The Dream Stalker Read Online Free Page B

questions about last night, and, maybe even gather information to transmit over the moccasin telegraph. Most likely she had arrived at seven this morning, as usual, and Father Geoff had mentioned the late-night call. And she had clucked over the stubbornness—the Irish could be so stubborn—that had driven the pastor of St. Francis Mission out into a miserable, rainy night when anyone with good sense would know to stay home. It was only by the grace of the good spirits that looked after fools and stray animals that he’d gotten back safely, and now she wanted to know all the details.
    He said, “I promise to eat two bowls of oatmeal tomorrow.”
    The old woman fixed both hands atop her hips and gave him a long look of exasperation. He was impossible. She did her best to take care of him and contribute to the flow of news on the reservation. What else couldshe do? After a long moment, she said, “Somebody’s waitin’ to see you in the study.”
    “What? Why didn’t you tell me?”
    “You’re supposed to eat your oatmeal first.”
    *   *   *
    Father John expected to find Ted Gianelli, the stocky, black-haired FBI agent and former cornerback for the Buffalo Bills. He hailed from Quincy, Massachusetts, practically Father John’s old backyard, he sat in the front pew at the ten o’clock Mass every Sunday with his wife and four little girls, and, Father John had to admit, the agent probably loved opera even more than he did. In the couple of months Gianelli had been assigned to central Wyoming, they’d become friends.
    But as Father John walked into the study, two men rose from the blue wingback chairs in front of his desk. One was a white man he’d never seen before. The other was Lionel Redbull, an Arapaho in his mid thirties, close to six feet tall and slender in a muscular way, with the high, smooth forehead, prominent cheeks, and hooked nose of his people. His black hair hung in two braids down the front of a black blazer, which rode on his shoulders with ease. He had been tapped by Matthew Bosse, one of the Arapaho councilmen, to oversee the plans for the nuclear waste facility. Redbull was one of the
Kuno’utose’i o,
Father John thought, the Indians without blankets, the progressives.
    “Sorry to show up unexpected,” Redbull said, stepping forward, a brown hand outstretched. Discomfort and embarrassment mingled in his dark eyes. There was almost no excuse for an Arapaho to breach the forms of politeness.
    “The fault is mine,” said the white man, leaning past the Indian to extend his hand. “Paul Bryant, president, United Power Company. I flew into Riverton about an hour ago and suggested to Lionel we take a chance on finding you in your office. Father Schneider—I believehe said he’s your assistant—directed us to the residence. I hope you can spare a few minutes.”
    The man’s grip was firm and full of purpose. Father John guessed he was close to his own age, medium height and broad shouldered, with neatly trimmed dark hair and an intelligent face. He wore a gray suit, the jacket unbuttoned, a red tie knotted smartly at the collar of his white shirt.
    Father John waved both men to the wingbacks as he sank into the worn leather chair behind the desk. A shaft of sunlight broke through the window and splashed over the papers in front of him; the washing machine hummed from below the floorboards. His headache had receded into a dull throbbing. He wished he felt a little more up to what was sure to be a discussion about storing nuclear waste on the reservation. He said, “What brings you to St. Francis Mission, gentlemen?”
    “We hope to gain your support, Father O’Malley.” The white man crossed one gray-panted leg over the other, relaxed and confident.
    “My support?”
    “Let me explain. My company was formed by thirty utility companies in the East, all of which generate electricity through nuclear power. Specifically, the plants rely upon nuclear fuel rods that contain uranium