The Lost Bird (31 page)

“
L
uther Benson!” Vicky’s voice rang into the wind. Father John shoved Vicky and Megan into the cluster of willows as the shot exploded in the air and reverberated against the trees. He pushed the women ahead, running, stumbling, crashing through branches that sliced at his hands and tore at his jacket. Megan went down on one knee, and he lifted her up, pushing her after Vicky toward a stand of ponderosas. The wind hissed around them. Then another crash, like thunder. There was the sharp splintering of wood, the sound of Megan screaming: “He’s going to kill us!”

Father John spotted some fallen trees and a thicket of scrub brush ahead. Still gripping Megan’s arm, he caught up with Vicky and, taking her hand, guided both women to the thicket. Then he stepped ahead and lifted a clump of branches. Wordlessly the women scrambled inside. Just as he dropped the branches, a loud clap split the air. Then: the quiet of the forest, the whoosh of the wind through the ponderosas.

He stayed low, trying to get his bearings. Markham and the guide were in the meadow beyond the stand of trees to the west; Luther Benson, on the road to the
east. “Stay here,” he said into the thicket.

Vicky pushed back a branch and grabbed his arm. “You don’t know Luther. He’s lived here all his life. He’s an expert hunter. He’ll see you.”

He’s a drunk
, Father John wanted to say. He had seen the unsteadiness of the man, the sideways lurch as he’d raised the rifle.

Father John shook himself free of Vicky’s grasp. Bending over, he ran among the trees, moving to the southeast. He thought he heard the sound of sirens in the distance, but the sound faded in and out, like that of sirens in a dream. Through the trees he caught intermittent flashes of Luther Benson’s tan jacket. Keeping the man in view, Father John worked his way behind him. The leaves rustled beneath his boots, and suddenly the lawyer swung around. He lifted the rifle.

Father John remained still, his breath hard in his chest. After a moment the man turned and resumed his unsteady walk along the edge of the trees. Father John stepped when Luther stepped, stopped when he stopped—a pas de deux—as he pushed through the branches. He was within ten feet, staring at the man’s back. He slipped the pistol from his pocket.

Suddenly Luther raised the rifle. Another crack broke the air, as if the clouds had collided, and in that instant Father John sprinted into the road and jammed the pistol through the tan jacket and into the man’s spine. “Drop the rifle!” he shouted into his ear.

The man stood motionless. Slowly he let the rifle drop to his side.

“I take it you’re that Indian priest.”

“Set the rifle on the ground.” Father John pushed the pistol harder against the man’s back. The odor of whiskey drifted between them.

“I don’t think you’re gonna shoot me,” Luther said. “I don’t think you or any other priest’s got the guts.”

“Don’t bet on it.” Father John drew out the words. In his mind was the image of Vicky and Megan huddled in the thicket. He would do what he had to do to protect them. He kept one eye on the road ahead, half expecting Markham and the guide to appear.

“You’re just like that other fool priest.” The lawyer’s voice was raspy—the voice of alcohol and cigarettes, of dim nights in smoke-filled bars. The rifle jerked at his side. “Why couldn’t you let things be? What happened is over and done with. People gone on with their lives. Why did that old fool have to come back and stir it all up?”

Father John drew in a sharp breath. He understood. “You’re the man who shot Father Joseph,” he said, his voice tight with anger. “You killed a helpless man.”

“Helpless!” the lawyer barked. He tilted his head sideways and spat a large chunk of phlegm into the wind. Specks of moisture prickled Father John’s face. It smelled of whiskey.

“You got that wrong!” Benson yelled. “That priest was gonna blow everything to hell. Couldn’t live with it any longer, he said. What the hell did he have to worry about? He wasn’t in on anything. Just happened the little nurse went and got religion and thought she was goin’ to hell if she didn’t confess all her sins. Well, I sent her to hell all right. Just too bad I didn’t do it sooner, before she unloaded on the priest.” He gave a quick shrug. “What’s it matter? I told Markham. The priest’s wettin’ his pants, he’s so scared. He’s gonna beat the hell out of here. That’s exactly what he did.”

He stopped. Father John could see the muscles in the sides of his neck bulging. “I told Markham, quit worrying. That priest’s got that confessional-seal thing. He’s never gonna spill his guts. For thirty-five years I was right. Then, what d’ya know, here comes Keenan, back to the reservation. Pays a visit to Garrow and tells her she’s gotta come clean.” He threw his head back and gave a hard, tight laugh. “The man was crafty. I’ll give him that. He was a crafty old buzzard. He had a tape recorder on him. So he gets her to talkin’, and all the time he’s tapin’ away. Then he lowers the boom. Says he’s gonna take the tape to the police. That she doesn’t have any choice but to tell the truth. Well, he was wrong.”

“You killed the woman,” Father John said. At the edge of his vision he saw a flicker of movement in the willows next to the road, like a sudden burst of wind. “Why, Benson? Did Joanne Garrow start to get nervous? Did she want to tell the truth? Did she come to you and say it was time to tell the truth? Is that what the coroner did thirty-five years ago? Get nervous and want to tell the truth? Is that why you killed him?”

“Oh, Jesus.” The man shook his head. “You don’t understand anything. I couldn’t have him and the nurse shootin’ off their mouths and ruinin’ the reputation of Benson and Benson in these parts. We were the most important law firm around. Everybody respected the firm. Dad was still alive then. I wasn’t gonna let them destroy everything he’d worked for, so I took care of them.” He stopped for a moment. Then he said, “Why do you care, anyway? You’re not getting out of here alive. Markham and Randy are up there.” He tilted his head toward the meadow.
“You’re not going to shoot us. You’re not going to shoot any of us.”

Suddenly he lurched forward and swung around. Father John saw the tremor in the man’s hand as he lifted the rifle and the blurred, dazed look in his eyes. “Shoot-out time at the O.K. Corral, O’Malley,” he said. “Let’s see who’s gonna shoot first.”

Father John stared into the black tunnel of the rifle barrel, his finger brushing the pistol’s trigger—a tiny, cold piece of metal that could snuff out a man’s life, a murderer’s life. He was sure of one thing: he could pull the trigger faster than the half-drunk man in front of him. And his shot would be more accurate.

In the distance, floating through the trees, came the sound of sirens, definite and real. He had faced down drunks before, but never one with a gun. Still, if he could keep the man talking a few more minutes . . . He let his hand fall, pointing the pistol to the ground. “You hear that, Benson? The police are on the way. You can’t shoot me and get out of here before they arrive. They’ll block you off. They know everything.”

“They don’t have any proof.” The rifle drifted sideways in the wind.

“They have the tape.”

“You’re lying!” The yell burst like the cry of a wounded animal. Benson hunched over the rifle.

Father John stared into the barrel, a circle of blackness. Then, out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the figure of a man careen out of the willows. The man slammed into the lawyer, knocking him off his feet and sending the rifle scuttling across the road. Father John dove for it, gripping the smooth, cold metal barrel. As he got to his feet, he saw Leonard kneeling on the man’s stomach, pounding a fist into his face.

Father John rammed the pistol into his pocket and grabbed the caretaker’s shoulder. “Enough,” he said, pulling the Indian back.

Leonard got to his feet. His breath came hard and fast. His face was dark with anger. “Arnold and me knew you was gonna need some help,” he said, gasping. “We come up the main road. Heard the shooting, so we parked the pickup. Arnold grabbed a tire iron, and we started through the trees. He seen those other two guys about to get into the Jeep out in the meadow. He says one of ’em was the guy that took Megan, so he went after ’em. I came after the sound of gunshots.”

The sirens were closer now, a shrill wail into the wind. The sound of tires crunching gravel and engines straining uphill came from the road behind. Leonard grinned. “Hope you don’t mind, Father. Soon’s you left the mission, I called Agent Gianelli and Chief Banner.”

•   •   •

Father John waited at the Escort. Vicky stood beside him, hunched inside his jacket. He had taken it off and placed it around her shoulders against the chill of the wind. Megan had slipped into the backseat. The door was slightly ajar. No one spoke. A string of police cars stood at the side of the road, blue and red lights flashing against the trees, radio static sputtering. Gianelli’s 4×4 stood in front of the line. Several policemen had headed into the meadow. Others were milling about. Every once in a while one stooped over, scooped up something, and held it out, examining it. A bullet. A cartridge.

Markham and the guide sat in the backseat of the nearest police car. Luther Benson had been hustled into the back of another car. Father John tilted his face
into the wind. It smelled of dry leaves and dust. The sun had disappeared beyond the treetops, and there was the bite of fall in the air. He glanced at Vicky. “It’s over,” he said.

He heard her gasp. “It will never be over.”

Gianelli and Banner broke from the policemen and started up the road toward them, twin expressions of grimness on their faces. As they approached, the rear door pushed open, and Megan stepped out. Gianelli faced her. “I just put the best-known doctor in the country and one of the local luminaries under arrest for kidnapping and possible assault. There better not be any misunderstandings.”

Father John slipped an arm around his niece. “You forgot murder and conspiracy,” he told the agent. “Check Luther Benson’s rifle. You’ve got the man who killed Father Joseph and Joanne Garrow.”

“What I don’t have is the motive.” The agent looked from Father John to Vicky. “Okay, let’s hear that theory of yours.”

Vicky began talking. She explained about the clinic, the stolen babies, the elaborate black-market operation Markham had set up, the nurse and coroner who had ended up dead, and Sharon David, one of the stolen infants, whose father Vicky had found. The agent never took his eyes off her. Banner moved in closer, arms folded, eyes rigid in anger. As Vicky talked, Father John could feel Megan begin to shiver, as if a winter storm had blown through.

When Vicky finished, Father John told the agent about Father Joseph: how he had returned to St. Francis and gone to see Garrow, how he had taped the conversation, how Markham had contacted Luther, who lured Father Joseph out to Thunder Lane and
shot him. Then Markham probably panicked and sent his hunting guide to the mission to find the tape, and the guide had attacked Megan.

Gianelli slipped one hand into his jacket pocket and withdrew a plastic audiotape box. “This the tape you’re talking about.”

Vicky let out a little laugh. “You’re an opera fan, Gianelli. You’ll like that tape.”

The agent lowered his head and looked up, shifting his gaze from Father John to Vicky. “You came out here to get Megan with a phony tape? You could’ve all been killed. When are you gonna . . .” He let the thought trail off and took in a long breath. “Okay, okay. Somewhere on that mission, Father Joseph hid the real tape. Not in his office. Not in his bedroom, and probably not where somebody else would’ve seen it or accidentally picked it up. So you tell me, John, where are we going to find it?”

“If I knew the answer—” Father John stopped. He did know the answer. Father Joseph had left the tape where no one would find it, except, possibly, another priest.

31

“
W
ait here,” Father John said.

The small group stood in front of the church—Vicky and Megan, Gianelli, Banner, and Leonard and Arnold. Shadowy figures in the fading gray light. He walked up the steps and let himself through the heavy wooden doors. The church was dark. A tiny red light flickered in front of the tepee-shaped tabernacle on a table in the sanctuary.