He could see the petroglyph clearly: squared body, arms extended in a kind of blessing. There were three fingers on each hand, three toes on each foot. An elaborate headdress fanned around the squared head. Large, round eyes looked out from the masked face. Below the petroglyph was a rock ledge that jutted from the cliff like the proscenium of a stage.
He took in another gulp of air and started climbing up the boulder field, pulling himself hand over hand, jamming his boots into the cracks between the large rocks to keep from falling backward. Finally he hoisted himself onto the ledge. He’d been climbing for over an hour.
The valley spread below, nearly lost in the blue-black shadows creeping down the mountainsides. A sense of peace came over him, the peace Duncan Grover must have felt, he thought, as he’d lifted his pipe to the four directions and asked the spirits for the power to change his life. The same prayer he himself had made during his own retreat in Boston two years ago, he realized.
He moved along the edge, his eyes sweeping over the drop-off, searching for the place where Duncan had fallen. On the far side of the ledge, the boulder field sloped onto the top of a perpendicular rock wall that dropped a couple hundred feet into the trees. Detective Slinger was right. If Grover had accidentally stepped off the ledge, the boulder field would have stopped his fall. He would have had to take a running jump to fly out over the field and fall down the wall.
The boss killed him. Father John crouched down, keeping his gaze on the wall, trying to picture exactly how it had happened. Grover, praying, smoking his pipe. Semiconscious, perhaps, waiting for the spirits to come in a vision.
Instead, two men climb onto the ledge. The boss approaches, strikes him with a pipe. Then drags his body to the far end and hurls him over the ledge. A strong man, the boss. Ben Holden said that Grover looked in good shape.
As he stood up, Father John saw a flash of motion, like that of a deer or coyote darting through the trees on the far side of the valley. He kept his eyes on the spot. There was a clap of thunder, another bolt of lightning, and he saw the figure of a man running across an opening, then he was gone. Father John had the odd sense that the person he’d seen across the valley had also seen him.
He climbed off the ledge and started down through the boulder field, leaning into the rocks, grabbing the sharp edges for support. The air was hazy with rain. Thunder rolled across the peaks, like a giant coughing himself awake.
He reached the base of the field and started walking down the path, the thunder following, crashing behind him. Lightning split the sky, and the first drops of rain stung his face and hands. Another possibility worked its way into his consciousness: maybe somebody didn’t want Duncan Grover in this place, on the ledge, close to the petroglyph. And maybe the man across the valley just now hadn’t wanted him in this place either.
He rejected the idea almost as it formed. People came to the valley all the time. They drove up the road, stopped at the lake, stared up at the cliffs hoping for a glimpse of the spirits. Why would anyone kill Duncan Grover for coming here?
By the time he reached the Toyota, the rain was hard and cold, the thunder more insistent. A streak of lightning was so bright that for a second it seemed as if the sun had suddenly broken through. His jacket was soaked; even his shirt clung to his skin.
He drove back down the mountains, threading his way through streams washing over the road. He knew what had happened to Grover: it was as clear as a vision. But some of what he knew he couldn’t talk about. He was going to have to find another way to convince a white detective in Lander that Grover hadn’t killed himself. Somebody had hurled him off the ledge.
It was dark when Father John turned into the mission. The rain had stopped a few miles north of Riverton, but gray fog had pressed down on the highway, swallowing up the remaining daylight. The street lamps around Circle Drive sent wan circles of light over the grounds. He parked next to the dark sedan in front of the administration building. A parishioner to see Father Ryan, he thought.
As he started up the front steps, a dark-haired woman in a red raincoat burst through the door, weaving against the railing, nearly stumbling on the steps. He reached out to steady her, but she ducked past and kept going.
“Wait a minute,” he called, starting after her. She was already at the sedan, flinging open the door, folding herself inside.
He caught the door and held it open against her efforts to yank it shut. “Let me go!” she screamed up at him. Tears ran down her cheeks; green and black smudges rimmed her eyes. She was probably about thirty, and beautiful, he thought, despite the anguish in her face.
“Can I help you?” He made his voice calm.