The Thunder Keeper Part 17

29.

Vicky spotted Lucas as she drew up in front of the corner restaurant: seated behind the plate-gla.s.s window with the words ITALIAN HOME-STYLE COOKING across the top. Alone at a table draped in a white cloth, head bent over a magazine, a mug in one hand. His dark complexion, a startling contrast to the white cloth.

How handsome he was, she thought, running across the sidewalk to the entrance. How much like Ben, even the muscular contours of his shoulders under the light blue shirt.

"Hey, Mom!" He jumped to his feet the minute she stepped inside, as if he'd felt her presence. The restaurant was warm and redolent of the odors of tomato sauce and spices. The tables were full. There was a buzz of conversation, the noise of clinking dishes.

"Sorry I'm late." She shrugged out of her raincoat.

"It's okay." He came around the table, hung her coat over the stand near the door, then pushed in her chair for her. Where had he learned such things? Sometimes in the middle of the night she lay awake, trying to remember if she'd pa.s.sed on to Lucas and Susan important things that had been pa.s.sed on to her: be considerate, be humble, be thoughtful in all things. She could never remember for certain, and it always left her shaken with a feeling of incompleteness, of things half-finished.

"You okay, Mom?" Lucas took his chair next to her.

She nodded and gave him her best smile.

"We've been worrying about you."

Vicky waited until the waitress had taken their orders and turned away. "You and who else?" she said, instantly regretting the question.

"Talked to Dad today," Lucas said. "He says you oughta come back to the res with your own people. He'd look out for you. Too bad-"

She held up one hand. "Don't, Lucas," she said.

Silence dropped between them while the waitress delivered plates of spaghetti and meatb.a.l.l.s, steam curling over the top. When the waitress moved away, Vicky changed the subject: "How are the job interviews?" she said, a forced lightness in her tone. She left the house early in the mornings, came home late. They'd been pa.s.sing each other on the sidewalk.

"Great," he a.s.sured her.

Twirling the spaghetti around her fork, she pressed on: a series of small questions, the pleasantries exchanged by strangers. His answers were short, perfunctory, accompanied by shrugs.

Finally Lucas said, "So what's up with Laramie?"

She took a bite of spaghetti and, after a moment, told him about Charlie Ferguson, an expert on diamond deposits.

Lucas reared back. Understanding flashed in his dark eyes. "You're still trying to find out who ran that guy down." The hard note in his voice surprised her. "You're still getting involved in dangerous stuff, just like before."

"Lucas, you don't understand."

"Oh, I get it all right." He tossed his napkin onto the table. "It doesn't matter how much Dad and Susan and I worry about you. You don't give a flying-" He curled his lips back. "You don't care about us."

"That's not true." The alarm rose like phlegm in her throat. The rest of the restaurant grew quiet. Vicky could sense the family at the next table staring at them.

"I'm not in any danger." She kept her voice low. My G.o.d, she was lying to her own son. Information was dangerous. She started to tell him about the kimberlite pipe four miles north of Bear Lake, then stopped herself. She couldn't pa.s.s on the danger to him.

"Look, Lucas," she said. "I found the evidence that proves Vince Lewis was murdered. I've left a message with Detective Clark-"

"Listen to yourself, Mom," he cut in. "You're talking about murder! You're after a murderer! What if the murderer decides to come after you? You expect us to sit back and wait for some policeman to call and say they found your body somewhere? You've got to back off." He took her hand, squeezing it hard. "Promise me you'll back off."

She cupped her other hand over her mouth a moment; she didn't want to start crying. What a sight for the people craning their necks around. Finally she said, "I'll talk to Detective Clark tomorrow."

"Don't you ever give up?" He dropped her hand, tossed his napkin across the table, and stood up. His knuckles popped white out of the brown fists clenched at his side. He leaned over her. "You can't stop, can you? You can't stay out of things that don't concern you. What is it? The danger? Is that what you love?"

"Don't, Lucas." She reached toward him, but he stepped back.

"That's it, the danger. It's like a drug, and you're addicted. It must be a real high, outwitting killers, dodging them before they can kill you. And you left Dad because he was addicted to alcohol!" He gave a tight, mirthless laugh. "Funny when you think about it."

Vicky stood up, half-aware of the waitress standing at the next table, a plate balanced in each hand, her gaze fixed on them. The restaurant was silent. "You don't understand," she said, struggling to keep her voice under control. "There are people who want to destroy a sacred place. I can't turn away."

Lucas slammed his chair into the table, sending a little clatter through the dishes. She saw the muscles popping out of his clenched jaw as he grabbed the gray jacket hanging beside her raincoat and threw open the door. She watched him pa.s.s by the window, head and shoulders thrust forward, and she knew he would not stay at the house tonight.

"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 G.o.d, 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 pa.s.sing 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 sonovab.i.t.c.h.

"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.

"Detective Slinger'll be here any minute," Father John said. Keep Wentworth talking. Delaney wasn't going to throw Eddie and the girl over on his own.

"You think I'm gonna believe that? The hick detective doesn't know his a.s.s from a hole in the ground. Otherwise he'd be here now. I know about you Jesuits. Too smart for your own good. You figured things out and came up here on your own. Now you're going to die."

Wentworth stepped around, and Father John felt the pistol jam against his spine. "Get going," the man said, shining the flashlight up a narrow incline. "Don't make me shoot you here."

Father John started following the dim beam of light, conscious of the gun in the small of his back. His boots slid in the mud, and he had to dig the heels in hard to maintain his balance. The incline narrowed to no wider than a couple of feet. He edged along the cliff, keeping his hand on the sandstone for balance. A few steps and he was at another boulder field directly below the ledge. A faint light was shining above.

"Keep going." Wentworth pushed the gun in hard, and Father John started climbing. He felt as if spurs were cutting into his sides. The man was huffing behind him. Thunder roared again, followed by a white flash of lightning that made the boulders leap out, dark and shiny in the rain. He made it to the top and managed to haul himself onto the ledge. A bright light shone in his face.

"Why'd you come here, Father?" The voice in the confessional.

Father John knocked the flashlight aside. For an instant he couldn't see anything, except the blue-and-yellow lights fizzing in his eyes. He blinked hard, trying to bring into focus the figure in the red jacket. Light hair and hooded eyes, pale, sunken cheeks, bulbous nose. He had the lanky frame, alert stance, and pent-up energy of a runner, as if were about to sprint off the ledge. The jacket shone in the light.

"Where are they?" Father John said. The ledge was a mosaic of rain and shadows. He was aware of Wentworth climbing up beside him, taking in loud gulps of air-a man out of shape, Father John thought. Wentworth hurled himself upright and set the flashlight next to the cliff. A thin stream of light washed over the petroglyph.

Father John felt the gun jabbing at his back again as the man in the red jacket shone his flashlight over the p.r.o.ne figures of Eddie Ortiz and Ali Burris, sprawled at the base of the cliff about ten feet away.

Father John could see the picture clearly now, like a video unrolling in front of him: Wentworth and Delaney forcing Eddie and the girl up the mud-slicked path, guns in their backs. Knocking them unconscious on the ledge. And then-two bodies would fly over the ledge, crash through the boulders, drop down the face of the cliff, breaking and flying apart. The injuries so extensive no pathologist would detect the initial blow to their skulls. Just like Duncan Grover.

He walked across the ledge, dropped down on one knee next to the girl, and took her hand. It was as light and cool as a leaf. He probed for a pulse-some sign of life. There it was, the faintest murmuring of blood beneath the skin in the soft underside of her wrist.

"Hang on, Ali," he said, hoping that his voice might seep into the girl's unconsciousness. He started to turn toward the motionless body of Eddie.

"Get away!" Wentworth shouted behind him.

A boot slammed into his shoulder, knocking him off balance. He felt himself sliding sideways across the wet sandstone, the ledge falling away. He grabbed at the surface, dug into the sandstone with his boots. Slowing himself finally. Stopping. He was at the edge, pain ripping through him. He could feel the abyss opening below.

Lightning zigzagged through the air, and the pinons and junipers stood out in the light a half second before dissolving back into the darkness. There was another crash of thunder. As he started inching away from the edge, he saw the faintest trace of light below, like an electrical charge.

He managed to get onto his hands and knees and crawl backward a few feet. Then he tried to stand up, crouching with the pain that circled his shoulders and rib cage and coursed down his spine. The rain came harder. He wiped the moisture from his eyes.

Wentworth was still standing next to Eddie and the girl. The pistol gleamed in the flashlight beam. The man in the red jacket stood a few feet away.

"Don't do this, Delaney," Father John said. "Think of your soul, man. Your immortal soul. You're putting yourself into h.e.l.l."

"Shut up." Wentworth waved the pistol at him.

"How d'ya know my name?" Raw panic infused Delaney's voice.

"Detective Slinger knows you've been working a diamond deposit. He knows what happened to Duncan Grover. There's going to be a lot of policemen here in a few minutes."

"He's lying," Wentworth said.

"Jesus, Buck." Fear mingled with the panic in the other man's voice. "Baider'll kill us."

"He's bluffing, you d.a.m.n fool."

"I didn't want no part of murder, Father." Delaney moved forward, holding out the flashlight in a kind of offering.

"Shut up, you fool." Wentworth swung the pistol toward the other man.

"Baider's using you," Father John said. "How many more people are you going to kill for him?"

The flashlight jumped in Delaney's hand, tossing light over Wentworth and the still bodies of Ali Burris and Eddie Ortiz. Father John realized something was different about Eddie: the hands curled into fists. The Indian was conscious.

"You got it all wrong, Father," Delaney said. "The boss says we take care of this last job-"

"Baider's lying." Father John tried to straighten his shoulders. He coughed, and for a half second his muscles froze with pain. The bitter taste of blood was in his mouth. An image of Vicky flashed in his mind. Alone in Denver, determined to find out what Baider Industries didn't want her to know. She would follow every lead, probe and probe, until, finally, she came face-to-face with a man who had people killed.

He took in a short breath, then another. "Wake up, Delaney," he managed. "Baider'll keep using you and Wentworth here to do his dirty work. Wentworth's too dumb to understand. You've got to save yourself, your own soul."

"Shut up, you d.a.m.ned priest." Wentworth lunged forward. The pistol crashed against Father John's ribs.

He doubled over. His rib cage had sprung apart; his lungs filled with acid.

"Let's get this show on the road." Wentworth was coming at him again, swinging the pistol overhead like a sledgehammer.

Father John dodged to the side as the metal slammed into the cliff. Clenching his fists, he went for the man, jabbing at the stomach beneath the slicker. The man pedaled backward, then caught himself.

"I'll kill you!" he shouted, coming forward again, head down, like a bull. The lightning snapped overhead, outlining the rage in his eyes. He gripped the pistol in both hands.

Father John pulled his arms in close to his sides, fists still clenched. He had no breath; he was on fire with pain. The barrel of the pistol looked as large as a black tunnel coming toward him.

Suddenly Wentworth was scrabbling sideways, howling like a trapped animal. Delaney was riding his back, slamming a fist into the man's head, jerking his arm up, grabbing at the pistol. Shouting: "No more, Buck. No more." A flashlight skittered across the ledge, throwing crazy patterns of light around.