The Thunder Keeper by Margaret Coel

done.”
    â€œWhat’s this all about?” he said, but he was talking to himself. The door shut, the engine turned over, and the sedan lurched backward, then forward onto Circle Drive. Gravel sprayed his hands and face. The car sped toward Seventeen Mile Road, flashing past the grove of cottonwoods, and then it was gone.
    He whirled around and went inside to find Don Ryan.

11
    F ather John strode down the corridor lined with portraits of the early Jesuits of St. Francis Mission, faces set in certitude, eyes solemn behind rimless glasses. The far door was open. His assistant stood at the window, looking out into the dim light, one hand braced against the frame.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” Father John stopped in the doorway.
    The other priest remained motionless: there was only the smallest twitch of a muscle beneath his blue polo shirt. Finally he walked over to the desk. He kept his eyes straight ahead. “Just finished a counseling session,” he said, sitting down, methodically rearranging a stack of file folders.
    â€œThe woman was crying. What happened?”
    The other priest brushed some nonexistent dust from the top folder, then looked up. “She’s going through a divorce, has a lot of issues. I’ve been trying to help her.”
    â€œWho is she?” Father John had never seen the woman before. She wasn’t one of the whites from Riverton or Lander who occasionally came to Sunday Mass at the Indian church.
    â€œMary Ann Williams.” The other priest’s voice was flat.He might have been describing the rain. “Lives over in Riverton.”
    â€œHow long have you been counseling her?”
    â€œWhat is this? The Inquisition? What difference does it make?” Father Don jumped up and walked back to the window. His breath made a little gray smudge on the glass. “Sorry,” he said after a couple seconds. “I guess the session upset me, too.”
    â€œShe said we’re going to pay for what we’ve done to her,” Father John persisted. “What’s she talking about?”
    â€œShe said that?” The other priest swung around, a look of alarm in the pale eyes. Then, as if he had willed it so, the alarm dissolved into mild concern. “She has a depressive personality.” His voice was steady. “She’ll probably feel better tomorrow.”
    â€œSomebody should check on her now,” Father John said. “Does she have family, friends in town?”
    â€œHow would I know?” The alarm returned.
    Father John walked over and picked up the phone. “The Riverton police will send someone out on a welfare check.”
    â€œThe police!” Father Don was across the office, his arm flashing out, yanking the phone away. “You want a squad car to pull up in front of her apartment building? You want to send her over the edge?”
    â€œShe shouldn’t be alone,” Father John said. “Where does she live? I can go over.”
    The other priest stared at him a moment. Then he went over to the coattree and grabbed a jacket. “Mary Ann doesn’t know you,” he said. “I’ll check on her myself.” He walked out the door. The sound of his footsteps receded down the corridor, and then the front door slammed shut, sending a ripple of motion through the old walls.
    Â 
    B y the time Father John had locked up the administration building and walked over to the residence, darkness had descended through the fog. There was no sign of Father Don’s blue sedan.
    The residence groaned like an old rocking chair as he let himself in the front door. Walks-On stood at the end of the hall, tail wagging into the kitchen. Elena had already gone home, but there would be a note on the kitchen table. Stew in oven, turn on coffee. He could recite the instructions by heart.
    He went into the kitchen, shook some dried food into the dog’s dish, then dished up his own plate of stew and sat down