She was quiet for so long that, for a second, he thought she’d hung up. Finally, she said, “I thought maybe it was gonna be some guy named Dennis, okay? But I got things mixed up, so I was wrong. There’s nothing to it. Forget it, okay?”
“Dennis who?”
“Jesus, Father. Whyd’ya keep . . .”
“What’s the last name?” He was beginning to lose patience.
“Light, or something.” She paused. “Light Stone. Some Oklahoma Rap that deals at the casino.”
Deals at the casino. Pieces of a picture were beginning to come together in his mind. The girl’s aunt had said that Tommy worked for Captain Monroe—one of Monroe’s so-called rangers—and yesterday, in the Gazette, there was the article about the three Arapahos arrested for trespassing and disturbing the peace at the casino. The Arapahos worked for Monroe.
He said, “What’s going on, Lela? What happened to make you think Tommy killed Dennis Light Stone?”
“He didn’t kill him!” Father John heard the defiance shooting through her voice—something new, a rocket fueled by fear. “Nothing went down. Just leave me and Tommy alone.” The connection cut off, leaving a buzzing noise that bore into his ear.
He hung up the receiver, walked around, and dropped into his chair, a new scenario playing out in his mind. Light Stone was Arapaho—Rap, Lela called him. A dealer at the casino. He represented everything Monroe had been railing against for months: an Indian ripping off other Indians. Suppose Monroe sent Tommy and the other rangers to harass the man, force him to leave his job, and Light Stone had refused. Then what happened? Had Monroe ordered Tommy to kill the man as an example to other Arapahos working at the casino?
Suppose further—a new idea taking shape now, making his blood run cold—suppose that Tommy had shot the wrong man.
Which meant Dennis Light Stone, if he was still alive, was also in serious danger.
Father John picked up the receiver and dialed the number for the FBI office in Lander. An answering machine picked up, and he left a message for Ted Gianelli to call him, then hung up. He stared at the phone a moment. He had no idea who Dennis Light Stone was, except that he was Arapaho and he worked at the casino.
He picked up the phone and dialed the senior center. This time, someone answered, probably the woman who was setting up the coffee. He left a message for the elders that he’d stop by tomorrow. An emergency, he said. Then he headed back out the door.
He had a new destination now. He had to find Dennis Light Stone and warn the man.
10
FATHER JOHN WAS in a line of RVs inching along 287 toward Great Plains Casino, the afternoon heat lifting off the asphalt and engulfing the pickup in smells of hot oil and tar. On the billboard ahead, the figure of an Indian warrior in an eagle-feathered headdress flashed in red and blue neon lights. White dice with black numbers rolled down one side.
The RV ahead took the turnoff into the casino driveway. It was then he saw the demonstrators lining the highway: a half dozen men dressed in camouflage, with thick, black belts and laced-up boots. They looked about eighteen, anger cut into their stances. They might have walked away from boot camp, he thought, except for the signs they thrust toward the passing vehicles: Gambling Kills People. Say No to Casino. Stay Away.
So these were the demonstrators he’d read about in the Gazette, led by a white man who called himself “Captain” Jack Monroe and preached against the evils of gambling: addictions, broken families, corruption, crime.
Father John followed the RV past the demonstrators and down the driveway lined with rope-tied stick trees, the skeletal branches waving in the breeze. The RV turned left, and he turned right and drove through the parking lot until he spotted an empty space. He walked back to the entrance, past the small cubicle with “Valet Parking” above the opened door and two Arapaho men slumped in the shade inside.
“Hey, Father,” one shouted. “What’re you doin’ here?”
“Came to see a friend.” He waved at the cubicle.
“Sure, Father.” The voice trailed after him. “Good luck.”
The automated glass doors parted, and he crossed the carpeted lobby that curved away toward the hotel. A wall of noise rose in front of him: coins clanking and ringing. He was facing a field of slot machines with people hunched on stools, pushing buttons and pulling levers. A couple of amber lights blinked from the top of metal poles. He recognized three parishioners down one row: Abby Huntinggirl, Bob Shoemaker, Jolene Thunder—eyes glued to the screens, fingers jabbing the buttons, as if the machines were extensions of their arms.
He looked down the next row and the next—four, five, six other parishioners. A couple had been at the Gamblers Anonymous meeting last week.
He pushed through the group of tourists flowing around him and made for the side wall, not wanting to see any more parishioners plugging hard-earned dollars into machines. Another amber light started flashing; the wail of a siren burned through the noise.
“Can I help you?”
A dark-haired woman, with bright red lipstick and thick black eyelashes, pushed a change cart in front of him. She was dressed in black shorts and a black blouse, buttoned low enough that he could see the cleft of her breasts.
“Need some change?” She gave him a hopeful smile, and for a half-second, he had the feeling she might welcome any advances he wanted to make.
“I’m looking for somebody,” he said.
“Oh?” She tilted her chin and stared up at him out of suddenly wide eyes.
“Dennis Light Stone.”
“Blackjack tables, but haven’t seen him for a while.” She tossed her head toward the rear.
He thanked her and made his way around the cart and down the rows of slot machines. He spotted the blackjack tables: small and curved, with seven seats on one side, the dealers on the other. He headed over. At the nearest table, a woman with hair wound into a white-blonde braid that curled at the nape of her neck and long, red fingernails was dealing the cards to two players. He was struck by the almost religious ritual of the motions in the way that she laid the cards and stacked the chips.
After a moment, the players slid off the stools and, shaking their heads, started toward the craps tables. The woman began shuffling again, the red nails snapping the cards. “Care to try your luck?” She gave him a sideways glance.
“Don’t have any.” He stepped closer to the table.
“Everybody has luck.” She stared frankly at him. “I know you. You’re the good-looking mission priest.”
He said she’d gotten part of it right. He was the mission priest. “You must be from around here.”
“Riverton. A gambling priest.” She smiled, as if that was an original idea.
“We’re all too human.”
She was still smiling. “What other vices do you have?”
“You think gambling’s a vice?”
She laughed out loud and glanced beyond him. He followed her gaze. An archway opened along the side wall below a red-neon arrow and the word Poker. But it was the slim, youngish man with gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses standing next to the archway who’d caught her attention.
Father John turned back. “Where can I find Dennis Light Stone?”
“Look, Father.” She seemed nervous now, shuffling the cards faster. “We’re not supposed to fraternize. Maybe you ought to play a hand just to keep me out of trouble. I’d like to keep my job.” She gave a little laugh and threw another glance toward the archway. “Casino’s the best thing ever happened to these parts. I’m making a decent living for me and my kids.”
He moved to the wide curve of the table and perched on the stool in the center. He hadn’t played blackjack since the casino nights at the prep school where he’d taught American history. It had taken a year of casino nights—third Saturday of the month—to raise enough money for the new gym.
“What do I need?” He pulled a five-dollar bill out of the pocket of his blue jeans.
“I can see you’re a hi
gh roller.” She took the bill and set a red chip in front of him, then dealt them each two cards. Both of his cards were faceup: sixteen points. Only one of her cards was up: a jack.
He brushed his cards in his direction to indicate that he wanted another card.
She held his eyes a moment. “You sure you want a hit?”
He nodded. She dealt him a five of clubs. Twenty-one.
She turned over her other card. Two of spades. She dealt herself a ten of hearts, then swept the played cards into the discard pile. “Not bad for an unlucky man,” she said, setting a red chip next to the one he’d bet. “Wanna go again?”
“Why not?” he said. “Tell me where Dennis is.”
She dealt another round. “Hasn’t been in for a while.”
“What do you mean?” He had nine points. The dealer had a seven of clubs showing. He brushed the cards.
“Just hasn’t been around.” She dealt him a three of hearts. “You know Indians. Maybe they show up sometimes, maybe they don’t.”
“Has Dennis ever not shown up before?” Another brush.
“Not that I know of.” She dealt him another card. Twenty points now. He moved the two red chips to the edge of the cards, and she dealt herself a nine of hearts, then a six of spades, for a total of twenty-two.
“I’d say you’re very lucky, Father O’Malley.” She swept the cards into the discard pile and set two more red chips in front of him. Then, tilting her head toward the archway, she said, “You might want to check with the boss over there.”
Father John picked up the chips. He’d started with five dollars, now he had twenty, and with the weight of the chips in his hand came a familiar surge of expectation. He was winning! He could win more, all he had to do was set down the chips and say, “Why not another game?” and the world would shift in his direction. All he had to do was pour another three fingers of whiskey and he would be in control, and the loneliness would disappear.
Dear Lord. He felt as if the wind was bearing down on him, pushing him onward. He backed away from the table.
“Come back sometime.” The dealer flashed him a smile and started reshuffling the cards. A couple of white women in pink slacks and flowered shirts were sliding onto the stools.
Father John worked his way around the tables to the archway and stopped in front of the man planted against the wall. “Neil Barrenger,” the man said. “How can I help you?”
The firmness of his handshake surprised Father John. The man was medium height with a slight frame and stooped shoulders. He wore wire-rimmed glasses that made his gray eyes seem oversized, like the eyes of a small fish in a tank. There was a little strip of white skin where his hair had pulled back from his forehead.
Father John gave his name and said he was from St. Francis Mission. He was looking for Dennis Light Stone.
The man’s thin eyebrows cocked into pyramids. “Dennis? He’s been out sick last four days. Must’ve picked up the flu.”
“Where can I find him?”
“Sorry, Father.” The man pulled in his bottom lip, as if he meant it. “Can’t give out information on our employees to anyone, not even to a priest.”
“Can you give him a message? Ask him to call me at the mission.”
The man seemed to consider this a moment. “What’s this about?”
“Dennis Light Stone could be in danger.”
“Danger! You mean from the demonstrators?”
Father John nodded.
“Don’t worry, Father.” Barrenger took hold of his arm. His grip was like a vise, as if all the man’s strength were concentrated in his fingers. “We have the matter under control. Monroe and his demonstrators aren’t going to bother folks around here much longer.”
Father John thanked the man and headed back across the casino, wishing he felt more assured. He was in the lobby when he felt another hand on his arm—a light touch, tentative. He turned around. A dark-haired woman with black, slanted eyes and little hollow spaces below her cheeks stood in front of him. She was Indian, but not Arapaho. Lakota, maybe, or Crow. She tossed her head toward the rear of the casino, “Sheila said you’re looking for Dennis, and I seen you talking to Barrenger.”
He said that was right. Did she know where he could find Dennis?
She shook her head so hard that her shoulders were trembling. “He hasn’t been comin’ to work. I’ve been . . .” She hesitated. “I mean his friends have been worried.”
“Did you call him at home?”
A startled look came into her eyes. “It’s not my place. I mean, what would she think . . .”
“He’s married?”
“Yeah, Her name’s Theresa. Dennis said don’t ever call him at home. Maybe you could go to his house and check . . .” Another pause. “Those bastards out there,” she raised one hand toward the highway, “they been bothering Dennis, stopping him in the parking lot, threatening him.”
“Did he report it to the police?”
She looked at him with wide-eyed incredulity. “You don’t know Dennis. He told ’em to go to hell, they weren’t gonna run him out of the casino. But . . .” She looked back at the demonstrators. “The casino got a restraining order or something to keep ’em out of the parking lot. I’m still worried, with Dennis not showing up for work. What did Barrenger say?”
“Dennis called in sick.”
The woman stared at him in disbelief. “That’s a lie.” It came like a scream for help. “Dennis told me he’s never been sick a day in his life.”
“Any idea where he lives?”
“Lander, someplace. Theresa works over at the Rendezvous Motel. Maybe you can look for her there. You could ask her where Dennis is, and she wouldn’t get suspicious. Please, Father, if you find out anything, please tell me.”
He left the woman standing in the lobby, a forlorn look about her, as if Dennis Light Stone had evaporated into the atmosphere and she had no expectations of ever seeing him again.
Father John pulled his hat down against the sun that was blazing over the mountains and headed back to the parking lot. The sky was on fire, with red, orange, and violet flames streaking overhead. The discomfort curled into a knot in his stomach. Dennis hadn’t been at work in four days, and the man’s boss had no idea where he was. Why else had Barrenger lied?
Four days. Three days ago, Lela Running Bull had stumbled upon Rodney Pearson’s body at Double Dives and had thought it was Dennis Light Stone.
The pickup was like a firebox. He got behind the steering wheel and cranked open the windows before backing out of the space. Then he drove back through the lot, his thoughts still on Dennis. The man could be hiding from Monroe’s gang. But if he was in hiding, then he already knew that someone wanted him dead. Maybe he’d been warned, or maybe he’d just figured it out, or maybe . . .
Father John tried to shove the thought away. Maybe Dennis Light Stone was already dead.
11
THE BLACK-AND-white images flickered into the darkened room. Vicky watched herself on the screen coming out of the casino and walking along the sidewalk. Waiting for a sedan to pass now, crossing the driveway, heading into the southern parking lot.
Now she had a bird’s-eye view of the expanse of the lot from a camera atop a pole somewhere, and she was the small figure hurrying down the rows of parked cars. At the far end of the lot, two other figures got into an SUV, which backed out of the parking slot and lurched off the screen.
“Here we go,” Neil Barrenger said into the silence.
Vicky shifted forward in the leather chair, her eyes fastened to the screen. The faraway image telescoped into a closer frame of four Indians around her Cherokee: two seated on the hood, two lounging against the door, all looking in the same direction.
Watching her! She saw herself walk into the frame and stop abruptly, her senses snapping into alert. Then she started out again, shoulders back, steps deliberate.
“Notice the tactics,” Barrenger said. His voice was calm and matter-of-fact, as if he were
analyzing an annual report.
Vicky struggled against the impulse to jump up and walk out of the stuffy room. She had no desire to relive the encounter about to take place on the screen.
Barrenger said, “Look at the way a couple of them get right in your face then circle in back in case you try to get away. That’s how they’ve been intimidating our people. Accosting them in the lot. Warning them to stop working at the casino. Check out how the other two step in front of you.”
The man’s arm thrust past her and clicked the remote in his hand. The image froze on the screen. He clicked again and brought in a close-up of the man on her right.
“Do you know him?”
“I didn’t recognize any of them,” Vicky said. Then she explained that she’d spent a lot of years in Denver. She didn’t know all the kids who’d grown up while she was away.
“You were scared out there. You can see it in your expression.” Barrenger clicked again until her face filled up the screen. Underneath the impassive mask that she remembered plastering on was the animal look of fear, the kind that could draw wolves and ravens.
“People get scared and everything starts to blur.” The man sounded as if he were speaking from experience, and she wondered whether he had ever been frightened. “When it’s all over, if they’re still alive, they start remembering. That’s why police bring victims in to look at photos and lineups. Jogs their memory. They say, oh, yeah, that was the guy, but you ask beforehand what the guy looked like, they couldn’t tell you. It’s afterwards people start putting it together.”
The image on the screen shifted back to the young man on her right. “Take your time. Sure you don’t recognize him?”
“I’m afraid this is a waste of time.” Vicky started to get to her feet. She felt the operation chief’s fingers tapping lightly on her shoulder, nudging her back into the chair.
“Hold on. Here’s the main troublemaker.” The image focused on the man leaning toward her, shoulders forward, brown, sinewy arms dangling out of the jagged armholes of his camouflage shirt. The tattoo of a black bird crawled up his right biceps.
Killing Raven (A Wind River Reservation Myste) Page 8