“Did you go to the police?” he managed.
The man spit out a laugh, and the odor of garlic was so strong that Father John held his breath a moment. “You think I wanna be the next guy thrown off a cliff? The boss finds out I opened my mouth, I’m gonna be a dead man.”
“You witnessed a murder,” Father John said. “You have an obligation before God. You must try to make some amends. Whoever did this must be brought to justice.”
“Let me tell you about justice.” There was another forced laugh, another cloud of garlic. “I go to the police and I die. That’s justice. Soon’s I get what’s owed me, I’m getting away from here. I don’t want no part of any more murders.”
“More murders! What are you saying?”
“The boss is mopping up. He’s gonna kill anybody gets in the way. The Indian was just the first. There’s gonna be more murders.”
“Listen to me.” Father John kept his own voice low and firm. “The police—”
“Forget it, Father. I come here for confession, not some high-and-mighty lecture. I’m not going to the police.”
Suddenly the atmosphere changed, as if new air had rushed in to fill a vacuum, and Father John realized the man was getting to his feet: the protruding nose and hooded eyes rising upward into the shadows.
“Don’t go,” he said, but the door on the other side was already open, the crack of light illuminating the thin figure in a red baseball jacket and blue jeans. For half a second light glinted on the bald head. The door slammed shut. There was the tap-tap sound of footsteps hurrying away.
“Wait!” Father John was on his feet, knocking the other chair into the wall. His jacket and book fell to the floor. He flung open the door and crossed the vestibule. No sign of the man.
He swung around and walked through the open doors to the main part of the church, his eyes searching the center aisle, the silent rows of pews, the altar. A red votive candle in front of the tabernacle on the left side of the altar blinked little circles of light over the ceiling. The church was empty.
He retraced his steps through the vestibule, past the confessional, to the front door. The knob was still moist with perspiration as he yanked the door open and stepped onto the concrete stoop.
“Wait!” he shouted into the rain beating down on the mission grounds, running in little streams across Circle Drive. The administration building, the Arapaho Museum, the priest’s residence along Circle Drive rose out of the rainy haze like ships tossing in the sea. The only vehicles were his old red Toyota pickup and Father Don’s blue sedan parked in front of the residence. There was no one around.
Father John hunched his shoulders against the rain and ran down the alley that divided the church from the administration building. Past Eagle Hall. Past the guest house, the rain plastering his shirt to his back and chest. He blinked the water out of his eyes. Still no sign of anyone, no footprints in the muddy alley. The man had evaporated into the rain, like a spirit.
Unless . . . unless he hadn’t left the church after all. Unless he was still inside.
2
Father John whirled about and ran back to the church. He walked slowly down the aisle, checking each pew. Then he crossed the altar to the sacristy, checking the corners, the shadows, half expecting some specter to rise up before him or emerge from the closet where he kept the Mass vestments. The sacristy was empty.
He made his way back to the confessional and looked in the penitent’s side. The faint odor of sweat and nervousness and garlic permeated the small space. He went around to his own side and grabbed his jacket, then turned off the lights.
Outside on the stoop, he pulled the jacket over his wet shirt, which clung to his shoulders and arms like a new skin, and peered into the rain. It was then that he saw the red taillight flickering like a firefly through the cottonwoods that lined the straightaway out to Seventeen Mile Road. In a moment the taillight was gone.
Father John plunged across Circle Drive, through the field of wet grass, trying to avoid the gathering pools of water. His mind replayed the man’s confession, stopping at the same places, like a needle sticking in the same grooves in the opera records his father used to play. The Indian was the first. There’s gonna be more murders.
There hadn’t been any deaths on the reservation lately, not since Josephine Matley had died peacefully in her bed at age ninety-six. He and Father Don had said the funeral Mass together. A warm, sunny spring day. The church had been packed, and people had to stand outside, listening to the sermon through the open windows. No one had died since then—two weeks ago yesterday. As far as he knew.