The Thunder Keeper(55)

He closed the book, aware that the librarian had set a plastic-covered manuscript on the table and moved away as quietly as she’d approached. The plastic felt cool and brittle in his hands. He read the title page. A History of Diamonds in Wyoming, by Charles Ferguson, who had even more letters after his name. Slowly he turned the pages, scanning the sections with titles like “Mantle Source Rocks in the Wyoming Craton” and “Ultramafic Complexes.” The information was the same. No recorded diamond deposits in central Wyoming.

He set the manuscript on top of the books. It didn’t make sense. Why had Wentworth and Delaney come here? For revenge on two small-time criminals? It seemed unlikely. And Vicky was certain Baider Industries had located diamonds on the reservation. Still, the experts were in agreement.

He got up and walked to the desk, where the librarian was bent over the open pages of what looked like a reference book.

“Have you lived in the area long?” he asked.

She brought her eyes to his. A mild look of surprise played at the corners of her mouth. “Born on the family ranch on Arrow Mountain fifty miles north. My grandfather homesteaded the place.”

Father John hooked the top of a nearby chair and dragged it over. He straddled the seat and wrapped his arms around the back. “Ever hear of diamonds around here?”

“Diamonds,” she said, holding on to the word, as if she were tasting the brilliance. “Sure would’ve made life easier if Dad could’ve raised diamonds instead of cattle.”

“Does that mean the answer is no?”

She tilted her head back and stared at him. “We happen to be about two hundred miles from the nearest diamond mine.”

He thanked her and was about to stand up when she said, “People do like to get their hopes up, though.”

He wrapped his arms around the chair again. “What do you mean?”

“I was just thinking . . .” She paused, her gaze on some point across the library. “A ranch hand who worked for Dad when I was a kid used to take off for days at a time to go prospecting, he said, but Dad always suspected he was on a drunk. One day he showed up and claimed he’d struck it rich. Said he’d found a diamond lying on the ground up in the Shoshone forest. We never saw the diamond, of course, but it was the last we saw of him. Took off right in the middle of calving season.”

Father John didn’t say anything. The Shoshone National Forest was west of Bear Lake. “When was this?”

“Thirty years ago.” She shrugged and pulled her mouth into a thin line, as if she regretted having told him. “There was nothing to it. He probably found a sparkling crystal or got drunk and started seeing visions. If he’d found a real diamond, there would have been people crawling all over the forest looking for more.” She leaned over the desk. “What’s all this sudden interest in diamonds?”

He stood up and pushed the chair back in place. The last thing he wanted was to start a diamond rumor. “I’m thinking about doing some prospecting,” he said. “The mission could use a diamond mine.”

He thumped a knuckle on the edge of the desk, winked at her, and started for the door, almost regretting the remark. Now, instead of a diamond rumor, there’d probably be a rumor that the pastor at St. Francis had a wild imagination, maybe he’d even started drinking again.

He drove back through town, past the bungalows and ranch houses with trees budding in the yards, past the strip malls and corner gas stations, and out onto the highway, moisture flecking the windshield like tiny diamonds. The librarian’s story contradicted the experts. A ranch hand had found a diamond.

A ranch hand who was a drunk. That was a problem. Drunks could see visions. He’d seen snakes once, and flashes of light. Never diamonds. But if the ranch hand had found a diamond in the Shoshone forest, it was possible diamonds could be found at Bear Lake.

By the time he drove into the mission, raindrops the size of quarters were plopping on the windshield. He parked close to the administration building and ran up the steps. The minute he stepped inside, the clouds opened, and a hard rain crashed against the windows. The thunder was directly overhead, like cannons firing on the roof. He hung his jacket and cowboy hat on the coattree and checked the answering machine. No new messages.

In the directory, he found a listing for the Thunderbird Motel and dialed the number. The thunder seemed farther away, like a battalion moving out onto the plains. On the third ring, a man answered, and Father John asked to speak to Eddie Ortiz.

A buzzing noise sounded, followed by the man’s voice again: “He answer?”

“No,” Father John said, irritated. The man must know there was no answer.