Watching Eagles Soar Read online

  Still in the case where the pipe had been on display was an old photo of three Arapaho chiefs and several government agents seated in front of a tipi. One of the chiefs held a long pipe with a black stem and white bowl, a mute reminder of the pipe that was now missing.

  Whoever had taken the artifacts had picked the locks on the exhibit cases. There were no shards of broken glass, no sharp edges that might have damaged the delicate skins and feathers, and for that fact Father John felt almost grateful. This was a clever thief who knew the value of what he had stolen.

  Father John forced himself past the empty cases to the side door that opened onto a smaller gallery, a tight knot of dread in his stomach. The early morning sun broke through the windows and cast a pinkish glow over the diorama of a camp scene from the Old Time: the white tipi standing in the center of the wood floor; the tripod holding a black kettle over a simulated fire; the wax figure of a warrior squatting in front of a frame that held a buffalo skin. On the walls were framed photographs of Arapaho warriors, somber in feathered headdresses, and women and children sheltering in the shade of tipis that rose out of the gray, desolate plains. Nothing had been disturbed, but Father John had the strange feeling that the ancestors had looked on helplessly while the thief had looted the artifacts in the adjoining room.

  He tried without success to shake the feeling as he made his way to the library across the hall. Everything looked the same: metal shelves filled with orderly rows of books and brown cartons that held old letters and manuscripts. Obviously the thief wanted only the artifacts. There was an insatiable market for Indian artifacts, Father John knew. Unscrupulous dealers who never asked questions and an army of wealthy collectors who would pay hundreds for a warrior’s bow and arrow, thousands for a finely beaded deerskin dress. Once sold, the artifacts would be impossible to trace. He felt a sickening sense of loss as he picked up the phone on the library desk, dialed 911, and reported a burglary at St. Francis Mission.

  * * *

  “Looks like Junior Tallman’s work, all right.” Art Banner, Wind River police chief, was leaning over and peering at the lock on an exhibit case. “Yep. Junior can pick a flea out of a nest of rattlers.”

  Junior Tallman. Father John let the name roll around in his mind. Familiar, but he couldn’t put a face with it. “Who is this guy?” he asked.

  The chief straightened up. He was about to say something when Ted Gianelli, the local FBI agent, snapped shut the notebook he’d been writing in and started down the line of exhibit cases toward them. The chief drew in his lower lip and kept an expectant eye on the agent. Father John understood. This was a major crime, which put it in the FBI’s jurisdiction, a fact that rankled the police chief. More than once, Banner had complained that the fed, who didn’t know diddly-squat about dealing with Indians, got to investigate the really interesting cases while he and his officers were stuck with the grunt work. Two of the chief’s “boys,” as he called his officers, had already dusted the gallery for prints.

  Gianelli said, “Convicted felon, did time in Leavenworth for breaking into the Ethete Museum and stealing a couple hundred thousand dollars’ worth of artifacts. A neat, careful job. If it hadn’t been for an informant in Denver, Junior might’ve gotten away with it. But we traced a couple of stolen artifacts back to Ethete and nailed him. Even Vicky couldn’t get him off.”

  Father John stuffed his hands into the pockets of his plaid jacket. He remembered now. Vicky Holden, the Arapaho lawyer he often worked with on different cases—divorces, adoptions, getting some teenager into drug rehab—had mentioned Junior Tallman not long ago. Too clever for his own good, she’d said. He’d taken such meticulous care of a fringed shirt and feathered cape—making certain nothing was altered—that the curator at the Ethete Museum had no trouble proving they belonged to the museum. Father John felt a chill pass over him unrelated to the cold breeze coming through the opened front door. The Ethete Museum never recovered the rest of the stolen artifacts.

  The police chief cleared his throat. “Count yourself lucky you never met Junior, John. Man’s got the conscience of a rattler. If you’d happened by while he was at work here, he would’ve killed you.”

  “You’ve got to pick him up before he sells the artifacts,” Father John said to the agent.

  “Soon’s we confirm the prints, we’ll arrest him.”

  “Prints!” Father John moved in closer, his eyes locked on Gianelli’s round, fleshy face. “That’ll take time. Junior could be selling the artifacts right now.”

  “Let me handle this.” A blue vein had started pulsing in the middle of the agent’s forehead. “We can’t make an arrest stick without evidence. And I have no intention of tipping Junior off that we’re on to him. He’d just disappear on the rez, and we’d be months trying to find him. By then your artifacts would be long gone.”

  There was a tap-tap sound of footsteps in the entry, followed by a loud gasp. Lindy Meadows stood in the doorway, one hand gripping the jamb, eyes darting about the empty exhibit cases. “Where are the sacred things?” Her voice came like the wail of a siren. Then she burst into tears. Father John walked over, handed her his handkerchief, and placed an arm around her shoulders. He could sense the trembling beneath the heavy brown coat as the woman dabbed at her eyes.

  “What will I tell the old people when they come to visit the ancestors’ belongings?” the curator managed. “What can I say to Clint Old Bear? He comes every Friday to visit the council pipe. How will I explain that it’s gone?”

  Father John didn’t know what to say. He’d seen Clint Old Bear in the museum just last week, standing reverently in front of the council pipe, lost in his own thoughts. Clint was a ne:thne:teyo’u’u:wu’t, a traditional, who lived in a tipi out in the foothills and wanted nothing to do with the modern way—“the white road,” he called it. What would he make of the fact a burglar had broken into the museum and stolen sacred artifacts that the Arapahos had trusted the museum to protect?

  Gianelli walked over. “What I need from you, Lindy,” he said, using a firm, businesslike tone, “is an inventory of everything that’s missing.”

  The curator threw her head back and drew in a couple of ragged breaths. “Yes, of course,” she said. She stepped past him and headed toward the door on the right that led into the museum office.

  Father John turned in the opposite direction. In the library, he dialed Vicky’s one-woman law office in Lander and waited while her secretary put him through. What seemed like five minutes passed before the familiar voice came on the line: “John? What’s up?”

  He told her about the missing artifacts and the clever way the thief had gone about his job.

  The line went quiet. For a moment, he thought they had been disconnected. Then Vicky said, “Sounds like Junior Tallman’s back in business.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “Wait a minute.” There was the noise of paper rustling. “Junior came to see me after he got out of prison. Gave me a big story about how he was going to change his life and follow the good red road. He said he’d started studying the Arapaho Way with one of the traditionals. Clint Old Bear, I think it was. Junior was so convincing, I believed him. Here it is.” Another rustling noise came over the line. “He’s staying at the old cabin out on Trout Circle Road, about a mile past Driscoll Lane.”

  “Thanks,” Father John said.

  “You’re going out there, aren’t you?”

  He didn’t reply.

  “Let the fed handle this, John. If Junior Tallman has plans to turn the artifacts into a lot of cash, he could be very dangerous.”

  “Gianelli’s waiting on fingerprints. By the time he arrests Junior, the artifacts will be gone. Maybe I can reason with the man and talk him out of selling his own heritage.”

  “You don’t know Junior, John.” Vicky paused a moment. Then she said, “I’ll meet you out there.”

  * * *
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br />   Vicky saw the black sedan rise out of the dust cloud and speed toward her down the center of Trout Circle Road. She swung the Bronco to the right, as close to the borrow ditch as she dared, and gripped the steering wheel to keep from slipping off the road. The sedan shot past. A man as small as a child was clutching the steering wheel, head thrust forward, dark cap pulled low over his forehead. The license plates were white and green. Colorado.

  Vicky felt her muscles tense. What if John O’Malley was right and Junior Tallman had already sold the artifacts? She may have just passed the dealer who bought them! She considered turning around and following the sedan, but it had already disappeared from the rearview mirror. It had probably turned onto Highway 287 and could be heading north. Or south. How would she know which direction it had taken?

  She pressed down on the accelerator and watched the dirt road unfurl ahead, trying to think rationally. What dealer would make the long drive from Colorado before he knew for certain that Junior had the artifacts? More than likely Junior was in the cabin now, calling contacts, making final arrangements. I’ve got some good stuff. She could almost hear the man’s voice, unctuous and arrogant at the same time.

  Set back about fifty feet from the road ahead was a cabin that resembled dozens of old cabins scattered across the reservation, constructed of peeling gray logs with a plank roof that ran to one side and a tilted wood stoop at the front door. Despite the brown pickup with a camper in the bed parked under a lone cottonwood tree a few feet away, the cabin had a used-up, deserted look. No sign of Father John’s red Toyota pickup, but St. Francis Mission was a good forty-minute drive. It was only thirty minutes from Lander.

  For a moment, Vicky thought about pulling over and waiting for the red pickup. Junior could be dangerous, she’d warned Father John. But she was Junior’s lawyer; she’d defended the man.

  She turned right into the dirt yard, parked a few feet from the stoop, and knocked on the front door. “Junior,” she called. “It’s Vicky Holden. I have to talk to you.”

  Silence. She knocked again and waited. The wind whistled through the cottonwood branches and cut little ripples over the dirt yard. She tried the doorknob. It turned in her hand, and she stepped inside. A thick smell, like that of wet leather, engulfed her. Sprawled on his back on the plank floor was Junior Tallman, half of his face gone, blood pooling around his shoulders and soaking into his denim shirt, and bloody, gray clumps of brain and scalp and hair spattered across a broken-down sofa and the shiny legs of a yellow Formica-topped table.

  Vicky backed through the door and ran into the yard, doubled over, retching, grateful she’d been too rushed this morning for breakfast. She could picture what had taken place. The childlike man in the black sedan had quarreled with Junior over the price. Junior got angry, probably started shouting and making threats. The dealer panicked, pulled a gun, and fired.

  Vicky made herself breathe deeply—one, two, three breaths—until the nausea dissipated. She pulled herself upright just as the red pickup turned into the yard and stopped. John O’Malley swung his long, jeans-clad legs out from behind the steering wheel. “Junior’s dead.” Vicky heard the sound of her own voice, hollow and shaky in the wind, as she explained—she was babbling, she knew—that the killer had passed her on the road. The look in the priest’s eyes reflected her own horror. He started for the cabin. A minute passed, then another. She knew he would pray over the body, ask the Creator to accept Junior Tallman and forgive whatever sins he may have had on his conscience. There were many, she thought. She dug into her black purse for her cell phone, tapped in 911, and told the dispatch officer what she’d found.

  As she clicked off, she realized John O’Malley had come back outside and was examining the camper in the pickup. He opened the rear door, and she walked over. An Indian blanket covered the floor. Arranged neatly on top were parfleches, belts and head roaches, an eagle whistle, a bow and arrow. Deerskin dresses and shirts were carefully folded in tissue paper. She recognized her own astonishment in the way Father John gripped the edge of the door and stared wordlessly at the beautiful things. The dealer had shot Junior, then left the artifacts behind.

  * * *

  At the FBI office in Lander, the artifacts covered two conference tables. Father John reached out and touched the shaft of the arrow. “Everything seems to be in good condition,” he said in a tone edged with relief.

  “Junior was clever.” Vicky moved slowly down the other side of the table, then stopped, her attention diverted for a moment to the eagle bone whistle tied with feathers that fanned over the polished wood tabletop like air. “Damaged artifacts don’t bring as high a price.”

  “Then why didn’t the dealer take them?” Father John said. It was the question he’d been asking himself since he’d opened the camper door and seen the familiar items. Even Gianelli had seemed surprised to find them, after he and Banner and a phalanx of police officers had pulled into the dirt yard. Father John had watched the officers load the artifacts into boxes; then he’d followed the fed to Lander to make a formal identification and take care of the paperwork. He was glad Vicky had come along. Maybe she’d come up with some answers.

  The door across the room swung open, and Gianelli walked in, waving a flimsy white sheet of paper in front of him. “Lindy Meadows just faxed over the inventory,” he said. “Twenty-seven items. I suspect that’s what we’ve got.”

  “I only get twenty-six,” Vicky said.

  Something was missing. Father John let his gaze roam over the artifacts, mentally placing each one in its display case. And then he saw it. “The council pipe’s not here,” he said.

  “Maybe the pipe’s worth so much money, the dealer decided not to bother with the rest.” Something in Gianelli’s tone said he didn’t buy it.

  “It’s very old,” Father John said, groping for some explanation. He felt as if he were stumbling across the open plains with no landmarks to point the way. “The pipe could have been smoked in the early treaty councils, which gives it historic value. But some of the other things are probably worth a lot more.” He nodded toward the beaded deerskin dress still folded in tissue paper. “Lindy’s told me more than once that a deerskin dress could bring enough money to support St. Francis Mission most of a year. Why would the killer leave something that valuable?”

  The agent shrugged. “We’ve got an all-points out on the black sedan. The guy won’t get far. You’ll have the pipe back in no time.”

  “I hope so,” Father John said.

  * * *

  Vicky seemed as preoccupied as he was, Father John thought. They walked in silence to the parking lot. He opened the Bronco door and waited for her to slip inside, still not saying anything, not wanting to lose the flicker of an idea that had started darting at the edge of his mind.

  Vicky threw out a hand to stop him from closing the door.

  “Somebody else could have taken the pipe,” she said.

  Father John realized she was grappling with the same idea that he’d been trying to bring into focus. He walked around and got in beside her. “What makes you think so?”

  Vicky started the engine, eyes straight ahead on the redbrick wall of the FBI building. She left the transmission in park, and the hum of the idling motor floated into the quiet between them. “All the artifacts are sacred,” she said finally. “They belonged to the ancestors, and they retain part of their lives, their spirits. But if the pipe wasn’t a council pipe . . .” She hesitated, then plunged on. “If it was a prayer pipe . . .”

  “It would be the most sacred artifact of all,” Father John said, finishing the thought. It was his own, part of the new idea working its way into his mind. He had believed the pipe was the council pipe in the photo, but he’d been wrong. All Arapaho pipes were made of black-and-white stone.

  “Junior was studying the Arapaho Way with Clint Old Bear,” he went on. It was making sense now. Clint Old Bear had visited the pipe eve
ry Friday. “He must have told Junior it was a prayer pipe, so Junior decided to liberate it from the museum.”

  “But if all he wanted was the pipe, why steal the other artifacts?” Vicky said, skepticism in her tone.

  Father John sighed. “Temptation is strong. Junior knew he could pick the locks on the exhibit cases in minutes, and he had the connections on the Indian market to sell the artifacts. Maybe he figured he’d save the pipe and make himself a lot of money at the same time.”

  Vicky had started drumming her fingers on the rim of the steering wheel. “It still doesn’t explain why the dealer left the artifacts, unless . . .” She stopped drumming and turned sideways, allowing her eyes to bore into his. “Unless Junior was already dead when the dealer showed up. He must have found the body and beat it out of there without even looking for the artifacts. He was doing at least eighty when he passed me.” She drew in a long breath and exhaled slowly. “You know what this means, don’t you? Whoever killed Junior took the sacred pipe.”

  “Let’s go have a talk with Clint Old Bear,” Father John said.

  * * *

  Vicky shifted the Bronco into reverse, backed a few feet, then shifted again and carved a wide circle through the parking lot, gravel pinging the undercarriage, tires squealing. Father John caught a glimpse of Gianelli at the window just before they roared onto the road.

  Twenty minutes later they drove down a narrow dirt path in the foothills and parked at the edge of a grove of cottonwoods. Nestled in the trees was a large, white canvas tipi. In front of the opened flap, a tripod held a heavy-looking black kettle over a smoldering fire. Smoke trailed around the kettle and drifted up into the branches. A few feet away, a man wrapped in a black and red Indian blanket sat on his haunches, facing a large wood frame that stood upright on the ground. The scene resembled the diorama in the museum, except that the frame held a pipe about two feet long with a black stem and white bowl.