“I’m leaving.” Vicky got up and started for the door.
“Barrenger and Felix are waiting for my signal. I don’t believe you’d want them to stop you.”
She turned back. “You can’t hold me against my will. There are laws . . .”
“Yes. Yes.” He nodded. “No one will ever know.”
“I’m supposed to be meeting with Agent Gianelli now. He’s waiting at my office.”
“So I’ve been told. We must take care of that little matter.” He went back to the desk, picked up the phone, then walked over and held it out to her. “Call him. Tell him something came up and you have to cancel the meeting.”
“Go to hell, Lexson.”
“Call him!” He took her hand and jammed the phone against her palm. “Do as I say or I’ll have to call my men and tell them you’re being difficult.”
Vicky tapped out the number. The answering machine picked up, and she said, “I’m at . . .”
Lexson yanked the phone out of her hand. The opened palm of his other hand cracked across her face, sending her stumbling sideways. She grabbed onto the back of the chair. Her face went hot and tight, as if she’d been singed by a fireball.
“That was stupid.” Lexson moved toward her and she braced herself for another blow. Then he walked back to the desk, dropped the phone, and pushed a button on a small brown box.
“She’s all yours,” he said, leaning toward the box.
Vicky lunged for the door, flung it open, and kept going across the reception room, out into the corridor. An eerie silence followed her, punctuated by the sound of her own footsteps pounding the carpet. She glanced back. The corridor was empty.
She stopped at the elevator and jammed in the down button. Her breath came in burning gasps; her heart was knocking. The floor seemed to vibrate beneath her, or was it her own legs shaking? Numbers flashed above the elevator: seven, six, five. Come on. She kept one eye on the opened doors at the far end of the corridor. Still no sign of Lexson.
And then Barrenger and Felix burst out of another door and started running toward her.
Three flashed overhead.
Vicky darted for the opposite wall, her eyes searching for the cracks that marked the edges of the concealed door. She had them: two vertical cracks almost three feet apart.
“Hold it!” It was Barrenger’s voice. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him thrust out one hand. He was holding something thick and white, like a folded towel.
She knocked hard on the wall between the cracks. Something gave way, as if the joists had shifted. She rammed her shoulder against the plaster. The door swung open, and she stumbled onto the metal landing at the top of the stairs. Kicking the door shut, she started running down the stairs into the dim hallway below.
She was almost down when she heard the muffled knocking sound on the wall above. She flung herself down the last steps and raced toward the rim of light around the outside door. The sound of boots thudding on the stairs came at her like bursts of thunder.
“Where the hell are you?” Barrenger shouted over thuds.
“Right here.” A man’s voice sputtered through a radio.
Vicky sprinted for the door only a body-length ahead, the boots ringing behind her. The door swung inward. She stopped. The sound of her own gasps filled the air. In the opening was a large man with dark hair and bulky shoulders and thick torso. Legs spread apart, one hand resting on the doorjamb. For a half instant she thought it was Adam, a black shadow looming out of the harsh light.
The man stepped into the hall and closed the door. The ceiling light flickering over his face made him look like an untrue person, a ghost materializing out of the painted walls. She realized he was Arapaho.
“I hear you been looking for me,” Dennis Light Stone said.
An arm lashed out from behind and caught her around the shoulders and chest. She felt herself floating off her feet, the arm crushing her neck, forcing back her head. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came. In the glare of the ceiling light, she saw the white towel coming toward her. The towel pressed over her nose, jammed into her mouth. The chemical smell made her retch. She was aware of trying to kick backward against the man holding her, aware of the hall swirling around, like some carnival ride.
And then there was only blackness.
29
FATHER JOHN DROVE out of Double Dives and headed toward the mission, only partly aware of the two-lane road shimmering ahead in the late afternoon sun and the oncoming trucks and cars whizzing past. His thoughts were on the two white men shot in the head and left in a desolate, out-of-the-way place. Except for the way they’d died, where were the connections? Loan sharks, as Gianelli suggested? Shadowy figures stopping gamblers in the parking lot after a big loss and offering to help?
Maybe the fed was right. Monroe was a commander, determined to win the war he’d declared, willing to use any tactics available, as long as they worked, even loan sharking. And maybe the tactic had worked better than he’d planned. Suddenly he was making a lot of money. Frightened people were paying back the debt, embezzling money, selling property. When Rodney Pearson couldn’t pay his debt, Monroe decided to make an example of the man, teach others a lesson.
A good business, Gianelli had said, until one of the captain’s men decided to take it over.
Father John thumped his fist on the steering wheel. He was trying to talk himself into Gianelli’s theory, he realized. He still didn’t believe it.
He turned into the mission grounds and drove for the residence, surprised to see Catherine’s blue sedan parked in front. He hadn’t expected the woman to return to the mission today.
He was in the hallway, patting Walks-On, when the door to the living room slid open. Father George peered around the jamb. “You’d better come in here,” he said.
Father John followed his assistant into the room. Catherine sat in the middle of the sofa, the cushions on either side rising like pillows around her. She kept her face in her hands. Her sobs sounded as if she were blowing up a balloon.
“What’s going on?” He glanced at the other priest.
“She won’t tell me. She said she had to talk to you.”
Father John walked over and sat down next to the woman. “What is it, Catherine?” He could sense the sadness in the woman. It was often the third presence in the confessional.
She turned her face toward him. Strands of gray hair clung to her cheek. “Everything’s ruined,” she said. “Leonard’s gonna shoot them.”
“What? Who?”
“The guys I borrowed money from. I seen the white van driving by the house after me and Leonard got home. Letting me know they know where I live so they can come get me anytime they want.”
“Wait a minute, Catherine. Are you sure they were the same men?”
She was nodding, and her hand was shaking inside his. “I’d know ’em anywhere. Leonard seen ’em, too. He said he was gonna find ’em and put an end to it. He got in his truck and took off.”
Father John exchanged a glance with the other priest. Leonard Bizzel was a warrior, and the men—whoever they were—had come by his home. They’d threatened his wife. He would protect what belonged to him.
“Where do you think he was going?”
Catherine raised her head and blinked at the moisture in her eyes. “He might go to the casino. They’ll kill him, Father.”
Father John got to his feet, walked over to the side table, and picked up the phone. The operator answered on the second ring, and Father John told her that Leonard Bizzel was looking for a couple of white men in a white van and—selecting the words, aware of Catherine watching him—that the police should pick him up before he did anything he might regret.
From outside, came the roar of an engine. Tires squealed around Circle Drive. Father John looked over at the other priest who was already heading into the hallway.
“Leonard could be heading for the casino,” he told the operator. The front door slammed shut, sending
a little jolt through the floorboards.
“We’ve got a couple cars in the vicinity,” the operator said. “We’ll pick him up.”
Father John had just dropped the receiver into the cradle when the other priest stuck his head through the doorway. “A tan pickup just turned into the alley.”
God. He’d told Tommy Willard about the guest house, and now the Indian had come for Lela.
Father John told Catherine to wait, then he hurried outside after the other priest who was already down the sidewalk and starting across Circle Drive. Father John sprinted ahead. He cut a diagonal line through the grasses, crossed the other side of the drive, and turned down the alley. The pickup was parked in front of the guest house. He could hear the shouts, muffled and angry, followed by a scream that sounded like the cry of a wounded animal.
He dodged around the pickup and burst through the door. Lela was huddled in the corner of the sofa, small and drawn into herself. She was crying. The red imprint of a hand rose into the bruise on her cheek. Tommy hovered over her, black hair hanging over the back of his army camouflage shirt, ropy arms dangling out of the cut-off sleeves.
“You hear me?” He raised his fist like a club.
Father John lunged for the man and grabbed the up-raised arm. He swung him around and started pushing him across the room. The man stumbled against a side table, sending the lamp crashing onto the floor, and Father John kept pushing. Past the table, through the doorway, into the tiny kitchen. He drove him against the edge of the counter and gripped the skinny shoulders hard, aware only of the lights bursting behind his own eyes.
“You like beating up women, do you?” he said. “Why don’t you try me?”
“Hey, hey.” The Indian tried lifting both hands, curling them into fists in front of his face. Father John shoved him again until he was leaning backward over the counter, head tilted up, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his skinny neck.
“Take it easy, John.” Father George’s voice made a clean cut through his anger. He could feel the pressure of the man’s grip on his arm. He held on to Tommy another moment, then let him go.
Tommy slumped alongside the counter, then swung around, gripping the edge for support. He was gasping and coughing.
“You don’t get it,” the Indian said, running his forearm under his nose. A long string of mucus glistened on his brown skin. “I ain’t hurt her none.” He was talking to the counter. “She won’t listen to sense. We gotta get outta here, man.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Them guys that come to headquarters and took Captain Jack this morning. They’re gonna kill us. We ain’t got no time.”
“Good heavens,” Father George said.
Father John ignored the other priest, who was standing at his side. “You saw somebody take Monroe?”
“I was across the road working on my pickup.” He kept his eyes on the counter. “I seen this white van pull into headquarters. I didn’t pay no attention. Captain gets visitors sometimes. Next thing I know, three guys are pushing the Captain across the yard. They got a gun on him. One of ’em gets in the Captain’s truck with him and they take off, the van right behind.”
“Did you recognize them?”
“The guy with the gun. I seen him plain as day. It was Light Stone.”
Father John took a step back and studied the Indian a moment. “You’re sure it was Light Stone? The man you’ve been harassing at the casino?”
Tommy looked up out of the corners of his eyes. “Me harassing Light Stone? Man, you got it all wrong. It was the other way around. Me and the rangers was trying to talk to Indians working at the casino, make ’em see how bad gambling is, get ’em to stop going there. There was three of us in the parking lot last week, and Light Stone and a couple security guards come out and started slapping us around, and Light Stone, he started choking me. I was seeing stars, man. I was dyin’. He says, tell the Captain to call off his dogs—like we’re a bunch of dogs—or we’re all gonna be dead.”
“Was Lela there?”
The Indian nodded. “She was in the pickup.”
Father John stepped back and stared at the cottonwoods swaying outside the window. He’d gotten it wrong. Oh, he had part of it right: Lela had expected the body at Double Dives to be Light Stone’s. What he’d gotten wrong was the reason. It wasn’t because Tommy had threatened Light Stone. It was because the girl had seen Light Stone threaten Tommy, and she’d concluded that Tommy had killed the man to protect himself.
“What did you do when Light Stone took the Captain?” he said.
“I didn’t know what to do.” Tommy bit his lower lip, and for an instant, Father John thought the man might burst into tears. “Nobody was around. I went over to headquarters and started calling the rangers. We decided to drive around the rez ’til we found the van. First I went looking for the Captain’s gun, thinking I was gonna need a gun. But it wasn’t where the Captain always kept it. Finally I got in my truck and headed over to the casino. There was a lot of white vans in the parking lot, ’cause that’s what them security guards drive, but I didn’t see the Captain. So I headed over to Ethete and Fort Washakie and back to Arapaho. Captain wasn’t nowhere. Then I hear that Captain Jack’s out at Double Dives, and he’s dead, and the radio says he shot himself.”
Tommy pushed himself upright and faced Father John. “What a load of shit. The Captain was shot by that bastard, Light Stone.”
Father John backed away. For a long moment, he studied the Indian still sloped against the counter. The man had seen the murderers. He could identify the men who’d killed Pearson and Monroe and threatened Catherine. No telling how many others they’d threatened—people too frightened to come forward.
And there was more—the realization made him feel as if he were heading into the wind. Light Stone and the others—the men who drove white vans—were only errand boys, enforcers. Stan Lexson, the man who ran the casino, gave the orders. And Lexson was making a sweep of everybody who’d gotten in his way—Captain Jack Monroe, sending rangers to harass casino employees, raising questions about the gaming chairman, and Rodney Pearson, unable to pay his debt and frightened. Maybe frightened enough to blow the whistle on the casino’s loan sharks.
Dear God. Vicky was in Lexson’s way.
Father John reached around the Indian and pulled the phone across the counter. “You’ve got to talk to Agent Gianelli,” he said.
“I ain’t talking to no fed.” Tommy spit out the words. “Light Stone and them other security guards’ll come after me and blow my head off. You say anything about what I told you, and I’m gonna deny it. I didn’t see nothing. I don’t know nobody named Dennis Light Stone. You must’ve been smokin’ weed.”
Tommy pushed himself away from the counter and, head lowered with determination, started forward.
Father John jabbed the receiver against the man’s chest and pushed him back. Then he started dialing. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the other priest’s bulky figure blocking the doorway. “You got a choice, Tommy. Either you talk to the fed about Light Stone, or you talk to him about how you assaulted Lela.”
“What! Lela’s my girlfriend.”
Father George let out a guffaw. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to hit girls?”
“You’ve got two witnesses right here. Make that three.” The ringing phone at Gianelli’s office sounded far away. “Lela’ll be more than willing to tell the fed about how you’ve treated her. You’re looking at serious prison time, Tommy.”
The Indian rolled his eyes from Father John to the other priest blocking the doorway. “You’re nothing but a couple of bastards. You priests are supposed to help people. Instead you’re gonna get me killed.”
The fed picked up in mid-ring. “Special Agent Gianelli.”
“Tommy Willard’s at the mission,” Father John said. “He saw Dennis Light Stone and two guards from the casino take Monroe at gunpoint this afternoon.” Keeping his gaze hard on the Indian, he
added, “Tommy wants to tell you everything.”
“I’m on the way.” There was a click. The line went silent, and Father John dropped the receiver into the cradle.
Fear blazed like diamonds in the Indian’s eyes. “I’m a dead man.”
“This will be over soon.” Father John tried to inject more confidence in his voice than he felt. “Light Stone and the others will be arrested. You’ll be okay.”
Except for Lexson, he was thinking. A man like Lexson didn’t depend on only a few people. He’d have others to call on. In the flat look of resignation that came into Tommy’s eyes, Father John understood that the man had reached a similar conclusion.
“John!” Father George’s voice came like a shot through the kitchen.
Father John turned to the door.
The other priest was standing in the middle of the living room. Beyond his white shirtsleeves, Father John could see the vacant sofa with the small impression of Lela’s body in the cushions.
“She’s gone, John,” Father George said.
30
“STAY WITH HIM.”
Father John shouldered past the other priest and went outside. A gust of hot wind took the door from his hand and banged it against the wall. He searched the alley with his eyes. Nothing but a vacant stretch of brown gravel road running between the church and the cottonwoods and sagebrush in front of Eagle Hall. He searched the road in the other direction where it meandered into the path that cut through the trees to the river.
And from there, Lela could follow the river to the cluster of trailers in the low, mushy ground next to the highway. She was on the way to her aunt Mary’s trailer.
Father John took off through the cottonwoods, ducking around the branches, his boots knocking against the fallen logs. Ahead, dodging through the trees, he spotted the flash of white. He cut to the left, crashing through the underbrush, his eyes on the girl’s white T-shirt. She was running along the riverbank, and he sprinted toward her.
Killing Raven (A Wind River Reservation Myste) Page 20