THE BUNGALOW HAD the vacant end-of-the-day look, with the light fading in the dusk and the moon already bright, sending dark shadows over the lawn and obscuring the words ATTORNEY AT LAW, on the sign. Vicky parked the Jeep and hurried up the sidewalk. Work had been piled on her desk—leases to review, a will to draft—when she’d gone to see Marnie Rankin in Riverton. She’d intended to be back in the office by late afternoon, but she’d gone to the mission instead, as if the Jeep had driven itself, propelled by the turmoil in her mind. It always came down to John O’Malley. She could trust John O’Malley, and who else could she trust? No one, no one.
She started to unlock the front door, then realized that the door was already unlocked. It wasn’t like Annie to forget to lock up. Vicky pushed the door open and stepped inside. Seated in one of the visitor’s chairs was a large man with reddish hair, cropped short, wearing blue jeans and a dark sport coat over a turtleneck sweater. Legs crossed, elbows set on the armrests, a cigarette in the thick fingers curved next to the side of his head. He moved the cigarette to his mouth and inhaled. The red tip glowed in the dim light.
“Who are you?” Vicky said. She held the door open, conscious of the cold air sweeping past her legs.
Puffs of gray smoke came from the man’s nostrils. “I was beginning to think you’d knocked off for the day.” He had a gravelly voice and little eyes, black pebbles lodged beneath bushy eyebrows and the thick wedge of his forehead. “Another ten minutes and I would have had to seek you out at your apartment.”
“You haven’t told me who you are.” Vicky held her place and gripped the door knob.
The man took another drag from the cigarette. “Let’s say, a husband searching for his missing wife.”
“Eric Loftus.” The words came in an exhalation of air. “You should try the FBI.”
“Nobody around here knows shit.” The man’s mouth widened in a parody of a smile. “They don’t know where your client, the tribal official, has gone off to either, but I think you know.”
“How did you get in here?”
Loftus gestured toward the door with his cigarette. “You must have left the door unlocked.”
“The door was locked.”
“Well, it is a mystery, isn’t it?”
“It’s breaking and entering.”
He laughed at that. “I prefer a mystery, like the disappearance of my wife and T.J. Painted Horse.” He shook his head and laughed. “First thing he’ll have to do is take a new name, like Christine did. Oh, I taught that woman well.”
“Please leave.” Vicky pushed the door back toward the wall. A dog was barking somewhere, a sharp sound wave breaking through the atmosphere.
Eric Loftus considered the cigarette burning into a small stump in his fingers. “Do you believe in coincidences?” he asked.
“Get out.”
“I’ve read the local paper and talked to a number of people around here.” The man’s eyes were still riveted on the cigarette butt. “I’ve discovered a remarkable coincidence. Take last Monday night, for example. My wife left a museum on the reservation and drove off. On that same night, another woman on the reservation was shot in the head. The two instances occurred a few miles apart. Remarkable, don’t you agree?”
Vicky tightened her fist around the door knob. Someone else, T.J.’s mistress had said. She realized that it had probably occurred to John O’Malley that the new woman in T.J.’s life might be Christine Loftus. But where was the proof? The woman could be anybody in Fremont County.
“What makes you think your wife knew T.J. Painted Horse?”
“It’s been my experience that coincidences don’t exist.” Eric Loftus squeezed the burning tip of the butt between his finger and thumb, his eyes not leaving hers. A trail of gray smoke curled over his hand. “Coincidences are a façade, a mask, if you like, that only appears to be the truth. The truth is something else altogether. I asked myself, What is the truth behind this façade? What is the relationship between two events on the same evening, which appear to be unrelated?”
“There’s nothing I can tell you, Loftus.
“We can stay here all night, if you like.” He let the butt drop into the glass vase on the table next to the chair.
“Get out now.” Vicky gestured with her head toward the outdoors.
“It strikes me that they could be together, your client and my wife. Christine was always attracted to the dark, swarthy types. One time in Mexico . . .” he shook his head and stared across the room. “A little incident, best forgotten. In any case, I removed the temptation from my wife’s line of vision, shall we say.” He brought his eyes back. “I figure your client and my wife are holed up together in a cheap motel. A replay of Mexico, I’m afraid, and I assure you that it will end the same way. My wife is a very sick woman, counselor. Oh, when she’s up, she’s higher than the moon. She can do anything, climb right into the sky. But when she crashes . . .” He shook his head. “All you have to do, counselor, is tell me what your client said about my wife. It could be the information I need to find them.”
“You’re crazy if you think I’m going to tell you anything,” Vicky said.
Eric Loftus uncrossed his legs and got to his feet, a slow unfolding of muscles and strength a few feet away. “Don’t say that to me.” His voice was tight and controlled. “Don’t ever say that.”
A ringing phone burst through the quiet. Vicky glanced over at the desk, her hand still gripping the doorknob. A second ring. Third. She let go of the knob and began moving sideways, away from the door and into the office. Without taking her eyes off the man on her left, she reached for the phone and pressed the receiver to her ear. “Vicky Holden,” she said. She could hear the tremor in her voice.
“Vicky?” It was Adam’s voice. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“I’m not okay, Adam.”
“I’m over on Main. I’ll be there in two minutes.”
“I’ll see you in two minutes.” Vicky stared at the man across from her.
“Very clever,” Loftus said as she hung up. “Don’t think that this is over. When you don’t expect me, when you think you’re all alone, I’ll be there. I’ll be watching you until you lead me to T.J. Painted Horse.”
He stepped past her through the open door, and Vicky slammed the door behind him and threw the lock. She moved to the window and watched Loftus walk down the sidewalk, cross the street, and get into a dark-colored SUV, assuring herself that he was gone. The SUV pulled into the street as Adam’s green Chevrolet truck came around the corner. For a half-instant, she thought the two vehicles would collide, but Adam swerved out of the way and slid to a stop at the curb. The SUV was gone.
Vicky opened the door as Adam was running up the sidewalk. “What the hell’s going on?” He stepped inside and slammed the door behind him. “Who was that guy?”
“Eric Loftus.” A blank look came into Adam’s eyes, and she started to explain that the curator who’d disappeared from St. Francis Mission was the man’s wife. He laid a finger over her lips.
“I don’t care about the man’s wife,” he said. “What happened here?”
Vicky took hold of his wrist and pulled his hand away. She managed a smile. It seemed so silly, putting out an SOS, calling in a warrior. Loftus would have eventually left on his own. The man was swagger and bravado, the kind that liked to intimidate people. Maybe he liked that more than he wanted to find his wife. Or maybe . . .
“What is it, Vicky?” Adam leaned so close that she could make out the faint strands of gray hidden in his black hair and the worry moving in his dark eyes.
Vicky glanced away, letting her gaze rest on the chair where Loftus had sat, the back cushion still folded in on itself from his weight. The odor of smoke hung in the air. “Maybe Loftus knows where his wife is,” she said, bringing her eyes back to Adam’s. “Maybe he’s responsible for her disappearance, and all of this”—a wave toward the chair—“is just the image of a concerned husband looking for his wife.”
“You wouldn’t be alone so much if . . .”
“I know,” Vicky said. “I’ve been thinking about your offer.” A business proposal, that was all, and the reminder bit into her like a wooden splinter. “I don’t believe it’s a good idea, Adam.”
“You’re wrong, Vicky. It’s the best idea either of us has had in a long time. Look,” he hurried on. “I have an appointment with a realtor to see some office space tomorrow, so I’m staying in town tonight, and I was hoping you were free. We can argue about it over dinner.”