Something shifted in the atmosphere, as if the air currents had changed direction. She stood very still, her hand suspended over the plastic container. Be aware in all things. She could hear grandfather’s voice. You will sense when the enemy is near. You must be ready.
The refrigerator hummed in the silence. She closed the door—slowly, slowly—and held her breath. There was no sound now, not even that of her own breathing. Nothing but the silence and the sense that something was wrong dropping down on her like an invisible weight.
A second passed. Another. She was barely breathing. From outside came a small noise, no more than a scuff of leaves on the sidewalk. An animal, she told herself, the neighbor’s dog or a stray cat skulking past, but she knew it wasn’t true. Someone was coming up the front sidewalk.
Explanations streamed into her mind like a fountain. Esther had come back to catch up on some work. A neighbor had seen the light and wanted to make certain there was no intruder. Adam was here.
She shoved away the explanations. They defied the truth that she could sense in every part of her being. Someone who meant her harm was outside. Be aware, be aware. You will sense the enemy approaching. Her skin was prickling, her heart knocking. She had the sense of being completely alone. Then let me be strong. She waited, muscles tensed, for the enemy to show himself.
The crash came like a shotgun blast, an explosion of glass followed by a loud thud. Vicky felt the shiver run through the floorboards and, for a moment, she thought a truck had crashed into the front of the house. Over the noise of her heart pounding in her ears, she could hear the glass pane clinking like giant icicles, then dropping onto the floor.
She moved along the counter and opened a drawer, her eyes combing the small space for a weapon. White plastic spoons and knives, bottle caps, a bottle opener and, wedged near the back, a screwdriver. She picked up the screwdriver and, walking silently on the balls of her feet, made her way along the counter and around the corner into her office. She stopped at the opened doors and peered around the jamb into the front office. A hole the size of a hubcap gaped in the plate glass window next to the door. Glass hung like stalactites from the top of the window frame, and tiny shards of glass winked on the polished top of Esther’s desk and littered the floor like ice crystals. Lying in the center of the floor, as inert as a dead animal, was a baseball-sized rock looped in brown twine. A piece of paper was folded into the twine.
Outside, an engine roared into life, gears straining, tires squealing. Vicky walked over to the broken window. Through the shimmering strands of glass, she saw the dark pickup careen around the corner, up and over the curbing, crushing a small bush, almost hitting the lamp pole, then humping back onto the asphalt. In a second, the pickup was lost behind the bungalows that jutted forward, blocking the view of the side street. A plume of black exhaust floated into the yellow circle of light.
The enemy was gone. Vicky felt her heartbeat start to slow. She drew in a long breath and turned back to the rock, her gaze fixed on the brown twine looped over the surface. The ends of the twine flared out, like the shredded ends of a wire, and little brown slivers poked from the loops. Even more than the rock that had crashed through the window and the folded white paper, the twine seemed to embody the evil. She could not touch it.
Leaning over, she tugged the paper free, unfolded it, and read the black, block-like words: Get out of the casino.
She was still staring at the message when she heard the sound of footsteps coming up the sidewalk. The door! God, she’d forgotten to lock the door.
The footsteps were crossing the porch now. She lunged for the door and threw herself against the wooden panels, groping for the lock, but the door was already opening, pushing against her, and she realized a boot was wedged into the opening.
“Police officer.” A man’s voice.
Vicky moved along the door until she could see through the peephole. On the other side was a bear-like man with a round, reddish face, in a dark shirt with the silver insignia of the Lander police department winking in the dim light.
She stepped back, and the door flung open.
“Everything okay here?” The officer’s gaze went from the glass littering the floor to the broken plate glass window. “Somebody practicing for the Rockies?”
Vicky handed the officer the note. “Ever hear of Captain Jack Monroe?” she said.
16
FATHER JOHN HAD almost finished saying Mass when he saw her: the small, dark figure next to the wall in the vestibule, backlit by the early morning light. He felt his heart take an extra beat. He’d known her for how long now? Five, six years? Ever since the morning he’d looked up from his desk and seen her standing in the doorway. He’d recognized her instantly—The ho:xu’wu:ne’n the grandmothers gossiped about: Married a fine man, Ben Holden. Oh, he might’ve had a little drinking problem, and maybe he hit her a few times. No cause to divorce him. Now she’d come home after living in Denver for ten years, as the grandmothers had always known she would, because she was Arapaho and couldn’t stay away from all that was sacred—the earth and sky, the way of the ancestors.
During all the time he’d known Vicky Holden, she had never come to the mission unless there was trouble.
“Go in Peace, the Mass is ended,” he said. Ita Missa Est, he was thinking, the old Latin words the priest used to say when he was an altar boy in Boston. The sounds of kneelers knocking into pews and footsteps scuffing the floor floated behind him as he walked down the aisle. He shook hands with the parishioners who were filing out and looked for her. She was nowhere.
“LOOKS LIKE VICKY’S got something on her mind.” Leonard set the missal inside the cabinet in the sacristy. “You hear she’s working for the casino now?”
No, Father John hadn’t heard. News about her on the moccasin telegraph had been bleeped out before reaching the mission. He hung up his chasuble and waited for the caretaker to continue.
Leonard let a couple seconds pass, as if he were weighing how much to pass on. “Working at the casino some of the time,” he said. “Still got that new office over in Lander. Her secretary says things are slow. She’s hoping Vicky won’t have to lay her off.” The Indian nodded toward the door. “Vicky’s probably waiting to talk to you, Father. I’ll finish up here.”
Father John crossed the altar, genuflected in front of the tabernacle, and hurried toward the front door. He found her by the old cottonwood tree at the side of the church. Dressed for the office in a dark skirt and a blouse the color of blue iris that made her hair look like black velvet. She wore a trace of lipstick, but her eyes looked dark and shadowed with worry.
“Do you have a minute?” she said. “I’d like to talk to you.”
“Would you like some breakfast?”
She shook her head. “I’d like to talk to you in private.”
“As a priest?”
This made her pause. “As my friend,” she said, finally.
“Come on.” He took her arm and guided her across Circle Drive and through the field to the residence. He could feel the faintest tremor beneath the sleeve of her blouse, as if some invisible turbulence was erupting inside her.
“I’ll get us some coffee.” He ushered her into the study, then went to the kitchen. Father George was at the table, working on a bowl of oatmeal, Catherine was at the stove, ladling out another bowl.
“Sit down and eat,” she said.
“Give me a few minutes.” He poured coffee into two mugs, ignoring the other priest’s raised eyebrows, and went back to the study.
Vicky was seated in the old leather chair behind his desk, staring at the books in the bookcase against the wall. “You don’t mind, do you?” She swiveled toward him.
“Be my guest.” He set a mug in front of her, then dropped into the visitor’s chair on the other side of the desk.
“I always feel a sense of peace when I come here,” she said.
He gulped down some coffee to keep himself from saying, It’s been a long time. �
��Is everything okay?” he managed.
She gave a little laugh that sounded almost like a cry. “If that were the case, John, you know I wouldn’t be here. I didn’t know where else to go. I’m not sure who else I can trust.” She paused. “I’m doing contract work for the casino.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Last night I had a visitor.” She kneaded at the black bag in her lap. “Left me a message tied to a rock pitched through the front window of my office. It said, Get out of the casino.”
“Captain Jack Monroe,” Father John said, almost under his breath. He felt the anger surge through him like a shot of adrenaline. The man who’d harassed Dennis Light Stone and other Arapahos was now harassing Vicky. He studied her face a long moment, trying to detect any sign of fear. There was none, which made him afraid for her. She was good at masks. She would never let anyone see her fear, but he’d felt the trembling inside her. He had to look away a moment to keep from bolting around the desk and taking her into his arms to shield her from whatever madness might be coming her way.
“Tell me what’s going on,” he said, trying for the impersonal tone of the counselor, the priest in the confessional.
“The man’s a lunatic.” Vicky tilted her head and began rubbing the back of her neck, as if she could work out whatever tension she was harboring. “He thinks he can force Arapahos out of our own casino.”
Father John worked at his coffee a couple seconds. A pattern was emerging in his mind, so clear he wondered why he hadn’t seen it before. Monroe had targeted Arapahos in the best-paying, most visible jobs—Dennis Light Stone, a pit boss, Vicky, a lawyer. If the man could scare away people like that, then no Arapaho would take a job there. Arapahos might even stop gambling there. A bold strategy, the strategy of a commander ordering his troops to snipe at the leaders until, finally, the people deserted the village.
“Did you call the police?” Father John set the smudged piece of paper on the desk.
Waving one hand in the air, Vicky said, “An officer showed up minutes later. He was patrolling the neighborhood and heard the window break. He was very nice, very professional. Took down the information, said he’d make out a report. Even helped me nail cardboard over the broken window. You know what he was thinking. An Indian problem that spilled over into town. Whoever threw the rock was back on the reservation in ten minutes. What are the Lander police supposed to do? They can’t follow him to the rez. Besides . . .” She drew in a long breath and exhaled. “An assault charge has been filed by the BIA police against three of Monroe’s men for stopping me in the parking lot a couple days ago.”
“Assault? They assaulted you?” Father John could barely suppress the alarm in his voice.
“A man named Tommy Willard pushed me. But he also said something that I haven’t been able to shake. He said anyone wanting a good job at the casino has to see Matt Kingdom.”
Father John drained the last of his coffee, then got up and went to the window. Leonard was crossing Circle Drive carrying a bundle of dead branches, and Walks-On trotted along, balancing a long stick in his jaws. The scare tactics were escalating, he was thinking. First, harassment, then assault. Followed by a rock through the window. Is that how it went for Dennis Light Stone? Harassment? Assault? A bullet in the head?
He turned back and told her about Lela Running Bull and the body at Double Dives; how Tommy Willard was the girl’s boyfriend; and how, yesterday, the girl had admitted that she’d expected the body to be Dennis Light Stone’s.
“So you went looking for Light Stone at the casino yesterday,” she said, swiveling around and staring across the study. “To warn him that he could be next.”
Vicky kept her eyes straight ahead, and he studied her face a long moment. The muffled clank of a pan in the kitchen broke through the quiet that settled over the study. How well they knew each other, he was thinking. “I hope we can be friends,” she’d said when she’d first walked across his office, holding out her hand. He remembered the pinpricks of light in her dark eyes. And in the time since, he’d learned to anticipate her moods. He could read her mind, but she could also read his, as if their thoughts were scrolling in each other’s head.
“You think Monroe could be on to something, don’t you?”
She swiveled a quarter circle and faced him. “I don’t like the man’s tactics,” she began, “but from the beginning he’d said that the casino would corrupt the people. Kingdom’s the chairman of the gaming commission. He’s supposed to make sure everything is honest and legal. What if he’s been corrupted?”
“They brought you in, Vicky,” Father John said. He was trying to work it out. Why would the casino hire an Arapaho lawyer—a woman so tenacious and independent?—if there was anything to conceal?
“My job”—she shook her head and gave him a mirthless smile—“is limited to checking the boilerplate in the contracts with vendors, equipment manufacturers, and soft-goods suppliers.”
“You’re saying they want you in the legal department because it looks good? It’ll reassure people?”
She shrugged. “When I tried to find out if Monroe’s claim had any merit, Stan Lexson made certain I couldn’t see the personnel records. What difference would it make if I looked at the records? Unless Kingdom is controlling the high-paying jobs. His son is the supervisor of maintenance, his sister is the human resources director. How many other managers are connected to Kingdom?”
So many connections on the reservation, Father John was thinking. Connections through marriage—somebody’s cousin married to somebody else’s cousin. History—somebody’s ancestor rode with Chief Sharp Nose or Chief Black Coal, who was somebody else’s ancestor. Ceremony—the old men who’d sponsored younger men in the Sun Dance and become their spiritual grandfathers. He could never keep track of the Arapaho connections, but Vicky—it was as if she’d inherited some genetic code that sorted them all out.
“There could be something else, John.” Vicky flattened both hands on the desktop, pushed to her feet, and walked over beside him. He followed her gaze out the window. Leonard and the dog had disappeared, leaving only the breeze ruffling the grasses and moving the branches. “If Kingdom placed too many relatives in top jobs, the people would be up in arms. They’d demand his resignation. He’s too smart for that. What if he reserved only a couple jobs for his closest relatives? What if he’s reserved the other jobs . . .”
“You think he’s been selling the other jobs?”
“Suppose it’s true. Who would know? The people with the jobs aren’t going to tell anyone. Even if they’re giving Kingdom a cut of their salaries, they’re still making good money. And providing Kingdom a nice, steady income.”
“What about the other commissioners?”
Vicky shrugged. “Either they don’t know what’s going on, or Kingdom’s bought them off.”
Father John didn’t say anything for a moment. The picture seemed clearer now, like a section of film freeze-framed and brought up close. “Maybe Dennis Light Stone paid for his job,” he said. “His wife said Dennis made a trip to the reservation before he took the job as pit boss in the casino. Monroe could suspect . . .”
“Exactly.” Vicky put up the palm of one hand. “He suspects. If he had any proof, he’d go to the Business Council. He’d go to Gianelli. He wouldn’t stop until he’d closed the casino. He’s been trying to intimidate people, hoping someone might break under the pressure and blurt out the truth. The man’s like a raven, John. Pecking at the prey until it’s helpless. Then he’ll swoop down.”
“You think he could commit murder?”
“What?”
“Look, Vicky,” he said, “Light Stone hasn’t been at the casino in four days. Nobody’s seen him, not even his wife.”
“He could be hiding from Monroe.”
He could be dead, Father John was thinking.
“Or . . .” Vicky hesitated, then plunged on, “Lexson could have arranged a leave of absence. Maybe sent him away from the rez.” She
was warming to the idea now. “Dennis is a lightning rod for Monroe. An Arapaho in a top job on the casino floor. Lexson and Kingdom might have wanted him out of Monroe’s sight for a while.”
She clasped her hands and started pacing—the desk, the window, the framed print of an Arapaho village on the opposite wall. “This is perfect,” she said. Lexson and Kingdom were waiting for Monroe to step over the line, and Tommy Willard did just that. The rangers could be charged with assault and conspiracy to commit assault, and I suspect the tribal court will issue a restraining order that forbids them to come within a hundred yards of the casino. Monroe will be discredited. There won’t be anybody asking embarrassing questions about Matt Kingdom and the casino jobs . . .”
“Except you,” Father John said.
“You’re damned right.” A faint blush came into her cheeks. Her eyes sparkled in the light streaming through the window. “If Kingdom’s been bought off, I want to know it. I think I’ll drop by his office and have a talk with him.”
“No, Vicky.” Father John took her hand, wanting to lead her away from the chasm he could feel opening in front of her. “If you’re right, you’ll only warn him. It could be dangerous. Go to the Business Council, tell them what you suspect. Go to Chief Banner or Gianelli . . .”
“And tell them what?” she asked, and he knew that he could not keep her from danger, that she would plunge on until she found the truth. “That I suspect the gaming chairman of colluding with the people operating the casino? I’m no different from Monroe, John. All I have are suspicions. I can’t prove anything. I haven’t seen the personnel records. I don’t know yet who’s on the payroll.”
“How can I help you?” he asked.
She pulled her hand free, picked up her bag, and started for the door. “I’ll call you after I’ve talked to Kingdom.” Then she gave him a wave that had more bravado, he knew, than she felt.
17
IT WAS MID -morning before Father John headed west on Seventeen-Mile Road, Tosca, Act III, rising from the tape player on the seat beside him, the road stretching ahead, the plains shining in the sun. His mind kept replaying the conversation with Vicky. She had a theory—no evidence, she’d said—just a theory that something was wrong at the casino. She wouldn’t let go.
Killing Raven (A Wind River Reservation Myste) Page 12