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  “I’m here about my girl,” he said. “Looks like she might’ve gone and gotten herself mixed up in a mess, and I want her protected.” He turned his attention for a moment to creasing the pressed seams of his khaki slacks between his thumbs and index fingers. “You know who I am?”

  Vicky studied the man a moment: the dark eyes set far apart, the fine nose that was like a woman’s. Something familiar about him. A celebrity of some kind, perhaps. An actor or entertainer. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You’ll have to tell me.”

  “You ever heard of the Glory and Success Ministries? Reverend Morrison, founder and pastor. We reach twenty million souls every week from the palace cathedral in Tulsa with the good news that the wealth of the earth belongs to the poorest of the poor. All you gotta do is trust in the Lord and work hard, put your shoulder to the plow like the Bible says, and allow the wealth to come your way. It would appear you haven’t tuned in to the Glory and Success Sunday services.” He waved a hand between them. “Neither here nor there. What I want is a top-notch local lawyer to look after my little girl’s interests. I’d stay right here myself and make sure nothing happens to her if I didn’t have the work of the Lord to do. But I believe the Lord puts helpers in our path, and it’s our job to recognize them. From what I hear around town, anybody need a lawyer who knows the ins and outs of the reservation would be a fool not to hire you.”

  “Who is the girl?” Vicky said.

  “My only kid, Marcy.” Morrison widened his eyes and stared at a point beyond her shoulder a moment. “Got in the middle of a nasty situation last night. Indian boyfriend she took up with got shot on the rez. Marcy seen it happen. Couple other Indians had it in for the guy. Knocked her around a bit, but she’s okay. In shock, what you might expect. Hospital’s gonna release her today.”

  “What do you expect from me?” Vicky said.

  Morrison leaned forward and fixed her with a look that, she guessed, he used on the television cameras. “You kidding me? White girl on an Indian reservation in the middle of a murder? She’s gonna need legal protection, make sure none of them hotshot Indian policemen get the idea she had anything to do with it.”

  Vicky lifted one hand. “The FBI will be in charge of the investigation.”

  “FBI. Police.” Morrison shrugged. “All the same. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about. I wasn’t always walking around in fancy duds,” he said. “Before the Lord called me to his saving prosperity, I was a police officer for a few years down in Oklahoma. I know how things work. There’s an outsider on the premises, little girl too pretty for her own good, and some hotshot investigator gets the idea she had a part in her boyfriend getting shot. Easy to pin the homicide on her. Case closed.”

  “Better start at the beginning,” Vicky said. Last night’s murder was probably on the moccasin telegraph, and Annie usually had the news by morning. But if Annie had heard anything, she had been too distracted by her own problems to mention it. “Who was murdered? Where did it happen? Where was your daughter?”

  “Who was murdered? Some Indian, name of Ned Windsong. They was staying at his house in a place called Arapahoe.” He lifted the diamond-ring hand again. “Not that I approve of such goings-on, as a minister of the Holy Gospel, but human flesh is weak, and sometimes we gotta make allowances. They was gonna get married. Had a place all picked out on the rez for the ceremony, even though I said to Marcy, ‘Honey, you got the whole palace cathedral, if you want it. I’ll throw you the gosh-darnedest shindig the television congregation ever seen. Show ’em what the prosperity of the Lord can do.” But she told me her fiancé didn’t like showy stuff. They were gonna get married by the Wind River.” He rolled his shoulders as if he were working out a kink in his neck. “Neither here nor there,” he said. “Poor guy’s dead.”

  “What happened at the house?”

  “Like I said, two guys come in, knocked her outta the way and shot the boyfriend.”

  “What about the weapon?”

  “Used a gun, of course.”

  “I mean, was any weapon found at the house?”

  “Nah. Nah.” Morrison gave his head a quick shake. “Most likely took it with ’em.”

  Vicky waited a moment before she said, “What kind if evidence would implicate your daughter?”

  “Evidence!” He spit out the word. “That’s the point. There’s no evidence. All that leaves is a lot of conjecture and theories running around in the investigator’s head. Sooner or later, he’s gonna come up with the idea that Marcy could’ve planned the whole thing and arranged for them Indians to come to the house to kill her fiancé. Like I said, he’ll start leaning on her, pushing her to incriminate herself. A girl like Marcy! I always protected her, ever since her mother took off.”

  He glanced sideways, as if he were looking for a different road to go down. Then he drew in a long breath that expanded the chest of his blue shirt, reconciled to the fact he had already started down one road and might as well continue. “Not that I’m laying any blame on my ex-wife for what she did. We was poor as church mice back then. I was starting my ministry on one side of the carport, and the truck was parked on the other. Never had more than fifteen people come by on Sunday mornings, but they give what they could. Dropped quarters and dimes on the collection plate. And you know what? They took the message to heart and began to see their lives change for the better. Pretty soon we was out of the carport and meeting in a parking lot, and the congregation just got bigger and bigger. I told ’em we’re gonna be meeting in the biggest, most beautiful cathedral in the whole world, and they believed. Only Janet, my wife, she quit believing. And one day she up and left. I never seen her since. Never heard of a woman of the Lord that could leave her kid, did you?” He hurried on. “I forgive her seven times seventy, like the Bible says. The Lord sent me LuAnn, my wife for eight years now, and she and I did our best by Marcy. I want you to see that her rights get protected in this. I don’t want her implicated in a murder she didn’t have anything to do with. You gonna help us out?”

  Vicky sat back. She had handled cases like this in the past, before the firm had hired Roger Hurst to handle what Adam called “the little cases” so that she and Adam could concentrate on protecting the rights of Indian tribes to the oil, gas, water, timber, and minerals on Indian lands, the important cases. She could hear Adam’s voice in her head: Let Roger handle it. But this was the reason she had gone to law school in the first place—out of some naïve belief, she supposed now, that she could protect the rights of innocent people, make certain the force of the justice system didn’t sweep away somebody who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. She had wanted to help her people on the Wind River Reservation. But here was a white man asking her to help a white girl on the reservation.

  “Where can I find Marcy?” Vicky said, getting to her feet.

  Morrison stood up and held out both arms, as if he could embrace her across the desk. “FBI agent wants her hanging around for a while,” he said, dropping his arms to his sides. “She can identify the killers. I’m gonna move her into the mission for a few days. You know the priest, Father O’Malley? You think she’ll be safe there?”

  “I know Father O’Malley,” she said. Of course John O’Malley would be in the midst of this. He always knew what was going on with her people, usually before she did. They had worked on dozens of cases together, the white priest and the Arapaho lawyer. “He’ll do everything he can to keep your daughter safe,” she said. “But you should understand she’s in a dangerous situation until her fiancé’s killers are arrested. She is under no obligation to stay here. She could return home with you.”

  “No. No.” Morrison lifted one hand. “Better Marcy stays out of the media glare. Soon’s she IDs their photos, those two jokers are gonna be behind bars. I just want you to make sure nobody puts her there with ’em.”

  7

  “MY HEART IS falling down to the ground.” Donald Little Robe’s voice was raspy with sorrow. He was in his eightie
s, a wiry, work-hardened frame folded into the corner of the sofa. He had white hair caught in braids that flowed down the front of his red shirt and a face crosshatched with wrinkles. Blue shadows circled his narrow, black eyes. “Ned was a good boy,” he said. “He was walking straight.”

  “I know you’ll miss him.” Father John sat on the edge of a chair across from the old man. The July sun poured past the white curtains, splashing the linoleum floor and shining on the surface of the lamp table. He had driven to Ethete this morning—the clarinet glissando of Salome blaring from the CD player beside him—to see the old man who had been preparing Ned for the Sun Dance, knowing that in the hour and a half in which he had managed to catch a little sleep, shower, and down a couple cups of coffee, Donald Little Robe would have heard the news on the moccasin telegraph.

  “First time he came to see me,” Donald said, the black eyes blurred in memory, “I listened with one ear. I knew the boy since he was small as a grasshopper. Seen him go straight and seen him go crooked, so I waited to see how he was going now. I didn’t say anything. Next day he came back. Sat right there where you’re sitting.” He tipped his head forward. “Said he wanted to start over, leave the past behind. I didn’t say anything, and he went away. Third day, he was back. Said it was his last chance. He was falling down crying, asking for help. He wanted to go into the Sun Dance. I spoke to him then, ’cause I knew he was in earnest. I said, ‘My boy, the other dancers have been preparing for most the year. You have little more than a month. It will take all your time. You must work hard. You’ll have to learn the prayers and rituals and understand what they mean to our people. You have to dance for three days. No food. Nothing to drink. You have to get your body and spirit ready.’ ‘I’m ready to leave the trouble behind, Grandfather,’ he said. So I started teaching him three weeks ago. Now he’s dead.”

  The old man blinked in rapid succession, as if he wanted to refocus. “Looks like the trouble came and found him. Couple Indians shot him, I heard.” He leaned forward, stiff-backed, the gray head tilted to the side, and for an instant Father John saw the image of the white truck careening across the mission grounds, out over the baseball diamond, the rock with the message flying out the window. “Boy like Ned had a lot to give the people,” Donald said. “What do them killers have? Nothing but destruction.”

  “Did Ned say what the trouble was?”

  The old man dropped his eyes to the gnarled hands clasped in his lap. After a moment, he lifted his chin and fixed Father John with the steady look that reminded him of the look an elderly Jesuit professor used to shoot straight into the core of him. “Folks talk to you in the confessional,” he said. “They’re looking for forgiveness. It’s between you and the sinner and God, ain’t that right?” His smile pulled at one corner of his mouth. “Trouble is, the authorities could walk away from this,” he said. “Push it off, like it’s not important. Indians killing Indians. Don’t let ’em do that, Father.”

  They both knew the rules, Father John was thinking. Donald would never repeat anything Ned had told him in confidence. But there were other ways. “Is there anything you can tell me that might help to find Ned’s killers?”

  The old man took a moment, staring into space. His eyes were rheumy, the whites flecked with red dots. “Heard some Indians might’ve been getting into trouble,” he said finally. “Maybe Ned was part of it, maybe not. It was about the time he went up to Jackson Hole.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Kind that gets young men sent off to prison, ruins a lot of lives. Breaking into houses and stealing stuff.”

  Father John sat back. He set his elbows on the armrests, blew into one fist and tried to search his memory for any accounts of burglaries. An article or two in the Gazette about break-ins in homes outside Lander, but that was several months back. About the time Ned left for Jackson Hole, just as Donald said. Both times Ned had stopped by the mission after he got back, Father John had sensed something gnawing at him. He should have confronted him, but he had decided to wait, thinking Ned would talk to him when he was ready. He’d been wrong.

  Father John told the old man how sorry he was, then got to his feet. “The FBI agent will be around to talk to you,” he said, wanting to prepare him.

  “Nothing else I can tell him.” Donald scooted himself forward, boots planted on the floor, and Father John set a hand on his shoulder and told him not to get up. The bones beneath the rough fabric of his shirt felt sharp and fragile at the same time. “You gonna do the funeral?”

  Father John nodded. Ella had asked him to see that the boy was buried in the Arapaho Way. Not longer than three days after his death—that was long enough for his soul to walk the earth before he went to the ancestors. “Ella would like you to handle the Arapaho ritual,” he said, repeating Ella’s request, the image of the woman bent in grief floating around him like the memory of a sad melody.

  Donald nodded. He blotted the moisture beneath his eyes with the back of one hand.

  Father John left the old man leaning sideways in the sofa, eyelids drooping until his eyes had turned into black slits. He plucked his cowboy hat off the chair where he had tossed it, let himself out, and crossed the dirt yard to the Toyota pickup. The sun was hot on his shoulders and the bare strip of skin on the back of his neck. The wind ruffled his shirt, and the hot, dry smell of dust filled his nostrils.

  He backed across the yard, then shifted into forward and bumped out onto Ethete Road. The music of Salome burst out of the CD player on the seat beside him the instant he pressed the on button.

  GIANELLI’S WHITE SUV was nosed against the steps in front of the administration building when Father John pulled around Circle Drive. He could see the agent peering out the window of his office. He parked next to the SUV and grabbed the CD player. Walks-On, the golden retriever he’d found in the ditch that first summer he’d been at St. Francis, came bounding across the grounds toward him on his three legs, all that the car that had hit him had left him with. What had always amazed Father John was how Walks-On accepted what he had, as if it were enough. He patted the dog’s head a couple of times, then took the steps two at a time. He had left a message on the agent’s phone this morning after the two visitors in the white truck had tore around the baseball diamond and tossed out the rock with the message.

  “Helped myself.” Gianelli waved a coffee mug as Father John came through the door. The coffee smelled fresh and strong, Bishop Harry Coughlin’s trademark. The muffled voice of the old man speaking on the phone came from the office in the rear. “Your new assistant said to make myself at home.”

  Father John set the CD player on the desk, filled a mug for himself, then walked over and sat down in the worn chair that bore the imprint of his body. He guessed that Bishop Harry was the new assistant, although nothing was official. Just as nothing was official about his own position. He was still at St. Francis Mission, and that was what mattered.

  Gianelli had already settled in one of the side chairs. “You read the message?” he said, nodding at the rock and the small white sheet of paper in the plastic bag at the corner of the desk. He had added the bag.

  “Did you recognize either man?”

  Father John shook his head.

  “What kind of vehicle?”

  Father John told him they drove a white Ford truck with damage on the left side that looked as if the driver had run into something solid.

  “You think this is about Ned Windsong’s murder?”

  “What else?” Father John pressed the button on the CD player and Salome swelled in the air. Something calming about opera, he thought, even the tragic dramas. With the first notes, he could feel himself begin to relax.

  “Nobody captures the character of Salome with more lyricism and expression than Karita Matilla,” Gianelli said, waving his mug like a baton in the rhythm of “Ich will nicht bleiben.” Father John smiled at the thought of a former linebacker and a Jesuit priest listening to opera. It was a toss-up who loved opera more
, or knew more about it. He had to admit that Ted Gianelli had an encyclopedic knowledge of opera trivia.

  “Never know what you pastors have going on,” Gianelli said, pulling himself away from the opera and zeroing in on Father John. “Anybody who might be carrying a grudge?”

  Father John shrugged. Parishioners sat in his office almost every day, pouring out their fears and problems, the broken relationships, the shattered hopes. He had counseled people that sometimes they had to let things go, let people go. There were women who had divorced abusive, drunken husbands. There had been times when the husbands had blamed him.

  “This was about Ned,” he said.

  “You know his fiancée witnessed the killing,” Gianelli said. “She’s got a lawyer. Vicky’s representing her.”

  Father John took a drink of coffee and considered this. “Why would she need a lawyer?”

  “Not unusual,” Gianelli said. “Smart thing to do, looking at it from her point of view. Right now, everything’s on the table. Nobody’s been cleared. The Wind River Police spent most the night bagging evidence. We’ll have the forensics report on fingerprints, boot prints, types of blood.” He rolled his shoulders and took a sip from the mug. “We’ll know if two men were actually in the house. What I don’t know is why a couple of Indians went to a lot of trouble to leave you a message. What is it they don’t want you talking about?”

  Father John clasped his hands around his mug. “I figure they knew that Ned came to the mission a couple of times after he got back from Jackson Hole.”

  “So what do they think Ned told you?”

  Father John shook his head. He could feel the regret stabbing at him like a dull knife. “I had the sense that he wanted to talk, but he didn’t tell me anything.”

  “Nothing?”

  “He said he planned to dance at the Sun Dance, that he was changing his life.”

  “That’s something.”