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and prayers. I tried to tell him it wasn’t for him, but Ned was stubborn.” He threw a glance around the room, and fixed his gaze on two young men. “You seen any of Ned’s friends yet?”
    “Who do you mean?”
    The man shrugged. “Guys he hung with before he went off to Jackson Hole? Lionel Lookingglass, Dwayne Hawk. Used to have an Arapaho girlfriend, Roseanne somebody.”
    “Roseanne Birdwoman,” Ella said. “Always thought he was gonna marry her.”
    “I heard he planned to marry the girl he met in Jackson Hole,” Father John said. Then he told Adams that the girl had been in the house. Two men had burst in, struck her, and killed Ned. They had ransacked the house.
    Adams looked away. He slid his jaw sideways and kept his eyes on two elders settling themselves on straight-back chairs that someone had brought from the kitchen. A blue vein pulsed in the center of his forehead. Finally he looked back. “She can identify them?”
    “Possibly,” Father John said.
    “What you say her name is?”
    He hadn’t said, Father John realized. “Ned didn’t tell you about her?”
    “Marcy Morrison,” Ella said. She took a moment to blow into a wad of tissues. “Must’ve had his reasons for not telling folks about her.”
    “Where’s she now?” Adams asked.
    “Riverton hospital,” Father John said. He watched the man for a couple of seconds—he’d met men like this before, sure of themselves, in control. He added, “The police have her under protection.”

4
    DAWN TRACED THE eastern horizon when Father John parked adjacent to the portico with the lighted sign overhead that said Emergency in red letters. An ambulance stood under the portico, the rear doors hanging open. He caught a glimpse of the gurney and an array of small steel cabinets as he walked past. He let himself through the double-glass doors. Behind the counter on the right, a dark-haired woman with rimless glasses and narrow shoulders sat hunched over a computer screen. “Help you?” she said without looking up.
    He was about to give his name when she jumped to her feet. “Oh, Father,” she said. “Sorry I didn’t realize it was you.” She shot a glance toward the glass doors, and he looked around, half-expecting to see someone else coming in. The sky was getting lighter. The asphalt in the parking lot sparkled like diamonds. Except for a few vehicles, the lot was empty. “Don’t get a lot of visitors this time of morning,” she said. “You here about Marcy Morrison?”
    Father John turned back. “How is she?”
    “I’ll get the nurse.” The woman leaned over, picked up the phone, and pressed a key. “Father O’Malley’s here,” she said. She replaced the phone and gave him a sympathetic smile. “You knew the young man that got killed?”
    He nodded. He had to blink at the contrasting images in front of his eyes: Ned, striding across the field in the middle of Circle Drive, waving and calling, “Hey, Father.” Ned, lifeless on the blood-soaked bed.
    The metal door on the far side of the entry swung open, and a woman in green scrubs, with sandy-colored hair, walked over. She was about thirty, he guessed, but something in her eyes made her seem older. “I’m Jan Peters,” she said. She kept her hands at her sides. “I’ve been looking after Marcy Morrison.”
    “How is she?”
    “Traumatized.” She shook her head. “Fiancé murdered in front of her eyes. She has some bruises where she was struck, but fortunately her injuries are minor. No sexual assault.” She drew in her lower lip and took a moment. “The two men were probably in a hurry to get away. She was lucky.”
    “May I see her?”
    “Well,” she said, lifting her eyes to the ceiling. “No visitors, except for family, as long as the killers are on the loose. There’s an officer outside her door. But I’m sure we can make an exception for you, Father. The poor girl doesn’t have any family in the area.”
    She swung around and headed toward the door