“Vicky!” Adam put up one hand. “Can we leave it alone for the evening? Let’s just have a nice, relaxing dinner. You want to eat at the counter or the table?” He shot a doubtful glance at the litter of papers.
“I’m really not hungry, Adam. Maybe you should take the Chinese and go.”
Adam didn’t say anything. He focused on the two brown bags a moment, then brought his eyes back to hers. “Let’s be honest, Vicky. What happened this afternoon?”
Vicky turned away and walked over to the window. Samantha had told him.
Before she could say anything, he said, “Lucille Montana called a couple of hours ago. She wanted to know if you’d had any luck finding Frankie this afternoon.” A mixture of concern and irritation worked through his voice.
Vicky turned back. “Frankie could be charged with three homicides.”
“Maybe he’s guilty.”
“Maybe he is, but I’m going to represent him.”
“We talked about this. I thought we agreed.”
“I’m sorry, Adam. I can’t turn him away.”
Adam drew in his lower lip and looked over into the shadows of the living room beyond the light that circled the dining area and kitchen. He was drumming his knuckles on the counter, and the sound was like a miniature herd of horses galloping between them. “Nobody can defend an Arapaho but you, is that it?” he said, fixing her with a look so intense and cold that she flinched. “Your mission is to keep every Arapaho charged with anything, from driving on the wrong side of the road to killing people, out of jail.”
Vicky threaded the cord of the window shade through her fingers and looked past the blurred windowpane to the flare of yellow light over the street below. It was a moment before she felt the pressure of Adam’s hand on her shoulder, and it struck her as odd. She hadn’t heard him walk over.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was out of line.” His fingers kneaded into her skin now, warm and comforting through the soft wool of her sweater. “I want this to work between us, Vicky. You can’t do it all. You can’t defend guys like Frankie and still handle projects like wolf management. I need your expertise on the big cases. We’re a good team, remember? We’re unbeatable. Maybe we could hire another lawyer. Somebody to work for us and handle the Frankie kind of cases. That way, you could oversee them, make sure they’re handled right. What do you think?”
Vicky shrugged away from his grasp and faced him. “Maybe we could hire Samantha,” she said.
Adam stared at her a moment, then walked back to the counter and slammed his fist down. “So that’s what this is about. Samantha Lowe. She told me she stopped by the office. So you jumped to your own conclusions and decided to go back to where you feel comfortable—representing losers like Frankie Montana.”
“I want to trust you, Adam. I don’t know how.”
“You’re right. You don’t know how, and that’s your problem.” He was pulling on the leather jacket, zipping up the front, digging the gloves out of the pockets, jamming his hands inside the gloves. Then he walked over to the door and yanked it open. “Take your case, Vicky,” he said, looking back. “See if you can keep your client from being indicted for homicide. I’m going to Cheyenne tomorrow and meet with the state fish and wildlife people.” He started into the corridor, then stepped back. “Oh, and Yellowstone next weekend? Watching the wolves? I have to pass.”
The door slammed shut. Vicky watched the small mirror hanging next to the intercom slide a half-inch sideways. All their plans, she was thinking, everything they’d talked about, the firm they were going to build, the important cases they would handle for tribes across the West, what a difference they were going to make—two Indian lawyers using the white man’s laws to obtain Indian justice. And all the time, moving into the future together. Oh, she wanted to laugh, it was so preposterous, such a heavy weight hanging by such a fragile string as trust.
She would not cry, she told herself. She swiped at the wetness on her cheeks, turned back to the window, and pressed her face against the cold glass. Below, the door to the entry burst open. Adam emerged from the building, slightly blurred, as if he were a figure in a dream. He strode across the sidewalk to the pickup at the curb, got in behind the wheel, and pulled the door after him. The thwack sounded muffled and distant.
Nothing was as it should be, she thought, watching the pickup spin into the lane and start down the street, little smears of red taillights blinking. She’d wanted to make a difference for her people, but the tribal council had always found a firm in Casper or Cheyenne for the cases that mattered. Managing wolves and the other cases that were beginning to come would have all gone to one of those firms, too, if it hadn’t been for Adam. They would be a strong firm, he’d told her. Arapaho woman, Lakota man. She was from the rez, and he was native. Both Shoshones and Arapahos could trust them. They would be unbeatable. And it was working. They’d hardly announced the opening of the new firm when the tribal officials had started to call.
She’d let her guard down, that was the problem. She’d begun to think about the future. Didn’t he know she could tell when he got involved with another woman? Didn’t he know she could sense the truth, as real as an odor of perfume or the thick, oily smell of the Chinese food bursting through the brown bags.
She needed to get out of here. She walked over to the closet, pulled on her coat and gloves, and fumbled in her bag until she found her keys. Then, moving out into the corridor, she let the door swish shut on its own. The building felt like a vault, her own footsteps on the carpet the only sound—a muffled, hurried rhythm. She took the stairs and plunged outside into the evening heavy with moisture. The air felt wet and warm on her face, until she realized she was crying. She ran her gloves over her cheeks and crawled inside the Jeep.
She’d lost track of how far she’d driven—ten miles, fifteen miles—before she realized that she was heading northeast on Rendezvous Road toward St. Francis Mission.
20
TELEVISION LIGHTS FLICKERED past the doorway and into the shadows of the entry, background voices unintelligible in the quiet. The odors of fried chicken and hot oil funneled from the kitchen. Elena would have left dinner in the oven, a plate wrapped in aluminum foil. Father John tossed his coat and hat on the bench and went into the living room on the right. Father Ian slumped on the sofa, head pillowed back into the cushions, long legs stretched out in front. He looked disheveled in the white glow of the television, denim shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest and khaki slacks that could have been slept in. Hair standing out in clumps around his forehead and eyes at half-mast. He was thumping at his chest with his knuckles, the slow, hypnotic rhythm of a man trying to keep himself awake.
“Authorities in Wyoming have confirmed that the murders of three Shoshone at the site of a nineteenth-century battle between Shoshones and Arapahos could be revenge killings.” The voice of an attractive, blond woman bundled in a bulky jacket, hair flying in the wind, floated from the television.
Father John stepped closer to the TV. The woman was at the Bates Battlefield, the canyon stretching behind her, the boulder-strewn slopes rising on either side. Then a map of Wyoming filled the screen, a red arrow pointing to the battlefield.
The voice went on, “A spokesman for the Fremont County Sheriff’s Office, in charge of the investigation, says they are looking into the possibility that the homicides are the result of ongoing feuds between the two tribes on the Wind River Reservation. According to well-known Western historian Charles Lambert, Shoshones and Arapahos are traditional enemies. What is known as the Bates Battle was a massacre of Arapahos by Shoshones in eighteen-seventy-four.”
The map dissolved, and the woman came back on screen. “The sheriff’s office refuses to characterize the homicides as the first salvo fired in a new tribal war, but I’ve talked to numerous people here, and they fear that is exactly what has occurred. Back to you, Clint.”
Father John walked over and pushed the power button. He watched the screen fade from g
ray into black, conscious of the hollow space opening inside him. It was if the blond woman’s words had confirmed his own fears, made them real and imminent, like the past looming up in front of him.
He made himself turn back to the other priest on the sofa. “We’d better talk, Ian,” he said.
The fist stopped thumping, but the man kept his gaze fixed on the TV. It was a moment before he pulled himself upright and leaned forward, slowly taking his eyes from the screen, as if he’d just realized that the news program had disappeared.
Father John turned on the table lamp and perched on the ottoman. This might be an interrogation, he was thinking; Ian, the suspect and he, the interrogator.
Well, get on with it.
“When did you start drinking again, Ian?” he asked.
For the first time, the other priest faced him, eyes tightened in contempt.
“Always the first to know, another alkie.” He spit out the words.
“You could say we have the nose for it,” Father John said. Oh, he’d developed the nose early. When was it that he’d first discovered it? Halfway up the flight of stairs to the apartment he’d grown up in—two bedrooms, sitting room, and Pullman kitchen hardly big enough to turn around in—over his uncle’s saloon on Commonwealth Avenue? On up the steps, and the putrid stink from above hitting him with a force that rocked him backwards, and he knew his father was drunk again. It was so obvious, the smells, and yet he’d always told himself that no one could tell. No one else had the nose.
“When, Ian?”
“I had a couple drinks this afternoon. A drink now and then doesn’t mean anything.”
“We both know better. You want to talk about it?”
“You wouldn’t get it,” Ian said. An absent look had come into his expression, as if his thoughts had wandered somewhere else.
“Try me.”
The other priest took a moment, then shrugged. “Okay, here it is. I’m going to hit a hardball straight at the guy on the mound.” When Father John didn’t say anything, he plunged into it. “I thought this would be a good assignment. I could get involved with the people, help them, maybe bring a little consolation and hope, and maybe they’d do the same for me. An isolated place out of the craziness where I could get my life back. It worked for you.”
“So far.”
“You know what I think?” Ian McCauley was warming up now, gripping the bat harder, ready to whack the fastball. “You got yourself a nice little fiefdom here, where you’re the lord and master, and you can do anything you like.”
“What?” Father John wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but this wasn’t it.
“Don’t pull the denial act on me. I’m a priest, too, and I’ve put in my time in the confessional. I’ve heard it all. I know all the subterfuges and lies.”
“What are you talking about?” Father John said.
“Everywhere I go, the social committee and religious ed meetings, AA, morning Mass, I get the same question: Where’s Father John? Nothing can start around here, nothing’s quite right unless the almighty presence graces the room. I’m your man, I tell them. Well, the look on their faces! The perfect picture of misery. What’s it like to be loved like that?”
“It’ll take time, Ian. Give the people a little time to get to know you.”
“Over at the senior center yesterday, the elders said to be sure to tell Father John to come by again soon. Today at the hospital, I walked into Louis Birdsong’s room and the man’s face fell into the bedsheets. ‘Hey, Father,’ he says, doing his best to cover up, ‘I thought you was Father John.’ ”
“I’ve been here almost nine years,” Father John said. “They’re used to me.”
“Well, I drove out of the hospital lot and kept driving. Past the bars, and there are a helluva lot of bars in town when you’re not looking for one, and pretty soon, I started looking and I ordered myself a double whiskey.”
Father John leaned forward, clasping his hands between his knees, his eyes on his boots. “So what do you think, Ian? Is this going to be a problem?”
“What do I think? Alkie’s lie, didn’t you know?”
Oh, he knew. Father John kept his eyes lowered. He could lie with the best of them. One drink was all he’d had, he’d told the superior back at the prep school when he’d been teaching. One drink doesn’t hurt anybody. Lies and lies.
“It’s not going to be a problem,” Ian said. “I’ve fallen off the wagon before and climbed back on.”
Father John looked up. The man had been watching him, calculating the next move, the next lie. “I can call the Provincial and arrange for a short stay in rehab,” he said. “A refresher.”
“I said, it’s not going to be a problem.”
“It can’t do any harm.”
“You don’t want me here, do you?”
Father John leaned back. “What makes you say that?”
“Let’s be honest. You’ve run off every assistant the Society has sent out here. You don’t want the competition. You call the Provincial, and I’ll be out of here tomorrow.”
“Not necessarily. I’ll recommend . . .”
Ian cut in. “What I don’t get is how you’ve managed to stay here so long.”
“You’re talking in riddles, man,” Father John said, not trying to hide his growing irritation.
“I’ve heard the rumors.”
Ah, here it was, Father John thought. The rumors about Father O’Malley and the Arapaho lawyer on the reservation, how there was something more than just friendship between them. Dear Lord, he’d thought those rumors had died a natural death.
“Whatever you heard is wrong,” he said. “Vicky Holden and I have worked together. That’s all.”
Ian was smiling and shaking his head. “Soon as your assistants figure out what’s going on, you get them out of here before they can blow the whistle.”
Father John stood up. “Let’s get something straight,” he said. The other priest pushed himself to his feet and faced him. “There’s no drinking at St. Francis Mission. No bars, no double shots of whiskey, no bottles. Nothing. You’ve got one last chance.” He let this hang between them a moment, then, tossing his head in the direction of the kitchen, he said, “Get yourself some coffee and something to eat. I’ll take the social committee meeting tonight.”
“No way.” The other priest shook his head. “It’s my committee, and I’m the priest who should be there. You’re going to have to get used to the competition, because I intend to stay.”
Father John turned and walked back across the entry and into his study. He dropped down into the old leather chair that had adjusted itself to the contours of his back and snapped on the desk lamp, aware of the footsteps ascending the stairs and clumping down the upstairs hall, the sound of the shower coming on. His own little fiefdom, Ian had said. Well, that was a new idea. He’d only been aware that he was happy at St. Francis. He felt that he belonged here. And the trust in the brown faces looking up at him when he said Mass, the people hurrying over when he walked into a meeting at Eagle Hall, the expectant tone in the voices on the phone saying, Can you come over, Father? He felt needed here, that the Arapahos needed him more than he needed a drink. He felt safe.
He tossed a pencil over the stacks of papers on his desk. Which was the reason that the Society of Jesus didn’t usually leave priests in one assignment more than six years. They might start to feel safe, secure in their own little fiefdom, start making plans—God, he had so many plans, so much he still wanted to do—new programs and classes, new coat of paint on the buildings, new pews for the church. They were the same, he and Ian McCauley, fighting the same thirst, wanting to belong.
He swiveled around and flipped through the stack of opera CDs on the bookshelf, then set Il Trovatore in the player, and tried to work his way through the stack of mail. Over the sounds of “Soli or siamo!” and “Il balen del suo sorriso” came the clank of dishes in the kitchen, the footsteps in the hall, and, finally, the front door thudding shut.
He was heading into the kitchen for his own dinner when he heard the knocking. He turned around and walked back down the hall. A cloud of wet air blew into the entry when he pulled open the door. Vicky stood on the other side, hands jammed into her coat pockets, flakes of moisture—or was it tears?—on her eyelashes.
“May I talk to you?” she said.
“Come in.” Father John stepped back to give her room. Something must have happened. He could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she’d come to the residence—only when she’d felt she had nowhere else to go.
“Let me take your coat.” He closed the door behind her.
“I think I’ll keep it,” she said, hugging her arms now. Her face looked pinched with worry, and he wondered how long she’d been driving around.
“We can talk in the study.” He nodded toward the doorway behind her, although she knew where the study was. When she came to the residence, they’d always talked in the study. It seemed safer there, less personal, an envelope of ordinariness and business. “I’ll get you some coffee.”
He hoped the coffee was still hot. He watched her turn into the study, struck again at how small she seemed, and vulnerable, beneath the steel armor that she’d taught herself to wear. Then he walked back to the kitchen, found a couple of mugs in the drain on the counter, and poured out the coffee. Plumes of steam rose over his hands. He could feel the heat working through the mugs as he walked back.
21
VICKY WAS IN the side chair across from the desk, strips of shadow and light playing over her face. “Mira d’acerbe” drifted through the study. She reached up and took the coffee that he handed her. Then Father John walked around the desk and turned down the volume. He came back and sat on the chair next to her. “You okay?” he asked.
“What about you?” Vicky gestured to the Band-Aid on his cheek.
“It’s nothing,” he said.
Eye of the Wolf Page 17