HE WAS RUNNING, chasing after the figure that ran ahead, disappearing as soon as he caught up. A specter dissolving away from him, like an image dissolving from a photograph.
Father John sat up in bed. Startled, only half awake. It must be mid-morning. Sunlight streamed past the curtains, and the bedroom felt warm and stuffy. He was a man obsessed, he thought. Obsessed by a woman in shock and grief—alone outside the house of a murdered man, a woman he couldn’t comfort.
He’d driven over to Vera’s and stayed with her until daylight had begun to glow in the windows and the sky beyond had turned pink and gold. Vera, sobbing on the sofa, and he, trying to find words of comfort, finally letting the stillness settle in, more comforting than words. Gradually relatives and friends had arrived until the living room was crowded with people standing about, occupying every chair. He’d driven back to the mission, the moon still faintly visible in a sky that had changed into milky blue, and fallen into an exhausted half-sleep, the unwanted dreams crashing over him.
He got out of bed, showered, and shaved. In the kitchen, he made himself a couple of pieces of toast, aware of the washing machine rumbling in the basement and Elena scurrying about with a dust mop. She’d make him some oatmeal, she said, reminding him that breakfast was three hours earlier. He waved away the offer, and washed the toast down with strong, lukewarm coffee.
Ten minutes later, he was in the administration building, passing the door to his own office, on his way down the corridor to Father Damien’s office. The other priest was at the desk, head bent sideways into a phone call. Father John swung a wood chair around and straddled it backward. He waited until the call ended and Damien hung up.
“You’ve heard about T.J.?” Father John nodded at the phone. The moccasin telegraph had probably been working for hours.
Damien raked his fingers across his thinning hair—a gesture of discouragement. “First his wife. Now the poor man himself. It’s terrible, John. T.J. was a dedicated councilman. He struck me as someone with a far-reaching vision, and he had the courage to stand up against his own people, not to mention a powerful man like Senator Evans, over the methane controversy. The senator’s campaign people are making noises about canceling the senator’s visit.” The other priest had the pained look of a man watching the barn he’d been constructing start to collapse.
“What do they say?” Father John gestured with his head toward the phone.
“A lot of mumbo jumbo about the senator’s busy schedule and pressing demands. A fool can read between the lines. Quinn is convinced that the senator could be in danger. Did I think that the murders of a councilman and his wife were coincidence when the councilman had been helping to plan the senator’s visit? I explained that the murders, as tragic as they are, don’t have anything to do with the mission. I told him that even if he decides that the senator shouldn’t go to Fort Washakie, there’s no reason to cancel the visit here. Catherine’s already lined up dozens of people. The TV cameras will be here. Finally Quinn agreed to stop by this afternoon and take another look. Okay, I admit . . .” Damien shrugged. “It took another phone call from Dad. Frankly, the murders aren’t the only thing Quinn’s worried about. He keeps asking me if we’ve had any word on Christine. What have you heard?”
Father John shook his head. Then he said, “Tell me, Damien. Did Christine go to any of the meetings with T.J. at the tribal offices?”
“You think there’s a connection?” The other priest jerked backward, as if he’d gotten an electrical shock. “Look, John,” he said, patting the side of his head now. “We had two meetings, both unsuccessful. T.J. and the other councilman, Savi Crowthorpe, kept insisting there wouldn’t be enough time for the senator to visit schools and tribal offices and still get over to St. Francis. So I asked Christine to come along for another meeting. You know how excited she was . . . is.” He corrected himself. “. . . about the Curtis exhibit. I figured she could convince the councilmen that the senator would enjoy the photographs.”
“That was it? One meeting?”
“It went pretty well,” Damien said, nodding and glancing about the office. “I was going over some details with Savi afterward, and Christine and T.J. walked out together. They were still talking in the parking lot when I came out. I’m sure that the councilmen suggested the mission to the senator’s people, even though nothing happened. Not until Dad called the senator himself.”
Father John stood up and turned the chair back into place, only half aware of the phone ringing and the other priest picking up. He had the connection now, Father John was thinking. He could imagine the scenario: Christine and T.J. talking in the parking lot. She saying that she was looking for Sharp Nose descendants, and T.J. telling her about Denise, a woman who loved history and who most likely had some old photographs. His theory was correct. He felt a heaviness coming over him, like a weight pressing down.
“For you.” Damien pointed the receiver in his direction.
“I’ll take it in my office,” Father John said.
THE WOMAN’S VOICE coming down the line was high-pitched and stiff. “Linda Novak, returning your call,” she said. It was a half-second before Father John recognized the name of the Curtis expert at the West Wind Gallery in Denver.
“How is the exhibit going?” she asked, after he’d thanked her for getting back to him.
He told her the exhibit had brought in a lot of visitors, and the woman went on—a softer tone now, obviously settling into a familiar rhythm—about how the prints had been pulled from original copper plates etched a hundred years ago at a studio in Boston. How they were almost indistinguishable from the first prints made, except, of course, with the latest technology, they were even more beautiful.
Father John waited for a break, then told her that the curator had been missing since last Monday and that the police and FBI were investigating her disappearance.
“Missing!” She shouted the word. “I hope Eric isn’t involved. I’m sure you know, Father, that Christine is married to a brilliant man who is very controlling.” She hesitated, as if she were considering whether to go on. A couple of beats passed before she said, “Christine told me that she’d left Eric again. Oh, I didn’t take it seriously. She’s left him before, but she’s always gone back. Of course I promised not to tell Eric where she was if he called the gallery, which he did about a day later. I figured she needed some time to sort things out. Shall I send someone to dismount the exhibit after Senator Evans’s visit?”
The question took Father John by surprise. “How did you know about the visit?” he asked.
“It’s all Christine talked about the last time she called,” the woman said. “It was an opportunity to show the Curtis photographs to the next president of the United States. There would be media attention, which will only increase the demand for Curtis’s work. Naturally, I was very pleased at the prospect of new customers for the gallery.”
“I was hoping you could tell me,” Father John began, “how valuable an original Curtis photograph might be.”
“Original? As I said, Father, the photos in the exhibit were printed from the original copper . . .”
“Vintage Curtis photographs,” he said.
“Well, that would depend.” A keyboard clacked on the other end. “Curtis shot forty thousand images, which have been copied and reproduced for years. That doesn’t mean the earlier prints are necessarily the most valuable. The price is pegged to the subject. Show me a vintage print of Chief Joseph or Geronimo or the Canyon de Chelly, and I could get you twenty thousand dollars. But an unknown subject, well . . .” The clacking stopped. “Anywhere from several hundred dollars to several thousand. Naturally, buyers would want proof that the photographs dated from Curtis’s own time.”
“Did Christine mention finding any vintage photographs on the reservation?” Father John asked.
Another pause before the woman said, “I’m sure if she had made any such find, she would have told me. I suppose it’s always possible that Curtis left prints with Indian people. They’d be of historic interest, even if they weren’t particularly valuable. Of course, a real find would be the original glass plate negatives that Curtis exposed. Hardly likely that he left any of those behind. He always carried the exposed plates out of the field. Unfortunately, the plates were later destroyed. Smashed, I’m afraid.”
“What are we talking about?” Father John said. “How valuable would a glass plate be?”
The clacking resumed again. After a moment, the woman said, “It would be a rare find indeed. Collectors are willing to pay a great deal of money for unusual items of historic and artistic interest. At the very least, an exposed plate would show the exact image that Curtis had captured. Depending upon the image, a glass plate might command thousands of dollars. The more significant the image, the more valuable the plate would be. None of the details would have been changed or manipulated, which can happen in the developing process. Are you saying that you’ve come across Curtis plates? We’d certainly be interested in representing you, if you wish to sell.”
“I’m afraid they’re not mine to sell,” Father John said. Then he added, “If they exist.” He thanked the woman, hung up, and stared at the phone. Dear Lord. What had Christine stumbled into? Tracking vintage photographs, coming upon exposed glass plates? Where? In T.J.’s and Denise’s shed? Stored for a century?
And all the time running from Eric Loftus, a man who owned an art gallery. A man who would know the value of glass plates exposed by Edward S. Curtis.
From outside came the hum of an engine, the sound of gravel crunching under tires. The engine cut off. A moment later, cool air swooshed across the office and the front door slammed shut. There was the tap of footsteps on the floor. Father John looked up as Vicky walked into the office.