The Lost Bird Read Free

parishioners.” Father Joseph waved a thin hand, as if to dismiss an impertinent question. “The poor woman’s son called. Says the cancer will most likely take her tonight, and she’s anxious to receive the last sacrament. They live on Thunder Lane. I’m going over there.” He turned into the corridor.
    Father John followed. Thunder Lane was a deserted stretch of road that snaked along the foothills of the Wind River mountains at the far western edge of the reservation. Only a few families lived out there; he knew them all. No one by the name of Lewis.
    “What’s the son’s name?” he asked.
    Father Joseph glanced over one shoulder. “I don’t believe he gave a name, poor man. His only concern is his mother.”
    But if she’s dying
, Father John thought,
why did he wait until the last minute to call a priest?
He held the door and waited until the older man stepped onto the stoop before following. “It’s an hour’s drive,” he said.
    “It must be done.” Father Joseph started down the steps.
    Father John hurried after him. “I’ll drive over to Thunder Lane after class.” The old priest had probably covered a couple of hundred miles today. Often in the afternoons, he disappeared for an hour or so—a much-needed nap in the residence, Father John suspected.But there probably hadn’t been time to rest this afternoon, and Father John could see the exhaustion in the slump of the other man’s shoulders, the flat-footed, deliberate way in which he moved past the red Toyota pickup toward the Escort.
    Suddenly Father Joseph turned toward him. “Perhaps you believe I’m too infirm to take this call. Perhaps you believe I’m the one on the deathbed.”
    “Of course not. But surely the woman will live a few hours.”
    “Suppose she doesn’t? Would you forgive yourself? A dying woman longing for the last comforts of the Church?”
    Father John drew in a long breath. “You’ve been out most of the day, Joseph. Let me take the call. You can teach the confirmation class.” He held out the folder and Bible. “My notes are here. I’ve marked the Bible passages I want to discuss with the kids.”
    A startled look came into the other priest’s eyes. Hands rose in protest, lips moved wordlessly. Before he could speak, Father John thrust the folder and book at him. “Take the class, Joseph. I’ll go.”

2
    V icky Holden hurried up the outside stairs that led from the parking lot to her second-floor law office on Lander’s main street. She let herself through the back door, dropped her briefcase onto her desk, and crossed to the window. Jiggling the frame until it clicked into track, she tugged the window open several inches. A hot, dry breeze flapped at the papers on the desk and on the filing cabinet, chasing the afternoon stuffiness from the small office.
    Slipping into her chair, she snapped open the briefcase and extracted a legal pad. She had spent the last three hours taking depositions at another lawyer’s office a few blocks away. Her client, Sam Eagle Hawk, alleged that the Custom Garage had fired him—the garage body man for twenty-five years—because he was Indian. She had wanted to believe her client, but something nagged at her. If Sam was fired because he was Indian, why hadn’t he been fired years ago?
    Then, in the deposition, the owner had mentioned something about Sam not relating to younger customers with new, expensive cars.
    “Could you explain?” Vicky had kept her voice steady—a simple request for clarification.
    “Well, it’s no secret, Sam’s a lot older.”
    “A lot older?” She had jumped on the statement. “And eligible for retirement benefits in a couple of years, isn’t that a fact?”
    The man’s eyes went dull with discomfort. There were several rapid blinks, nervous snorts of laughter.
    “Isn’t that a fact?”
    Looking down, studying his boots, the garage owner had conceded that yes, that was a fact.
    It was then she delivered the lethal thrust: “Which