The Thunder Keeper Part 11

"Vicky? Was I expecting you?" She hurried forward, as if she were late for some forgotten appointment.

Vicky shook her head. "Do you have a minute?"

"For our own Indian lawyer, always." The woman brushed past and opened the office door.

Vicky followed her into a small s.p.a.ce with a desk and a two-seat black vinyl couch pushed against one wall. Papers and folders spilled over the desk and trailed across the couch in haphazard stacks. The director swooped up a handful of papers from the couch. "No sense standing when we can sit, I always say." She settled into the chair at the desk and tossed the papers onto a sloping pile.

"How've you been?" Vicky began.

"Oh, holdin' up okay." The other woman entered into the familiar pattern. Gloomy days. Not much suns.h.i.+ne. "Our people been living in the sun so long we start feeling depressed when it goes away." She glanced about, as if another idea had taken hold. "We got more and more Indian people here every day lookin' for help. Sick, out of work, don't have any place to leave the kids. Don't have anything, some of 'em. No household stuff, no food. We try to get them fixed up with social services till they get on their feet."

Vicky nodded. She'd heard the stories many times, and with them came the pain of unwanted memories. She, in a car with a hundred thousand miles on the odometer and a reverse gear that didn't always work, driving to Denver to begin a new life, an old suitcase and a couple of boxes in the backseat holding everything she owned, the city sprawling ahead, stark and impersonal.

She drew in a long breath and s.h.i.+fted toward the edge of the couch, the preliminaries now over. "I'm looking for a Pueblo Indian named Eddie. He hung around with Duncan Grover."

The director's face froze. "That was one troublemaker, Grover," she said. "Came around for a couple of powwows. You could smell the whiskey when he walked in the door. Beat up some Indian out in the parking lot about a month ago. Couple guys broke it up before I had to call the police." She shrugged. "We'd just as soon not have the police coming out here too often. They get to think Indians are nothing but troublemakers. Anyway-" Another shrug. "Next thing I hear on the moccasin telegraph Grover's jumped off a ledge at Bear Lake."

The director let her eyes trail toward the corridor beyond the opened door. "Couldn't believe my ears. Grover might've been a troublemaker, but I never heard of a warrior taking a flying leap off a ledge in a sacred place. Don't make sense."

Vicky nodded. It hadn't made sense to her either, or to John O'Malley.

She said, "Father O'Malley thinks Eddie might know something about the death."

"Never met the good priest." The director broke into a smile. "Heard lots about him. People from the res say he's a white man they can trust."

True, Vicky thought. She had always trusted him, but now-the lawsuit . . . She went on: "If Grover was a troublemaker, somebody might have had a grudge against him."

The director sat back and regarded her a moment. "Lots of people, you ask me."

"What about the guy he got into a fight with?"

"Yeah, him for sure. He was a b.l.o.o.d.y mess, but soon's the other guys pulled Grover off, he got himself into a brown pickup and tore outta here."

"Who was he?" Vicky tried to keep the urgency out of her voice.

"Never saw him before that night." The woman gave a halfhearted shrug. "Never seen him since. I can't say I'm sorry about that."

"Is there anyone else who knew Grover? Anyone who might know who Eddie is?"

"Sorry." Marie shook her head, then stared straight ahead a moment, as if she were contemplating an image on the wall. "You say Eddie is Pueblo. I can ask around, get back to you."

"Thanks, Marie." Vicky stood up and started for the door. She had the same feeling that had come over her earlier, after talking with Jana Lewis: she was chasing phantoms. Rumors and shadows, like evil spirits, always ahead, around a corner, out of sight, laughing at her.

"Hold on a minute." Marie was on her feet, shouldering past into the corridor. The clack of her footsteps mingled with the thump, thump of a basketball. After a moment she was back, a tall, well-built Indian behind her. He looked about thirty, with the dark, round face and intent look of the Cheyenne and black hair smoothed back into a ponytail. He bunched his fists in the pockets of his blue jeans jacket.

"This here's Robert Yellow Wolf." Marie tilted her head back. "He was one of the guys broke up the fight in the parking lot." She glanced up and gave him an appreciative smile.

"Did you know Grover?" Vicky asked.

"Nah." Yellow Wolf shook his head slowly. "That dude give Indians a bad name. Didn't surprise me none he jumped off a cliff."

"What about somebody called Eddie?"

He was still shaking his head. "Never had the pleasure. But he could've been the guy Grover beat h.e.l.l out of. I heard him shouting something like, 'Eddie, you sonovab.i.t.c.h, I'm gonna kill ya.' "

So he did exist, Vicky thought. Eddie was real. Not an untrue image. Real, and possibly a murderer.

"Eddie who?" Vicky persisted.

"Eddie sonovab.i.t.c.h." The Indian shrugged.

Vicky drove north on Sheridan Boulevard through neighborhoods of white frame bungalows, brick ranches, and strip malls anch.o.r.ed by gas stations and fast-food restaurants. The rain had stopped, leaving the air heavy with the smell of wet leaves and gra.s.ses. The evening traffic was light: arrows of yellow headlights blurring over the asphalt, the sound of tires splas.h.i.+ng through puddles in the intersections.

She would call John O'Malley the minute she got home, she decided. She was ready now. The lawsuit had been in the back of her mind all day. She'd felt betrayed somehow. It was silly. Whatever had happened-it had nothing to do with her.

He would be in the residence now-she could picture him-in the study, as crammed with papers and books as her own, the music from some opera blasting around him. She'd tell him what she'd learned. Eddie had reason to hold a grudge against Duncan Grover. And the promise Marie had made to keep asking around on the chance someone might know the man.

She wondered what difference it would make if John O'Malley did find Eddie. It was all theory and shadows. Visions of what had happened. There was no physical evidence, or the coroner would have ruled the death a homicide and the police would be looking for Eddie.

She turned right onto Twenty-ninth Avenue. Downtown lights rose in the distance. After a few blocks, she made a U-turn and parked behind another vehicle in front of the white house rising from the bluff. "Spirits dwell on the bluffs," her grandmother had said.

For a brief moment a sense of loneliness and disorientation hit her, and along with it, a dread of going into the house, wrapped in the quiet of its thick walls. Lucas was out to dinner with his new boss; he'd been out almost every evening since he'd arrived. He planned to move into his own apartment in a few days. She would be alone again. Hisei ci nihi. Woman alone. The grandmothers had given her an appropriate name, she thought.

She started up the concrete steps, trying to shake off the odd feeling. The house loomed above, shadows falling off the steeply pitched roof and clinging to the oblong windows and the stucco. The gate at the top of the stairs squealed when she opened it. She closed it behind her, then stopped.

Something wasn't right, some slight disturbance in the atmosphere. An animal, she told herself, aware of the p.r.i.c.kly feeling on her skin. She remained motionless, her eyes searching the shadows on the front porch until she saw the figure of a man rising from the bench inside the railing. He started down the sidewalk toward her.

She clasped her keys tightly, the jagged metal cutting into her fingers. "Who's there?" she called, moving back toward the gate, her other hand brus.h.i.+ng the air, searching for the latch. She heard her own voice again, disembodied somewhere ahead of her. "What do you want?"

21.

"Vicky, it's me. Steve."

She held on to the latch a moment and made herself breathe slowly-in and out, in and out. In the dim light of a pa.s.sing car, she could see the familiar slouch of his shoulders, the easy angle of his posture as he walked down the sidewalk. Hands in his slacks pockets, the fronts of the dark sport coat pushed back, tie loosened at the collar of a light s.h.i.+rt.

"Sorry, Vicky," he said. "I didn't mean to frighten you. I got your call, and since I was in the neighborhood . . ." He hesitated, and she knew it wasn't true. "I took a chance on finding you home. Been sitting on the porch waiting. I just decided to give you another ten minutes, and here you are."

"Let's go inside," Vicky managed, not trusting herself to say more. Her throat felt as scratchy as sagebrush, as if she'd been riding all day on the plains. She moved past him, aware of his footsteps, soft and measured, behind her. She jabbed the key at the lock, her hand shaking.

"Let me," Steve said. The shadow of his arm reached around her, and his hand covered her own. "I'm good at this sort of thing." In a half second the door swung open. She stepped inside and flipped on the wall switch, sending a flood of light over the entry, the living room on the left. She made her way through the shadows of the dining room ahead, dropping her bag on the table, and into the kitchen. Another wall switch. The fluorescent ceiling light stuttered into life as she opened the refrigerator and removed a bottle of water.

"Something to drink?" she asked. "Some coffee?" She turned back to the man leaning against the doorjamb, relaxed and watchful, hands still in his pockets.

"Water's fine for me." He nodded at the bottle in her hand.

Vicky found two gla.s.ses in the cupboard and filled them almost to the brim. She handed him one, then began gulping the water in the other gla.s.s, not stopping until it was empty. She refilled the gla.s.s, feeling calmer now, in control again.

"You seem pretty jumpy." He was still watching her. "What's going on?"

Vicky leaned back against the counter and locked eyes with the man. "You scared me, Steve. I wasn't expecting anyone to be on my porch."

"That's it?"

Not all of it, she thought. It was the city, the jumble of noises and odors, the unnatural play of light and shadows around the buildings, and the odd feeling that some stranger, not herself, floated over the paved streets that glistened with wetness, past the houses and buildings that crowded the earth, while she-her own spirit-was on the reservation.

She nodded, ignoring the perplexity in his expression. She could never explain.

"How about we go get something to eat?" he said after a moment, the perplexity giving way to something that resembled hope.

It was the hunger bothering her, that was all. She agreed.

"I know just the place," Steve said, relief in his tone, as if this were the easiest problem he'd faced all day. "Little restaurant couple blocks away." He set his half-full gla.s.s on the counter. "You'd better follow me. I'm backup for another guy tonight."

Vicky followed the white Ford through the streets of north Denver. Bungalows and Victorians slid by outside, light glowing in the windows. The remnants of the earlier rain still shone on the asphalt. She turned onto Thirty-second Avenue and parked behind the Ford in front of a row of little shops and restaurants. Cars lumbered past, tires thrumming into the background of city noise.

He took her arm and guided her inside, through a maze of tables with checkered cloths and candles blinking in the center. Only a few other diners were there.

"So you're finally having dinner with me," he said after they'd sat down.

"Just business, Steve." She gave him a friendly smile and began studying the menu, a part of her wondering what it might have been like, how her life might have gone, had she ever felt something more than friends.h.i.+p for this man.

After the waitress had taken their orders, he said, "Tell me about your hunch, Vicky."

It was a moment before she realized he was referring to the call she'd placed to him earlier. She sat back, folding and refolding the white cloth napkin in her lap, and explained that she'd gone to see Jana Lewis.

"Now, why would you do that?" He made no effort to conceal his irritation. "I told you I'd get back to you the minute we had anything on Vince Lewis's death. Why can't you trust me to do my job, Vicky?"

She waited until the waitress had delivered plates of chicken dumplings and poured two mugs of coffee. "Of course I trust you, Steve," she said.

"I don't think so."

In his eyes, Vicky caught an image of the woman he was staring at: determined, stubborn. She was as transparent as the windowpane next to their table. "I have to know what Vince Lewis wanted to tell me," she said.

He seemed to consider this, cutting into the chicken, taking a bite. Finally he said, "I want to get to the bottom of Lewis's death as much as you do. I want to find the son of a b.i.t.c.h who was driving that car, and put him away for the rest of his miserable life. Problem is, you talking to Jana Lewis could jeopardize the investigation. Right now the grieving widow could be the number-one suspect."

"I don't think Jana Lewis had anything to do with her husband's murder."

Steve stabbed at another piece of chicken. "Mind telling me what brought you to this conclusion?"

"She had no idea her husband was murdered," Vicky said. "She was convinced his death was an accident."

The detective took another bite and began chewing slowly, his eyes not leaving hers. "You realize," he said finally, "that you'll have to testify about your conversation if we put Jana Lewis on trial for murder. Hiring somebody to kill her husband is the same as doing the deed herself."

"There's no motivation, Steve." Vicky felt herself moving onto firmer ground. It was the feeling she had in the courtroom when she knew a case was won.

"Oh, no? Three million dollars isn't enough motivation for you?"

"Jana comes from a wealthy, influential family," Vicky plunged on. "The mansion is probably hers. Why would she take a chance on throwing it all away?"

Steve shrugged. "You ever know wealthy people with enough money? There's never enough, Vicky."

"Jana had started divorce proceedings," she said.

"I know that." He looked away, and she could see the vein pulsing in his neck.

"The point is," she went on, "Jana Lewis was represented by the company's lawyers." She had his attention now. "Vince was the vice-president, not his wife. Why didn't the lawyers represent him?"

"You're the lawyer," Steve said, a harshness in his tone that surprised her. He might have been interrogating a street thug. "Suppose you tell me?"

She drew in a long breath. "I think Jana Lewis is having an affair with Nathan Baider. He arranged for a divorce attorney at the company's firm to represent her."

"Jesus, Vicky. First it's diamonds on the reservation. Now Jana Lewis and Nathan Baider are having an affair. Where's the evidence? n.o.body's ever heard of diamonds up there, and n.o.body at Baider Industries has mentioned Jana and the boss in the same breath." He leaned toward her, his voice low now, precisely controlled. "I want you out of this investigation, understand? Your theories stink. Forget about Vince Lewis."

Vicky dropped her napkin beside her plate. "Sometimes, Steve, you can be a real b.a.s.t.a.r.d." She got to her feet, took her bag from the back of the chair, and started for the door. What he'd said had the sting of truth. She had a theory. There was no evidence. She was forcing every sc.r.a.p of information into her own preconceived image of what had happened. Why should it matter to her that some white man killed another white man?

She was across the sidewalk and walking around the Bronco when Steve caught up with her, took her arm, and turned her toward him. His grip was strong. She tried to pull away, sc.r.a.ping the back of her leg on the b.u.mper.

"You're right," he said. "I'm a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. But I can't stand the idea of your being involved in murder. If there's anything to your theory-I'm not saying there is-then it could be dangerous. Whoever wanted Lewis dead could want you dead, too. I can't stand to think about it, Vicky."

"It's okay," she said, finally pulling free.

He took her hand. "Please try to understand. It's just that I feel so d.a.m.n helpless, so frustrated, every time I see you. Every time I think of you, and . . ." He paused. "I mean, couldn't you like me a little?"

"You know I like you, Steve," she said, forgiving him, an old friend from that time when she was scared and alone, except for the young white man fresh out of the navy.

"I'm asking for something more, Vicky." He tightened his hand around hers. "I can be a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, but I'm working on that."

She slipped her hand free and ran a finger along the edge of his jaw. She could feel the p.r.i.c.kly growth of today's beard. "I'm sorry," she said. "You're a good man. You deserve more."

A phone started ringing, a m.u.f.fled noise nearly lost in the dark evening. He reached inside his sport coat and extracted a small black cell phone. "Clark," he said, his eyes on hers, as if he could hold her in place.

A second pa.s.sed, then another. His lips moved close to the phone. "I'll be right there." He tapped a b.u.t.ton and slipped the phone back inside his coat.

"What is it?" she said. Please, G.o.d, she was thinking. Not another murder.

"Vicky . . ." He hesitated. "I'm sorry, Vicky. A patrol car just spotted a woman's body dumped next to the tracks behind the Union Station. It's Jana Lewis."

"What?" Vicky felt the muscles in her stomach constrict, and her throat went dry.

"Looks like somebody beat her to death." Steve took her hand again, then let it go. "I'll call you," he said.