The Thunder Keeper(67)

“I can’t, Lucas,” she said after him.

She lifted her bag from the floor and dug her fingers into the leather to stop her hands from trembling. Finally she found her wallet and threw some bills on the table. They fluttered over the white napkin Lucas had tossed down. Without looking around at the eyes swimming toward her, she took her raincoat and went outside. The sidewalk was empty, a sheen of moisture on the pavement.



Vicky drove south on Federal Boulevard, in and out of the rain-blurred columns of light from the street lamps, feeling weak and shaky and chilled to the bone, as if she’d seen a specter of herself that she couldn’t recognize. My God, what if Lucas was right? She was a junkie, living on danger. Ordinary life, normal things—weren’t they enough? She would change, she told herself. She would give the information to Steve. He would inform the Fremont County sheriff in Lander and the officials on the res. Steve would arrest Nathan Baider for murder. That was his job. She could walk away.

She parked at the curb in front of her house and, holding her bag over her head in the rain, ran up the concrete steps. A gust of wind pulled at her raincoat and sent a spray of rain over the porch as she fumbled with the key.

She felt a deep chill run through her. Not from the argument with Lucas, not from the rain. It was a kind of cold that penetrated her soul. She had the sense that some invisible presence was watching her.

She whirled about. Nothing. The Bronco at the curb below, the passing cars with arrows of lights shooting into the darkness. Nothing except the rain in the trees and the sound of tires splashing on asphalt.

Pay attention. Her grandmother’s voice. Not everything is as it seems. Listen to the spirits. They will help you.

She pushed the door open. The moment she stepped inside, she knew someone was there.





30


“Get up.”

Father John heard the disembodied voice coming through the rain. The hard toe of a boot crashed against his ribs; pain exploded like thunder inside him. The smell of his own blood came at him in a warm rush. Grasping at the mud and rocks, he managed to maneuver to his knees. The thunder rumbled overhead, sending little tremors through the ground. For an instant the air was bright with lightning.

“I said get up.” The boot thudded again.

Father John pushed himself upright against a boulder, the sharp edges digging into his back. Rain pounded on his shoulders, and his hair was matted against his head. He realized he’d lost his hat.

He blinked into the beam of a flashlight and tried to bring the surroundings into focus. He could make out the figure of a man almost as tall as he was in a black slicker with the hood pulled low. The jaw jutted forward, set in determination. He straddled the path, waving the flashlight up and down. In his other hand was a pistol that pointed at Father John’s chest.

“What’re you doin’ up here?” he said.

An unfamiliar voice. Not a voice from the shadows of the confessional. He was not someone he’d ever met, and yet Father John knew who he was. A man named Wentworth. The meanest sonovabitch.

“What’ve you done with Eddie and the girl?” he said through the pain. There was no sign of headlights in the trees below, only the rainy blackness. Where are you, Slinger?

The man dipped his head and moved in closer, like a boxer coming in for the knockout. Father John could see the moisture pooling in the jagged scar at the base of his jaw, as if someone had once tried to cut his throat.

“You’re the priest put the article in the newspaper, aren’t you?” He gave a sharp laugh. “You did Delaney and me a big favor. Eddie Ortiz came scurrying out of his hiding place, like a rat out of the fire.”

Father John hunched over around the pain. He’d given Eddie away. Enticed him to the mission, and Wentworth and Delaney had been waiting. Eddie had probably led them to the girl. He felt his stomach churn.

Wentworth shone the flashlight up the narrow incline to the ledge; where another man stood, a slim figure in a red baseball jacket—the jacket he’d worn in the confessional. Delaney. Above the man, on the face of the cliff, was the white figure of the petroglyph.

“Where are they?” Father John managed, his voice tight with pain. The rain drummed on the boulders and careened off the face of the cliffs. The sounds of thunder drove the pain into his head and ribs.

“About to take a flying leap off a ledge.” Wentworth gave a little laugh. “Suicide mission, I’d call it.”

“Let them go,” Father John said. He felt a wave of relief that Eddie and the girl were still alive. “They don’t know anything about the diamond deposit here.”

“Well, well.” The pistol came closer, brushing his jacket. “Sounds like you know more’n what’s good for you. All the more reason for your speedy demise, Father O’Malley.” He swung the flashlight around, casting a wavy beam over the sandstone cliff.