Watching Eagles Soar Read Online Free Page A

pipe back in no time.”
    â€œI hope so,” Father John said.
    * * *
    V icky seemed as preoccupied as he was, Father John thought. They walked in silence to the parking lot. He opened the Bronco door and waited for her to slip inside, still not saying anything, not wanting to lose the flicker of an idea that had started darting at the edge of his mind.
    Vicky threw out a hand to stop him from closing the door.
    â€œSomebody else could have taken the pipe,” she said.
    Father John realized she was grappling with the same idea that he’d been trying to bring into focus. He walked around and got in beside her. “What makes you think so?”
    Vicky started the engine, eyes straight ahead on the redbrick wall of the FBI building. She left the transmission in park, and the hum of the idling motor floated into the quiet between them. “All the artifacts are sacred,” she said finally. “They belonged to the ancestors, and they retain part of their lives, their spirits. But if the pipe wasn’t a council pipe . . .” She hesitated, then plunged on. “If it was a
prayer
pipe . . .”
    â€œIt would be the most sacred artifact of all,” Father John said, finishing the thought. It was his own, part of the new idea working its way into his mind. He had believed the pipe was the council pipe in the photo, but he’d been wrong. All Arapaho pipes were made of black-and-white stone.
    â€œJunior was studying the Arapaho Way with Clint Old Bear,” he went on. It was making sense now. Clint Old Bear had visited the pipe every Friday. “He must have told Junior it was a prayer pipe, so Junior decided to liberate it from the museum.”
    â€œBut if all he wanted was the pipe, why steal the other artifacts?” Vicky said, skepticism in her tone.
    Father John sighed. “Temptation is strong. Junior knew he could pick the locks on the exhibit cases in minutes, and he had the connections on the Indian market to sell the artifacts. Maybe he figured he’d save the pipe and make himself a lot of money at the same time.”
    Vicky had started drumming her fingers on the rim of the steering wheel. “It still doesn’t explain why the dealer left the artifacts, unless . . .” She stopped drumming and turned sideways, allowing her eyes to bore into his. “Unless Junior was already dead when the dealer showed up. He must have found the body and beat it out of there without even looking for the artifacts. He was doing at least eighty when he passed me.” She drew in a long breath and exhaled slowly. “You know what this means, don’t you? Whoever killed Junior took the sacred pipe.”
    â€œLet’s go have a talk with Clint Old Bear,” Father John said.
    * * *
    V icky shifted the Bronco into reverse, backed a few feet, then shifted again and carved a wide circle through the parking lot, gravel pinging the undercarriage, tires squealing. Father John caught a glimpse of Gianelli at the window just before they roared onto the road.
    Twenty minutes later they drove down a narrow dirt path in the foothills and parked at the edge of a grove of cottonwoods. Nestled in the trees was a large, white canvas tipi. In front of the opened flap, a tripod held a heavy-looking black kettle over a smoldering fire. Smoke trailed around the kettle and drifted up into the branches. A few feet away, a man wrapped in a black and red Indian blanket sat on his haunches, facing a large wood frame that stood upright on the ground. The scene resembled the diorama in the museum, except that the frame held a pipe about two feet long with a black stem and white bowl.
    Father John followed Vicky through the trees to the campsite. The only sound was that of dried leaves crunching underfoot. The man didn’t move. His arms were crossed in front, hands lost somewhere in the folds of the blanket. A thick, gray braid ran down the hump