“Drop the rifle and raise your hands.”
She’d watched Father John lay the rifle on the ground and lift his arms before putting her own hands into the air. The officers were swarming around He-Dog and Crow Elk.
“Father John!” An officer stepped past the others and shone a flashlight toward them. The light had blinded her a moment.
“You wanna tell me what the hell went on around here?” He threw a glance back at the officers handcuffing the two Indians, then holstered his own gun.
Vicky remembered sinking down into the willows, grasping at the stalks for balance, and all the while, John’s voice above her, explaining, explaining. After a while—time had lost meaning—she realized that Gianelli’s white Blazer and a line of Fremont County sheriff’s cars were parked near the spillway. The explanations had started again and—odd, when she thought about it now—she’d been riveted by the way Gianelli’s thick fingers had maneuvered a pen across a tiny pad in his fleshy palm.
At some point, John O’Malley had leaned over, taken her arm, and guided her to her feet. One of the sheriff’s deputies would retrieve her Bronco and bring it to Lander tomorrow, he’d told her. He was going to take her home.
Now John O’Malley’s voice floated through the quiet. Was she all right? He must have asked before, because he wanted to know if she was sure. In the dim light of the dashboard, she could see the concern in the set of his shoulders, the tight curve of his hand on the wheel. She assured him that she was fine.
“It takes a while for shock to wear off.” He reached over and touched her hand, keeping his eyes on the road.
“I would have killed them,” she said after a moment.
“But you didn’t.”
The small space, the close air, the priest a few inches away: she felt as if she were in the confessional. “You don’t understand. I wanted to kill them for what they’d done to Ben.”
He didn’t respond. The trees passing her window stood out in relief against the pale early-morning light. She was thinking that he wouldn’t want anything more to do with her, now that he’d seen the shadows of her life.
“There will be a reckoning, Vicky,” he said finally. “He-Dog and Crow Elk will be looking at charges of murder, and Gianelli will probably come up with a lot of other charges. They’ll spend the rest of their lives in prison.”
“What about the guards in the other truck?” None of the officers had mentioned the other truck.
“They’ll find them. Every officer in the county’s looking for them. They’ll be held accountable.”
“And Orlando? What about his accountability? He escaped. He’s dead.”
“He’ll answer to God.”
Vicky turned to the window and combed her fingers through her hair. Outside the pines were changing from black to dark green. John O’Malley was a priest. He believed in justice, if not in this world, then in the next. A powerful reason to believe in an afterlife, she thought, since there was seldom justice here. She found herself straining to believe along with him. Justice had to exist somewhere.
The pickup took the curve into the northern reaches of Lander. The street lamps along the curbs looked yellow and faded in the early light. There was a sense of unreality to the brick bungalows, the parked cars, the store fronts that reflected the glow of headlights as they passed. Other headlights blinked in the opposite direction, then turned at an intersection, leaving them moving alone through a shadow world.
They turned into a parking space in front of her building and stopped at the double glass doors. She could see the lobby, dimly lit and one-dimensional, like a photo.
She struggled to hide the tremor that pulsed through her. It was over, she told herself. Ben’s killers were in custody. The guards in the truck would be arrested. Orlando was dead. Over. The tremor remained, as if her body refused to accept the reality.
John got out and walked around the front. She could see that his shirt was caked with mud, and dried mud clung to his jeans.
Her door opened. “I’ll walk you in.”
She slid out beside him and started up the walk, her legs wobbly beneath her. He reached past and opened the glass door. They took the stairs to the second floor in silence.
In silence, down the corridor past the closed doors with brass numbers high in the center, 4B, 3B, 2B.
Vicky stopped in front of 1B and fumbled in her jeans pocket for the slim key. “I can put on some coffee,” she said, but she knew, even before he began shaking his head, that he would decline.
“It’s almost morning. I have to take the six o’clock Mass.”
She turned toward him. “You came after me. Thank you.”
“Aunt Rose was worried about you.” He paused. “So was I.”
Auntie, she thought. The old woman had probably been awake all night, pacing the floor, worrying about her. She had to call Aunt Rose right away.
Vicky was about to thank him again when he placed both arms around her and drew her to him. She allowed herself to relax in his strength a moment and to savor the feeling of being at home.
“It’ll take time to get over Ben’s death, Vicky,” he said, releasing her. She felt suddenly adrift again, on her own.
“If you ever want to talk, you know where I’ll be,” he was saying. In any case”—trying for a smile now that she sensed was hard and off the mark somehow—“I’ll be here for a while.”
She understood. John O’Malley was only at St. Francis Mission for a while.
Vicky watched him walk back down the corridor and disappear behind the door to the stairs. Then she inserted the key in the lock and grasped the knob. It didn’t move. She jiggled the key again. This time the knob turned, and she realized that she’d locked the door on the first try, which meant it had been unlocked. Curious, she thought, as she stepped into the living room and closed the door behind her. She always locked her door in town.
The apartment was still. The shadows of the furniture—sofa, chairs, desk, bookcases—stood out against the dim light glowing through the windows.
A musky odor, like the odor of a wild animal, hit her. And something else—the faintest noise of a breath stifled in mid-gasp. For a moment, she didn’t move. Then she stepped to the table lamp and turned on the switch.
The lamp burst into life and the shadows retreated to the edges of the room. On her left, in front of the bookcase, stood a small, pretty girl, with darting black eyes and black hair that hung in tangled ropes over the shoulders of her white gown. A red crescent moon leaped out from the bright blue stripe painted on the front. The skirt was splashed with mud. In an instant, Vicky knew that it was Janis Beaver, aiming a rifle at her heart.
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“Get ready to die, bitch.”
The girl raised the barrel until Vicky could see the notches of the rifling. The picture came to her with great clarity now, as if the scene were playing out in front of her. It was Janis who had driven the truck up to the ridge on the other side of the creek. Janis who had guarded the dam while the two men set the dynamite. Janis—my God, it must have been the girl—who had shot the officer.
“Why didn’t you shoot me at the dam?” Vicky felt completely focused and calm. Survival was all that mattered. Everything else faded into the shadows at the periphery of the room. She had to keep the girl talking and watch for the chance to distract her.
“Why, Janis?” she pushed on. “You must’ve had a clear shot.”
Confusion. Regret. A mixture of emotions came into the narrow, finely formed face. “You think I didn’t wanna kill you and that priest, after I seen what you did to He-Dog and Crow Elk? Everything was ready; the new world would’ve been here by now. We was almost to the top of the ridge, and the dam was supposed to blow. But nothing happened. So He-Dog says, something must’ve went wrong, and he and Crow Elk drove back down. Good thing I decided to go down there after them, else I wouldn’t’ve seen what happened. But I seen how you and that nosy priest ruined everything. I heard the sirens coming and g
ot out of there.”
She stopped a moment. A look of wonder came into her eyes. “All them cop cars racing up to Bull Lake,” she said, “and they never seen me pulled over in the trees. After they went by, I drove back to the rez, and all the way, I said to myself, they’re gonna pay. The ex-wife of Ben Holden and that priest, they’re both gotta pay.”
“How did you know where I live?” Vicky tossed out the question. Talk. Talk. A moment’s distraction was all she needed. She kept her eyes on the girl, but her gaze was taking in everything in the space between them: the sofa, the little table with the brass lamp, the light glowing through the white shade. There was no weapon, nothing she might grab and fling.
“Know where you live?” Janis repeated. “It didn’t take a law degree. Your auntie, she talks about you all the time. She must’ve told me two, three times about your new apartment. I seen your name on the mailboxes downstairs.”
“I locked my door this morning.”
“No kidding.” The girl was enjoying this, playing with her.
“Don’t need a law degree for that either,” Janis said. “Just some wire and a plastic card I found in the glove compartment. Worked just fine.”
“You’re very clever.”
This seemed to please the girl. She gave a smile of acknowledgment, then lifted the rifle a couple inches, her finger curled around the trigger. From somewhere outside came the sound of an engine turning over, and Vicky realized John O’Malley was pulling out of the parking space. She was alone. Hi sei ci nihi. She would die here, alone. Just as Ben had died out on Rendezvous Road alone.
“Ready to join your ex?” Janis rolled her head and emitted an eerie sound, somewhere between a laugh and a wail. “Oh, he was something else, your ex. ‘Need some help, ma’am?’ A real gentleman. Never even seen the pistol. Never knew what hit him.”
Vicky felt her muscles seize and turn to stone. Her breath came in a sob. She’d gotten it all wrong. It wasn’t the Lakotas who had followed Ben to Rendezvous Road. It was Janis Beaver.
She was alone with Ben’s killer.
Her mouth was dry. Her tongue felt swollen. She stumbled with the words: “Why, Janis? Why did Orlando leave the killing to you? First Dean, right? Then, Ben.” It was making sense. Janis was the one who had taken the twenty-two from Aunt Rose’s house. She had used the gun to kill both Dean and Ben. “Why did you have to do the dirty work? Wasn’t Orlando man enough?”
Janis rocked backward, an agitated, defensive motion. “Dean wouldn’t listen. Kept trying to get me to come with him. Said all kinds of lies about Orlando. How he was a phony. The messiah, a phony! I covered my ears. Don’t tell me filth, I said. But he kept saying phony, phony, phony. Then he went snooping around the ranch and came back to the tipi shouting how the crazy guards must’ve stolen dynamite from the Arapaho Ranch and what the hell did they think they was gonna do? He guessed everything. He heard what Orlando said about the old world getting cleaned, and he knew all about the dam. He was going to stop the great event.”
The rifle tilted toward the floor, almost as if the girl had forgotten about it. Vicky reached for the lamp, all of her energy focused on the switch. She had to turn off the light.
“Stop!” The rifle jerked upward. The girl seemed to muster her forces, remembering her intention. “I said, don’t move.”
Vicky stood very still, one hand still outstretched. She was barely aware of the soft orange light creeping through the window. It would be daylight soon. People would be up and about. Doors slamming, footsteps pounding down the corridor, car engines turning over outside, all the ordinary sounds of life that might distract the girl. She had to keep her talking!
“I think you’re lying,” Vicky said. “Dean was shot in the mountains west of Fort Washakie, miles from the shadow ranch.”
The girl’s chest started to quiver, and a low rumbling noise, like a stifled laugh, came out of her throat. “Orlando said, if you love me, you gotta take care of the problem. I went to Lander Sunday after Dean left. Found him outside his office. Told him I’d changed my mind; it was just gonna be me and him. Oh, he bought it, all right. We drove up to this real peaceful place. It was a good place for him to die.”
Her body was shaking now, her head bobbing back and forth. “The problem was taken care of, everything was gonna be fine, like Orlando wanted. Then next day Ben Holden shows up and tells He-Dog and Crow Elk to turn over the dynamite, or he was going to the FBI. When he left, Orlando said, ‘You know what to do, Janis, if you love me.’ He knew I loved him. So I followed Holden down to Lander and waited ’til he come outta the restaurant. I followed him to Rendezvous Road. I passed his truck, then stopped. I figured he wouldn’t think anything about stopping for a woman with car trouble. Now you’re gonna die, just like he did.”
Janis raised the rifle and hunched her shoulders over the barrel.
“Janis,” Vicky shouted. “Orlando’s here!”
“He’ll come back with the ancestors.”
“He’s here now, Janis. He’s bringing the ancestors now! Look!” Vicky threw both hands toward the orange glow in the window.
Janis stood very still, some argument playing out behind the black, fixated eyes. Then she rolled her head toward the window.
Vicky lunged for the cord and yanked it out of the socket. The lamp skittered over the table and crashed onto the floor. Except for the orange glow, the room was swallowed in shadows.
“You tricked me!” It was a howling noise, the cry of a trapped animal.
Vicky dropped down next to the sofa and crouched at the end, her heart thudding in her ears. She could hear the girl moving toward her, then she caught a glimpse of the dark figure passing the window.
She inched toward the coffee table and stopped, all of her senses on alert. Janis was heading toward the table. One step, two steps. Vicky held her breath. One more step, and she could maneuver herself behind the girl, throw her weight against her, grab the gun.
The air exploded.
The sound of a gunshot bounced around the walls and furniture. Vicky drew herself in and huddled close to the carpet. She stopped her breath. The rifle fired again and again. A whizzing sound passed over her head, followed by the thuds of bullets breaking plaster and splintering wood. Then another shot, and she felt something sharp, like a knife, slice across her shoulder. She winced with the pain and jabbed her fist into her mouth to stop the scream welling in her throat. Something wet and sticky was trickling down her arm. She could smell her own blood. She pulled herself into a tight stillness. The mountain lion is still—her grandfather’s voice in her head—it waits for its enemy to come.
From far away came the sounds of footsteps hammering and men shouting. A pale morning light had begun to seep across the room. Vicky felt the slight displacement in the air, like the displacement when a bird flaps past, and she realized the girl had moved along the coffee table and was standing a few feet away, aiming the rifle down at her.
“Vicky!” A voice in the corridor, and someone pounding on the door. Janis flinched, and in that nanosecond, Vicky flung herself upright at the girl. Then they were falling together against the hard edge and the leg of the coffee table. Vicky was aware of the rifle skittering across the carpet and the pain that locked her left arm. She jammed her right elbow into Janis Beaver’s chest as they hit the floor together. The girl was coughing and spitting. Vicky felt the sharp nails raking her face.
From behind came the noise of the door slammed back against the wall and someone shouting—John O’Malley’s voice!—“Vicky! Vicky!”
She was aware of people pouring around them. Someone started pulling her upright, away from the screaming girl crawling toward the rifle. And then the rifle was snatched away, and she realized a large man had grabbed the girl, lifted her to her feet, and was pinning her arms to her sides.
And John O’Malley was helping her to her feet.
The ceiling light came on. The coffee table and sofa, the rest of the room swam around her. She g
rabbed a fistful of John O’Malley’s shirt to steady herself. The girl had started screaming obscenities, kicking out at the man trying to hold her, and then she went quiet and limp. Another man had picked up the rifle and stepped back. Others—who were they? neighbors?—burst through the door, shouting: “What’s going on? Anybody hurt?”
She could see the crowd in the corridor—women with disheveled hair and sleepy eyes, robes flung over night-gowns, a man in a white T-shirt and boxer shorts.
Father John was leading her over to a chair. She sank into the cushion, aware of his finger tracing her shoulder. Her blood felt warm and sticky on her arm. “You’ve been hit. Were you hit anywhere else?”
She shook her head. People were filling up the room. Father John made his way through the crowd. Vicky watched him pick up the phone from the floor next to the desk and tap the keys. There had been a shooting, he said into the mouthpiece. Send an ambulance and the police. Over the sound of his voice, she could hear the sirens in the distance.
He disappeared into the kitchen a moment, then he was back, pushing through the crowd that stood in silence, frozen in shock. He dropped down on the armrest and set a cold towel against her shoulder. Her skin went numb; the pain began to subside.
“You came back,” she whispered. “I heard you drive away, but you came back.”
“I spotted a black truck parked down the street,” he said. “I thought I’d better check and make sure you were okay.”
They were quiet a moment. Then Vicky said, “She killed Ben.”
Father John didn’t say anything. The sirens blared from the street below, then cut off. Red, blue, and yellow lights flashed across the window.
Janis was still. She looked like dead weight in the large man’s arms, black hair wet and matted against the narrow face. The sirens cut off, and in another moment the building vibrated with the crash of footsteps in the corridor.
The Shadow Dancer (A Wind River Reservation Myste) Page 23