Eye of the Wolf

by Margaret Coel

  “A bullet is nothing? I heard you were wounded at Bates.”

  He shrugged, trying to put it aside, and finally she said, “I agreed to represent Frankie Montana today.”

  “I thought you’d represented him all along.”

  She gave a little laugh and took another sip. “I’d excused myself and suggested he find another lawyer. Adam and I . . .” Vicky paused and looked away. “We’ve been working with the Arapahos and Shoshones on a plan to manage wolves on the reservation. Looks like other big cases will come our way.”

  “You’re a good team,” Father John said. He used to think he and Vicky were a good team. “I’m glad it’s working out.”

  She dipped her head toward the mug and took a long sip of coffee. Avoiding his eyes, he thought, not wanting to reveal something—whatever it was that had brought her here tonight. He’d had years of experience counseling people, watching the ways they avoided the truth.

  “Things don’t look good for Frankie,” she said. He could hear the avoidance in her tone. “Burton’s interviewed him.”

  “He’s interviewing a lot of people. Probably everybody who knew Trent Hunter and the Crispin brothers.”

  “Frankie’s the one the murdered men had filed an assault complaint against. Even Frankie admits they had an altercation Friday night at Fort Washakie. He claims they assaulted him, but if they were alive to show up at the tribal court, the judge might not agree.” Vicky took another drink, then gripped the mug in both hands, as if she wanted to draw the warmth into herself. “It doesn’t take a mind reader to figure out what Burton’s thinking. Frankie had the motivation to shoot all three men. He owned a rifle, which conveniently disappeared before the murders. And he doesn’t have an alibi.”

  Il Trovatore was still floating around them. Father John could feel Vicky’s doubt working its way under his skin. It was contagious, like a virus.

  “Frankie lied about where he was on Saturday, and he’s counting on his mother to perjure herself, which she’ll do, I’m sure.”

  Father John didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to press her for an explanation of why she was so certain Frankie had lied. There were ways in which she knew things, just as there were for him. Lawyer and priest. People confided in them, and they kept confidences. He sat back and took a long drink of his own coffee, his eyes on the woman next to him. She was staring straight ahead, her face almost unreadable, except for the tiny blue vein that pulsed in her temple and the slightest tremor in her lower lip.

  “Why Bates?” She shifted toward him. “I keep asking myself, why would Frankie go to the trouble of killing the Shoshones at the Bates Battlefield? He could have shot them anywhere on the reservation. I’d be surprised if Frankie even cares about a massacre that happened a hundred and thirty years ago.” She stopped, then hurried on. “The Gazette said you found the bodies after somebody had left a telephone message. What was it, John?”

  Father John got to his feet. He set his mug on the desk, turned off the opera, and ejected the CD. Then he opened the side drawer, withdrew the tape of the telephone call, and inserted it into the player. He pressed another button and looked over at Vicky.

  The crackling noise, like paper being crunched near the mike, burst out of the machine, then the mechanical voice. It could have been the voice of a robot moving stiff-legged across the floor. This is for the Indian priest . . .

  The voice was as chilling as when he’d first heard it. He could feel the evil, like a presence, invading the space between them. When the message ended, he pressed the off button and turned back to Vicky. Her face had gone rigid, stonelike, drained of life.

  “The killer,” she said, nodding toward the silent tape player. “He must have had access to a recording studio. He knew how to change his voice. He knew how to get the exact sound that he wanted. That takes a pro, John.”

  “Burton’s probably already checked the studios in the area.” Father John sat on the edge of the desk, facing her.

  “Two years ago,” Vicky began, hesitancy in the way she was reeling out the words, “for all of three or four weeks, Frankie had a job at the radio station on the reservation. He was on the air for two hours every day playing Indian music. Carlos Nakai, Bill Miller, Joanne Shenandoah, people like that.”

  She stood up and walked past him to the window. Pulling the slats apart with her fingers, she stared out for a moment into the yellow glow of light shining over Circle Drive a moment. “Frankie’s managed to land a half-dozen jobs in the last several years, which gives Lucille hope.” She let the slats drop and turned back, something new settling behind her eyes, a mixture of weariness and resignation. “As soon as Burton finds out that Frankie worked in a radio station, he’ll see that Frankie’s charged with three counts of first-degree murder.”

  “Look, Vicky,” Father John began, “just because Frankie once worked at the studio doesn’t mean he had access recently.”

  “Knowing Frankie, he probably has an extra key.” Vicky threw both hands into the air and walked over to the desk, then pivoted about and headed back to the window. Pacing. Pacing. “Somebody could have let him in, a buddy at the station who would never admit it. There’s any number of ways Frankie could have recorded that message.”

  Father John was quiet a moment, watching her carve out a small circle on the carpet. She always paced when she was upset, when she was trying to work something out. He was struck by how much he remembered about her. Weeks went by when he didn’t see her, then she appeared again, and so many little things popped into his mind, as if they’d only retreated into the background, waiting to be summoned.

  He said, “You said yourself that Frankie probably doesn’t care about what happened at Bates.”

  “He must have overheard the Shoshones talking,” she said, making her way around the circle. “That’s it, John.” She stopped almost in midstep. “He overheard them at the bar talking about going to the battlefield. They were taking classes at the college. Maybe they had to visit the site for a class.” She stepped forward and bent her head toward him. “That’s it, isn’t it? They had to visit the site.”

  Father John nodded. It was starting to make sense, everything she said. “They were in Professor Lambert’s class. The man blames himself for the fact that they went to Bates.”

  “Oh, God.” Vicky combed her fingers through her hair and resumed pacing. “What kind of lawyer am I, taking a client like Frankie Montana. He’s guilty, and he belongs in prison. They should throw away the key.”

  “You don’t have to do this. There are other lawyers . . .”

  She swung around and fixed him with a hard glare. “You sound like Adam. Let him hire a twenty-seven-year-old two years out of law school who needs the work. So throw Frankie to the wolves. You know what, John?” She walked over and stood in front of him. “Maybe I could go along with that, if I didn’t mind seeing Lucille’s face every night when I closed my eyes, and if I didn’t know that, the day they locked up Frankie, it would destroy her. I’ll defend him with everything I’ve got, and you know what? If we win, the bastard will probably go out and kill somebody else. So walking around right now is some poor fool who doesn’t even suspect . . .”

  “Whoa, Vicky! Stop!” Father John pushed himself off the desk and placed his hands on her shoulders. He could feel her shivering beneath the thickness of her wool coat. “What’s going on? What’s this all about?”

  Slowly, her face began to crack, like a sheet of ice starting to break up, and little by little, the dark, distorted thing that was below the surface began to seep into the cracks. She was starting to sink beneath his hands, and for a second, he thought she might crumble to the floor. He pulled her close. His own breath felt warm in her hair. “What is it, Vicky? Tell me.”

  She was weeping silently against his shirt. It was a moment before she pulled back and began patting at her cheeks. Then she was running her fingers through her hair, tossing the strands sideways, as if she could toss away all of it, whatever had
worked up from below the surface.

  “I’m falling apart,” she said.

  “No, you’re not.” He kept his voice calm, reassuring.

  “I’m looking for an excuse, any excuse to dump Frankie, as if that would make any difference between Adam and me.”

  This was about Adam, Father John was thinking, and he realized that somehow he’d known that. “What’s going on?” he said.

  “A man comes into your life.” Vicky tilted her head back and was staring at the ceiling. “You think this is a good man. This is going to work. This time, I’ll make it work. We have the firm and we have an important project, one that matters. If we do a good job helping the tribes come up with a plan to manage wolves, we’ll continue to get jobs.”

  “There’s no time for Frankie Montana.”

  “Right.” Vicky was hugging her arms.

  “Can’t you and Adam work this out, Vicky? Frankie hasn’t been arrested. And if he is, couldn’t you take a little time from the firm to handle the case?”

  “That’s so like you, John. So rational.”

  Rational. It was the second time in the last couple of hours he’d been called that.

  “It’s not the kind of firm we are,” Vicky was saying. “DUIs, divorces, rent disputes, defending the Frankie Montanas on murder charges. We’ve already talked to tribal officials about other projects. New oil leases, agreements to open natural gas deposits. Important issues, John, and the tribe will hire us, because Adam’s one of the partners. He’s Lakota and he’s a man.” She paused, then hurried on, her voice edging toward hysteria. “They like him and they trust him. People trust Adam, John. That’s the thing about Adam. He seems so . . . so right on.”

  He had it now, Father John was thinking. Pieces of the puzzle locking themselves into place. “You don’t trust Adam,” he said.

  “It’s over between us.”

  “Because you’re going to represent Frankie? Because you want to help Lucille?”

  Vicky was shaking her head. “Adam’s involved with someone else.”

  Father John had to look away from the pinpricks of pain in her eyes. A wave of disbelief and anger washed over him. What was the matter with Adam Lone Eagle? Didn’t he know what he had?

  “Are you sure?” he said, bringing his eyes back to hers. In the pain that was still there, he knew the answer.

  “I know,” she said. “I had years of experience with Ben. I learned my lesson well.”

  “Like a nose for alcohol,” he said.

  “What?”

  Father John shook off the question. “Some things you just know,” he said. “I’m sorry, Vicky.”

  She started crying, standing there so still, arms dangling at her side.

  Father John put his arms around her and pulled her to him again. “I’m truly sorry, Vicky. I wanted it to work for you. I wanted you to be happy.” What a waste of happiness, he was thinking. What a huge, sad waste.

  “Oh, excuse me.”

  Father John lifted his eyes over Vicky’s head. Father Ian was in the doorway, a mixture of incredulity and amusement in his expression.

  “I didn’t know you had a visitor,” he said.

  Vicky took a step back, patting at her cheeks again, then smoothing the front of her coat. “I was just leaving,” she said.

  “This is Father Ian McCauley,” Father John said. “Ian, meet Vicky Holden.” But his assistant already knew who she was. Father John could tell by the glance the man threw at him—like a fast pitch, daring him to take a swing.

  “The social committee needs the list of parishioners released from the hospital in the last month,” Ian said.

  Father John turned away and began shuffling through the stacks of papers and folders on his desk, finally retrieving the file with “Hospital/ Home” on the tab. He handed the file to the other priest.

  “Good.” Ian dangled the folder from one hand and started backing up. “Nice to meet you,” he said to Vicky before he disappeared around the door. His boots clacked in the entry, then a cold gust erupted into the study.

  “That was embarrassing,” Vicky said.

  “You have nothing to be embarrassed about.”

  “I didn’t mean to fall apart like that. I’d better get going.”

  “Take a few minutes. I’ll get you more coffee.”

  Vicky put up the palm of one hand. “It’s just going to take some getting used to, having my plans rearranged.” She walked over and picked up the bag she’d dropped on the floor next to the chair. “Thanks for listening. I needed somebody to talk to,” she said, fixing the strap of the bag into the curve of her shoulder.

  Father John followed her to the front door. Reaching around, he pulled the door open. “Will you be okay?”

  “I’ll be fine.” She reached for his hand and held it in hers a moment. Then she tugged her gloves out of her coat pockets and started down the sidewalk for the Jeep, pulling on her gloves as she went.

  Father John waited until the Jeep had started around Circle Drive before he went back to the study. He dropped down at his desk and stared into the shadows washing over the bookcases. Well, this was awkward. The minute he called the Provincial to suggest that his new assistant go back into rehab, Father Ian McCauley would suggest that it was time for the pastor to be sent elsewhere.

  22

  THE RECEPTION AREA of Riverton Memorial felt muffled in the wet snow that had fallen during the night. Moisture glistened on the vinyl floor that ran across the lobby and down a wide corridor. A few people occupied the chairs against the walls, hushed conversations drifting toward the desk with the small sign that said “Information.” Father John stopped at the desk and waited, drumming his knuckles along the edge, aware of the dull headache that seemed to have connected to the soreness in his cheek.

  He’d slept badly, tossing in a wilderness of anger and sadness: anger at Adam Lone Eagle—what was the matter with the man?—and sadness at the raw hurt in Vicky’s eyes. But another idea had hovered at the edge of his mind. Vicky was free again. She had no one to turn to—Hi sei ci nihi, Woman Alone—except for him. She’d needed him. Dear God, his assistant was right. He was a dry alcoholic who needed people to need him, just as he’d needed a drink.

  Two minutes must have passed before a slim, dark-haired woman who looked about forty emerged from the door behind the counter, carrying a paper cup of coffee. “Hello, Father,” she said, her face breaking into an easy smile. He recognized her. She was often on duty when he came in. “You here about the girl you brought into emergency” she said.

  Edith Bradbury was the girl’s name, he said, unsure of whether the woman had the information. Could she tell him what room she was in?

  The woman looked over at a computer screen and tapped several keys on the keyboard. “Down the hall, first door beyond the nurse’s station,” she said without looking up. “Wait a minute.” Her fingers ran over the screen. “Looks like Edith Bradbury’s checked out.”

  “Checked out?”

  The woman took her eyes from the screen and rested them on a spot beneath the counter where she’d set the paper cup, a faint look of longing in her expression. “Good news, I guess,” she said. “She must’ve had a good night or the doctors wouldn’t be letting her go.”

  “You’re sure she’s gone?”

  Her gaze shifted back to the screen. “Well, the records say she checked out.”

  “Can you tell me where she went?”

  The woman hesitated. “Well, Father, even if I could . . .”

  “Edie’s coming with me.” It was a male voice, rumbling like a bassoon over the faint buzz of conversations.

  Father John turned around. Jason Rizzo was striding down the corridor, dressed the same as yesterday. A uniform, Father John thought, black leather, silver chains and studs, blue jeans wrinkling around the thick legs, and high-top, snap-up black boots.

  “Where are you planning on taking her, Rizzo?” Father John said. He could hear the alarm bell sounding in his voi
ce. Professor Lambert could be right. If Edie Bradbury had gone back to Rizzo, then it was possible she’d helped Rizzo take out his revenge on Trent. Or was it that Rizzo had helped her?

  He tried to push away the thought.

  “Now let me just see here.” The man ran one hand over his chin, as if he were searching for stubble. “I’m asking myself, is there any reason why this here priest needs to know my business? You know the answer I keep getting, coming through loud and clear?”

  “Where, Rizzo?”

  “Where? Where?” The man lifted one foot and took a step forward, then another, his boots stomping hard on the vinyl. He could have been a giant advancing toward the counter.

  “We don’t want any trouble, Mr. Rizzo.” The woman’s voice sounded faint and shriveled. “I can call security.”

  “You folks are good at calling security. I ain’t forgot that little number over in emergency.” Rizzo jabbed an index finger at the desk. “That’s a little grudge I’m gonna worry about settling up later. Right now, all I’m worried about is getting my woman out of here and back where she belongs, with her own kind.”

  Father John shouldered past the man. He caught the look of surprise that flashed in Rizzo’s eyes and kept going down the corridor. The blond head and white shoulders of a nurse floated above a nurse’s station. A man in green scrubs was pushing a gurney through a side door, a limp plastic bag dangling from the top of a metal pole.

  A heavy hand, like a weight, gripped his shoulder, and Rizzo’s voice rang in his ear. “You hold up there.”

  Father John yanked himself free and turned around. Little black stubs poked from the pores in the man’s face; his breath was fueled with a mixture of coffee and whiskey.

  “You got a problem, Rizzo?” he said.

  “Yeah, I got a problem with you sticking your nose in our business, Edie’s and mine. Why don’t you just get out of here.”

  “I will as soon as I see her.”

  “Maybe she don’t wanna see you.”

  “Edie can tell me so.” Father John headed past the station, and the blond head tilted up from the stack of paper on a clipboard, eyebrows lifting above the light-colored eyes.