The Ghost Walker (30 page)

S
age Canyon was divided into sun and shadow under the pale blue sky. Shadow washed over the snow-crested boulders on the mountainside, while sunlight danced in the abyss above the creek. The snow had not yet started to soften on the asphalt, and Father John could feel the rear tires slipping. He tried to concentrate on the road winding upward, but his thoughts were on Banner. He was a good policeman. He wouldn’t sleep until he had closed down the drug lab and arrested the murderers. Eventually he would nail them. In the meantime—

In the meantime, Sheldon and the men he was paying were looking for Susan, and eventually they would find her. They might even trace her in Denver. As long as they were free, the girl and Vicky were in a kind of prison with no hope of release.

The mountainside sloped into a snow-covered valley as he passed Lean Bear’s ranch. The gate stood open. Tire tracks cut through the snow to the house, but no vehicles were about. The house looked deserted, suspended in the white landscape. He glanced at the mileage. Three miles farther, Vicky had said.

The road narrowed as the Toyota climbed higher, skidding slightly around the sharp curves. He spotted the turnoff and wheeled toward it, but the Toyota balked
and slid sideways. Suddenly he was spinning across the road in slow motion, making wide loops toward the rocks and trees, then out to the edge of the road. He pumped the brakes and turned the steering wheel into the spin. The rear tires shuddered as they sought a purchase in the snow. Finally they began to grip. The Toyota stopped. He rolled down his window and looked out. The tailgate hung over the abyss of the canyon.

He eased on the gas, willing the truck from the edge. Gradually it started across the road and up the narrow trail. It climbed through the shadows of ponderosas laden with snow, churning through tire tracks left by somebody else. About a mile and a half up, the road burst out of the trees into a wide clearing—the upper pasture. A blanket of white spread into the distances, surrounded by the snow-girded peaks of the Wind River Mountains.

Two small buildings stood off to the right. A rancher might care for orphaned ewes in one; a family could spend the cool summer nights in the other. Beyond the buildings, close to the rim of the trees, stood a barn. It had been painted at one time, and traces of green showed on the wood. Parked alongside it were three vehicles: the gray Chevy pickup, the green Dodge pickup, and a red Jeep.

Father John let out a low whistle. The lab was here, all right, and so were Gary and Ty when he’d just sent Banner and the Lander police to Sheldon’s house. There was always the possibility Banner would find some excuse to check out the upper pasture, but he couldn’t count on it. He threw the Toyota into reverse and started backing down, rounding a curve out of sight of the barn. He rammed the Toyota into a windswept clearing in the trees. The wind sighed in the branches and peppered his face with snow as he hiked back up the mountain, staying among trees, his boots sinking into the powder.

At the edge of the pasture, he heard loud, angry voices mingling with the wind that swished across the open spaces and a slow humming noise he couldn’t identify. He moved sideways, staying close to the trees, then darted to the back of the barn and inched toward the small window. It was painted black inside, and he caught a glimpse of his own face. It surprised him: the prickly, unshaven chin, the flecks of perspiration on his forehead, his cowboy hat set back. Below the window stood a generator that emitted a sound like a hive full of bees. A faint antiseptic smell hung in the air.

“No murder!” a man shouted as Father John moved along the side of the barn toward the front. He heard another voice, low and calm, saying, “Unexpected problem . . . deal with it.” It was Sheldon’s.

Father John came around the corner. The barn door stood partly open. “You had no right to involve me in murder.” The first voice again. The quiet, reasonable voice of the lawyer responded, “You have no reason to worry.”

Father John moved slowly along the front, then bent toward the opening. The smells of chemicals—alcohol and ether and ammonia—stung his nostrils. The opening offered a clear view of half the barn. Long fluorescent bulbs dangled on black cords from the ceiling; light reflected off the stainless-steel table against the wall. Plastic and glass bottles, small glass dishes, flasks, and glass containers filled with liquids of various colors lined the tables, while the shelves above sagged under the clutter of boxes, packages, and bottles. On each bottle were white labels with large black letters that spelled out the words “Flammable” and “Explosive.” At the far end of the barn stood a steel cabinet with glass doors. Behind the doors were still more bottles, all with black-lettered warning labels. Someone had stuck a red sign at
the top of One door:
DANGER. KEEP SPARKS AND FIRE AWAY
. The cabinet itself seemed to fold upward into a hood, like a metal tipi, that, Father John figured, vented fumes from the bottled solvents to the outside.

Across from the cabinet stood a closet, its door padlocked, and on the floor next to it was some kind of fan encased in metal. It made a soft whirring noise. Father John had seen other barns on the reservation with this kind of rigged-up heating system, only here the boiler was locked in the closet away from the chemicals. He could feel the thin stream of warm air blowing across the barn.

Close to the fan stood Nick Sheldon, hands thrust into the pockets of his gray overcoat, black boots sunk into the red carpet spread across the dirt floor. He faced a stocky middle-aged man wearing a long-sleeved white shirt that strained against its buttons and blue jeans that sagged below his belly. A black beard wrapped around his chin and mingled with his curly dark hair. “Murder wasn’t part of our contract, you S.O.B.,” he shouted, reaching up a pudgy hand to push his plastic-rimmed glasses into place.

Sheldon bent toward him. “For a professor you can be very dense, Morrissey. I’ve explained that whatever happens outside this lab is no concern of yours. You do your job; we take care of ours.”

The man with the beard reared backward, fists clenched. Father John thought he might slug the lawyer. Sheldon must have thought so, too, because he stepped back and took his hands out of his pockets.

The professor whirled around and brought both fists down hard on the stainless-steel table, sending a glass flask rolling toward the edge. He grabbed it, set it upright. Keeping his eyes on the flask, he said, “This was supposed to be a well-organized business enterprise.
You were supposed to be businessmen. Instead I find you are nothing but a bunch of bungling murderers.” He turned back slowly, fists still clenched. “Well, I’m leaving here. Go find yourself another genius.”

“You don’t mean that, Morrissey.” Sheldon placed one hand on the professor’s shoulder. “Where would you go? Back to some dead-end job in some podunk college where no one appreciates you? This is your dream. A lab equipped to your exact specifications. Anything you want, we provide, just so you can work your wonders with no interference. Just to show you how much we appreciate your genius, Morrissey, I’ve been authorized to double the amount we originally agreed to pay you.”

The professor seemed to relax; his shoulders rounded, he looked as if he might cave forward. Father John stepped quickly around the corner and darted again for the trees. He’d seen enough, heard enough, for Banner to get the warrant. He ran downslope a short way, then angled toward the road where he could make better time. He had to drive out of here before Sheldon started back. Most likely the lawyer had driven up here in the Jeep. And while the police were looking for the two pickups, Gary and Ty were probably using the other Jeep. But where were they? How long before Gary figured out where Vicky had taken Susan?

Just as Father John came around the curve, a gust of wind whipped the snow off the trees, engulfing him in a white cloud. He ran through it, then stopped in his tracks. Standing in the road ahead was Ty, wearing a dark parka, a knit cap pulled low around his face, and aviator sunglasses. He raised the blue-black barrel of a shotgun. “Turn around and keep walkin’, Father,” he said. “We gotta go see Mr. Sheldon.”

35

F
ather John didn’t move. “You don’t want to do that, Ty. It would blow the only chance you’ve got.” It was a gamble. He detected a hint of deference about the young man, even while his hands twitched on the gun, which was waving back and forth.

“What d’ya mean?”

“The police know about the lab. They’re on their way here now.” That was probably a lie, although Father John was praying Banner would find some excuse to get up here. He took a gulp of air and went on. “Four people have been murdered, Ty, and you’re involved.”

The young man’s eyes widened; his head began shaking. “I ain’t no murderer. I didn’t kill nobody. I didn’t even know about that Indian girl in Lander ’til after Gary shot her. Hell, I tried to stop him from shootin’ Rich Dolby. And Mr. Sheldon just told me to find Marcus Deppert, and that’s what I did. You was a big help.”

Father John felt his stomach muscles constrict, as if he’d been hit with a fastball. The gun jerked upward, and the young man went on: Having figured that sooner or later Father John would lead him to the Indian, he had followed the Toyota. Last night he followed it to Herb’s Place and then to the house. He was parked around the corner when Marcus and the girl drove out of the alley.
He followed them to the motel and called Sheldon. “I done my job, that’s all. I ain’t responsible for what happened next.” Ty shifted from one foot to the other.

“Sorry,” Father John said. “That’s not how it works. You’re an accessory to murder, and you’re looking at spending the rest of your life in prison. But if you turn yourself in, things might go easier for you. We can drive to Fort Washakie right now. It’s your only chance.”

Ty’s whole body began to shake. The shotgun moved back and forth erratically. “Nice try, Father. But I got other plans. I’m gonna collect what Mr. Sheldon owes me and, soon’s Susan gets here, me and her are gonna cut out.”

Father John made an effort to keep his voice calm. “What are you saying?”

A kind of smile crept into the young man’s eyes. “Mr. Sheldon figured out you’d be hidin’ Susan and her mom. So he sent Gary over to the mission to get ’em. He’s bringin’ ’em up here right now. And Mr. Sheldon’s not gonna like you snoopin’ around the lab. So start walkin’, Father.”

“Ty, don’t you get it?” Father John heard himself shouting against the mountain stillness. “They’re going to kill Susan and her mother.”

The young man came forward jerkily, raising the barrel until it was pointed at Father John’s head. “Don’t try trickin’ me. Mr. Sheldon ain’t gonna kill my girlfriend. He knows we’re gonna get married. Turn around and walk, or I swear I’m gonna have to shoot you. I don’t want to, Father, so don’t make me do it.”

Father John turned slowly and started up the road, the muzzle hard against his back. Their boots scrunched the snow as they crossed the open space in front of the barn, and Father John heard the voices inside. Their
tones were calm now, like those of two businessmen discussing shipments and packages. Ty kicked the door wide open, and he and Father John stepped inside. The voices went quiet as Sheldon and the professor whirled about. “My God,” the professor yelled. “Get that gun out of here. This is a laboratory, you fool. There are highly volatile chemicals here. What are you trying to do, blow us to pieces?”

Sheldon seemed unfazed as he nodded toward Ty. “Wait outside,” he said.

“I need my money, Mr. Sheldon.”

“Get out! Get out!” The professor threw both hands into the air. His face had turned the color of rust, and his glasses slipped down his nose.

The lawyer stepped forward. “Wait outside,” he ordered Ty. “We’ll discuss the matter later.”

Ty started backing up, eyes darting between Sheldon and the professor. His arms shook, and the shotgun danced in his hands. The professor watched him leave, then sank against the edge of the table. Extracting a folded white handkerchief from the back pocket of his jeans, he began mopping his forehead. “Idiot,” he said, spitting out the word.