Eye of the Wolf by Margaret Coel

papers scattered over his desk, picked up the receiver, and tapped in the number. A couple of seconds passed before the buzzing noise stopped.
    â€œThis is Professor Lambert.” A rich bass voice, with the resonant tones of an opera singer.
    Father John gave his name.
    â€œAh, Father O’Malley. Kind of you to get back to me.” The voice paused, then hurried on. “Perhaps you may have heard of me. I’ve been writing about the Plains Indians for many years.”
    Father John said that he was familiar with the man’s work.
    â€œAh, splendid!” That seemed to please him. “Now that I’ve retired, my wife and I have come to the open spaces of the West from where I’ve drawn much of my inspiration. A wonderful place in which to write, wouldn’t you say?” He hurried on, not waiting for a response. “Naturally I’ve missed teaching, so I’m giving a class at Central Wyoming College this semester on the Plains Indian wars. I see in the newspaper that you are the one who found the bodies at the Bates Battlefield. I was hoping we might be able to sit down for a chat about the unfortunate event.”
    Father John nudged his shirt sleeve back and glanced at his watch. Almost l0:30. He was thinking that Charles Lambert was one of the last persons to see Trent Hunter before he disappeared. “Where are you?” he asked.
    â€œI’ll be in my office at the college for another hour,” the professor said, enthusiasm riding through the bass voice. Then he gave the directions to his office.
    â€œI’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Father John said.

9
    A LIGHT SNOW —more like rain than snow—started falling through the dim columns of sunshine as Father John drove to the campus that straddled a hill on the western edge of Riverton. He left the pickup in the parking lot and, pulling down the brim of his hat, plunged past the fountain with bronze figures leaping into the snow. Ahead was the beige brick building with the black, peaked roof streaked in white and the sign in front that said, “Main Hall.” His boots cut fresh tracks, yet there were students about, floating like specters between the buildings.
    He let himself through the heavy wood door that snapped shut behind him. Down a corridor of beige walls and plum-colored carpeting, past the half-wall of windows that overlooked the library, up the staircase into what resembled a waiting area with a couple of chairs pushed against one wall and a desk that looked as if it had never been used. The entire floor had a deserted feel, the faintest trace of something lingeringbehind—human smells—as if students and professors had hurried out minutes earlier. He walked down a row of closed doors. Next to each door was a small white placard that shimmered under the fluorescent ceiling light and announced each professor’s name in black print: Egan, Mussey, Chandler, Lambert.
    Father John rapped twice. The sound was muffled by his glove, and he gave a sharper rap.
    â€œYes, yes. Come in.” The same bass voice on the telephone, tinged now with fatigue.
    Father John opened the door and stepped into a closet-sized office that looked surprisingly neat. In a pair of bookcases against the opposite wall, books were lined up in neat rows, probably in alphabetical order, unlike his own books toppling against one another and jostling for space. A man could quickly put his hand on a book here. At a right angle to the bookcases was a small desk that protruded into the center of the room, the top as shiny as glass. It was bare apart from the telephone and a metal hook-necked lamp that threw out a circle of light. The man looking up at him from the desk looked much like the photograph on the book jacket: the white mane of hair framing a sculptured, still-handsome face, with the prominent nose, the strong chin that slanted forward, and the lines of concentration worn into the broad forehead, as