The Ghost Walker (18 page)

He said, “It’s just a hunch. And there’s something else. I’ve heard Marcus took a job driving Jeeps to Denver. It’s possible he could be somewhere between here and there.” He realized a part of him was unwilling to close the door on the young man’s life.

“New Jeeps? Used Jeeps?” The chief started writing again.

“New, I assume,” Father John said. He should have been more thorough in gathering information.

“Every gas station in Wyoming has a Jeep or pickup for sale out back. If Marcus is drivin’ used Jeeps, could take us a while to track him down. But only a couple of dealers sell ’em new. The dealer over in Riverton is pretty small. Big Phil’s place in Lander probably does most of the business in these parts. Owned by Phil Beefer. Remember him? He played center for the Denver Nuggets some years back. Helluva good man for a white man.” The chief glanced up. “Sorry. Sometimes I forget about you being one of ’em.”

Father John absentmindedly waved away the apology. Phil Beefer’s name rang a faint bell, even though basketball went on around him, out there somewhere. Except for the national championships, which he usually watched so he could discuss them with the kids at St. Francis.

“Problem is,” Banner was saying, “I can follow up leads on the rez, check with the Depperts and Marcus’s friends about his activities. But Lander isn’t my turf. Lander PD is handling the homicide investigation. All I can do is give Detective Loomis this info.” The chief stopped a moment, as if to underline the next point. “If Loomis agrees there’s some connection between Annie
Chambeau’s homicide and Marcus Deppert’s disappearance, he’ll make inquiries.”

“And if not, he won’t spend a lot of time looking for a missing Indian?”

“Yep.”

The tick-tock of the branch and the sound of a ringing telephone down the corridor punctuated the quiet. “There’s nothing to keep me from talking to the Jeep dealers,” Father John said.

“I can’t officially instruct you to do that. ’Course, if you do it on your own, nothing I can do about it.” Banner grinned, as if they had reached some kind of understanding. Then, “Lean Bear’s ranch is on my turf. I’ll send a couple of my boys up the canyon to talk to this Gary fellow. You never know.” The chief shrugged. “Your hunch could be right.”

Placing both hands on the arms of his chair, Banner leveraged himself to his feet. “I haven’t had lunch yet today. How about you?”

Father John had ignored the hollowness in his stomach all morning. All he’d had today was the cup of instant coffee in Vicky’s kitchen. “Name the place,” he said.

“Lana’s.” Banner picked up the phone and tapped the buttons. “Mind if Patrick comes along? I been wantin’ you to talk to him.”

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F
ather John wasn’t sure how it was that Banner arrived at the cafe first. The chief hadn’t left the building before Father John drove out of the parking lot. Yet there was the white police car with the gold BIA insignia on the front door parked in front of Lana’s cafe as he drove up the snow-rutted driveway. The cafe, a one-story brick square, nestled against the foothills on a bluff overlooking the white plains. Dark skeletons of cottonwoods stood out against the horizon, and black smoke curled from the chimneys of the ranch houses in the distance. The afternoon sun hovered over the mountains, gripping the parking lot in frigid shade.

The neon sign over the door spelled
LANA
’
S
in bright fluorescent green. Father John stepped inside. The smells of grease and fresh apple pie enveloped him. He waved to Turner, perched behind the counter. Lana cooked and waited tables; her husband collected the money and joked with the tourists traveling through Indian country.
What’s it like being half of a movie star? Better’n not bein’ none. How come you looked so glamorous up there on the screen? Natural-born good looks.

Father John walked past the vacant booths along one wall, the tables piled with dirty dishes. Four men were still at lunch in one booth, and behind them Art Banner
sat across from a surly-looking young Indian with black hair, green eyes, and a lighter complexion than that of most Indians on the reservation.

“You remember Patrick here?” Banner asked as Father John deposited his parka and cowboy hat on a nearby coatrack and slid into the booth beside him.

“Welcome home, Patrick.” Father John extended his hand toward the kid, who looked about twenty-two years old. He’d met Patrick once before, when he’d been home on leave from the army. His hair had been cropped close to his skull then. Now it hung almost to his shoulders. Silver earrings dangled from each ear, and a beaded medallion hung from a cord around his neck. He was wearing a black T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

“Yeah,” Patrick said. “Like warriors get a real big welcome around here.”

“Our People honor warriors. It’s our tradition,” Banner said, his tone a mixture of patience and exasperation.

Lana appeared at the end of the table. She was short and pear-shaped, with white frizzy hair. “What’s this? Some kind of special occasion? Police chief, returning warrior, and pastor all at the same table? I think I’m gonna faint with excitement.”

“Before you do, bring us three of your world-famous hamburgers and a pot of coffee,” Banner said.

“I got three pieces of famous apple pie, too.” Lowering her voice and glancing toward the adjoining booth, Lana said, “You want I should save ’em for you?”

“Well, somebody’s got to eat ’em, I guess.” Banner laughed. Then, as Lana walked away, he added, “That okay with you guys?”

“We don’t get much choice, do we?” Patrick shifted in his seat, as if to locate the perfect position for the next volley.

Father John jumped in. “Tell me, Patrick. How’d an Indian kid like you get saddled with an Irish name?”

Before the young man could answer, Banner said, “His great-grandfather gave it to him. Hell, we didn’t even know Helen was expectin’. One day she was washin’ clothes. You remember that big scrub board your mother used to set in the sink and wash the clothes on?” Banner glanced at his son, then turned back to Father John. “She was scrubbin’ away when, all of a sudden, her great-grandfather, Patrick O’Riley, was standin’ in the kitchen. Dead thirty years or more, he was. So he says he sure would be obliged if she named the child after him.” Banner regarded his son again. “Good thing you turned out to be a boy.”

Patrick rolled his eyes and gazed at the ceiling, as if he’d heard the story so many times it had taken on a life of its own separate from his.

“Arapahos aren’t the only people that got ghost walkers.” Banner laughed and nudged Father John’s arm.

Father John shot the chief a look of mock surprise. He couldn’t deny it. As Lana delivered the hamburgers and coffee, his memory slipped to the long-ago night his Uncle Daniel came to him in a dream, tall and handsome, a black Irishman with black hair and laughing blue eyes, not a responsible bone in his body, and an endless supply of funny stories and songs. Uncle Daniel could make the sun dance a jig. He was dressed in white—suit, hat, shoes, a white coat neatly folded over one arm as if he were about to embark on a cruise. He had come to say good-bye. Father John was ten years old. He sprang awake, jumped out of the foldaway bed in the living room he shared with his older brother, Mike, and padded down the hallway to his parents’ bedroom. His father’s head was nestled against his
mother’s shoulder. He tapped his mother gently. “Uncle Daniel’s dead.”

Both parents sat straight up in bed. “What’re you talkin’ about, boy?” his father said.

Thinking about it now, it was what his parents didn’t say that seemed odd. They didn’t say, “That’s silly, ridiculous, irrational. Go back to sleep.” They got up and sat in the living room, his mother wrapped in a flower-printed robe, his father’s white legs visible beneath his flannel robe. When the phone rang, his mother said, “Well, that’s it, then.”

No, Father John couldn’t deny his people’s ghosts. He had never been convinced that everything could be explained. He picked up the large hamburger in both hands and bit into it. It was juicy and delicious and made him realize how hungry he was. The young man kept his eyes down, working his way through his hamburger and ignoring both his father and Father John. Banner was right. It wouldn’t be easy for Patrick to make the transition back to the reservation. He recalled what Vicky had once said. “It’s hard to be one of the edge people.” He understood because he also dwelled in the edge space.

“Any job prospects?” Father John asked. He was afraid he already knew the answer, but he hoped something might have turned up.

Patrick shook his head, eyes still downcast. “Maybe in the spring. BIA police say they’ll have a couple openings.”

“He’d be a good cop,” Banner said, as if the young man weren’t sitting across from them, silently chewing a hamburger and washing it down with coffee. “Trouble is, he doesn’t want to take something ’til then.”

“He thinks I should be a waiter over in Riverton.” Patrick rolled his eyes again.

“Oh, yeah, I keep forgetting,” Banner said. “Being a
waiter isn’t dignified enough for warriors and basketball stars. So you’re just gonna sit around ’til spring, contemplating your warrior exploits and all the basketballs you dunked back in high school.”

Father John set the rest of his hamburger down on the plate. Here it was, a little miracle. He’d forgotten Patrick Banner had played basketball for Indian High School during the long run when the Indian kids had shellacked every basketball team in the state. He’d been an all-star senior the first year Father John had spent at St. Francis, but he didn’t know Banner or his son then.

He wanted to grab the kid and haul him over to St. Francis right away. He took a long sip of coffee, weighing his options. Patrick needed something to do until spring. The kids needed a basketball coach. But he had no idea how he’d come up with the money to heat the gym and pay a coach. And who knew whether St. Francis would still exist come spring?

“Look, Patrick,” he said, plunging in anyway, “what would you think about coaching some kids over at St. Francis every day after school?”

“You kidding me?” For the first time, Patrick’s face broke into a grin.

*    *    *

The wind sent little puffs of snow scudding over the highway ahead. Orange and scarlet clouds floated across the western sky and dipped around the white peaks of the mountains. It was midafternoon, but there was the hint of dusk coming on. Father John was thinking it would take a large miracle to make the school’s basketball team happen. Those two clowns—Nick Sheldon and Clifford Keating—had set the wheels in motion to close down the mission. Make that four clowns counting the bishop and the Provincial. And he had
been so busy the last couple of days, he hadn’t gotten out to Thomas Spotted Horse’s ranch yet to find out if the elders might call a general council so the people could vote on whether to close St. Francis mission.

He swung right onto Plunkett Road, the two-lane trail cut by the people in the Old Time that uncoiled across the top of a ridge like a rattlesnake, snow banked in the ditches. As he started into an easy curve, he glanced at the rearview mirror. The green Dodge truck was coming up fast again.

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