The Spider's Web

by Coel, Margaret

  “I swear to you,” Roseanne said, “I don’t know anything. I wasn’t even with Ned anymore. He was with that white girl.”

  “Don’t lie!” he shouted. “You were with him for a long time. He told me he was trying to break up with that white girl. He never told her about the business. You’re the only one that knew.”

  Roseanne stared at the man; she couldn’t take her eyes away. He was going to shoot them both, and he would get away with it, just like he’d gotten away with killing Dwayne and Lionel. No one knew he was the leader of the burglary ring. An idea started to form in her mind, as flimsy as air. She struggled to grab hold of it, force it to make sense. She could pretend to take him to a hiding place, and then what? When there was nothing there, no TVs and cameras and jewels, he would shoot her. But she could gain time; there was always the chance that someone . . .

  Aunt Martha let out a wild, piercing scream and darted for the door, like a bobcat desperate to get out of a trap, and in that instant, as Jerry Adams swung around, grabbed her and flung her against the wall, Roseanne darted for the kitchen. She found herself crouched on the far side of the table, unaware of how she had gotten there or how the Colt came to be in her hands, steadied on top of the hard wooden seat of the chair, pointed toward the doorway. Her heart pounded in her ears. Aunt Martha was no longer wailing, and for an instant the quiet was like the quiet in a dark cave.

  “Bitch!” Adams shouted. He was still in the living room, but she could hear him moving toward the doorway, coming closer. She gripped the pistol hard, her finger on the trigger. Then he filled up the doorway, waving the black gun into the kitchen.

  THE SOUND OF a gunshot splintered the air as Father John drove over the dirt yard. He braked hard behind the dark truck and the pickup and got out. His heart was hammering. He was too late. Too late. And inside was a man with a gun.

  He crouched down alongside the front of the house and ran for the corner. Then he made his way down the side, trying to see through the curtains in the windows. In the back, he worked toward the door and peered past the half-drawn shade into the kitchen. It took a moment before his eyes adjusted to the dim light inside and he could see beyond his own fear and dread. A man lay on his back in the doorway between the kitchen and the front of the house, a dark puddle of blood growing on his light-colored shirt. In the center of the kitchen, behind a kitchen chair, down on one knee, was Roseanne, both hands extended onto the chair seat, gripping a pistol.

  He moved to the side of the door and knocked. “It’s Father John,” he called. He could hear the tightness in his voice. Dear Lord, the girl would be in shock. She could swing around and pull the trigger. “It’s Father John,” he said again. “Put the gun down, Roseanne. No one is going to hurt you. You’re okay now.” He waited a moment before he looked through the glass pane. The girl had set the gun on the table and was slumped on the floor. He reached for the knob, stepped into the kitchen. Crouching down beside her, he set a hand on her shoulder. He could feel the tremors coming from somewhere deep inside. “You’re okay,” he said again.

  32

  “IT’S OVER NOW.” Elena stood guard in front of the stove, the coffeepot hoisted in one hand.

  Father John pushed his mug across the table. The bishop had said Mass this morning and eaten breakfast before Father John had gotten downstairs. “I’ll be praying for all of them,” he’d told Father John last night. The old man had already gone to the office.

  Father John watched the stream of black liquid spill out of the glass container. The coffee was hot, pungent and strong, the way he needed coffee this morning. He felt as if he hadn’t slept at all, although he suspected he had probably dozed off in between getting up and looking out the window at the moonlight flooding the mission grounds and the wide strip of the Milky Way arching across the black sky. A noise had pulled him from bed, but there hadn’t been anything unusual outside. He had crawled back into bed, tossed about in the tangle of sheets, and dozed, most likely. Then the noise had sounded again.

  He had imagined it, he thought now. He must have been dreaming, a whole night of disjointed dreams that he couldn’t remember.

  “Outsiders, all of them.” Glass clanked against plastic as Elena set the coffee pot in place. “That white man, Adams. Who invited him here, anyway? Them two Arapahos from Oklahoma. Why didn’t they just stay home?”

  Father John stirred some milk into the coffee and took a long sip. He waited for her to mention the white girl, but she seemed to have reached the end of her list of outsiders.

  “Would’ve saved all of us trouble,” she said. “Saved themselves, too. Now they’re all dead, and we gotta go on and try to remember Ned the way he used to be, before he got mixed up with that crowd.”

  “It was the way he wanted to be again,” Father John said. He finished the coffee, his thoughts on Ned. “Talk to me,” he had said the last time Ned came to the mission, but Ned had turned away, and Father John knew that he would always carry that picture of Ned turning away and would always regret not having tried harder.

  He finished the coffee, got to his feet and winked at Elena. A five-star breakfast, he told her. She rolled her eyes and shook her head. Walks-On was already at the front door as Father John walked down the hall, and he wondered how long the dog had been waiting. They went outside together. The morning air was already hot, filled with the smells of sage and moist grasses and wild roses. By the time he got to Circle Drive, Walks-On had found the Frisbee, trotted over and dropped it in front of him. Father John sent it sailing back across the field.

  He watched the dog bound after the red disc, nose it out of a clump of tall grass, and head back. He tossed the Frisbee again, sending it farther this time. He tried to shake the uneasy feeling that had clamped itself onto him and refused to let go. “Come on, buddy,” he called, as if the sound of his own voice, might push the feeling away. Then he hurried along the drive toward the administration building. The sky was a perfect blue, unmarred by any disturbance, and yet something was off. Two days ago he had found Elena mopping the linoleum in the guesthouse, the windows and doors thrown open. “Getting rid of the whiskey smell,” she said, and he had taken her at her word, but now he wondered what other disquieting thing she had been trying to dispel.

  The odd sense of unease seemed to back off a bit in the familiarity of the old building, the sun dancing on the stucco walls and the photos of past Jesuits lining the corridor. He could hear the tapping noise of computer keys, and he headed for the rear office.

  He stopped in the doorway and waited. “Preparing Sunday’s homily,” the bishop said, looking up. “I intend to speak on the power of forgiveness, the way in which forgiveness frees us, while the lack of forgiveness holds us in bondage. Will that meet with your approval?” He motioned Father John toward the folding chair by the window.

  “Whatever you wish to say would meet with my approval,” Father John said. He was grateful the old man was here. He had so much experience; he understood so much.

  “How is the girl?” the bishop said.

  For an instant, Father John thought he was referring to Marcy Morrison. Then he realized he was inquiring about Roseanne.

  “She’s pretty shaken,” he said.

  “As well she should be. It means she’s human,” he said. His voice had gone quiet and reflective, and Father John wondered what the old man was looking back upon. “It is unnatural to kill another human being,” the bishop said, “even when that person intends to kill you. It remains a haunting experience. I hope that in time, she will learn to forgive herself for what circumstances had forced her to do.”

  “She and her aunt have gone to Denver to stay with relatives for a while. It wouldn’t surprise me if they decided to stay and make a new start.”

  “Good. Good.” Sunlight shimmered in the old man’s white hair. “It will call her back to herself, being with her own family.”

  “She’s still grieving for Ned.”

  “When would you expect that to
end?” The bishop gave a slow, inward smile. “She will eventually grow accustomed to the burden of her loss so that it will feel lighter.” He took a moment, then said, “Unable to sleep again last night?”

  “Thought I heard noises,” Father John said. “It wasn’t anything.”

  “You’re thinking about her?”

  Father John tried to keep his expression still. How much had the old man read in his mind, seen in his heart? He had been so careful. He had walled off the truth, kept it from everyone, even himself, most of the time.

  “I’m not referring to her,” the bishop said, “although she has reminded me of my friend in India. I still think of her. It was always platonic.” He waved a hand between them, and Father John wondered if there was a hint of regret in the wave. “I pray for her every day, and I thank God for the time she was part of my life. Love is always a blessing, you know.”

  Father John kept his eyes on the bishop’s for a moment, then looked away. He had an image of the years stretching ahead, like the calendar pages flipping in old movies, and every day he would pray for Vicky, wonder how she was, where she was, and he, an old man, sitting in an office somewhere, would tell some young priest that love was always a blessing. Not mentioning the pain.

  “I haven’t heard anything about Marcy Morrison,” Father John said, carrying on as if they hadn’t opened the cover of a book and glimpsed the meaning of the story inside. “I can’t shake the feeling she’s still around,” he went on, struck by the illogical path he had headed down. It was the red pickup he had expected to see last night, curving around Circle Drive, heading toward the guesthouse. “People here still blame her somehow,” he went on. “They think she brought trouble to the rez.”

  The bishop waited a moment before he said, “What do you think?”

  “There’s no evidence to tie her to Ned’s murder.”

  “That wasn’t my question.”

  “I’m not sure what to think,” Father John said. “She was a chameleon. A different person at different times, a very good actress.”

  “Why did she leave the mission so abruptly?”

  “She had a breakdown,” Father John said, the image of the girl flailing about in front of him. “I tried to calm her. I told her that I thought she needed help.”

  The bishop nodded. “You had seen into the core of her, the part she was hiding. Naturally she wanted to get away. We always want to escape the prying eyes of those who see into our most secret places against our wishes. But as you say, there’s no evidence to link her to a crime. This has been a trying time. So many senseless deaths, but death is always senseless. It casts a pale over everything, puts people off balance. No wonder you’re tossing about at night, imaging all sorts of things. The girl has her own psychological problems, but that doesn’t mean she will ever return to the mission. I suspect she is trying to run away from the sadness and loss she has experienced. She will find that is impossible, of course, but she’s probably miles away.”

  “You’re right,” Father John said, getting to his feet. Marcy Morrison had run away. He stood in the doorway and went over the next couple of days’ schedule with the bishop—the educational committee’s elections for a new chairperson, the social committee meeting to discuss a possible fund-raiser to purchase supplies for the kids before school started in the fall. Then he walked down the corridor to his own office, trying to convince himself of the logic in what the bishop had said. The Sun Dance would take place next week. The people would come together and pray, and things would begin to return to normal. Still, the uneasy feeling followed him, like the bespectacled eyes in the portraits along the walls.

  THE YELLOW POLICE tape flapped in front of the small yellow house. Vicky stepped over the tape and tried the front door. Locked. She followed the tape around to the back door, and this time the knob turned in her hand. The door creaked into the dingy kitchen with cabinet doors hanging open and plates, cereal cartons, and newspapers scattered over the counters. She made her way into the living room. The sofa cushions had been upended, the drawers in the cabinet and tables were open, crumbled sheets of paper poking over the tops. A couple of chairs lay on their sides.

  She headed down the hallway, stopping to peer into the two bedrooms. Mattresses pulled off the beds, linens tossed about, drawers open, and clothes and towels on the floor. A dark blackish stain spread over the center of one mattress. “Everything’s on the table,” Gianelli had said. She could hear his voice in her head, see the way he had watched Marcy Morrison while he interviewed her. He had always suspected her, she realized. And he and the Wind River Police had done a thorough job of searching the house for the murder weapon, but they hadn’t known where to look.

  She crossed the hall into the small bathroom with the yellow shower curtain tossed in the tub. On a ledge above the sink was an electric shaver, a bottle of aftershave, and a black comb that had probably belonged to Ned. She opened the cabinet and stared at the shelves, empty except for a bottle of aspirin. There was no hint of Marcy Morrison, no feminine combs or brushes or lipsticks. She got down on one knee and studied the wall behind the pipes that jutted from the toilet. Nothing but the sameness of the white wall. She felt a sense of relief. She had taken a chance, crossing the police tape, walking through a crime scene, suspecting that her own client had hidden the murder weapon. And she was wrong.

  Then she spotted the thin lines in the wallboard on the far side of the toilet, as faint as a spiderweb. She had to get on both knees to reach around the toilet and push on the wallboard within the lines. The piece broke free and fell forward. Inside the wall, was a small space big enough to hide a gun, but there was nothing there.

  33

  THE SUN DANCE grounds spread below, a field of white tipis shimmering in the sun. From the rise, Vicky could make out the brush shades scattered among the tipis with cottonwood saplings piled up the walls and over the roofs. There were corridors of shade on the grounds, a hum of activity. She could hear a baby crying. This was how it was in the Old Time, she thought. Villages scattered about the vastness of the plains, and where the plains buckled and lifted themselves, a warrior would stand guard. She knew the stories. They ran in her blood.

  She followed the road downhill and left the Jeep at the far edge of the parking area. Thursday evening, the beginning of the Sun Dance, and people stirring about, little groups flowing around the tipis toward the center of the grounds. She hurried along with the others. The lodge poles that would be pushed up to the center pole lay in a circle around it, the bark and branches stripped, the cream-colored meat exposed. A line had started to form, and people had begun moving toward the poles. Everyone carried strips of fabric—reds, blues, yellows, greens, whites—and one by one, they leaned over and tied the fabric around one of the lodge poles. Each piece was a prayer flag, a sign of the prayers that would be offered during the Sun Dance.

  She had brought her favorite scarf, red with a blue, green and yellow design, the colors of her people. She shook out the folds as she approached a lodge pole, then stooped over and tied on the scarf. Take care of Ned Windsong. Let him be with the ancestors.

  She stepped back and watched the line dipping and swaying until each pole was nearly obscured by the thick, colorful prayer flags. Annie was near the end of the line, pushing her two children ahead. She leaned back to reassure Roger who stayed close behind her, looking awkward with a piece of fabric in oranges and violets draped over his hands. They had been back in the office two days now, and everything had returned to normal, all the office rhythms restored, as if a man named Robin Bosey had never appeared. The Lander Police had arrested Robin before he’d gotten to the boundary of the reservation the morning he had burst into the office. An hour later, Annie had gotten the news and packed the kids. She and Roger were home by mid-afternoon. Robin was still in the Fremont County Jail awaiting transportation to the prison in Rawlins, but someday he would be free, Vicky knew. Annie knew it, too, she realized, watching Annie bend over to tie her fabric an
d help the children tie on theirs. Annie looked up and gave Vicky a little wave.

  A hand brushed her shoulder, and she knew from the touch that John O’Malley had come up behind her even before she heard him say, “How are you?”

  She turned and faced him. “I’m okay.” She smiled up at the handsome, sunburned face, the blue eyes, and crinkly laugh lines under the rim of his tan cowboy hat. “You were right, you know.”

  “Not about everything,” he said.

  “I haven’t seen Roseanne. How is she doing?”

  “She and her aunt Martha went to Denver to stay with relatives.” He nodded toward an area across the grounds where, Vicky knew, the Birdwoman family had camped for years. It was a small, vacant space. “The Sun Dance would have been hard without Ned,” he said. “Maybe she’ll find peace being with family.” He took a moment before he went on. “I’ve talked to Gianelli. Roseanne won’t be charged. She shot Adams in self-defense, and her aunt witnessed the whole thing. Adams would have killed them both. He was carrying the 9mm Beretta that he used to kill Hawk and Lookingglass.”