The Lost Bird by Margaret Coel Page B

to die. Of course, he couldn’t have known anything like this would happen. But he knew his time was approaching. He chose the place, and left the rest in the hands of God.”
    Father John pushed back in the leather chair, tilting the front legs off the carpet, trying to make sense ofwhat the Provincial said. Something was missing, the logic skewed. Even if Father Joseph had been a popular pastor and people still remembered him, he hadn’t been on the reservation in thirty-five years. He’d had a distinguished career, other assignments. Why would he choose to spend his last days here? Unless the man had nowhere else to go, no one he wanted to be with.
    This new thought filled Father John with sadness. Was this the culmination of a priest’s career? In the end there was no one? Suddenly he realized Father Rutherford was talking about the funeral arrangements, saying he would contact Joseph’s family.
    “He had a family?” Father John heard the surprise in his voice. A family made the man’s decision to come to St. Francis all the more perplexing.
    “A couple of nephews, I believe,” the Provincial said. “I’ll have to notify them. In the meantime . . .” Another hesitation. “We must take the necessary precautions, John. We don’t know what Father Joseph’s murder is all about, do we?”
    Father John admitted that was true. He had a theory, which he realized he hadn’t mentioned to his superior. What was there to say? Someone had shot the wrong priest?
    “We don’t know how far this may go,” Father Rutherford went on. “This could be a hate crime against the Church.”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Well, we don’t know. I want you to take a leave of absence until this is settled. Go to Boston. Visit your family.”
    Father John set the front legs down hard and stared at the lamplight flickering against the blackness of thewindow across the study. He’d gone to Boston in the spring. The last thing he wanted was another awkward visit with his brother, Mike. It was as if, after twenty-five years, Eileen still stood between them. His brother’s wife. The woman he would have married had he not gone into the seminary. That was the reason he hadn’t mentioned his theory about Joseph’s murder: the Provincial would send him somewhere he didn’t want to go.
    “I can’t leave St. Francis,” he said, his tone firm. “There wouldn’t be anyone to say Mass. The fall classes and programs are already—”
    The Provincial cut in: “I can’t have another priest killed. There are fewer and fewer of us, you know. I can’t take any chances.”
    “Look, Bill,” Father John began, marshaling his argument into what he hoped would have the force of logic. “I know the FBI agent and the police chief here. They’re first-rate. They have some strong leads.” A bit of a stretch. Gianelli and Banner were groping in the dark. He hurried on: “They’ll have Joseph’s murder solved in a couple of days. There’s no sense in closing down the mission.”
    The Provincial was quiet a moment. Then: “Do you have a gun?”
    “Of course I don’t have a gun.”
    “A rifle or something. Don’t you go hunting? Isn’t that what the Arapahos do?”
    Father John wondered how far out in the wilderness the Provincial thought he lived. Did he think the Arapahos still hunted buffalo? He said, “I don’t hunt.”
    “Let me make certain I understand. Should whoever murdered Joseph show up at the mission, you have no way to protect yourself. Is that true?”
    Father John glanced at the lights dancing in the window, the blackness beyond. “Give me a couple days, Bill,” he said.
    There was a long, considered pause on the other end of the line. “I don’t like it.”
    “A couple days.”
    The Provincial was quiet. “All right,” he said finally. “You’ve got two days and then—”
    “Good.” Father John interrupted. He didn’t want to receive an order he would find painful to obey. “Let me know about the