Father John stared at the man. My God. It was as if Orlando were reliving the massacre of the last Ghost Dancers at Wounded Knee more than a hundred years ago.
“Run, run,” Orlando shouted again, his voice raw with fear. “We must run through the snow. Everyone run!”
The other Indian placed an arm around the man and started to lead him backward toward the bale. “Medicine man!” he shouted. “Get the medicine man.”
Orlando bent forward, coughing and crying out—a long wail of grief—gasping for breath. The crow perched on the bale of hay close by, head wobbling on its humped shoulders.
As Father John started toward the man, he felt a fist slam into his ribs. He stumbled sideways.
“Don’t touch the prophet!” The Lakota lurched past and threw himself toward Orlando. He took the prophet’s other arm, and the two Indians pulled him back onto the hay bale.
Father John heard the footsteps pounding outside, then dancers began plunging through the opening, two, three at a time. They gathered around Orlando, a deliberateness in their movements, as if they’d practiced the routine many times before, and each dancer knew exactly where to go.
Someone passed a bucket of water through the flap. The bodyguard with the scar on his face scooped a glass of water and held it to Orlando’s lips.
He pushed it away and started coughing again, still bent in half, head dropping between his knees. Water dripped from the long fingers.
“Medicine man!” the bodyguard shouted again.
Another Indian stooped low into the tipi and the others began peeling backward, clearing the way. Father John slipped outside.
He ran to the first tipi on the south and knocked against the canvas flap. “Janis!” he called.
There was no response. He pulled the flap aside. The inside was bare, except for the straw mats on the floor. Daylight pooled in the center. Beyond the light, three women lay curled on the mats, white dresses bunched around their bare feet. They looked half asleep, drugged, Father John thought, and whatever drug they’d taken hadn’t yet worn off. The pretty girl wasn’t there. An odor of exhaustion mixed with the smells of canvas and dried straw.
“Where’s Janis Beaver?” he said.
One woman flopped over, turning her back to him. The others looked away, expressions as blank as sheets of paper.
He dropped the flap and ran to the next tipi, conscious of the commotion behind him, the footsteps pounding through the village, voices shouting. The crow was screaming from the top of the lodgepole.
He went through the same routine again: calling out, waiting, pulling the flap aside. There were four women lying in the shadows inside, shoulders touching. They might have been marooned in a blizzard, he thought, dependent on one another for warmth. “Janis Beaver?”
Heads shaking, eyes studying the straw mats. He’d started to back away when one woman gave him an almost imperceptible nod to the east. She lifted a hand and ran three fingers over her cheek.
He closed the flap and ran east past one tipi, then another. He stopped at the third and glanced back at the crowd of men pressing around Orlando’s tipi. The cawing of the crow ripped through the air.
He leaned into the flap. “Janis,” he said. “I have to talk to you about Dean.” He waited a moment, then pushed back the flap and stepped inside.
The interior resembled Orlando’s, with straw mats, hay bales, a buffalo robe draped over one bale. A woman was curled up on the floor, hands thrown over her head in exhaustion. On the right, propped against a bale, the pretty girl with knowing, almond eyes, face drained of color, long strands of black hair that fanned over the shoulders of her white dress. A red crescent, like that on Orlando’s shirt, was splashed on the front of her dress.
She stared up at him a moment, then began scooting sideways, pushing herself with her bare feet, a frantic kind of fear and confusion in her expression.
“I won’t hurt you.” His voice was calm. He told her his name and said he was from the mission. “What can you tell me about Dean? He’s been gone for five days. His grandmother’s crazy with worry.”
“You shouldn’t’ve come here.” Her voice had the flat, dead quality of an automatic machine. The almond eyes darted about the tipi.
He squatted in front of her and tried to hold her attention. “You must tell me what you know about Dean. You went to his apartment on Sunday looking for him, didn’t you? Where is he?”
“It’s forbidden for men to come to the women’s tipis.” She looked up, then to the side. Finally she began studying the edge of the hay bale.
“Please tell me, Janis.” He could hear the voices outside coming closer.
“Only the prophet comes here.” She was trying to dig a finger into the hay.
“What? Janis, try to concentrate. Where’s Dean?”
“The prophet will choose the new people for the new world.”
“What are you talking about?”
And then he knew. He felt his stomach turn over. “You mean children.”
“Holy children,” the woman said, her voice still on automatic. “We will bear the holy children for the new world.”
He let out a long breath. God. He wondered if the women were already pregnant. Orlando! A man gasping for breath, and yet, he had seemed assured and confident gazing at the dancers, buoyed, Father John suspected, by their adoration.
“Listen to me, Janis,” he said. “Is this what you want? You don’t have to stay here.” He glanced around at the other woman and wondered if she was really asleep. “You can both come with me. We’ll get out of here.” He could still see the guard at the gate with the rifle gleaming in the sun. He had no idea how they were going to get out.
She didn’t answer for a moment, as if she were trying to remember something important. Finally she said, “The prophet was sent by Wovoka. He speaks only truth. I want to go into the new world.”
“Do you have any family?” Father John tried another tack. “Do they know you’re here? I can call them for you.”
She was quiet; the almond eyes still darting about.
“What about Dean? He’s in love with you, Janis.”
For the first time, her eyes met his. “I tried to tell him, but he wouldn’t listen. The prophet . . .” She hesitated, then crossed her arms over the red painted symbol on her chest. “The prophet is my life now. I could never love Dean the way . . . the way . . .” She struggled over the words, leaning back against the bale, as if searching for shelter. “He wouldn’t listen. He went away.”
“Where? Where did he go? His grandmother has the right to know.”
Janis leaned back into the hay and began rolling her head, her eyes following the motion. “Lost. Lost. Lost. Tell the old woman to forget about him.”
“What are you talking about?” Something moved at the corner of his eye—a disturbance in the atmosphere. The column of light through the opened flap widened.
“On your feet, white man.” The Lakota’s voice behind him, the man’s grip, like a vise, on his shoulder.
Father John stood up. “Come with me now, Janis. I’ll take you to the mission. You can call your family,” he said, but she was staring beyond him, unseeing, as if she’d gone into another place that his voice couldn’t reach.
“Out, white man!” A second hand took hold of his other shoulder. Father John swung around, wrenching himself free. The man with the scar stood next to the Lakota. Father John walked past them and stooped through the opening. The crowd was still gathered in front of Orlando’s tipi. He started across the arena.
“You white men”—the Lakota was hopping beside him; the crow flapped and screeched overhead—“think you can do anything you want, stop our dancing, stop the new world ...”
“You lied to me.” Father John wheeled toward the Indian. “You said Janis wasn’t here. What about Dean Little Horse? Are you hiding him someplace? Out on the ranch? In a shack? A cave? Where is he?”
“You heard what the prophet said. He’s gone from h
ere.”
Father John held the man’s gaze a moment. Then he turned around and walked past the tipis and across the grassy area. He started climbing up the slope, the Lakota breathing hard behind him, like a pony snorting and scratching at the ground.
They crossed the top of the ridge and followed the footpath down. The roof of the guard’s shack poked through the trees below; the bumper on the pickup flashed in the sun.
Father John cut through the trees and took a diagonal route down the slope, the Indian still behind him. He could see the guard inside the shed as he climbed over the gate. “I’m going to find Dean,” he said, facing the Lakota again. “You might as well tell me where he is.”
The Lakota met his eyes. “You’re a foolish white man, priest. Go back to wherever you came from. You and your mission are not wanted here.”
“Is that a threat?”
“You have heard the words.” The Indian kept his gaze steady.
Father John felt the skin on his arms prickle. Had Dean threatened Orlando when he learned about the prophet’s plans for Janis?
He got into the pickup, slammed the door, started the engine, and backed past the Indian standing on the other side of the gate. Then he slipped the gear into forward and jammed down the accelerator. The pickup skidded out onto the road, dust spattering the rear window. In the side mirror, he caught a glimpse of the guard framed in the doorway of the shack.
Father John reached Fort Washakie, pulled over, and punched in Gianelli’s number on the cell phone. An answering machine clicked on at the other end; the agent’s voice, disembodied and matter-of-fact, floated down the line. “I have to talk to you,” Father John told the machine. Then he left his numbers: the cell phone, the office. “Call me,” he said.
He drove back onto the street, turned left, and parked in front of the redbrick building with the sign in front: WIND RIVER LAW ENFORCEMENT. He waited in the small area inside the entry while the woman behind the glass pane disappeared into a hallway. After a few moments, she returned.
“Chief Banner says to come on back.” She spoke into the round metal grate in the glass. A buzzer sounded, and he walked through the door on the left and down the corridor. The whiff of stale smoke and floor wax hung in the air. The chief was coming from the opposite direction, waving a sheaf of papers. He motioned him into an office with stacks of folders and papers toppling over the desk and file cabinets, an array of family photographs tucked among the stacks.
“You come about Ben’s murder, we’re doin’ all we can.” The chief dropped into the chair behind the desk and tossed the papers on some folders. Father John pulled over a metal-framed chair and sat down.
“This is fed business,” the chief went on. “We’re cooperating. My boys lifted prints and tire tracks. We been all over the rez looking for a couple of Lakotas Vicky says that Ben met with Monday afternoon.” He shrugged. “No luck. My guess is, those skins are out of here, laying low up at Pine Ridge ’til this gets settled.”
“I just came from the shadow ranch,” Father John said. “There are thirty Indians there from a lot of other tribes.”
The chief nodded. “Number one on our list of places to look. Gianelli went up there himself this morning.” The chief opened a file folder and consulted a typed sheet. “Roy He-Dog and Martin Crow Elk. Nobody by those names at the shadow ranch.” He shifted forward, the navy blue uniform shirt wrinkling over the broad shoulders. “You ask me, it’s not looking good for Vicky.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I’m not saying she shot Ben. I’m just saying, it’s not looking good. She’s got motive.” He paused. “We both know how Ben treated her. She had opportunity and . . .” Another pause. He cleared his throat. “Vicky shot a guy last year.”
True. All true. Father John set an elbow on the armrest, and blew into his fist. A perfect example of logic that added up to nonsense. “She didn’t shoot Ben,” he said.
The chief threw out both hands. “Let’s hope the evidence proves her innocent. Gianelli’s tracing the gun now. Should have the results tomorrow.”
“You’ve got to find the two ranch hands Ben had trouble with,” Father John said. “They could be calling themselves something else. Sherwood calls himself Orlando.”
The smallest shade of doubt came over the chief’s face. “The fed checked IDs on all the dancers. You got evidence those Lakotas are hiding at the ranch? We’d need evidence to get a search warrant.” He raised an eyebrow and gave him a look of caution. “Something more than just a gut feeling, John.”
Father John shook his head and glanced toward the window. The afternoon sunlight looked gray in the dust-smeared pane. He didn’t have any evidence. Just a gut feeling that things were wrong at the shadow ranch.
“We been watching the place for two months.” Banner crossed his arms over his chest. “Ever since Sherwood came back. He’s probably harmless. Brilliant kid, once upon a time. You ever know him?”
Father John shook his head. He’d never seen him at Mass. And eight years ago, when he’d organized the Eagles, Sherwood would have been too old for the team.
“Walked away with a lot of honors at Indian High. Went to college in Denver. Became some kind of computer whiz, I heard.” The chief raised one hand and snapped his thick fingers. “Hiking up around Boulder and gets hit by lightning. Spends a month in a coma and becomes a new man. Calls himself Orlando now. God knows why. Never heard of any Arapaho Orlandos.”
“He has an armed guard at the gate and at least two other guards around the village. The followers all look drugged.”
This brought the chief forward. He picked up a pencil and began stabbing at a folder. “You talk to people up there?”
Father John nodded. “A couple guards. Orlando himself, and an Arapaho girl from Oklahoma, Janis Beaver.”
“Anybody tell you they’re being held against their will?”
“No.” The girl had wanted to stay, he was thinking. She could have left with him—he would have found a way—but she was in love with Orlando.
“Well, that’s a problem. We’ve got consenting adults up there. Point is, John. There’s no proof otherwise, and folks have the right to live as they please, long as they don’t break the law. The American way, right?” A mirthless smile came into the man’s face. “They want to live in a mountain valley with some nutcase, well, that’s their right.”
Father John was quiet a moment. The click, click sound of computer keys came from down the corridor. “How do they live?”
“We asked the same question when Indians from other tribes started showing up on the rez asking for directions to the shadow dancers. Said they heard about Orlando on the Internet. So I drove up and paid a visit to Orlando. Turns out, he got severance pay from his company and disability insurance. He sends the dancers into Ethete and Fort Washakie every week. They preach and pass the collection baskets. Get a little money that way. Adds up to enough to feed people. They say they’re gonna be self-sufficient, soon’s the new world gets here. Got some buffalo. Planted a garden.”
Banner shrugged, then went on: “Man didn’t seem like the kid I remember, but I gotta admit, there’s an intensity about him, and he’s got that deep voice that sort of mesmerizes people. He claims he visited the shadow world. That gets people’s attention. How come you went up there?”
Father John sat back and closed his eyes a moment. He’d assured Minnie Little Horse that he wouldn’t talk to the police about Dean, and yet . . . Dean was missing; he’d been at the shadow ranch; and someone there—Janis? Orlando?—knew where the young man had gone.
“I’m trying to find Dean Little Horse,” he said. He’d explain to Minnie later.
The chief tilted his head back and stared at him. “Dean’s missing? We don’t have a report.”
Father John told the chief what he knew. Dean had been missing since last Thursday. He’d never had any trouble with the police. Minnie didn’t want his name in the police files.
“Shit, Jo
hn.” Banner slammed a fist down, scattering a stack of papers. “Indian’s missing, and nobody’s looking for him except you? Minnie’s got to get in here and file a report. I’m gonna need everything she knows. Hell.” He pulled a blank sheet of paper toward him. “I’m gonna start things rolling right now. What have you learned?”
Father John gave him the address of Dean’s apartment and the Blue Crow Software Company, and the names of everybody he’d talked to, including Janis Beaver.
The chief’s black scrawl covered half the page.
“Dean was at the shadow ranch recently,” Father John went on. “I’m pretty sure Janis knows more than she was willing to tell me. She was looking for Dean on Sunday.” He was quiet a moment. “Dean could be in danger.”
The chief was still writing. “Ben Holden gets killed; Dean Little Horse goes missing. Two good men, John.” He shook his head and laid the pen across the notepad. “Let’s hope Dean’s still alive. Maybe we’ll get something out of Orlando, we lean on him enough. The shadow dancers are gonna get more attention than they want.”
Father John got to his feet. He felt uneasy. Too much attention, and Orlando and his followers could feel threatened. There was no telling what a man who believed himself a prophet might do, if he felt threatened.
13
The late afternoon sun beat down on the baseball field. The air was bright. In the distance, the white-peaked mountains rose against the sky like furious waves in the ocean, but the sky itself was as still as blue glass. The end of a perfect summer day, Father John thought, except that summer was officially a couple of weeks away. He stood behind third base, dripping with sweat. The Eagles looked good. The batters connecting, Howard Night knowing when to throw a fastball, when to throw a curve ball, the infielders chasing down grounders, and the outfielders shagging fly balls. Charlie Moss had hit a drive up the middle and sprinted to first, and Father John motioned up the next batter, his eye on Charlie. The kid was quick and smart. He had a good feel for the pitcher’s delivery; he knew exactly when to run.
The Shadow Dancer (A Wind River Reservation Myste) Page 10