The Dream Stalker (26 page)

F
ather John had passed the night in a kind of half-awake state, tossing about, waiting for the phone to ring. A couple of times he’d started out of bed, dreaming it had rung, that Vicky was calling, that she needed him. He’d stopped at both her office and her house last night. The doors were locked, the interiors dark. It had only increased his worry. She was nowhere, and he hadn’t heard anything from Gianelli.

Morning had dawned in a gray haze with clouds rolling over the distant plains like fog. By nine o’clock, the sun still hadn’t broken through. The inside of St. Francis church was enveloped in the hush of the clouds. Every sound seemed muffled: the drums, the mournful voices of the singers, the shuffling in the pews of the few people who had come to pay last respects to a forgotten cowboy—Gianelli, Clarence Fast, and the little boy, Jamie; Leonard Bizzel and Elena, three elders, a couple of grandmothers who came to Mass every morning.

Gabriel Many Horses’ body lay in a closed pine casket in front of the altar, under an arched ceiling painted blue, like the sky world. Father John said the ancient, familiar words of the Mass. He prayed for the cowboy, that no matter where life had taken him, his soul would now go to God.

After the Mass, Father John took the chair on the opposite side of the altar as the three elders approached
the casket. One removed a small leather pouch from his shirt pocket. He lifted the lid of the casket, then dipped two fingers into the pouch. Praying softly in Arapaho, he leaned over the corpse, tracing red circles, Father John knew, on what remained of the cowboy’s face, on the head and hands, the skin of the chest. Ancestors, here he is, one of the People.

A small cavalcade—the gray hearse, the Toyota, Gianelli’s Blazer, a couple of old trucks—drove to the cemetery out on the bluff adjacent to Seventeen-Mile Road. The air was hazy and cool. A sharp wind caught Father John’s stole and blew it sideways across his jacket as he sprinkled holy water across the open grave, the casket suspended above. He prayed out loud: “May you go on your way to the ancestors, Gabriel Many Horses. May your spirit live in the Spirit of the kind and loving Lord Jesus who understands the human heart and accepts us as we are.”

As the drums began beating, the casket cranked downward into the earth, and Father John felt a sense of peace as gentle as the clouds descend upon him. The cowboy had yearned to tell the truth, to unburden himself, to set something right. A sign in itself of redemption.

Afterward the little crowd started toward the vehicles parked on the dirt road at the edge of the cemetery. Father John fell into step beside Gianelli. “Did you hear from Eberhart?” he asked.

“No sign of any break-in at Vicky’s house or office. Everything looks normal, like she just stepped away.” Father John had already ascertained that much for himself. He saw the reflection of his own worry in the agent’s eyes.

“She have any family around here?” Gianelli asked.

The grandmothers called her Woman Alone, Father John was thinking. He said, “An elderly aunt, Rose Left Hand. One of the Four Old Men, Hedly Yellowbird,
and his wife. An ex-husband, Ben, who works up north on the Arapaho ranch.” Almost no one.

“I’ll make some calls.”

*   *   *

The church was empty and still when Father John returned. He spent a few moments tidying up the sacristy, setting the Mass books in the cabinet, hanging his chasuble in the closet. He crossed in front of the altar and genuflected. As he turned, he saw Vicky in the last pew. He hurried down the aisle toward her, feeling as if some terrible weight had lifted from him. She wore a raincoat the color of pewter; her hair hung loose, brushing her shoulders, not gathered back with a clip the way she usually wore it. Her expression was a curious mixture of fatigue and exhilaration.

“Are you okay?”

She nodded. “I’m sorry I missed the funeral. I just got back from Casper. Do you have a minute?” Getting to her feet, she swung a black bag over her shoulder and picked up the briefcase leaning against the kneeler.

Outside the church, Father John placed a hand on her arm and guided her toward the priests’ residence. They could talk in his study without the interruptions of the telephone in his office, of people dropping by.

They walked across the open space in the center of the mission grounds. The path was soft and dry, but little beads of moisture clung to the stalks of wild grass. The clouds seemed to close around them. Vicky hugged her coat to her—against the chill, he thought. He was filled with a sense of gladness and relief that she was alive.

The aroma of fresh coffee floated down the hallway as he held the front door and followed her inside. Elena must have guessed he would be ready for hot coffee following the funeral. After he showed Vicky through the doorway on the left, he walked into the kitchen and poured two mugs of coffee, which he carried to the
study. Vicky had laid her raincoat over one of the wingback chairs. She wore a silky blouse in blues and greens, and a dark wraparound skirt with a fringed edge. He handed her one of the mugs.

She sipped at the coffee a moment before she set the mug down near the edge of the desk. Flipping open her briefcase, she extracted a packet and shook out the folds before allowing it to float over the center of the desk. It was a map of Wind River Reservation. “I met with the geologists, Hunter and Bradshaw. They know every inch of the reservation. The Arapahos and Shoshones usually hire their firm to conduct geological studies. Evidently Redbull decided a larger firm in Denver ought to do the studies for the facility. Anyway, we spent yesterday going over the report, sentence by sentence. They assured me it’s accurate, as far as it goes.”

Leaning over the map, Vicky placed an index finger in the center and made a little circle. “Oil wells are located here, five miles south of the Legeau ranch. And here, about eight miles north.” He could make out clusters of black dots representing the wells.

Her finger was now on the Legeau ranch itself. “The perfect place for a nuclear storage facility,” she said, glancing up at him. He could sense her excitement. “Except for one problem.”

Father John walked around the desk and bent over the map. The ranch did seem perfect. In the center of the flat plains, miles from any other human activity. He must be missing something, he thought, and then he saw it: the squiggly red lines indicating the rise of the land toward the oil wells—a rise so gradual he hadn’t noticed as he’d driven through.

“The ranch occupies the low ground,” he said. He saw by her expression he had hit on the problem. “The report doesn’t mention any danger of flooding.”

“That’s because there isn’t any, not above ground,” Vicky said. “What the report fails to mention is the danger
ger of underground flooding in special circumstances.” She tapped the map again, a nervous gesture. “After about two-thirds of the oil in an area has been taken, oil companies sometimes pump water and detergent into the wells. The remaining oil bonds with the detergent and rises high enough so that it can be pumped out.”

Father John took a long draw of coffee. “How much water are we talking about?”

“Over time, it can be millions of gallons. Enough to form a small underground lake at the lowest point in the area.”

“And that’s happened?” He was beginning to catch her excitement.

“These wells have been pumped for years. I figured the chances were high. So I made a few phone calls to the oil companies that hold the leases on the fields. They confirmed that water has been pumped into the wells. And they plan to pump even more water over the next few years.”

Father John set the mug down and took his chair, lifting the front legs off the carpet. “And all that water has to go somewhere.”

“According to Hunter and Bradshaw, the natural drainage routes would take the water below the Legeau ranch.” Vicky picked up her mug, took a sip, and began tracing the rim with one finger. “In the case of some horrible disaster, the storage casks could be thrown together with enough force to start a nuclear reaction, and . . .”

Father John let out a low whistle. “Melt down into an underground lake.”

Vicky took another long sip of the coffee. Then she said, “The explosion would release radioactive steam that would blow Wyoming into Nebraska and Colorado. Let’s not even think about how far the cloud of steam would travel.”

Father John was quiet. After a moment he said,
“What are the chances of that kind of disaster? One in ten million?”

“Much less.” Vicky shook her head. “One to the minus six, the geologists say. An infinitesimal risk. But, don’t you see, John, the result would be catastrophic. And a catastrophic result makes any risk unacceptable.”

Father John got to his feet and crossed the room. Clouds lapped at the window, but toward the west they were beginning to break into jagged canyons with small corridors of sunshine. Turning back, he said, “Is there any evidence a lake actually exists?”

Vicky came across the room and stood next to him. “None.” Her voice was low. “It’s only conjecture, a possibility. The geologists in Denver relied on computer modeling. They did not factor in anything about the pumped water. If they had, all sorts of red flags would have gone up. It would have meant further studies—either seismic studies or bores into the earth to determine whether a lake actually exists. Very expensive studies,” she said, keeping her eyes on his. “My guess is United Power Company might’ve decided it wasn’t worth pursuing. Lionel Redbull and Alexander Legeau weren’t about to take any chances on that happening. They made sure the report would not mention a possible underground lake.”

“By paying off the consultants to leave out certain information,” Father John said.

“I’d bet my life on it.” Vicky swung around and walked back to the desk. “It would explain why Redbull didn’t hire Hunter and Bradshaw—they couldn’t be bought. He hired consultants who’ve never worked on the rez, who have no ties here. For enough money, they were willing to produce the kind of report Redbull and Legeau wanted. Who knows what other critical pieces of information they conveniently forgot to factor in?”

Father John strolled across the room and sat down in
his chair. The conspiracy theory was beginning to make sense. “Either Matthew Bosse was involved and got scared, or he wasn’t involved and found out what Redbull and Legeau were up to. Either way, it got him killed.”

“That’s what doesn’t make sense,” Vicky said. “I can’t imagine Bosse involved in something like this. He’s been on the tribal council a long time. There’s never been a hint of scandal about him. On the other hand, if he wasn’t involved, I don’t think he ever figured it out. If he’d suspected anything, I’m certain he would have gone to Hunter and Bradshaw, just as I did. He trusted them. I can’t imagine how Lionel convinced him other consultants should conduct the study, but Lionel can be very persuasive. In any case, Hunter and Bradshaw told me Bosse never contacted them. Yet the way he acted at the public hearing—all those ‘maybes’—something was bothering him.”

Father John was quiet a moment, his thoughts on the other theory. Perhaps it wasn’t too farfetched after all. Maybe Bosse’s murder had nothing to do with the facility; maybe it had to do with something in the past, some secret the cowboys wanted to keep hidden. He told Vicky what he’d learned about Many Horses coming back to the reservation to contact old friends—Bosse, Fast, maybe Alexander Legeau.

“There’s more of a connection than you know.” Vicky sat down in one of the wingbacks and leaned forward. “I also found Tina Hooshie while I was in Casper. We had a long chat on the phone last night. She’d seen the notice in the newspaper about Gabriel’s murder. It didn’t bring any tears to her eyes. Her family hated the man, she said. Seems Gabriel Many Horses was responsible for putting her uncle, Anton, in Leavenworth. It was Gabriel’s testimony that convicted Anton of murder. He died in prison two years ago, just before he was due to be released. Tina said her uncle died claiming he was innocent.”

Father John leaned back in his chair. The pattern
he’d been looking for was beginning to emerge. “So Gabriel came back to tell the truth and clear Anton’s name. He must have gone to the Hooshie cabin hoping to find him, not knowing the poor man had died in prison.”

Vicky was shaking her head. “Tina wouldn’t believe Gabriel Many Horses capable of that kind of remorse. He knew what he was doing. He deliberately sent an innocent man to prison. He was paid off.”

“Who was murdered?” Father John was sure of the answer; he wanted only the confirmation.

“Tinzant Legeau,” Vicky said.

Father John shook his head. “Gabriel wasn’t sure where Anton was. That explains why he tried to contact two old friends who might have been able to help him. He connected with Bosse and told him the truth.”

“Which got the councilman killed,” Vicky interjected.

“And he must’ve called on Legeau, just when the man was about to sign a forty-year lease for two million dollars a year.”

Vicky got out of her chair and crossed to the window again. She turned slowly around, backlit by the hazy daylight. “Gabriel Many Horses was a stalker,” she said. “He would have destroyed Legeau’s dream. Had he named Legeau as the real killer, the investigation into Tinzant’s murder would have been reopened. Legeau would have stood trial, and that would have thrown the title to the ranch into question. You can’t inherit from someone you’ve murdered, so all of Legeau’s plans to lease the ranch would have come to a halt until the outcome of his trial. He couldn’t allow that to happen, so he killed Gabriel. But the cowboy had already told Bosse, so he had to kill the councilman, too. He would’ve killed Fast if Gabriel had managed to meet him. And”—she broke off, gulped in some air—“he would’ve killed you, John, if Gabriel had told you.”

Father John was quiet. He didn’t want to tell her that he’d deliberately planted the notion in Legeau’s mind that maybe Gabriel
had
told him. What had he been hoping for? he wondered. That Legeau might show his hand, come looking for him? And then what? Did he really believe he could snare the hunter when the hunter had the gun? He pushed the thought aside. He was more concerned about the woman across from him. The hunter had already come after her.