The Man Who Fell from the Sky (19 page)

FATHER JOHN WOKE
early, the sun spreading orange and vermilion through the eastern sky. He felt as if he hadn't slept at all. All the long night, tossing and turning and listening for the sound of a vehicle on Circle Drive, heading down the alley to the guesthouse. And Vicky alone in the little house, the door nothing more than plywood. A sturdy boot could kick it open. Dear Lord. He never wanted her to be hurt, and yet a man who called himself Cutter had tried to rape her. Would have raped her if she hadn't kicked at the fire. Distracted him, the flames blowing up on the blanket.

At some point in the middle of the night, in the midst of the fear and anger that gripped him, had come the rational, logical, unemotional truth. He could not protect her from the world. She lived in the world, and the world was dangerous. Still, the thought of her alone in the mountains, fighting off an attacker, had sent him back to tossing, getting up again to look out the window and make sure
he hadn't missed the sound of a pickup or car, that no headlights flared in the alley. Thinking that he could go to the house and stay with her. Knowing that if he did, he would never return.

He showered, shaved, and pulled on his blue jeans and red plaid shirt and boots. The house was quiet. It was the bishop's morning to say Mass, and the old man would be in the sacristy putting on his robes. Father John hurried down the stairs, grabbed his cowboy hat off the peg in the front hall, and set off on the path across the field. Walks-On trailed alongside, bounding through the grass. A couple of pickups pulled into Circle Drive and parked close to the church. The door was open. He could see a few figures bent in the pews. He waved to the elders getting out of the pickups and kept going. Across the drive and down the alley that separated the church from the administration building. The mission grounds quiet, expectant, cottonwood branches crackling in the soft morning breeze, Walks-On running ahead and doubling back.

He stopped. The Ford was gone. Vicky had parked close to the house last night while he had run ahead to open the front door. Now he rapped on the door, not sure what he expected, but wanting to make sure Vicky wasn't inside, that nothing had happened, that no one had come and taken her car. The knob turned in his hand and he pushed the door open. “Vicky?”

He knew by the vacant atmosphere that she was gone. Still he looked into the kitchen alcove, the bedroom in back. The bed neatly made and only the faintest sage-tinted smell of her remaining. Walks-On sniffed around as if he were surprised Vicky wasn't here. Father John checked his watch as he walked back to the residence. Six thirty. Mass about to start. He wondered when she had driven away. He hadn't heard her car leave, but the sound had probably mingled with the stutter of the old pickups heading to
the church. It made sense she would want to get home and get ready for the court hearing this morning. He retraced his steps down the alley.

The dog leapt ahead of him into the residence, and Father John followed him to the kitchen. The air was thick with the smells of hot oatmeal and fresh coffee. He shook food into Walks-On's dish and filled his water bowl, aware of footsteps coming up the basement stairs. The soft roar of the washing machine sounded through the floor. Elena pushed the door open. “You sit down,” she ordered. “I'll get your breakfast.”

“Why don't you sit down and have breakfast with me?”

“I already ate.” She brushed at the white apron tied at her waist. “I don't need two breakfasts and I got my work to do.”

There was no arguing with Elena. This was her house, her mission, her work, and he had learned it was best not to interfere. He sat down while she spooned the steaming oatmeal into a bowl, poured a mug of coffee, and set them in front of him. “You need a hearty breakfast.” The same pronouncement he had heard every morning since coming to St. Francis.

He poured milk over the oatmeal, sprinkled on some sugar, and dug in. It was tasty and familiar. Not a bad way to start the day, he had decided. When he finished eating, he poured milk into his coffee, sat back, and took a long sip, his mind still racing over last night. Vicky in his office, scared and angry and triumphant all at once, and the photos of the long-ago fifth graders at St. Francis Mission School, with James Walking Bear smiling out from the past, a mixture of confidence and sadness in the dark eyes. Cutter's voice jabbed at his thoughts.
My father took us to Oklahoma.

He took another sip of coffee, then he said, “Elena, do you remember when Macon Walking Bear moved his family to Oklahoma?”

Elena took her time swishing dishes back and forth in the sink, stacking them in the drainer. Of course she remembered. She remembered everything.

Finally she turned around. “Good riddance, I'd say. Never fit in on the rez, those Walking Bears. Pushy, trying to get more than everybody else.”

“Where in Oklahoma did they go?”

“Concho, that's where Arapahos go. Knowing that bunch, they liked to be different, so they might've gone to El Reno or Geary. Why are you asking?”

“I met his son, Cutter. There are a few questions I'd like to ask his father.”

Elena nodded, as if it made sense. The son shows up on the rez. Only natural folks wanting to know about him, make sure he didn't come here to hide out from trouble.

Father John thanked her for another delicious breakfast and, leaving Walks-On snoring on his rug in the corner, walked back down the hall and out the front door. Most of the pickups had left, but a few were still righting themselves on Circle Drive before heading into the cottonwood tunnel and out onto Seventeen-Mile Road. The bishop was coming along the path. “An amazing morning.” The old man lifted both hands into a sky that had settled into a crystalline blue with billowy white clouds blowing across. The bishop stopped and faced him. “Trouble last night?”

“Vicky had some trouble.” Lord, the old man was prescient; nothing eluded him. “She spent the night in the guesthouse.”

“I trust she will be safe and well.”

“I hope so,” Father John said. He assured the bishop that the oatmeal was as tasty as ever and hurried on. He took the steps in front of the administration building two at a time, unlocked the
oak door, and stepped into the corridor, dim and cool with the faint musty odor of a building that had settled into a stately old age. He flipped on the light as he entered his office, sat down at his desk, and opened the laptop. It took a moment for the old computer to blink into life, but eventually icons scattered about the monitor. Another moment he was in the telephone white pages, typing in the name
Macon Walking Bear
. A number of Walking Bears appeared in a number of cities, including Arapahoe and Ethete on the rez. At least ten people by the last name in Oklahoma, but no one named Macon. He maneuvered to another site and eventually found his way to cities in Oklahoma. When he tapped on Concho, a new Walking Bear listing appeared. Still no Macon. Next he tried El Reno. Finally, Geary, and there was the name, followed by the number.

Father John grabbed the phone and dialed the number. Voice mail.
Can't take your call at the moment. Call back later.
No directions about leaving your number, but the beep sounded and Father John gave the inert plastic phone his name and said he was calling about Macon's son. He left his cell number.

He hung up and dialed Vicky's number. Voice mail again, but this time followed by instructions to leave his name and number. She would get back as soon as possible. “I wanted to make sure you got home okay and everything was all right.” He hesitated, then plunged on: “Call me. I want to hear your voice; I want to know you are safe.”

Why wouldn't she be safe? Cutter would have cooled off by morning. But what if he hadn't? What if being left in the mountains had fired his anger? Father John could feel his muscles tense. “Call me, call me,” he said out loud.

It was midmorning when the phone finally rang. Father John
was refilling his coffee mug over at the metal table in the corner, and he nearly tripped lunging back to his desk. “Father John,” he said, every muscle taut with expectation.

“Charlotte Hanson, Julia's daughter. Remember me?”

“Yes, of course.” Another call buzzed. He could hear the bishop answering in the back office.

“Thought you might like to know Mom is having her most lucid day in months. That film director showed up a couple of days ago and wanted to talk to her, but she couldn't remember anything. You ask me, something about him being a film director got through to her and she brightened up yesterday and said she wanted to do an interview. She's always been crazy about the movies. I think that somewhere deep inside she saw this as her last chance to be in the movies. Well, Todd Paxton is bringing his crew over this morning, and I thought you might like to hear what she has to say.”

Father John walked down the corridor and stuck his head into the office. The bishop was bent over a book that lay open on his desk. “Mind holding down the fort for a while?”

“It can be managed.” The bishop lifted his eyes and gave him a thumbs-up. “By the way, Maris Reynolds called. Wanted to thank you for recommending her to that film director. She said she was able to tell her family stories and set the record straight.”

Father John thanked the old man and was about to start back down the corridor when the bishop said, “Something else. She said to tell you she expects you to use the Central City Opera tickets this summer. She called them a special gift for you. Not to use them would be pertinacious, which she said is a very useful word that she hopes you will pass on.”

Father John laughed. “Pertinacious! We should all pass it on.”

“Go to the opera, John,” the bishop said. “Even pastors deserve a few days off. I will hold down the fort.”

*   *   *

“HOW DID YOU
get in?” Vicky stood in the doorway to her apartment, the door open, one hand on the knob.

Not five feet away, Cutter lounged against the counter that divided the small space into the kitchen and the living room. “Don't insult my intelligence,” he said, a settled look in his expression, as if he had come to a new understanding and reached a reluctant decision. “Shut the door!”

Vicky flung herself around and started running all out down the corridor, the sound of her own screams filling the space around her. In an instant he had hold of her, the strength in his arms hauling her backward, one hand clamped over her mouth. A door at the end of the corridor opened, and the elderly Mrs. Williams in flannel nightgown and fuzzy slippers, gray hair rolled into curlers, looked out. “You all right?”

“Everything's fine,” Cutter called, but by then he had pushed Vicky back into her apartment. “Lovers' quarrel is all. You know how that goes.”

“Oh my.” Vicky could hear the uncertainty in the old woman's voice. “Is that nice Indian lawyer okay?”

“She's fine.” Cutter's most soothing and reassuring voice. A man in control. “Please don't worry. I'm her fiancé, and I'll take care of her.”

“Fiancé? My goodness, I hadn't heard.”

“Thank you for your concern.” Cutter slammed the door and turned toward Vicky. All the time, she realized, he had not taken his eyes off her. “We should have a heart-to-heart.” The hard
pressure of his hand propelled her across the living room and down onto the sofa. “Don't you agree?”

“What do you want?” Vicky struggled to keep her voice steady, to camouflage the terror rising inside her.

Cutter straddled a stool at the counter and observed her for a long moment, as if she were a wild animal that had wandered too close to his campsite. Her cell had started ringing in her bag. “Leave it,” he said. “I want to know what lies your client told you.”

“Client? I don't know who you're talking about, and it doesn't matter. Anything a client tells me is confidential. You know that.”

“Your client's dead. So your precious attorney-client relationship doesn't mean squat. Besides . . .” His voice took on a low, soothing quality. “Don't be alarmed. Nobody else will ever know. I need to know what lies he told about me. I'm a stranger in these parts, and I have to know what people think.”

“If you're talking about Dallas Spotted Deer . . .” She stopped herself from saying that Dallas wasn't her client. What excuse would she have not to tell Cutter what he wanted to know? “Anything he may have told me is none of your business.”

“You told Gianelli.” Cutter got up and strolled over to the window, and Vicky glimpsed the grip of the small pistol tucked in the back of his belt. She thought about bolting through the door again, screaming down the corridor. He would be on her before she could throw back the bolt. “Which sent him all over the rez causing a lot of problems. Keeping the investigation open when it makes sense to call it an accident. End of story.” He looked sideways at her. “Ruth can't bury her husband and get on with her life, thanks to you. None of us can move forward. Never know when the fed will show up with more questions.” He went quiet, his gaze fastened
on something outside the window. “That old bat! She called the police. We have to get out of here.”

Vicky got to her feet. “I'm not going anywhere with you.” The police were here. This was her chance. All she had to do was stall.

“We're leaving now.” The pistol was in his hand, nearly hidden by the large fingers, the popping white knuckles. The muzzle pointed at her, urging her to the door.

Stall
, she told herself.
Keep stalling
, but the muzzle came closer until she was staring down a black hole that went on forever. Slowly she fastened her bag on her shoulder, turned, and walked to the door. As she passed the counter, she made a point of reaching for the keys in a bowl, praying he wouldn't remember she hadn't dropped any keys in the bowl. These were extras she kept in case—in case she couldn't locate her keys in her purse and was in a hurry.