Hour of the Hunter

Chapter 9

Looks at nothing rode in the truck without saying a word, offering no explanation and asking for none. Fat Crack did the same.

Halfway back to Sells, a call came in from Law and Order on the truck’s two-way radio. The tribal-police dispatcher told Fat Crack that he was needed near the Quijotoa Trading Post, where an Anglo lady’s Winnebago had broken down on her way to Rocky Point. She wanted a tow back home to Casa Grande.

Fat Crack was disappointed. He had wanted to go along to the hospital and watch the old medicine man strut his stuff. Now, that would be impossible.

In the early afternoon, Fat Crack came through the low pass outside Wedged Turtle Village, which Anglos call Sells. As the truck slowed for the cattle guard marking the village boundary, Looks At Nothing held out his hand. “Stop here,” he said.

“My aunt is in the hospital,” Fat Crack objected. “Let me take you there.”

“No,” Looks At Nothing responded. “I will go to her later. Not now. Let me out.”

Fat Crack stopped, and Looks At Nothing climbed down.

“But there’s nothing here,” Fat Crack said through the open window. “At least let me take you to the trading post.”

Looks At Nothing shook his head. “I have what I need,” he said. “I will wait under a tree until it is time.”

As Fat Crack drove away, he glanced back in the rearview mirror. Looks At Nothing, shimmering like a ghost in the rising midday heat, poked around with his cane in the nearby dirt and loose gravel. Then, after locating the soft shoulder of the road, the old man carefully made his sightless way down the steep embankment, heading unerringly toward the shade of a small grove of trees.

Fat Crack shook his head. Some things defied explanation. This was certainly one of them.

Long ago, a medicine man raised his daughter alone. She was good and beautiful and hardworking. The wise man taught his daughter that she must not laugh at silly things, or men would think she was too easy.

When the girl grew up and was ready to marry, her father said she would marry whoever could make her laugh. First Coyote tried, and then Whippoorwill, and even Horned Toad, but none of them could make her laugh.

One day Coyote was sitting on a hill when he saw the girl he still wanted to marry. She was walking around gathering wood, and her burden basket was walking behind her. Burden baskets never walk on their own sticks, but, as I told you, the girl’s father was a very powerful medicine man.

Coyote kept watching. The girl gathered a large stack of wood and loaded it into the basket, and still the burden basket followed her. As she started back to the village, Coyote came down to where she and her basket were walking.

“So,” Coyote said. “Your basket walks around.”

As soon as he said that, the basket stopped walking and turned into a mountain-Giwho Tho’ag or Quijotoa, as the whites call it.

And that, nawoj, is the story of Burden Basket Mountain.

Early afternoon passed with no word from Fat Crack and Looks At Nothing. Worrying that perhaps the medicine man would not come, Rita closed her eyes once more.

By age sixteen, most Papago girls were married. With the outing matron’s help, educated girls could now find domestic jobs in Tucson, Phoenix, and even California. Girls like that were especially prized wife material on the cash-poor reservation, but Dancing Quail was no prize. No one wanted to marry her.

Earnings from domestic service were far more than Dancing Quail made selling baskets and ollas. Not only that, anyone marrying Hejel Wi’ikam, as people now called her, would assume the added burden of her ready-made family-a blind, useless old grandmother and an arrogant younger sister named Juanita.

Once more the determined Franciscan sister saw a chance to redeem Alice Antone’s elder daughter. Once more they sent Father John to carry their message.

“Come to Topawa and work in the mission,” he said. “The sisters will teach you how to clean houses so that one day you, too, will be able to work in Phoenix or Tucson.”

For the first time, even Dancing Quail saw her lack of education as a liability. “But what of my grandmother?” she asked. “I can’t leave her here alone in Ban Thak.”

For this, Father John had a prerehearsed answer. “Bring her along. There’s a little house near the mission where you can both live. She won’t be far away. You’ll be able to care for her and still work and earn money.”

Dancing Quail considered the offer for several long moments. Without men to look after their fields and livestock, she and Understanding Woman had struggled desperately just to survive. White man’s money was the key, and the girl knew it.

“How would I get her there?” she asked. “My grandmother is old. It’s a long way from Coyote Sitting to Burnt Dog Village.”

“Don’t worry,” Father John told her. “Pack your things. In two days, I’ll come back and take both of you in my car.”

Dancing Quail was dubious. “What if she won’t go?”

But the old woman surprised everyone and voiced no objection. It was time her granddaughter married. Burnt Dog Village offered far more potential suitors than Coyote Sitting.

With Dancing Quail’s help, Understanding Woman began to pack. One by one, she gathered her possessions and placed them in two old-fashioned crossed-stick burden baskets. The most treasured item was Understanding Woman’s only remaining medicine basket, the last one she had made before her eyesight failed.

“Ni-ka’ amad,” Understanding Woman said. “Granddaughter, do you still have the medicine basket I gave you that time?”

Dancing Quail hung her head in shame, grateful for once for her grandmother’s blindness. She had never admitted to anyone how she had lost Understanding Woman’s beautifully colored spirit rock or how the school attendants had taken the medicine basket away from her as soon as they found it rolled up in her blanket. They had confiscated it, and she never saw it again.

“No, ni-kahk,” Dancing Quail said softly. “No, Grandmother. I lost it long ago.”

She was afraid her grandmother would think she hadn’t appreciated the gifts, hadn’t treated them with proper respect.

“The rock, too?” Understanding Woman asked.

“The rock, too.”

For a time, the old woman sat fingering that final medicine basket. It wasn’t nearly as well made as earlier ones had been. The seams were crooked. Some of the weaves were as rough-edged as if the work had been done by a rank beginner. Rough or not, though, this had been her own special basket, the one she had kept entirely to herself. Instead of packing it along with her other household goods, she placed it on the ground beside her.

“It does not matter, ni-ka’ amad,” Understanding Woman said. “I will teach you to make another.”

The next day, when Father John drove up in his spindle-wheeled touring car, the two women waited outside their adobe house with two fully loaded burden baskets standing between them.

“Ready?” he said.

In the two years since first coming to the reservation, Father John had learned to speak some Papago. He sensed that the old woman had never ridden in an automobile before and that she was anxious about it.

Dancing Quail went to load the burden baskets while Father John eased Understanding Woman to her feet and helped her to the car. “Are you afraid, Grandmother?” he asked.

The old woman shook her head. “No,” she answered, although her voice quivered. “I am not afraid.”

Just then something slipped from her hand. She gasped and bent to retrieve it, but the small basket rolled out of the car onto the ground, spilling as it fell.

Father John quickly gathered the fallen basket and its scattered contents, scooping things back into it almost without looking-a tiny straw doll with a strange clay face, a small fragment of broken geode, and something that looked like a hank of human hair, a chipped arrowhead. The old woman’s hands were still desperately searching the floorboard of the car when Father John placed the restored basket safely under them.

“Is this what you’re looking for?” he asked.

Understanding Woman nodded gratefully and clutched the basket to her shriveled breast as though it were a precious newborn baby.

“Yes,” she murmured, settling back. “Thank you.”

Rita had no idea Juanita had gone home. When she opened her eyes, she saw a brown-robed figure sitting there in her sister’s place, head bowed in the afternoon sun. She knew at once who it was, although she hadn’t seen him for twenty years. In the mid-fifties, she had gone to San Xavier for a Saint Francis feast and run into him by accident not realizing that after years in California, he had transferred back to the Papago.

Unaware she was awake, Father John’s beads clicked quietly in liver-spotted hands as he intoned a whispered rosary in her behalf. Silently, she examined every minute detail of him-parchment-like skin stretched across bony knuckles, sparse hair white now rather than the color of dried grass. Like his hands, the bald place on his head was dotted with large brown spots. Underneath the brown cassock, he was precariously thin.

He’s old now, too, Rita thought. We’re both old. She said, “Are you still trying to save my soul?”

Father John’s head jerked up at the sound of her voice. “And mine,” he answered quietly. “Yours and mine.”

She turned her face to the wall, surprised that after all this time unbidden tears still sprang to her eyes at the mere sound of his voice. What was he doing here in the hospital room with her? How had he found her? She had never asked for his help. Who had called him?

“Your sister called me,” he said, answering the unspoken question. “After what happened to Gina years ago, I asked Juanita to let me know if anything. .”

“Go away,” Rita said, refusing to turn and face him again.

“But. .”

“Go away,” she insisted.

She heard the heavy swish of his robe as he rose to his feet. Beads rattled when he dropped them into a pocket.

“If there’s ever anything I can do. .”

Still she didn’t look at him.

“Ni-gm hu wabsh oan,” he began. “Forgive me. Dancing Quail, please forgive me.”

Rita didn’t answer. Father John left, closing the door gently behind him. Afterward, Rita tried to blot him from her mind, but he wouldn’t leave. He was there, walking around in her soul, not as he was now, old and liver-spotted, but young again, tall and straight, with a headful of palomino-colored hair.

Before he visited the storage locker, Andrew Carlisle stopped at Woolworth’s and bought himself a long blond wig, a selection of makeup, and some suitable women’s clothing, including a frilly blouse, an obscenely padded bra, and a pair of thongs. He had concluded it would probably be best if a woman showed up at the locker, and the clothing would come in handy for his private fund-raising program later on in the day.

The wig served a dual purpose. It concealed his newly achieved baldness, and it also protected the tender, underexposed skin from the glaring June sun. The few minutes he’d spent outside at Picacho Peak had given him a good start on a painful sunburn.

He used a discreet stop at a gas station to change clothes. He went into the men’s room as a man and came out as a woman. Fortunately, no one was watching, but when he arrived at U-Stor-It-Here off Fort Lowell and Alvernon, Andrew Carlisle almost laughed aloud at his having taken such elaborate precautions. The woman in the RV-turned-office waved him through the open gate without a second glance, no questions asked.

Carlisle enjoyed the anonymity of being a nameless, faceless woman as he sorted through the locker and inventoried his own equipment. It was almost as if he were someone else checking through a stranger’s possessions.

The survival gear was all there. He opened the hasp-held lid on the metal fifty-five-gallon drum and looked through the freeze-dried food he kept there as well as the water-purification equipment and tablets. He had no intention of allowing the adventure of a lifetime to be short-circuited by a raging case of diarrhea brought on by drinking giardia-contaminated water.

Other than noticing his survival equipment and commenting on it, his mother hadn’t messed with any of it. Carlisle was grateful for that. Good for Myrna Louise. Maybe she was actually getting a little smarter with age, although he doubted it.

Andrew had always been a bright boy-he took after his father, Howard, in the brains department. He aced his way through every private school in which his ambitious grandmother had enrolled him. He knew he was smart, and he knew equally well that his mother wasn’t. Her overwhelming stupidity was always both a shameful burden and a mystery to him.

While still a child, he wondered how his father had ever become involved with fifteen-year-old Myrna Louise in the first place. Only in adulthood did he finally conclude that basic good looks and raw sex appeal were his mother’s main assets. Were in the past and remained so in certain geriatric quarters. After all, she had reeled Jake Spaulding in without the least difficulty. Myrna Louise’s big problem was always keeping a man once she got him.

In addition to stupidity, that was Myrna Louise’s major flaw-she had never learned the meaning of power or how to use it. Her son had, certainly not in his undergraduate days at Southern Cal and not in the rarefied and surprisingly easy Ph.D. program at Harvard, either, a school where he once again took top honors. No, Andrew Carlisle learned the basics of power, about the granting and withholding of favors, about exploiting both the weak and the powerful, during his years in prison at Florence, during his post-Ph.D. program, as he called it.

Nobody really expected that he’d be sent to prison. That didn’t usually happen to educated white men no matter what their crime, but go to prison he did. He left the courthouse with the searing image of an awkwardly pregnant but triumphant Diana Ladd burned into his memory. If she had dropped it, if she hadn’t kept pressing the cops and the prosecutors, no one would have given a damn about Gina Antone. Diana Ladd was the one person who had cost him those precious years out of his life. He would see that she paid dearly for it.

At first he merely wanted her dead, her and the child she carried as well. He employed vivid fantasies of what he’d do to her in order to dull the pain of what was happening to him during his own brutal initiation to prison life.

Over the years, he’d refined his thinking about exactly what he wanted from Diana Ladd. The Margaret Danielsons of the world were useful in the short term, good for immediate gratification, but they afforded little genuine satisfaction. Real vengeance, authentic eye-for-an-eye-type vengeance, demanded more than that. Whatever price he exacted from Diana Ladd would have to be equal to that required of him by those thugs in the prison-absolute submission and unquestioning obedience, no more, no less. The key to that would be her child. .

With some difficulty, Carlisle roused himself from contemplation. He wondered uneasily how long he’d been standing, lost in thought, in that overheated storeroom. Slipping in and out of his imagination like that was dangerous. He would have to pay more attention, keep a better grip on what he was doing. The ability to deliberately disassociate himself from reality was a necessary survival skill in prison, but letting it sneak up on him unawares on the outside could cause trouble.

Even so, thinking about Diana Ladd was sensuously seductive, irresistible. Knowingly now, he let himself slip back into the dream. Where would he take her? he wondered idly. Where would he have the time-it would take some time, of course-to do all he wanted, to bring the bitch to her knees?

The answer came in such a brilliant flash of inspiration that it seemed he must have known it all along. Thinking about it made him giddy. It was so right, so perfectly appropriate to go back to the place Garrison Ladd had shown him, to use the man’s own pitiful excuse at research to destroy his entire family, both widow and child. How wonderfully appropriate.

Carlisle took one last careful look around the storeroom. He had moved all the necessary equipment into one corner so it would be easily accessible and could be gathered at a moment’s notice, but except for a hunting knife, he didn’t take any of it along with him in Jake Spaulding’s Valiant. Not right then. It wasn’t time yet.

He went out and closed the door behind him, locking it with a real sense of purpose and anticipation. All he had to do now was find Diana Ladd and that lump of a baby of hers. The child must be six years old by now. Once he did that, the rest would take care of itself. All things come to them who wait.

Dr. Rosemead said you had to be sixteen years old to visit with the patients in their rooms. While his mother was down the hall in Rita’s room, Davy waited in the busy lobby. He watched with interest as a very sunburned white man came in through the doors and hurried to the desk. A thick curtain of silence fell over the room.

“I’m looking for a patient named Rita Antone,” the man said loudly, glancing down at a small notebook he carried.

“Who?” the Indian clerk asked.

“Rita Antone,” he repeated. “An old lady who was hurt in a car wreck yesterday.”

“I don’t know her,” the clerk said.

Davy couldn’t believe his ears. This was the very same clerk who had, only minutes before, given his mother the number to Rita’s room.

“They told me she came here by ambulance. Did she die?”

“I don’t know,” the clerk repeated blankly.

With an impatient sigh, the man gave up, stuffed the notebook back in his pocket, and retreated the way he had come. Almost without realizing what he was doing, Davy followed the man outside and caught up with him as he climbed into his car.

“I know Rita,” Davy said.

Surprised, the man swung around and looked down at him. “You do? Really?”

Davy nodded. “That woman in there told a lie. Rita is too in there. My mom’s with her.”

The hot sun shone on Davy’s stitches, making them itch. Unconsciously, he scratched them.

“Wait a minute,” the man said suspiciously, kneeling and staring at the sutured wound. “Wait just one minute. What happened to your head?”

“I cut it. Yesterday.”

“How?”

“When the truck turned over, I guess.”

“Rita Antone’s truck?” the man asked.

Davy nodded, wondering how the man knew about that.

“So you must be the boy who told my friend about the ambulance on the mountain?”

“You know the man in the red car?” Davy returned.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” the man said with a smile. “You’re actually the person I wanted to see. Let’s go over there in the shade and talk.” They left the man’s car and headed toward a mesquite-shaded concrete bench just outside the hospital door. “What’s your name?”

“Davy.”

“Davy what?”

“Davy Ladd.”

“And where do you live, Davy?”

“In Tucson.”

“What’s your mother’s name?”

“Diana.”

The man had taken the notebook back out of his pocket and was scribbling furiously in it. Now, he paused and frowned, cocking his head to one side. “What’s your daddy’s name?”

“I don’t have a daddy,” Davy told him. “My daddy’s dead.”

“I’ll be damned!” the man exclaimed. “You’re Garrison Ladd’s son, aren’t you!”

Davy could hardly believe his ears. He knew from his grandmother’s Christmas letters that Garrison was his father’s name, but he had never heard it spoken by anyone other than his mother when she was reading those letters aloud. His blue eyes grew large.

“You mean you knew my daddy?”

“I sure did,” the man answered. “We had a class together at the U back when I still thought I was going to be a novelist when I grew up. I guess Gary did, too. We were both wrong.”

“You mean my daddy wanted to write books?”

The man looked startled. “Sure. Didn’t you know that?”

“I don’t know anything about my daddy. He died before I was born.”

For a moment, the man’s eyes grew serious, and then he nodded. “I’ll tell you what, Davy, you tell me what you know about Rita Antone, and I’ll tell you what I know about your father. Deal?”

He held out his hand, and the boy placed his own small one in it. “Deal,” Davy said gravely, and they shook on it.

Louella Walker sat up straight and chatted almost hopefully as they returned from their brief trip to the bank. The lady there had been most helpful.

“The same thing happened to my grandmother,” Anna Bush had said sympathetically, when they explained the situation. She graciously made arrangements to drop service charges on the bounced Steinway check.

“The only sensible thing to do is to start a new account with just your signature and your son’s on it, if that’s all right.”

In the end, that’s what they did.

“She was very nice,” Louella was saying to her son as they drove home, “although I still feel a little underhanded. It’s like I’m robbing your father of his dignity.”

She said that as they turned off Swan onto Fifth and came within sight of their own driveway three blocks away. Brandon saw the problem long before Louella did.

“Oh, my God!” he muttered grimly.

“What’s the matter?”

“My car,” he said. “The department’s car. It’s gone.”

As a homicide detective, he took his county-owned vehicle home in case he was called to a crime scene over the weekend when the department was seriously understaffed. For years, everyone in the family had hung car keys on a kitchen pegboard upon entering the house. Pure reflex, it was a habit no one thought to change in the face of Toby Walker’s failing mental capacity.

“Your car?” Louella asked, puzzled, not yet grasping the seriousness of the situation. “Wherever would it be?”

When Diana came down the hall from Rita’s room, Davy wasn’t waiting in the lobby. She found him outside, drinking a forbidden Coke. He seemed distant, uncommunicative.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said.

“Are you worried about Rita?”

“I guess,” he told her.

“Well, don’t be. Dr. Rosemead says she’s going to be fine.”

Diana was tired when she and Davy got back home. She put the boy down for a nap and decided to take one herself. Locking the door to her room, she stripped off her clothes and lay naked under the vent from the cooler, letting the refreshing, slightly PineSol-scented air blow across her body.

She was tired, but she couldn’t sleep. Instead, she lay there and castigated herself for her unreasonable outburst at Brandon Walker. After all, she was the one who had started bawling on his shoulder. What red-blooded American male wouldn’t have got the wrong idea? It was just that she didn’t want this particular male anywhere in her vicinity. His presence brought up too many unpleasant memories, reminded her of a time in her life that she wanted to keep buried far beneath the surface of conscious thought.

So, of all possible people in the world, why had she chosen Brandon Walker’s shoulder to cry on? She realized now that she was lonely for male companionship, but was she so desperate that she would throw herself at the first available man who chanced across her path?

But then, what was so new and different about that? she asked herself grimly. Nothing at all. The loneliness had always been there, for as long as she could remember, and it had always made her do stupid things-Garrison Ladd being a prime case in point.

They’d been inseparable that first weekend, and he had insisted on helping her with her Sunday papers. Then, after the paper route, they’d eaten bacon-and-egg breakfasts at the Holiday Inn before going back to his apartment, where, he told her with a guilty grin, he happened to have a real, full-sized double bed.

“I’ll only be a minute,” he said, leaving her in the doorway of his book-lined living room. “Wait right here.”

She was sure he wanted to straighten the room and make the bed before he invited her into it, which she was equally certain he was going to do. Diana Lee Cooper didn’t object. Going to bed with him was a foregone conclusion, the reason she’d agreed to come to his apartment in the first place.

She knew he wanted her again, that he couldn’t get enough of her, and Diana Lee Cooper was willing. In fact, she was more than willing.

As she meandered around the room, looking through the collection of books-volumes of poetry and philosophy, a Middle English version of The Canterbury Tales complete with margins full of carefully handwritten notes-she realized that she’d do whatever it took to capture and keep this Garrison Ladd.

Here was someone she wanted-a man of intellect, a man of some refinement and grace, a man she could respect, who was, as far as she could tell, as different from her own backwoods father as he could possibly be. That difference was exactly what she’d been searching for-someone not the least bit like Max Cooper.

And if “spreading her legs,” as her father would have said, was all it took to win him, then bring on the double bed and spread away. She knew what those words meant now, and she was beginning to have some sense of her own power. She’d show her father, all right. If sex was the bait and Gary Ladd was the prize, she’d screw until Garrison Ladd couldn’t walk or talk or see straight, if that’s what he wanted. She’d do whatever he asked and more besides.

As she stood there in the apartment’s small living room waiting for him, Diana Cooper couldn’t see that the furnishings were relatively cheap. Compared to what she knew from Joseph, it was palatial. What she saw convinced her that she’d found the man of her dreams, one worthy of her undying loyalty, someone she could afford to lavish her love on, someone who would give her love and laughter in return.

She was so smitten, so convinced by her own initial, naive assumptions, that it was years before she began to question them. By then, it was too late.

“You can come in now,” he called.

As she’d suspected, the bed had been hastily made, with lumpy covers pulled up over pillows but not properly tucked in. He was closing the closet door when she walked into the bedroom.

For the first time, Garrison Ladd seemed slightly unsure of himself. “The couch isn’t very comfortable,” he said hesitantly. “I thought we could lie here and watch television or something.”

The fact that he seemed nervous filled her again with that headspinning, newfound sense of power. Without a word, she kicked off her shoes, slipped out of her jeans, and peeled the University of Oregon sweatshirt off over her head. When she looked up from unfastening her bra, Garrison Ladd was still standing with his hand frozen to the knob on the closet door. He stood unmoving, his eyes feasting hungrily on her nakedness.

“Well?” she said airily, moving toward the bed and turning down the covers. “Are you coming or not?”

He jumped away from the closet.

“You didn’t want us to watch television with our clothes on, did you?”

“No,” he said with a startled laugh. “No, I guess not.”

He hurried out of his own clothes then, dropping them on the floor as he went, and flipping on the switch of the tiny television set as he came to the bed. Gradually, the picture appeared, but the sound stayed off.

Laughing, Garrison Ladd fell across the bed and landed on top of Diana, knocking the breath out of both of them, making them both laugh some more. He kissed her once and then settled his head on the pillow beside her.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “the ‘Playboy Advisor’ always said there were girls like you in the world, but I never believed it. Not for a minute.”

“Girls like what?” Diana asked, feigning innocence, as though she had no idea what he meant. She wanted to hear him say the words.

“Girls who like doing it,” he returned.

She bit him gently on the exposed side of his neck, and was gratified to feel under her fingertips the fine layer of gooseflesh that rose at once on the bared skin of his chest.

She remembered how, during one of their Rodeo Royalty weekends in Pendleton or Omak or one of those places, her attendants had explained to her in gory detail exactly how biting affected men, how it turned them on. It was one of those all-night gabfests with the chaperon fast asleep in the motel room next door when Diana finally confessed to the others that the current year’s queen of the Chief Joseph Days Rodeo was still a virgin. Shocked runners-up Charlene Davis and Suzanne Lake took it upon themselves to give Diana Lee Cooper the benefit of their own somewhat wider experience.

“If you really want to drive a man crazy,” Charlene said, “you bite him all over. Most men can hardly stand it if you do that.”

“Or lick ’em,” Suzanne added mysteriously. “Like an all-day sucker.”

The other two girls rolled on the bed with laughter, although Diana didn’t quite understand what was so funny.

“And then. .” Suzanne said, still laughing and gasping for breath, “. . and then. . when they’re all excited, you leave ’em high and dry. I did that to stupid Joe Moore, remember him? I’ll never forget. His little prick was standing straight up in the air, waving like a rabbit’s ear. When I got out of the car, he started to cry, I swear to God. I mean, he was literally bawling like a baby. He came after me and begged me to get back in the car and finish it, and I said to him, ‘I don’t know what kind of a girl you think I am.’”

And Suzanne and Charlene laughed some more. Diana joined in, but only half-heartedly. It wasn’t so funny to her, because she knew then for the first time what her father had meant when he called her that-a prick-tease. Once more she swore to herself that she wouldn’t be that. If she teased a man, it would be because she intended to do something about it.

She bit Gary Ladd again, harder this time, just at the base of the neck, her sharp teeth leaving a line of small indentations in the smoothly tanned skin. He groaned above her, and she could feel the hardness of him pressing at her through the covers.

He pawed at the sheet and blanket and pulled them away from her, then he fell on her, burying himself deep inside her body. Bruised and sore, she nonetheless raised welcoming hips to meet him, while behind them, on the silenced television set, Jack Ruby mutely gunned down a handcuffed Lee Harvey Oswald.

It was a weekend where no one got quite what they bargained for-not Ruby, not Oswald, and certainly not Diana Lee Cooper.

Because Toby Walker had essentially stolen a county car, Brandon was reluctant to report it through regular channels. He called Hank Maddern at home and asked for advice.

Maddern’s suggestion was succinct. “Report it,” he said at once. “That’ll get word out to the cars so everybody’s looking. In the meantime, I’ll come over and we’ll see what we can do.”

Leaving Louella with strict instructions to remain by the phone, Brandon escaped from the house and his mother to the relative sanity of Hank Maddern’s Ford F-100. Maddern drove through the neighborhood in ever-widening circles while the younger man brimmed over with self-reproach.

“It’s all my fault,” he fumed. “All of it. I never should have left the damned keys there in the first place, but I just didn’t think about it. In our house, car keys have been kept on that pegboard for as long as I can remember.”

“He’s never done anything like this before?” Hank asked.

“Never.”

“There’s always a first time,” Maddern said with a shrug.

One-handed, he shook two cigarettes out of a pack, passed one to Brandon, and then punched the lighter. “And for Chrissake, forget about whose fault it is. Fault doesn’t matter. By the way, what was your old man wearing when he took off?”

“Pajamas,” Brandon answered. “Red-and-white-striped cotton pajamas.”

“Somebody dressed like that shouldn’t be too tough to find. How were you fixed for gas?”

“Gas? Almost empty, actually. I should have filled before I left the office yesterday, but I didn’t want to take the time. I drove all the way out to Sells and back last night.”

“And didn’t come home until late, either,” Hank added with a mischievous wink. “Did you get lucky?”

“Look, Hank, it wasn’t anything like that,” Brandon said quickly. “Diana Ladd needed help with the boy, that’s all.”

“Until five o’clock in the morning? According to Tom Edwards, five was the last time your mother called looking for you.”

“Great,” Brandon muttered, shaking his head. “That’s just great. A little privacy might be nice.”

Maddern heard the edginess in Brandon’s voice and dropped the subject. “Does your dad have money?”

“With him? A little, maybe, but not much.”

“What kind of credit cards? Any bank cards?”

“No. Mom took those away. The department-store cards as well. He probably has a Chevron and a Shell. Maybe a couple of others.”

“That’s where we’ll start then, with gas stations.”

They headed north on Swan, stopping at every gas station along the way where Brandon knew his father had a working credit card. They went west on Broadway and south again on Alvernon. At a Chevron station on Alvernon south of Twenty-second Street, they finally hit pay dirt. The young Mexican kid tending the pumps remembered Toby Walker well.

“Hey, man, I thought it was crazy. This guy comes in wearing pajamas and no shoes, driving a county car, and wanting to know how to get to Duluth. Where the hell is Duluth?”

“Minnesota,” Brandon said quietly.

“Duluth,” Maddern repeated. “Why Duluth?”

“It’s where he grew up. On a farm outside Duluth.”

The attendant thumbed through the credit-card receipts. “Here it is. Tobias Walker. He took 15.9 gallons of premium and said something about a farm, about going there for dinner. He asked me how to get back over to I-10, and I told him.”

They drove to where Alvernon intersected with the freeway. “Which way?” Walker asked. “He’s got plenty of gas. He could drive two hundred and fifty miles in either direction without having to stop for more.”

“At least we know what to do now,” Maddern said.

“What’s that?”

“Call the Highway Patrol. If your dad’s out on the freeway, it’s not just our problem anymore.”

Public transportation as known in the Anglo world was nonexistent on the reservation. Hitchhiking was the alternative.

As Fat Crack left Casa Grande for Sells late in the afternoon, he stopped for a hitchhiker just inside the reservation boundary. Fat Crack could tell from the way the man shambled after the truck that he was drunk, but he offered a ride anyway. “Where to?”

“The Gate,” the man said. “I just got outta jail, and I want to get drunk. It sure was bad in there.”

For an Indian, this was a talkative drunk. Fat Crack found himself hoping his rider would pass out and sleep until they reached Sells.

They drove past the turnoff to Ahngam. “Do you know Eduardo Jose?” the rider asked.

Fat Crack nodded. Eduardo Jose’s bootlegging exploits were legend.

“His grandson’s sure in big trouble,” the man continued. “They brought him in to the jail this morning. For raping and killing a white lady.”

“That’s too bad,” Fat Crack told him.

They drove for several more miles in stony silence. Both of them knew full well that Indians who went to jail for raping white women didn’t generally live long enough to see the inside of a courtroom, let alone a penitentiary.

“He bit her,” the man said much later. “What kind of a sickness would make him do that?”

But a stunned Fat Crack didn’t answer right away. “You say he bit her?”

The man nodded. “Her wipih,” he said. “Her nipple. Almost off. One of the deputies told a cook, who told some of the others.”

The hairs on the back of Fat Crack’s neck stood erect under his gray Stetson. He had heard once before about someone who did that to women, a killer who bit off his victims’ nipples. It had happened to Gina, his cousin. Supposedly, Gina’s killer was dead.

The cab of the tow truck was suddenly far too small, and the hot air blowing through the opened windows took Fat Crack’s breath away.

Just as Looks At Nothing, despite his blindness, had known unerringly where to find the shady grove of trees, Fat Crack knew at once, despite the fact that Gary Ladd was dead, that there was some connection between this dead woman at Cloud Stopper Mountain and his cousin, found murdered in the charco of deserted Rattlesnake Skull Village seven years earlier.

Unable to do anything else about it, Fat Crack tightened his grip on the steering wheel, and he began to pray.

Diana must have slept. When she woke up, it was early evening. She dressed hurriedly and guiltily, worrying about what Davy was up to.

She found him on the living-room couch. She could see his head over the back of the couch and see Bone’s long, curving tail sticking out from in front of it.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, pausing in the doorway.

Davy didn’t look up. He was working on something in his lap, staring down intently, lips pursed, shoulders hunched, brow furrowed.

“What are you doing?” Diana asked when he didn’t answer.

She walked up to him and peered down over his shoulder. His lap was full of whitened yucca leaves. In his hand was the small awl Rita had given him for his birthday.

“What in the world are you doing with Rita’s yucca?” Diana demanded. “You know you’re not supposed to touch those.”

Davy looked up at her, his eyes filling with tears. “I’m trying to make her a basket,” he said. “But I don’t know how to do the center.”