Eye of the Wolf, page 17
pull him off track, but it was like he was drunk on her. Didn’t want to
give her up. We told him, don’t bring her around the family. We was
waiting for him to wake up and see she wasn’t any good.”
“I’ve met her,” Father John said. “I think she really loved Trent.”
Tomas shook his head and closed his eyes for a moment at this. “Girl
like that don’t love anybody but herself.”
“Maybe nobody ever loved her,” Marie said.
The man slid his gaze sideways toward his wife. “She was hanging
around with them crazy white supremacists that want to kill off all the
brown-skin people. That the kind of girl you wanted our boy getting
mixed up with?”
“She took Trent’s death pretty hard,” Father John said. “She’s at
Riverton Memorial.”
Tomas didn’t say anything. He leaned forward and stared out across
the room, as if he’d like to join one of the other conversations erupting
now and then.
“What happened to her?” Hanson asked.
“She was pretty upset over Trent’s death,” Father John began, guess-
ing now, struggling for some logical explanation. “I think she wanted to
bring the pain into focus. She cut her arms.”
Marie lifted one hand to her mouth. “She gonna be okay?”
“She’ll recover, but she’s hurting a lot.”
“Ain’t it enough our son’s been killed?” Tomas said. “We don’t need
that girl’s troubles. Why doesn’t she go back to wherever she came
from?”
“She doesn’t have any family.”
“Well, that figures.” Tomas was shaking his head, as if he could
shake away the topic.
“There’s something you should know,” Father John went on. “Edie
is carrying Trent’s child.”
26210_ch01.qxd 6/23/05 12:25 PM Page 132
132
M A R G A R E T C O E L
“Oh, my God.” Marie dropped her face into her hands. A moment
passed before she took her hands away. A sheen of moisture crept over
her cheeks. “The baby?”
“The baby’s okay.”
Father John glanced at Tomas. His jaw was clenched. His hands lay
like rocks dropped onto the thighs of his blue jeans. He might have been
turned into stone.
“We don’t need this,” Tomas said finally. “Forget it, Marie, anything
you’re thinking. That girl’s got a white supremacist baby in her belly,
and we don’t want anything to do with it. Trent never said one word
about a baby.”
“A child’s always a blessing,” Hanson said. “Dam Apua dame mash.
The Creator is with us. ”
“Not a white supremacist child. No way would Trent ever break up
with that girl if she had his baby.”
“Break up?” Father John heard the astonishment in his voice. Edie
Bradbury hadn’t said anything about a breakup. “When did that hap-
pen?”
“Two, three weeks ago, I guess,” Tomas said. “Called here and said,
‘Don’t worry, Dad. I’m gonna break it off. Gonna tell Edie it’s not
working out and get my own place.’ ”
Father John sat back in his chair. The girl said that Trent hadn’t been
home since Friday, yet there hadn’t been any sign of Trent’s things at the
house. “Do you know if he moved out?”
“Called me next day and said he’d found an apartment in a basement
by the college. Said it was gonna be real convenient and quiet. No more
trouble from the girl’s white friends.”
“She gonna be okay?” Marie moved to the edge of her chair.
“I tol’ you, honey.” Tomas patted her hand. “We can’t be worrying
ourselves about that white girl. Let her white friends take care of her.”
“The detective will want to know everythingyou’ve told me,” Father
John said. He kept his voice low, although what difference did it make?
Everybody in the livingroom had been listeningin on the conversation.
26210_ch01.qxd 6/23/05 12:25 PM Page 133
E Y E O F T H E W O L F
133
The moccasin telegraph would be bursting with gossip the next few
days.
Tomas nodded. “I already told that detective everything I know. I
told him, take a good look at that girl and the gang of troublemakers she
hangs with. Maybe they’re the ones want to get a war started on the rez,
so Indians can kill one another off.”
Father John drained the rest of the coffee, then got to his feet. “Call
me if there’s anything I can do to help you,” he said, setting one hand on
the man’s shoulder a moment. Then he turned to Lou Crispin who was
staring up at him out of red-rimmed eyes. “Anything at all,” he said.
Motioning for them to stay seated, he started back across the room.
“There’s something else you can do.” The elder’s voice came from
behind him.
Father John turned around. Hanson was holding onto the back of a
chair, and one of the other men, Father John realized, had a hand on the
old man’s arm. For a moment, Father John thought the elder was going
to ask him to stay in touch with the girl, make sure she was okay. In-
stead, he said, “Tell the Arapahos we don’t wish ’em harm. And if you
talk to that detective, tell him he’s got to find the killer real soon. No
tellin’ how long we can keep the likes of Eric Surrell from goin’ off and
lookin’ for their own revenge.”
Father John shook the elder’s hand, the palm as rough as rawhide. He
could feel the old man’s eyes trailing him past the groups of people—the
nods and half-smiles—until he’d let himself out the front door.
F AT H E R J O H N T U R N E D onto Trout Creek Road and peered at the
snow-streaked asphalt rolling toward him, unable to shake the image
of Edie Bradbury curled on top of the bed, the blue-red slices in her
arms, the blood crusted on the bedspread. A flare for capturing history
in brief, pithy images, Professor Lambert had said of the girl. Edie,
Trent, the Crispin brothers—they were all in the class. It was hard to
imagine the girl with a rifle, pulling the trigger—one, two, three times.
26210_ch01.qxd 6/23/05 12:25 PM Page 134
134
M A R G A R E T C O E L
Afterward, posing each body to look like a fallen warrior. Recording
the message somewhere and placing the telephone call, wanting the
bodies to be found before the snow covered them. A poet yearning for
her work to be appreciated.
It was hard to imagine.
And yet, no reins on that girl, Tomas had said. And she was carrying
the child of the man who had broken up with her.
He wasn’t sure when the pickup had appeared in the rearview mir-
ror, brown and weaving across the road. It was coming closer now, so
close he could see the three dark heads bobbing above the dashboard,
the white teeth flashing in brown faces. They were enjoying this, taking
up the whole road and then speeding up until they were riding the tail of
the Toyota.
The first hit was like a nudge. Father John felt the rear tires spin,
knocked out of sync a moment. He let them settle back into a regular
rhythm before he pressed down on the accelerator, trying to put space
between himself and the brown pickup that was also speeding up. The
next hit was a loud crash of metal against metal. He had the sense of be-
ing airborne, the pickup loping down the road and swerving to the side
as the other pickup rammed the tailgate hard. His head snapped forward
into the windshield and the front end plowed into the borrow ditch.
The engine whined for a moment, then shut off. In the rearview mir-
ror, he watched the doors of the pickup swing open. He recognized the
three men tumbling out of the cab: Eric Surrell and the men who had left
the house with him. Eric planted both boots in the snow, leaned down,
and lifted out something from behind the seat.
They were coming up his side of the pickup now, single file. Funny,
he thought. Like baseball players marching out to the field, Eric in the
lead carrying the bat.
26210_ch01.qxd 6/23/05 12:25 PM Page 135
16
F AT H E R J O H N P U S H E D the door open and jumped out just as the bat
rose in the air and smashed down onto the pickup. The thumping noise
reverberated through the quiet. A dent the size of a baseball appeared on
the top edge of the bed. The vehicle seemed to jump sideways, then set-
tle back, shuddering under the force of the blow.
“Hey!” he shouted. “What’re you doing?” He stepped around the
door, placing the shield of metal and plastic and glass between himself
and the three men who were crouching forward, like wolves moving in
for the kill.
“Your turn, priest.” Eric Surrell held the bat up and out, ready for
another strike.
Father John waited, his breath an icy lump in his throat. He was
barely aware of the moist air stinging his face and the dull throb of pain
in his cheek. Everything was moving in slow motion. He didn’t take his
eyes off the man with the bat. Come on. Come on.
26210_ch01.qxd 6/23/05 12:25 PM Page 136
136
M A R G A R E T C O E L
“We got a message for Arapahos,” Eric shouted. He adjusted his
weight from one leg to the other. The others pulled back, giving him
room to swing. “You’re gonna be the delivery boy.”
One more step.
Eric pulled the bat up higher. The instant he stepped into the swing,
Father John threw his weight against the door, crashing it against the
man and knocking him into the side of the pickup. He stumbled side-
ways and jabbed one hand against the front seat, scrambling for bal-
ance. The bat dipped in his other hand, and Father John grabbed hold of
the man’s arm and yanked him forward, then sideways, pulling him
against the edge of the door. The bat slid downward, planting itself like
a pole in the snow as Father John rammed the man’s arm up behind his
back and slammed him into the side of the pickup. There was a snap-
ping noise, like the sound of boots stomping on ice. Father John felt
something in the man’s arm slacken, and Eric gave a howl that ripped
out of his lungs and cut into the air.
The other men were coming to life. Out of the corner of his eye, Fa-
ther John could see the surprise slip from their faces, giving way to a red
anger that glowed like burning coals through the gray cold. They started
forward. Father John swung Eric around and shoved the man into them.
Then he scooped up the bat and stepped away from the pickup, giving
himself a good five feet from the men stumbling forward, trying to
steady Eric, who was still howling with pain and screaming, “My shoul-
der! My shoulder!”
Father John fixed the bat into place over his right shoulder. He could
feel his hands tighten into the familiar grip. It felt natural, except for the
leather gloves he was wearing. He was the pitcher again, the rare pitcher
who was damn good up at bat. He could bat at .382, but that was
twenty-five years ago. Twenty-five years ago, but he could still swing a
bat. He knew that for a fact.
One of Eric’s buddies, a tall man with squinty eyes and black braids
dangling over the fur collar of his jean jacket, had moved past the oth-
ers. He looked like a wrestler, arms bent, elbows pointed outward, legs
26210_ch01.qxd 6/23/05 12:25 PM Page 137
E Y E O F T H E W O L F
137
planted a couple of feet apart. His eyes were black slits in his brown
face. “Okay, priest. Looks like it’s you and me.”
“You want to try me? Come on.” Father John moved the bat up and
down. With the right swing, he could break the man’s arm.
The Indian hesitated. “Throw the bat down. Let’s see what kind of
man you are.”
“The bat’s mine,” Father John said. “You’re going to have to take
your chances.”
Eric let out another yelp. “Sonnuvabitch,” he screamed.
“Get him, Lester!” The man holding onto Eric shouted.
A couple of seconds passed. The Indian kept shifting his gaze from
the bat to Father John. Father John could almost read the argument
playing out behind the squinting eyes. The man was weighing his odds.
The priest was twenty years older, but he was taller and in better shape
than he’d expected. Maybe he was fast with the bat. He could be real
fast and strong. He could hit him. Maybe he’d get hit before he saw it
coming.
Finally, something in the Indian’s expression seemed to deflate, all
the confidence and energy leaching away. He put up both hands in an
awkward sign of peace. “We come to send a message to that Arapaho,”
he said. “Tell Frankie Montana we aren’t gonna sit around and do noth-
ing while he kills our people. He wants war, he’s gonna get it. Tell him
we’re ready.”
“That’s all you want, then take off,” Father John said, keeping his
grip tight, his hands glued to the bat. “Get your friend to the hospital.”
The Indian took a step backward and glanced around at Eric, who
was doubled over, moaning, his good arm looped over his dislocated
shoulder. The other Indian had an arm around Eric’s waist, keeping him
on his feet.
“Shit, Lester,” the man shouted, steering Eric back toward the
brown pickup. “Let’s get out of here.”
Lester kept moving backward, his eyes on the bat. When he reached
the tailgate, he swung around and lunged for the brown pickup. He slid
26210_ch01.qxd 6/23/05 12:25 PM Page 138
138
M A R G A R E T C O E L
in behind the steering wheel as the Indian with Eric shoved the man into
the middle and crawled in behind him. The doors slammed shut, the en-
gine turned over, and the pickup started backing up. Then it pulled
around and shot down the road in the direction of Fort Washakie.
Father John waited until the dark vehicle had blurred into the fading
daylight before he stepped back to the stalled pickup. He set the bat in-
side, leaning it against the passenger seat, close at hand. Funny, he
hadn’t been aware of how chilly it was, but now the cold bit through his
jacket and settled in his bones. The wind had picked up. He could hear
it whining through the trees behind him like an animal. It made a
whistling noise as it gusted through the cab.
He slid inside and turned the ignition. The engine sputtered and shut
off. He tried again, and this time it caught. He shifted into reverse, then
into forward and back into reverse, easing on and off the pedal, rocking
the Toyota out of the mud and snow in the ditch, still watching the
rearview mirror for the brown pickup.
It was no use. He was stuck. He was about to give up and get the
shovel out of the box in back when he shifted again into reverse and
stomped down on the accelerator. The pickup jumped backward, free.
He steered the vehicle into the lane, then shifted gears and drove east.
Another couple of turns and he was speeding down Seventeen-Mile
Road. There was no other traffic, no sign of life, except for the small
houses set back from the road here and there. He gripped the steering
wheel hard. He’d managed to stay calm and logical, but now that it was
over—or was it over? Now Eric had another score to settle. He could
feel the anger creeping like fire through his chest and into his throat. His
mouth was as dry as dust. If Lester had made a move, he would have
swung at the man with all his strength. God, he could have killed him,
and he didn’t care. He didn’t care.
He made himself take several deep breaths to tamp down the anger.
Gradually he felt his grip relax on the wheel. The muscles in his chest
and arms also began to relax. He kept his eyes on the road unfurling
ahead. He could breathe easily now. “Lord, help me,” he said out loud,
26210_ch01.qxd 6/23/05 12:25 PM Page 139
E Y E O F T H E W O L F
139
his own voice lost in the noise of the wind gusting over the half-opened
window. Let me care.
T H E Y K N E W S H E was here.
Vicky had seen the blinds moving in the front window as she drove
through the slush and mud into the yard. Frankie and his friends were
inside the blocklike house with faded yellow paint and a wooden stoop
with part of the railing hanging loose, she was sure. She’d parked the
Jeep close to the stoop and waited for the door to open. Nothing had
happened. The silence of the afternoon pressed down over the house, yet
she had the sense that somebody was moving about inside and eyes were
watching her through the slats. She left the engine running and waited. If
give her up. We told him, don’t bring her around the family. We was
waiting for him to wake up and see she wasn’t any good.”
“I’ve met her,” Father John said. “I think she really loved Trent.”
Tomas shook his head and closed his eyes for a moment at this. “Girl
like that don’t love anybody but herself.”
“Maybe nobody ever loved her,” Marie said.
The man slid his gaze sideways toward his wife. “She was hanging
around with them crazy white supremacists that want to kill off all the
brown-skin people. That the kind of girl you wanted our boy getting
mixed up with?”
“She took Trent’s death pretty hard,” Father John said. “She’s at
Riverton Memorial.”
Tomas didn’t say anything. He leaned forward and stared out across
the room, as if he’d like to join one of the other conversations erupting
now and then.
“What happened to her?” Hanson asked.
“She was pretty upset over Trent’s death,” Father John began, guess-
ing now, struggling for some logical explanation. “I think she wanted to
bring the pain into focus. She cut her arms.”
Marie lifted one hand to her mouth. “She gonna be okay?”
“She’ll recover, but she’s hurting a lot.”
“Ain’t it enough our son’s been killed?” Tomas said. “We don’t need
that girl’s troubles. Why doesn’t she go back to wherever she came
from?”
“She doesn’t have any family.”
“Well, that figures.” Tomas was shaking his head, as if he could
shake away the topic.
“There’s something you should know,” Father John went on. “Edie
is carrying Trent’s child.”
26210_ch01.qxd 6/23/05 12:25 PM Page 132
132
M A R G A R E T C O E L
“Oh, my God.” Marie dropped her face into her hands. A moment
passed before she took her hands away. A sheen of moisture crept over
her cheeks. “The baby?”
“The baby’s okay.”
Father John glanced at Tomas. His jaw was clenched. His hands lay
like rocks dropped onto the thighs of his blue jeans. He might have been
turned into stone.
“We don’t need this,” Tomas said finally. “Forget it, Marie, anything
you’re thinking. That girl’s got a white supremacist baby in her belly,
and we don’t want anything to do with it. Trent never said one word
about a baby.”
“A child’s always a blessing,” Hanson said. “Dam Apua dame mash.
The Creator is with us. ”
“Not a white supremacist child. No way would Trent ever break up
with that girl if she had his baby.”
“Break up?” Father John heard the astonishment in his voice. Edie
Bradbury hadn’t said anything about a breakup. “When did that hap-
pen?”
“Two, three weeks ago, I guess,” Tomas said. “Called here and said,
‘Don’t worry, Dad. I’m gonna break it off. Gonna tell Edie it’s not
working out and get my own place.’ ”
Father John sat back in his chair. The girl said that Trent hadn’t been
home since Friday, yet there hadn’t been any sign of Trent’s things at the
house. “Do you know if he moved out?”
“Called me next day and said he’d found an apartment in a basement
by the college. Said it was gonna be real convenient and quiet. No more
trouble from the girl’s white friends.”
“She gonna be okay?” Marie moved to the edge of her chair.
“I tol’ you, honey.” Tomas patted her hand. “We can’t be worrying
ourselves about that white girl. Let her white friends take care of her.”
“The detective will want to know everythingyou’ve told me,” Father
John said. He kept his voice low, although what difference did it make?
Everybody in the livingroom had been listeningin on the conversation.
26210_ch01.qxd 6/23/05 12:25 PM Page 133
E Y E O F T H E W O L F
133
The moccasin telegraph would be bursting with gossip the next few
days.
Tomas nodded. “I already told that detective everything I know. I
told him, take a good look at that girl and the gang of troublemakers she
hangs with. Maybe they’re the ones want to get a war started on the rez,
so Indians can kill one another off.”
Father John drained the rest of the coffee, then got to his feet. “Call
me if there’s anything I can do to help you,” he said, setting one hand on
the man’s shoulder a moment. Then he turned to Lou Crispin who was
staring up at him out of red-rimmed eyes. “Anything at all,” he said.
Motioning for them to stay seated, he started back across the room.
“There’s something else you can do.” The elder’s voice came from
behind him.
Father John turned around. Hanson was holding onto the back of a
chair, and one of the other men, Father John realized, had a hand on the
old man’s arm. For a moment, Father John thought the elder was going
to ask him to stay in touch with the girl, make sure she was okay. In-
stead, he said, “Tell the Arapahos we don’t wish ’em harm. And if you
talk to that detective, tell him he’s got to find the killer real soon. No
tellin’ how long we can keep the likes of Eric Surrell from goin’ off and
lookin’ for their own revenge.”
Father John shook the elder’s hand, the palm as rough as rawhide. He
could feel the old man’s eyes trailing him past the groups of people—the
nods and half-smiles—until he’d let himself out the front door.
F AT H E R J O H N T U R N E D onto Trout Creek Road and peered at the
snow-streaked asphalt rolling toward him, unable to shake the image
of Edie Bradbury curled on top of the bed, the blue-red slices in her
arms, the blood crusted on the bedspread. A flare for capturing history
in brief, pithy images, Professor Lambert had said of the girl. Edie,
Trent, the Crispin brothers—they were all in the class. It was hard to
imagine the girl with a rifle, pulling the trigger—one, two, three times.
26210_ch01.qxd 6/23/05 12:25 PM Page 134
134
M A R G A R E T C O E L
Afterward, posing each body to look like a fallen warrior. Recording
the message somewhere and placing the telephone call, wanting the
bodies to be found before the snow covered them. A poet yearning for
her work to be appreciated.
It was hard to imagine.
And yet, no reins on that girl, Tomas had said. And she was carrying
the child of the man who had broken up with her.
He wasn’t sure when the pickup had appeared in the rearview mir-
ror, brown and weaving across the road. It was coming closer now, so
close he could see the three dark heads bobbing above the dashboard,
the white teeth flashing in brown faces. They were enjoying this, taking
up the whole road and then speeding up until they were riding the tail of
the Toyota.
The first hit was like a nudge. Father John felt the rear tires spin,
knocked out of sync a moment. He let them settle back into a regular
rhythm before he pressed down on the accelerator, trying to put space
between himself and the brown pickup that was also speeding up. The
next hit was a loud crash of metal against metal. He had the sense of be-
ing airborne, the pickup loping down the road and swerving to the side
as the other pickup rammed the tailgate hard. His head snapped forward
into the windshield and the front end plowed into the borrow ditch.
The engine whined for a moment, then shut off. In the rearview mir-
ror, he watched the doors of the pickup swing open. He recognized the
three men tumbling out of the cab: Eric Surrell and the men who had left
the house with him. Eric planted both boots in the snow, leaned down,
and lifted out something from behind the seat.
They were coming up his side of the pickup now, single file. Funny,
he thought. Like baseball players marching out to the field, Eric in the
lead carrying the bat.
26210_ch01.qxd 6/23/05 12:25 PM Page 135
16
F AT H E R J O H N P U S H E D the door open and jumped out just as the bat
rose in the air and smashed down onto the pickup. The thumping noise
reverberated through the quiet. A dent the size of a baseball appeared on
the top edge of the bed. The vehicle seemed to jump sideways, then set-
tle back, shuddering under the force of the blow.
“Hey!” he shouted. “What’re you doing?” He stepped around the
door, placing the shield of metal and plastic and glass between himself
and the three men who were crouching forward, like wolves moving in
for the kill.
“Your turn, priest.” Eric Surrell held the bat up and out, ready for
another strike.
Father John waited, his breath an icy lump in his throat. He was
barely aware of the moist air stinging his face and the dull throb of pain
in his cheek. Everything was moving in slow motion. He didn’t take his
eyes off the man with the bat. Come on. Come on.
26210_ch01.qxd 6/23/05 12:25 PM Page 136
136
M A R G A R E T C O E L
“We got a message for Arapahos,” Eric shouted. He adjusted his
weight from one leg to the other. The others pulled back, giving him
room to swing. “You’re gonna be the delivery boy.”
One more step.
Eric pulled the bat up higher. The instant he stepped into the swing,
Father John threw his weight against the door, crashing it against the
man and knocking him into the side of the pickup. He stumbled side-
ways and jabbed one hand against the front seat, scrambling for bal-
ance. The bat dipped in his other hand, and Father John grabbed hold of
the man’s arm and yanked him forward, then sideways, pulling him
against the edge of the door. The bat slid downward, planting itself like
a pole in the snow as Father John rammed the man’s arm up behind his
back and slammed him into the side of the pickup. There was a snap-
ping noise, like the sound of boots stomping on ice. Father John felt
something in the man’s arm slacken, and Eric gave a howl that ripped
out of his lungs and cut into the air.
The other men were coming to life. Out of the corner of his eye, Fa-
ther John could see the surprise slip from their faces, giving way to a red
anger that glowed like burning coals through the gray cold. They started
forward. Father John swung Eric around and shoved the man into them.
Then he scooped up the bat and stepped away from the pickup, giving
himself a good five feet from the men stumbling forward, trying to
steady Eric, who was still howling with pain and screaming, “My shoul-
der! My shoulder!”
Father John fixed the bat into place over his right shoulder. He could
feel his hands tighten into the familiar grip. It felt natural, except for the
leather gloves he was wearing. He was the pitcher again, the rare pitcher
who was damn good up at bat. He could bat at .382, but that was
twenty-five years ago. Twenty-five years ago, but he could still swing a
bat. He knew that for a fact.
One of Eric’s buddies, a tall man with squinty eyes and black braids
dangling over the fur collar of his jean jacket, had moved past the oth-
ers. He looked like a wrestler, arms bent, elbows pointed outward, legs
26210_ch01.qxd 6/23/05 12:25 PM Page 137
E Y E O F T H E W O L F
137
planted a couple of feet apart. His eyes were black slits in his brown
face. “Okay, priest. Looks like it’s you and me.”
“You want to try me? Come on.” Father John moved the bat up and
down. With the right swing, he could break the man’s arm.
The Indian hesitated. “Throw the bat down. Let’s see what kind of
man you are.”
“The bat’s mine,” Father John said. “You’re going to have to take
your chances.”
Eric let out another yelp. “Sonnuvabitch,” he screamed.
“Get him, Lester!” The man holding onto Eric shouted.
A couple of seconds passed. The Indian kept shifting his gaze from
the bat to Father John. Father John could almost read the argument
playing out behind the squinting eyes. The man was weighing his odds.
The priest was twenty years older, but he was taller and in better shape
than he’d expected. Maybe he was fast with the bat. He could be real
fast and strong. He could hit him. Maybe he’d get hit before he saw it
coming.
Finally, something in the Indian’s expression seemed to deflate, all
the confidence and energy leaching away. He put up both hands in an
awkward sign of peace. “We come to send a message to that Arapaho,”
he said. “Tell Frankie Montana we aren’t gonna sit around and do noth-
ing while he kills our people. He wants war, he’s gonna get it. Tell him
we’re ready.”
“That’s all you want, then take off,” Father John said, keeping his
grip tight, his hands glued to the bat. “Get your friend to the hospital.”
The Indian took a step backward and glanced around at Eric, who
was doubled over, moaning, his good arm looped over his dislocated
shoulder. The other Indian had an arm around Eric’s waist, keeping him
on his feet.
“Shit, Lester,” the man shouted, steering Eric back toward the
brown pickup. “Let’s get out of here.”
Lester kept moving backward, his eyes on the bat. When he reached
the tailgate, he swung around and lunged for the brown pickup. He slid
26210_ch01.qxd 6/23/05 12:25 PM Page 138
138
M A R G A R E T C O E L
in behind the steering wheel as the Indian with Eric shoved the man into
the middle and crawled in behind him. The doors slammed shut, the en-
gine turned over, and the pickup started backing up. Then it pulled
around and shot down the road in the direction of Fort Washakie.
Father John waited until the dark vehicle had blurred into the fading
daylight before he stepped back to the stalled pickup. He set the bat in-
side, leaning it against the passenger seat, close at hand. Funny, he
hadn’t been aware of how chilly it was, but now the cold bit through his
jacket and settled in his bones. The wind had picked up. He could hear
it whining through the trees behind him like an animal. It made a
whistling noise as it gusted through the cab.
He slid inside and turned the ignition. The engine sputtered and shut
off. He tried again, and this time it caught. He shifted into reverse, then
into forward and back into reverse, easing on and off the pedal, rocking
the Toyota out of the mud and snow in the ditch, still watching the
rearview mirror for the brown pickup.
It was no use. He was stuck. He was about to give up and get the
shovel out of the box in back when he shifted again into reverse and
stomped down on the accelerator. The pickup jumped backward, free.
He steered the vehicle into the lane, then shifted gears and drove east.
Another couple of turns and he was speeding down Seventeen-Mile
Road. There was no other traffic, no sign of life, except for the small
houses set back from the road here and there. He gripped the steering
wheel hard. He’d managed to stay calm and logical, but now that it was
over—or was it over? Now Eric had another score to settle. He could
feel the anger creeping like fire through his chest and into his throat. His
mouth was as dry as dust. If Lester had made a move, he would have
swung at the man with all his strength. God, he could have killed him,
and he didn’t care. He didn’t care.
He made himself take several deep breaths to tamp down the anger.
Gradually he felt his grip relax on the wheel. The muscles in his chest
and arms also began to relax. He kept his eyes on the road unfurling
ahead. He could breathe easily now. “Lord, help me,” he said out loud,
26210_ch01.qxd 6/23/05 12:25 PM Page 139
E Y E O F T H E W O L F
139
his own voice lost in the noise of the wind gusting over the half-opened
window. Let me care.
T H E Y K N E W S H E was here.
Vicky had seen the blinds moving in the front window as she drove
through the slush and mud into the yard. Frankie and his friends were
inside the blocklike house with faded yellow paint and a wooden stoop
with part of the railing hanging loose, she was sure. She’d parked the
Jeep close to the stoop and waited for the door to open. Nothing had
happened. The silence of the afternoon pressed down over the house, yet
she had the sense that somebody was moving about inside and eyes were
watching her through the slats. She left the engine running and waited. If
