Eye of the Wolf (30 page)

“Take a look at the photo,” Father John said. “Have you seen the woman before?”

Ian pulled the newspaper over a pile of papers and glanced at the photo. “She's the wife of the man who wrote the book on tribal wars, just like the war we've got going on now.”

“Take a good look. Have you ever seen her?”

The other priest stared at him for a moment before lowering his eyes again to the photo. He picked up the newspaper and, holding it up in both hands, leaned back. Then he tossed the paper onto the desk. “What is this, the Inquisition? We had this discussion yesterday evening. Do we have to keep going over it? Yes, I stop in a bar now and then and have a drink. I confess. What more do you want?”

“I want to know if you've seen the woman before.”

“I think you already know the answer.”

Father John didn't say anything.

A couple of seconds passed before the other priest said, “I saw her at the Cowboy Bar and Grill a couple of times. She came in with the students who were murdered. I saw their photos in the
Gazette
. She looked different, not like this photograph of her and her husband. Younger, like a student herself. If I remember right, she had on jeans and a sweater, not the fancy suit she's wearing in the photo. Her hair looked longer. It hung loose around her face, not pulled back like that.” He reached over and tapped the photo. “She was laughing a lot, like she was really enjoying herself, or maybe she was just enjoying the beer. She sure had the attention of the guys, I noticed that.”

Father Ian paused, then picked up the paper and studied the photo again. “I read this article last week. I must have glanced at this photo, but I never connected the professor's wife with the girl in the bar. They're the same.”

“Thanks, Ian.” Father John stood up, reached for the paper, and
started for the door. It was a start, he was thinking. Enough to take to Detective Burton and maybe convince the man to continue the investigation.

“Thanks?” Ian said behind him. “That's it? What's going on?”

Father John turned back. “I'm not sure yet,” he said.

There was the
whoosh
of the front door opening, and Father John stepped out into the corridor. For a half-second, Vicky stood in the doorway, backlit by the gray daylight. “I've got to talk to you, John,” she said.

He was halfway down the corridor when she stepped inside and slammed the door. The noise rippled through the old walls. She was staring at him, as if she were seeing him for the first time. “You know the truth, don't you?” she said.

FATHER JOHN FOLLOWED
Vicky into his office where she swung around to face him. “They're going to charge Frankie with four counts of homicide.”

“How about taking a hostage at gunpoint, breaking and entering? Shouldn't you be home?” Father John felt a spasm of alarm at the drawn look in her face, the hollow spaces beneath her cheekbones. Her eyes were on fire. She knows the truth, he was thinking. He said, “The doctor said you should rest . . .”

She cut in, “They're going to charge Frankie for murders he didn't commit, John. Burton's probably falling all over himself, congratulating himself for stopping a tribal war before it tears the reservation apart. The investigation is closed, and the killer is still walking around free.” She waved the notepad. “The evidence is here.”

“Will you please sit down?” Father John took hold of her arm and steered her toward a side chair. “Frankie's not your worry anymore,” he
said. But the Arapaho
was
her worry, he was thinking. She couldn't put it out of her mind that the man was innocent any more than he could. They were alike, he realized. Maybe he had influenced her, encouraged her to care about her people, but he doubted it. She was the one who had influenced him.

She sat forward in the chair and started thumbing through the notepad, pages filled with scribbling in black ink. “Frankie was telling the truth about the radio station,” she said.

Father John nudged another chair over with his boot and sat down beside her, close enough to see the date on the top of the page she was looking at. Today's date.

“I talked to the station manager this morning,” Vicky said. “He fired Frankie almost two years ago. Not for incompetence. He said that Frankie was one of the most talented mikes they'd had. Lively, spontaneous. He had a large audience.” She slapped the pad against her thigh. “Unfortunately, things started disappearing. Coffee mugs, sweaters, the latest Coldplay and Hoobastank CDs. Then bigger things, like computers. An employee saw Frankie carrying a large carton out to his pickup. The manager made Frankie an offer. Frankie would leave quietly and the manager wouldn't file a complaint. Frankie's been good at riding away from trouble, until now.” Vicky was shaking her head. “The point is, John, the manager assured me that Frankie hasn't been near the place. He said that's what he told Burton.”

Vicky thumbed to the next page, today's date also scrawled on the top. She'd already put in a busy morning, Father John was thinking.

“I spoke to the managers at the radio stations in Lander and Riverton. They'd heard of Frankie Montana.” She shot a glance at him. “Who hasn't heard of Frankie by now? They said he'd never been in their studios.”

Vicky flashed a sideways smile up at him. “Took a while to get ahold of Mavis Clooney, who manages the station at the college, but I finally got her cell and tracked her down at the grocery store. She'd also heard of Frankie, but he never came near the studio. I was about to hang up
when I remembered how Professor Lambert had encouraged his students to visit the Bates Battlefield. So I asked about the students. Did any of Lambert's students happen to work at the studio? She started stalling. You know, private information, that kind of thing. She'd already given a copy of the schedules to Burton. I reminded her that I was Montana's lawyer, and that I was investigating the charges he faced.”

She gave Father John another sideways smile, and this time, she shifted around until she was facing him. “I confess,” she said. “I told a lie. I can't very well represent the man who took me hostage. But it worked. She agreed to check the schedule and call me back from her office. An hour later, she called. None of the students who work at the studio is in Lambert's class. I asked about students who might have make a recording in recent weeks. That's when she told me the studio isn't available for student use. But get this, John,” Vicky hurried on. “It's available for faculty.”

“Lambert?” It wasn't possible, Father John was thinking. He could see the man moving across the living room, reaching one hand for the top of a chair, the edge of a table, gripping the walking stick with the other. It struck him again that maybe the professor was stronger than he wanted to appear. The killer had hiked a steep slope, clambered among boulders and rock outcroppings.

“Close,” Vicky said. “Two weeks ago, the professor's wife booked the studio. She wanted to record material for her husband's class. That's what she told the manager.”

Father John looked away: the papers and folders crawling over his desk, the oblong of daylight framed in the window, the tiny specks of moisture flecking the glass. Dana Lambert recorded the robotic voice? It didn't make sense. Something was off, like the sound of an out-of-tune violin accompanying the soprano.

He brought his eyes back to Vicky's. “There were reports in the newspapers about the telephone messages and the robotic voice. Engineers at the studio would have known that Dana had made the recordings. They would have told Burton.”

“That's just it, John.” Vicky was shaking her head again, fingers riffling the edges of the pages. “Dana Lambert arranged to use the studio late in the evening. She said that it was the only time she had. Mavis Clooney gave her a key. After all, she's the wife of the most prominent man on campus. It wasn't necessary for the staff to be on hand. Mrs. Lambert had been a radio personality in Philadelphia for several years.”

Vicky was quiet a moment, not taking her eyes from his. “There's more, John. Mavis told me that Dana Lambert had met her husband when she interviewed him about one of his books. They'd hit it off immediately, since they both had a great love of history. She had a master's in history and was thinking of starting a doctorate. At least, that's what she said, and Mavis seemed quite pleased that the wife of the great man had chosen to confide in her. There was no need for an engineer because Mrs. Lambert could operate the board herself.”

Vicky stopped. She seemed to be holding her breath, allowing her words to fill up the space between them without interference. Finally, she said, “No one else was in the studio.”

Father John stood up and walked over to the window. Across the mission, Walks-On was scratching at the front door of the residence. He could hear the dog whining, or was he imagining it? He was so used to the sounds that Walks-On made. So used to the mission and to the reservation and to the way things always were, except that now they were changed. Now four young men were dead, and Shoshones and Arapahos were locked into opposing camps. Tribes that had lived together in peace for more than a hundred years suddenly were thrust into the past.

He turned back to Vicky, and in her expression, he could read his own thoughts. It was
her
people,
her
place that could be destroyed. And for what purpose? He knew the answer, and the weight of it was like an avalanche of boulders crashing over him. He could see Professor Lambert settling into his chair, talking about the radio interviews around the country, the growing demand for
Tribal Wars
—the demand caused by the outbreak of a real tribal war. Oh, yes, the perfect logical syllogism.

Father John stepped over to the desk and perched on the edge, his
gaze still on Vicky. He told her about his visit to Professor Lambert's earlier. “Dana Lambert saw the chance to promote her husband's new book, turn it into a best seller, make a lot of money,” he said. Then he told her the rest: how the woman had met the Shoshones at the Cowboy Bar and Grill and arranged to take them to Bates, the perfect guide.

“My God, John.” Vicky stared across the office. “Frankie fit right into her plans. He might have even given her the idea—Arapaho harassing Shoshones at the bar. She saw the way to kill the Shoshones, put the blame on an Arapaho, and cause a lot of trouble on the reservation. She made the tape, intending the message for you, knowing that you'd figure it out and go to the Bates Battlefield immediately. She was waiting for you, John. She intended to kill the Indian priest, too. Think of the publicity! Priest shot at historic battlefield along with three Shoshones. Oh, she's clever, John. She worked every angle to get as much publicity as possible for her husband's book. She had planned everything. She even stole Frankie's rifle out of his pickup in the parking lot at the Cowboy Bar and Grill.”

Vicky got up, walked over, and leaned back against the edge of the desk next to him. “But with all of Dana Lambert's planning, the war didn't start soon enough for her. So she convinced another Shoshone, Eric Surrell, to go with her to the battlefield. Probably told him that she knew who had killed his cousin Trent and the Crispin brothers.”

Father John reached behind her and picked up the receiver. “We have to talk to Burton,” he said, pressing a series of keys.

“There's no physical evidence,” Vicky said.

“There's enough for him to get a search warrant for the Lamberts' house.” He leaned his head against the receiver. A phone was ringing at the sheriff's office in Lander. “They might get lucky and find the taped messages.”

“Fremont County Sheriff's Department.” A woman's voice answered, bright and almost relieved. Relieved that a killer was behind bars, he thought.

He said, “This is Father O'Malley. Let me talk to Burton . . .”

“Hold on, Father. I'll see if he's around.”

The line went dead, and for a moment Father John thought they'd been disconnected. Then the detective's voice was at the other end, familiar and matter-of-fact. “What's up, Father?”

“Vicky Holden and I . . .” Father John began.

“Yeah?” the man interrupted. “How's she doing today? We got Montana, you know. He's not going to be hurting anybody else.”

“Listen, Burton,” Father John said. “We've found evidence that links Dana Lambert to the Shoshone murders.”

“Dana Lambert?” the detective said. “We talking about Professor Lambert's wife?”

“We'll be in your office in thirty minutes.”

“Hold on a minute, Father. Something just came in on the Lamberts. Let me get it.” The line went dead again, and he had the sense that he and Vicky were alone with nothing, really, except a theory about a killer who might never be brought to justice.

“What is it?” Vicky said. Father John could feel her eyes on him.

“I don't know. Something about the Lamberts.”

“Here it is.” The detective's voice again, breaking over the crinkle of papers. “Thirty minutes ago, we got a domestic disturbance call from the Lambert residence. The professor himself, asking for assistance. A car responded immediately, but nobody was at the house. Neighbor down the road says she saw the couple drive away in a blue Pontiac sedan. We're looking for the car.”

Father John pushed himself upright, the realization crashing through his mind. Dear Lord, he'd laid a trap for the man. He'd told the professor about his wife meeting the Shoshones at the bar. He'd said there were people who could identify her. He'd made it impossible for the professor to continue to deny the truth. The man knew that his wife was capable of making the tape; he knew it wasn't a coincidence for the Shoshones to be murdered at Bates at the same time his book was due out. But he denied the truth, until . . .

Until he'd realized someone could link Dana to the murder victims. He must have confronted her when she came home.

“Dana Lambert's taking her husband out to Bates,” Father John said. “She probably has a gun on him. She'll kill him on the battlefield.” It was so logical, the perfect logic. Book sales would go off the charts if the author was killed at the battlefield where the Shoshones had died.

“Whoa. Hold up there, Father,” the detective said. “What are you talking about? Why would she take him all the way out there if she wants to kill him?”

“How long ago did they leave?” Father John said. Vicky had jumped up and was leaning in close, straining to hear the other end of the conversation.

“Wait a minute. This still isn't making sense.”

“How long?”

“Maybe twenty minutes.”

“They've got a twenty-minute head start. There's still time to stop them before they get to Bates. For Godsakes, Burton, get a car out there.”

“Listen, Father. We've got one deputy in the vicinity. He could be thirty miles away. I can't guarantee . . .”

Father John slammed down the receiver and strode over to the coat tree in the corner. He was shrugging into his coat when Vicky said, “I'm coming with you.”

“Go back to your apartment, Vicky. You've been through enough.” Father John grabbed his hat and went into the corridor.

“I said I'm coming.” She brushed ahead, flung open the door, and headed down the steps.