Part 12 (1/2)

He whirled around and ran to the Ford. A second pa.s.sed, and the car turned into the street and accelerated, leaving behind the faintest smell of exhaust.

Vicky retraced her route through the neighborhood. Left turn. Down three blocks. Another left. Only half-aware of the houses lining the streets, as if some part of her had switched into automatic. She parked the Bronco in front of her house, went inside, and dropped onto a dining-room chair next to the phone. She dialed the number at St. Francis Mission.

22.

”Father O'Malley.” He had picked up the phone on the first ring.

Even before she spoke, he knew Vicky was on the other end. The months collapsed into the moment. It was as if she had never left. He waited. The sounds of ”O! mio babbino caro” drifted around him. Beyond the study, the residence was encased in quiet. Light from the lamps on Circle Drive glowed in the window and mingled with the circle of light over his desk.

Finally the words burst through the line in a sob. ”I have to talk to you, John.”

”What's happened? Are you okay?” He reached around and turned down the volume on the tape player. Then he pressed the receiver against his ear, listening for the sounds of her breath. ”Vicky, are you okay?” he asked again.

”A woman I met today was just murdered.” She blurted out the words.

”Tell me about it.”

He heard her take in a long breath. Then the shuddering explanation. First, a man by the name of Vince Lewis, on the way to meet her, run down by a car. And this evening, his wife, Jana, beaten to death near the railroad tracks. She'd gone to see the woman earlier, mentioned that her husband had been murdered. The woman was drunk, shocked at the idea of murder.

”My G.o.d, John. What if she confronted the killer about her husband's murder? I could be responsible for her death.”

”Listen to me, Vicky,” he said, switching to his counseling voice, firm and steady. ”The woman was drunk. She could have gone to a bar and picked up somebody. There's no telling what a drunk might do. Drunks aren't rational.” That was true. He had been at his irrational best when he was drunk.

She'd drawn in a ragged breath and told him that Vince Lewis had worked for a diamond mining company, Baider Industries. ”I think he might have found a diamond deposit on the reservation. The company is hiding it.”

It surprised him. He'd never heard of diamond mines here.

”A crew could be working in a remote area.” Her voice gained urgency. ”They could be removing gems right under the noses of the tribes and not paying royalties. And they may never have to pay royalties if the appeals court doesn't reverse-” She paused. ”In any case, Jana Lewis denied knowing anything, but I think she was covering for the company's founder, Nathan Baider. I think they were having an affair. He might have killed her.”

”You don't know that, Vicky.”

The sobbing started again, a m.u.f.fled sound, as if she'd placed a palm over the mouthpiece. ”So many people dead because of me,” she managed.

He didn't say anything for a moment. She'd shot a man last year to save his life. It was a heavy burden, and he wished he could take it from her, that she didn't have to carry it alone.

”Is Lucas there?” he said finally.

The line was silent for a couple seconds. Then she told him that Lucas had started a new job, that he'd probably move into an apartment soon. ”He doesn't need my problems,” she said.

”He's your son, Vicky. He loves you.”

”I have to be strong for the kids, John. They have to see me strong.”

”You don't have to be strong for everybody.” He knew that she believed otherwise. Everybody saw her strength. Only a few saw her vulnerability. Ben Holden, he knew. And himself. This new thought made him feel absurdly close to her.

”I can't let them get away with it,” she said.

He understood who she was talking about. ”Baider Industries is a company, Vicky. They're bound to have a lot of power. Let the police handle this. It's not your responsibility.”

”Vince Lewis was on his way to see me. His wife may have died because of me. Don't tell me I have no responsibility.”

”Then forgive yourself,” he said. ”You didn't intend any harm. You had nothing to do with their deaths.”

”You know, John O'Malley, sometimes you can be too d.a.m.n logical.” He could picture the red flush that came into her cheeks when she was angry. ”All your beautiful logic can get in the way of the truth.”

Perhaps, he thought.

”I guess I needed the logic anyway,” she said, her voice calmer now. The line went quiet for a couple seconds. ”I got your message,” she said finally. Then she told him what she'd learned about Eddie: he wasn't a regular at the Indian Center, but he'd been there about a month ago. He drove a brown pickup. Grover had beaten him up in the parking lot. ”Maybe he followed Grover to the reservation and killed him,” she said.

He smiled. It wasn't the first time they'd reached the same conclusion.

”How did you know about Eddie?” she asked.

He'd gotten the name from Grover's girlfriend, he told her. An Indian girl, working in a convenience store, too scared to talk to the police.

”She can tie Eddie to Grover.” The urgency had returned. ”Eddie could come after her, too. She could be in danger, John.”

Another conclusion they shared, he thought. He said, ”If I can flush him out-”

”How are you going to do that?”

He stopped himself from telling her about the newspaper article. ”Let's just say I'm trying to locate him. If I get his name, Detective Slinger will pick him up for questioning.”

She was quiet, and he had the sense something else was on her mind. After a moment she said, ”What about the lawsuit?”

He didn't want to talk about the lawsuit. Just thinking about it filled him with a mixture of anger and shame. ”My new a.s.sistant, Don Ryan-”

”a.s.sistant!” she interrupted.

He felt as if he'd taken a fastball in his chest. Had she thought he was the target of the lawsuit? My G.o.d, what did she think of him?

”It was an affair, Vicky,” he said finally, keeping his voice steady. ”He'd been counseling her. If the case goes to court, the woman will probably win. The provincial doesn't believe insurance will cover all the damages.”

”Where does that leave the mission?”

”We'll have to sell the land along the highway,” he heard himself saying. He felt as if he were talking about selling a part of himself. ”There probably wouldn't have been enough money to build the day-care and a new senior center, anyway.”

”Oh, John. You had such hopes . . .” She let the thought trail away. ”I'm sorry,” she said.

So was he, he thought. ”Listen, Vicky,” he went on, ”promise me you'll be careful. Don't put yourself in any danger.”

”Same to you, John O'Malley,” she said.

Father John watched the ball arc high over center field. ”Move in!” he yelled, cupping one hand over his mouth like a megaphone. The sound of his voice floated through the afternoon air, still damp from yesterday's rain. But the sky was as crystalline blue as a mountain lake, and the sun was warm on his back. He'd called Eldon Antelope this morning to announce a practice, and this afternoon fifteen kids had shown up.

Now Randy White Horse was sprinting across the field, the small, intent brown face turned into the sun. He reached up and grabbed the ball out of the air, making it look easy.