Eye of the Wolf (26 page)

FATHER JOHN DROPPED
down on his knees beside the body and started brushing at the snow, barely aware of Adam on the other side. Both brushing until the black hair began to emerge, then her face, as still as the snow wedged inside the collar of her black coat.

“Vicky!” It was Adam's voice edged with panic, or maybe his own. Father John wasn't sure. He'd taken off his glove and was running his fingers along the side of her neck, searching for a pulse. Her face looked still and gray. Strands of black hair looped into the snow.

He had the pulse now, slow and regular and faint.

“Vicky!” he shouted. “Wake up!”

A couple of seconds passed, the blur of a nightmare. Adam shouting her name over and over, still brushing away the snow, and the dark expanse of sky and trees looming over them. Father John wrapped his hands around hers and began massaging them. Her black gloves felt as brittle as glass next to his palms. “Wake up, Vicky,” he said, keeping his
voice soft, as if the softness might slip into her dreams and bring her back. It was another moment before he saw her eyelids flicker, the tiny crystals clinging to her eyelashes. Slowly, slowly, her eyes came open. Dark, uncomprehending eyes stared up at him.

“We've got you,” he said, his voice still soft. “Adam and I are going to take you to the hospital.”

She stirred a little, gathering her forces, and as she did so, she turned her head toward Adam.

“You'll be okay, honey,” Adam said.

Father John got his feet under him. He slipped his arms around her and began lifting her up, aware that Adam was also lifting her. It didn't take both of them, he thought. She was as light as the snow. “Get the blankets,” Father John said.

He carried her around the passenger door, still hanging open toward the trees, slid her onto the seat, and got in beside her. He pulled the door shut and began adjusting the heat, adjusting the vents. Hot air started to pour around them. Over the hum of the motor came the brittle sound of metal creaking and thumping in the cold. He glanced back. Adam's shadow moved past the rear window.

Father John slid his arms around her and began rubbing her back, the small knobs of her spine beneath the thick layer of her coat. Even the coat felt stiff with frost. He picked up her hand, removed her glove, and started massaging the fingers that felt like dead twigs, the small, stiff palm, the bare wrist. He did the same with her other hand. She seemed to be coming back to life a little, rolling her head about, looking around the cab. “How did you know?” she said.

The driver's door flung open and a block of cold air crashed into the warmth. Adam ducked inside with the cold and began draping a blanket around Vicky, tucking it in at the sides, wrapping it around her feet. Like a father tucking in his child, Father John thought, as he tugged at the edge of the blanket and wrapped it about her head, leaving a small space for her nose and mouth, then reined her to him again. “You're going to be okay,” he said.

Adam was settled behind the wheel now, the driver's door shut, a cocoon of warm air enveloping the cab. He started shifting the gear: forward, reverse. They were rocking back and forth, the engine growling. The heater sputtered a moment, then went back to emitting a stream of hot air.

Father John tilted his head sideways until he could see around the dark edges of the blanket. Vicky was staring at him from out of the shadows. “Do you know where Frankie is?” he asked.

“We're taking her to the hospital,” Adam said. The words were strained, spoken through clenched teeth. He twisted around and stared out the rear window as the pickup started bumping backward, the tires scrambling for traction.

“He didn't kill the Shoshones.” Vicky's voice was so soft that Father John had to lean closer to hear.

“Listen to me, Vicky,” he said again. “Do you know where he is? We can't leave him out in the cold.”

“We're leaving him,” Adam said. The tires had settled into the tracks, and the pickup was rocketing dangerously backward down the road.

“Hold up, for Godsakes!” Father John heard himself shouting. His own sense of disbelief filled the cab like an unseen presence.

“All I care about is getting Vicky to the hospital and making sure she's okay.” Adam didn't take his eyes off the rear window.

“Stop the pickup and let me out.”

“What? Are you nuts?” For the briefest moment, Adam glanced across Vicky and locked eyes with Father John. “You want to die out there with a murderer?”

Father John felt the pressure of Vicky's hand against his and he realized that she was trying to say something. He bent his head close to her.

“The house,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. “We ran out of gas. We had to hike to the house.”

“Frankie's in a house?” He repeated, making certain he'd heard it right.

“Up there.” Vicky tossed her head sideways toward the mountain sloping into the darkness. “I got away.”

For the first time, Father John felt himself begin to relax. Vicky was beginning to sound like herself. She was herself. Somehow she'd gotten away from Frankie Montana. She'd fled whatever house he'd taken her to. The man might not even know she was gone, but when he figured it out—when he figured it out, he would come after her.

Father John held her close for a moment. Thank God. Thank God. They'd gotten to her before Frankie had found her. He could almost sense the same wave of relief washing over Adam, still twisted around, peering out the rear window, one hand gripping the wheel.

“Frankie's innocent,” Vicky said.

“You don't know what you're saying,” Adam said, but in a gentle way. He might have been correcting a child. “You want to believe he's innocent, that's all. He took you hostage at gunpoint. Drove you up here where there's nobody around. God knows what he might have done if you hadn't gotten away. The man's capable of anything.”

“What makes you think he didn't kill the Shoshones?” Father John kept his eyes lowered on Vicky. She'd reached up, pushed away the blanket, and leaned her head back against the seat. Light from the dashboard glowed on her face. There was a hint of color coming into her cheeks.

“He didn't do it, John,” she said.

They might have been the only ones in the pickup, Father John thought, or maybe it was just that she sensed that he was the one who believed her.

“He's scared,” she went on. “He's out of his mind with the fear of prison.”

“So he kidnaps you?” Adam didn't try to hide the disdain. “He just bought himself a one-way ticket to prison, Vicky. He's guilty as hell.”

“Not of homicide.” She hesitated. “I feel sorry for him.”

“My God, Vicky,” Adam said.

“He didn't make the tape recording, John,” Vicky said. They were alone again.

“What are you talking about?” Adam slowed the pickup until it skidded to a stop. Squaring himself to the front, he shifted into forward and, giving the wheel a sharp turn, began maneuvering the pickup around a depression in the road. Then they were hurtling forward down the tracks.

“The taped messages about the bodies at Bates,” Father John told the man. The tracks emptied into the highway ahead, and Adam eased on the brake and pulled the steering wheel into the turn. The tires made a thumping noise against the asphalt under the snow. Far below, flashing through the trees, were the signs of life: headlights flashing, dots of lights flickering through the black expanse of trees.

“The radio station threatened to call the cops if Frankie showed up in the parking lot,” Vicky went on, as if the interruption hadn't occurred. “He says he hasn't been near the place.”

“He's lying,” Adam said.

Maybe not, Father John was thinking. Vicky had spent most of the day with Frankie. He'd held her at gunpoint. She had every reason to hate him, and yet . . . she felt sorry for him. She had the sense that the man was desperate. Father John had learned to trust her feelings, even when he hadn't understood, even when they had seemed so—What was it? Illogical? Someone could have gone to a lot of trouble to make Frankie Montana look like the killer. A perfect setup with the perfect fall guy.

They were plunging down the highway, the glow of lights in Lander rising toward them. Adam had pulled out a cell and was holding it in one hand, the tips of his gloved fingers working the keys while his other hand gripped the rim of the steering wheel. He pressed the cell against one ear. “Patch me through to Detective Burton,” he barked. A moment passed, then, “Adam Lone Eagle here. We found Vicky in Sinks Canyon. Montana took her to one of the houses he broke into last fall. He's still holed up there.”

“I left him tied up,” Vicky said.

Father John dropped his head and peered at her, aware that Adam had taken his eyes off the road and was also staring at her. “You tied him up?” Adam said.

The incredulity in the man's voice matched his own surprise, Father John thought. Beneath the layers of the blanket and her coat, he could feel Vicky give a little shrug of her shoulders. “Frankie was passed out,” she said.

“Montana could be tied up,” Adam said into the cell. “That's right. Tied up.” Another pause. “Yeah, maybe he's gotten himself free by now. The pickup's out of gas. He can either try to hike out or stay put. I'd say he'll stay put.”

Adam hit another key and slipped the cell across his chest into the inside pocket of his sheepskin coat. “It'll be awhile before Burton can get a couple of cars up there,” he said, his eyes glued to the windshield and the snow-slicked street running into the western edges of town. “They'll get that bastard.”

A couple of blocks back, Father John had spotted the blue sign with the white
H
and the arrow pointing in the direction of the hospital. The inside of the pickup was beginning to feel like a sauna, but Vicky was still shivering. He could feel the sudden, jerky spasms beneath the layers of blanket and coat. He stopped himself from telling Adam to step on it. There was no need. Parked vehicles, trees, bungalows flashed by in a blur of falling snow and shadows. The man had the accelerator floored.

FATHER JOHN AND
Adam left the hospital and walked together in silence across the parking lot to the spot where Adam had left the pickup after they'd taken Vicky to the emergency entrance. She would be fine, the doctor had assured them. A big man, blond hair, reddish face, green scrubs, and white athletic shoes, exuding confidence. Just fine. Oh, she'd been close to hypothermia, but they'd gotten her body temperature back up, almost normal. She had some frostbite on her toes and
fingers, a little frostbite on her nose and ears. And a mild concussion. They'd keep her for observation tonight. If all went well, and he certainly expected that would be the case, she could go home tomorrow. She should rest a few days, take it easy.

“I'll get Vicky at the hospital in the morning,” Adam said.

They were at the pickup, and Father John opened the passenger door and got inside.

“Look, John.” The Lakota settled himself behind the steering wheel and went on. “I owe you an apology.”

“You don't owe me . . .”

The man cut in, “I owe you an apology.” He started the engine, guided the pickup across the lot, and turned onto Bishop Randall Drive. “I knew you'd figured out where Montana had taken her the minute you called me. I didn't want to admit that you knew where to find her. I wanted to find her, you see. I wanted to be her hero. I'm in love with her. I'm sure you can understand that.” He'd hurried on, not waiting for a response, and Father John had been grateful for that. There was no response. “I'm hoping she can learn to love me,” Adam said.

Father John left his eyes on the man a moment, then turned back to the windshield. They were on Main Street now, pickups and sedans lumbering past, snow fanning from the wheels. The reflection of headlights shone in the storefront windows. “I'm not holding onto her,” he said.

“Oh, but you are,” Adam said.

IT WAS WHEN
the road bent into Circle Drive and the headlights switched through the trees that Father John saw the vehicles in front of the administration building: a white van with a satellite dish fixed to the roof, two SUVs, and a couple of sedans. He pulled in next to the van with black letters sprawled across the side—KLTV—and slammed out of the pickup.

A half-dozen people began rising off the bench and peeling themselves away from the walls as Father John came through the front door.
Father Ian was paddling through the crowd. “You have visitors, John,” he said.

Liam Harrison stepped around the other priest. “A few questions, Father O'Malley. Hope you don't mind.” He ran his tongue over the tip of his index finger, flipped back the pages of the small pad cupped in his fleshy hand, and hurried on. “Looks like Arapahos and Shoshones are at war again, just like in Professor Lambert's book. Shoshones are looking for revenge for the four men killed at Bates. What can you tell us, Father? They send you any clues, like the Arapahos did?”

“Clues about what?” Father John let his gaze run over the reporters craning around Harrison, two women, four men, clutching notepads and pens, with the stretched faces of wolves catching the first sniff of prey in the air.