Free The Spider's Web by Margaret Coel Page A

prosperity—what a happy family we are, and so progressive! I mean, the reverend’s daughter marrying an Indian. Wow, that would have brought in a whole bunch more money.”
    Morrison stared at the girl a long moment, not saying anything. Then he turned to Father John. “My apologies, Father, for this little scene.”
    “Little scene! Little scene!” Marcy shouted. “My whole life is falling apart, and you call it a little scene! Nothing ever mattered to you, did it? You drove my mother crazy. She had to get away to save herself. Well, you know what I think? I think she did save herself. I think she’s real happy somewhere. Tahiti, maybe. Yeah, I think of her in Tahiti, getting it on with some gorgeous guy with brown skin . . .”
    “Stop it, Marcy.” Morrison held the girl in his gaze for a couple of seconds. Drawing in another long breath, he looked at Father John. “I’m afraid this was a very bad idea. The best thing will be to take her back to the hospital for further evaluation. It’s obvious this unfortunate incident has affected her balance.”
    “Oh no you don’t,” Marcy said. “You’re not locking me up again in any crazy ward.” She leaned toward him. “You don’t have the right. I’m not your little girl anymore. Oh, Marcy’s rebelling again, causing trouble? Lock her up! I’m twenty-three years old. You’d need a court order, and you’re not going to get it.”
    Father John put up one hand. “Hold on,” he said, glancing between the girl and her father. He was aware of the hulking shape of the body guard shifting from one foot to the other, watching the girl. Father John kept his gaze on Marcy. “It’s quiet here. It’s a good place to take a little time away from everything. I expect Gianelli will have the men in custody in a day or so, and you can go back to Jackson Hole.”
    “You don’t understand . . .” Morrison began.
    “He understands a helluva lot more than you ever did,” Marcy said. “Just go, okay? Go back to Oklahoma and all the love pouring out of those TV cameras. I shouldn’t have brought you into this. It’s none of your business, really. I can handle this myself. I’m good at handling things all by myself. I learned early.”
    “I can’t leave without the assurance that she’ll be safe,” Morrison said, as if the girl weren’t standing next to him. Then he shrugged, as if absolving himself from whatever stood between him and his daughter. “I’ve hired a lawyer to see to her rights.”
    “I don’t need a lawyer,” Marcy said. “You can unhire her.”
    “Trust me in this.”
    “Right. Just like in all the rest of it.”
    “As I said, what I’m concerned about at the moment,” he went on, locking eyes with Father John, “is her safety.”
    “Marcy can stay in the guesthouse.” Father John hooked a thumb in the direction of the alley that ran between the administration building and the church. At the end of the alley was the little guesthouse where all kinds of people had stayed—people in hiding, people looking for themselves, people needing time away. “We’ll keep it quiet that Marcy’s here,” he said. The tough part, he was thinking. If the truth got to the moccasin telegraph, Dwayne and Lionel would hear about it. But if the girl stayed in the guesthouse and walked the grounds when no one was around, it could work. He hurried on. “Gianelli will have the men in custody soon,” he said. He hoped he was right.
    “I don’t call that assurances,” Morrison said, and the body guard gave a little laugh.
    “There are no guarantees,” Father John said. He turned to the girl. “You’re a witness in a murder case. It’s up to you whether you feel secure staying here. If not, I’m sure Gianelli would find a safe house for you.”
    “He offered.” Marcy gave a quick, dismissive shrug. “Policemen at the door, just like at the hospital. Wouldn’t that be lovely? Like those Indians wouldn’t hear about a policeman hanging around