The Spirit Woman by Margaret Coel Page B

provincial’s number. A man’s voice, sharp and annoyed, picked up. He could picture the priest at the other end: a young Jesuit roused from a good book, a favorite television sitcom. He gave his name and asked to speak to the provincial. And then he was on hold, canned music playing in his ear.
    â€œWe have office hours, John.” Bill Rutherford’s voice interrupted the music. They went back a long way, he and the provincial, to their days in the seminary together. “This better be an emergency.”
    â€œLook, Bill,” he began. “Things aren’t working out here. I’m not ready to leave.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, not working out? Kevin’s there, isn’t he?”
    â€œHe’s here.”
    â€œGood. I’ve made all the arrangements for you at Marquette. Everything’s set. The history department’s looking forward to welcoming you. Your airline ticket’s in the mail.”
    â€œI want to finish my work here,” Father John began. And then, the same litany of reasons: new programs to start, the church to refurbish, finances to tend to—
    The provincial cut in. “We’ve already had this discussion. There’s no sense in going over it. I believe it’s time for you to leave for your own spiritual welfare. You’re in the way of temptation there.”
    The way of temptation. Father John stared at the shadows out in the corridor, trying to formulate the logical argument. There was no logic in his desire to stay. Logic was on the provincial’s side. It was time for him to return to his former life. He pushed the logic away. “I need more time here,” he said.
    A sigh of exasperation floated through the line. “You’re making this difficult, John. Change is in your own best interests. You’ll see it’s true when you’re back.”
    Father John slammed down the receiver. If I go back.
    The phone started ringing. He was about to answer, then decided against it. It was probably the provincial again. Still ringing as he walked around the desk and retrieved his jacket and hat from the floor. Still ringing. He reached over and picked up the receiver. “Father O’Malley,” he said. Still here at St. Francis. Still a priest.
    â€œJohn, I was afraid I’d missed you.” It was Vicky’s voice. He stepped around the desk and sat down, combing his fingers through his hair, forcing his mind onto what he’d called her about. Then he related what Theresa Redwing had said. She’d agreed to see Laura. He wasn’t sure it would do any good. He told her about Hope Stockwell.
    Vicky didn’t say anything for a moment. He could hear the disappointment in the sound of her breathing. Finally she said, “Laura wasn’t counting on anyone else looking for the same evidence, especially not a Shoshone doctoral student.” She took a long breath and thanked him. He waited for her to say good-bye. “Are you all right?”
    â€œSure.” He tightened his grip on the receiver. “Why do you ask?”
    â€œOh, I don’t know. Just something in your voice.”
    â€œI’m fine.”
    In the background was the muffled whack of a door closing, the sound of a man’s voice. “I’d better go,” she said quickly, and hung up.
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    He found the new pastor in his room upstairs at the residence, hunched over his computer. “Elena just quit,” he said.
    Father Kevin tapped at the keys, his eyes locked on the black lines forming and re-forming across the white screen. “What’re you talking about?”
    â€œShe doesn’t like being interviewed.”
    â€œOh?” Kevin swung around. “That’s the reason she quit? Good heavens. This is serious, John.”
    â€œYou’re right about that. She takes care of everything around here.”
    â€œI mean, the woman’s a walking file of incredible information. She