The Spirit Woman Page 13

  He’d called Gianelli about the journal and manuscript. The agent would be by later to pick them up. Father John hadn’t explained his theory. Not yet. Last night, in the quiet of the library, it had seemed perfectly logical. This morning it seemed like more and more of a stretch. He wanted to talk to Vicky first. He’d tried her office and left a message.

  The phone had rung again before he could call Lindy at the museum. It was the director, a tense, worried note in her voice. She’d seen the police notes in the morning’s paper. She’d asked question after question; he’d done his best to explain about the journal and manuscript without alarming her. “The FBI agent’s on his way over,” he said. “Try not to worry. They’re safe until he gets here.”

  “I’m not worried about them,” she’d said. “What about Laura Simmons?”

  “The police will find her.” He told her again not to worry, the words hollow in his ears.

  Four or five pickups—Howard Elkman’s old brown Chevy was one of them—had passed outside the window while they’d talked, and he’d asked the director what was going on. She’d found some old letters the elders were interested in, she’d explained.

  Now Father John arranged a stack of bills by dates—the oldest to be paid first. The most recent, sometime in the future, God willing. He was about to write out a check when Kevin walked in and dropped the Gazette on the desk, an index finger on the police notes near the bottom of the first page.

  “The emergency you went out on last night?” the other priest asked.

  He nodded. He’d passed Kevin on his way out and told him there was some kind of emergency in Lander. A perplexed look had come into the man’s face. Lander? How big is our parish? He’d taken a minute to explain that a CU professor here to do research on the reservation could be in trouble.

  “I assume this professor was interviewing people.”

  “I assume so.”

  “She was interviewing people, and now she’s missing?” There was stunned disbelief in the man’s voice.

  “There’s an ex-boyfriend in the picture.”

  “Oh, I see,” Kevin said, as if he didn’t see at all. He shrugged and disappeared into the corridor, his footsteps fading on the hard floor.

  Father John went back to the bills, aware of the sounds of rustling paper, a chair scraping the floor in the other office—impatient sounds. Kevin had been going over the finances, and Father John guessed the new pastor had just grasped the thin financial ledge on which St. Francis tottered along. He wrote the check and was stuffing it into an envelope when the front door squealed open. The footsteps were quick and tense. He got to his feet just as Vicky appeared in the doorway, one hand poised to knock. Her hair fell loosely over the collar of her black coat, which gave her a relaxed look that belied the anxiety in her eyes.

  “Any word on Laura?” Father John knew the answer even as he asked. He walked around the desk and sat back against the edge at her eye level.

  Vicky shook her head, and then she explained: the state patrol had found Toby Becker; Eberhart had questioned him and let him go. She’d caught up with the man in the jail parking lot. “He admits he saw Laura Tuesday night, but he claims she was fine when he left.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  Vicky walked past him to the window, then to the desk, then the window again, winding her way among the packed boxes. After a moment she said, “I don’t know what to believe, John. Laura was trying to break off with him. She was afraid of him. But he says they’d been through this before, and she always came back. Maybe this time he knew she meant it, and he . . .”

  She turned and stared outside a moment. Looking back, she said, “There’s no evidence against him, no signs of blood in his car. He’s a cocky, self-obsessed bastard, but he could be telling the truth.”

  It was then that he told her where Laura had hidden the manuscript and journal. And he told her about his theory.

  She was quiet several seconds—pacing, pacing. Finally she dropped against the edge of the desk next to him. “It makes sense,” she said. “Toussaint—whoever he is—must have heard that Laura had come to the reservation to finish Charlotte Allen’s biography. Certainly it wasn’t any secret that she had the manuscript and journal. He could have panicked, called Laura, arranged to come to the apartment.”

  Suddenly Vicky jumped up. “Somebody Laura talked to must have told Toussaint about her, which means somebody knows who he is. Laura intended to see Theresa Redwing.”

  “She didn’t show up, Vicky,” Father John reminded her.

  “But that was two days ago. She might’ve gone to talk to her after Theresa called you. And she was going to do some research at the cultural center. Maybe she found a name . . .”

  “Let’s go see,” Father John said.

  They drove separately.

  They’d had a discussion in the middle of Circle Drive, and he explained they could save time if they each drove. He would go to Theresa Redwing’s, she to the cultural center. Vicky agreed. She’d see him at the center in—a glance at the silver watch on her wrist—four hours.

  It was logical, Father John told himself as he headed toward the mountains etched in sunlight. Laura could be hurt somewhere, and time was critical. Still he couldn’t shake off the disappointment. He’d had a sense of last things all week. This would have been their last drive across the reservation together.

  He found himself glancing in the rearview mirror. She was there, the sun sparkling in the Bronco’s bumper. At Highway 132, he turned right and drove north. The Bronco disappeared from view.

  Vicky saw the police car parked in front of the white frame house that served as the cultural center when she turned in to Fort Washakie. She parked beside it and hurried up the walk dividing a brown patch of lawn and some scraggly bushes. She stepped into the entry, made her way up the stairs, and stopped. Papers and folders littered the library, toppling over the two long tables, falling onto the chairs, skittering over the floor. Toussaint’s already been here.

  A blur of navy-blue uniforms moved past the opened door across the room—two BIA police officers. One glanced back, then started toward her, picking his way through the papers. It was Patrick Banner, the police chief’s son—a younger version of the chief himself, with the same long, brown face and serious eyes, the same easy, efficient manner. “Vicky? What’re you doin’ here?”

  She ignored the question. “What happened?”

  “Somebody decided to break in last night and tear the place apart. Bunch of kids, you ask me. Nothing better to do.”

  “See what they’ve done!” Phyllis Manley edged around the door, holding out a wad of papers, a look of disbelief on the plain, round face, like a sleepwalker in the midst of some nightmare. “All the old records, the old stories, thrown about like they were nothing. Why would anybody do this?”

  Vicky walked over. “Are you all right?” she said, taking Phyllis’s arm and leading her carefully to one of the reading tables. She picked up the papers thrown on a chair and waited until the woman had sat down. Facing Patrick again, she said, “This could have something to do with the disappearance of a woman in Lander. Laura Simmons.”

  The director swiveled about. “I saw the article in this morning’s paper. It’s terrible. Did the police find her yet?”

  “Not yet.” Vicky patted Phyllis’s shoulder.

  “What makes you think this is related?” Patrick asked. The second officer was standing in the doorway, thumbs linked in the pockets of his uniform trousers, head bent forward as if awaiting her answer.

  “Laura has some documents that belonged to the woman found by the river last week.”

  “The old skeleton?” This from the other officer.

  “Somebody wants the documents. Whoever it is ransacked Laura’s apartment. He could have thought Laura left the documents here.”

  “Why would anybody think such a thing?” Phyllis said, the high pitch of her voice like a wail of pain.

  Patrick Banner had pu
lled a small notebook and pen from his jacket pocket and was jotting something down. After a moment he snapped the cover in place. “We’ll let the fed know, and we’ll do our own investigation. Kids like to brag. Somebody might shoot his mouth off, and we’ll find the guys responsible.”

  The other officer had already started for the door, and Patrick followed. “Don’t worry, Phyllis,” he said, glancing back. “We’ll keep a close eye on the place.” And then they were gone. The door cracked into the quiet, rustling the papers on the floor.

  Vicky cleared another chair and sat down next to the director. “Laura did some research here, didn’t she?”

  Phyllis nodded, a slow, jerky motion, as if her head were not firmly attached to the rest of her body. “She was here for two days, wanting to see everything on Sacajawea. We went through all the files. It took some time, I can tell you. That is one determined white woman. She just didn’t want to believe that what she was looking for wasn’t here.”

  Vicky glanced around. Laura wasn’t the only one, she thought. She said, “Did Laura mention anyone she was interviewing?”

  “Well”—the word elongated into two syllables—“she’d already arranged to talk to Theresa Redwing, and Robert suggested—”

  “Robert?” Vicky felt her pulse quicken.

  “Robert Crow Wolf.” The woman’s expression softened, the outrage forgotten for a half second. “He was here doing research on the agricultural history of the reservation.” Her eyes had started to wander about the room; suddenly the tears were coming in long, thin streams. She pulled a tissue out of the pocket of her blue skirt and dabbed at her cheeks. “How’s anybody ever gonna find any records now?”

  Crow Wolf. Vicky barely knew the man. She’d seen him at powwows and other celebrations. She’d heard the gossip about how hard he’d worked for his doctorate, how proud the Shoshone elders were of him. She’d envied the man for that.

  “What did he suggest to Laura?” she asked.

  “Oh, he was very helpful. Suggested she talk to Willie Silver. Even called Willie himself and set up the interview for Wednesday. You know Willie?”

  Vicky nodded. One of the Shoshone elders, a descendant of Sacajawea. His father had been one of the four elders that Charlotte Allen had interviewed. Willie was a drunk. Vicky hadn’t suggested that Laura interview the man.

  “Did Robert suggest anyone else?”

  “Not so far as I know. Just Willie.”

  “Is Robert still here?”

  “Oh, no, no.” Phyllis was shaking her head. “He went back to Laramie three days ago for his classes.”

  “Thanks, Phyllis,” Vicky said, getting to her feet. She was halfway to the door when she turned back. Phyllis sat slumped against the chair, looking as dejected as a discarded doll. “Will you be okay?”

  Phyllis grabbed the edge of the table—a slow, deliberate motion—and levered herself upright. “I gotta be, don’t I? I gotta get the stories back together.”

  Vicky eased the Bronco through Fort Washakie, then turned on to Highway 287 and pressed down on the accelerator. Willie Silver’s ranch was out on Sacajawea Ridge, a good forty-five-minute drive.

  21

  Highway 132 was a ragged road that shot north before bending into the east. A white-frame house rose out of the expanse of plains ahead, like the last surviving tipi in an Indian village after the cavalry had swept through. Father John eased up on the accelerator and turned on to Rabbit Brush Road, then into the yard, bumping across the ridges of bare earth. As he started toward the front door it swung open.

  “Come on in out of the cold.” Theresa Redwing, gray hair curled tightly around her face, one hand stuffed into the pocket of the white apron tied at her waist, looked out from the shadowy interior. “I wasn’t expectin’ visitors,” she said, letting herself down on a brown sofa with white crocheted doilies arranged along the top that reminded him of the sofas in his youth. “Always good when folks stop by.”

  Just as he was about to take one of the upholstered chairs against the opposite wall, a young woman with shiny black hair and a trim figure in blue jeans and white T-shirt walked out of the hallway. “You know my granddaughter Hope?” Theresa said. “She’s back home from Laramie for a couple days doin’ some research for the book she’s writing on our ancestor.”

  “A dissertation, Grandmother.” The woman started across the small room, hand extended. “Nice to see you again, Father.” Her hand felt cool, her grip surprisingly firm. “How can we help you?”

  He waited until she’d taken a straight, high-backed chair before he sat down. “I’m worried about Laura Simmons,” he said, addressing the older woman. “She’s missing from her apartment.”

  “I seen the Gazette this morning,” Theresa said. “Sounds like that white woman’s got herself some man troubles. Must be the reason she didn’t come out here Thursday, like she said.”

  “Did you hear from her again?” Father John leaned forward.

  The old woman was shaking her head. “I must’ve scared her off, Father. I told her about Hope here.”

  “Grandmother simply told her the truth.” Hope stared at him with frank, steady eyes. She crossed her jeans-clad legs, letting one foot swing freely. “I know what Professor Simmons is after. She thinks she’s going to find Sacajawea’s memoirs. Does she really believe any Shoshone will give them to a white woman? I’m the one my people will give them to.”

  The words jolted him. Toussaint will bring the memoirs tonight. And Laura had thought she would get the memoirs. Now this young woman. “You must know the man who has the memoirs,” he said. “Toussaint?”

  Theresa made an impatient hrmmmp noise. “I told you, Father, nobody by that name. And I never heard about any memoirs either. Sacajawea told her stories, and the agent’s wife wrote ’em down. What she wrote was burned up, but it don’t matter. Writing them down don’t make them true. Lots of folks heard the stories and passed them down. We got ’em in our hearts.”

  “I’m sorry, Grandmother, but you don’t understand,” Hope said, a calm, patient tone. “Stories that are written down while they’re still fresh are more important than stories passed down orally.”

  “Oh, she says I don’t understand.” The old woman threw up both hands and spoke to some point on the side wall. “Well, we been keepin’ stories for a long time without the help of historians telling us what’s good and what isn’t.” She rearranged herself on the sofa and faced her granddaughter. “Why you wanna do what Robert Crow Wolf’s doin’ anyway, Hope? Why you wanna make him look like he’s not special?”

  “We’ve been over this, Grandmother.” The younger woman’s expression remained calm and reflective, and Father John wondered at the effort. “Robert doesn’t feel that way. He’s my adviser, and he’s been a great help. You know that some of the elders wouldn’t have talked to a woman if Robert hadn’t asked them to.” She lifted herself up and started backing around the chair. “I hope you’ll excuse me, Father. I have some work I want to finish.”

  “Hope, wait.” Father John was on his feet. “Laura Simmons expected to get the memoirs, and now she’s missing. Twenty years ago Charlotte Allen believed she’d get the memoirs. She was murdered. Who is it that promised them to you?”

  “The elders,” she said.

  “One of them has told you he has the memoirs?”

  “I don’t know who has them, Father.” Calm, assured of her position. She might have been fielding the questions in an oral exam. “But I’ll have them in the next day or two. Don’t worry about me, Father. I can take care of myself.” She gave him a slow, confident smile before she turned into the hallway.

  Theresa’s eyes followed the fading shush of her granddaughter’s footsteps. She shook her head. “I don’t know, Father. All this trouble about some memoirs that I never heard of. All Hope has to do is listen to the stories, but she says they’re not good enough for her anymore.”

  Father John walked over, took the woman’s hand, and thanked her for her hosp
itality. “Try not to worry about her,” he said, forcing a note of confidence into his tone to mask his own worry.

  Minutes later he was guiding the Toyota back across the yard and onto the highway, leaning onto the accelerator, an alarm sounding in his head. Unwittingly, trustingly, Hope Stockwell had come across the man who called himself Toussaint. He was here, and he knew where Laura was. They had to find him. Hope Stockwell could also be in danger.

  There was something strange about the cultural center, Father John thought as he pulled into the curb. An unsettling quiet, as if the two-story, white-frame house had suddenly been vacated. He checked his watch. Four-thirty. Phyllis Manley had probably closed for the day. There was no sign of Vicky’s Bronco. The drive out to Theresa’s had taken longer than he’d anticipated. Vicky could have gotten tired of waiting and gone back to Lander.

  Except he knew she would wait for him here, just as she’d said. He got out of the pickup and went up the sidewalk. The door was unlocked. “Anyone here?” he called, stepping into the small entry. He took the stairs two at a time.

  Phyllis Manley sat at one of the long tables in the library, stacks of papers piled in front of her. A pathway of white paper wound around the floor. She looked up out of eyes shadowed with grief and fatigue.

  “What’s going on?” he said, the alarm in his head as loud as a gong. Toussaint was ahead of them, a spirit darting about, striking wherever he wanted, leaving destruction behind.

  “Oh, Father. You see what they did?”

  “Who did this?”

  “Some kids, the police say. Broke out a back window last night and got in. Pulled all the files and cartons off the shelves. Tossed everything around. I don’t know how I’ll ever get it back in order.”

  Father John felt his stomach muscles clench. This wasn’t the work of kids. This was the work of a man desperate to find a journal that could link him to a twenty-year-old murder. And what he wanted was in the library at the Arapaho Museum. The man could show up there.