Eye of the Wolf, page 21
at his chest with his knuckles, the slow, hypnotic rhythm of a man try-
ing to keep himself awake.
“Authorities in Wyoming have confirmed that the murders of three
Shoshone at the site of a nineteenth-century battle between Shoshones
and Arapahos could be revenge killings.” The voice of an attractive,
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blond woman bundled in a bulky jacket, hair flying in the wind, floated
from the television.
Father John stepped closer to the TV. The woman was at the Bates
Battlefield, the canyon stretching behind her, the boulder-strewn slopes
rising on either side. Then a map of Wyoming filled the screen, a red ar-
row pointing to the battlefield.
The voice went on, “A spokesman for the Fremont County Sheriff ’s
Office, in charge of the investigation, says they are looking into the pos-
sibility that the homicides are the result of ongoing feuds between the
two tribes on the Wind River Reservation. According to well-known
Western historian Charles Lambert, Shoshones and Arapahos are tradi-
tional enemies. What is known as the Bates Battle was a massacre of
Arapahos by Shoshones in eighteen-seventy-four.”
The map dissolved, and the woman came back on screen. “The sher-
iff ’s office refuses to characterize the homicides as the first salvo fired in
a new tribal war, but I’ve talked to numerous people here, and they fear
that is exactly what has occurred. Back to you, Clint.”
Father John walked over and pushed the power button. He watched
the screen fade from gray into black, conscious of the hollow space
opening inside him. It was if the blond woman’s words had confirmed
his own fears, made them real and imminent, like the past looming up in
front of him.
He made himself turn back to the other priest on the sofa. “We’d
better talk, Ian,” he said.
The fist stopped thumping, but the man kept his gaze fixed on the
TV. It was a moment before he pulled himself upright and leaned for-
ward, slowly taking his eyes from the screen, as if he’d just realized that
the news program had disappeared.
Father John turned on the table lamp and perched on the ottoman.
This might be an interrogation, he was thinking; Ian, the suspect and he,
the interrogator.
Well, get on with it.
“When did you start drinking again, Ian?” he asked.
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For the first time, the other priest faced him, eyes tightened in con-
tempt.
“Always the first to know, another alkie.” He spit out the words.
“You could say we have the nose for it,” Father John said. Oh, he’d
developed the nose early. When was it that he’d first discovered it?
Halfway up the flight of stairs to the apartment he’d grown up in—two
bedrooms, sitting room, and Pullman kitchen hardly big enough to turn
around in—over his uncle’s saloon on Commonwealth Avenue? On up
the steps, and the putrid stink from above hitting him with a force that
rocked him backwards, and he knew his father was drunk again. It was
so obvious, the smells, and yet he’d always told himself that no one
could tell. No one else had the nose.
“When, Ian?”
“I had a couple drinks this afternoon. A drink now and then doesn’t
mean anything.”
“We both know better. You want to talk about it?”
“You wouldn’t get it,” Ian said. An absent look had come into his ex-
pression, as if his thoughts had wandered somewhere else.
“Try me.”
The other priest took a moment, then shrugged. “Okay, here it is.
I’m going to hit a hardball straight at the guy on the mound.” When Fa-
ther John didn’t say anything, he plunged into it. “I thought this would
be a good assignment. I could get involved with the people, help them,
maybe bring a little consolation and hope, and maybe they’d do the
same for me. An isolated place out of the craziness where I could get my
life back. It worked for you.”
“So far.”
“You know what I think?” Ian McCauley was warming up now,
gripping the bat harder, ready to whack the fastball. “You got yourself a
nice little fiefdom here, where you’re the lord and master, and you can
do anything you like.”
“What?” Father John wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but this
wasn’t it.
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“Don’t pull the denial act on me. I’m a priest, too, and I’ve put in my
time in the confessional. I’ve heard it all. I know all the subterfuges and
lies.”
“What are you talking about?” Father John said.
“Everywhere I go, the social committee and religious ed meetings,
AA, morning Mass, I get the same question: Where’s Father John?
Nothing can start around here, nothing’s quite right unless the almighty
presence graces the room. I’m your man, I tell them. Well, the look on
their faces! The perfect picture of misery. What’s it like to be loved like
that?”
“It’ll take time, Ian. Give the people a little time to get to know you.”
“Over at the senior center yesterday, the elders said to be sure to tell
Father John to come by again soon. Today at the hospital, I walked into
Louis Birdsong’s room and the man’s face fell into the bedsheets. ‘Hey,
Father,’ he says, doing his best to cover up, ‘I thought you was Father
John.’ ”
“I’ve been here almost nine years,” Father John said. “They’re used
to me.”
“Well, I drove out of the hospital lot and kept driving. Past the bars,
and there are a helluva lot of bars in town when you’re not looking for
one, and pretty soon, I started looking and I ordered myself a double
whiskey.”
Father John leaned forward, clasping his hands between his knees,
his eyes on his boots. “So what do you think, Ian? Is this going to be a
problem?”
“What do I think? Alkie’s lie, didn’t you know?”
Oh, he knew. Father John kept his eyes lowered. He could lie with
the best of them. One drink was all he’d had, he’d told the superior back
at the prep school when he’d been teaching. One drink doesn’t hurt any-
body. Lies and lies.
“It’s not going to be a problem,” Ian said. “I’ve fallen off the wagon
before and climbed back on.”
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Father John looked up. The man had been watching him, calculating
the next move, the next lie. “I can call the Provincial and arrange for a
short stay in rehab,” he said. “A refresher.”
“I said, it’s not going to be a problem.”
“It can’t do any harm.”
“You don’t want me here, do you?”
Father John leaned back. “What makes you say that?”
“Let’s be honest. You’ve run off every assistant the Society has sent
out here. You don’t want the competition. You call the Provincial, and
I’ll be out of here tomorrow.”
“Not necessarily. I’ll recommend . . .”
Ian cut in. “What I don’t get is how you’ve managed to stay here so
long.”
“You’re talking in riddles, man,” Father John said, not trying to hide
his growing irritation.
“I’ve heard the rumors.”
Ah, here it was, Father John thought. The rumors about Father
O’Malley and the Arapaho lawyer on the reservation, how there was
something more than just friendship between them. Dear Lord, he’d
thought those rumors had died a natural death.
“Whatever you heard is wrong,” he said. “Vicky Holden and I have
worked together. That’s all.”
Ian was smiling and shaking his head. “Soon as your assistants figure
out what’s going on, you get them out of here before they can blow the
whistle.”
Father John stood up. “Let’s get something straight,” he said. The
other priest pushed himself to his feet and faced him. “There’s no drink-
ing at St. Francis Mission. No bars, no double shots of whiskey, no bot-
tles. Nothing. You’ve got one last chance.” He let this hang between
them a moment, then, tossing his head in the direction of the kitchen, he
said, “Get yourself some coffee and something to eat. I’ll take the social
committee meeting tonight.”
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“No way.” The other priest shook his head. “It’s my committee, and
I’m the priest who should be there. You’re going to have to get used to
the competition, because I intend to stay.”
Father John turned and walked back across the entry and into his
study. He dropped down into the old leather chair that had adjusted it-
self to the contours of his back and snapped on the desk lamp, aware of
the footsteps ascending the stairs and clumping down the upstairs hall,
the sound of the shower coming on. His own little fiefdom, Ian had said.
Well, that was a new idea. He’d only been aware that he was happy at
St. Francis. He felt that he belonged here. And the trust in the brown
faces looking up at him when he said Mass, the people hurrying over
when he walked into a meeting at Eagle Hall, the expectant tone in the
voices on the phone saying, Can you come over, Father? He felt needed
here, that the Arapahos needed him more than he needed a drink. He
felt safe.
He tossed a pencil over the stacks of papers on his desk. Which was
the reason that the Society of Jesus didn’t usually leave priests in one as-
signment more than six years. They might start to feel safe, secure in
their own little fiefdom, start making plans—God, he had so many
plans, so much he still wanted to do—new programs and classes, new
coat of paint on the buildings, new pews for the church. They were the
same, he and Ian McCauley, fighting the same thirst, wanting to belong.
He swiveled around and flipped through the stack of opera CDs on
the bookshelf, then set Il Trovatore in the player, and tried to work his
way through the stack of mail. Over the sounds of “Soli or siamo!” and
“Il balen del suo sorriso” came the clank of dishes in the kitchen, the
footsteps in the hall, and, finally, the front door thudding shut.
He was heading into the kitchen for his own dinner when he heard
the knocking. He turned around and walked back down the hall. A
cloud of wet air blew into the entry when he pulled open the door. Vicky
stood on the other side, hands jammed into her coat pockets, flakes of
moisture—or was it tears?—on her eyelashes.
“May I talk to you?” she said.
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“Come in.” Father John stepped back to give her room. Something
must have happened. He could count on the fingers of one hand the
number of times she’d come to the residence—only when she’d felt she
had nowhere else to go.
“Let me take your coat.” He closed the door behind her.
“I think I’ll keep it,” she said, hugging her arms now. Her face
looked pinched with worry, and he wondered how long she’d been driv-
ing around.
“We can talk in the study.” He nodded toward the doorway behind
her, although she knew where the study was. When she came to the res-
idence, they’d always talked in the study. It seemed safer there, less per-
sonal, an envelope of ordinariness and business. “I’ll get you some
coffee.”
He hoped the coffee was still hot. He watched her turn into the
study, struck again at how small she seemed, and vulnerable, beneath
the steel armor that she’d taught herself to wear. Then he walked back
to the kitchen, found a couple of mugs in the drain on the counter, and
poured out the coffee. Plumes of steam rose over his hands. He could
feel the heat working through the mugs as he walked back.
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V I C K Y WA S I N the side chair across from the desk, strips of shadow and
light playing over her face. “Mira d’acerbe” drifted through the study.
She reached up and took the coffee that he handed her. Then Father
John walked around the desk and turned down the volume. He came
back and sat on the chair next to her. “You okay?” he asked.
“What about you?” Vicky gestured to the Band-Aid on his cheek.
“It’s nothing,” he said.
“A bullet is nothing? I heard you were wounded at Bates.”
He shrugged, trying to put it aside, and finally she said, “I agreed to
represent Frankie Montana today.”
“I thought you’d represented him all along.”
She gave a little laugh and took another sip. “I’d excused myself and
suggested he find another lawyer. Adam and I . . .” Vicky paused and
looked away. “We’ve been working with the Arapahos and Shoshones
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on a plan to manage wolves on the reservation. Looks like other big
cases will come our way.”
“You’re a good team,” Father John said. He used to think he and
Vicky were a good team. “I’m glad it’s working out.”
She dipped her head toward the mug and took a long sip of coffee.
Avoiding his eyes, he thought, not wanting to reveal something—whatever
it was that had brought her here tonight. He’d had years of experience
counseling people, watching the ways they avoided the truth.
“Things don’t look good for Frankie,” she said. He could hear the
avoidance in her tone. “Burton’s interviewed him.”
“He’s interviewing a lot of people. Probably everybody who knew
Trent Hunter and the Crispin brothers.”
“Frankie’s the one the murdered men had filed an assault complaint
against. Even Frankie admits they had an altercation Friday night at Fort
Washakie. He claims they assaulted him, but if they were alive to show
up at the tribal court, the judge might not agree.” Vicky took another
drink, then gripped the mug in both hands, as if she wanted to draw the
warmth into herself. “It doesn’t take a mind reader to figure out what
Burton’s thinking. Frankie had the motivation to shoot all three men.
He owned a rifle, which conveniently disappeared before the murders.
And he doesn’t have an alibi.”
Il Trovatore was still floating around them. Father John could feel
Vicky’s doubt working its way under his skin. It was contagious, like a
virus.
“Frankie lied about where he was on Saturday, and he’s counting on
his mother to perjure herself, which she’ll do, I’m sure.”
Father John didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to press her for an
explanation of why she was so certain Frankie had lied. There were
ways in which she knew things, just as there were for him. Lawyer and
priest. People confided in them, and they kept confidences. He sat back
and took a long drink of his own coffee, his eyes on the woman next to
him. She was staring straight ahead, her face almost unreadable, except
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for the tiny blue vein that pulsed in her temple and the slightest tremor
in her lower lip.
“Why Bates?” She shifted toward him. “I keep asking myself, why
would Frankie go to the trouble of killing the Shoshones at the Bates
Battlefield? He could have shot them anywhere on the reservation. I’d be
surprised if Frankie even cares about a massacre that happened a hun-
dred and thirty years ago.” She stopped, then hurried on. “The Gazette
said you found the bodies after somebody had left a telephone message.
What was it, John?”
Father John got to his feet. He set his mug on the desk, turned off the
opera, and ejected the CD. Then he opened the side drawer, withdrew
the tape of the telephone call, and inserted it into the player. He pressed
another button and looked over at Vicky.
The crackling noise, like paper being crunched near the mike, burst
out of the machine, then the mechanical voice. It could have been the
voice of a robot moving stiff-legged across the floor. This is for the In-
dian priest . . .
The voice was as chilling as when he’d first heard it. He could feel the
