On a Quiet Street

by J. L. Doucette

  “You’re making my point. Three years together and I didn’t know him. So how do you know the sheriff so well?”

  Antelope stared out at the room. “At first, he could do no wrong. I needed a mentor and he was there. I was blind to his faults. Things changed and I got to see the real man when the truth came out about his involvement with Kimi and the woman in Lander.”

  “You lost respect for him.”

  “I did. But that weakness and dishonesty is part of the man, part of what makes him who he is. I had to accept I chose a mentor who wasn’t perfect. It was tough. I only wanted to be associated with someone who everyone looked up to. I needed that because I didn’t have enough confidence in myself and my ability to make it in the job. I’ve figured it out now, though: I’m the only one who can do it.”

  “By the time I learned about Zeke’s faults, he was dead.”

  “No chance to find out if you would have loved the whole man.”

  “It’s been easy to hate him.”

  “Suppose he’d lived to tell the tale? Suppose he’d come to you and told you about the other woman, begged your forgiveness, and wanted to save the marriage?”

  “I’ll never know.”

  “Why did he cheat?”

  “You mean besides the fact that he was a handsome, charming narcissist who could have any woman he wanted?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I have thought about that.”

  “You don’t need to tell me.”

  “This case has been good for me. It’s helping me see some things I hadn’t thought about before. Interesting thing: Zeke was sexually molested by a priest when he was in boarding school. It went on for a few years. He never told anyone until way later, but it’s the reason he sought therapy in college. He said he became a psychiatrist because therapy saved his life. A nice, neat ending. Now I’m not so sure. Maybe his problems with intimacy stemmed from the abuse—maybe that’s why he went outside the marriage.”

  “It’s guaranteed to mess with people’s relationships, right?”

  “It’s impossible to get away without some kind of scar. There are so many different ways it can show up in people’s lives. It’s the same for any interpersonal trauma: each individual responds in their own way.”

  “What about our guys, Tim, Max, and Connor?”

  “Tim died so young, so we don’t know how it would have affected him long term. And Max’s head injury changed him dramatically. It’s hard to know if any of the changes can be attributed to his abuse experience.”

  “And Connor? How did the sexual abuse affect him?”

  “A few possibilities: first, he’s into some kinky sexual things—erotic asphyxiation we know about, there may be more; second, he’s sexually jealous and insecure, avoidant of sexual intimacy, and possibly unfaithful; and third, he might have murdered his fiancée.”

  She looked so serious counting off the reasons on her fingers. But her hair had come loose from its topknot, and the low light and music made him forget for a minute all the reasons he shouldn’t touch her.

  He leaned over and brushed her hair off her face.

  She went still as a hunted animal sensing the hunter. Then she smiled at him, and he saw the barrier was gone.

  “I never saw us doing this, Doc—drinking and talking about sex in a bar.” He took a long sip of his Coors and gave her a wicked smile.

  She returned the grin. “Do you want to take a drive with me down to Flaming Gorge? I want to see where the accident happened.”

  “How’s tomorrow morning work for you?”

  “I head out to ride as the sun’s coming up, and then I have some work to do in the morning.”

  “Give me a call when you’re done. I’ll come and we can check it out.”

  CHAPTER 44

  Up before the sun, restless and excited for the trip to Flaming Gorge, I drove out to the ranch where I board my horse, Soldier, a light gray, formerly wild mustang.

  It was a fine morning for riding, the air still cool from the cover of night and sweet with the perfume of dew-moist desert flowers, and both Soldier and I needed the workout. With all the extra hours I’d been devoting to the murder investigation, I wanted to grab these morning hours for a trail ride.

  Two years earlier, I’d fallen in love with Soldier at the Rock Springs Wild Horse Holding Facility. The small ranch, located north of town, was a ten-minute drive from my house, which made it easy to ride a couple of times a week. After months of work with a Native horse trainer, I got on Soldier for the first time.

  I saddled him and we headed out through the back acre and onto free range. The sun, a small white ball of energy on the eastern horizon, chased the falling moon across the indigo sky.

  An hour later, as we came up to the rail fence at the border of the ranch, a warm wind stirred the grasses.

  Back in the barn, I went through the usual post-ride routine.

  “I’ll be back soon,” I told Soldier before giving him one last pat and heading for home.

  Antelope and I made plans to head out to Flaming Gorge at noon. He offered to buy dinner if I agreed to drive. He suggested the White Mountain Mining Company, where we could visit with Diego, who’d recently started a second job there as a waiter.

  One of my jobs for the county is facilitating a community aftercare group for sex offenders returning from prison. It’s not easy creating a respectable life with a good job with a sex offender label. Diego had participated in that group for the length of his parole, so I’d gotten to know him fairly well.

  I fixed a quick breakfast of coffee and oatmeal and sat down to tackle the custody evaluation that had languished at the bottom of my priority list all week. I finished the report by eleven, leaving me time for a long shower.

  Next, a small challenge: choosing clothes appropriate for the various activities of the day, which included hiking a deadly rock climbing route and dinner at a fancy steakhouse.

  After giving it way too much thought, I chose my black tank top and black jeans, silver medallion necklace, red leather sandals, and new red Mexican shawl for the afternoon chill. I brought my boots along for the trail.

  It bothered me a little that I’d taken so much time putting together an outfit because I wanted to look good for Antelope.

  By 12:10 p.m., we were heading south on Highway 191. A four-wheel drive vehicle wasn’t required—the loop road around the lake was paved—but my Jeep would give us more flexibility to explore the dirt roads around the campground and bouldering sites.

  “Have you been down this way before?” Antelope asked.

  “I haven’t.” I glanced out at the sparkling water. “It’s amazing. I miss the ocean. I’ll have to come back and swim here sometime.”

  Most of the drive on Highway 191 resembled the terrain between Rock Springs and Green River. It only turned mountainous on the Utah side of the Ashley National Forest.

  Pagan Cave, the spot where the accident had happened, was a slanted rock face of black, white, and pink granite. The grove of trees surrounding it gave it the appearance of being in a tunnel.

  A pristine spot in an almost untouched area, the inverted slant of the rock face represented a thrill for an experienced climber, a challenge and opportunity to test skills.

  “Impressive,” I said. “I can’t imagine trying to scale it. But it’s not my thing. And this is not my country. Am I overreacting, or is this a beautiful deathtrap?”

  “The thing with this sport—it’s real easy to die,” Antelope said. “Sometimes the more experienced you are the more likely it is you’ll die doing the thing you love, because skill is only one factor. There’s the rock itself and its unique challenges; the mindset and attitude of the individual climber and of the group; and the weather—which, I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, is a moody thing here in Wyoming. Other than forgetting to tie a knot in a line, the weather is the most aggressive factor in climbing deaths.”

  “Those boys were inexperienced climbers. How could he have ta
ken them here?”

  Antelope shrugged. “Testosterone is a powerful drug. I guess the clergy is not immune to its effects on competition.”

  “And they wanted to impress him. I keep wondering about Connor returning home alone after this special graduation trip. The three boys went out together excited, the whole summer stretching out in front of them, their whole lives ahead of them after that. But only one of them comes home intact. This horrible tragedy wipes out Tim’s future completely and changes Max’s future so profoundly, and Connor is left to go on without his friends.”

  “Not sure someone can ever really recover from that kind of thing,” Antelope said.

  I nodded. “I believe Father Bellamy when he says Connor’s suffering was great. Survivor guilt, the feeling that somehow you got lucky when the others didn’t, makes it hard to be happy after that kind of experience.”

  Antelope grew thoughtful. “I wonder if he ever came back here.”

  It didn’t seem likely to me. “It’s a gorgeous spot, but for Connor I imagine it would be like visiting a grave.”

  “One of my favorite places is just down the way a bit, a short dirt road out of the Firefighters Memorial Campground. It’s three miles out and back, but we can drive most of it, and it will give you a sense of the scale of this place. I can show it to you if you have the time and the footwear?” He looked down at my sandals.

  “My boots are in the Jeep.”

  I let Antelope drive, since he knew the area. At the campground, he made a sharp turn onto a nearly invisible entrance to a dirt road. We bounced through heavy pine forests until the trees gave way to a grassy plateau. When we reached a bank above a high, fast-moving river, he stopped and threw the car into park.

  Without a word, he hopped out of the car, jumped down off the bank, and started walking along the water’s edge. I followed, happy to be out of the car, to have the soft resistance of the river-bed under my feet. The sun beat down and I heard the rhythmic murmur of river water moving over rocks.

  We came to a wide boulder with a flat top and a view of the lake. I sat down and let my legs hang over the edge, leaned back, and raised my face to the sun. Antelope sat beside me on the warm, rough surface and looked out over the expanse of water in front of us.

  “This is my place,” he said. “Bear Canyon Overlook. It’s where I come when it all gets to be too much.”

  “We all have those times. We all have our places.”

  We sat for a while in companionable silence.

  “It looks good now,” he finally said, “but the best time is either sunrise or sunset.”

  “It must be outstanding in the right light.”

  He smiled slightly. “We’ll come back another time.”

  In no time we were back on I-80 keeping time with eighteen-wheelers, dwarfed by their long shadows, the wind blowing my hair across my face. We didn’t speak. Antelope seemed lost in his own thoughts, and he was still driving; I wanted his full attention on the road as he maneuvered in and out of the spaces between the speeding trucks.

  The noise from the wind and the trucks would have made talking impossible anyway.

  The roar of the highway dimmed as he downshifted and slowed his speed to manage the turns coming into Green River.

  “Tell me more about what you know about priests molesting kids,” he said. “I keep thinking what happened to those boys is somehow related to Stacey’s murder. I could be wrong, but I’ve learned to listen to my gut on these things.”

  “Perverted priests molesting altar boys happens so often it’s almost a cliché,” I said, shaking my head. “The Church’s response to disciplining the offenders is notable for its utter disregard for the impact the abuse has on the innocent child victims. It’s all about protecting the perpetrator, protecting the church’s image in the community. Clergy at every level are in denial. And that’s not just an historical fact; the same thing continues today, all the way up to the Vatican.”

  “That’s what Toni said.” Antelope’s fingers drummed the steering wheel. “It’s why she left the convent. She didn’t want to be associated with a organization that functioned that way.”

  “She’s just one of legions who had to give up a dream about the Church’s righteousness.”

  “She didn’t like Father Bellamy’s approach, either. She felt really let down when he fell on the side of the deniers. She said he’s either a narcissist or sociopath. What’s your sense of him?”

  I thought about our meeting with him. “I need more time with him alone to give you a clinical impression. I can see her point. He’s superficially charming, but underneath I sense he’s a cold fish. But let’s be clear, not every narcissist, not even every sociopath, is a child molester.”

  “You think he’s got what it takes to be an abuser?”

  “It would be taking a big risk. He seems to have a good thing going, and from everything we hear, from him and others, he’s loved by all. Widespread popularity is not typical of the priests who abuse; isolation and dark corners is more their thing.”

  “But like you said, the church is an old boys’ network, and the response is just a slap on the wrist, a transfer to a parish in the boondocks. For someone depraved enough to molest kids, that seems like a small price to pay.”

  “Antelope, this may come as a surprise to you as a Wyoming native, but Rock Springs is the boondocks. And now there are protocols that prohibit transfer as a way of dealing with an offending priest.”

  “So if he got caught he would be looking at bigger consequences?”

  “Most likely. It could mean the Church being done with him, or legal consequences; or maybe financial consequences, such as losing his pension. Trapped in a situation like that a person could become desperate, even dangerous.”

  “And what would a dangerous priest do?”

  We arrived at the White Mountain Mining Company with the first of the early bird diners.

  “I hope you don’t mind the early hour,” Antelope said. “I wanted a chance to talk to Diego before the place filled up.”

  “It’s hard to ruin a steak for me—I’ll take medium rare any time, any day.”

  “The county’s buying, so order the best, Doc. It was Diego’s idea for me to bring you here.”

  “Is that right?”

  “I think he wants you to see him being successful.”

  We stepped out into a summer evening made for romance. We were at one of the best restaurants in the county, and likely the only two people there who wanted to talk murder.

  From the outside, the building resembled an airplane hangar. The location, behind a chain link fence on an acre of dry desert surrounded by a gravel parking lot devoid of vegetation, didn’t help the curb appeal.

  Inside it was an Old West log cabin with white tablecloths and antique oil lamps.

  “You look great, Doc,” Antelope said. “Too sophisticated for any other place around here.”

  I smiled. “I like it when you call me, Doc, Detective.”

  Diego came over to meet us with an armful of oversize menus and led us to a corner table beside a west-facing window. A first glimmer of sunset, a wide crayon streak of bold orange, outlined the curving spine of White Mountain. When viewed from this vantage point, the two mounds of limestone rock resembled a woman reclining.

  Behind the restaurant, the desert stretched up to Pilot Butte, where a herd of wild horses roamed free on miles of open land. The wilderness, mysterious and menacing always, tonight felt taut with a frenzied energy

  Across the table, Antelope studied the menu in the golden light; the strong flame cast quick, dancing shadows over the fine planes of his kind face.

  Diego came to the table to take our order, handsome in a white shirt and black tie. He’d called it—I enjoyed seeing him here, working a job he could be proud of, looking respectable and pleased with himself.

  “How’s the case going?” he asked. “I’m thinking that’s why I get to see the two of you out two nights in a row?”
>
  “We’re coming up short,” Antelope said. “All we hear is there’s no reason this woman got herself murdered.”

  “How do you do it?” A shadow crossed Diego’s face. “Just hearing about it brings Kimi’s murder back for me”

  “It hasn’t been so long,” I said. “Just six months.”

  “People say it gets easier. You can’t tell by me.”

  “If you want a place to talk about it, you know where to find me,” I said.

  “I been thinking about it, yeah—I’ll call and we can do that soon,” Diego said.

  A few minutes later he returned with the wine and glasses. When he finished pouring, he gave a small bow and said, “Time to enjoy. No more talk of murder.”

  We followed his advice. Over the next hour and a half, Antelope told me about his time breaking horses in Riverton. I asked him if he could recommend a riding instructor—I felt like I’d hit a plateau in my skills—and he rattled off three Native names and promised to text their phone numbers later.

  When Diego brought the check over he looked serious, and I immediately wondered if he’d done something to get himself in trouble. In all the time he’d spent in treatment, he never lost the need to challenge everyone and everything. But it wasn’t a run-in with authority that had caused his change in mood.

  “I felt Kimi close by me all night,” he said. “She wants us to remember curiosity is a good trait, even though she met death while searching for the truth. What about this woman? Was she curious?”

  CHAPTER 45

  Max sat in the dark bedroom with the window open. The smoke from the joint floated out into the night. His mother hated it when he smoked in the house—hated the smell of weed. It was easy to appease her in this way. Things went better between them when he didn’t give her anything to nag him about.

  Most of the time he controlled his temper, but lately it had been getting harder to maintain, no matter how much he smoked. The funny thing was, she couldn’t tell when he was high. Even when he sat zombie-like for hours without uttering a word, she left him alone. It must say something about his non-high personality. Or maybe she just didn’t pay much attention to him.