He was running now, head down, short legs pumping. Howard threw to the second baseman, but Charlie had already dived for the base.
“Safe.” Eldon Antelope was on the side line, waving both hands overhead.
The batter struck out, and Father John motioned up the next kid. The breeze felt like a hot blow dryer on his arms and face. The sky was a brilliant blue, falling to the earth around them. Sometimes he had the illusion here, on the plains, that he was moving through the sky.
Out of the corner of his eye, Father John saw Vicky hunched on the bench behind home plate beside two of the mothers. Staring across the field, something different about her, something new mingling with the aura of bereavement, so that, even though she was only inches from the other women, she seemed completely alone. Hisei ci nihi. Woman Alone, the grandmothers called her.
How long had she been there? He’d been so intent on the game, he hadn’t seen her arrive. He felt the same mild sense of surprise and gladness he’d felt the first time she’d appeared. Out of nowhere, standing in the doorway to his office: a slim figure; dark complexion and black hair smoothed away from her face; dark blue suit and white blouse; black bag hung over one shoulder.
The Arapaho lawyer, he remembered thinking, the subject of the gossip among the grandmothers at the senior women’s meetings in Eagle Hall. Divorced a fine man like Ben Holden! Went off to Denver to become a ho’:xu’wu:ne’n. Now she was back.
They hadn’t said she was beautiful.
The batter sent the ball to center field and sprinted down the baseline. Charlie was heading home, head down, and then he was safe.
“All right!” Father John called. “That’s it for today.” The kids hopped up and down, then started off the field in a run. They were good, and they knew it. “Listen up,” he called, and began gathering a circle of brown faces with teeth too big for the mouths. “Practice on Thursday. What’re we going to do Saturday morning?”
“Whip the Riverton Rangers.”
“You got it.”
“Clean up!” Eldon called. The man had already started stuffing the bats into green canvas bags, and the kids scattered about, gathering helmets, gloves, balls. Then the two mothers began herding several kids across the field to Circle Drive, where a line of pickups and old sedans were parked.
Father John walked over to Antelope. “Mind putting away the gear?”
The Indian glanced at the woman waiting on the bench, then motioned over two boys running across the field. “Nah. We’ll take care of it, Father.”
“Good practice,” Vicky said when he sat down beside her. He wondered if she had taken in any of it.
“Any news?”
“Looks like Gianelli has a suspect.” She kept her eyes ahead, and he followed her gaze across the deserted field, the path between second and third base worn into a gray line through the brown earth. The Indian man and boys dragging bags of equipment across Circle Drive headed toward the storage shed behind Eagle Hall. He wondered if she was registering the fact they were there. “Hugh Holden thinks I’m guilty,” she said.
Now he understood. Hugh Holden had probably had a long meeting with Gianelli. Father John didn’t say anything.
“Battered ex-wife, couldn’t make a complete break from her ex without killing him,” she went on, the words clipped and sharp.
“Gianelli doesn’t have any evidence.” He heard the counselor’s note in his own voice, but it sounded slightly off-key, his own concern leaking through.
“You don’t understand, John. Ben was shot with a twenty-two pistol. Anybody on the rez could own the gun. It could be traced to someone who knows me.”
“Look,” he said after a moment. “Gianelli will work out what really happened. You have to be patient.”
She tipped her head back and gave a tight laugh that sounded like a cry. “You and Adam Lone Eagle,” she said. “White man and Lakota on the same side.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“The criminal lawyer in Casper I just hired.” She tossed off the information absentmindedly, then rose from the bench and walked to the end. Her heels scraped at the dried ground.
“What does Lone Eagle say?”
Vicky wheeled around and stared at him, as if she were trying to recall whom they were talking about. Then she said, “Be patient. Sit tight, as if nothing has changed. Everything has changed, John. Whoever killed Ben could have intended to make it look like I’m guilty. I can’t sit tight.”
“Listen to me, Vicky,” he began, but she interrupted.
“I have to find the two Lakota ranch hands. They’re involved, John. I don’t know how, but they’re involved, I’m sure of it.” She was pacing, back and forth, back and forth. “Ben was mad enough to kill them. I’m sure he threatened them in some way. Gianelli thinks they took off for Pine Ridge last week, but he’s wrong. They’re hiding somewhere.” She gestured toward the plains rolling into the far distance.
“Arapahos aren’t going to hide two guys involved in Ben Holden’s murder.”
“Whoever’s hiding them doesn’t believe they had anything to do with the murder. They’ll be protected. Nobody’s going to turn two Indians over to the FBI. Gianelli will never find them.”
He stood up and set a hand on her arm, stopping her in place. Then he told her about the shadow ranch and about the possibility—he was acutely aware of the fact that he had no proof—that the Lakotas could be hiding there under assumed identities. He explained that he’d gone there looking for a young man who was missing, Dean Little Horse, and told her about the guards and the village and the dancers. He said he’d talked to Orlando himself and to one of the followers, Dean’s girlfriend, an Arapaho from Oklahoma named Janis Beaver.
“Shadow ranch. I saw some of the followers in front of the tribal offices.” Vicky was staring at some image in her mind. Finally she locked eyes with him again. “The Lakotas are cowboys, John. Why would they get mixed up with a crazy Indian like Orlando?”
“Gianelli went to the ranch this morning. He didn’t find them . . .” Father John paused. He was already regretting telling her about the shadow ranch. The guard at the gate had a rifle.
“Listen, Vicky,” he went on, still holding her shoulder. “I’ve talked to Banner. He’s starting a search for Dean, and he’s going to check on the shadow ranch again. If the Lakotas are there, Banner’ll find them.”
“I have to find them,” she said. Then she started down the base line toward Circle Drive.
He caught up with her. “No, Vicky. Let Banner and Gianelli handle this. You don’t know what the Lakotas had against Ben. You get close to them, they could come after you.”
“You don’t understand, John.” She kept walking. “They killed Ben, and they’re going to get away with it unless I find them. They’re hiding on the rez somewhere. Ben found them. I can find them, too.”
“It’s not your investigation.” He took hold of her arm and turned her toward him. It was then that he saw the moisture in her eyes.
“Ben was my husband once,” she said. “And this is my life.”
“Vicky.” He held her name on his tongue a moment. “Then let me help you.”
She pulled away from his grip and stepped backward, shaking her head. “You can’t, John. You can’t help me. Promise me you won’t get involved.”
“What are you saying?”
“Hugh Holden, all the Holdens think the same as Ben did. The only reason I didn’t go back to Ben was . . .”
In her hesitation, he understood. He looked away a moment. Dear God, how obvious had his feelings for her been on the reservation? Had everyone seen his shadow self?
“Lucas and Susan will be with the Holdens,” Vicky was saying. “They’ll listen to all the lies Hugh tells them. If you help me, if we’re seen together, my children will believe the lies.”
Father John brought his eyes back to her. What she said was true, and he could see the force of it in the steady way she looked at him.
“You must promise me, John.” Her voice was so soft that he had to bend toward her to hear.
He waited a moment, then he said, “I don’t want anything to happen to you, Vicky. If you won’t let me help you, then you have to promise me you won’t put yourself in danger.”
She smiled up at him. “Then we have a deal?” When he didn’t say anything, she turned and started toward the Bronco. He walked alongside her, feeling a sense of helplessness. She was so small and vulnerable, and he knew her so well. Nothing would stop her from finding the cowboys who had killed her ex-husband.
They reached the Bronco, and he opened the door. He waited until she’d slid behind the wheel and started the engine. Then he closed the door and watched the Bronco spin out into the drive, rear tires spitting back sprays of gravel. The vehicle plunged into the tunnel of cottonwoods and turned onto Seventeen-Mile Road.
Gracious God, he prayed. Keep her safe. He felt a pang of regret as sharp as a pain over the promise he’d given her. If she were in danger, he knew, he would have to break the promise.
Vicky drove back to Lander through the quiet heat settling over the asphalt. She avoided Rendezvous Road, taking Highway 789 south, the long way, reaching Lander with the sun blazing over the mountains and exploding in her windshield.
A red sedan sat in her parking space behind the apartment building. She parked beside it and hurried up the outside stairs to the second floor. Here and there, lights twinkled behind the windows of the apartment building across the street.
From thirty feet away, she could see the door slightly ajar at the end of the corridor. Hushed, familiar voices drifted through the opening.
She found Susan and Lucas slumped on the living room sofa, leaning back into the cushions for support, hands clasped in their laps. Vicki had asked the manager to let them in, should they arrive before she returned. She’d expected to be here first. Lucas must have held the pedal to the floor all the way from Denver.
He jumped to his feet and came around the coffee table toward her. It always took her breath away, the first time she saw her son, even if it were after an absence of only a few hours. He was so like Ben: tall and muscular and striking looking with chiseled features and black hair trimmed a little long. He wore faded blue jeans and a sporty gray shirt with the collar opened and sleeves rolled back, exposing thick brown forearms and capable hands.
And yet he was different from Ben, more at ease in the world that extended beyond the reservation. The corners of his mouth turned up in a smile, but he was looking at her out of deep-set brown eyes that still held the shock of his father’s death.
“Hi, Mom,” he said, encircling her in his arms.
When he let go, she turned to Susan, who was starting to get up, reluctance in the way she moved, her face rigid with grief and contempt.
Vicky reached out, took the girl’s hand, and led her around the coffee table. Then she grasped her other hand and stood back, taking her in. She was looking in a mirror; the image that reflected back was her own, a lifetime ago. Her daughter had the same black, shoulder-length hair, parted in the middle, one side tucked behind her ear. Honey-colored skin, eyes like black agates shot through with light. Susan stood quite still, chest rising and falling beneath her pale blue T-shirt, hostility crackling about her. And yet, beneath the hostility, Vicky recognized the vulnerability, the unformedness. A chill ran through her at the thought of a man—a man like Ben—honing in on the unformedness and taking Susan over.
She pulled the girl closer—she was small and thin; the knobs of her spine poked through her shirt—not wanting to let her go, but Susan slipped free and dropped back onto the sofa. “It’s the end of our family,” she said, “now that Dad’s dead. He was the only one trying to hold us together. He was the only one who cared. We don’t have a family now.”
“That isn’t true,” Vicky said. She was thinking, We have a sad, hurting family.
Lucas sat down beside his sister. “Do you know yet what happened?” Emotion surged beneath the calm surface of his voice.
She began explaining: The local FBI agent was handling the investigation. She was sure he’d make an arrest soon. (God, she could be the one arrested.) She pulled over a small side chair and sat across the coffee table from her children—hers and Ben’s—twenty-two and twenty-four years old now. “Your father”—she chose the words carefully—“had a very important job running the ranch. He had a lot of responsibility. He was a strong man. He could have made enemies.”
“You think somebody from the ranch killed him?” This from Susan, the anguish so palpable around her that Vicky had to check herself to keep from reaching out to shove it away.
“It’s possible.”
“The fed’s checking on everybody Dad worked with?” Lucas, now.
Vicky nodded. She hoped that was the case.
Susan shifted forward until her knees knocked against the edge of the coffee table. “Uncle Hugh says you saw Dad just before he was killed.”
Vicky was quiet a moment. “I don’t know what Hugh might have told you, but . . .” God, the lies Hugh could have told her children.
“You got in a fight with Dad!” Anger and shock laced Susan’s voice. “The last night of his life, and you were shouting at him in a restaurant.”
“Hugh’s very upset.” Vicky held her daughter’s eyes. “He’s looking for someone to blame.”
“You hated Dad! You wanted him dead!” Susan propelled herself to her feet, and Lucas rose beside her, an arm going around his sister’s shoulders.
“Take it easy, Susan,” he said, a soothing tone, rational.
Vicky stood up. She felt as if she were stumbling, being driven through an endless field. It was true. She had wanted Ben out of her life. Some part of her, a shadow that she didn’t want to acknowledge, had willed him dead—and the truth of it lashed at her like a whip.
“Listen, Mom.” Lucas waved his other hand toward her. “We’d better be going. We can talk later.”
“Going?” she managed, the word clinging to her tongue. “I thought you’d stay here. There’s an extra bedroom, and Susan can sleep in my bed.” She’d thought Susan could sleep with her. “I’ll take the sofa.”
“I wouldn’t stay in this place . . .”
“Enough, Susan,” Lucas said, a new firmness in his tone. “I think you’ve said enough.” He guided his sister around the coffee table and across the room. Glancing back, he said, “I’ll call you tomorrow, Mom.” Then they were through the door, the sounds of their footsteps receding down the carpeted corridor.
Vicky sank back into her chair. She felt that she would choke on the acid in her mouth. The kids would go to Hugh. Her children, absorbed into the Holden clan, Ben’s people, blaming her, blaming her. And Gianelli. She’d always thought of the agent as a good investigator. She laughed out loud, startled at the sound; it was like a cry. A good investigator who would turn everything Hugh Holden said against her.
14
Father John stood at the window in his office and listened to the buzzing sound of a phone ringing across the reservation. In the last five minutes two pickups had come around Circle Drive and stopped near the alley between the administration building and the church. Three members of the parish council had climbed out and headed down the alley toward Eagle Hall. Now a rusted orange pickup swung in alongside the others. The door opened and a knobbed stick, cut from a tree branch, stabbed the ground. Amos Walking Bear gripped the top of the stick and swung his massive weight out of the cab. Bent over, slowly picking his way with the stick like a blind man, he started down the alley.
The phone stopped buzzing.
“Hello?” It was Minnie Little Horse. She sounded out of breath, distracted.
He told her he’d talked to a few people about Dean. The exclamation of joy and relief that shot through the line made him wince. He didn’t have good news.
“Listen, Minnie.” He said that he’d already talked to Banner and that the chief had started a search for Dean.
Silence shaped by fear and grief filled the line. Finally the woman said, “We didn’t wanna bring in the police.”
“It’s time, Minnie,” he said. It was past time, he was thinking. He wanted to assure her that Dean had gone someplace, was hiding for some reason, but he didn’t believe it. Instead, he told her that the chief was going to need her help.
He heard the sigh at the other end. Then the woman agreed to call Banner, and he set the receiver in place, a sense of inevitability pressing around him. Five days now. No one had seen Dean Little Horse in five days.
He dialed Gianelli’s office again and left another message. Then he dialed the man’s home. They’d been friends once. He thought of the agent as a friend. He’d had Sunday dinner not long ago at the agent’s home. Spaghetti and meatballs and everybody talking at once—Ted and his wife and four little daughters who had somehow become teenagers—and he and Ted trying to stump each other on opera trivia. He hated to admit that Gianelli probably knew more about opera than he did.
“Agent Gianelli.” The familiar voice was on the other end.
“I’ve been trying to reach you,” Father John said. Then he told him about his visit to the shadow ranch. “The Lakota ranch hands could be hiding there,” he said.
“We checked everybody’s ID this morning. Nobody there named Roy He-Dog or Martin Crow Wolf.”
“They could be using other names.”
“We’ve got every law enforcement agency in Wyoming and South Dakota looking for those two Lakotas. We’ll get them, John, and when we do, we’re probably gonna find out that . . .” He paused.
“What?”
“That they left the rez before Ben Holden was killed. If they had trouble with Holden, it wouldn’t have been smart for them to hang around.”
“Vicky says they were still on the rez—”
The agent cut in. “That’s what she’d like us to believe. I got the Holden clan on my tail. Hugh Holden thinks he knows who killed his brother.”
“For godssake, Ted. Vicky didn’t kill Ben.”
The Shadow Dancer (A Wind River Reservation Myste) Page 11