The Thunder Keeper(10)

“You heard from her?” The voice sliced through the rain, and Father John looked around. Ben Holden stood in the middle of the driveway, about twenty feet away, slicker still unsnapped, black cowboy hat pushed back. Wetness glistened on his dark face.

“No,” Father John said.

“Our boy Lucas is taking a job in Denver.” Ben came a few steps closer. They might have been old friends, talking about a mutual acquaintance, somebody they both liked but hadn’t seen for a while. “He’ll keep an eye on her. She’s been alone in the city, nobody around that cares about her. I’ve been worrying about her.”

Father John nodded, then turned and continued down the driveway. “So have I,” he said to himself.





5


The intercom buzzed twice. On the third buzz, Vicky Holden forced her eyes away from the computer screen, swiveled around, and pushed the button on the small machine with the blinking red light.

“What is it?” She heard the irritation in her voice. She’d left instructions with her secretary, Laola, to hold all calls. There was an important meeting in a few minutes on the appeal in the Navajo Nation v. Lexcon Oil case. The outcome would determine who controlled the methane gas on a lot of Indian land: the tribes or the corporations that had managed to purchase the coal beds beneath the lands years ago. It was the most important case she’d ever worked on.

She’d come into it late, only a week after the federal district court had ruled against the Navajo Nation. Wes Nelson, the managing partner at Howard and Fergus, had asked her to handle the appeal to the Tenth Circuit. She’d jumped at the opportunity. Filed the notice of appeal and designation of record, started writing the brief. And then, the call from Jacob Hazen, the tribal lawyer. The Navajo Nation might not want to go ahead with the appeal after all.

Vicky had felt her heart sink. The federal district court ruling affected all the tribes in the judicial district. It could impact the entire country. It could not stand! If the Navajos were getting nervous about moving ahead—the legal expenses, the uncertainty—well, she intended to present the strongest arguments possible to change their minds.

The meeting would start in ten minutes; the other lawyers were probably filing into the conference room now, and she still had some notes she wanted to finish.

“I’m very sorry, Vicky,” Laola was saying, a new patina of city sophistication in her voice. The girl had been her secretary for almost two years, managing her one-attorney office in Lander with the precision of a drill sergeant. She insisted on coming to Denver when Vicky had decided to rejoin Howard and Fergus, where she’d worked after graduating from the University of Denver law school. Vicky had done her best to talk the young woman out of coming. Not even twenty-one—an Arapaho, like herself, used to the open spaces of the reservation. She could get lost in the city. There were times when Vicky felt lost herself. The girl had insisted.

In the end, Vicky had talked the firm into hiring her. Most of the time she was grateful for Laola’s presence, grateful not to be the lone Indian riding the elevators to the thirty-seventh floor of the steel-and-glass tower that rose over Seventeenth Street. Still, Laola could be like a young filly pulling in her own direction.

“Who is it?” Vicky said.

“He won’t give his name.”

“What? Tell him to call back later.”

“I tried that. He says I should tell you it’s a matter of life and death.”

Vicky threw her head back and stared at the ceiling. Her train of thought was derailed anyway. “Put him through,” she said, but the phone was already buzzing.

She lifted the receiver. “Vicky Holden,” she said, her tone now sharp with irritation.

“This is Vince Lewis.” The voice boomed over the line, as if the man were shouting from the outer office. “I must speak with you.”

“What is this about?” The name meant nothing to her.

“I have to see you today.”

“Mr. Lewis,” Vicky began, struggling to contain the growing sense of exasperation. “I have a full schedule. Perhaps my secretary can set up an appointment for next week.” Next week, she was thinking, was already booked. She had to file the brief with the appellate court, unless the Navajos decided not to proceed. The possibility sent a little shiver through her.

“You’re an Arapaho from Wind River Reservation, aren’t you?”

Vicky took a moment. The conversation had lurched in an unexpected direction. Vince Lewis, whoever he was, had taken the trouble to find out about her. Whatever he wanted to talk about could affect her people.

“Hold on.” She cradled the receiver into her shoulder, turned back to the computer, and tapped the keyboard. Today’s schedule floated onto the screen. This morning’s meeting—already starting—the brief to finish, two o’clock with a landlord about a lease, three o’clock with a couple in need of a new will. She was an expert on leases, wills, divorces, and custody matters, the everyday cases she’d handled the last five years in Lander and had hoped to escape in Denver. But every senior partner had an important client or friend who needed mundane legal help, and somehow the cases fell to her, inserting themselves around important matters like the Navajo Nation.