The Dream Stalker (21 page)

Still praying in Arapaho, Grandfather Hedly brought the wheel close to her. “May this woman, your daughter, accept what is given to her as it is given to her.” Raising it to the right side of her head, he slowly brought it down along her body to her right foot. Still
praying, he raised the wheel again and brought it down her left side. “May this woman, your daughter find the direction you have given her without difficulty.”

Then he repeated the blessing—four times in all—and said, “May this woman, your daughter, walk in balance to find the center of her life.”

When he had finished, the old man returned the sacred wheel to the folds of the bundle and laid Vicky’s fabric over it. Slowly he began folding the other layers into place—the fabrics, the buffalo hide. Then he turned around, his eyes on her.
“Nih’a ca
has allowed all creatures to share his power. Bear has come to show you how to use the power
Nih’a ca
gave to him. Bear is strong. His home is inside the earth, which he protects. The green river is the poison that will flood the earth if it is not protected. Bear has come to you in your dream to bring you the strength you need now. But your heart must be pure to accept the gift of strength. You must ask your heart: Do you wish to protect the earth and help the People, or do you wish only to become puffed up and proud so that people will say, ‘How important this woman is.’ You must think about these things. You must keep your heart pure. And then you must do what is right, and you will not become tired.”

*   *   *

White clouds drifted across the sky, like waves foaming on an ocean, as Vicky climbed back into the Bronco. She felt calm, refreshed. Whatever happened to her, she knew she would have the strength to do what she must. She felt like a warrior in the Old Time, riding into battle with the
Hiiteni
—the symbol of the power given in a dream—painted on a battle shield. Confident in the dream power. Supremely confident, even as the warrior galloped toward death.

21

“
Y
ou got the strike zone?” Father John called.

“Yeah, I got it, Father.” Charlie Longbull did a little shuffle, concentrating on the space above the plate. His black eyes shone with anticipation as he gripped the bat.

Father John walked over and positioned the bat over the kid’s shoulder. “Bat behind your hands, remember. Weight on back leg. Why is that?”

“So I get power, Father. When I connect.”

“Okay. Let’s see the power.” Father John stepped out of the way. He motioned to the kid on the mound, who reared back, went into an exaggerated windup and unleashed a fastball. The pitch might come in anywhere, Father John knew, especially at the start of the season with the kids trying to remember everything they’d forgotten over the winter.

The ball curved over the outside edge of the plate, thigh-high, and Charlie stepped into it. The
thwack
sounded across the field as the ball spiraled out over second base. Jason Little back-pedaled after it, gloved it. Then dropped it.

Charlie loped to first.
Ah, well,
Father John thought. They would work on defense later. Today they were practicing hitting, renewing an acquaintance with the strike zone, making some progress on the basics: See ball, hit ball.

He’d nearly forgotten about practice this afternoon. He hadn’t even realized it had stopped raining, he’d been so preoccupied when he got back to the office. He’d stopped by to see Agnes Bosse—poor woman, in shock and confusion. He’d have to go back later to discuss the funeral arrangements. This afternoon hadn’t been the time. Only a few hours earlier, Matthew had kissed her good-bye and left for a normal day at the tribal offices.

Then somebody had forced him off the road and shot him. And Father John couldn’t shake the feeling that Vicky could be next. The moment he’d gotten in the office, he’d tried to call her again, wanting to assure himself she was okay, ready to convince her to leave the area, and if that failed, which he expected, to insist she come to the guest house. She was stubborn, but so was he.

The secretary had answered. Ms. Holden was not in today, she’d announced once more. The same tone, but there was a hint of something new, he thought. Exasperation.

“Where can I reach her?”

“Sorry, Father O’Malley, but I’m really not at liberty—”

“Tell her I’ve got to speak with her.”

He’d hung up and walked down the hallway to Father Geoff’s office, a courtesy call to see how the other priest was feeling. He had a pretty good idea: head like a basketball, stomach lurching, walls spinning unexpectedly. He knew the feeling well. It was not a memory he wanted.

Father Geoff was on the phone. He glanced up, still intent on the conversation. Black circles rimmed his eyes behind the bone-framed glasses. His face was pale. It took a moment before Father John realized his assistant was discussing bingo equipment—the advantages of leasing versus buying.

“Absolutely not.” Father John broke into the conversation.

The other priest hurried through the good-byes and hung up. “You’re wrong, John. It’s the only way.” Earnestness filled his voice.

“I’m telling you, no bingo at St. Francis,” Father John said. He swung around and strode down the corridor, aware of the sound of his boots clacking against the floor.

“We don’t have any choice!” the other priest shouted just as Father John turned into his own office. He slammed the door, rattling the pane of glass.

For the next couple of hours, he had pitched himself into the work on his desk: returning phone calls, stacking and restacking bills in the order in which they should be paid, if and when they could ever be paid. Then he’d called the mortuary in Riverton and arranged for them to care for Gabriel Many Horses’ body as soon as the coroner released it. The poor man had already been dead two days. He should be buried on the third day, his ghost shown the way to the spirit world. It was what the Arapahos believed, and Father John sensed it was what the murdered cowboy would have wanted.

He’d just finished the call and was making some notes to himself when Charlie Longbull had knocked on the door and edged it open, peeking inside, black eyes dancing with light. “Ready, Father?” the boy asked.

Father John set down his pen. Sunlight streaked through the window, making little patterns on the worn carpet and the stucco walls. He gave the kid his most serious attention, as if they were about to deliberate a matter of grave importance.

“Ready? For what?”

“You know.” Charlie pushed the door wide open and thrust out his left hand. He had on a baseball glove.

“Oh, I get it,” Father John said, leaning back in his chair. “You’re ready to do some homework.”

“No, Father. Practice.”

“You want to practice homework?”

“Baseball practice, Father.” It came out “Fad—der.”

“Baseball!” Father John jumped out of his chair. “Well, why didn’t you say so?” he said, tousling the kid’s hair as he strode past him into the corridor.

Out in front, the other boys were waiting at the foot of the stairs, throwing balls into the air. One was throwing a glove. It landed on the gravel, and he ran after it, scooping it up as if it were a baseball.

“Where have you guys been?” Father John called as he hurried down the stairs. “I thought you were never going to show up.”

“It finally stopped rainin’, Father,” one kid called out.

“That so? Then we better get going before it starts again.”

The boys took off, racing across the center of the mission and out toward the baseball field. Father John ran after them, a sense of gladness washing over him. The ground was squishy, pocked with muddy puddles. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that the season was about to get under way. They were going to play some ball.

He was working with the next hitter, repeating the same instructions—focus on the zone, relax your grip, easy does it—when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gianelli coming along the side of the field, hands thrust into the pockets of his tan raincoat. The batter connected. A grounder sped toward left field.

“Who’s that, sweet-swinging Joe DiMaggio?” the fed asked, planting himself next to Father John.

“Looks a lot like Ted Williams to me.” Father John motioned up the next kid.

The agent stomped both feet into the soft ground. Lowering his voice, he said, “You heard what happened? Reservation’s starting to seem like goddamn
Tosca.
Somebody ran Bosse off the road this morning. Shot him.”

“I heard,” Father John said. He didn’t want to think about it right now. Now he just wanted to coach the Eagles.

Gianelli went on: “Must’ve rolled his window down, probably cussin’ out the bastard for putting him into the pit. The killer put a bullet right in his face.”

Father John motioned up the next batter. Then he turned toward the agent. “Just like the cowboy,” he said, thrust back into the thoughts that had consumed him all day. He couldn’t shake them. Not even baseball could completely banish them.

Gianelli shrugged. “Yeah, probably coincidence. We found a .38 bullet lodged in the wall of the cabin, but no fingerprints or hair, except for the cowboy’s. Whoever the killer was, he didn’t hang around very long. Should have a report from the lab tomorrow on what kind of gun Bosse was shot with. Then we’ll know if there’s a connection.”

“Any leads?”

“Give me some time, John. Bosse was just killed this morning.”

“I meant the cowboy.”

Gianelli dug his hands deeper into his pockets. “Don’t worry, I’ll stay on it. But just now, with the murder of a tribal councilman, well, it’s a lot like having a governor or senator assassinated in your district. I’m getting pressure to solve this one fast. The reservation’s in enough of an uproar over that nuclear storage facility without somebody killing off the tribal officers.”

Father John went into his batter’s stance, knees slightly bent, weight on his back leg, holding an imaginary bat: “Like this,” he hollered to the next kid up at bat.

“Got a message you called this morning,” Gianelli said.

The kid took a wild swat, missing the ball by two feet. “Settle down, keep your eye on the ball.” Keeping his own eyes on the hitter, Father John said, “I talked to Gabriel Many Horses’ sister.”

The agent drew in a quick breath. “Got a report from Oklahoma he had a relative living up here. How’d you find her?”

“Talking to people.” A strikeout. The next kid grabbed the bat, eagerness and determination on his face.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been talking to people, too. Difference is, they talk back to you.”

“Her name is Alberta Cavanaugh,” Father John went on. “She lives on a ranch about fifteen miles south of Lander.” The agent had pulled a small notebook and pen from inside his raincoat. He began scratching some notes on the paper.

“When can I hold the funeral?”

“Anytime you like. Coroner’s made his report. Your cowboy only had a few weeks, turns out. Lung cancer.”

Father John closed his eyes a moment, taking a deep breath. The dead man with no face was still his. Maybe that’s why he was so anxious to hold the funeral—to put them both at peace.

“What if there’s a conspiracy,” Father John said, trying out the theory he’d come up with at Vicky’s. “A group of people who want the nuclear storage facility badly enough to kill anybody who gets in the way.”

The agent squared his shoulders. “You think I haven’t thought about that? Doesn’t make sense for a couple reasons. First, near as I can tell, a lot of people on this reservation want that facility, with all the jobs and money. That makes for a damn big conspiracy. Second, Bosse was doing everything he could to make sure it got approved.”

The hitter sent a fly ball high into the air; the right-fielder was after it, looking up into the sun, shielding his
eyes with his glove. He had the ball! He threw to second, but the kid who’d been on first had already turned around and was sprinting back. “Good catch.” Father John threw one fist into the air. Then he motioned up the next batter.

“Not everybody wants the facility,” he said, locking eyes with the agent again. “It’s possible Bosse changed his mind.”

Gianelli was quiet a moment. “What’ve you heard?”