The Dream Stalker (27 page)

“So what now?” Vicky said. “You realize this is all just theory. We have no evidence Legeau killed his uncle. The only witness is dead, and the only person Gabriel told is dead. As far as that goes, we have no evinence Legeau and Redbull conspired to falsify the report. Let’s face it, we don’t have enough evidence for a jaywalking charge. If we took this to Gianelli, he’d laugh us out of his office.”

Vicky walked back, stopping in front of the desk. “Redbull’s the key,” she said. “He’s an ambitious and greedy man. I’m going to have a talk with him. It’s just possible I can make him think I’ve found some evidence.”

“No, Vicky.” Father John jumped to his feet and walked around the desk. “Don’t even think it. Redbull and Legeau are in this together.”

“I won’t do anything foolish.”

“Don’t do anything at all.” The sternness in his tone surprised him. “We’ll take this to Gianelli.”

“But first we need some evidence, John. Even some hint that evidence exists.”

“Stay away from Redbull,” Father John said. “You’re in enough danger. I don’t want anything to happen to you.” He took her hand, aware of its warmth. The longing for her engulfed him, the fear of something happening to her. He felt sick with worry at what she might decide to do. This was a stubborn woman; he’d never won an argument yet, and he was afraid he wouldn’t win this one.

A muffled knocking sounded at the front door as Vicky said, “About the other night, John. I’m sorry if I led you to think that, well, that I expect something else from you than friendship.”

The knocking came again, followed by the soft shush of Elena’s footsteps in the hallway.

“I want you to know how much I value your friendship,” Vicky hurried on. “It means everything to me. I wouldn’t want anything to keep us from being friends.”

“Vicky . . .” he began, still holding her hand. He searched for the words. He didn’t want her to feel an explanation was necessary. He fought the temptation to take her into his arms.

She said, “There really isn’t anything else for us, is there?”

The question surprised and disturbed him. He knew he’d been asking himself the same question in some wordless way. “I don’t think so,” he said.

She withdrew her hand and stepped back, leaving him with an acute sense of loss. “Well, in any case, it doesn’t matter, does it?” she said. “We each have to go in the direction of our own lives. And that won’t change.” She looked away, somewhere beyond him. After a moment, she said, “About your conspiracy theory, I don’t believe Paul Bryant is involved. I had dinner with him before I went to Casper. He seems like a good person.”

“We don’t know who may be involved,” Father John said, trying to ignore an unfamiliar stab of jealousy. “We don’t know anything for certain. At the very least, Bryant wants you to stop opposing the facility. He’s interested in gaining your support.”

“Strange,” Vicky said. “I have the distinct impression he’s interested in me, as a woman.”

Of course Bryant was interested in her, Father John thought. What man wouldn’t be? The sense of loss was pervasive now.

There was the click of the knob turning, and the door pushed open. It startled him. Sheila Cavanaugh walked in: the reddish gold hair, the flashing green eyes, a long blue coat that hung loosely from her shoulders, almost hiding the blue jeans, the white sweater. The study was filled with her perfume.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize you had a visitor. Your housekeeper . . .” The woman gestured toward the hallway, allowing her arm to float in the air a moment. Smiling at him, she said, “I really intended to come to the funeral. Had it been a little later in the morning, perhaps. But, never mind. It must’ve been difficult for you, John, after finding the body and all. Alberta has arranged a wonderful lunch at the ranch today, and I have come to fetch you.”

Father John saw the stunned look of recognition and disbelief on Vicky’s face. She kept her place a moment, staring at the woman, then suddenly twisted past him. “Please don’t let me keep you, Father O’Malley,” she said, grabbing her raincoat and flinging it over one arm. She picked up the briefcase, the black bag. In an instant, she was through the door.

Father John brushed past the other woman and caught up with Vicky just as she was about to step onto the front stoop. He took hold of her arm. “Wait, you don’t understand.”

“Oh, you’re wrong.” She pulled away from him. “I finally understand everything, Father O’Malley.” Then she was marching down the sidewalk, the black bag slung over one shoulder bouncing against the raincoat still on her arm.

Father John could sense Sheila Cavanaugh behind him, could smell her perfume. He took a deep breath before he turned to face the most beautiful woman he wished he’d never met.

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V
icky gripped the steering wheel, scarcely aware of her nails digging into the palms of her hands as the Bronco plunged down Seventeen-Mile Road. Thick clouds pressed downward, parting occasionally so that the Bronco seemed to dive in and out of a wet mist. “How could you be so stupid?” The sound of her own voice startled her.

For almost three years now, she had yearned for a man who had always seemed exactly as he appeared—a good man, a whole man. He was a priest, and she had respected that reality, had worked hard to keep her own feelings in check. When that had become difficult, she had stopped calling him, had gone out of the way not to see him, even though there had been many instances, many legitimate excuses, many times she had longed to pick up the phone and hear his voice.

She had scarcely acknowledged her own feelings. Except for the other evening in her kitchen, when they’d been so close, and for the first time she had allowed herself to dream that perhaps . . . things could change. Priests left the priesthood everyday. They married.

But not priests like John O’Malley. That was the truth of it, the reality she could never get around. How could he leave the priesthood? It was his dream, and the power of his dream made him who he was. What drew
her to him, she had always thought, was the very thing that kept him from her. She had never thought it was something else.

She gripped the steering wheel tighter. Her knuckles blanched, her palms stung. How could she have been so wrong? All that time, there was another woman strolling into his study, just as she had this morning, perfectly at home. An everyday occurrence. His own housekeeper had told her to go right in. This woman with sun-gold red hair and green eyes and skin as clear and white as the china she probably kept stacked in one of her cabinets.

Sheila Cavanaugh. One of his own people. She was probably from Boston—the broad words, the swallowed
r
’s, just like his. How long had she been here? Had he brought her with him when he’d first come to St. Francis? It wasn’t possible. She would have heard the rumors. The moccasin telegraph would have never stopped buzzing. When had this woman come? Where did he keep her? Vicky had heard about such women—the women who consorted with priests. She did not want to be one of them.

She swerved into the oncoming lane and passed a pickup. Another fast swerve, another pickup. The mist clung to the windshield, and she flipped on the wipers. They made a screeching noise, like that of a small, hungry animal. She had to think rationally, to bring her feelings under control. She could not allow the sense of loss to overtake her. She could not lose what she never had. “Do not cry for something you never had,” Grandmother Ninni once told her. “It does not cry for you.” She would be okay as she was.
Hisei ci nihi.
Woman Alone.

Vicky wheeled into the parking lot in front of the tribal offices at Ethete. She set the Bronco next to the cement curb, switched off the ignition, and waited, watching the tiny specks of rain accumulate on the windshield.
It was several minutes before she felt some semblance of control again.

She opened the glove compartment and removed the small tape recorder she used to take depositions. She checked to make sure the tape inside was new. One hundred and twenty minutes—more than enough, she thought. She checked the buttons. Everything worked. Pushing the On button, she clipped the recorder inside her purse near the top. If she didn’t snap the purse closed, the recorder would pick up voices. She would only have to reach in and press the Dictate button to start the recording.

As she walked up to the double glass doors of the tribal office building, Vicky felt herself trembling, as if the cool mist had crept inside her. The lobby was deserted except for the receptionist and a young couple who occupied two of the metal chairs against one wall. The woman tossed back her black hair and thumbed through the pages of a magazine, ignoring the man leaning toward her, his voice earnest and low. The odor of stale cigarettes mingled with the chemical smells of floor wax.

Vicky walked past the couple to the desk against the far wall. The receptionist glanced up from a computer monitor, her fingers resting on the keyboard. One of the Bushy girls, Vicky thought. Iola Bushy, in her twenties now, pretty, with wide eyes that gave her a look of surprise.

“I’m here to see Lionel,” Vicky said.

“You got an appointment?” Little furrows appeared in the young woman’s forehead, as if she were trying to remember.

“Just tell him I’m here.”

The receptionist raised both shoulders, a fierce gesture, like that of a bear rearing up to protect her cubs.
“Sorry. Not possible. Lionel’s in a real important meeting with the tribal council right now.”

It crossed Vicky’s mind that Iola Bushy was sleeping with Lionel Redbull. She shook the notion away. Was this what she would think about every woman she met? That every woman had someone to love, while she had no one? She had to do better than that, she told herself, forcing her thoughts back to the moment. The receptionist’s fingers had begun tapping the keys in a sharp clattering rhythm.

“Call Lionel out of the meeting, Iola.”

“What?” The young woman stopped tapping and sat back, eyes wide with shock.

“You heard me. Call him out of the meeting.”

“I can’t do that, Vicky. Lionel will get real mad at me.”

Vicky recognized the way Iola spoke the man’s name. It was the way any woman spoke the name of the man she loved. She’d been right. She said, “Tell him I know what’s missing.”

The receptionist hesitated. Finally she gripped the edge of the desk and pulled herself toward the phone. Her fingers raced over the buttons. A moment passed. Iola stared past Vicky toward the glass front doors. Suddenly she started apologizing—“I’m so sorry, Lionel”—and delivered the message. Then she was quiet, surprise and hurt mingling in her eyes. Replacing the receiver, she said, “His office is on the right.”

“I know where it is.” Vicky started down the hallway past a procession of frosted glass doors. She reached inside her purse and fingered the cool plastic recorder, groping for the Dictate button. Just as she was about to press it, one of the doors opened. Lionel stepped out. He wore blue jeans and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Beyond him, Vicky could see the tribal council members seated around a conference table. A voice drifting into the hallway was
cut off as the project director slammed the door. “What the hell’s this all about?” he asked. He moved in front of her.

Vicky yanked her hand out of the purse. She hadn’t expected him to appear like this. She realized with a sinking feeling she hadn’t managed to press the Dictate button.

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