“Welcome to St. Francis,” he said, starting across the grass. The white man was dressed like a local—blue shirt, blue jeans, and boots—but he wasn’t local.
The man came toward him, a slow, lumbering walk, as if he weren’t sure of his footing. “That’s funny,” he said. “You’re welcoming me here, real funny. You know who I am?”
“You’re David.”
The man stopped a few feet from him. He was in his midforties, Father John guessed, close to his own age, with the shadow of a beard tracing a prominent jaw and longish dark hair brushing the edge of his shirt collar. They’d been boys at the same time, and the thought gave Father John a sinking feeling. The priests he’d known then—the pastors, the teachers—had been so…so good. He had wanted to be like them.
The sun slanting across the man’s face accentuated the pockmarks, as if he’d suffered from smallpox as a kid. The hair at his temples was sprinkled with gray, and there were gray hairs that stood upright in his bushy eyebrows.
“Thank you for letting us know,” Father John said. He was thinking that Father Lloyd Elsner might have been counseling some kid tomorrow.
“How could you not know? How could you let him come here? That’s a school over there, right?” He lifted one arm toward the school out by Seventeen-Mile Road. “You got kids around here.”
“That’s why I’m grateful to you.”
The man blinked and ran the palm of his hand over the stubble on his jaw. He glanced away for a moment, then brought his eyes back. “I looked up to him. I trusted him.”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
“No,” he said. “I do have to tell you. I have to make you understand what he did to me. I was just a kid. Fourteen. I’d just turned fourteen when my dad died and Mom sent me to the Jesuit school. ‘They’ll make a man out of you,’ that’s what she told me. I didn’t wanna go to that school, you know what I mean? It wasn’t where my friends went, so I started raising hell, and they sent me to the counselor. Father Lloyd Elsner. I really got on with him. He had this fancy car, and he said, ‘You wanna drive my car?’ I said, ‘Yeah.’ I never drove a car before, so we drove out into the country, just him and me. We got way out where nobody was around, and he pulled over and let me drive. That was the first time it happened, while I was driving. He put his hand down my pants.”
David Caldwell glanced away again and bit at his lower lip.
Father John didn’t say anything. He was still wearing his vestments—the priest’s vestments. The sun seared his shoulders. Even the breeze was hot, and branches of the cottonwood seemed to move with effort. He felt fixed in place by the man’s pain and the force of his own anger.
“I didn’t know what the hell he was doing,” David went on. His hands were shaking. “He said, ‘It’s okay. I’m not hurting you, am I?’ he says. And after that, it kept happening. Sometimes in counseling, sometimes in his car. I never told anybody. I thought I must’ve done something really bad for this to be happening to me. By the time I was a junior, I was bigger than he was, and I told him, ‘No more of that.’ He didn’t care, ’cause by then he’d found younger boys. So I put it away, stopped thinking about it. Then I flunked out of college, and my wife, she left me and took my kids. I married again, and she left me, too. And the jobs. God, I’ve had a thousand jobs. Three years ago, I finally knew what I had to do. I had to make sure that Father Lloyd Elsner didn’t ruin any more lives.”
Father John waited a moment until he was sure the man had said what he needed to say. Then he told David Caldwell that he was sorry. Sorry for what another priest had done to him. Words—they were as flimsy as air. He made himself go on, saying that it was evil, that it never should have happened, and as he talked, he thought that something began to change and move in the man’s eyes. It was like watching ice begin to melt.
“Father Elsner is leaving here soon,” he said.
“Where will it be this time?” The hard stare had returned. “Which neighborhood? Which school will be down the block?”
“That won’t happen again.”
Now disbelief flashed in the man’s eyes. The pastor of a remote Indian mission? What power did such a priest have?
And yet, sometime in the middle of the night, his thoughts jumping between the image of the dead Indian to the pedophile in the guesthouse, Father John had known what he would do, and he’d realized that Bill Rutherford also knew. Lloyd Elsner would be sent to a place where he could not harm anyone else. Otherwise, he would call the Jesuit Conference, explain how the provincial had violated canon law by placing a pedophile at the mission without informing the pastor, and Bill Rutherford, his old seminary drinking buddy, would no longer have his job.
“I give you my word,” Father John said. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the faintest movement in the alley, like a shadow flitting over the ground. The old priest appeared at the corner of the church and stopped.
David Caldwell spun around, as if he’d sensed another presence, and for a long moment, the two men locked eyes. Then Father Lloyd turned and started back down the alley.
The other man watched until the old priest had disappeared from view. “He’s always younger in my mind,” he said.
“He’ll be gone soon. You won’t have to worry anymore. The offer that the provincial made is still open.”
“What? Money? You Jesuits think you can buy back my life? I don’t want money.”
“Counseling.”
The man didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he shrugged and started across the grass toward a tan sedan, the only vehicle still parked in Circle Drive. He glanced back. “I’ll think about it,” he said, before lowering himself behind the wheel.
The sedan moved slowly, then sped up around the drive, tires spitting gravel. For an instant, Father John thought the sedan might miss the turn and slam into one of the cottonwoods, but it held the road and shot into the tunnel of trees.
Father John went back into the church. He knelt at the altar a few moments—We are in need of your mercy, Lord—then headed into the sacristy, took off the chasuble and alb, and hung them in the closet. He checked to see that the Mass books and the chalice were in the cabinets, then let himself out the back door and walked over to the guesthouse.
He could tell by the hollow sound of his fist against the door that the house was empty. He stepped off the stoop and headed down the alley in the direction of the river. He could see snatches of white hair moving among the trees.
“I don’t know that man,” Lloyd Elsner said when Father John caught up with him. “I have never seen him in my life.”
“He recognized you.”
“He’s lying. You’re all lying.”
Father John waited a moment before he said, “I have to take care of my people. You’re going to have to leave.”
“He’ll come after me. Distributing his filthy flyers, talking to the newspapers.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’ll never have any peace.”
“He’s suffered a great deal.”
“Lies!” The man swung around and walked over to a fallen log. He turned back, and Father John could see that he was trembling. He clasped his hands together, as if he might keep them from flying away. “It wasn’t what you think. I loved him. I loved those boys. I never hurt them. You wouldn’t understand, would you, about love? Love doesn’t hurt people.”
“I’ll pray for you, Lloyd.”
“I don’t need your prayers. God knows what was in my heart. You can’t understand.”
“I want you to pack your things,” Father John said. He was thinking that there were so few. A worn suitcase with a red belt around the middle.
“There’s no place for me, is there? I shall always be hounded. Wherever I go, David will be there, or another one…I’ll never have any peace.”
“I’m sorry,” Father John told the old priest. Then he turned and headed back through the trees, down the alley, and across the grounds to the residence. Fat
her Ian burst through the door as he was coming up the steps. “You have a call,” he said. “I was coming to get you.”
“The provincial?”
The other priest shook his head.
Father John brushed past and hurried into his study. He picked up the receiver. “Father O’Malley,” he said, but the line was silent, the receiver a dead object against his ear. He pressed the numbers 57. “Unavailable” appeared in the readout.
“Who was it?” Father John turned to his assistant, who had followed him into the study.
“Man, asked for you. I told him you were on the grounds. He said, ‘Go get him. He’ll want to talk to me.’ He’ll probably call back.”
Father John stared at the phone. He felt a surge of relief. It was a good sign. The man was still in the area.
The phone started ringing.
Father John picked up the receiver. “Father O’Malley,” he said again. His voice was tense.
“You got my message?”
“You killed your own man.”
“Your fault, Father. Surely you can’t believe I would leave him in the hands of the police? We had an agreement, you and me. It made me start thinking maybe I can’t trust you. Maybe I oughtta just call this off and get my money somewhere else. There’s a lot of good buyers waiting for a petroglyph like this one.”
“The tribes are ready to make the exchange,” Father John said. His grip tightened around the receiver. He hoped that Norman hadn’t sent the cash back to the bank.
“That a fact? You got the money?”
“I’ll have it in an hour. I can meet you wherever you say.”
“You’re the one that’ll make the exchange, understand? Don’t try to give me any bullshit about bringing along somebody else, some detective disguised like a cowboy. You try it, and the Indian won’t be the only one with a knife in him.”
“I’ll be alone.” Father John gave his assistant a glance. Ian was shaking his head, frowning.
“Tonight. Nine o’clock. Go to the strip mall on west Main, the one with the bowling alley. Park in front, walk across the street, and wait on the sidewalk. Bring the money.”
“Then what?” Father John said, but he was speaking into a vacuum, and in another second, the monotonous buzzing began.
He pressed the disconnect button, then tapped out Norman’s number. Three, four rings, then the answering machine, and the deliberate voice of the councilman: “Leave your number. I’ll call you back.”
Father John dropped the receiver.
“You can’t go by yourself,” Ian said. He was wagging a finger, like a teacher admonishing a not-too-bright student. “It’s too dangerous. The man’s a murderer. Let the fed find a police officer built like you. Some guy dressed like you. Blue jeans and plaid shirt, cowboy hat. Somebody that’s trained. He’ll know how to handle things.”
Ian was right, of course, Father John was thinking. Everything his assistant said was right and logical. He should call Gianelli now, make the arrangements, some plan to fool the man, get an officer next to him before he knew what was happening.
…won’t be the only one with a knife in him.
Father John shouldered past the other priest, grabbed his hat off the bench and yanked open the door. Norman had a good hour’s start on him. He had to get to the tribal offices before Norman turned over the cash.
“It’s our only chance,” he said before slamming the door behind him.
29
A NAVAJO TRIBALmember was found stabbed to death last night at the Butte Motel. The victim has been identified as thirty-seven-year-old Benito Behan of Denver. According to a Riverton Police Department spokeswoman, the body was discovered by Father John O’Malley, pastor of St. Francis Mission, who had been called to the motel.
Vicky slammed on the brake and swung into the parking lot that fronted a restaurant on the outskirts of Rawlins. A dark sedan blared its horn as it shot past. She held on to the steering wheel and stared at the radio. The disembodied voice switched to something about negotiations on a new teachers’ contract, and Vicky pressed the off button. John O’Malley must have gotten a call after he’d gotten back to the mission. For some reason, the caller had directed him to the motel.
And he had gone. He wanted the Drowning Man back with her people. But instead of the petroglyph, he’d found the Indian stabbed to death.
She swallowed at the lump tightening in her throat. What kind of people had Travis been protecting with his silence? The kind who had murdered Raymond and had now murdered the Indian? The kind who wanted to murder her?
It was a long moment before she felt steady enough to drive. A gust of wind whipped at the car, spinning contrails of dust down the street as she pulled out behind a pickup. The Sunday traffic was slow moving, meandering. She retraced the route she’d taken two days ago: west along an empty stretch of asphalt, left at the massive motel plopped down in the middle of the plains, then another empty stretch, the prison buildings shimmering in the sun ahead.
Officer Mary Connor escorted her again through the ID check and out into the van—moving deeper and deeper past the heavy chain-link fences and concertina wire. They reached the visiting room, where Travis sat upright on a plastic chair, staring at the white concrete wall, ignoring the TV high in the corner.
He jumped up and walked over as Vicky signed in on the clipboard that the officer at the desk had pushed toward her. She motioned him toward the row of interview rooms where Officer Connor stood waiting beside an opened door. The minute the door closed behind them, the officer moved past the window out of sight.
Travis said, “You got good news?”
Vicky waited until Travis had slid onto the chair before she sat down across from him. The red emergency button protruded from the wall next to her. “I want you to level with me,” she said.
“You file a petition? You talk to the judge? How’s it look?”
“Are you listening to me? I want the truth.”
“You got the truth. I told you everything. I didn’t kill Raymond.”
“The Indian was murdered last night, Travis.”
That stopped him. He blinked into the space and swallowed. His Adam’s apple jumped in his throat. “Murdered,” he said almost to himself, as if he were trying to wrap his mind around the idea. “I didn’t see nothin’ about that on TV.”
“I just heard it on the radio. His name was Benito Behan. I think he was the contact for both of the stolen petroglyphs. I think you know him. You know who he works for, don’t you?”
“Jesus, murdered.”
“The truth, Travis. Start with the petroglyph that you and Raymond chiseled out of the rock and removed from Red Cliff Canyon seven years ago.”
The Arapaho was shaking his head, sliding his chair back from the table. “They tried to pin that on me, the fed and the prosecutor, but they didn’t have any proof. No way were they gonna make that stick, and they knew it.”
Vicky pushed herself to her feet. This was a waste of time. She couldn’t help a man who wouldn’t help himself. “You’ve already spent almost seven years here,” she said. “You’ll be eligible for parole in another three. You can do the time.”
“I’ll be dead.”
She sat back down. “What are you talking about?”
“They killed the Indian. They’re gonna kill me. There’s rumors goin’ around—I heard ’em—somebody here’s got a contract for a hit. Could be anybody. I’m eatin’, takin’ a shower, I’m all the time waitin’ for somebody to stick me. There’s no way I’m gonna make it three more years. I gotta get out now.”
“Tell me about the petroglyph.”
Travis hunched forward, his gaze boring into the table. Finally he lifted his eyes to hers. “This is between you and me, right? It’s not goin’ outta this room.”
“I’m your lawyer.”
He ran his tongue over his lips. “I’m not proud,” he said. Then he started talking, shifting his gaze to some point beyond Vicky’s shoulder. “We drove u
p into the canyon, me and Raymond. We took a bag of tools, you know, chisels, hammers, crowbars. Hiked up the mountain and went to work. Heard the noise of a truck comin’ up the canyon while we were still workin’. ‘Geez, he’s gonna hear us,’ I told Raymond, so we stopped chiselin’, just waiting for some yahoo to come hiking up the slope, lookin’ to see what was goin’ on. But the truck kept goin’.
“It was beautiful, that glyph. Looked a lot like the Drowning Man, like there was water all around the spirit image. It was hell to pry loose, I can tell ya. Took all day to pry it out of the rock, and we were sweatin’ like pigs. I could feel the way the spirit was holding on, making it real hard, like he was givin’ us the chance to change our minds. But we got the glyph onto a tarp and pulled it downslope over the rocks and brush, and sometimes that tarp started goin’ so fast, we had to hold on to it. Other times, geez, it was like haulin’ part of the mountain. We pulled it up a ramp into the back of Raymond’s truck, covered it with the tarp, and drove down the canyon. It didn’t look so big, but it was like—I don’t know—something really big and powerful riding behind us. I couldn’t get Grandfather’s voice outta my head. ‘It’s sacred. You remember that, Travis.’
“And Raymond kept sayin’, ‘We did it! We got a real pretty piece of art, like they wanted…’”
Vicky interrupted: “Who, Travis? Who were you working for?”
Travis looked out through the window over the empty tables and chairs in the visiting room. He didn’t say anything.
“Marjorie Taylor and her foreman?” It was making sense, Vicky thought. The owner of a ranch struggling to keep the place out of foreclosure and a foreman willing to help her. “Is that why Marjorie Taylor came to the jail to visit you? What did she offer to keep you quiet? Is that why you never said anything?”
And then she understood. The minute Travis admitted taking the petroglyph, he would have confirmed his own motive for killing Raymond, just as the sheriff and the DA and the FBI agent had suspected. Oh, it was clear, Vicky thought. Gruenwald assuring his client that he’d be exonerated, and Travis understanding that all he had to do was keep his mouth shut. “If you’d told the truth, you would have been convicted of homicide,” she said.
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