finances, get her to a better place. We have a son together. We have ties.”

  “You discussed our relationship with her?”

  “Don’t tell me you broke all the ties with Ben the day you divorced him. You hated him. You loved him. You told me you went back to him once. You had a history. You had Susan and Lucas. Ties like that can’t be broken.”