The Lost Bird by Margaret Coel Read Free Book Online Page B

empty bowl.
    “You doin’ okay, Father?” the caretaker asked. He was in his late forties, close to Father John’s age. A big man, with the narrow, finely chiseled face of the Arapahos, and kind eyes. Like most men on the reservation, he wore blue jeans and a plaid shirt, the rolled back cuffs exposing thick, brown forearms and wide, capable hands.
    Father John nodded. He waited until Leonard shook some dry food out of a bag into the dog’s bowl. Then he said, “I’d like you both to take a few days off.”
    “What?” Elena reared back from the table, eyes shiny with surprise. “Leave you here all alone? You’d never eat a bite. You’d starve to death.”
    “What’re you sayin’, Father?” This from Leonard.
    Father John cleared his throat and began again. “It’s possible that whoever murdered Father Joseph had intended to shoot me.” He spoke calmly. He didn’t want to frighten them.
    The words hung in the space between him and the two Arapahos. He saw by the tight clamp of Leonard’s mouth, the steadiness in Elena’s eyes, that they hadreached the same conclusion. He hurried on: “Until Father Joseph’s murderer is found, we have to be careful.”
    Suddenly the housekeeper slapped a paper plate onto the table. “So the devil that killed poor Father Joseph is gonna tell us how we gotta live? Well, I don’t care what you say. I ain’t leavin’ you alone here.”
    Leonard came around the table and planted himself next to the housekeeper. “I figure the more people at the mission, the safer you’re gonna be, Father. I’m plannin’ on bein’ here like usual.”
    Father John drew in a long breath. “It’s been a long, hard day,” he said, a new tack. “At least take tomorrow off. Gianelli and Banner will probably be back. Whoever killed Father Joseph isn’t going to show up at the mission tomorrow.”
    Both Arapahos were quiet, eyes steady, faces unreadable. He refilled his coffee mug and started down the hallway, wondering if he’d won the argument.
    A group of grandmothers were letting themselves out the front door; the cool evening air drifted down the hallway and bit at his face and hands. He turned in to the study, avoiding the prolonged good-byes, the reiteration of grief and condolences that fed his own guilt. The front door thudded shut as he sank into the leather chair at his desk. The study was dark. Obelisks of moonlight crisscrossed the carpet and speckled the papers in front of him.
    He heard the shuffle of footsteps in the hall, the front door opening and closing several more times. Gradually the quiet of death began to settle over the house. He knew it well. So many houses where he had sat with bereaved families, engulfed in the quiet. Now it was here. He dropped his head into his hands andprayed silently for the soul of Father Joseph. He prayed for himself, for the strength to deal with his guilt. And he prayed that—someday, someday—he would conquer the terrible thirst that was turning his throat and mouth into dust.
    Finally he flipped on the desk lamp and pulled the phone into the puddle of light, dreading the call he had to make. He lifted the receiver and punched in the Provincial’s number.

6
    T he metallic voice of an answering machine sounded on the line. “You have reached the Wisconsin Province of the Society of Jesus. Our office hours are . . .” Father John hit the pound button to fast-forward the message. “If this is an emergency, please stay on the line.”
    The bland, irritating sounds of canned music replaced the voice. Father John took a draw of coffee and stared at the piles of paper awaiting his attention: letters to answer, thank-you notes to send to strangers who kept St. Francis operating with a few dollars stuffed into envelopes and mailed off to Indian Country, a place they’d never seen, phone messages to return. He shuffled through the top of a pile. Elena had taken several phone messages this afternoon. Most from parishioners. One