The Thunder Keeper (7 page)

L
eaving the Wind River Reservation.

Father John passed the sign and continued north on Highway 287 through a landscape of flat-topped buttes that glowed pink in the aftermath of the rain. The sounds of
Faust
—“De l'enfer qui vient”—mingled with the hum of the Toyota's engine, the thump of the tires. He crossed Bear Creek, Indian Meadows passing outside the window. A few more miles, and he turned west off the highway and started up a narrow road into the foothills, the Toyota straining against the climb. Black clouds still formed over the mountains, threatening more rain.

More rain. That meant a day or two before he could call another practice for the St. Francis Eagles, the baseball team he'd started seven years ago, that first summer at the mission, when he'd needed a baseball team to coach. Only three practices so far this season. The kids were looking good: Chester Wallowing Bull sprinting for a grounder, sliding through the mud, coming up grinning, the ball gloved. Joseph Antelope covering first like a pro. The kid's dad, Eldon, had played first base in the minors twenty years ago, and he'd agreed to help coach this season.

Father John felt the old excitement at the prospect of
the new season, and yet—Duncan Grover was still on his mind. Alone in the mountains, on a cliff, hungry, thirsty. Lightning flashing, thunder erupting. Thunder kills. But it wasn't thunder that had killed Grover. It was the boss.
There's gonna be more murders.
The words cut through his thoughts like a harsh, dissonant melody.

Ahead, the road emptied into a high mountain valley, ringed with slopes of pines, topped by red sandstone cliffs—the place of the spirits. Bear Lake lay ahead, placid and self-contained in the gray afternoon light. He came around a bend and pulled off into a clearing near a clump of willows. In the distance was the sound of thunder, as crisp as a drumbeat.

It might have been here, he thought, getting out of the pickup, that Duncan Grover had waded into the lake, hands grasping at the willows for support, feet sinking into the sandy bottom. He had cleansed himself in preparation to meet the spirits.

Father John tilted his head back and scanned the red sandstone cliffs above. The spirits don't show themselves to everybody, the elders had told him. Only to those who are worthy.

It was a couple of minutes before he saw the petroglyph: a large, white humanlike figure carved onto the flat face of a red sandstone cliff. The guardian—the keeper—of the valley. In the Old Time, an elder had once explained, the spirit had kept the deer and sheep in the valley so the people could find food. Now the spirit protected the valley from harm.

Father John walked along the shore looking for the path up the mountain to the petroglyph. He'd gone about fifty yards when he spotted the depression in the ground, a mud-filled gully that meandered upward through the pines. The thunder crashed again, shaking the ground.
There was a flash of lightning above the cliffs.

He started uphill, walking fast. He didn't want to be on the mountain during a storm. The path lay in shadow, disappearing at times, then reappearing. Pine branches grabbed at his jacket and scratched at his hands and face.

He'd gained about three hundred feet in elevation, he guessed, when he stopped. His boots were caked with mud. He gulped at the thin air, his heart pounding against his ribs. Bear Lake floated in the shadows below, and on the cliffs across the valley, he could see other white figures emerging out of the red sandstone. Symbols of other spirit guardians: the deer, keeper of the animals; the eagle, keeper of the wingeds; the thunder, keeper of the atmosphere. In the winter, the elder had said, you could hear the spirits chipping out their own reflections in the cliffs.

He resumed the climb, pacing himself now. The path was steep, and he had to dig his boots into the soft earth to keep from sliding backward. His calf muscles protested, and his breath came in ragged, painful spasms that punctuated the sound of the wind in the pines. At an outcropping of boulders, he stopped again and looked up.

He could see the petroglyph clearly: squared body, arms extended in a kind of blessing. There were three fingers on each hand, three toes on each foot. An elaborate headdress fanned around the squared head. Large, round eyes looked out from the masked face. Below the petroglyph was a rock ledge that jutted from the cliff like the proscenium of a stage.

He took in another gulp of air and started climbing up the boulder field, pulling himself hand over hand, jamming his boots into the cracks between the large rocks to keep from falling backward. Finally he hoisted himself onto the ledge. He'd been climbing for over an hour.

The valley spread below, nearly lost in the blue-black
shadows creeping down the mountainsides. A sense of peace came over him, the peace Duncan Grover must have felt, he thought, as he'd lifted his pipe to the four directions and asked the spirits for the power to change his life. The same prayer he himself had made during his own retreat in Boston two years ago, he realized.

He moved along the edge, his eyes sweeping over the drop-off, searching for the place where Duncan had fallen. On the far side of the ledge, the boulder field sloped onto the top of a perpendicular rock wall that dropped a couple hundred feet into the trees. Detective Slinger was right. If Grover had accidentally stepped off the ledge, the boulder field would have stopped his fall. He would have had to take a running jump to fly out over the field and fall down the wall.

The boss killed him.
Father John crouched down, keeping his gaze on the wall, trying to picture exactly how it had happened. Grover, praying, smoking his pipe. Semiconscious, perhaps, waiting for the spirits to come in a vision.

Instead, two men climb onto the ledge. The boss approaches, strikes him with a pipe. Then drags his body to the far end and hurls him over the ledge. A strong man, the boss. Ben Holden said that Grover looked in good shape.

As he stood up, Father John saw a flash of motion, like that of a deer or coyote darting through the trees on the far side of the valley. He kept his eyes on the spot. There was a clap of thunder, another bolt of lightning, and he saw the figure of a man running across an opening, then he was gone. Father John had the odd sense that the person he'd seen across the valley had also seen him.

He climbed off the ledge and started down through the boulder field, leaning into the rocks, grabbing the sharp
edges for support. The air was hazy with rain. Thunder rolled across the peaks, like a giant coughing himself awake.

He reached the base of the field and started walking down the path, the thunder following, crashing behind him. Lightning split the sky, and the first drops of rain stung his face and hands. Another possibility worked its way into his consciousness: maybe somebody didn't want Duncan Grover in this place, on the ledge, close to the petroglyph. And maybe the man across the valley just now hadn't wanted him in this place either.

He rejected the idea almost as it formed. People came to the valley all the time. They drove up the road, stopped at the lake, stared up at the cliffs hoping for a glimpse of the spirits. Why would anyone kill Duncan Grover for coming here?

By the time he reached the Toyota, the rain was hard and cold, the thunder more insistent. A streak of lightning was so bright that for a second it seemed as if the sun had suddenly broken through. His jacket was soaked; even his shirt clung to his skin.

He drove back down the mountains, threading his way through streams washing over the road. He knew what had happened to Grover: it was as clear as a vision. But some of what he knew he couldn't talk about. He was going to have to find another way to convince a white detective in Lander that Grover hadn't killed himself. Somebody had hurled him off the ledge.

 

I
t was dark when Father John turned into the mission. The rain had stopped a few miles north of Riverton, but gray fog had pressed down on the highway, swallowing up the remaining daylight. The street lamps around Circle
Drive sent wan circles of light over the grounds. He parked next to the dark sedan in front of the administration building. A parishioner to see Father Ryan, he thought.

As he started up the front steps, a dark-haired woman in a red raincoat burst through the door, weaving against the railing, nearly stumbling on the steps. He reached out to steady her, but she ducked past and kept going.

“Wait a minute,” he called, starting after her. She was already at the sedan, flinging open the door, folding herself inside.

He caught the door and held it open against her efforts to yank it shut. “Let me go!” she screamed up at him. Tears ran down her cheeks; green and black smudges rimmed her eyes. She was probably about thirty, and beautiful, he thought, despite the anguish in her face.

“Can I help you?” He made his voice calm.

She was still looking at him, blinking with comprehension. Her nostrils flared in anger. “You're Father O'Malley,” she said.

“Yes. What's going on?”

“You'll find out soon enough.” She pulled at the door, but he held on to it. “Let me go.”

“Tell me what happened. Who are you?”

She kept her hand on the handle. “Mary Ann Williams. Remember the name, Father O'Malley, because you're going to hear it again. You and Father Ryan are going to pay for what you've done.”

“What's this all about?” he said, but he was talking to himself. The door shut, the engine turned over, and the sedan lurched backward, then forward onto Circle Drive. Gravel sprayed his hands and face. The car sped toward Seventeen Mile Road, flashing past the grove of cottonwoods, and then it was gone.

He whirled around and went inside to find Don Ryan.

F
ather John strode down the corridor lined with portraits of the early Jesuits of St. Francis Mission, faces set in certitude, eyes solemn behind rimless glasses. The far door was open. His assistant stood at the window, looking out into the dim light, one hand braced against the frame.

“What's going on?” Father John stopped in the doorway.

The other priest remained motionless: there was only the smallest twitch of a muscle beneath his blue polo shirt. Finally he walked over to the desk. He kept his eyes straight ahead. “Just finished a counseling session,” he said, sitting down, methodically rearranging a stack of file folders.

“The woman was crying. What happened?”

The other priest brushed some nonexistent dust from the top folder, then looked up. “She's going through a divorce, has a lot of issues. I've been trying to help her.”

“Who is she?” Father John had never seen the woman before. She wasn't one of the whites from Riverton or Lander who occasionally came to Sunday Mass at the Indian church.

“Mary Ann Williams.” The other priest's voice was flat.
He might have been describing the rain. “Lives over in Riverton.”

“How long have you been counseling her?”

“What is this? The Inquisition? What difference does it make?” Father Don jumped up and walked back to the window. His breath made a little gray smudge on the glass. “Sorry,” he said after a couple seconds. “I guess the session upset me, too.”

“She said we're going to pay for what we've done to her,” Father John persisted. “What's she talking about?”

“She said that?” The other priest swung around, a look of alarm in the pale eyes. Then, as if he had willed it so, the alarm dissolved into mild concern. “She has a depressive personality.” His voice was steady. “She'll probably feel better tomorrow.”

“Somebody should check on her now,” Father John said. “Does she have family, friends in town?”

“How would I know?” The alarm returned.

Father John walked over and picked up the phone. “The Riverton police will send someone out on a welfare check.”

“The police!” Father Don was across the office, his arm flashing out, yanking the phone away. “You want a squad car to pull up in front of her apartment building? You want to send her over the edge?”

“She shouldn't be alone,” Father John said. “Where does she live? I can go over.”

The other priest stared at him a moment. Then he went over to the coattree and grabbed a jacket. “Mary Ann doesn't know you,” he said. “I'll check on her myself.” He walked out the door. The sound of his footsteps receded down the corridor, and then the front door slammed shut, sending a ripple of motion through the old walls.

 

B
y the time Father John had locked up the administration building and walked over to the residence, darkness had descended through the fog. There was no sign of Father Don's blue sedan.

The residence groaned like an old rocking chair as he let himself in the front door. Walks-On stood at the end of the hall, tail wagging into the kitchen. Elena had already gone home, but there would be a note on the kitchen table.
Stew in oven, turn on coffee.
He could recite the instructions by heart.

He went into the kitchen, shook some dried food into the dog's dish, then dished up his own plate of stew and sat down at the table, his thoughts jumping between Duncan Grover and the woman running out of Father Don's office.

After dinner, he put a tape of
Faust
into the player on the bookcase in his study and spent the evening at his desk working on the summer schedule: marriage preparation classes, religious-ed classes, Arapaho culture programs, new parent groups. And the Eagles baseball team: practice every afternoon, games every Saturday. A busy summer. No time for the loneliness to creep up on him, for temptations to take hold. If he kept busy enough, he wouldn't think about a drink; he wouldn't think about Vicky.

It was past midnight when he let the dog outside for a few minutes. Father Don still hadn't come in, and he realized he'd been waiting for the other priest, half expecting the sounds of a motor cutting off in front, the front door opening. Surely, if the man had run into any trouble, he would have called.

He started up the stairs, bringing the phone from the
hall table as far as the cord would stretch. He set the phone on the top step. He would hear it ring, in case someone needed a priest in the middle of the night.

 

T
he sky was clear with the promise of sunshine when Father John walked back to the residence after the early-morning Mass. He always enjoyed the early Mass—the faithful parishioners scattered about the pews, murmuring the prayers, the first daylight blinking in the stained-glass windows.

The front door opened as he came up the steps. His assistant stood just inside, as if he'd been waiting for him. He had no idea when the man had gotten in last night. Late, he guessed, because he'd tossed about a long while, going over in his mind what he'd learned about Duncan Grover: a twenty-five-year-old man running from something, getting ready to start a job, trying to start over. And a girl in a convenience store whom he might never find. Hardly enough to convince a white detective to launch a homicide investigation.

And in the back of his mind, like the relentless beat of a drum, the words in the confessional:
There's gonna be more murders.

“I have to talk to you,” Father Don said, turning into the study.

Father John followed. “What is it?” His assistant had the blanched, drawn look of a man who'd been up all night.

“I'm gonna need a little time off.”

“You okay?”

“I'm fine.” Father Don jammed his fists into his khakis and began circling the study, an intent look in his eyes. “Just need a few days to myself. Thought I'd take a drive
to the mountains. Find someplace to hide out awhile.”

“Hide out?”

“Do some praying, thinking. Sometimes you have to get away. You know how it is.”

He knew. He'd gone all the way to Boston a couple years ago and stayed two weeks. Still, Don Ryan had been here only a couple months.

“Does this have anything to do with Mary Ann Williams?” he asked.

The other priest yanked one hand from his pocket and waved it into the space between them. “Let's not turn this into a big deal, okay? I'm taking a few days off, that's all.”

“What happened last night?” Father John persisted.

“Nothing happened.” The other priest spit out the words. “I called one of Mary Ann's friends. She came over, and I stayed until the friend got her calmed down.”

Father John walked over and sat down at his desk. His assistant was lying, and the man wasn't any better at it than dozens of people he'd counseled, dozens of penitents in the confessional—lying to themselves first, hoping that if someone else believed the lies, then they could also believe, as if the believing would make them true.

He glanced up. “Take whatever time you need. I'll be here when you get back, should you want to talk.”

 

F
ifteen minutes later—he'd just taken a spoonful of the oatmeal Elena had set before him—Father John heard the front door slam and, a moment after that, tires crunching the wet gravel on Circle Drive.

“Well, I told you so.” Elena plunged a plate into the soapy water in the sink, disappointment etched in the set of her shoulders. Father John understood. Don Ryan
wasn't just another priest in a passing parade. Here for a few weeks, a year, then moving on. He was . . . well, he'd seemed to like the place.

“What makes you think Father Don won't be back?” He heard the doubt creeping into his own voice.

“I told you before. He was never here,” Elena said after a moment. “His spirit was somewhere else.”

Father John finished the oatmeal. Considering. So many priests through the years. Elena
knew.
He was going to have to cut back on the summer programs, limit them to what he could handle. Until the Provincial found another assistant. He would be even busier than he'd imagined. Which meant he had even less time than he'd thought to convince Detective Slinger that Duncan Grover was murdered.

He thanked Elena for breakfast and asked her to tell anyone who stopped by that he'd be back later. Then he headed down the hallway, grabbed his jacket and cowboy hat, and left for Lander.