Wife of Moon

10

FATHER JOHN CROSSED the mission grounds and took the concrete steps in front of the church two at a time, his breath hanging like tiny gray clouds in the frigid morning air. A pink light was working into the eastern sky, and vehicles were still turning onto Circle Drive, headlights flashing through the cottonwoods. He and Father Damien took turns saying the six o’clock Mass each morning. This morning was Father John’s turn. He felt the familiar sense of peace as he walked down the aisle. The warmth of the church washed over him. It was like coming home. Elders and grandmothers in the front rows, rosaries slipping through curled fingers, Leonard Bizzel behind the altar, large, brown hands smoothing the cloth, the faint odor of burning wax from the candles that glowed at either side of the sanctuary, and the stilled atmosphere of prayer.

He’d tossed and turned all night, trying to push back the images that ran through his mind like the continuous loop of a motion picture. Christine Nelson walking out of the museum and disappearing into the night. Denise Painted Horse’s inert body on the bedroom floor. Homicide. The moccasin telegraph had been busy into the late evening, probably a dozen calls to the mission, the voices on the other end numb with shock. “Fed says somebody shot her, Father. You don’t think it could’ve been T.J., do you, Father? T.J. don’t seem like a murderer. Maybe he got mad at her or something . . .”

“T.J. was working late at the office,” he’d said over and over. Let that go out over the telegraph.

He genuflected in front of the tabernacle—the miniature tipi that the grandmothers had made from tanned deerskin—and went into the sacristy. So much to pray for, he thought, taking the chasuble from the hanger in the closet. He would offer the Mass for Denise’s soul, and for T.J. and all of the relatives, and for Christine. He would pray that she was safe. You can’t pray too much, Father, he remembered the elders telling him when he’d first come to St. Francis.

He pulled the chasuble over his plaid shirt and blue jeans, and it came to him again that this was not a job. Not something he did, being a priest. It was who he was, a man called out from other men for reasons he had given up trying to understand. Or was it that he’d been pushed out when he hadn’t wanted to go? “Not me, Lord. Call somebody else.” He’d had plans. He was heading toward a doctorate in American history, a teaching position in a small New England college, a wife and a couple of kids. He’d barely heard of the Arapahos. Out West someplace. One of the Plains Indian tribes? And yet, there were times now when it seemed as if all of his plans had been leading him here, that this was the place where he’d always been heading.

“People are sure upset about Denise getting shot.” The sound of Leonard’s voice surprised him, breaking into his thoughts. The Indian walked over to the cabinet and began taking out the Mass books. “Everybody liked Denise. She was a good woman. No call for somebody to kill her. We’ve been worrying about Christine, too, the wife and me. Maybe somebody’s gone and shot her.”

“I hope not,” Father John said. Another image now: Christine’s house, the upended furniture and broken glass, the violence. It hung like a shadow at the edges of his mind.

“Wife’d like to get on with her own work, Father. What with making sure a lot of Arapahos show up for Senator Evans’s visit, she’s got a lot to do. Father Damien wants a big crowd cheering real loud, ’cause the senator wants to bring jobs to the rez, unlike some people on the business council.” Leonard backed toward the door, holding the Mass books out like an offering.

Father John took the chalice from the cabinet and followed Leonard out to the altar. I will go into the altar of God. To God, the joy of my youth. He glanced out at the brown faces turned up at him, worry locked in the dark eyes. Another homicide on the rez, a white woman missing, and the FBI and police fanning out, asking questions, reminding everyone that a murderer was somewhere among them. The sense of unease was as palpable as the electric charge preceding a storm.

“Let us pray together,” he said.

THE RESIDENCE WAS quiet, apart from the clank of a metal pan and the rush of water out of a faucet. Father John tossed his jacket onto the bench in the hall and walked back to the kitchen. Shafts of daylight worked their way past the white curtains at the window above the sink. The air was thick with the aromas of fresh coffee, hot oatmeal, and half-burnt toast. Walks-On pushed himself off the blanket in the corner and set a wet muzzle in the palm of his hand. Father John scratched the dog’s ears, then stepped over to the counter and poured some coffee into a mug. Elena was at the stove ladling oatmeal into a bowl. Seventy-some years old, part Arapaho, part Cheyenne, the woman had been the housekeeper at St. Francis longer than she professed to remember. She ran the house like a drill sergeant, he sometimes thought, with the pastor and the assistant priest expected to march along in time. It wasn’t a bad thing. It sometimes kept him on time.

He sat down across from his assistant, who was scraping the traces of oatmeal out of a bowl, the Gazette opened on the other side of his mug.

“My God! The paper says that the police think Christine was abducted.” Father Damien thumped his fist against the paper, his eyes running down an article on the first page. The man’s mind was like a shotgun—one barrel for the latest news, the other for conversation. “Paper says you were the last one to see her before she disappeared.”

“Last one before whoever took her.” Elena set a bowl of oatmeal in front of Father John. The steam curled over the rim and smelled of melted brown sugar.

“You don’t think her disappearance is related to her job here at the mission, do you?” A note of incredulity worked into the other priest’s voice.

“Of course it has to do with the mission.” Elena patted at the white apron tied over her blue dress. “A lot of people come to see the Curtis photographs, and that white woman was like a chicken. Couldn’t stop pecking. ‘Who was your ancestors? When did they come to the rez?’ ”

“So somebody abducted her?” The incredulity in Damien’s voice had slid into scorn.

“Look, we don’t know what happened to Christine. Let’s not jump to conclusions.” Father John poured some milk into the bowl and took a spoonful of the oatmeal. “Thank you, Elena.” He glanced up at the woman hovering at the edge of the table, her round face frozen with expectancy. “This is gourmet oatmeal, without a doubt.”

“Now how would you know that?”

“Trust me, I’m a connoisseur of oatmeal.”

“I don’t see how Christine disappearing could have anything to do with the mission,” Father Damien said, answering his own question and folding the Gazette. He got to his feet, as if the matter were settled. “I’ll call Senator Evans’s campaign manager right away and assure him that the senator will be perfectly safe at St. Francis. No doubt the poor woman had some personal problems . . .”

“We don’t know that,” Father John said.

“Process of elimination, John. If her disappearance isn’t connected to the mission, where, need I remind you, she has been employed for one month, it must be connected to some problem she brought with her. I think I can make a strong case that will reassure the senator’s people. By the way”—he tapped his knuckles against the table—“I’ve asked Leonard to repaint the front of the museum, so that when the TV cameras pan across, it will look spruced up. He’ll have to cut back some cottonwoods so they don’t throw shadows over the place.”

“Excuse me, Father,” Elena said. “There’s no way Leonard’s gonna paint the museum, cut down branches, and take care of everything else around here before the almighty senator shows his face. I got a leaking washing machine that Leonard’s gotta fix.” She swung to the counter, lifted the coffee pot and topped off Father John’s mug.

He took a long swallow. “Ah, gourmet coffee,” he said. It was hot and nutty-flavored, like the coffee she brewed every morning. He wondered if it really was delicious, or only familiar.

“Leonard has enough to do,” he said, glancing up at the other priest. “Don’t worry, the mission will look just fine on TV.”

“When’s the last time you took a good look around, John? How long you been here now?”

Father John saluted the man with his mug. “Took a look around this morning,” he said. “Nine years next spring.”

“Nine years? The provincial’s left you here nine years?”

“He forgot about me.” He hoped that was true, but every day, when he reached for the ringing phone, there was always the thought flitting at the back of his mind, like a pesky fly. This could be the call, this could be the order for another assignment.

“Good thing, too,” Elena said, staring at the other priest. “You can’t just come here and get a feel for our ways overnight.”

“Do you think it’s possible, John, that you’ve been here so long, you no longer see what must be done? That what you see is the image of the mission when you first arrived?”

Well, that was possible, Father John thought. He had to allow for the possibility. There was an image of St. Francis Mission that he would always carry in his mind. He set down the mug and went back to the oatmeal, aware of the other priest moving behind him toward the door.

Elena turned around, poured another mug of coffee, then took the chair that Damien had vacated. She laced her fingers around the mug as Damien’s footsteps receded down the hallway and the front door opened and shut, sending a gust of cold air across the kitchen.

“Maybe Father Damien’s got part of it right.” Elena lifted her mug and stared at him over the rim. “Maybe that white woman showed up here with a load of personal problems. She used to work at fancy museums, right? Maybe she helped herself to some expensive art and somebody got real mad.”

Father John locked eyes with the woman. Good Lord. It would explain the ransacked house. It made sense, except . . .

“Christine’s a highly trained professional,” he said.

“You know your problem, Father?”

“Which one?”

“You think everybody’s honest as the day they come squawking into the world. Some folks are crooked as a dried, old tree, even highly trained professionals.”

“Is that a fact?” Father John got to his feet and smiled down at the woman rooted to her chair, hands wound around the mug. He’d probably heard more in the confessional than she could ever imagine. There had been times when he’d almost despaired that the light of God’s grace could shine into the darkness.

“You hear what the fed’s gonna do to T.J?” the woman said.

Father John sat back down. “Maybe you’d better tell me.”

“Moccasin telegraph says the fed’s gonna pin Denise’s murder on him.” She stared into the coffee mug, considering. “Poor Denise,” she said. “I knew she wouldn’t ever shoot herself. She loved her life. Always real proud of being Arapaho. Always wanted to make the kids proud.” Letting out a long sigh, she brought her eyes back to his. “Fed’s gonna take the easy way out and blame T.J.”

“T.J. has an alibi,” Father John said.

“Trouble with T.J.,” the woman pushed on, as if she hadn’t heard, “is that he’s always wanting, wanting. He wants all the time, that man. Wasn’t satisfied getting himself elected to the state legislature. He wants to come back to the rez and get on the business council so he can run things around here, show that he’s a real big man. Folks are saying that now he wants to be a senator and go off to Washington.” Elena shrugged. “I guess if Senator Evans gets to be the next president, T.J. can get himself elected senator.” She didn’t sound convinced. “T.J. might not be perfect, Father, but nobody on the rez thinks he could shoot anybody, especially not his wife.”

Father John got to his feet again. He felt as if he’d stepped off a riverbank and gotten caught in a current of rumors. “Gianelli’s a good investigator.” A one-man crusade, was more like it. Determined to rid the world, or at least the rez, of bad guys. “He’ll find Denise’s murderer.”

IN THE OFFICE, Father John flipped through the papers waiting for his attention—yesterday’s mail, bills to pay, phone messages to return, Sunday’s homily to write—and tried to make sense of what Elena had said. The muffled sound of Father Damien’s voice floated down the hall from the back office—reasoning, pleading. “No, no, no. Whatever happened to the curator has nothing to do with the mission.” There was a pause, then Damien said, “Well, yes, it looks like T.J. Painted Horse’s wife could have been murdered, but that wouldn’t have any connection to Senator Evans’s visit. She probably surprised an intruder.” Another pause. “Yes, T.J. is a popular councilman. No. No. He couldn’t have had anything to do with his wife’s murder.”

But the man could have had enemies, Father John was thinking. Nobody could speak out against the proposed drilling for methane gas, calling the environmental analysis “misleading and inadequate” and insisting on another study that could take months to complete, without making enemies. People were waiting on the jobs and the royalties. But T.J. had made some good points, Father John thought, talking about the millions of gallons of salty wastewater that drilling would pour onto grazing lands and hay fields, and the roads that would be cut through pastures for the heavy trucks and drilling equipment. The man wasn’t afraid to stand up for what he believed in, even with a powerful man like Senator Evans on the other side. Father John admired T.J. for that.

“Thank God, things have been quiet lately on the rez,” Gianelli had said. That was last Sunday, over spaghetti dinner at the agent’s house. He’d helped Gianelli with a lot of cases over the last eight years. They were friends. Two transplants from the east. He, from Boston. Gianelli from somewhere in the Bronx. A baseball player who had once dreamed of the big leagues, and a one-time linebacker for the Patriots. Both opera fans, but Gianelli knew more about opera than he did by a long shot, a fact Father John didn’t like to admit, certainly not to Gianelli. The man’s wife made the best spaghetti in Wyoming, and dinner had been accompanied by the jabbering of four teenaged daughters and the music of “Madame Butterfly” in the background.

Three days ago. Everything had seemed normal and ordinary.

Father John pulled over the Rolodex and flipped through the cards until he had Vera’s number. He picked up the phone and tapped the buttons. A half ring, then: “Hello? Hello?” Vera’s voice, clipped with anxiety. “That you, T.J.?”

“Father John,” he said, before launching into the purpose of the call. Now was not the time for polite pleasantries. “How’s T.J. doing?”