“I don’t know.” The reporter rubbed his pudgy hands together.
“Here’s your lead. ‘Father John O’Malley, pastor of St. Francis Mission, has asked Detective Slinger to reopen the investigation into the death of Duncan Grover. O’Malley claims that someone by the name of Eddie followed Grover to the reservation from Denver. The man may have information on Grover’s murder.’ ”
“What’s this really about, Father?” The reporter pushed back in his chair. “What do you care whether some Indian from Oklahoma committed suicide or got himself murdered?”
“I told you. There could be a killer in the area,” he said. “In Lander. On the res.”
“I get it.” The reporter shifted his weight forward, picked up the pen, and began tapping the notebook again. “The Gazette prints this”—he hesitated—“news article, and the murderer, if the murderer is in the area, starts worrying about how much you know. He might have to pay you a little visit. That’s it, isn’t it? You’re trying to draw Eddie out.”
“You know a better way to stop him?”
“Stop him?”
“He killed once. What’s to prevent him from killing again?”
“And you could be the next victim.” Todd Hartley tossed the pen across the desk and got to his feet. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Father.”
Father John stood up, facing the man. “You’ll run the story?”
“I don’t know if my editor’s gonna go for it, Father. It’s pretty transparent. But I’ve had a bad feeling about that suicide. Never heard of an Indian killing himself on a vision quest. Something not right about that.” He was shaking his head. “I’m trusting that you’re giving me a straight story, Father.”
“Thanks.” Father John shook the other man’s hand.
“You might not be thanking me if the killer comes looking for you.”
He gave the reporter the most nonchalant wave he could manage and, setting his cowboy hat on his head, made his way back across the newsroom and through the vacant lobby, where a metal curtain had dropped over the counter. He had to turn the key in the door to let himself out.
He drove out of town on 789, veering onto Rendezvous Road, plunging through the late-afternoon shadows that crept over the southern part of the reservation. Every mile or so a house appeared in the open spaces, as if it had erupted from the earth. Todd Hartley was right, he thought. Drawing a killer to himself—to St. Francis Mission—could be dangerous. The article would probably appear in tomorrow’s paper, and he was going to have to watch his back.
He turned east on Seventeen Mile Road and, after about a mile, slowed for a right into the mission grounds. He felt a calm certitude settling over him. One way or another, he and Eddie would cross paths. Let it be before anyone else dies, he prayed.
18
“Adam Elkman’s on the line.”
Vicky glanced up from the black print on the computer screen, struggling to switch her train of thought from the Navajo Nation brief she was working on. Laola stood in the doorway, an expectant look in the almond-shaped eyes. “You want me to put the call through?”
“Go ahead,” Vicky told her, surprised that she’d finally connected with the natural resources director on the reservation. Laola had been trying to reach him since yesterday.
While Vicky waited for her line to ring, she tapped several keys and sent the Navajo Nation brief to the other lawyers on the appeals team. Yesterday Jacob Hazen had called to say that the Navajos wanted to go ahead. The relief and satisfaction in the man’s voice had matched her own. Once she had the other lawyers’ comments, she’d make the last-minute changes. She intended to deliver her brief to the Tenth Circuit Court tomorrow.
There was a low buzzing sound, and she picked up the receiver. “Adam? How are things on the res?” It was never polite to get right down to business.
“Surprised to get a message from your office yesterday, Vicky.” The man had the low-pitched voice of a TV announcer. “We figured you went off to the big city and forgot all about us.”
Vicky swiveled toward the window. Clouds were piling around the tops of nearby skyscrapers. Somewhere a plane was droning. She’d spent four years in Lander waiting for her own people to trust her enough to give her important cases, but the important cases had gone to firms in Casper and Cheyenne. She felt that her people had forgotten her.
The director went on. Lots of rain lately. Roads soggy. Cattle sinking in the mud. She told him about the rainy weather in Denver. Finally she asked if he’d ever heard of diamonds on the reservation.