The Dream Stalker (30 page)

“What, Gianelli, what?” Father John could feel his heart thumping.

“Redbull was just found in his truck out in back of the tribal offices. Face shot off.”

“My God, Gianelli!” Father John shouted. “Legeau killed him to stop him from talking to Vicky! And now he’s going to kill her. How could you put her in that kind of danger? How could you let her do that?”

“Let her?” Now the agent was shouting. “You don’t understand anything about that woman, do you? She was determined to do it! I just left a message on her answering machine that she should get the hell away from the office. And Eberhart’s sending a couple cars over. They’ll be there in minutes.”

“What if Legeau gets there first?” Father John pushed past the agent and ran down the stairs. He could hear the other man’s footsteps pounding after him.

“She’ll be okay.”

“God help you if she isn’t!” Father John yelled as he slammed out the door.

30

V
icky stood at the window watching the intersection below. Cars and pickups rolled past, splattering in the rain. Other cars pulled up at the stop signs before dashing across Main: people on their way home from work. She slipped a hand past her blouse and felt again for the tiny microphone clipped to her bra between her breasts. Then she took in a long breath and exhaled slowly, trying to ignore the fear inside her. She glanced at her watch. It was already a few minutes after six, and none of the vehicles seemed to be stopping.

Maybe Lionel wasn’t coming. He could’ve changed his mind and decided to go to the FBI himself, to accuse her of blackmailing him. But if he tried to turn the tables, he ran the risk of prompting an investigation on how he’d allocated the grant money. He couldn’t win. He had no choice but to come for the documents.

The phone jangled in the outer office, startling her. Vicky kept her post by the window. She didn’t want to miss Redbull’s arrival. The answering machine would take the message. She’d turned down the volume so no other voices would interfere as the recorder taped whatever Redbull said.

The rain danced across the window, ran into little pools on the sill outside. Vicky debated about calling the tribal offices. Something might have delayed the project director, some unexpected meeting. That was it!
He’d been delayed, tried to call her, and she had allowed the machine to take the call. He probably thought she’d changed her mind.

Vicky pivoted around and hurried to the outer office. Just as she was about to push the Message button, she heard the slurry of footsteps in the corridor, soft and slow. Not what she had expected. She had expected Lionel to bound up the stairs and burst through the door, anxious to get the documents. It was his violence, she knew, that frightened her.

The footsteps crept closer. Vicky stood still, scarcely breathing, all her senses waiting for the next footstep to fall. So unlike Redbull. She pushed in the Message button, keeping her eyes on the door, expecting it to fling open. The message was barely audible. She leaned over the desk, close to the machine. For a moment, she didn’t recognize the voice. Then she realized it was Gianelli’s. A pang of fear shot through her; she had trouble catching her breath.

The agent repeated her name. “Vicky. Vicky. Vicky. If you’re there, pick up. It’s important.” Her name again, then: “Get away from the office, do you hear me? Redbull’s not coming. Somebody shot him. Get out of there fast.”

Vicky jerked her head up, eyes still fixed on the door. The whir of the tape, the sound of her own breathing filled the office. A shadow moved across the frosted glass pane, the knob began to turn. In an instant, her mind calculated the distance to the door—to the bolt. Ten feet, twelve, a thousand. She couldn’t make it.

She wheeled around and ran into her private office, slamming the door behind her. Then she was in the back hallway, as if she had materialized there. When had she passed her desk, passed the chairs? Her purse—where had she left it? Her keys were in the purse. “Oh, God,” she said out loud. The purse was on her desk.

She dashed back to the desk. Someone was in the
outer office; she could sense the human presence. She grabbed the purse, gripping it in the soft underbelly. The contents burped out and spilled onto the floor.
God, the keys.
She dropped to her knees, running her hand across the carpet, searching for the little clump of metal. Her fingers closed on something; there was no feeling in her hand, but the keys were there, inert things, like her fingers. She jumped up, ran into the hallway, and hit the back door, pushing the bolt with all her strength. It slid sideways, a loud, grating sound, and she was outside, racing down the stairs to the parking lot.

She sprinted for the Bronco, stumbling once on the gravel, rain spitting at her face. The keys faltered in her hand, missed the lock. She forced herself to concentrate, to jam the key into the tiny slot. She yanked open the door and threw herself inside, jabbing the key now into the ignition. The engine growled, and she was wheeling the Bronco through the lot, down the side street, past the black truck parked at the curb, a dark blur in the rain.

She took a sharp right and headed west toward the police department. Eberhart’s office was only a few blocks away. She was partway down the block when the black truck burst out of the alley, blocking her way. She slammed on the brakes, twisting the steering wheel into a U-turn. Tires screamed as the Bronco tore east, away from the police department.

She swung onto Main Street and drove north. As she made the right turn onto Highway 789, she glanced at the rearview mirror. The black truck was behind her.

31

F
ather John drove south through Riverton, stepping on the gas as the lights turned yellow, flying across intersections on the red. He swung west onto Seventeen-Mile Road. After a couple of miles, he headed south on Rendezvous Road, swerving around pickups, an occasional 4×4, any vehicle that got in the way. The air was heavy with clouds; the plains rolled past, as shiny as a mirror in the rain.

He let up on the gas pedal as he wheeled through Hudson, then stomped down for the final dash into Lander. He glanced at his watch: 6:25. The moment he turned into Main Street, he spotted the two police cars in front of the flat-roofed, two-story building squatting at the next corner. He parked behind one of the cars. The engine shuddered as he slammed out the door and started running up the stairway. A dim light glowed on the right. He swerved around the parapet and started down the corridor toward Vicky’s office on the left.

A police officer in the light blue shirt and navy trousers of the Lander Police Department stood inside the doorway. Beyond him, Father John could see other policemen milling about. “Where’s Vicky?” he yelled.

“Who are you?” The first police officer swung around as Detective Eberhart walked out of Vicky’s private office.

“Father O’Malley,” the detective called. “Any idea where Vicky might’ve gone?”

“She was supposed to meet Redbull here thirty minutes ago!”

Eberhart glanced at the uniformed officer. “We didn’t get the call from Gianelli . . .”

“When did you get here?”

“Fifteen minutes ago.” This from the uniform.

“My God. She was here alone.” Father John could feel the perspiration on his forehead. His palms were clammy.

Eberhart said, “Gianelli left a message. She might’ve heard it and got out of here.”

“What if she didn’t?”

The detective rocked forward, both fists clenched at his sides. “We got cars on the street looking for a black truck. If it’s out there, we’ll find it.”

“She could have gone home.” Father John spun around and started down the corridor.

“She’s not answering the phone if she did!” Eberhart yelled after him. “I got some cars on the way.”

Father John wheeled the Toyota into the street, almost sideswiping a passing sedan. Traffic inched through Lander. He thumped the steering wheel with one fist, cursing under his breath, until he finally reached the turn into the residential neighborhood where Vicky lived. There was little traffic, and he pressed down on the accelerator.

Two other police cars stood at the curb in front of Vicky’s house. He stopped behind the second car, the Toyota nudging the back bumper. He gave the door a sharp thwack and hurried up the sidewalk. The front door stood open about an inch. He pushed it into the living room and strode in after it. “Vicky,” he called.

A uniformed policeman emerged from the hallway. “Who the hell—?”

“Father John O’Malley. A friend.” The murmur of
voices floated down the hallway from where her bedroom would be. They had found her. For an instant, he stood frozen in space, as if his blood had drained away, leaving nothing alive inside him.

Then he threw himself across the room toward the policeman who dodged sideways and reached out one hand, as if to stop him. Pushing past it, he took the short hallway in a couple of steps, following the voices into the bedroom, aware of the other policeman stomping behind him.

Two officers near the foot of the bed turned almost in unison, like guards caught by surprise. Father John’s eyes fell on the neatly made bed—a sea of reds and blues and golds that erupted into humps along the headboard and draped onto the carpet. In a glance he took in the entire room: the small chair with the blue cushions, the dresser covered with framed photographs, with glass bottles and little pink gadgets and gold tubes. An array of feminine paraphernalia that he only occasionally remembered existed—when he came across an ad in a magazine or found himself in the wrong aisle at Wal-Mart.

He heard himself exhale. She wasn’t here, yet she filled the room—the smell of her, the sense of her. And if he found her alive—she had to be alive—he would not lose her. It was a truth as real as the air he breathed.

“You’re that priest from the reservation, right?” one of the officers asked. “No sign of Ms. Holden. We’ve been over the whole house. The detective’s got every car in Lander on the alert for her—”

The phone on the table next to the bed emitted a loud jangle and, in two strides, the officer was beside it, lifting the receiver. “Burley here.” He threw back his head and stared out the window. After a pause, he said, “House is clean, no sign of the occupant anywhere.” Another pause, and he set the receiver in its cradle. He turned to the other officers. “Eberhart says they’re
headin’ back to headquarters. Wants us back there, too. Except for you, Brandan.” He looked past Father John toward the officer who had followed him down the hallway. “Wants you to keep circling the neighborhood. Watch the house, case she shows up or . . .” He stopped, gulped in air. “Case anybody else shows up.”