She’d found the broken metal. She pulled as hard as she could until she felt the strip give way and bend downward, the edge cutting into her fingers. It was as sharp as a knife.
Suddenly she was aware of the silence. The drumming and shouting—when had they stopped? She was enveloped in silence, as if the shed had been deposited in the middle of the plains surrounded by the endless stillness of the sky and something else: the stillness of a tornado before it touches down.
She thrust the rope around her wrists into the sharp edge and started sawing. Up and down, pain ripping across her shoulders, numbness flowing down her arms. The tears were coming fast, blurring the shed in the dim light, until she felt as if she were moving under water. Up and down. Up and down.
There was a barely perceptible loosening, a slackening so slight she feared she’d imagined it out of her own desperation. She kept sawing, buoyed with new hope and strength. She wondered if the drums and shouting had been as frightening as the silence outside.
The rope gave way. She could raise one wrist above the other and managed to slip one hand free. She yanked at the rope until it dangled loosely around her chest and she was able to reach one arm around and rip the rag out of her mouth—the stinking rag! She took in hugh gulps of air, then tore away the rope, spasms racing down her arms.
She was scrambling upright when she heard the thud of footsteps outside.
“Get a grip on yourself.” It was He-Dog, the confident voice, sharp with anger. “We got work to finish.”
Vicky tugged at the rope still around her legs, then started rolling—propelling herself—across the shed to where they’d left her. Then she remembered she’d left the gag by the shelving.
“But Orlando . . .” The high, whiny voice of the man with the limp.
“Shut up!” Something blocked the light around the door, and the shed plunged into blackness.
She scooted back to the frame and threw herself facedown, hands scrambling over the dirt trying to find the gag.
“He said he was the messiah,” the whiny voice went on. “He said nobody was gonna die in the new world . . .”
“I said, shut up, you fool!”
Her hand clamped over the soggy cloth. She jammed it into her mouth and started scooting sideways, pushing herself with her hands.
“We gotta keep going. Do just like we promised, so the new world can come.” The door burst open, orange-tinged light flooding into the shed. Vicky slid downward and tried to make herself small, part of the shadows.
“He’s waiting for us.” The boots stomped past her, as if the men had forgotten about her. “He’s bringing the ancestors.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Get the box. The trucks are coming up.” Then, in a softer tone, “You heard what the messiah said. We gotta go on.”
The men crossed back to the door as He-Dog kicked it wide open, then stepped aside and waited for the other man to haul the box outside. There was the low rumble of a truck engine cutting back.
Vicky shut her eyes; she could feel He-Dog’s gaze burning into her. Then, the boots clumped out the door, and her eyes snapped open. She could see the men pushing the box into the bed of a truck, then slamming the tailgate. Someone stood by the door, the end of a cigarette glowing red in the orange light.
“Take care of the woman,” He-Dog said.
“You hit her pretty hard.” The high-pitched whine again. “She’s dead.”
He-Dog walked alongside the truck and lifted a gun out of the rack at the rear window. He handed the gun to the other Indian. “Make sure. We gotta get to the dam before somebody comes looking for her. We can’t take any chances.” He nodded toward the shed. “Do like I say.”
And then the man with the limp stood in the doorway, blocking the light. Vicky could hear the engines revving up behind him, the tires spinning against the earth as the black barrels of the rifle turned toward her.
In the half-light of the moon breaking through the clouds, the trees on the uphill slope looked like a wilderness of spirits. Another mile, Father John guessed, before he reached the guardhouse. He’d turned off the headlights a mile or so back, and the two-track disappeared ahead in the grayness.
As he came around a curve, he saw the glow of light through the trees. He slowed down and inched forward until he spotted the narrow clearing. He jerked the wheel right, drove into the trees, and stopped a few inches behind a bumper that glinted in the dim light. Vicky’s Bronco. She’d done exactly what he planned to do: avoid the guardhouse and hike over the ridge.
He found the flashlight under the seat, got out, and shone the light into the Bronco. It was stamped with her absence. The pines around the vehicle glowed in the light beam. He switched off the flashlight and gave himself a moment for his eyes to adjust in the moonlight that filtered through the branches. Gradually the darkness seemed to lift, and he walked back to the pickup.
A gunshot reverberated overhead. The retort rolled through the trees and echoed off the mountainside.
Father John dropped down alongside the pickup and waited for the next shot. A guard on top must have spotted him. Except for the wind in the trees and the sound of his own heart, an immense silence closed around him.
He waited. Only one shot. He tried to think logically. The sound had been close, yet muffled, which meant it hadn’t come from on top. It must have come from the valley on the other side. From the village. Where Vicky was.
Dear God, he prayed, the only prayer he could manage. Dear God, Dear God.
He plunged into the trees, dismissing the idea of checking the toolbox in the back of the pickup for a wrench or screwdriver. There were no weapons to match a rifle.
He’d gone about thirty feet when he spotted the clearing, moonlight running like a river between the trees and the upward thrust of the ridge.
He stopped at the edge. To the left was the guardhouse, a black shadow straddling the earth a dim light inside. Something was different, he could sense it. No sign of movement. The guardhouse was deserted.
Father John stayed in the trees, trying to decide what to do. He could work his way to the guardhouse, then take the main road into the village—the shorter route. But the guard might have just stepped away for a moment, gone to check on the rifle shot. And he ran the risk of meeting other guards on the road.
He was about to cross the clearing when headlights flashed across the guardhouse. A truck roared past and turned onto the two-track. Another truck squealed out behind. Through the trees, Father John could see the headlights streaming in the direction of the reservation.
He stared after the trucks for a couple seconds, trying to grasp the logic. There was no one in the guardhouse, and the other guards could have just driven off. Something had happened, and whatever it was, it was not good. And Vicky was still at the ranch.
He plunged back into the trees, crashing through the branches that scratched at his face and hands. Then he backed the pickup onto the two-track, rammed the gear into forward, and drove for the guardhouse, headlights blazing ahead. He thumped past the opened gate and started climbing up the switchbacks that he’d taken with the Lakota two days ago.
At the summit, the road narrowed, then started downward. Father John hunched forward, gripping the wheel tight, trying to keep the tires from slipping sideways down the slope on the tight turns. An orange light glowed from the center of the village below. There were no other vehicles in sight, no sign of movement, and the absence of human activity created a void that struck him as more ominous than a phalanx of guards. It was the void at the end of the world.
He bounced across the meadow past the log house and hit the brake. The pickup was still rolling forward when he grabbed the flashlight, jumped out, and ran toward the village. Bonfires were scattered about the arena, casting orange and red shadows over the white tipis.
He was thirty feet away when he saw the large white mounds, like mounds of snow, among the bonfires. He stopped. He was breathing hard, his heart was thumpi
ng. The reality came to him in fragments, small enough to absorb one at a time, until he understood. The crumpled bodies in white, the naked arms and legs, the hands splayed in the dirt, the bare feet and stray moccasins flung about. Gray smoke that smelled like charred cottonwood hung over the arena. He had a sense that he’d stepped into the past, and the heaps of bodies lying around the bonfires, locked in the silence of death, were Chief Big Foot’s followers. That the massacre at Wounded Knee was still taking place.
He made himself go to the nearest body—a young woman. He dropped down on both knees beside her, grabbing for her wrist and probing for a pulse. Where was the pulse? Her eyes were closed, as if she’d dropped into a peaceful sleep. It was a couple seconds before he could feel it: the almost imperceptible rhythm of her blood coursing through her veins. He saw the slight movement of her chest. She was breathing! He knew instantly that she was drugged—drugged, but alive—and he felt almost sick with relief.
He got to his feet and went to the next body. A round-faced, pudgy man, his eyelids flickering, his breath slow and quiet. Dropping down again, Father John felt the steady pulse in the thick neck. Then he got to his feet and went to the next dancer and the next, working his way around the arena, some part of his mind keeping count: five, six, seven. A total of twenty-six dancers, drugged and unconscious. Alive, thank God, alive.
He looked around. Vicky had to be here somewhere. In the house, the sheds. He’d started across the arena when he saw the flap thrown back on Orlando’s tipi and candles inside flickering over the canvas walls. He ran over and stooped inside. Across from the opening, Orlando lay on a buffalo robe spread over three hay bales. He was dressed in white buckskin, arms crossed over his chest, bare feet emerging from the trousers, black hair spread out like a fan. Three small candles at his head gave off a yellowish light and the faint smell of wax and sulfur.
Father John walked over and lay one hand on the cool, soft wrist, trying to detect some sign of life. The flesh was inert, the man’s chest was still. “May God forgive you,” he said.
Then, with a sickening clarity, he realized the man had been laid out. He must have died earlier, and then what? Had the dancers wanted to follow him into the afterworld? It must have been part of a plan. The dancers were supposed to die, like Orlando. The guards had probably distributed whatever drugs they’d taken, but something had gone wrong and the drugs hadn’t worked the way Orlando had intended. But the guards had already sped off.
And Vicky could be with them.
He wanted to believe, but a part of him knew that if they’d found her here, they would never have allowed her to live. The sound of the rifle shot screamed through his mind. They’d shot her. Left her somewhere in the village. In one of the tipis, in the ranch house or the barn or the sheds. He would search every inch of the shadow ranch until he found her.
He lurched through the opening and started toward the other tipis. The breeze was hot and smoky, reeking of death.
On the far side of the arena, beyond the prone figures of the dancers and the bonfires, almost imperceptible but present nonetheless: a moving shadow. He ran toward it, then stopped. Vicky emerged from between two tipis, face blanched, eyes wide in shock.
30
She walked into the arena as if she hadn’t seen him, arms extended, gaze darting around the drugged dancers. The bonfires glowed orange and red on her face.
“Vicky!” Father John shouted, but she kept walking. He shouted her name again, then grabbed her by the shoulders, stopping her in place. He turned her toward him, aware of the warmth of her, the reality of her, in his hands. “Are you all right?”
She tilted her head back and blinked up at him, as if she were trying to bring into focus some specter that had materialized in front of her. He felt her trembling beneath his hands.
“Orlando killed them!” Vicky strained toward the white mounds.
“They’re unconscious, Vicky,” he said. “We have to get help. They’ve been drugged.”
“Drugged!” She let out a little cry and cupped one hand over her mouth. Then she said, “My God, John. It’s started. They’ve gone into the shadow world to welcome the ancestors. The new world is coming. The Lakotas are going to blow up Bull Lake Dam.”
He could read the truth in her eyes, as if fragments had arranged themselves into a coherent whole that he could finally grasp. Before the new world could come, the old world had to be washed away. The Lakotas had stolen the dynamite for Orlando. Bull Lake Dam! The water would crash down over the reservation. Ethete, Arapaho, Riverton—St. Francis Mission.
“We have to get to a phone,” he said, taking her arm and guiding her through the tipis toward the pickup.
Father John drove down the two-track and onto the graveled road, taking the bends on two tires, Vicky tapping at the buttons on his cell phone. “No service,” she screamed.
They were careening toward Fort Washakie when the sound of sirens rose like a wall of granite down the road, then the red, blue, and yellow lights flashed into the night. Father John pulled onto the shoulder as three BIA police cars sped by.
“They’re on the way to the ranch.” He could hear the feeling of relief in his voice.
“How . . . ?” Vicky turned toward him. She was gripping the phone in one hand. A residue of yellow light washed over her.
“Aunt Rose called them,” he said, pulling the pickup back onto the road.
She started tapping the buttons again. “It’s working,” she cried. Then, into the phone: “Vicky Holden.” She was shouting. “Get medical help to the shadow ranch. The dancers are unconscious. They’ve been drugged.” She hesitated, then plunged on. “They took Valium and Vicodin. I saw the empty prescription bottles. And now, two Lakotas are on the way to Bull Lake to blow up the dam. That’s right. They have dynamite.”
Vicky was quiet a moment, then she clicked off the phone. “There’s an officer on patrol in the area. He’s on his way.”
Dear God, Father John thought, let the officer get there in time.
Father John slowed through Fort Washakie and turned north. Highway 287 lengthened into the darkness beyond the headlights. There were no other vehicles. He jammed down on the accelerator. Black shadows of trees raced by outside his window.
“Orlando has everything planned,” Vicky said. “He wants to make sure his prophecy comes true. He’s going to destroy the reservation.”
“Orlando’s dead, Vicky.” Father John glanced over. She was staring at him, pinpricks of light flashing in her eyes.
“I don’t understand. He was waiting for the new world. Why did he die and not the . . .” She halted, as if another thought had intercepted the one she’d been following. “The prescriptions were his,” she said. “He must have built up a tolerance, so he took more pills than the dancers. He must have taken an overdose.”
Possible, Father John thought. The man was sick. He’d probably been using the drugs for some time. He could have taken a lot to make sure they worked.
Father John eased up on the accelerator and guided the pickup around a bend. The road cut through a shadowy landscape of treeless bluffs, the flat surfaces soaking up the moonlight. He was acutely aware of Vicky beside him, her profile outlined in the moonlight.
He looked at her. She was alive; thank God, she was alive. “I was afraid they’d killed you,” he said. “What happened?”
She began slowly, then hurried along, the story spilling out: the climb up the ridge, the house, the guards, the dynamite box, the shed. He could feel his muscles tense as she talked. They’d knocked her unconscious in the shed; she could have been killed.
“They came back for the dynamite.” Her eyes were still on him. “After everything got quiet, they came back. They took the box outside, and I heard He-Dog say, ‘Shoot the bitch.’ Crow Elk came back into the shed.” Hysteria had begun to seep into her voice.
He reached over and took her hand. “You’re okay, Vicky. You’re safe.”
She gripped his hand in both of
hers. “He was pointing the rifle at me, John. I could see down the barrel. It was a long, black tunnel. It was very still. And then I saw the fear in his eyes. He was looking at something he’d never seen before and it was horrible, and that’s when I knew he couldn’t do it. He jerked the rifle up and everything exploded around me, and he ran out. I heard the trucks drive off.”
Father John was quiet for a long time, watching the road ahead, unable to imagine a world in which she did not exist. He tried to follow what she was saying: how Orlando must have sent the Lakotas to the Arapaho Ranch to steal the dynamite. There would be dynamite on the ranch to clear out stumps, build roads, create waterholes; Orlando would have known that.
“Ben could have called Gianelli,” Father John said.
“Admit somebody had stolen dynamite from him? You didn’t know Ben.”
“I knew him.” Recovering alcoholic. Determined to get everything back that belonged to him, including Vicky.
“He went after the Lakotas himself.” Vicky paused. “I don’t understand how he knew they’d gone to the shadow ranch.”
“Dean Little Horse,” Father John said. “He was there for three days, trying to get Janis to leave. He must have seen the dynamite, and . . .” A new idea shoved its way into his mind. “He wrote the operating software for the gate at Bull Lake Dam. He must have guessed what Orlando had in mind. If Orlando blew up the dam, he would cause the flood he’d been prophecizing. Dean left the ranch on Sunday, went to his office, and e-mailed Ben Holden.”
Neither spoke for a few moments, then Vicky said, “They were alike, Dean and Ben. Dean had his own reason for not going to Gianelli. He was probably trying to protect the girl. He didn’t want the fed to go to the ranch, not with Janis still one of Orlando’s followers.”
The Shadow Dancer (A Wind River Reservation Myste) Page 21