Eye of the Wolf by Margaret Coel

counseling or meetings—the usual noises seemed to have stalled. Father John stood at the window and watched the blue sedan snake around Circle Drive, engine clanking, black clouds of exhaust spitting from the tailpipe. Then the girl was gone. The clanking blended into the hum of traffic out on Seventeen-Mile Road.
    He stepped back to his desk, picked up the phone, and dialed the number to St. Aiden’s.
    â€œJohn!” Father Nathan Owens’ voice burst down the line. “My God, are you all right?”
    Father John assured the man that he was okay.
    â€œThe radio says you were wounded.”
    A small wound. Still assuring the man. Nothing that wouldn’t heal in a couple of days.
    â€œYou could have been killed.”
    True, Father John was thinking. He might have died out there with the other three men.
    â€œIf anything had happened to you,” the other priest was hurrying on, “I never could have forgiven myself. I shouldn’t have gotten you involved, John. It was unconscionable. I should have figured out the message and gone there myself.”
    â€œYou didn’t know someone would try to shoot me, Nathan.”
    The line went quiet for a moment. Then the other priest said, “I don’t like this, John. That frightening message, and three men shot to death. The moccasin telegraph says they’re Shoshones. I hope it wasn’t an Arapaho who did this. It’ll tear the reservation apart.”
    â€œListen, Nathan,” Father John said, “Detective Burton from the sheriff’s office will probably want to talk to you.”
    â€œHe’s already called. He’ll be here in thirty minutes. I intend to give him the tape.” The other priest paused. “Be careful, John,” he said. “Whoever killed those poor men is very evil. There’s no telling what else he may do.”
    Father John thanked the man and dropped the receiver back into the cradle. Then he went down the corridor in search of Father Ian. He found the man hunched over sheets of paper lined up in front of him, elbow braced on the edge of the desk, chin resting on one fist.
    â€œHow’s it going?” Father John swung a wooden side chair around and straddled it, folding his arms over the back. He hadn’t meant to leave the new priest alone so much. Here only a few weeks, still getting a feel for the place, and yesterday evening, it had been up to Ian to explain the bleak financial situation to the parish council and assure the members—this from the pastor, himself—that no programs would be cut in the summer. There had been no chance to talk to the man since the meeting. Ian had gone to bed by the time Father John had gotten back tothe mission last night, and he wasn’t around this morning. And Edie Bradbury had appeared first thing.
    He could see that his assistant was poring over the budget, which the man had volunteered to handle. Good at numbers, John. BA in finance, you know. Father John had thrust the budget into the man’s hands, wondering if it was just a stroke of good luck that his assistants usually had a background in finance or accounting that made them eager to take over the budget, or if the Provincial, knowing the pastor’s lack of interest, made a point to send a man who might put St. Francis Mission in the black.
    â€œYou could say everything’s hunky-dory.” Ian looked up. Flecks of light seemed to have attached themselves to the man’s eyes, like paint splashed on dark stones. His hair was mussed, as if he’d been combing it with his fingers. Beneath his eyes were the dark half-circles of a man who hadn’t been sleeping well. “That, of course, is not the case with the budget.”
    â€œSorry I missed the council meeting,” Father John said.
    â€œNo problem.” Ian backed his elbow off the desk and leaned into the armrest of his chair. “A couple of phone messages when I got in this