The Lost Bird by Margaret Coel

sessions: the irrelevant, offhand remark that caused everything to click into focus, as if the binoculars had been adjusted and what was once hidden and obscure had suddenly snapped into view.
    Father John stared at the empty stretch of road ahead, searching for the logical connections. A white fight, Sonny had called it. What was it the Provincial had said? Joseph Keenan had
insisted
upon coming back to St. Francis Mission. Why had he wanted to return to a place he hadn’t seen in thirty-five years? What had he been running from? What had followed him here?
    He slowed for the turn into the mission. Cottonwood branches swayed overhead, leaves shimmeringgold in the last flare of sunlight. As he banked around Circle Drive, he saw that the grounds were empty, except for Elena’s old Chevy parked next to the residence. Like Leonard, the housekeeper had come to work today, despite the fact that a killer could show up at any moment looking for him, if his own theory was correct.
    What proof did he have otherwise? The remarks of a man who might be guilty of murder? Who had killed a man in the past? Who had every reason to send the investigation in another direction—away from himself? Still . . .
    He thought about the papers and books in Joseph’s room. Gianelli and Banner could have missed something. The image of himself raging through the man’s possessions brought a stab of pain. He hadn’t found anything unusual, but he’d been looking for a bottle of whiskey, not something to explain a murder. He decided to have another look.
    The unmistakable odor of beef stew floated into the dim hallway as he let himself through the front door of the residence. From the kitchen came the sounds of metal scraping metal, tap water gushing. He tossed his cowboy hat onto the bench in the entry and started up the stairs.
    “That you, Father?” Elena appeared below, dabbing her hands onto the apron. “We been waitin’ for you.”
    “We?” He stopped halfway up the stairs and leaned over the banister.
    “You got a visitor. Been here most the afternoon. I was startin’ to get worried, you bein’ so late.”
    Father John turned and came back down the stairs.“Who is it?” he asked, heading toward the closed door of the study.
    “She’s waitin’ out on the patio.”
    Vicky
, Father John thought. She’d talked to somebody, learned something. He’d been worrying all day about what she might do, the danger she might put herself into. It was the worry about the people around him—the people he loved—that had made him decide to pay a visit to Sonny Red Wolf.
    He brushed past the housekeeper and walked through the kitchen to the small utility room that opened onto the outside stairway. Footsteps trailed behind.
    “You’re gonna be real surprised,” Elena said.
    He opened the back door and stared down the short flight of stairs at the redheaded woman seated in one of the patio chairs, Walks-On curled at her feet.

10
    T he woman lifted herself out of the webbed chair, a graceful, confident unfolding of her slim, attractive figure. She tilted her face and fixed him with the bluest eyes he’d seen in a long while. Intelligence and defiance mingled in her expression and enhanced her beauty. A mass of copper-colored hair caught the light of the sun dropping behind the mountains. Freckles sprinkled her nose and cheeks. Her lips were touched with red. She stood at the edge of the table, a small purse tossed on the top, the breeze plucking at her silver-colored blouse and black slacks. For an instant he felt as if two planes had collided—past and present—and he had been transported back twenty-five years, so strong was her resemblance to Eileen.
    “Megan O’Malley,” he said, hurrying down the stairs. Walks-On raised his head and eyed him sleepily as he placed his arms around the girl.
    She stepped out of his arms and fastened her eyes on his. “Hello, Uncle John,” she said. There was a hint of anger in her voice, or had he