Eye of the Wolf (23 page)

Finally, the top was off. Frankie threw his head back and tilted the bottle into his mouth, making a loud, slurping noise. His Adam's apple moved up and down as brown threads of whiskey rolled down the sides of his cheeks and dripped into the collar of the plaid coat.

“Want some?” He held out the bottle.

Vicky shook her head.

“Nothing like a little turkey to warm up your insides.” He waved the bottle in her direction again. “No? Good. More for me,” he said, kicking back a chair from the table in the center of the room and flopping down. “We fucking made it,” he said, before tilting the bottle into his mouth again. Then he got up and walked over to the counter as if he'd just remembered something. He picked up the phone and tossed it across the kitchen. It slammed against a cabinet and thudded on the floor, pieces of black plastic skittering under the table.

He went back to the table and sat down. “Now, all I gotta figure out is what to do with you for the next couple of days until Burton decides I'm already outta the county and calls off the hunt.” He took another long drink and swung the bottle by the neck in her direction. “I think I'm gonna have to tie you up.”

Oh, God, no. Vicky pulled up a chair and sat down across from him. “Where am I going, Frankie? There's no gas in the pickup. I didn't see any other houses on our hike, and you can bet I was looking. I didn't see anything but snow. So we're up here miles from anywhere with a lot of snow on the ground and freezing temperatures. You think I'm going back out there? Looks to me like I've got only one option, and that's to stay here.”

Frankie held the bottle close to his chest and stared at her. “You expect me to buy that? You think I'm stupid?” He pointed the bottle toward the door. “The minute I take my eyes off you, you're gonna be outta here. You know what I'm thinking?” He took another swig of
whiskey, his eyes watching her over the raised bottle. “I'm thinking you're a lousy lawyer, that's the kind of stuff you come up with.” Another swig of whiskey, and his voice switched into a falsetto: “Where'd I go, Frankie? I'd freeze my butt out there.” He started shaking his head, hiccupping and laughing at the same time.

“How long can we stay here?” Vicky said, trying another tack. “How do we know there's any food?”

“Trust me, there's food.” He held out the bottle toward a full-length door next to the cabinets on the adjacent wall. “Pantry's full of stuff. Spent three days here last summer and had me some real feasts. Chicken soup and chili. Lots of chips and popcorn and soda pop. Man, rich people know how to eat. We can sit out two, three weeks here, 'cause I don't think they're gonna be coming up through the snow to get to their fancy mountain house 'til warm weather sets in. But I got me a problem.”

Vicky sat very still, not taking her gaze off the man. There was a clicking noise somewhere beneath the floor, like mice scurrying through the vents, and the first hint of warm air drifted up along the table.

“You,” Frankie said. “You're the only problem I got right now.”

“I told you, I'm not foolish enough to try to get away from here on foot.”

“You got a cell, don't you?” He nodded toward the bag that she'd let drop on the floor on the other side of her chair. “Let's have it.” A hand stretched across the table.

Vicky kept her eyes on his as she leaned over, lifted the bag, and set it in front of him.

He studied the bag a moment, pleased with himself, a half-smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Just what I thought.” He set the bottle on the table and started digging through the bag, pulling out the contents—wallet, lipstick, comb, dayplanner, keys—like an animal rooting in the ground. Then he had the cell. He held it up like a trophy and waved it over the table a moment before he pulled it toward his face and pressed a button. A couple of seconds passed before he began laughing silently, his chest rising and falling in spasms of amusement.

“So sorry, ma'am,” he said, tossing the cell onto the deflated bag and leaning over the table. The sourness of his breath made her flinch. “Seems there's no service in your mountain hideaway. And I suggest you don't try again. That's it.” He slammed down an open hand on the tabletop and the cell phone jumped off the bag and clattered against the hard surface. “You're getting tied up.”

“Listen to me, Frankie. You resisted arrest, fled from the police, took me at gunpoint.” Vicky tried to ignore the shakiness in her voice. “You broke into a house, and now you're holding me hostage. For a man who doesn't want to go back to prison, that's where you'll be spending the rest of your life.”

She was talking to his back. He'd jumped up and was throwing open drawers, working his way down along the counter, the drawers hanging into the room. “I'll tell Burton that I came with you willingly, that we had to talk privately, lawyer to client.” Vicky pushed on, trying to make herself believe what she was saying. “You won't be looking at a kidnapping charge. Resisting arrest, yes. Breaking and entering.” She shot a glance toward the door with the draft of icy air tunneling past the broken pane. “I'll see what kind of deal I can make. You plead guilty to a couple of charges, and a prosecutor might consider dropping the others. Trials cost a lot of money and time. Any good prosecutor . . .”

Frankie pulled a stack of kitchen towels out of the last drawer. He swung around and started toward her, shaking out the towels. “These are gonna work just fine,” he said.

Vicky sprang to her feet, grabbed the top of the chair, and set it down between them. “I'm not going to let you do this, Frankie.”

Quiet. Nothing but the scuff of his boots on the floor as he moved toward her and the sound of his breathing—the sound of a bellows. He shook out the last towel, tossed the others onto the table, and started toward her.

Vicky picked up the chair and slammed it hard into his chest. He tottered sideways over the table, shock and surprise fixed in his expression, and for a half-second, Vicky thought he might fall to the floor. She lifted
the chair again, but before she could crash it onto his head, he sprang up and lunged at her, like a wolf on the attack, teeth bared, brown eyes lit with hatred. She felt the force of his body hit her, the sharp edge of the counter in her spine as she stumbled backward, and the explosion of pain as his fist slammed into her face. The cabinets and countertops were spinning around. She wasn't sure which direction was up and which was down, only that she was sliding somewhere. Sliding off the edge of the world.

FATHER JOHN SPOTTED
the blue and red lights shooting like fireworks through the haze ahead. He had to jam on the brake pedal to slow the pickup behind the line of vehicles snaking into the eastern reaches of Lander. He pounded his fist against the rim of the steering wheel and inched forward behind a truck, waiting for an oncoming car to pass. He swung out. It was then that he saw the sedan stopped in the oncoming lane, two police officers leaning into the front windows. They stepped back, waving on the sedan, and Father John pulled in again behind the truck.

Roadblock. Which meant that the police were still looking for Frankie Montana.

His mouth had gone dry; he could hear his heart thumping. Frankie Montana still had Vicky. He waited until the sedan flashed past, then pulled out again and leaned on the accelerator while passing the snaking line of vehicles. His heart hammered in his ears. She could be
tied up under a tarp, thrown into the trunk of a car. Montana was a madman. She could be anywhere.

He was past the roadblock now, in the traffic moving down Main Street, making up lost time. Ahead was another flash of blue and red lights, and he realized they were flashing in front of Vicky's office building. He pressed hard on the accelerator, followed a sedan through the red light at the intersection, and pulled into the curb in front of a line of white police vehicles.

Father John got out and walked back to the first vehicle. Through the fogged windows, he could see an officer hunched over, peering at something in his lap. Father John tapped on the window. Slowly, the dark head swiveled around and the glass cranked down.

“What can I do for you?” The officer had a thin face with a nose that dipped over the top of his lip. He gripped a small notepad in one hand.

“Where's Burton?” Father John asked.

“Who are you?”

“Father O'Malley.”

A light of recognition flickered in the officer's eyes. He tossed his head toward the building. “Inside,” he said.

Father John crossed the sidewalk and opened the wood door. He took the stairs two at a time and hurried down the corridor toward the opened door and the low hum of voices.

“Hold on.” A blue uniform sleeve blocked the doorway as Father John started into the office. He knocked the arm aside—his eyes on Burton standing in the doorway on the right—and strode across the carpeted waiting area.

“Hey! You heard me!” The officer was behind him, so close that Father John had to sprint a couple of steps to escape the hand brushing at his arm.

Burton had turned around. He held up a fleshy palm, like a traffic cop at a busy intersection. “It's okay, Thompson,” he said.

“What do you know?”

“Take it easy, John. We'll find her.”

“What do you know?” Father John said again, the sharpness in his voice slicing through the stillness. Crowded in the office behind the sheriff was a platoon of police officers and deputies. A tall man in blue jeans and blue jacket was spreading green powder over the top of the desk. Cardboard cartons were scattered about the floor, stacks of file folders stuffed inside.

“We think Frankie was here.” Burton nodded sideways, and for the first time, Father John noticed the faint trail of green powder down the side of the door frame. “Looks like he took Vicky.”

“What's that supposed to mean? She's either with him or she isn't.”

Flexing his shoulders inside his coat now, Burton lifted his chin, eyelids at half-mast. “She's with him, John. Dentist from downstairs saw them leaving. He thought it looked suspicious, like maybe Montana was forcing her.”

Father John ran his hand over his chin. He'd pulled on his gloves somewhere back on Rendezvous Road. Still his fingers felt like ice. “He must've had a weapon. Did he have a weapon?”

“We think so.” The detective gave a little nod and glanced back into the office. “She was calling my office when he showed up. She must've dropped the phone. We found it on the floor. My voice mail picked up what was going on.”

“What was going on?” Father John thrust his fists into his coat pockets to keep from grabbing the man's shoulders. “Tell me, Andy.”

The man shrugged. “By taking Vicky hostage, Montana thinks he bought himself a ‘go' card out of the county, maybe the state. He thinks he's gonna skip out on four homicide charges. That rifle we found out at Bates? Montana purchased it eighteen months ago. He won't get very far. We got roadblocks set up on every road out of town. He hasn't left Lander. No way he would've gotten past the checkpoints.”

“He could've gotten out of town before you set up the roadblocks.” Father John had to swallow back the anger rising inside him—a hot, bitter taste. What did the man think? That Montana was sitting around waiting until the roadblocks went up before he tried to get away?

“Lander PD had cop cars at every exit road two minutes after they got the call from the dentist. Trust me, John. Montana's still in town.”

“This is police business.” The voice of the officer boomed behind them, and Father John glanced around. The officer had planted himself in the doorway, blocking the way of a tall, black-haired Indian man. It hit Father John that Adam Lone Eagle had the look of a war chief in the Old Time.

“This is my office,” Adam said. He didn't flinch. “Get out of my way.”

“Okay,” Burton shouted.

In three steps, Adam was across the waiting room, his eyes boring into the detective. “What the hell's going on?” he said.

Burton started to explain, but the Indian waved a gloved hand between them. “I heard the news on the radio. Just tell me where Vicky is.”

“We'll find her,” Burton said. “Every law enforcement agency in the county is looking for her. Like I told Father John, we don't think Montana's left town.”

Adam turned his head and stared across his shoulder at Father John, as if he realized for the first time that someone else was in the office. His body was still squared toward the detective. “This is your fault, Father O'Malley,” he said. “Vicky's too good a lawyer to waste her talents on scum like Montana. She wouldn't have taken on a client like that if it weren't for you. You've filled her head with a lot of noble bunk about helping the poor and downtrodden. All those DUIs and assaults and drug cases that you've dragged her in on. For some reason I haven't been able to figure out, she never can say no to you. Well, I'm saying no for her. Vicky Holden has more important things to do.”

“You finished, Lone Eagle?” Father John moved around until he was wedged halfway between the Indian and Burton. “Vicky makes her own decisions. I don't know any man who tried to tell her what to do and stayed around very long.”

“Wait a minute here.” Father John felt the detective's fingers digging past his coat sleeve into his upper arm. “This isn't helping Vicky. Just go home, both of you. I'll call you the minute we find her.”

“If you find her.” Adam spit out the words. He looked from Father John to the detective and back. His face was frozen in anger. Then he turned around and headed back across the outer office.

“Hothead,” Burton said, almost under his breath, the minute that Adam had disappeared into the corridor. The thud of his boots started down the stairs, like a pounding drum. “That's all we need now is another hothead, like Montana isn't bad enough.”

“He loves her.” Father John stared past the uniformed officer into the vacant corridor. For the first time, he felt the force of the truth. No matter what Vicky felt about placing her trust in Adam Lone Eagle, the man loved her. Just like Ben had loved her, he thought, and she hadn't been able to trust him, either.

He reached past the front of his coat and fished the small notepad and pen out of his shirt pocket, then ripped out a page and scribbled his cell number. Thrusting the page at Burton, he said, “Call me if you hear anything.” He waited a second for the glint of agreement in the man's eyes, then retraced his steps across the office, past the officer, and down the corridor.

A dark green pickup with wedges of snow on the roof and hood shot out of the parking lot as Father John got to the sidewalk. He watched the pickup slide into the turn onto Main and accelerate through the snow, engine roaring, clouds of snow and ice trailing it down the street.

He loves her.
The truth of it pounded in Father John's head like a sledgehammer. A man she cannot trust loves her.

He crossed the sidewalk, digging his keys out of his coat pocket as he went, and waded through the slush at the curb. He got into the pickup, made a U-turn, and drove east toward the kaleidoscope of blue and red lights flickering ahead. The green pickup was nowhere in sight.

He had to wait behind six or seven vehicles to get through the roadblock—the officer peering into the cab and checking the bed. Still checking. They hadn't found her yet.

He should go back to the mission and wait for the call, he was thinking as he drove north on Highway 287. He should sit at his desk and
stare at the phone until the image burned into his eyes. Oh, yes, the rational, logical thing to do. Scruffy mounds of sagebrush flashed past outside the windows. Back at the roadblock—he wasn't sure when he'd
known
what to do—he'd simply turned the pickup in the direction of Ethete where Lucille Montana lived. She knows, he said out loud. His voice sounded unfamiliar, strained with worry. She knows. She knows. Dear Lord, let her tell a priest.

THE HOUSE LOOKED
deserted, curtains closed, no cars in front. The pickup bounced across the yard, through the churned snow, and stopped at the stoop. Father John tried to fight back the sinking feeling that the woman wasn't home. Maybe she hadn't talked to the police, although the police had probably been here, judging by the tracks crisscrossing the yard. Maybe she hadn't talked to anyone, just gone away with whatever she might know that could lead him to Vicky. And there was no one else. Dear Lord, he couldn't think of anyone else.

Father John got out of the pickup and slammed the door hard into the stillness. He stepped onto the stoop and pounded on the door. Nothing. No sounds of footsteps inside. He pounded again. “Lucille,” he shouted. “It's Father John. I have to talk to you.”

He bent his head close to the door, listening for the slightest sound of life. When it came, it surprised him, so small and quiet, like the scuff of slippers over carpet. Then the door began inching open and Lucille peered up at him. Stripes of shadow fell over her face. Still he could see that she'd been crying—the puffy face, the red-rimmed eyes.

“May I come in?” he said.

She pulled the door back, and he followed her into the dark living room. He shut the door behind him and took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the white glare outside. She had already walked across the room and was leaning over the shadowy hulk of a table. A lamp came on, throwing a circle of light over the small table and one end of the sofa. Lucille hovered at the edge of the light. She was dressed in a
dark bathrobe that bunched up around the belt cinched at her waist. On her feet were white fluffy slippers that made her look as if she were standing in snow.

“I'm not feeling up to company right now, Father. Sorry.” The woman dropped onto the far side of the sofa, away from the light.

Father John perched on a chair. “You know why I'm here, Lucille,” he said. “Frankie has taken Vicky hostage. We have to find her. I think you can help.”

The woman didn't say anything for a long moment, just bobbed her head up and down, as if she were trying to absorb what he'd told her. Finally, she said, “I don't know where he went, if that's what you're after. You and them cops that come around thirty minutes ago, asking the same question. Where he'd take her? It's their fault, them and the detective. If they hadn't come busting in here trying to arrest Frankie, this wouldn't have happened.”

“Listen to me, Lucille,” Father John said. “What Frankie's done is very serious. It will go better for him if he lets Vicky go and gives himself up. The longer he holds her hostage, the more likely it is that something might happen . . .”

“He's not gonna hurt her,” Lucille cut in.

“He's scared, Lucille. He's running. Anything could happen.”

“You got that right. Only reason he ran outta here this morning is 'cause he's scared. Frankie's so scared of going to prison, he don't know what he's doing. You don't know what it's like for an Indian locked up in a cell. The cops are gonna hunt him down, like he was a wolf that dragged off one of their lambs. He's not responsible, Father.”

Father John felt a stab of panic. That was the point. Frankie Montana wasn't responsible. There was no telling what he might do, and the longer he had Vicky. . . . He squeezed the tip of his nose hard to block out the sense of fear—like a physical pain—surging through him. He said, “Help me, Lucille. Tell me where he might be. I'll do everything I can to help him.”

“The cops'll just go shooting their way in. That's what happened out at
the Bates Battlefield where the sheriff says Frankie killed those Shoshones. Bunch of soldiers and Shoshones shooting into the village, didn't care who they killed. That's what they'll do, Father. They'll kill him.”