The Dream Stalker (32 page)

He bore east on Seventeen-Mile Road and swung into Circle Drive. Light glowing from the overhead lamps gave the mission the eery feeling of another world. There were no vehicles in sight, and he breathed easier. Vicky wasn’t here. The mission looked deserted; the administration building was dark, and only a dim light shone in the windows of the residence. His assistant was probably having dinner in the kitchen. It was the quiet time between the work day and the evening meetings. He slowed in front of the administration building.

“Over there.” Lily jabbed against him.

He stared past the windshield at the rainy grounds. “Where?”

“The old school.”

“It’s locked, Lily. We don’t use it anymore.”

“You have keys. Park at the side. Vicky’ll see your pickup.”

“We can wait in my office.” Someone might come along, he was thinking. He might still get the chance to grab the gun. He did not want to go into the old school with its long hallways, stairs with missing boards, and broken bannisters. He wasn’t even sure the lights still worked. The last time he’d been inside at night he’d run off a couple of teenagers trying to roast hot dogs in a little campfire on the second floor.

Lily jabbed the gun into him again. “We don’t want anyone interrupting us in your office, do we?”

He pushed down on the accelerator and guided the Toyota around the gravel drive. He stopped next to the old building, switched off the ignition, and removed the key. All his keys—the keys to the mission—hung on the round silver loop in the palm of his hand.

Their footsteps squished against the wet stone as she followed him up the steps and across the narrow porch to the front door. He located the key in the shadows and jammed it into the lock. The gun pushed against the small of his back.

Inside, he ran one hand along the stucco wall until he found the hard plastic switch and flipped it up. A dim, cloudy light, like white mist, flickered out of the glass fixtures marching along the ceiling. Shadows fell over the far reaches of the hallway and the wide stairway that curved to the second floor. The old building had a faint odor of gas and damp stone.

Lily said, “Upstairs.”

Father John started to turn toward her, but the gun was against his back, some hard thing permanently attached.

“You’re a very difficult man,” she said, pushing the gun into him. “I want to see my old classroom, can’t you understand? So many dreams there when I was young. And I made them come true, all of them—Alexander, the ranch, our position here. Seems a fitting place to make the last dream come true, wouldn’t you agree? Vicky will find us.”

“Her Bronco’s not here,” Father John said, starting up the stairs, running one hand along the railing. The bannister moved beneath his palm. The wooden steps creaked into the silence.

Shards of light filtered up the stairs behind them. At the top, she nudged him toward the first doorway down the hall. He stepped into the classroom and groped for the light switch. “We don’t need it,” she said. Another nudge forward. A thin light from the street lamps worked its way through the windows on the opposite wall and fell over the rows of small, wooden desks with silver-rimmed ink wells, the teacher’s desk against the right wall, the floorboards that rose and fell in little waves. Just as the Arapaho elders
remembered the classroom, that was how they insisted upon keeping it.

He realized some of the light must be coming from the porch fixture. The downstairs switch had also turned on the outside light. It gave him a sense of hope: No one used the old school, the lights were never on. Geoff would see them and know something was wrong. Anyone driving into the mission would know.

But if Vicky drove in, she would also see the lights. She would spot the Toyota, and she might come to find him. He forced himself to remember how she’d run out the door this morning, to convince himself she would not come back.

The floor shivered as the woman kicked the door shut behind them. “Sit down,” she ordered.

Time, a little more time, he was thinking. He said, “What was it like going to school here?” as he slid down the wall onto his haunches.

She backed around the rows of desks toward the window, the pistol glinting in her hand. “I was a child,” she said after a moment. “It’s very hard to be a child. I dreamed always of growing up, so I could be in control.” Keeping the gun on him, she stole a quick glance out the window. “Someone’s walking this way.”

“Gianelli.”

Another glance, and then she turned back toward him. The light caught the whiteness of her teeth as she smiled. “Wrong, Father. It’s your girlfriend.”

He could hear the
thump, thump
sound of his own heart. If it was Vicky, time had run out. “You’re not a child anymore, Lily,” he said, struggling for a tone that concealed the desperation he was feeling. “You’re in control now. It’s not too late to save yourself. I can help you. I’ll talk to Gianelli, make sure he understands you weren’t responsible—”

“Stop it!” She started across the room as the thud of a slamming door reverberated through the floorboards.
She cracked open the classroom door, allowing a sliver of light to run inside and melt into the light from the window.

“John, where are you” It was Vicky. He could hear her footsteps across the lower hall. “Are you all right?”

“Call to her.” The words hissed through the room.

Father John pushed himself slowly up the wall, his jacket catching on the old stucco. He said nothing.

“I said call to her!” It was a yell, high and piercing, like the cry of a coyote in the night. Then came the sound of footsteps running up the stairs.

“Vicky, go back!” he shouted. “Get out of here!”

Lily crouched down, one hand on the knob ready to yank the door open, the other gripping the pistol pointed at him. “You fool.” She spit out the words. “Die, damn you.”

A sharp crack sounded, like a burst of thunder. Heat exploded next to his face as Vicky crashed through the door, crashed into Lily, who spun sideways diving for the pistol that clattered across the floor. Father John threw himself between Lily and the gun. He grabbed her from behind, wrapped his arms around her, engulfing her, holding her tightly as she twisted and jerked against him—so small a woman, so much strength. A long howl sounded into the room, like that of a wounded animal, as Vicky dodged past and scooped up the gun.

“Lily, Lily,” Father John said soothingly into the woman’s ear. “It’s over now. You’re okay. Everything will be okay.”

The howling had fallen into a low moan as the woman relaxed against him. He felt himself gradually loosen his hold, aware of Vicky standing against the wall, gripping the gun at her side. Suddenly Lily twisted out of his arms. He grabbed for her, but she jumped sideways, her body pulling away from him. She was out the door, racing toward the stairs. “Lily, wait!” he shouted, running after her.

She started down the stairs, reeling into the bannister, grabbing for the railing. Father John reached for her again, but the bannister was already collapsing, a snapping and splintering of wood that gathered momentum as the railing and supports began falling into the hall below, the woman falling with them, arms outstretched, a long wail echoing through the old halls. Then came a hard thud and silence.

Father John ran down the stairs. Even before he sank onto one knee beside the woman, before he lifted the limp and broken wrist and tried to locate the pulse, he saw the splayed and twisted way she had landed, the blood at the side of her mouth, the broken neck.

Vicky stood beside him; he felt her hand on his shoulder. “She’s dead.” It was almost a whisper.

Father John dropped his head onto his knee and prayed silently for the woman who was now in the hands of God, beyond human help, human justice. Then he said a prayer of thanksgiving that it was over, that Vicky and he were still alive.

From outside came the sound of sirens and tires crunching gravel. “The police,” Vicky said. “I called them.”

*   *   *

Father John waited on the porch under the eaves at the edge of the cold drizzle. He needed the fresh air. From inside came the clatter of footsteps on the wood floors, the sound of Chief Banner barking orders to the uniformed officers. Alexander Legeau had arrived with the police, and the old man’s sobs were almost more than Father John could take. He’d tried to find some words of comfort—words were so inadequate—but the man had wanted only to be with the broken body of his wife. The medics were probably loading Lily onto the stretcher now. Gianelli was still inside with Vicky, taking her statement. His statement would be next.

Circle Drive was filled with vehicles: the white ambulance,
Gianelli’s Blazer, four BIA police cars. Red and blue lights circled the cottonwoods, the wet grasses, the old school. Through the car windows came the static sound of radios crackling, voices jabbering. Beyond the police cars were other vehicles. People milled around—a crowd drawn by the sirens. He thought he saw Paul Bryant at the edge of the crowd, talking with Father Geoff.

Suddenly the police officers filed across the porch, followed by the medics who carried the stretcher down the stone steps to the ambulance. Alexander moved alongside, quiet now, as if he were walking in his sleep.

Gianelli stepped out on the porch and came toward Father John. “Looks like one of your theories finally hit the bull’s-eye, John. But that doesn’t mean . . .”

Father John nodded. He knew the rest of the sentence: He should stick to his own work. Let the FBI and police do theirs. He wondered if Vicky had come outside, if he had missed her in the crush of police officers. He glanced at the crowd around the cars. She must still be in the old school.

“Vicky called the minute she got to the guest house,” the agent said.

“She was at the guest house?” The thought sent a chill through Father John. He had clung to the belief she would not come to the mission. Had he dreamed she was here, he would never have brought Lily. He would have done something else; he should have done something else. Lily might have spotted the Bronco. Vicky would have died here tonight, and he was the one who had put her in danger.

“Her call was patched to Banner at Fort Washakie just as we were questioning Alexander Legeau about Redbull’s murder. Didn’t take much to figure out Legeau wasn’t the one skulking around her office, not with him sitting in front of us. But Legeau caught on right away. It was Lily who always drove their black truck.
You could see on the man’s face the way things started falling into place. I felt sorry for him. Anyway, Vicky was afraid the killer would show up at St. Francis. She was more worried about you than herself. Banner and I hightailed it over here. Didn’t arrive soon enough, though. Heard the shot soon as I turned into the mission. That crazy lady might’ve killed . . .”

Just then Vicky appeared in the doorway, hugging her coat around her, glancing over the crowd, as if she were looking for someone. Father John stepped past the agent, who grabbed his arm. “I need your version of what happened,” Gianelli said.

For a moment, Father John caught Vicky’s eye. Then she looked away, hurried across the porch and down the steps. He jerked his arm free and started after her, unsure of what he wanted to say, knowing only he did not want her to leave.

“Now, John, while everything’s fresh.” Gianelli fell in alongside.

“Give me a minute.” Father John started toward the steps, but the agent set a hand on his shoulder. The grasp was firm.

“We’ve got to talk now.”

“Look, Gianelli, I’ll tell you everything I know, but there’s something I’ve got to do first.”

A look of understanding came into the agent’s eyes. “Okay,” he said, removing his hand.

Father John hurried down the steps and stopped, his eyes searching the crowd milling about, parting around the ambulance that had started to back around Circle Drive. Vicky was nowhere in sight.

He darted past the crowd and the police cars and ran down the drive toward the guest house, in and out of the circle of overhead lights, barely conscious of the sound of footsteps behind him.

“Hold on, John!” Father Geoff yelled. “She’s gone.”

Father John stopped and whirled around, facing the other priest.

“She left,” Father Geoff said, gulping in air.

“What?”

“She left with Paul Bryant. He stopped by the residence to see you. I’d just shown him into your study when we heard the gunshot. Then those police cars came racing into the mission. I didn’t know what in God’s name was going on.”

“Vicky left?” Father John said, as if to convince himself.

“Bryant ran out and collared one of the police officers. He found out you and Vicky were inside the old school with a murderer. He tried to get in, but the police made him stay outside. He waited, and the minute she came out, he was beside her, walking her over to his truck. They just drove off.”

Father John turned away and stared past the splotches of light and shadows, past the long expanse of darkness that stretched across the reservation to the rim of the mountains outlined against the silver sky. He felt the other man’s grip tightening on his shoulder.

“Believe me, John, it’s better this way.”

34