through the door. The coffee smelled fresh and strong, Bishop Harry Coughlin’s trademark. The muffled voice of the old man speaking on the phone came from the office in the rear. “Your new assistant said to make myself at home.”
Father John set the CD player on the desk, filled a mug for himself, then walked over and sat down in the worn chair that bore the imprint of his body. He guessed that Bishop Harry was the new assistant, although nothing was official. Just as nothing was official about his own position. He was still at St. Francis Mission, and that was what mattered.
Gianelli had already settled in one of the side chairs. “You read the message?” he said, nodding at the rock and the small white sheet of paper in the plastic bag at the corner of the desk. He had added the bag.
“Did you recognize either man?”
Father John shook his head.
“What kind of vehicle?”
Father John told him they drove a white Ford truck with damage on the left side that looked as if the driver had run into something solid.
“You think this is about Ned Windsong’s murder?”
“What else?” Father John pressed the button on the CD player and Salome swelled in the air. Something calming about opera, he thought, even the tragic dramas. With the first notes, he could feel himself begin to relax.
“Nobody captures the character of Salome with more lyricism and expression than Karita Matilla,” Gianelli said, waving his mug like a baton in the rhythm of “Ich will nicht bleiben.” Father John smiled at the thought of a former linebacker and a Jesuit priest listening to opera. It was a toss-up who loved opera more, or knew more about it. He had to admit that Ted Gianelli had an encyclopedic knowledge of opera trivia.
“Never know what you pastors have going on,” Gianelli said, pulling himself away from the opera and zeroing in on Father John. “Anybody who might be carrying a grudge?”
Father John shrugged. Parishioners sat in his office almost every day, pouring out their fears and problems, the broken relationships, the shattered hopes. He had counseled people that sometimes they had to let things go, let people go. There were women who had divorced abusive, drunken husbands. There had been times when the husbands had blamed him.
“This was about Ned,” he said.
“You know his fiancée witnessed the killing,” Gianelli said. “She’s got a lawyer. Vicky’s representing her.”
Father John took a drink of coffee and considered this. “Why would she need a lawyer?”
“Not unusual,” Gianelli said. “Smart thing to do, looking at it from her point of view. Right now, everything’s on the table. Nobody’s been cleared. The Wind River Police spent most the night bagging evidence. We’ll have the forensics report on fingerprints, boot prints, types of blood.” He rolled his shoulders and took a sip from the mug. “We’ll know if two men were actually in the house. What I don’t know is why a couple of Indians went to a lot of trouble to leave you a message. What is it they don’t want you talking about?”
Father John clasped his hands around his mug. “I figure they knew that Ned came to the mission a couple of times after he got back from Jackson Hole.”
“So what do they think Ned told you?”
Father John shook his head. He could feel the regret stabbing at him like a dull knife. “I had the sense that he wanted to talk, but he didn’t tell me anything.”
“Nothing?”
“He said he planned to dance at the Sun Dance, that he was changing his life.”
“That’s something.”
Father John stared at the man across from him—the thick head of black hair streaked with silver, the sunburned cheeks and forehead, the dark eyes staring out of a band of light skin left by sunglasses, the thick, linebacker’s shoulders inside the white shirt. Gianelli was right. Ned had wanted him to know that, whatever he may have done before, he intended to change his life.
BISHOP HARRY’S
Father John set the CD player on the desk, filled a mug for himself, then walked over and sat down in the worn chair that bore the imprint of his body. He guessed that Bishop Harry was the new assistant, although nothing was official. Just as nothing was official about his own position. He was still at St. Francis Mission, and that was what mattered.
Gianelli had already settled in one of the side chairs. “You read the message?” he said, nodding at the rock and the small white sheet of paper in the plastic bag at the corner of the desk. He had added the bag.
“Did you recognize either man?”
Father John shook his head.
“What kind of vehicle?”
Father John told him they drove a white Ford truck with damage on the left side that looked as if the driver had run into something solid.
“You think this is about Ned Windsong’s murder?”
“What else?” Father John pressed the button on the CD player and Salome swelled in the air. Something calming about opera, he thought, even the tragic dramas. With the first notes, he could feel himself begin to relax.
“Nobody captures the character of Salome with more lyricism and expression than Karita Matilla,” Gianelli said, waving his mug like a baton in the rhythm of “Ich will nicht bleiben.” Father John smiled at the thought of a former linebacker and a Jesuit priest listening to opera. It was a toss-up who loved opera more, or knew more about it. He had to admit that Ted Gianelli had an encyclopedic knowledge of opera trivia.
“Never know what you pastors have going on,” Gianelli said, pulling himself away from the opera and zeroing in on Father John. “Anybody who might be carrying a grudge?”
Father John shrugged. Parishioners sat in his office almost every day, pouring out their fears and problems, the broken relationships, the shattered hopes. He had counseled people that sometimes they had to let things go, let people go. There were women who had divorced abusive, drunken husbands. There had been times when the husbands had blamed him.
“This was about Ned,” he said.
“You know his fiancée witnessed the killing,” Gianelli said. “She’s got a lawyer. Vicky’s representing her.”
Father John took a drink of coffee and considered this. “Why would she need a lawyer?”
“Not unusual,” Gianelli said. “Smart thing to do, looking at it from her point of view. Right now, everything’s on the table. Nobody’s been cleared. The Wind River Police spent most the night bagging evidence. We’ll have the forensics report on fingerprints, boot prints, types of blood.” He rolled his shoulders and took a sip from the mug. “We’ll know if two men were actually in the house. What I don’t know is why a couple of Indians went to a lot of trouble to leave you a message. What is it they don’t want you talking about?”
Father John clasped his hands around his mug. “I figure they knew that Ned came to the mission a couple of times after he got back from Jackson Hole.”
“So what do they think Ned told you?”
Father John shook his head. He could feel the regret stabbing at him like a dull knife. “I had the sense that he wanted to talk, but he didn’t tell me anything.”
“Nothing?”
“He said he planned to dance at the Sun Dance, that he was changing his life.”
“That’s something.”
Father John stared at the man across from him—the thick head of black hair streaked with silver, the sunburned cheeks and forehead, the dark eyes staring out of a band of light skin left by sunglasses, the thick, linebacker’s shoulders inside the white shirt. Gianelli was right. Ned had wanted him to know that, whatever he may have done before, he intended to change his life.
BISHOP HARRY’S
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