Watching Eagles Soar Read Online Free

The dealer panicked, pulled a gun, and fired.
    Vicky made herself breathe deeply—one, two, three breaths—until the nausea dissipated. She pulled herself upright just as the red pickup turned into the yard and stopped. John O’Malley swung his long, jeans-clad legs out from behind the steering wheel. “Junior’s dead.” Vicky heard the sound of her own voice, hollow and shaky in the wind, as she explained—she was babbling, she knew—that the killer had passed her on the road. The look in the priest’s eyes reflected her own horror. He started for the cabin. A minute passed, then another. She knew he would pray over the body, ask the Creator to accept Junior Tallman and forgive whatever sins he may have had on his conscience. There were many, she thought. She dug into her black purse for her cell phone, tapped in 911, and told the dispatch officer what she’d found.
    As she clicked off, she realized John O’Malley had come back outside and was examining the camper in the pickup. He opened the rear door, and she walked over. An Indian blanket covered the floor. Arranged neatly on top were parfleches, belts and head roaches, an eagle whistle, a bow and arrow. Deerskin dresses and shirts were carefully folded in tissue paper. She recognized her own astonishment in the way Father John gripped the edge of the door and stared wordlessly at the beautiful things. The dealer had shot Junior, then left the artifacts behind.
    * * *
    A t the FBI office in Lander, the artifacts covered two conference tables. Father John reached out and touched the shaft of the arrow. “Everything seems to be in good condition,” he said in a tone edged with relief.
    â€œJunior was clever.” Vicky moved slowly down the other side of the table, then stopped, her attention diverted for a moment to the eagle bone whistle tied with feathers that fanned over the polished wood tabletop like air. “Damaged artifacts don’t bring as high a price.”
    â€œThen why didn’t the dealer take them?” Father John said. It was the question he’d been asking himself since he’d opened the camper door and seen the familiar items. Even Gianelli had seemed surprised to find them, after he and Banner and a phalanx of police officers had pulled into the dirt yard. Father John had watched the officers load the artifacts into boxes; then he’d followed the fed to Lander to make a formal identification and take care of the paperwork. He was glad Vicky had come along. Maybe she’d come up with some answers.
    The door across the room swung open, and Gianelli walked in, waving a flimsy white sheet of paper in front of him. “Lindy Meadows just faxed over the inventory,” he said. “Twenty-seven items. I suspect that’s what we’ve got.”
    â€œI only get twenty-six,” Vicky said.
    Something was missing. Father John let his gaze roam over the artifacts, mentally placing each one in its display case. And then he saw it. “The council pipe’s not here,” he said.
    â€œMaybe the pipe’s worth so much money, the dealer decided not to bother with the rest.” Something in Gianelli’s tone said he didn’t buy it.
    â€œIt’s very old,” Father John said, groping for some explanation. He felt as if he were stumbling across the open plains with no landmarks to point the way. “The pipe could have been smoked in the early treaty councils, which gives it historic value. But some of the other things are probably worth a lot more.” He nodded toward the beaded deerskin dress still folded in tissue paper. “Lindy’s told me more than once that a deerskin dress could bring enough money to support St. Francis Mission most of a year. Why would the killer leave something that valuable?”
    The agent shrugged. “We’ve got an all-points out on the black sedan. The guy won’t get far. You’ll have the