Read Online The Spider's Web by Margaret Coel - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Margaret Coel
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he said. Got his GED and graduated from a trade school in Casper. Working as an apprentice for the Silver Electrical Company in Lander. Might even get married one of these days.
“Any time you’d like to help coach the Eagles,” Father John had told him, “come on out.”
He had smiled at that, and a faraway look had passed across his eyes.
Father John realized the bishop had asked a question, something about the possibility that Ned had gotten himself into trouble. “Little Robe, his spiritual grandfather, thinks so,” Father John said. “God knows there’s all kinds of trouble on the rez. Alcohol. Drugs.” He paused. “Last time I saw him, he didn’t appear to be using, and he hadn’t been drinking.” He felt a surge of gratitude for the way the bishop had nodded and looked away, not pressing the point. They both knew Father John was an expert on alcohol. He could smell whiskey on someone walking down the street toward him. He hurried on: “He was preparing for the Sun Dance. He wanted the strength to live a new life.”
“That would suggest he intended to leave something behind,” the bishop said. “Perhaps someone did not agree with his plan.”
“He wanted to talk the last couple of times I saw him,” Father John said. “Maybe, if I had encouraged him...”
“Listen, my boy,” the bishop leaned forward. “All the talking in the world wouldn’t have kept him alive, if somebody intended to kill him. You mustn’t blame yourself.”
Father John waited a moment before he got to his feet. He gave the bishop a nod of acknowledgment and headed back down the corridor. It was good to have an older man around, he was thinking, an experienced pastor. No telling how many hard and unbearably sad things Bishop Harry had dealt with in India, how many senseless deaths. How many had he blamed himself for? Believed that if only he had done something else, said something, the world would have been different?
He turned into his own office, dropped into his chair, and snapped on the lamp. A circle of light flared over the stacks of papers. The bishop seemed strong and resilient, unbent. Lord, let me learn to be like that, he prayed.
8
ENGINES GEARED DOWN outside, tires crunched the gravel. Past the corner of the window, Father John saw a caravan of vehicles coming around Circle Drive, a blue SUV leading a silver Hummer, a red pickup in the rear. He stacked the papers he had been going through into a pile and headed for the corridor. He had reached the stoop as the three vehicles lined up side by side at the foot of the steps. A large man with a head of curly gray hair sprang out of the SUV with the agility of an acrobat. “You Father O’Malley?” he called, waving a bearlike paw.
Marcy Morrison lifted herself out of the pickup as a heavyset man with strips of brown hair combed over a balding pate got out of the Hummer next to her. “Hi, Father,” the girl said, giving a little wave. The bruise on her cheek had turned dark purple. Her eyes were lost in circles of blackness.
Father John went down the steps and shook hands with the gray-haired man. Probably still in his forties, maybe a year or two younger than he was, Father John thought, with a pinkish complexion and a smooth shave. The man’s palm was smooth; his fingernails glistened with clear polish.
“Reverend Larry Morrison,” he said. “I’m entrusting my little girl to this here”—he threw a glance around the mission grounds, his gaze lingering for a moment on the white stuccoed church, the blue and red stained-glass windows shining in the sun—“Catholic mission,” he said. “I take it you’re the pastor.” He looked over at the man leaning against the front of the Hummer. “My assistant, Reverend Angelo Crispie,” he said. Father John stepped over and shook the other man’s hand.
“I reckon you already know my daughter.” Morrison reached around and pulled the girl to his side, keeping a thick sunburned arm draped over her
“Any time you’d like to help coach the Eagles,” Father John had told him, “come on out.”
He had smiled at that, and a faraway look had passed across his eyes.
Father John realized the bishop had asked a question, something about the possibility that Ned had gotten himself into trouble. “Little Robe, his spiritual grandfather, thinks so,” Father John said. “God knows there’s all kinds of trouble on the rez. Alcohol. Drugs.” He paused. “Last time I saw him, he didn’t appear to be using, and he hadn’t been drinking.” He felt a surge of gratitude for the way the bishop had nodded and looked away, not pressing the point. They both knew Father John was an expert on alcohol. He could smell whiskey on someone walking down the street toward him. He hurried on: “He was preparing for the Sun Dance. He wanted the strength to live a new life.”
“That would suggest he intended to leave something behind,” the bishop said. “Perhaps someone did not agree with his plan.”
“He wanted to talk the last couple of times I saw him,” Father John said. “Maybe, if I had encouraged him...”
“Listen, my boy,” the bishop leaned forward. “All the talking in the world wouldn’t have kept him alive, if somebody intended to kill him. You mustn’t blame yourself.”
Father John waited a moment before he got to his feet. He gave the bishop a nod of acknowledgment and headed back down the corridor. It was good to have an older man around, he was thinking, an experienced pastor. No telling how many hard and unbearably sad things Bishop Harry had dealt with in India, how many senseless deaths. How many had he blamed himself for? Believed that if only he had done something else, said something, the world would have been different?
He turned into his own office, dropped into his chair, and snapped on the lamp. A circle of light flared over the stacks of papers. The bishop seemed strong and resilient, unbent. Lord, let me learn to be like that, he prayed.
8
ENGINES GEARED DOWN outside, tires crunched the gravel. Past the corner of the window, Father John saw a caravan of vehicles coming around Circle Drive, a blue SUV leading a silver Hummer, a red pickup in the rear. He stacked the papers he had been going through into a pile and headed for the corridor. He had reached the stoop as the three vehicles lined up side by side at the foot of the steps. A large man with a head of curly gray hair sprang out of the SUV with the agility of an acrobat. “You Father O’Malley?” he called, waving a bearlike paw.
Marcy Morrison lifted herself out of the pickup as a heavyset man with strips of brown hair combed over a balding pate got out of the Hummer next to her. “Hi, Father,” the girl said, giving a little wave. The bruise on her cheek had turned dark purple. Her eyes were lost in circles of blackness.
Father John went down the steps and shook hands with the gray-haired man. Probably still in his forties, maybe a year or two younger than he was, Father John thought, with a pinkish complexion and a smooth shave. The man’s palm was smooth; his fingernails glistened with clear polish.
“Reverend Larry Morrison,” he said. “I’m entrusting my little girl to this here”—he threw a glance around the mission grounds, his gaze lingering for a moment on the white stuccoed church, the blue and red stained-glass windows shining in the sun—“Catholic mission,” he said. “I take it you’re the pastor.” He looked over at the man leaning against the front of the Hummer. “My assistant, Reverend Angelo Crispie,” he said. Father John stepped over and shook the other man’s hand.
“I reckon you already know my daughter.” Morrison reached around and pulled the girl to his side, keeping a thick sunburned arm draped over her
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