The Ghost Walker (28 page)

F
our black-and-white police cars stood at odd angles in the snow-shrouded parking lot, circles of red and blue lights flashing into the gray night. Yellow tape enclosed most of the lot. A neon sign blinked
BUFFALO MOTEL
, except the
U
was dark. White doors looking like tombstones lined the side of the low brick building, with knots of people huddled on the sidewalk, parkas flung over their pajamas. A couple of uniformed police officers stood guard outside the center door.

Father John nosed the Toyota into the yellow tape and slammed out of the cab. Stepping over the tape, he walked toward the policemen, one of whom came to meet him. He identified himself, and the policeman waved him on. Another opened the door, and he stepped into the brightly lit room filled with uniformed officers, two detectives in suits, and a photographer who was weaving about. Everybody seemed to be talking at once, a chorus of rising and falling voices. Light from the large lamp in one corner streamed like sunshine over the two bodies on the bed.

“Father John O’Malley,” he said to one of the suits as he stepped through the crowd. The room went quiet. He had been to murder scenes before, but had seen nothing like this. Marcus and Jennifer lay side by side,
naked, the white female body curled gently toward the slim, brown, male body, in the same attitude they’d taken in the chair a few hours earlier. Part of Jennifer’s face was gone, as was the top of Marcus’s head. Redblack blood as thick as jelly pooled around their heads and under their shoulders. She had a look of peace about her. Marcus’s eyes were open, frozen in death. He must have heard the killer burst through the door.

Father John made the sign of the cross over the bodies. “May the Lord preserve you and lift you up,” he said out loud. “May the Lord forgive you and show you His mercy and compassion and hold you in His arms. May you live forever in the House of the Lord.”

“Amen.” The voices were soft and reverent. Silence settled a moment. Then, “Is this Marcus Deppert?” a detective asked.

“Yes,” Father John said.

“How about the woman?”

Father John told him what he knew: her name; that she had worked at Herb’s Place; that she came from somewhere else, possibly Cheyenne. He was thinking she had a little girl’s voice, and she and Marcus had been alive a short time ago.

*    *    *

A gust of wind swirled about, pelting the parking lot with little kernels of snow. Just as Father John was about to get into the Toyota, a white BIA police car skidded to a stop a few feet away. The driver’s door flung open, and Banner jumped out. “The old people gotta be told,” he said, his forehead creased in worry. “You wanna take care of that?”

“I don’t think so,” Father John said, sliding inside the cab and slamming the door.

*    *    *

The Toyota bumped over the ridge of ice at the edge of the parking lot. Father John hunched his shoulders against the cold and stared past the shimmering headlights into the darkness. How could he tell Joseph and Deborah Deppert he’d led Marcus’s killers straight to him? That the Dodge pickup had followed him all week looking for Marcus? That he’d seen it earlier tonight and should have known it was hiding in the shadows, waiting, waiting. That he’d done exactly what the killers had hoped? How could he ever explain?

He was shivering inside his parka; his hands were shaking, even though hot air poured from under the dashboard. How could this have happened? If he hadn’t been so worried about losing the mission, maybe he would have realized Marcus had to be in serious trouble to disappear the way he did. Maybe he would have tried harder to find him. And when he did find him, why hadn’t he insisted Marcus go directly to Fort Washakie? Why hadn’t he taken him?

The snow and ice and asphalt blurred in the headlights, and Father John ran one gloved hand across his eyes, wiping away the moisture. The highway skirted the edge of Riverton, past the ghostlike garages and restaurants, the automobile parts store, the supermarket. Everything seemed to be dropping away, leaving him alone with the thirst that burned inside like a laser beam. It was all he could think about.

He passed Herb’s Place, his eyes searching for the brown frame building set back about fifty feet from the highway. After another half-mile he spotted the lighted sign between two posts close to the curb.
FRIENDLY LIQUOR STORE. 24-HOUR DRIVE-THROUGH. WE NEVER CLOSE
.

Father John took a sharp left, crossing in front of an
oncoming truck that came out of nowhere. He pushed hard on the gas pedal—a reflex—as a horn bleeped into the early-morning stillness. The Toyota jumped the curb, barely missing the lighted sign. Easing on the brakes, he managed to wheel into the driveway and stop at a glass box that glowed like a Christmas ornament on the side of the building. He rolled down his window at the same time the Arapaho woman inside the box slid back a glass panel and leaned onto a tiny counter. “That you, Father John?”

He must know her, this Arapaho woman selling alcohol to her people. Well, it was a job. He couldn’t recall her name, his mind had collapsed into the burning light inside, the tremendous craving. He stretched back against his seat to extract the ten-dollar bill from the pocket of his blue jeans. Reaching through his opened window, he flattened the bill on the counter. “A bottle of whiskey,” he said, dimly aware of the hoarseness in his voice.

The woman stared at the bill. “You sure, Father?”

“Just get whatever it buys.”

She picked up the bill and disappeared into the dimly lit interior. Wind gusted between the building and the Toyota, blowing snow against his face. He concentrated on the woman’s return. She was taking forever. Finally she stepped back into the glass box and set a bottle in a brown bag on the counter. She held out the change. He waved it away and grabbed the bag.

The weight of the whiskey bottle on the front seat beside him felt light and cool against his thigh as the Toyota followed the curve of the driveway around the building and pulled out onto the highway.

32

F
ather John drove through the grounds of St. Francis Mission, past the school and the administration building, past Eagle Hall and the guest house. He drove on, the Toyota rocking over the ice-rutted road until it ran into a wedge of snow. The tires churned and strained before finally grinding to a stop.

He turned off the engine and flipped off the headlights. Easing the bottle out of the paper bag, he twisted off the cap. The smell of whiskey floated around him as he stepped out into the gray moonlight. Cottonwoods loomed overhead, a ghostly presence with snow tracing the leafless branches. Dipping his chin into his parka and pulling his cowboy hat forward, he started walking through the wind-sculptured snow, bending his knees with each step, as if he were climbing a steep mountain. The whiskey sloshed out of the bottle and bored little holes into the snow as he went.

He reached the bank of the Little Wind River and lowered himself onto the trunk of a fallen cottonwood. The soft swish-swish of the wind in the trees mingled with the sounds of water gurgling over the blue-gray ice. The river was streaked in moonlight.

It appealed to his sense of irony to get drunk here. The last pastor of St. Francis Mission would admit his
utter failure at the exact place to which the first pastor had come: Black Night’s camp. It was to this place the Arapaho bands had straggled from across the plains when they had nowhere else to go.

Father John glanced around him. The village was here among the cottonwoods: the tipis arranged in a circle, the campfire burning in the center, the pony herd corralled off in the clearings. He could almost hear the sounds of ponies neighing, women keening over all they had lost, children coughing and crying.

Come and help us,
Chief Black Night had pleaded with the Jesuits. Father John repeated the words out loud: “Help us. Help us find the future.” It was a request of hope, an affirmation that there would be a future. And the first pastor had come by train part of the way, the rest of the way on horseback, guided by the warriors. He had said Mass on the banks of the river, had consecrated the bread, raising it toward heaven: the body of Christ, the presence of God in the word. In hope, he had prayed.

Father John set the bottle into the snow next to his boot and dropped his head into both hands. He heard the sounds of his own sobbing as he prayed. “
O God of abundance and mercy, forgive me, forgive me. Give me the grace to hope.
”

Straightening his shoulders, he gulped in the icy air, feeling it crimp his lungs. Then he reached down, grabbed the neck of the bottle, and tipped it sideways, watching as the whiskey carved a brown trench into the snow. The fumes wafted upward, engulfing him. He got to his feet and walked to the edge of the river, where he stood a long while, watching the water cut its narrow channel through the ice. Finally he walked back, picked up the bottle, and threw it as hard as he’d ever thrown
a baseball. His shoulder muscles burned as the bottle sailed through the cottonwood branches out over the river, into the darkness.

He retraced his footsteps through the snow until he realized he had walked to the river in circles, and now sighted a more direct path. As he neared the Toyota, he spotted a slight, dark figure coming down the road. He knew it was Vicky. He went to meet her.

“I heard an engine,” she said. Her breath came in frozen clouds. “It woke me. I looked out and saw the Toyota headed down here. Are you okay?”

Father John said nothing. He put an arm around her shoulders and guided her back to the Toyota. He could feel her shivering through the downy layers of her parka.

He let her in the passenger side, then tramped through the snow and slid in behind the wheel. “You’ll be warm in a minute,” he said, turning on the engine and pushing up the heat lever. He knew it would take a few minutes before the old engine began cranking out any heat.

“It smells like a bar in here.”

“Don’t ask,” he said, staring past the windshield at the cottonwood branches tangled against the gray sky. He could feel her watching him.

Vicky was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “Ben has started drinking again.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It can happen.”

“But you didn’t start.” Her voice was low.

Father John was aware of the hint of warm air starting out of the vents now, the soft shuddering of the motor, the silence between them. He turned toward her. “Not this time.”

“Tell me what’s happened. What sent you here?”

“Marcus Deppert was murdered a couple hours ago,” he said softly. “He and a white girl. At the Buffalo Motel.” He drew in a long breath, then began relating everything, letting it all come out: the drug lab, Gary and Ty, the murders of Rich Dolby and Annie Chambeau. He stopped at relating his latest theory about Nick Sheldon and the plans to close St. Francis Mission and build a so-called recreation center. It was enough to comprehend just the facts. The hardest fact was the murder of Marcus and the girl, the murders he might have prevented.

Vicky hadn’t taken her eyes away. “You mustn’t blame yourself, John.” She reached out and laid a hand on his arm. “They would’ve found Marcus eventually. It was a question of time.”

“I should have taken him to Fort Washakie.”

“Yes,” Vicky said sarcastically. “You should have hog-tied him and thrown him in the back of your pickup. Because that’s the only way he would’ve gone. He was a stubborn Indian.” Vicky paused a moment. Then she whispered, “We don’t control everything, and everything isn’t the way we want it to be. I’ve had to learn that.”

Father John felt the pressure of her fingers through his parka. The Arapahos believed there was a healing grace in the touch of human fingers. He knew the truth of it.

After a moment Vicky took her hand away and looked out her window. “If anything, I should have listened to you and had Gary arrested for menacing and trespassing. He was waiting for us outside the hospital this afternoon, but I was able to lose him. That’s why we came to St. Francis.”

Father John said nothing. It was some consolation. At least he had told her about the guest house.