The Spirit Woman Page 4

  “I doubt it’s an ancestor,” he said, hoping to allay their fears.

  “You know for sure?” Roger leaned toward him.

  He had to admit that he didn’t. It was his own theory. Something about the bones had seemed so—new. “Ted Gianelli’s in charge of the investigation,” he said. “He’ll have a report soon. I trust him.”

  “Well, you’re a white man.” Roger again. “ ’Course you trust him.”

  “We want those bones back so we can bury ’em and give ’em the right blessings so the Creator’ll take good care of ’em.” Elton stared over the glasses riding partway down his nose. “We don’t want ’em desecrated and left to rot on some shelf.”

  “I’m sure Gianelli will release them as soon as he makes an identification,” Father John said.

  “Hold on.” Howard raised his hand. “We don’t want nobody poking and hacking at the bones trying to identify them. You can’t identify an ancestor.”

  Roger slammed down his mug. Drops of coffee splashed over his brown hand and dotted the cuff of his light blue Western shirt. “The fed’s never gonna release ’em. Soon’s white people get ahold of Indian bones, they wanna study ’em. They don’t like it much when we start jumpin’ up and down, demanding to get the bones back. So I figure some bones show up, they’re gonna say they come from modern times. That way the tribe won’t cause trouble, and they can do their studies.”

  Howard scooted his chair toward him. “We been talking,” he said. “We want you to get the skeleton back with the people, where it belongs.”

  Father John drew in a long breath. “Look,” he began, searching for the words. What they expected was impossible; he could only let them down. Yet they trusted him. He wondered if his superior, his fellow Jesuits, would ever really trust him again. He said, “The fed has his job to do. He has to let the lab determine if the skeleton’s ancient or from the present time. Nothing I could say will change that.”

  The elders were quiet. Father John realized the conversations around them had died back. The air was thick with tension. “You explain to the agent what we say,” Howard said finally.

  “I’ll do my best.” Father John got to his feet and grabbed his jacket and hat.

  “You leavin’ the res, Father?” Howard asked.

  “Not before I talk to Gianelli.”

  “I mean next week. We don’t like the news we been hearing on the telegraph.” The other men were nodding in unison.

  “I don’t like it much either.”

  “Then why you goin’?”

  Here it was, the question that had been running through his head ever since the provincial had called. “I’ve been here almost eight years,” he started to explain, then gave it up. It was complicated. “My boss has found a new pastor for St. Francis. He’ll be here any day.” The man’s belongings had already arrived, several neatly taped cartons that he’d put in the extra bedroom upstairs.

  “Kevin McBride’s the new man’s name.” Father John hurried on. And they would accept him, he was thinking. Just as they had accepted him. An alcoholic trying to recover, fresh from treatment, with the thirst still upon him.

  “Another Irishman?” Howard’s eyebrows rose in mock incredulity that the powers that be could impose such a penance upon them. He shot a glance at the men across the table. “You hear anything about the people askin’ for a new pastor? Maybe it’s time we had a talk with the boss.”

  Father John tasted the backwash of coffee in his throat. A call from the elders and the provincial would pull him out of St. Francis tomorrow. Forming attachments wasn’t part of his job description. He was to remain free and independent, a solitary man ready to go anywhere, at any time, with no backward glances. “I’ll be here until Tuesday of next week,” he said hurriedly, an awkward attempt, he knew, to forestall any telephone calls. He had ten more days here and he wanted every moment of time he had left. “I’ll call you as soon as I talk to Gianelli.”

  He could feel the elders’ eyes on him as he started across the hall, shrugging into his jacket as he went, squaring the cowboy hat on his head, nodding to the upturned faces of the other elders. Still watching as he let himself out the door.

  It was snowing lightly, and Seventeen Mile Road disappeared into the clouds bunching up over the plains. The Toyota felt like the inside of an icebox. Father John jiggled the heater knob, trying to coax more than the occasional promise of warmth from the vents. He’d replaced Mozart with Puccini—La Bohème—as if the tender, melodious music could compensate for the cold.

  He banked around a curve, tires skittering on the asphalt. As he slowed for the turn into St Francis Mission, the roar of an engine, like a truck grinding up a mountain, cut through “Che gelida manina.” Suddenly a motorcycle swung in front of him, bike and rider a perfectly harmonious unit. He stepped hard on the brake pedal, sending the pickup bucking toward the barrow ditch. Dead stalks of thistles and sunflowers scratched against the door as he fought to keep the tires on the asphalt. The motorcycle disappeared in the mission grounds.

  5

  Father John followed the tracks in the thin snow on Circle Drive. Past the yellow stucco administration building, past the church with the white steeple riding in the clouds, past the old school building that was now the Arapaho Museum. He pulled up in front of the two-story, red-brick residence, next to a black Harley-Davidson, moisture glistening on the chrome.

  The rider, encased in black leather with a black helmet encircling his head, was in the process of swinging one leg over the bike. He jumped to his feet, then began rolling his shoulders, boots planted a couple of feet apart, arms stretched outward, like a large, grounded bird trying to take to the sky. Father John got out of the pickup and walked over. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  The biker dropped his arms, then reached up and pulled off the helmet. Snow peppered the dark hair flattened about his head. “You wouldn’t know where I can find Father O’Malley, would you?” He cradled the helmet under one arm.

  “You found him.”

  The other man bounded forward, right hand extended, his gaze traveling over Father John: the cowboy hat and jacket, the blue jeans, the boots. “Kevin McBride,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting a cowboy.”

  “I wasn’t expecting a biker.” His replacement, Father John realized, the new pastor of St. Francis Mission, probably still in his thirties—ten years younger than he was—with a doctorate in anthropology. Kevin McBride stood close to six feet and had the look of a man used to regular workouts in a gym, although it occurred to Father John that the leather jacket and trousers could give a false impression of well-defined muscles. He had the laughing blue eyes and open, handsome face of the Irish. A familiar face, Father John thought. The man might have been one of his own relatives, or a neighbor back in Boston. His smile revealed a row of perfect white teeth.

  “Just got here from the East,” Kevin McBride was saying. His gaze shifted to the bike, and he stepped over, drawn by the machine, and began running his glove over the shiny black fender. “Rode this beauty all the way from New York. Just me and the road and the wind in my face. Man, what a sensation. Got to the middle of Nebraska before a blizzard grounded me, so I spent a couple days on a farm. Nice house. A bit like a bed-and-breakfast with lunch and dinner thrown in. Had a chance to interview the family about life on a modern-day farm.”

  He glanced away, smiling at the memory, and Father John wondered if everyone Kevin McBride encountered was an opportunity for anthropological scrutiny.

  The other priest removed his gloves and began flicking the snow from the front of his leather jacket. “Looks like I got here ahead of another blizzard.” His eyes were still roaming around the buildings circling the grounds and, beyond, the plains lost in snow and clouds. “It must get lonely here.”

  “No more than other places,” Father John said. Less than some, he thought. As he followed the other priest up the walk, boots snapping against the snow, he assured him that his things had arrived safely and
were in an upstairs bedroom. “Elena probably has lunch ready,” he said.

  “Elena?” Father Kevin turned around, curiosity flashing in the blue eyes.

  “The housekeeper,” Father John said. Did the man think he kept a concubine? “She’s been here thirty years or more. Does the cooking, looks after the house.” He walked up the steps to the stoop and opened the door, ushering the other priest inside. “Truth is, she pretty much runs things around here.”

  The odor of simmering chicken floated from the kitchen at the end of the hallway. There were the sounds of water cascading out of a faucet and pipes groaning beneath the floorboards, so familiar, he thought, that he would probably hear them after he’d left. He hung the other priest’s leather jacket over the coat tree and draped his own beside it, then tossed his cowboy hat onto the bench next to the helmet.

  Elena appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, wiping her hands on the white apron draped from her neck. She stood just over five feet tall, part Arapaho, part Cheyenne, with the cushioned build of a woman who had borne and nursed eight children. The kitchen light glinted in the gray curls tightened around her head. Her face was in shadows.

  “Meet the new priest,” Father John said. He’d meant to say pastor.

  Father Kevin was already striding down the hallway. “Kevin McBride,” he said, taking her hand. “You must be Elena.”

  The housekeeper stared up at him as if she were trying to place him in some category: trustworthy, not trustworthy. Then she moved backward, managing to pull her hand free.

  “I got some chicken sandwiches,” she said, peering past the new priest toward Father John.

  They sat across from each other at the oak table. Father John washed down bites of sandwich with gulps of Elena’s fresh coffee as Kevin went on about the ride from New York, gliding along the highways nose to nose with the best sports cars, the most determined semis. Elena moved between the stove and the refrigerator, preparing chili for dinner. The moist kitchen air was now thick with the smell of onions and seared hamburger and hot chilis.

  Two things he’d always known he would do, the other priest said. Well, three if you counted riding a Harley. Yes, he’d always wanted to ride a Harley. He munched thoughtfully on a bite of sandwich for a minute. And he’d known he would be a priest and an anthropologist. He was always interested in ancient people. A bit like historians, huh? He gave a long glance in Father John’s direction. You had to love the past to be a historian, wasn’t that true?

  It was true. Father John had nodded and taken another sip of coffee. Kevin hurried on. He intended to make the most of his stay here. Six years? He wasn’t sure he’d be around that long. As a matter of fact, he doubted it. He’d probably return to teaching before that. But there was a book in this assignment. Oh, yes, indeed. He intended to interview as many of the old Arapahos as possible. See how the Arapaho traditions have been transposed into the present. He had a new, state-of-the-art tape recorder that could pick up a pin dropping across a large hall. So small no one realized it was there. Never inhibited an interview.

  “What about you, John?” The other priest lifted up his mug and held it in front of his mouth. “You do any writing on the history of the Arapahos?”

  Father John laughed. He couldn’t imagine when he might have found the time. There wasn’t enough time to answer the letters stacked on his desk.

  Suddenly the other priest swung toward Elena, as if he’d just realized she was there. “Were you born on the reservation?” he said to the woman’s back.

  The housekeeper turned and looked at Father John. “I expect so,” she said tentatively. It was impolite to ask personal questions.

  “Wonderful.” Father Kevin gave a series of nods, as if he’d just confirmed an unexpected gift. “A primary source right here under the roof. I’ll want to learn all about your life. Everything you can remember. And don’t worry. This house is much too large for you to take care of alone.” His gaze took in the kitchen and the hallway. “First thing I’m going to do is hire someone to help you.”

  He pushed back from the table and announced that he intended to unpack his boxes, make sure the tape recorder and computer had arrived in good condition. Then he was going to stroll about the mission. “Might as well get familiar with my domain,” he said, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

  “What’s he talking about?” Elena plopped down in the vacant chair. The sounds of the other priest’s footsteps on the stairs echoed down the hallway.

  “He’ll probably make some changes,” Father John said. “He’s the new pastor.” The words sounded strange, unreal, like a new phrase interjected into an old melody. He wished he disliked the man: it would be easier. But he didn’t dislike Kevin McBride. There was something infectious about the man’s energy and enthusiasm. He’d have to learn the ways of the Arapaho, but they would teach him, just as they’d taught him. The new pastor was going to work out just fine. Father John felt as if a stone had been laid on his heart. Not my will. Thy will be done.

  “I don’t want no help around here.” Elena shoved Kevin’s plate and mug to one side. “I don’t want nobody messin’ in my kitchen and gettin’ the laundry all tangled up. I do just fine by myself, thank you very much. The house looks good, don’t it?” A rising note of panic had come into her voice.

  Father John drained the last of his coffee and got to his feet. He leaned over and patted the woman’s shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Father Kevin hasn’t seen the accounts yet. He won’t be hiring anybody else.”

  In his study, Father John punched in the telephone number for the local FBI office in Lander. An answering machine came on the line, and he hung up. Gianelli was probably still at lunch. He decided to drive over and catch the agent as soon as he got back to the office.

  6

  Father John parked in front of the two-story, red-brick building that rose into the snow swirling over Lander’s main street. He switched off the tape player and hummed “Ch’ella mi creda” as he jaywalked across the street, dodging a truck. He opened the metal-framed glass door, nearly colliding with Ted Gianelli.

  “I was just on my way upstairs to call you.” The agent waved a slim folder. Dressed in dark slacks, starched white shirt, and paisley tie, he might have been an insurance salesman or a realtor, except for the black harness that held a holstered revolver next to his ribs. He stood just under six feet, with thick black hair, intense eyes accustomed to tracking whatever was going on around him, and the relaxed yet alert stance of the outside linebacker he’d once been with the Patriots.

  “Let’s go to the office,” he said, starting up the stairs braced against the wall on the left. Father John followed. A familiar melody, “O mio bambino caro,” drifted through the open door off the second-floor hallway. Waving the folder like a baton, Gianelli conducted the music as they walked down the hall and into the cube-shaped office. A stereo cabinet took up most of one wall. Still conducting, he dropped into the chair behind the oblong desk and pointed a remote at the cabinet. The aria faded into the background.

  “Soprano?” he asked.

  This was a game they played—opera trivia. If they’d kept score over the last couple of years, Father John figured he would have won hands down, but Gianelli never gave up. The man loved competition almost as much as he loved opera.

  Father John took the chair at the corner of the desk. He was on firm ground with Puccini. “You might have me,” he said, shaking his head deliberately. “Could it be Renata Tebaldi?”

  “Oh, you’re good, John.” The agent pounded his fist on the desk. “Damn good. But you can’t know everything about opera. You’re not even Italian.” He opened the folder and lifted out a densely printed sheet of paper. “I take it you’re here about the buried skeleton.”

  “I met with some of the elders today,” Father John said. “They’re worried it’s one of the ancestors.”

  “Oh, boy.” Gianelli dropped the sheet and tipped his chair back toward the window that gave out o
ver snow blowing across the flat roofs on the other side of the street. Raising his hand, he loosened the knot of his tie. Wisps of black hair poked around the white cuffs of his shirt. “I was afraid of this. Tribes all over the country are raising a ruckus whenever bones are found on what they call their ancestral homelands, which could be anywhere. They’re stopping scientific investigations into ancient peoples on this continent.”

  “Can you blame them?”

  “Please, John.” Gianelli ran a finger inside his collar. “Spare me the ‘how would you like it if they dissected your grandmother and paraded George Washington’s remains through the reservation?’ routine.” He picked up the sheet and started reading. “Shape of skull consistent with Caucasian female. Small supraorbital brow ridge and mastoid processes. Pelvic bones show no evidence of postpartum pits or a preauricular sulcus. Age, mid-twenties to mid-thirties. Permanent dentition, including three molars, in occlusion. Basioccipital suture is fused, medial clavicles are fused, almost no fusion of endocranial sutures. Hiking boots at site manufactured between 1974 and 1979.” He raised his eyes, as if to emphasize the point, then looked back at the sheet. “Levi rivets from blue jeans, same time frame.”

  The agent slipped the sheet into the folder. “This is no ancestor. You found the body of a woman who was buried twenty, twenty-five years ago.”

  “How did she die?”

  “I’m getting to that.” Gianelli removed another printed sheet. “Probable cause of death, perimortem fracture of the right temporal, with edges of a portion of the fracture bent. Also incomplete fracture of right zygomatic bone.” He glanced up. “That’s the cheekbone.” Reading again: “One horizontal fracture in the cranial vault radiating from point of impact above left ear. Another strike to the left supra-orbital and left zygomatic bone. Jaw fracture. Parry fractures of both arms and multiple rib fractures. Death consistent with traumatic fall or”—he paused—“homicide.” He dropped the sheet. “It’s homicide, John. People who fall down don’t end up in shallow graves down by the river.”