Killing Raven (A Wind River Reservation Myste)

by Margaret Coel

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said, opening her door.

  “How’d you know I’d be here?”

  “You weren’t at your office.” Adam closed the door behind her and didn’t move, staying very close. “I left a message on your cell phone.”

  She’d turned off the phone, she remembered. She hadn’t expected any messages.

  “I figured you’d show up here sooner or later. Hope you haven’t eaten.”

  “What are you proposing?”

  “Dinner in the pine trees.”

  THEY WENT IN his truck, winding through the neighborhood streets on the west side of town, then up into the foothills to the small restaurant where they’d eaten before, listening to the sound of the wind in the trees outside, a candle flickering in the little glass vase between them. They sat at the same table.

  “Our table,” Adam had exclaimed when the waiter seated them. She winced at the idea, so unfamiliar and unexpected, so out of the blue. It had been so long that she’d felt part of a shared experience—a song, a movie, a table—that she wasn’t sure how to react.

  She sipped on the ice water the waiter had poured and watched the man across from her: handsome and dark—oh, yes, the old clichés applied to Adam, right down to the flashing black eyes and the black hair with the touch of gray at the temples that gave him the distinguished look of an experienced warrior with the scar to prove it, one of the leading men—those who guided the young warriors and advised the elders. Not yet an elder himself, not for a couple decades, but the patience and wisdom of an elder already growing within him.

  He was talking about the investigation. Gianelli had interviewed the two of them separately, then together. Their memories of the van and Lexson, Barrenger, and Light Stone were the same, she’d discovered. Another “our,” she thought now. “Our” brush with death at Double Dives. They’d have to testify at Barrenger’s and Light Stone’s trials, he reminded her. Which meant they’d be seeing a lot of each other. He seemed pleased at the prospect, and yet there was a wrong note in his voice. She realized he was trying to ignore the crack that had erupted between them, that would deepen and spread until, finally, it would shatter any other feelings that might have started.

  Vicky said, “I owe you an apology, Adam. I thought you were working with Lexson. I misjudged you, and I’m sorry.”

  In the smile that he gave her, she could see that the crack was already repaired. “You had a right to wonder about me. I should’ve looked further into the operations. I had a gut feeling something was wrong, but I had so many contracts to deal with—that’s why I brought you on board—I didn’t have time to follow my instincts. Besides, I kept telling myself that the Business Council had investigated Lodestar and the principals.”

  “Kingdom was the investigator.”

  Adam threw up both hands. “There were lawyers looking over the deal. I let myself believe that if anything was wrong, they would have caught it.” He stopped, waiting while the waiter delivered their dinners—two filets, medium rare, two baked potatoes, salads. When the waiter left, Adam started cutting into his filet. “I should’ve done some investigating on my own, the way you did. It wasn’t until . . .” He lifted his fork with a piece of meat on the end. “Until you pulled away from me that I started taking a closer look at Lodestar Enterprises. I’d been hopeful, then, bam, you went into yourself somewhere, and I didn’t know how to reach you.”

  Adam chewed on the piece of steak, staring past her at some point in the dining room, as if he were trying to recall everything that had happened.

  Vicky took a bite of her own filet. After a moment, she said, “I should have confided in you, Adam.”

  “You didn’t trust me.”

  “I was wrong.”

  “Well, I finally started listening to my gut feelings,” Adam said. “I suspected you’d had the same feelings, looked into matters, found something wrong, and assumed I was part of it. I had to find out what was wrong so I could exonerate myself, counselor. Every place I went, you’d already been there. I talked to your friend at the Secretary of State’s Office. I talked to an Indian gaming commissioner. The picture started to come together. Bottom line was, I’d gone to work for professional criminals and brought you in. Almost got you killed. I’m the one who owes you an apology.”

  Vicky was quiet. She finished part of her dinner, then pushed her plate aside and locked eyes with the man across from her. “The tribe wants us both to serve on the new commission.”

  He grinned at her. “A couple of lawyers who know all the ins and outs on how to cheat?”

  “Who better to keep the managers honest?”

  “I’ve been looking at a job with a firm in Denver,” he said after the waiter had poured two cups of coffee. “I was thinking you might be moving back to Denver.”

  “I’d rather be here.”

  “The commission, huh? Might be interesting.” He sipped at the coffee a moment. “We could pick up where we left off.”

  “Oh? And where was that, Adam?”

  “Hey, we were getting along pretty well, remember? Like I said, I was hopeful before you went all weird on me. Come on, Vicky, admit it. You like me a little.”

  Vicky put her head back and laughed. It felt good, she thought, to laugh. “Okay, Adam,” she said. “I admit I like you.” She paused. “A little.”

  Now it was his turn to laugh. “Don’t fill me up with too much hope. I wouldn’t know what to do with it.” He held her eyes. “Be straight with me, Vicky. Is there somebody else?”

  “I’d tell you, if there were,” she said, feeling slightly unsteady, as if the earth had shifted beneath them.

  “Would you?”

  Vicky turned her gaze to the window and the moonlight flickering like fireflies in the branches and the darkness falling all around. The gossip on the moccasin telegraph had reached this Lakota lawyer; it had reached everybody except her and John O’Malley.

  Adam said, “Father O’Malley came after you at Double Dives . . .”

  “He came after us.”

  “He came after you. He would’ve killed Barrenger if he’d had to, to protect you.”

  “There’s been nothing between us.”

  “He can stop being a priest any time he wants to.”

  Vicky shook her head. “He would never do that.”

  “Then I’ll keep hoping,” Adam said after a moment.

  When they had finished dinner, Vicky was aware of the pressure of his hand on her arm, guiding her past the other tables, past the hostess station, out the door. He walked beside her across the parking lot without saying anything. They were almost to the truck when she felt his hand grip her arm again and spin her toward him, then his lips pressing on hers. She tried to relax in his arms. She could feel his heart pounding next to hers. This could be home, she told herself, and she wondered if it might be true, if she kept telling herself.

  37

  CATHERINE BIZZEL STOOD at the kitchen sink, hands plunged into soap bubbles that were frothing over the dishpan. “What would you like for dinner, Father?” She rinsed off a plate, stacked it in the drainer, all the while looking over her shoulder. “Fried chicken? Some real spicy meatballs and spaghetti?”

  Father John finished the last bite of the tuna sandwiches she had made for him and Father George and took a draw of coffee. “How about lobster?” He couldn’t resist. He wondered how long he’d have to put up with the woman’s tender and grateful mercies. How do you like your shirts ironed, Father? Can I sweep under your feet, Father?

  “Lobster! Well, I don’t know . . .”

  “Filet with béarnaise sauce?” Father George set his mug down and got to his feet.

  The woman faced them and wrung her hands in her apron. “You think lobster and filet drop out of the sky?” She shook her head. “You two! Had me goin’ there a minute.”

  “Anything’s fine.” Father John stood up.

  “You know, Father, I can never . . .”

  “Cathe
rine, Catherine.” He waved away another thank-you. At least twice a day, the poor woman thanked him for keeping her on at the mission as long as it took to repay the money. Which was going to be a problem when Elena returned in a couple weeks. He couldn’t imagine that the kitchen was big enough for both women. He wondered if the house was big enough.

  Dear Lord, he thought. Too many women around wasn’t a problem he knew how to deal with.

  Outside, Walks-On fell in alongside them, as he and Father George headed back to the administration building. He tossed the Frisbee he’d grabbed off the hall bench and watched the dog lope through the grasses on three legs, pivot on his two hind legs, and grab the Frisbee out of the air. Then the dog loped back, and Father John repeated the routine as they passed the church.

  “Been quiet here the last week,” his assistant said. “Nothing but meetings and services.”

  “And the Eagles.” The kids had beat Riverton and were now looking good for the regional playoffs.

  “I keep thinking about the girl,” Father George said as they crossed the alley. “What’s going to become of her?”

  “You want the most likely scenario?” Father John said.

  “Let’s pray for better.”

  “She’s with her aunt’s friend in Casper. Maybe she’ll get a new start.” From inside the administration building came the muffled clang of the phone.

  Father John was about to start up the steps when he saw the deep red Cherokee turning off Seventeen-Mile Road. Father George must have seen it, too, because he brushed ahead. “I’ll get the phone,” he said.

  Father John threw the Frisbee again and waited as the vehicle came around Circle Drive and pulled to a stop. He watched Vicky get out and come toward him, feeling as if something had lifted in the atmosphere, leaving the air lighter, more buoyant. It always surprised him, every time he saw her, at how different she looked from the last time. He wondered what might have happened, where her life had taken her, that had suggested something new, something still to discover about her.

  “I was in the neighborhood.” She smiled up at him. They both knew that wasn’t true.

  “Come on in.” Father John ushered her up the steps and across the corridor to his office. Walks-On trotted along, carrying the Frisbee in his mouth.

  “I’ve been meaning to get over here.” Vicky perched on one of the side chairs and Walks-On settled next to her. Leaning over to stroke the dog’s head and back, she said, “I want to thank you again for coming after me.”

  Father John sat on the edge of the desk and folded his arms across his chest. She’d already thanked him during the interviews with Gianelli and Chief Banner.

  She went on about how she would have been killed if he hadn’t come to her office and found the Post-It.

  “Gianelli would have found it, Vicky.”

  “Not before I was dead. Adam, too.”

  Ah, yes. Adam. They’d been wrong about the man, he and Vicky. Adam had put his own life on the line to protect her. He would have died with her . . .

  And now? Father John had the sense that he was watching her from a far distance and, filling up the space between them, was Adam Lone Eagle.

  “I like him, John,” Vicky said.

  Ah, that was what she had come to tell him. “He seems like a good man.”

  She nodded. There was a nervousness in the way she stroked the dog’s back.

  “He’s worried about you.”

  “Vicky . . .”

  “Don’t worry,” she cut in. “I’ve explained how it’s always been with us. We’re like two horses taking different roads back to the corral, and once in a while, the roads cross.”

  Father John didn’t say anything. After a moment, Vicky gave the dog a final pat and got to her feet. She fixed the strap of her bag across her shoulder, then walked over and took his hand. He was surprised at the softness and warmth of her hand on his. He half-expected her to say, Come on, let’s go, and he wondered where that would be, where they might go, and for a moment, what he might say.

  “We’re still friends?” she said.

  “Of course.”

  “Sometimes I think,” she paused, then started again. “I think that in some other place, some other time, we were more than friends. Do you ever think that?”

  “It would be nice to think so,” Father John said. He paused, letting his eyes hold hers for a long moment. “We are who we are now in this time, Vicky. In this place.”

  She smiled up at him, then removed her hand and started toward the door, stooping to give Walks-On a last pat on the way. Gripping the doorjamb, she looked back over her shoulder. “I’ll be seeing you, John O’Malley,” she said.

  And then she was gone, her footsteps clacking in the corridor, the door slamming shut.

  He started toward the window, then stopped. From outside came the coughing of an engine, the scrunching of tires on gravel, followed by a silence more complete than any he had ever known. He walked around the desk, sat down, and started riffling through the piles of papers. Three infants to baptize next Sunday, a homily to write, one that would match the solemnity and sacredness of the occasion. It was his turn to hear confessions next Saturday—he and George traded Saturdays—and there was another big Eagles game first thing Saturday morning.

  The weeks and months stretched ahead, filled with work. It would be enough for him, he told himself. The people and St. Francis Mission and the life he’d chosen—that he knew in the deepest part of himself had chosen him—that life was enough for him, and it was good.