The Thunder Keeper(34)

16


Father John parked next to the sedan and hurried inside. Down the corridor, past the door to his own office, a mixture of surprise and foreboding taking hold of him. Some part of him, he realized, hadn’t expected Father Don to return.

He stopped at the opened door at the far end of the corridor. Papers stacked neatly on the desk; books upright in the bookcases, as if Father Don had just stepped away.

He retraced his steps to his own office and sank into the leather chair with creases and folds that matched the contours of his own body. He reached for the phone. The other priest was probably at the residence. He was about to dial the number when he noticed the flashing light on the answering machine. He set the receiver down and pushed the button.

“Todd Hartley at the Gazette.” The voice was unfamiliar. “Like to talk with you as soon as possible.”

Father John jotted down the number the voice rattled off, wondering what the reporter wanted. He could have talked to Slinger, heard that the pastor at St. Francis wasn’t buying the suicide verdict on Duncan Grover.

A whirring noise on the machine, then the voice of Father Bill Rutherford, the Provincial: “Call me, John. It’s very important.”

Father John swiveled around and stared out the window at the rain. So Elena was right. Don Ryan was leaving, and the Provincial was about to deliver the usual promise: no need to worry; another man on the way. As soon as he could find another Jesuit eager to spend time on an Indian reservation. In the meantime . . .

In the meantime, he’d be alone. People streaming through the office, telephone ringing, sick people to visit, meetings to attend. Even with an assistant, he was always behind.

He tried to shake off the foreboding. He was jumping to conclusions. Father Don had returned, a good sign the man might stay awhile. He was probably over at the residence, eating a sandwich, visiting with Elena.

Before he returned the calls, he wanted to check out Eddie. He picked up the phone, dialed information, and got the number for Howard and Fergus in Denver. A couple of seconds passed, and he had Vicky’s voice mail. “Please leave your name and number . . .”

She was five hundred miles away, and the reality brought a mixture of longing and reprieve. He was a priest; he wanted to keep his vows. Temptation was easier to overcome when it was five hundred miles away.

He told her voice mail that he was trying to find a Pueblo Indian named Eddie who could be involved in the recent death of a man named Duncan Grover. A so-called suicide. Someone at the Denver Indian Center might know Eddie. Anything she could find out would help. He ended by saying he hoped everything was well, then disconnected the call, not trusting himself to say more.

Next he dialed the Provincial’s office, aware of the muscles across his shoulders clenching against the possible bad news.

“Father Rutherford.” The voice interrupted the first ring.

“John, returning your call.” At the seminary twenty years before—a lifetime ago—they’d been friends. “What’s going on?”

“You haven’t heard?” Disbelief edged the Provincial’s tone.

Now the tension was like fists gripping his shoulders. “You’d better fill me in.”

“A lawsuit’s been filed against the Province, the Society, the Archdiocese of Milwaukee, and St. Francis Mission.”

“Lawsuit! What are you talking about?”

“I’m afraid Don Ryan’s been unjustly accused—”

“Don Ryan?”

“—unjustly accused of sexual misconduct toward a young woman—”

Father John cut in: “Mary Ann Williams.”

“You know her, then?”

“I’ve met her.” His throat felt tight with anger.

“She’s hired lawyers who think Catholic priests are a bunch of perverts and sexual predators. They’ve won some big cases with a few bad apples.” A sigh of weariness floated over the line. “Show me the organization that doesn’t have bad apples. Anyway, the lawyers have filed a lawsuit charging Don Ryan—a fine priest, excellent teacher with an unblemished record—with manipulative and sexually opportunistic conduct and breach of fiduciary duty and a lot of other legal jargon. Our lawyers are working on the complaint, but we may have to see this through to trial.”

“Suppose she wins?” Father John could still see the young woman running down the steps of the administration building.

“She’s asking a million and a half. Since she claims the misconduct continued at the mission, St. Francis would have to pay its share. She’s demanding punitive damages for post traumatic stress disorder plus loss of income after she quit her job in Milwaukee and moved to Riverton. If we lose, our insurance will pay part, but we’ll still have to sell some of the mission land, perhaps the strip along the highway.”