Free The Thunder Keeper by Margaret Coel

had run to the reservation,instead of to Oklahoma, where he had family. He was following somebody.
    â€œWhat makes you think so, Grandfather?” he said.
    â€œThree days ago the phone rang.” The old man shifted his gaze sideways to the phone on top of the TV stand. “A girl. Says she has to talk to Duncan. I told her Duncan wasn’t back from Bear Lake.” The old man’s eyes clouded over. “Didn’t know he wasn’t ever coming back,” he said. Then, his voice stronger: “The girl says have him call me at the convenience store.”
    Convenience store. There must be a half-dozen convenience stores in the area. He could visit them all, but who would he ask for? A girl who had wanted to talk to a murdered man? She didn’t come forward when Duncan’s body was found, or Banner would have mentioned her. Whoever she was, Father John decided, she didn’t want to get involved.
    He said, “Duncan ever mention her?”
    â€œNot in words.” Gus shook his head. “But I been doin’ some thinking. I think that’s why he wanted to get on the straight road, ’cause there was a woman that didn’t want him otherwise.” The old man held his gaze a long moment. “Duncan said he’d been stayin’ in Lander before he moved his bedroll into the barn. I been thinking. Maybe he was staying with her.”
    â€œDid you tell this to Detective Slinger?” Father John suspected the answer.
    â€œTold the detective about the spirits and Duncan’s vision quest. He didn’t wanna hear any of it.” A kind of hopelessness came into the old man’s eyes. “I’m afraid it’s my fault the boy’s dead.”
    Father John got to his feet and set his arm on the old man’s shoulder. “Listen to me, Grandfather. It is not your fault.”
    Gus tilted his head back and looked at him with a mixture of grief and trust. He nodded.
    Father John thanked the old man and let himself out. He checked his Timex. One-thirty. Another hour and he could be at Bear Lake. Before he paid a visit to Detective Slinger, he wanted to see the sacred place where Duncan Grover had been murdered.

10
    L eaving the Wind River Reservation.
    Father John passed the sign and continued north on Highway 287 through a landscape of flat-topped buttes that glowed pink in the aftermath of the rain. The sounds of Faust —“De l’enfer qui vient”—mingled with the hum of the Toyota’s engine, the thump of the tires. He crossed Bear Creek, Indian Meadows passing outside the window. A few more miles, and he turned west off the highway and started up a narrow road into the foothills, the Toyota straining against the climb. Black clouds still formed over the mountains, threatening more rain.
    More rain. That meant a day or two before he could call another practice for the St. Francis Eagles, the baseball team he’d started seven years ago, that first summer at the mission, when he’d needed a baseball team to coach. Only three practices so far this season. The kids were looking good: Chester Wallowing Bull sprinting for a grounder, sliding through the mud, coming up grinning, the ball gloved. Joseph Antelope covering first like a pro. The kid’s dad, Eldon, had played first base in the minors twenty years ago, and he’d agreed to help coach this season.
    Father John felt the old excitement at the prospect ofthe new season, and yet—Duncan Grover was still on his mind. Alone in the mountains, on a cliff, hungry, thirsty. Lightning flashing, thunder erupting. Thunder kills. But it wasn’t thunder that had killed Grover. It was the boss. There’s gonna be more murders. The words cut through his thoughts like a harsh, dissonant melody.
    Ahead, the road emptied into a high mountain valley, ringed with slopes of pines, topped by red sandstone cliffs—the place of the spirits. Bear Lake lay ahead, placid and