Hour of the Hunter

Chapter 19

Sorting through Iona’s boxes was all the emotional baggage Diana could handle for one day. Gary’s would have to wait. When she finished, she carried the garbage outside, dumped it, and set fire to the trash barrel. As she stood there watching it burn, she felt a peculiar satisfaction, the lifting of a lifetime’s burden.

Diana watched the flames lick through Iona’s ancient oven mitt and understood at last why her mother considered herself “damaged goods,” why she had stayed with Max Cooper no matter what. Iona owed him. He grudgingly lent Iona the use of his name for her baby, for Diana, thus saving Iona’s family and reputation from savaging by Joseph’s sharp-tongued scandalmongers, but Iona paid a heavy price for that dubious privilege, paid with every waking and sleeping moment of her life.

The flames in the burning barrel soared higher, kicking up and over the surrounding metal. In the leaping flames, something else caught fire, something more than just Francine Cooper’s useless castoffs. Max Cooper’s hold on his supposed daughter was being consumed as well. At last Diana grasped why Max had despised her so, why he had hated her and berated her for as long as she could remember. She understood now why he had so resented the rodeo-queen escape hatch that a resourceful Iona, with George Deeson’s timely help, had managed to open for her.

But knowledge brought with it an ineffable sadness. If only she had known the truth earlier, while there was still time to ask her mother about her real father or maybe even ask George Deeson himself. Would he have told her, if she had asked him on one of those endless Saturday mornings when it had been just the two of them out in the corral with Waldo? Would things have been different if she had known the old man was really her grandfather?

What was it the Bible said? “The truth will set you free.” Was Diana Cooper Ladd free now? Maybe. She felt lighter than she had in years. As the flames charred through the debris, not only did Max lose his grip on her, so did the past.

Just then, Bone dashed up and dropped a tennis ball at her feet. With a laugh, she ruffled the dog’s shaggy head, then threw the ball for him as hard as she could. Eagerly, he raced off after it, returning with it, prancing and proud, tail awag.

“You funny old dog,” she said, and threw the ball again.

Over and over she threw the ball. Over and over he brought it back. It surprised her to find that each time Bone retrieved the ball, the silly, pointless game made her laugh. Laughter felt good, and so did the hot sun on her back.

“Come on, Mister Oh’o,” she said at last when the dog was panting so hard his scrawny sides shook. “Let’s go inside, cool off, and figure out what’s for dinner.”

After their naps, Davy and Rita entered the main house to the surprising but familiar smell of baking tortillas. In the kitchen, they found Diana struggling with stiff wads of tortilla dough, waxed paper, and a rolling pin. A stack of misshapen tortillas sat on a platter next to a smoking electric griddle. The tortillas were amazingly ugly-thick in some places, punched full of holes in others. Some were more than slightly burned, but for a first attempt, they weren’t too bad.

Rita touched one of the balls of dough still sitting in a mixing bowl, on the countertop. “A little more shortening next time,” she suggested. “Then you can pat them out by hand instead of using a rolling pin.”

“Mom, did you make these all by yourself?” Davy asked wonderingly. “Can I have one?”

“If you’re brave enough,” Diana told him. “They’re pretty pitiful.”

Slathering a load of peanut butter on one side, Davy tried a bite and diplomatically pronounced the tortilla “almost as good as Rita’s.” With a second peanut butter-covered tortilla in one hand and a plain one for Bone in the other, Davy and Oh’o went outside to play.

Rita sat down beside the kitchen table and watched Diana work. The Anglo woman seemed self-conscious under the Papago’s scrutiny, but she kept on rolling the dough and tossing the resulting crooked sheets onto the waiting griddle.

“While I was just lying there in Sells,” Rita began, “I was thinking about how you helped me after Gina died, when people wanted me to leave because I was bad luck.”

“Forget it,” Diana said determinedly. “What they thought doesn’t matter. I’ve been delighted to have you with me. With us,” she added.

“But it does matter,” Rita returned. “I thought I was leaving there just to go somewhere and die, but helping you and taking care of Davy gave me back my luck. It made me young again. The other day, the doctors said I was dead in that ambulance, but thinking about Davy made me want to live, made me want to come back.”

Diana Ladd put down the rolling pin and brushed hair from her sweat-dampened face, leaving a white smudge of flour on her face.

“Rita, Davy has always been as much yours as he is mine. You’re the one who’s spent all the time with him, who’s taught him things, and taken care of him. If you’re worried about the Indian baptism, don’t be. Father John told me about it this morning when I saw him at San Xavier.”

“He did?”

Diana nodded. “He explained the whole thing.”

“Good,” Rita said. “You don’t mind?”

“No. How could I mind? When will it happen?”

“Because of the. .”

Rita paused, groping for the proper word. What she felt coming toward them was far more serious than mere danger. Weak as it sounded, that was the only Mil-gahn word she could think of to express the problem. Diana Ladd would not understand the word ohb.

“Because of the danger to us all,” Rita continued, “the baptism ceremony starts tonight. It will continue for four days and nights. Four nights from now, we go to Sells for the last night of singing and for the feast. On that night, the medicine man feeds the child’s parents gruel made from corn and clay.”

Diana made a face. “That sounds even worse than my tortillas, but it won’t kill me, will it?”

Rita smiled. “No, it won’t kill you.”

“What about you?” Diana asked. “You said parents. I’m only one. Will you eat the gruel with me, Rita? The two of us can be Davy’s parents together.”

The offer came from a generous heart and caused a dazzling smile to suffuse Rita’s worn face. She looked twenty years younger. “Yes, nawoj,” she said softly, “we will eat the gruel together.”

Just then, out in the yard, Bone started up a noisy racket. They heard him scrabbling over the high stone wall just as Davy burst in through the back door.

“A car’s coming,” Davy announced. “Oh’o went after it. I couldn’t stop him.”

Dusting the flour from her hands, Diana hurried to the window and looked out. An unfamiliar late-model Buick was easing into the driveway, while Bone, up to his usual tricks, attacked the front tires for all he was worth. Diana recognized Father John before he rolled down the window. “Oh’o,” she called sharply. “Here.”

With one final offended woof, the dog abandoned his attack and came to the porch, where Diana let him into the house. “It’s Father John,” she told Davy. “Take Bone back outside and keep him there while I bring the company into the house.”

Father John entered the house warily, holding his hat in front of him. “That’s quite some dog you’ve got there,” he said. “Are you sure it’s safe?”

“Believe me, Bone’s exactly the kind of dog we need at the moment,” Diana returned, “but don’t worry. Davy took him outside. Would you care for something to eat?”

“No, no thank you. I just came to speak to the boy.”

“Something to drink then. Iced tea?”

“Tea would be fine.”

Diana started for the kitchen but paused when she found the kitchen doorway blocked by Rita’s stocky frame. The old woman stood staring at the priest. Eventually, Rita moved aside and let Diana pass, but she did so without taking her eyes away from Father John. For a long moment, the two old people faced one another in awkward silence.

When Father John had invaded the hospital room in Sells, it had been without Rita’s knowledge or permission. The man who came there was the same one who had abandoned her years earlier, the one who had caused her to be sent away in disgrace. But now, by helping with Davy, Father John had redeemed himself somewhat in the old woman’s eyes. She no longer saw him through a cloud of bitterness.

The old woman broke the silence. “Thank you for helping with Davy.”

Father John nodded. “Nawoj,” he said. “Friend, it is nothing.” He moved into the room. At once his eyes were drawn to the large basket hanging on the wall over the couch, a plaque actually, two-and-a-half to three feet in diameter. Schooled in the subtle aesthetics of Papago Indian basketry, the priest immediately recognized the superior workmanship in the rare yucca-root basket. The red design, a finely woven rendition of the traditional Papago maze, spread out in the four sacred directions. At the top stood the square-shouldered Man in the Maze.

Father John studied the basket for some time before turning to Rita. “You made this?” he asked. She nodded. “Understanding Woman taught you well,” he continued. “It is very beautiful.”

Back on the rocky mountainside with a Styrofoam meat package full of poisoned hamburger, Andrew Carlisle thanked his lucky stars that he had taken the precaution of climbing up to reconnoiter one last time before approaching the house. While he watched in dismay, the crazy dog set up a frenzied roar of barking and then vaulted over the fence to attack an approaching car. Carlisle couldn’t believe it. The ugly mutt charged the front tires of the still-moving vehicle as if he were going to tear them apart.

Christ! How had the dog done it? That stone wall had to be at least six feet tall, and it hadn’t slowed him down one damn bit. Carlisle knew that if he tried approaching the house on foot, the dog would have him for lunch, so the problem was finding a way to get the poison to the dog without losing either an arm or a leg in the process.

Through binoculars trained on the household below, Carlisle saw the woman hustle the dog inside while a man, who appeared to be a priest, got out of the car and started for the house. The man went in the front door, while the dog and the child came out through the back. The boy left the dog pacing in unhappy circles on the rear patio. Clearly, the dog wanted in. If he was generally an inside dog, it wouldn’t be long before someone relented. Carlisle realized he would have to act quickly.

Carlisle’s first problem was to lure the dog out of the fenced backyard. Having witnessed the frenzied attack on the Buick, that didn’t seem difficult. Carlisle figured just showing his face would be enough to provoke the dog into another battle. The trick was maintaining enough of a safety margin to make escape possible.

Carlisle hiked back down to the Matador and drove as near the house as he dared, stopping just beyond a sharp curve that concealed the car from anyone inside the house. After turning the car around so it faced back in the opposite direction, Carlisle took the slug-bait-laced meat with him and walked to the middle of the roadway. First he dropped chunks of meat in a wide pattern over the pavement; then, lying down flat on the rocky shoulder, he whistled one short, sharp burst.

At once, the dog responded with a fit of barking. Carlisle whistled again, and the dog barked again. Someone came to the back door. Diana herself emerged from the shadow of the patio and surveyed the area, using one hand to shade her eyes from the glare of the setting sun. Carlisle kept his head low to the ground and prayed that no other traffic would appear on the road.

Satisfied there was nothing amiss, Diana spoke to the dog. “Quiet, Bone. It’s all right. Be still.”

Carlisle heard her voice floating up to him from below. The very sound of it was enticing. Hearing her voice, combined with the knowledge that he was almost within touching distance of her, gave him an instant erection and made his breath come in short, harsh gasps. If you only knew, little lady, he thought, stifling an urge to laugh. The dog’s smarter than you are.

Below him, the sliding glass door slammed shut behind her as Diana Ladd returned to the house. For a moment, Carlisle was afraid she might have taken the dog with her. He breathed a sigh of relief when he peered over the bank and saw that the dog was still pacing restlessly in the yard below, still staring up in his direction. He whistled again.

“Come here, little doggie,” he whispered under his breath. “Nice little doggie. Come and get it.”

This time, the dog made no sound at all. He simply leapt over the wall and came crashing up the embankment.

Carlisle waited until the last possible moment before making his dash for safety. He had spread the meat over a wide segment of the roadway so the dog would be sure to find it. Now, he ran straight through the meat to his car so the dog-Bone was a funny name for a dog-following his scent, would be led directly to the poison.

Carlisle jumped into his Matador and drove away, hoping against hope that his plan had worked.

After that, I’itoi struck the water with his stick. The bank broke, and the water from the lake and from all the oceans ran together. And then I’itoi, who can make himself either very large or very small, climbed into the basket he had made, and Ban, Coyote, climbed into his hollow cane, and the waters began to rise.

Soon the waters rose high enough to wash them away. I’itoi told Ban to follow him to the west, but Coyote did not listen, and the waters continued to rise. Soon all the villages on the flat were covered with water and the people drowned.

The people who lived near Giwho Tho’ag, Burden Basket Mountain, saw the water coming. They hurried to the highest part of the mountain, thinking they would be safe, but as the water came up, the mountain split in two, and all the people were drowned.

In another part of the valley, a very powerful medicine man led his people up to the highest mountain and told them that there they would be safe. As the water rose, the medicine man sang a powerful song, and the mountain rose higher and higher. The water rose and fell, rose and fell until it had risen and fallen four times.

Then the Indians on the mountain were happy, because everything in nature goes by fours, and they thought that now they would be safe. The medicine man said that there would be a great feast and the people began to get ready-some cooking, some grinding corn.

Now it happens that the people had with them on the mountain only one gogs, one dog. The people sent Dog down the mountain to see how high the water was. Dog went to the edge of the mountain, and then he stretched himself and came back. “The water is going down,” Dog said. “It will not rise again.”

And right then, at that very moment, as Dog spoke, all the people on the mountain were turned to stone. They changed to stone just as they were when Dog spoke-some cooking, some eating, and some grinding corn. If you go to the place called Superstition Mountain, you can see them to this day.

And that is why, nawoj, my friend, you must never permit a dog to speak to you, for if you do, you may be turned to stone.

Davy and Father John were talking quietly at the kitchen table; Rita had returned to her room. After cleaning the kitchen, Diana had barely started reading the newspaper in the living room when the dog whined and scratched at the front door.

“How did Bone get back out front?” Diana asked irritably as she hurried to let him in. She was worried that he might make a dash for the kitchen and scare Father John. Instead, the dog plodded in slowly, shambled past her without even looking up, and walked directly into the opposite wall with a resounding thump.

“Oh’o,” she said, alarmed, “what’s the matter with you?”

Bone stood splayfooted, long tail tucked between his legs, head down. He swayed drunkenly. Davy, hearing the concern in Diana’s voice, called from the kitchen. “Mom, what is it?”

“I don’t know. Something’s wrong with Bone. I let him inside, and he walked straight into the wall.”

Davy hurried into the room followed by a still-apprehensive Father John. The dog, who had once seemed so ferocious, now showed absolutely no interest in attacking the priest. Instead, he put one tentative foot in front of the other and tried to walk, only to fall down flat on his belly.

“That dog’s been poisoned!” Father John announced decisively. “I’ve seen it before. We’ve got to get him to a vet.”

“Poisoned?” Diana repeated. “How can that be?”

“Look at him. I had a dog die of poisoning once. He came inside acting just like this. The vet said that if I’d brought him in right away, he might have saved him. There’s no time to lose.”

Uncertain what to do, Diana glanced at her watch. A quarter to six. The vet’s office would close in fifteen minutes. Rita reappeared just then. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“It’s Oh’o. Father John thinks he’s been poisoned. We’d better load him in the car. Davy, Rita, come on. We’ll all go.”

Rita shook her head. “Fat Crack will be here soon. You go on. If we all go, Davy and I will just be in the way. We’ll wait here. I’ll call Dr. Johnston and tell him you’re coming.”

On the floor between them, Bone’s body shook convulsively. One look at the suffering animal convinced her. “All right,” Diana said. “You stay here.”

Diana knelt beside the quaking dog. “Bone, come,” she ordered. With a whimper, the dog tried valiantly to get up, only to stumble and collapse once more. Diana attempted to pick him up by herself, but he was well over one hundred pounds of dog, far more than she could lift or carry.

“Father John, would you help me load him into the car?”

“Of course.”

Lifting together, they raised Bone off the floor and carried him outside. “My car’s out back,” Diana said, heading that way.

“No,” Father John corrected. “We’ll take mine. It’s closer.”

They reached the car and eased the stricken animal onto the backseat. As Diana straightened up, she found that Davy had followed them and was starting to climb into the car with Bone. Diana stopped him. “You stay here with Rita,” she ordered. “If she has to leave before I get back, you can go along with her.”

Davy, close to tears, barely heard her. “Is Oh’o going to die?” he asked.

“I hope not, but I don’t know,” Diana answered grimly. She climbed into the car and closed the door behind her while the priest started the engine. Before driving out of the yard, Father John stopped the car beside the distressed child and rolled down his window.

“Remember how we were talking about prayer a while ago?” the priest asked. Davy nodded. “Would you like me to pray for Bone?”

The boy’s eyes filled with tears. “Yes, please,” he whispered.

“Heavenly Father,” the priest said, bowing his head. “We pray that you will grant the blessing of healing to your servant, Bone, that he may return safely to his home. We ask this in the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

“Does that mean he’ll be all right now?”

Father John shook his head gravely. “When God answers prayers, He can say either yes or no. Right now, it’s too soon to tell. You keep on praying while we take him to the vet, okay?”

“Okay,” Davy said, his voice quavering. “I will.”

Andrew saw the priest and the woman drive away in a hurry. The dog was with them in the car. They were probably taking the mutt to a vet. Maybe it would work, but he doubted it. He had put enough slug bait in that hamburger to choke a horse. This was, however, one very large dog.

Carlisle turned back toward the house in smug satisfaction and saw the boy walk dejectedly back into the house. Everything had worked like a charm, just the way he’d planned it. The boy was as good as his. It was stupid of Diana to leave him there alone, but that was her problem. Diana was gone, and the boy was unprotected, and Andrew Carlisle wanted Davy in the very worst way.

Sliding down the mountain, not caring now whether or not he stayed out of sight or made too much noise, Andrew Carlisle started toward the house. He had spent seven long years waiting for this moment. Now that it was finally starting, he could barely contain himself. Diana Ladd was going to make it all worthwhile.

At ten minutes to six, when the phone rang in the house on Weber Drive, Myrna Louise was waiting. She had gone out to the car to bring in her suitcase from the trunk and had subsequently discovered everything hidden there-her bankbook, her blank checks, the gun, the bag of lime, and the luggage with someone else’s name on it. She didn’t bother to open the luggage. It had been stolen from someone else as surely as her own savings-account book had been stolen from her. And her cash, too, as she discovered moments later.

For half an hour now, she had sat quietly in her rocking chair, wondering what it all meant. She had already assimilated the idea that Andrew, her own son, had meant to kill her, would have killed her, if she hadn’t taken the crazy notion into her head to drive off in the car. Sure knowledge of Andrew’s murderous intentions had shocked her at first, but initial shock had worn into fuming anger.

Now, she sat rehearsing what she would say to him when Andrew finally called her, as she knew he would. She had considered turning him in herself but decided against it. Someone else would have to do the dirty work, not her, not his own mother. But if the cops happened to come to her house looking for him, she wouldn’t raise a hand to stop them.

Constantly rephrasing her speech, she decided to tell Andrew that if he ever came near her again, if he ever darkened her doorstep or wrote her a letter or even so much as tried to contact her by phone, she would see to it that he rotted in prison for the rest of his natural life. How did that sound?

Andrew had finally stepped beyond Myrna Louise’s considerable threshold of tolerance. Having once reached the end of her rope, she determined to no longer have a son. She would declare him null and void. As far as she was concerned, Andrew Carlisle would cease to exist.

So when the phone finally rang, it was his voice she expected to hear on the other end of the line, whining and blathering. Instead, the voice was that of a total stranger.

“Is Andrew there?” the man asked.

Myrna Louise’s heart skipped a beat as she tried to conceal her disappointment “Who’s calling, please?” she asked guardedly.

“A friend of his,” the man said. “Is he there?”

“Not right now. May I take a message?”

It sounded as though the person on the other end of the line let out a long sigh, but Myrna Louise couldn’t be sure.

“No,” he said. “That’s all right. I’ll call back later.”

He hung up-slammed the phone down in her ear, actually. She hung up, too, sitting there for a long time afterward with her hand still resting on the receiver. She wished it had been Andrew on the phone so she could have had it out with him once and for all, but it wasn’t. For that she would have to wait a little longer.

The human body isn’t quite like anything else, Brandon Walker thought. People talk about pulling the plug, but just turning off life-sustaining machines doesn’t necessarily mean it’s over, doesn’t mean the person gives up the ghost and dies the way a light goes off when you disconnect a cord from the socket. It wasn’t that simple. Nothing ever is.

The machines had been silenced for over an hour now, but Toby Walker stubbornly clung to life, persisting in breathing on his own much to the doctor’s surprise and dismay. His blood pressure was gradually falling, but there had been no marked or sudden change.

Nurses looked in on them every once in a while, respectfully, as though conscious that their presence was now an intrusion, not a help. Their concern focused on the two nonpatients-a woman quiet at last, worn out from continual weeping, and a man, the son, whose narrow jaw worked constantly, but who sat beside his dying father stiff and straight, dry-eyed and silent.

Brandon Walker had forgotten he was a cop in all this, forgotten that there was another duty calling. Sitting there, he was nothing but a grieving son, a lost, abandoned, and nearly middle-aged child, facing his own bleak future in a universe suddenly devoid of its center, an unthinkable world where his father didn’t exist.

The three people waited together in a room where the silence was broken only by the old man’s shallow breathing. No words were necessary. They had all been spoken long ago, and Brandon was convinced that in that broken shell of a man on the bed, there was no one left to listen.

Detective G. T. Farrell was well outside his Pinal County jurisdiction. He should have contacted the local law-enforcement agencies, either Maricopa County, or, in this case, the Tempe Police Department to ask for backup, but that would have taken time. Farrell knew in his gut there was no time to lose. He was propelled forward by the common force that drives all those who pursue serial killers-the horrifying and inevitable knowledge that time itself is the enemy.

Refusing to be rushed, Farrell had systematically worked the problem, marching down the Spaulding column in the phone book, calling each number in turn, always asking for Andrew-a first name Andrew-rather than giving out any further information. He had tried Spauldings in Phoenix proper. Next he worked the suburbs. Halfway through that process, a frail-sounding old woman answered the phone.

As soon as he asked for Andrew and heard the sharp, involuntary intake of breath, he knew he had hit pay dirt. Even while he talked to her, making sure his voice on the phone stayed calm and noncommittal, he was frantically tearing the page with her name on it out of the book. This was no time for scribbling notes.

But once in the car, Farrell couldn’t risk lights or siren. That would have raised too many unpleasant questions had anyone stopped him. He drove only as fast as the traffic would bear.

A resourceful man who always carried a selection of maps in his car, Geet headed East on Camelback in the general direction of Tempe, using crosstown stops at lights and the usual rush-hour slowdowns to locate the exact whereabouts of Weber Drive and to pinpoint the address in his Thomas Guide. Farrell figured it would take him about forty-five minutes to get there. His actual elapsed time was thirty-eight minutes flat.

Getting out of the car on Weber Drive half a block away from the address, he patted his holster and felt the reassuring presence of his.38 Special. It was possible that the old woman had lied and that her son had been right there in the room with her all along, but Farrell doubted it. The old woman didn’t sound as though she was that glib or that fast on her feet. She wasn’t that capable a liar. At least Geet Farrell fervently hoped she wasn’t.

Taking a deep breath, Farrell opened the gate, strode up the long walkway, and rang the doorbell. Almost immediately, he heard movement inside the small house. He swallowed hard to calm himself as the door opened and an old woman peered nearsightedly out at him through a screen door. “Yes?” she asked.

Carefully, using deliberate gestures, he brought out his badge. “I’m a police officer,” he said, holding it up to the screen so she could see it. “I’m looking for Andrew Carlisle.”

The woman squinted at the badge without reading it. “He isn’t here,” she said.

“Could I talk to you then? Are you his mother?”

“For the time being,” she answered.

Farrell wondered what that meant. He wondered, too, if she recognized his voice from the phone. If so, her next question gave no hint of it. “What do you want with him?”

“We want to ask him some questions, that’s all,” Farrell answered. “There are a few matters we need to clear up.”

“Me, too,” the old woman added, opening the screen door, motioning him inside. “I have some matters I’d like Andrew to clear up for me, too.”

Something in the woman’s injured tone suggested a switch in tactics from investigator to sympathizer, from potential enemy to ally. “What kind of matters, ma’am?” Farrell asked innocently.

“He stole my money, for one thing,” she answered with ill-concealed fury, “my money and my bankbooks. Then, when he saw I was leaving, he was so angry that I think he would have killed me if he could have gotten close enough, but I fooled him. I drove away all by myself. I drove all the way here. Can you believe it? Andrew never thought I would, and neither did I. After all, I’m sixty-five years old and had never driven a car before in my life, but I did. So help me I did. I wouldn’t have done it, either, if he hadn’t treated me so badly.”

“Maybe you ought to tell me about it, ma’am,” Geet Farrell said. “This could be important.”

Davy was surprised when he saw the bald-headed man standing outside the glass patio door. The man was wearing funny brown-colored clothes, the kind with plants painted on them, that soldiers sometimes wore in the movies.

“Nana Dahd,” he called. “Someone’s here.”

Davy expected the man would wait outside until Rita came to the door to talk to him. Instead, he shoved the door open and stepped inside.

“Who are you?” Davy demanded. “What do you want?”

“You,” the man answered. “You’re what I want.”

The man lunged for him. Davy tried to dart out of the way, but the man was too quick. He caught Davy by one arm, spinning him around. He swung the child up in the air and held him two feet off the ground.

“You were talking to somebody, kid. Who was it? Where are they?”

“I’m right here,” a woman’s voice said behind him. “Don’t hurt him.”

“Nana Dahd,” the boy complained. “He just came right in the house. He didn’t even knock.”

Suddenly, the man’s arm clamped tight around Davy’s throat, choking off his air. He kicked and fought, but he couldn’t get away. The last thing he heard before he blacked out was the man saying, “I don’t have to knock, because as long as I have you, I own the place. Isn’t that right, old woman?”

Davy didn’t see Rita’s answering nod. It was true. As long as he had Davy, Andrew Carlisle could have anything else he wanted.

Around the Pinal County Sheriff’s Department, Detective Geet Farrell had a considerable reputation as a ladies’ man. With men he could be tough and hard-nosed as hell, but with women he gentled them along until even the bad ones offered to give him the shirts off their backs.

Slowly but urgently, Geet Farrell worked Myrna Louise Spaulding. He didn’t rush her, but he didn’t allow any unnecessary delays, either. Within minutes, he had talked her into showing him the contents of the battered Valiant’s packed trunk. He recognized Johnny Rivkin’s name as soon as he saw the tag on the luggage, but he didn’t let anything betray his exultation. Because it was too soon. He needed to know more.

So he led the garrulous old lady through her entire day, encouraging her to remember everything from the moment she woke up until he himself had arrived on her doorstep.

Myrna Louise loved having an appreciative audience. She warmed to the telling and was totally engrossed by the time she got to the part about going into the office in Tucson to pick up those mysterious papers with those two women’s names on it. Only then, as she was telling the detective about the papers, did she fully allow herself to know what those two names meant, what Andrew was really going to do. It hit Detective Farrell at the same time, like a fierce, double-fisted blow to the gut.

“Where is he now?” he demanded savagely. All gentleness disappeared from the man, transformed instantly into a single-minded intensity that was frightening to see.

“I don’t know,” Myrna Louise whimpered. “I don’t have any idea.”

“We’ve got to find him. Where was he when you left him?”

“I already told you. At the storage unit. In Tucson.”

“Can I use your phone?” he asked.

“Yes,” she whispered, barely containing the despairing sob that rose in her throat. “Go ahead. Help yourself.”