The Thunder Keeper(53)

He stared at the phone after he’d hung up, wondering if he’d seized upon an excuse to get in touch with her, assuage his own concern—he’d been worrying about her since she’d called—then shrugged off the notion. If there was a connection between the companies, he’d have the first piece of hard evidence for Slinger, evidence that could explain the tire tracks the detective had already found at Bear Lake.

It was making sense, he thought, the pieces dropping into place, forming a clear image. Except . . . he had no evidence of any diamond deposits in this part of the state.

Tomorrow, he decided, after he was interviewed for the lawsuit, he’d stop by the Riverton Library and see what he could find on diamonds.





24


“They’re ready for you, Father O’Malley.” The middle-aged secretary with the pinched, pale face and cropped blond hair hung up the phone that had rung a moment earlier. “Please come with me.” She rose from behind a massive desk and walked over to the door across the reception area at Blackford and Lord.

Father John tossed aside a magazine, picked up his cowboy hat, and followed her down a wide corridor. She moved with authority, shoulders squared, as if she were leading a parade.

She stopped, rapped on a door, then pushed it open and motioned him into a rectangular room with an oak conference table running almost the full length. Three men sat at the far end. Arranged on the table were stacks of folders and yellow legal pads.

All three rose to their feet. “Nice to see you again, Father O’Malley.” The man in the blue sport coat reached across the table and shook his hand. “Ian Blackford,” he said. Father John had met him once or twice—he couldn’t think where. The lawyer in a plaid shirt extended his hand and said he was Mike Lord.

“Meet Perry Hamilton from Chicago.” He turned toward the man at the end. “We’re providing support from the local angle, but Perry’s calling the shots on the defense.”

Hamilton had a grip like a steel vise, and Father John wondered what he’d be like in a courtroom, this lawyer the Society of Jesus had hired to represent Father Don Ryan.

He took the chair Mike Lord had indicated and laid his hat on the table. The lawyers sat down in unison, like a precision drill team.

“Well, Father O’Malley.” Perry Hamilton laced his fingers together over the yellow legal pad. “Let me begin by allaying any worries you may have. You can be assured that the Society intends to mount a vigorous defense on behalf of Father Ryan.”

“What about a fair settlement?” Father John said.

“Excuse me?” Hamilton’s features rearranged themselves into a look of mock astonishment. “Do you have any idea, Father, how many lawsuits are filed against clergy?”

“I read the newspapers.” Father John could feel the other lawyers’ eyes on him. “Some suits are valid.”

Perry Hamilton arched one eyebrow and shook his head. “Shall we proceed?” he said.

For the next hour—Father John checked his watch a couple of times—he fielded the lawyers’ questions. What kind of priest was Don Ryan? Hardworking. That was the truth. How many times had Father John seen Mary Ann Williams at the mission? Once. To his knowledge, was there anything inappropriate in Father Ryan’s relationship with Mary Ann Williams?

To his knowledge. Father John glanced away. In his mind was the image of Don Ryan in his study—the dropped head, the hands squeezed together between his knees. I had an affair with her.

“Ask Don Ryan,” he said.

“We’re asking you, Father.” There was a sharp edge to Hamilton’s voice.

“What I know was told to me in confidence, as a priest,” he said. Then he held up his hand. “Why not settle, put this behind us?”

Hamilton pushed back against his chair. “Have you thought about the consequences to the mission? Try to picture your donors learning that their contributions aren’t helping the Indians at all. They’re paying off the priest’s mistress.”

Father John locked eyes with the man. “You just admitted she was Don’s mistress.”

A look that bordered on appreciation came into the man’s face. “The burden of proof will be on her,” he said. “We intend to ask a judge to hear the case. Judges are logical; they follow the law.”

And you’ll destroy her in court, Father John thought. You and the implacable logic of the law. He pushed his chair back, picked up his cowboy hat, and got to his feet. “I take it we’re finished here,” he said, starting for the door.



Father John drove through the wide streets of Riverton, a sense of futility pressing down on him like an invisible weight. Hamilton would probably win the case, and the mission wouldn’t have to sell the land. Wasn’t that what he wanted?