thinking. Same for Ned. We both knew we would get married. Like we’d been waiting for each other all our lives.” She blinked at the tears that started bubbling again.
“I understand he came back to the rez a couple of weeks ago. Father John said you stopped by the mission looking for him. Didn’t he tell you where he was staying?”
“Why’s everybody making a big deal of it? So I didn’t write down the directions.” The girl’s voice was rising into hysteria. She pulled her hands into her lap. They were shaking. “He was waiting for me. He came and found me at the motel where I was staying and took me home with him. He loved me.”
“There’s something else Gianelli will want to know,” Vicky said. She waited until the girl looked at her. She could see the effort the girl was making to concentrate. “Why didn’t you call the police?”
“You think I didn’t want to?” The hands flew out; the white face contorted in anger. “Is that what everybody here thinks? That I didn’t want to get help?” She stopped and stared straight ahead a moment. “I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything. Maybe I did call 911, I don’t know. Next thing I knew, boots were stomping around me, people were shouting. They put me on a stretcher and took me to the hospital.”
“It makes sense,” Vicky said. The girl had probably been unconscious. But a good prosecuting attorney . . . She shut down the thought. “Nobody’s going to make a big deal out of it.” She let the words hang between them a moment. She would make sure nobody made a big deal out of it, she thought, watching the girl settle back into herself, her chest rising and falling at a steadier rate. “Agent Gianelli would like you to look at photos,” she said. “I’ll take you to his office.” When the girl didn’t respond, she pushed on. “You want the men who killed Ned arrested, don’t you? It’s for your own safety, Marcy. You could be in danger.”
Marcy waited before getting to her feet, as if she didn’t trust her legs to hold her up. “What the hell,” she said. Then she scooped a small bag off the chest under the window and started for the door.
11
THE LOCAL FBI office sprawled across the top floor of a flat-faced brick building on Lander’s Main Street. Vicky found a parking place a half block away and guided Marcy Morrison past the novelty stores, boutiques, and coffee shops, aware of the images of a black-haired woman and a small, light-skinned girl flashing in the plate-glass windows. It was mid-afternoon, the sky a burned-out blue and the day’s heat rolling off the sidewalk. There was a lazy summer feeling to the traffic that flowed past—tourists on the way into the Wind River range to fish and hike and camp. People in shorts, tee shirts, and sandals, cameras bumping on their chests, strolled along the sidewalks. Flowers overflowed the planters at the curb, and the smell of geraniums drifted in the air.
She opened the framed glass door and ushered Marcy into the shadows of a small entry and up the narrow staircase. The girl climbed slowly, pulling herself along the railing. Vicky wanted to assure her, tell her everything would be all right, a comforting thought that may or may not be true. She didn’t say anything. At the top of the steps, she leaned in close to the intercom next to the pebbled-glass door. “Vicky Holden with Marcy Morrison,” she said. The girl slouched against the wall across the corridor. She still had on the white tee shirt and cutoff blue jeans.
The door opened, and Ted Gianelli, black hair silvery under the fluorescent ceiling light, waved them inside. Vicky waited as the girl rowed herself over, swinging her shoulders as if she were paddling a kayak in the Wind River. Gianelli turned and led the way down a corridor of shelves piled with books and cartons into the office itself. “Have a seat, ladies,” he said, motioning to a pair of side chairs. He walked around and sat down behind a
“I understand he came back to the rez a couple of weeks ago. Father John said you stopped by the mission looking for him. Didn’t he tell you where he was staying?”
“Why’s everybody making a big deal of it? So I didn’t write down the directions.” The girl’s voice was rising into hysteria. She pulled her hands into her lap. They were shaking. “He was waiting for me. He came and found me at the motel where I was staying and took me home with him. He loved me.”
“There’s something else Gianelli will want to know,” Vicky said. She waited until the girl looked at her. She could see the effort the girl was making to concentrate. “Why didn’t you call the police?”
“You think I didn’t want to?” The hands flew out; the white face contorted in anger. “Is that what everybody here thinks? That I didn’t want to get help?” She stopped and stared straight ahead a moment. “I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything. Maybe I did call 911, I don’t know. Next thing I knew, boots were stomping around me, people were shouting. They put me on a stretcher and took me to the hospital.”
“It makes sense,” Vicky said. The girl had probably been unconscious. But a good prosecuting attorney . . . She shut down the thought. “Nobody’s going to make a big deal out of it.” She let the words hang between them a moment. She would make sure nobody made a big deal out of it, she thought, watching the girl settle back into herself, her chest rising and falling at a steadier rate. “Agent Gianelli would like you to look at photos,” she said. “I’ll take you to his office.” When the girl didn’t respond, she pushed on. “You want the men who killed Ned arrested, don’t you? It’s for your own safety, Marcy. You could be in danger.”
Marcy waited before getting to her feet, as if she didn’t trust her legs to hold her up. “What the hell,” she said. Then she scooped a small bag off the chest under the window and started for the door.
11
THE LOCAL FBI office sprawled across the top floor of a flat-faced brick building on Lander’s Main Street. Vicky found a parking place a half block away and guided Marcy Morrison past the novelty stores, boutiques, and coffee shops, aware of the images of a black-haired woman and a small, light-skinned girl flashing in the plate-glass windows. It was mid-afternoon, the sky a burned-out blue and the day’s heat rolling off the sidewalk. There was a lazy summer feeling to the traffic that flowed past—tourists on the way into the Wind River range to fish and hike and camp. People in shorts, tee shirts, and sandals, cameras bumping on their chests, strolled along the sidewalks. Flowers overflowed the planters at the curb, and the smell of geraniums drifted in the air.
She opened the framed glass door and ushered Marcy into the shadows of a small entry and up the narrow staircase. The girl climbed slowly, pulling herself along the railing. Vicky wanted to assure her, tell her everything would be all right, a comforting thought that may or may not be true. She didn’t say anything. At the top of the steps, she leaned in close to the intercom next to the pebbled-glass door. “Vicky Holden with Marcy Morrison,” she said. The girl slouched against the wall across the corridor. She still had on the white tee shirt and cutoff blue jeans.
The door opened, and Ted Gianelli, black hair silvery under the fluorescent ceiling light, waved them inside. Vicky waited as the girl rowed herself over, swinging her shoulders as if she were paddling a kayak in the Wind River. Gianelli turned and led the way down a corridor of shelves piled with books and cartons into the office itself. “Have a seat, ladies,” he said, motioning to a pair of side chairs. He walked around and sat down behind a
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