The Thunder Keeper by Margaret Coel Page A

at the table, his thoughts jumping between Duncan Grover and the woman running out of Father Don’s office.
    After dinner, he put a tape of Faust into the player on the bookcase in his study and spent the evening at his desk working on the summer schedule: marriage preparation classes, religious-ed classes, Arapaho culture programs, new parent groups. And the Eagles baseball team: practice every afternoon, games every Saturday. A busy summer. No time for the loneliness to creep up on him, for temptations to take hold. If he kept busy enough, he wouldn’t think about a drink; he wouldn’t think about Vicky.
    It was past midnight when he let the dog outside for a few minutes. Father Don still hadn’t come in, and he realized he’d been waiting for the other priest, half expecting the sounds of a motor cutting off in front, the front door opening. Surely, if the man had run into any trouble, he would have called.
    He started up the stairs, bringing the phone from thehall table as far as the cord would stretch. He set the phone on the top step. He would hear it ring, in case someone needed a priest in the middle of the night.
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    T he sky was clear with the promise of sunshine when Father John walked back to the residence after the early-morning Mass. He always enjoyed the early Mass—the faithful parishioners scattered about the pews, murmuring the prayers, the first daylight blinking in the stained-glass windows.
    The front door opened as he came up the steps. His assistant stood just inside, as if he’d been waiting for him. He had no idea when the man had gotten in last night. Late, he guessed, because he’d tossed about a long while, going over in his mind what he’d learned about Duncan Grover: a twenty-five-year-old man running from something, getting ready to start a job, trying to start over. And a girl in a convenience store whom he might never find. Hardly enough to convince a white detective to launch a homicide investigation.
    And in the back of his mind, like the relentless beat of a drum, the words in the confessional: There’s gonna be more murders.
    â€œI have to talk to you,” Father Don said, turning into the study.
    Father John followed. “What is it?” His assistant had the blanched, drawn look of a man who’d been up all night.
    â€œI’m gonna need a little time off.”
    â€œYou okay?”
    â€œI’m fine.” Father Don jammed his fists into his khakis and began circling the study, an intent look in his eyes. “Just need a few days to myself. Thought I’d take a driveto the mountains. Find someplace to hide out awhile.”
    â€œHide out?”
    â€œDo some praying, thinking. Sometimes you have to get away. You know how it is.”
    He knew. He’d gone all the way to Boston a couple years ago and stayed two weeks. Still, Don Ryan had been here only a couple months.
    â€œDoes this have anything to do with Mary Ann Williams?” he asked.
    The other priest yanked one hand from his pocket and waved it into the space between them. “Let’s not turn this into a big deal, okay? I’m taking a few days off, that’s all.”
    â€œWhat happened last night?” Father John persisted.
    â€œNothing happened.” The other priest spit out the words. “I called one of Mary Ann’s friends. She came over, and I stayed until the friend got her calmed down.”
    Father John walked over and sat down at his desk. His assistant was lying, and the man wasn’t any better at it than dozens of people he’d counseled, dozens of penitents in the confessional—lying to themselves first, hoping that if someone else believed the lies, then they could also believe, as if the believing would make them true.
    He glanced up. “Take whatever time you need. I’ll be here when you get back, should you want to talk.”
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    F ifteen minutes later—he’d just taken a spoonful of