The Shadow Dancer (A Wind River Reservation Myste)

by Margaret Coel

  She found her nail file in the waist pack, then knelt in front of the door, shone the flashlight in the keyhole, and probed the gears with the file. It was an old lock, cast in bronze, the kind Grandfather had used on the barn. She could hear the gears clicking over.

  She shoved the door open and slid inside, closing it softly behind her. Then she ran the light beam over the walls: metal shelves crowded with spurs and bit chains and folded saddle blankets. An old saddle thrown over a wooden saddle horse, and a small white box in the far corner. She moved closer and focused the beam on the black letters stamped on the side: ARAPAHO RANCH.

  She set the flashlight on the dirt floor and took out her camera. The light flickered over the ceiling. Her hands shook, her fingers fumbled for the correct buttons, then she raised the camera, located the dynamite crate in the lens, and pressed the top button. Another picture, then another, moving in closer now, going down on one knee, the flash sizzling in her eyes.

  The door snapped open behind her, and smoky air rushed into the small space. She felt something hard—fist? boot?—crash into her back, and she sprawled forward over the hard dirt floor. She was breathing dirt. Dirt in her nose. The gritty, bitter taste of dirt in her mouth. Another blow sent a white hot flash of pain through her ribs, and she drew in her legs and curled into herself. Before the blackness, she was aware of the low, confident voice of He-Dog floating above her: “Goddamn. A woman!”

  28

  Father John turned off Seventeen-Mile Road into the mission grounds, the sun lost behind the mountains, the sky layered in reds and violets. He checked his watch. Almost eight-thirty. The board of directors had been meeting for thirty minutes. Father George was a stickler for starting on time.

  He followed the blinking red taillights of a truck through the tunnel of cottonwoods, past the green pickup with the two Arapahos, cowboy hats pushed back, seated in front. He waved to the guards and turned onto Circle Drive. Several pickups and old cars were parked in front of the church and administration building. He stopped alongside an orange truck just as the driver’s door swung open. Amos Walking Bear gripped the top of the door and lifted himself out. Another elder, Clarence Wilbur, was climbing out of the passenger seat.

  “Good to see you, grandfathers,” Father John said. He walked over and clapped Amos’s shoulder.

  The elder reached inside the cab, grabbed his cane, then waved the cane toward the alley leading to Eagle Hall. “Okay if we come to this here big meeting?”

  “Absolutely.” Father John smiled at the two old men in plaid shirts and blue jeans and cowboy hats outlined against the fiery sky, faces creased in shadow. He’d been hoping Amos and some of the parish council members would attend the board of directors meeting.

  He ushered the elders down the alley, Clarence hunched forward, Amos tapping the cane ahead. Old warriors more accustomed to riding than walking over the dried, hard earth. He left them at the entrance to Eagle Hall.

  Then he walked back to the concrete steps in front of the administration building and took them two at a time. Cool shadows stretched across the corridor into his office. The new windowpane glowed red in the sunset. He flipped on the desk lamp and checked his messages. No message from Gianelli.

  He lifted the phone. He had to warn Vicky. There was some connection between Ben and Dean, something that had gotten them both killed. And they had both gone to the shadow ranch. Vicky might stumble on the connection—he knew her; she wouldn’t stop until she’d found Ben’s killer. She could be sucked into the vortex of a madman.

  He tried her office first: “You’ve reached the law office . . .”

  He hit the disconnect button, tapped out her home number, and listened to the ringing. Pick up. Pick up. An electronic voice told him to leave a message.

  “Call me as soon as you get in,” he said to the machine. “This is John,” he added.

  He pressed the disconnect again, wondering how he was going to convince her to be careful, not take risks. Not take risks? That was a laugh. There was no telling what risks she might take. He stared at the phone in his hand a moment before dialing Gianelli’s office. Another answering service. “I have to speak to you right away, Ted,” he said. “It’s urgent.”

  Urgent. That was how Dean Little Horse had termed the message he’d sent to Ben Holden. He replaced the receiver and headed for the meeting.

  Two long tables where the parishioners usually sat for feasts or for donuts and coffee after Sunday Mass had been pushed together at the end of Eagle Hall. Seated on the far side were the directors: Father George and the bishop in the center. The three Jesuits who had arrived this morning sat on the left, and on the right, five other Jesuits who had trickled in during the afternoon, heads bent over copies of the annual report. Amos, Clarence, Leonard Bizzel, the caretaker, and half a dozen other Arapahos were scattered around the folding chairs in front of the tables, holding up copies of the report, squinting in the bright, fluorescent light.

  “Sorry to be late.” Father John took the vacant chair at the far end, next to Father Niles Johnston, who nodded his white head and continued running a finger down the column of figures on the page in front of him. Amos was in the front row, and in the elder’s eyes, Father John recognized the fear that had been gnawing at his own insides the last couple of weeks. There was no denying the truth in the financial report.

  A stapled packet of papers was handed down the table to him. “We’ve been going over the finances,” Father George said.

  Father John left the packet unopened. He’d written the report, totaled up the columns again and again in the quiet of the night, hoping that each addition would yield a different sum, but it was always the same. Expenses exceeded income.

  “We don’t understand . . .” Father Niles hesitated, then cleared his throat and, like the university professor he’d been for thirty years, launched into a discourse on the impossibility of operating a business with accounts in the red. Indeed, no business—he was warming to the subject now—could consider being in the red normal.

  “St. Francis is not a business.” Father John set his elbows on the table and clasped his hands. He was the superior here, he reminded himself. The officer-in-charge, in the military hierarchy of the Jesuits—officer-in-charge of a backwater post—but in charge nonetheless. Not his assistant, not the directors, not even the bishop, who was leaning forward, looking at him along the line of black coats. They were advisers. They would probably advise the Provincial that the mission should be closed, but they would do so without the acquiescence of the Superior.

  “What this report doesn’t take into account”—Father John had waited until the other priest stopped for a breath—“are the random acts of generosity.”

  “Random acts?” One of the priests at the far end spoke up, making no attempt to hide the contempt in his voice. Rumbling noises of disdain erupted down the line and the other priests shifted over the table, like soldiers ready to charge.

  Father John went on: “Donations always arrive when we least expect them.” The little miracles, he almost added. He’d depended on the little miracles for the past eight years.

  He was aware of the other priests’ eyes on him, the expressions of disbelief in their pale, flushed faces. But the Arapahos sat straight-shouldered, nodding, smiling. From outside came the sounds of tires on gravel, and Father John felt his muscles tense. Dear God, don’t let the shooter return.

  “Surely, John, you can’t expect the mission to operate . . .” The dead ringer for Thomas Aquinas presenting a logical, reasoned argument. “It’s foolish to presume . . . Random donations cannot be counted upon . . . Bankruptcy . . .”

  The door opened and six Arapaho men filed inside. They moved silently into the last row, sat down, and dipped their heads in respect to the elders seated ahead.

  “Welcome,” Father John said. “We’re discussing finances.”

  The Indians nodded.

  Father Niles lifted his white head and said, “Without either an e
ndowment or a reliable source of income—and may I inject that St. Francis has neither—how do you intend to meet the current bills?”

  “That would appear to be one of the great mysteries of the universe,” said the Thomistic scholar.

  Father George cleared his throat. “As it happens, Father, two checks arrived in today’s mail.” There was a note almost of apology in his tone. “They should cover the month’s expenses.”

  The Arapahos exchanged sideways glances. Warriors, Father John thought, watching for the next skirmish.

  It came at once. “We must not ignore the other issues.” Father James, his old friend from the seminary, always wanting to take the broad perspective. “The Society is stretched thin, as we know. Universities, colleges, high schools, missions, and not enough priests to fill the positions. We have to reevaluate each situation.”

  “You’ve seen our schedule of programs,” Father John began.

  “Yes, yes, yes.” Father Niles gave an impatient wave. “Despite the programs, it appears that not everyone on the reservation would like the mission to continue.”

  There was a slight change in the atmosphere, a stillness falling over the hall. Finally, Father John said, “The shooting last night was an isolated incident.”

  “Isolated!” The bishop gave a bark of laughter. “You say it’s isolated, and yet two guards are posted at the entrance to keep out other riflemen. Please, Father.”

  The door squealed open again, and more people crowded inside: two, three, four families, several grandmothers and elders. They filled up the remaining chairs. Leonard jumped up and began unfolding other chairs stacked along the back wall.

  Amos Walking Bear got to his feet and leaned forward on the cane. “Can I speak, Father?” he said, locking eyes with him.

  “Of course, grandfather.” Father John could feel the impatience bristling along the table. Father Niles let out a long exhalation of breath.

  “Long time ago,” Amos began, the dark eyes moving along the row of priests, “hundred and twenty years ago, the chiefs made a pact with the Jesuits. You come here and teach our children and we’ll give you land. We’ll put up buildings and take care of the place. So the Jesuits—they was all white men—said they’d come and help the people. They kept their word, and that surprised us.” There was a little undercurrent of laughter in the audience; heads started nodding. Several other Arapahos were filing through the door, finding places along the back wall.

  The elder went on. “Now you come here from some other places and you say you’re gonna do like the rest of the whites and go back on your word. You say—”

  “I believe,” the bishop interrupted, “that you’re talking about the past. We have to consider the state of the mission now.”

  “Excuse me, but I’m talkin’ about now, Bishop.” Amos kept his tone polite, steady. “Mission’s still here. People still need help. You gonna go back on your word?”

  People were still crowding into the hall, a sea of dark faces pressing toward them. Leonard was backing through the door, dragging four chairs.

  “If you insist upon looking at the matter in those terms,” another Jesuit at the far end spoke up—an historian. “It would seem that, after all this time, the Society has certainly ...”

  Leonard hurried past the crowd standing along the side wall and leaned over the table. “Important message, Father,” he whispered. “Phone was ringing when I went to the office for more chairs. Rose White Plume says it’s an emergency.” He pushed a slip of paper scribbled with a telephone number across the table.

  Father John got to his feet. “Excuse me,” he said, interrupting the historian in the middle of explaining the relationship between the Jesuits and the Plains Indians in 1874. “There’s an emergency. Please continue.” This last he directed to Father George.

  Then he hurried through the crowd in the side aisle and nearly collided with another group coming through the door. He waved them inside, then broke into a run down the alley, around the corner of the administration building, up the concrete steps. He turned on the light in his office and dialed the number.

  Aunt Rose picked up on the first ring. He could feel the fear vibrating through the wires.

  “Father John, grandmother. What’s happened?”

  “Oh, Father. I didn’t know who else to call.”

  “Tell me what it is,” he said, trying to soften the bite of impatience in his tone.

  “It’s Vicky.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. That’s why I called you. Somebody’s gotta find her.”

  “Find her? What are you talking about?”

  “She’s not home. She’s not at her office. I been callin’ and callin’ and nobody answers. I tried callin’ her boy, Lucas. He’s over there with the Holden clan, but nobody answered there, either. She says she had to find a couple of Lakotas that killed Ben. She could be in trouble, and nobody around to help her!”

  “Where did she go, grandmother?”

  “Up in the mountains to see the shadow dancers.”

  “The shadow ranch?” God, she went alone to the shadow ranch. “When did she leave?”

  “Four hours ago. Should’ve called me by now. She says the Lakotas have the dynamite. They’re gonna blow up something.”

  Father John heard his own gasp of air, sudden and disembodied. The day box Dean had wanted to tell Holden about contained dynamite! It was probably the day box that Holden—or the Lakotas—would have used to carry sticks of dynamite to someplace on the Arapaho Ranch where they intended to blow out tree stumps or build a road or pond. Vicky must have found out that the dynamite was at the shadow ranch.

  And so were the killers.

  He tried to remember what he’d read about Wovoka: The event would occur on the final night of a dance session. Tonight was the final night of the current session.

  “Listen to me, grandmother. I want you to call the fed.”

  “I already did. He’s got his answering machine on.”

  “Call him again. Leave a message. Tell him everything you’ve told me. Tell him he has to get up to the shadow ranch, that Vicky’s in danger.”

  There was a sharp gasp at the other end.

  “I’m going up there right away,” he said. Then he said, “Try not to worry.” He was talking to himself, as well as to the old woman.

  He hung up, rummaged in a bottom desk drawer for a flashlight, then grabbed a jacket from the coat tree and ran for the Toyota.

  It was only when he drove past the guards still parked under the trees and sped toward Seventeen-Mile Road that he remembered the board meeting. The fate of St. Francis Mission could be settled tonight, and he wouldn’t be there.

  29

  From far away away came the sound of drumbeats calling her back to life. Vicky struggled to fight her way up through layers of blackness, dimly aware of the vibrations pulsing through the ground beneath her. Her arms and legs felt stiff, dead. She couldn’t dislodge whatever was jammed in her mouth. It was foul and tasted of gasoline. It made her retch.

  The drum beat faster, the sound crashing through the blackness. Footsteps thudded nearby. Men were shouting and, over the shouts, the sound of women wailing.

  Vicky snapped into consciousness and blinked in the dim light. Something was going on outside. The village had been enveloped in silence, and now—drums, shouting. She tried to raise her head. Pain shot down her neck and into her shoulders. She realized she was tied up—trussed up like an animal carcass—arms pulled back, wrists looped together, ankles and legs squeezed tight. She twisted her fingers about until they grasped the rough surface of a rope—the same rope crossing over her arms and chest and squeezing her ribs against her lungs. Her head was throbbing.

  She maneuvered around in a half-circle, trying to get her bearings. She was still in the shed. In the thin thread of light that traced the edges of the door, she could see the metal shelving on the right and the crate of dynamite. The dynamite
was still here! That gave her an odd sense of hope. Whatever Orlando intended to destroy, he hadn’t destroyed it yet. There was still time.

  She had to get out of here. By pulling sideways, she could see her waist. The waist pack was gone—the screwdriver, nail file, flashlight, every piece of metal she might have used. She searched the shadows on the floor. The pack wasn’t here.

  The drums beat harder, cutting through a cacophony of panic—shouting and wailing—that matched her own. Her eyes raced around the walls looking for a nail, a hook, a piece of metal, something sharp, that she could reach. There was nothing, except the metal shelving that held the containers of insecticide and rodenticide.

  She scooted toward the shelves, rolling her hips and shouldering herself sideways, panting through her nose, fighting back the gorge in her throat. Finally she managed to back up against the vertical metal frame.

  She tried to lift herself on one hip, fingers running up the frame, searching for a sharp edge. Her fingertips brushed a crack in the metal. A loose piece jutted out, but it was too high. She couldn’t get a grip on it. The rope pulled her legs, keeping them straight, like two dead stumps attached to her body. Her knees wouldn’t bend; she couldn’t get any leverage.

  She maneuvered around, flipped onto her stomach, and lifting her legs, thrust her feet at the frame, trying to push the broken strip downward. The rope cutting into her flesh made her retch with pain. She kicked again. The frame shivered, but the broken strip stayed in place.

  She lay with the side of her face pressed into the dirt floor, exhausted, breathing in dust mixed with the smell of chemicals and her own perspiration and fear. Outside people were shouting and running about. She could feel the frenzy vibrating through the shed. God, what was going on? The dance must have ended. They—the Lakotas, Ben’s killers—would come for the dynamite. They’d come for her.

  She flipped to her side and slid upward along the frame. The hard, rounded edge bit into her spine. Her fingers curled around the metal, and she pulled herself higher, wincing with the pain that ripped through the sockets of her arms. Her eyes blurred; the tears burned on her cheeks. She strained upward, forcing her fingers to climb higher—an inch, a half-inch. Something warm and wet—blood—ran along her hand.