“I’d like to see the kimberlite pipe,” she said.
“I have a good idea where it’s located.”
“Well, I know the exact location. And . . .” She drew in a long breath. A car broke through the diamond of light. “I want to come home.”
33
Father John saw Vicky standing next to the Bronco by the clump of willows. She was peering up through a pair of binoculars, seemingly lost in another reality. He turned into the parking area and stopped a few feet away.
It had been six weeks since the night they’d talked. Six weeks, and his ribs were still sore. Her call this morning had caught him by surprise. He knew she’d come home for a visit, but he didn’t know when.
“I’m here for the weekend,” she’d said, lightness and anticipation in her voice. “How about a hike in Bear Lake Valley this afternoon?”
Not until he got out of the Toyota and slammed the door did she seem to realize he was there. She took the binoculars away and walked toward him. She resembled the image of her he carried in his mind: dressed in blue jeans and a jean jacket, unbuttoned over a white T-shirt. Her black hair trailed around the collar. A red backpack dangled on her back. Her beaded earrings shimmered in the sunlight as she moved. There was a flush of color in her cheeks, a hint of red in her lips.
She handed him the binoculars and nodded toward the ledge where he’d gone after Eddie and Ali. “Look up there,” she said, as if they’d been having an ongoing conversation.
He lifted the binoculars and focused beyond the lakeshore, moving slowly up the mountainside. The petroglyph leaped out at him: white arms, hands, and feet, the masked face, the round eyes. An otherworldly figure—spiritual—floating in space, so close he could almost reach out and touch it.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Vicky said beside him.
“Yes.”
After a moment she said, “Look this way.” He felt the cool touch of her hand on his, guiding the binoculars toward another petroglyph, another spirit. “They’ll leave here, you know, if the land is disturbed.”
He understood. The spirits had been sent here by the Creator to help human beings and, when necessary, to chastise them.
He found another petroglyph, smaller, with deeply chiseled eyes and an upturned mouth that gave the face an amused expression. Spirits manifesting themselves in stone? It defied scientific theory and all the Jesuit logic he had absorbed through the years, both of which seemed inadequate to account for the reality. He believed in spirits. He believed in angels and saints. He believed in sacred places where the Creator was close, very close. Often he felt an unworldly presence at St. Francis.
He took the binoculars away and turned to Vicky. She was studying a small black box in her hand.
“GPS,” she said. “The data analyst who found the pipe insisted I bring this along. He loaded the coordinates. All we have to do is follow the directions. A satellite up there somewhere”—she glanced at the sky—“will take us to the pipe.”
She started walking, glancing now and then at the GPS in her hand. He stayed in step beside her. The wild grasses and brush spreading across the valley were dappled in sunlight. Clouds as white as snow billowed over the mountain peaks.
They headed in a slightly different direction than he would have chosen. He’d seen the movement when he’d first gone to the ledge. He was pretty sure he could find the pipe without the gadget, but it was probably taking them by the most direct route.
“I’ll be moving back,” Vicky said. She kept her eyes straight ahead.
“When?” He wasn’t surprised. The moccasin telegraph had been weighted down with rumors: she was moving this weekend, next weekend, next year.
“Next month.” She stopped walking and looked around, taking into herself the mountains and cliffs, the creeks meandering through the valley to the lake. “This is mine,” she said.
“What about Lucas?”
“He’s all for it. We’ve had long talks, he and I. He thinks I’ll be safer here, where his father is.” She gave a little laugh and started out again.
Father John walked alongside her without saying anything. He knew she’d gone to Denver to get away from Ben Holden. He wondered where he’d be next month. At St. Francis, he hoped, but he could never be certain. He was on borrowed time here. Every day precious, to be enjoyed while it lasted.
“I have some business to finish up at the firm,” Vicky went on. She swung her backpack around, removed a bottle of water, and took a long drink. Then she handed the bottle to him. Her lipstick on the rim had a sweet taste. “But now that the appellate court has overturned the ruling in the Navajo Nation case . . .”