The Thunder Keeper(36)
Still he waited, bolted in place by the realization that he might have put St. Francis at risk himself. His throat was as dry as sandpaper. He wanted a drink. One drink, and he would be calmer, he knew. But there was no alcohol at the mission, and he was grateful for that.
Finally he got up and walked over to the window. The mission was as peaceful in the rain as an Arapaho village in the Old Time. He would not call Vicky again, he resolved, and he wondered how he would keep the resolve. Temptation is strong—how often he’d said the words to penitents—but God’s grace is stronger. He would find Eddie on his own. The man was out there somewhere in the grayness that spread beyond the mission.
He went back to the desk, dialed the reporter’s number, and left a message. “Father John O’Malley. I’m on my way to Lander to talk with you.”
17
Traffic crawled down Main Street, splashing water over the cars and pickups parked at the curb. It had stopped raining, but moisture hung in the air like a faint memory. Father John found a parking spot a half block past the redbrick building that housed the Gazette offices and walked back along the storefronts. The smell of fresh grass mingled with the odors of exhaust and gasoline.
Just inside the front door was a tiled lobby, plastic chairs on each side, a counter directly ahead. The silver-haired woman behind the counter looked up from an opened newspaper and regarded him over half-moon glasses. “Father O’Malley,” she said, drawing in a long breath that expanded her ample chest. “What can we do for you?”
“Good to see you.” He recognized her—third pew from the back, ten o’clock Sunday Mass, four or five times a year. Once she’d caught him outside after Mass and pumped his hand for several seconds, assuring him that if there was ever anything the Gazette could do for his Indians, he had only to ask. Well, he was here to ask.
Refer any media to me. Bill Rutherford’s voice still echoed in his head. Well, not exactly. The Provincial had said, “I’d like you to refer any media to me.” It was a preference, not an order. He smiled at the slight Jesuitical difference.
“Todd Hartley in?” he said to the woman.
“I’ll check.” She flashed a reassuring smile, as though the fact that it was close to quitting time made no difference, and reached for the phone. “Father O’Malley to see you,” she said. Then: “He’ll be right out, Father.”
Father John tapped his fingers on the counter and fielded the woman’s efforts at small talk. How were things at St. Francis? Fine. Fine. Busy as ever, I assume? Oh, yes. Very busy. Where was the reporter?
Finally the door next to the counter swung outward and an overweight, round-cheeked man with wire-rimmed glasses and thinning blond hair walked into the lobby. He looked about thirty, despite the paunchy stomach and tell-me-something-new expression in the set of his jaw.
“Hey, Father.” The reporter extended a pudgy hand. His grip was moist and nervous. “Didn’t expect to see you today. Matter of fact, didn’t expect you’d want to talk to me at all. Provincial’s office has been stonewalling me on the Father Ryan lawsuit, telling me to talk to the lawyers.” He shrugged the massive shoulders. “You know lawyers. Never want to talk to reporters. Come on back.”
Father John nodded toward the woman, who was leaning over the counter, eyebrows raised, mouth ajar—What’s going on?—and followed Todd Hartley into the newsroom past three vacant desks with computers, newspapers, folders, and metal sorting shelves crowding the surfaces. The reporter dragged a chair over to the last desk. “Have a seat,” he said. Then he walked around and dropped his bulky frame into a swivel chair and began fumbling through a stack of papers.
“Vicky Holden’s sure making a name for herself in Denver,” he said.
Father John sat down and hung his cowboy hat on his knee. He didn’t say anything. This wasn’t about Vicky.
“Handling a real important law case.” The reporter pushed on. “Navajo Nation v. Lexcon. Could impact the interpretations of natural resource law. We’ve been following it pretty close. Great human interest story, too. Local Indian goes to big city and makes good.”
Father John managed a half smile of recognition. He’d been following the story in the Gazette, each article conveying the sense that Vicky had disappeared into another space-time continuum, leaving him with an acute sense of loss.
Finally Todd Hartley pulled out a spiral notebook, flipped the top, and jotted something on the blank page. He looked up. Expectancy filled his expression. “Well, Father, what comment do you have on the lawsuit filed against your assistant, Father Don Ryan?”