Hour of the Hunter

Chapter 4

Around seven, Brandon Walker emerged from his cubicle and ventured down the hallway hoping to bum a cigarette and some company from Hank Maddern in Dispatch.

“Who knows. .” Brandon began by way of greeting, walking up behind the dispatcher’s back.

“. . what evil lurks in the hearts of men?” Maddern finished without turning. Both men laughed.

The intro to the old radio show The Shadow was a private in-crowd joke, shared among the grunts of the Pima County Sheriff’s Department. Professional police officers called themselves Shadows to differentiate between themselves and the political hacks who, with plum appointments, held most key jobs.

Sheriff DuShane, reelected over and over by comfortable margins, had himself one hell of a political machine, to say nothing of a lucrative handle on graft and corruption. One outraged deputy had printed up and distributed a bumper sticker that said, SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL SHERIFF. GET A MASSAGE. He had been all too right; he was also no longer a deputy.

DuShane may have been crooked, but he was also nobody’s fool. He knew the value and necessity of real cops to do the real jobs. That’s where the Shadows came in. They did all the work, got none of the glory, and most of them wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Hank Maddern, who had reigned supreme in Dispatch for more than ten years, held the dubious honor of being the most senior Shadow. He worked nights because he preferred working nights.

“Hey, Hank, got a smoke?” Brandon asked.

Maddern pulled a crumpled, almost-empty pack from his breast pocket and tossed it across the counter. “Didn’t quit smoking, just quit buying?”

“I’ll even up eventually,” Brandon said, shaking out the next-to-last cigarette.

“Right. You working on a case or hiding out?” Hank Maddern knew some of what went on in Brandon Walker’s home life because he often fielded Louella Walker’s calls.

“Hiding out,” Brandon admitted, breathing the smoke into his lungs. “Too bad it’s so quiet.”

“Give it time. It’s Friday. Things’ll heat up.”

As if on cue, the switchboard buzzed, and Maddern picked up the line. Brandon, with the cigarette dangling almost forgotten between his fingers, lounged against the counter. He gazed off into space, letting his mind go blank. He wasn’t ready to go back to his cubicle, and he sure as hell wasn’t ready to go home.

Maddern, listening intently on his headset, made a series of quick notes. “What was that name again? L-A-D-D, first name Diana?”

Immediately, Brandon Walker’s attention was riveted on Maddern. Even after six years, Diana Ladd’s name was one he remembered all too well. What was going on with her now?

“The boy’s name is David,” Maddern continued. “Yeah, I’ve got that, and you’re Dr. Rosemead? Repeat that number, Dr. Rosemead, and the address, too.”

Maddern reviewed his notes as the doctor spoke, verifying the information he had already been given.

“Sure,” he said. “I understand, it’s not life-threatening, but you’ve got to talk to the mother. Right. We’ll get someone on it right away. You bet. No problem.”

He dropped the line and reached for the duty roster, running his finger down the list, checking the availability of cars and deputies.

“What’s going on?” Brandon asked.

“Car accident. Out on the reservation. A kid’s been hurt, but not seriously. Needs a few stitches is all. Unfortunately, they took him out to the Indian Health Service in Sells. The doc there can’t lift a finger because the kid’s an Anglo. They’ve tried reaching the mother by phone. Ma Bell says the line’s off hook.”

“I’ll go,” Brandon Walker offered at once.

“You? How come? You’re Homicide. I already told you, the kid’s not hurt bad.”

“I’ll go,” Walker insisted.

“You really don’t want to go home, do you? But don’t bother with this. I’ve got a car out by Gates Pass right now.”

“Gates Pass?” Brandon said. “Doesn’t she still live in Topawa?”

Maddern did a double take. “You know the lady?”

Walker nodded grimly. “From years ago.”

“If you want to take her the bad news, then, be my guest,” Maddern continued. “But the address they gave me doesn’t say Topawa. It’s out by Gates Pass somewhere. The telephone number is a Tucson exchange.”

The dispatcher scribbled the phone number and address on another slip of paper and handed it over to Brandon just as the switchboard lit up again. Maddern turned to answer it, waving Brandon away. “Later,” he said.

Brandon Walker didn’t return to his cubicle. Instead, he hurried directly out to the parking lot where his unmarked Ford Galaxy waited. It was almost dark, but the temperature inside the closed vehicle was still unbearably hot. Before leaving the lot, Walker rolled down all the windows. Switching on the air-conditioning was pointless since it didn’t work. Repairs on grunts’ cars got shunted to the bottom of the priority list when it came to departmental mechanics.

The air conditioner was out of order, but the high-output, police-pursuit engine roared to life as soon as Walker turned the key in the ignition. He peeled out of the parking lot in a hail of loose gravel and headed for Gates Pass, driving on automatic, his mind occupied elsewhere.

Diana Ladd. It had to be her. It didn’t seem possible that there would be two women in town by that same name. She had made a big impression on him. How long ago was it? June? Jesus, it had to be almost seven years ago since the first time he saw her. He had forgotten about her between times-had forced himself to forget because some things are too painful to remember.

When had she moved to town? Not town exactly. The address on Gates Pass Road indicated an almost wilderness area well outside Tucson’s city limits. She would have had more company in the Teachers’ Compound in Topawa, living in the shabby mobile home where he had first met her. Had she stopped teaching on the reservation then? Maybe she had taken a job with District Number One in Tucson. God, she’d been pretty. Even six months pregnant she’d been pretty. And defiant.

He remembered the last time he saw her as though it were yesterday. They were standing in the crowded hallway of the Pima County Courthouse after the judge announced Andrew Carlisle’s plea-bargaining agreement. The old Indian lady-what was her name? — was sitting on a bench off to the side. Diana Ladd came up to him, grasping his sleeve with one hand while the other rested on her bulging belly. He avoided her gaze, not wanting to see the betrayal and hurt in her eyes, but he couldn’t evade the accusation in her voice.

“How could you let them do it?” she demanded, outraged, indignant. “How could you let them get away with it?”

“There was nothing I could do,” he answered lamely. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“We all have choices,” she’d returned icily.

Drawing herself stiffly erect, she marched away from him, walking with the awkward dignity of the profoundly pregnant. She went straight to the bench and helped the old Indian lady to her feet. The two women walked past him, the younger carefully leading the elder, as though the old woman were blind or crippled or both.

And Brandon Walker, left alone in the midst of a milling crowd, looked after them and wondered what he could have done differently. Of course, that was years ago now. He was no longer as green, as naive. He knew now that Diana Ladd had probably been right all along. There were things he could have done, arms he could have twisted, debts he could have called that might have made a difference.

A golden sliver of moon peeked over the jagged-toothed canyon as he drove the winding road to Gates Pass. He had no delusions that Diana Ladd would appreciate his coming to find her and tell her the news. Hearing about the accident from someone she knew, even someone she didn’t like, would be less hurtful than hearing it from a complete stranger.

In his gut, he understood that, but Brandon Walker wasn’t looking forward to the meeting. He knew Diana Ladd hadn’t forgiven him for what had happened, and that was no surprise. He hadn’t forgiven himself.

At that time, long ago, Rattlesnake’s bite had no poison. The children laughed at him and played with him and tossed him in the air. Sometimes, for a joke, they would pull out all his teeth. This made Ko’oi, Rattlesnake, very unhappy.

One day Ko’oi went crying to First Born. “The children are always teasing me and making me miserable. Please change me so I can go live somewhere else and be happy.”

First Born had already changed many of the animals, so he took Rattlesnake, pulled out all his teeth, and threw them away. They fell in the desert, and overnight grew into the mountains we call Ko’oi Tahtami, or Rattlesnake’s Tooth.

In the morning, First Born gathered up a few small, sharp rocks from these mountains and threw them into some water. They grew sharp and white and long, just the way rattlesnake teeth are today. First Born gave them to Rattlesnake and said to him, “Here. Now the children will no longer torment you, but from this day on, you will have no friends. You must crawl on your belly and live alone. If anything comes near you, you must bite it and kill it.”

And that, nawoj, my Friend, is the story of how Ko’oi, Rattlesnake, got his teeth.

In a lifetime of serial matrimony, Myrna Louise Spaulding had worked her way through a list of last names far too numerous to remember. Like overly zealous Chicago voters, she cast her ballot in favor of marriage, voting early and often. She always married for love, never for money. She always divorced for the same reason-true love-which may have been true at the time but never lasted long. Myrna Louise wasn’t a risk-taker. She never slipped one wedding band off her much-used ring finger without having a pretty good replacement prospect lined up and waiting in the wings.

Her son, Andrew Carlisle, found his mother’s peculiar penchant disturbing at first, humorous later, and ultimately boring. In his opinion, if Myrna Louise had been any good at the game, she would have seen to it that she picked up a few good pieces of change here and there along the way. But no. With one minor exception, she always targeted bums and ne’er-do-wells who were far worse off mentally and financially than she was.

Her last husband, Jake Spaulding-who also happened to be her late husband-had managed to roll over and die before the divorce was final. Much to her stepchildren’s dismay, Jake died without first revising his will. He left Myrna Louise in sole possession of the little family house on Weber Drive.

As a neighborhood, Weber Drive didn’t have much to recommend it, unless you liked the multicolored jack-in-the-box on the corner, but the house constituted a roof over Myrna Louise’s head for a change. On her meager pension and with the widow’s mite she had lucked into after Jake Spaulding’s timely death, she figured she’d barely be able to cover both taxes and utilities.

A bit down-at-the-heels, Weber Drive still managed to be respectable enough, and even a bit self-righteous. Myrna Louise had made tentative overtures of friendship toward some of the neighbors. She was determined to fit in here, to really belong someplace at last. Her son’s unexpected arrival was a definite fly in the ointment. Those very same neighbors might well pull the welcome mat right out from under the mother of an ex-con.

“Why, what in the world are you doing here?” a stunned Myrna Louise demanded, covering her dismay as best she could when the opened door revealed her son waiting on her doorstep.

“I came to see my mama,” he said with a smile. “I thought you’d be glad to see me after all this time.”

“Oh, I am. Of course I am. Come in. Come in here right now. But why didn’t you let me know you were coming?”

“Because I didn’t know, not for sure, anyway. They like to keep people guessing until the very last minute. It makes for better control.”

She dragged Andrew into the living room and stood looking fuzzily up at him. Myrna Louise should have taken to wearing glasses years before, but she usually couldn’t afford it, and besides, she was far too vain. A driver’s license might have forced her into glasses earlier, but she’d never owned a car, not until now. Jake’s car was still out in the garage. She planned to sell it if money ever got really tight.

“So are you out on parole, or what?” she asked petulantly.

“I’m out period, Mama. Free as a bird.”

“Good,” she said. She paused uncertainly. “Andrew, I’d really like it if the neighbors didn’t find out. About where you’ve been, I mean. Not that I’m ashamed or anything, it’s just that it’d be easier. .”

“I’m still your son,” he began.

“Don’t let’s be difficult. You see, you’ve been having all that mail sent here, all those things for Phil Wharton, whoever he is. I’ve been saving them, keeping them here for you just like you said. Who is he anyway, a friend of yours or what?”

“It’s a pen name, Mama. I couldn’t very well send things out with my own name on them, now could I.”

“Thank goodness,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, that’s sort of what I’ve been pretending. That you were him, or at least that Phil Wharton was my son.”

“You’ve been telling your friends that I’m Phil?”

Myrna Louise cringed at the hard edge of anger in his voice. “I didn’t mean any harm, Andrew. One of the ladies was here when the mail came one day. She saw it on the table and asked about it. I told her that you’re a journalist who’s been out of the country working on assignment and that you’d be home soon.”

“So you’ve lied to them?”

“Please, Andrew, I. .”

Andrew had her dead to rights, but the idea of his mother making up that kind of whopper was really pretty funny. He decided to let her off the hook. After all, it was his first night home.

“It’s okay, Mama. The name’s Phil, remember?”

Breathing a sigh of relief, Myrna Louise smiled gratefully. He was going to go along with it and not embarrass her in front of her friends. She wouldn’t be expelled from the morning coffee break after all.

At once she switched into full motherly mode. “Have you had any dinner? Are you hungry?”

Sure he was hungry. Why wouldn’t he be hungry? It had been a busy day, a trying day. Besides, hiking up and down mountains always gives a man one hell of an appetite.

Diana waited until the sun went down before she tried going up on the roof to work on the cooler. No wonder people called them swamp coolers. The thick, musty odor was unmistakable, gagging. Diana climbed up the ladder armed with a bottle of PineSol. She raised one side of the cooler and poured several glugs of powerful disinfectant into the water. The oily, piny scent wasn’t a big improvement, but it helped.

After returning the side of the cooler to its proper position, Diana stood for a few moments on the flat, graveled roof to survey her domain. The wild and forbidding front yard remained much as it had been when she first bought the place. An overgrown thicket of head-high prickly pear cast bizarre, donkey-eared shadows in the frail moonlight. She had spent far more effort in back, where both yard and patio were surrounded by a massive six-foot-high rock wall. The end result was almost a fortress. Inside that barrier, she felt safe and protected.

The house and outbuildings, sturdily constructed in the early twentieth century and lovingly remodeled during the twenties, had originally belonged to one of Pima County’s pioneer families. When family fortunes fell on hard times and when surviving family members dwindled to only one dotty eighty-year-old lady, most of the land, with the exception of the house, cook shack, and barn, had been deeded over to the county as payment for back taxes. That had been during the late forties. The old lady, who wasn’t expected to live much longer anyway, had been allowed lifetime tenancy in the house, with her estate authorized to sell off the remainder after her death.

The old lady confounded all predictions and lived to a ripe 101, refusing to leave the walled confines of the compound until the very end, but letting the place fall to wrack and ruin around her. She died, and the wreckage went up for sale at almost the same time Gary Ladd’s life-insurance proceeds came into Diana’s hands.

After spending her entire childhood in housing tied to her father’s job, Diana Ladd wanted desperately to escape the mobile home in the Topawa Teachers’ Compound housing, to bring her baby home to a house that belonged to her rather than to her employer. She jumped at the chance to buy the derelict old house.

The realtor had done his best to dissuade her, patiently pointing out all the things that were wrong with the place. It was full of garbage-of dead bread wrappers and empty tin cans and layers of old newspapers six feet deep. The plaster was falling off the lath in places, windows were cracked and broken, the roof leaked, and the toilet in the only bathroom had quit working. Throughout the house, failing wiring was a nightmare of jury-rigged repairs, but Diana Ladd was not to be deterred. She bought the place, warts and all, and she and Rita Antone set about fixing it up as best they could.

Six years later, the remodel was stalled for lack of money. To solve that problem, Diana had temporarily set aside home-improvement projects in favor of finishing her book. Writing it was pure speculation, of course. She had made some preliminary and reasonably favorable inquiries, but the book wasn’t sold yet. She hoped that when she did sign a contract, she’d be able to hire a contractor to complete some of the heavier work.

Standing on the roof, she watched the approach of an oncoming pair of headlights on the road overhead. Approaching her driveway, the vehicle slowed to a crawl and the turn signals came on. As the unfamiliar car turned off the blacktop, Diana Ladd suffered a momentary panic. For years, she had steeled herself against the possibility of Andrew Carlisle’s coming after her in the same way she had prepared herself for the possibility of a snakebite. With Carlisle, as with the neighborhood’s indigenous snakes, you assumed a certain amount of risk and did what you could to protect yourself.

Rattlesnakes rattle a warning before they strike, and so had Andrew Carlisle. The last time she had seen the man in the hallway at the courthouse, he had mouthed a silent threat at her when his accompanying deputy wasn’t looking. “I’ll be back,” his lips had said noiselessly.

Over the years, she had learned to live with that threat, treating it seriously but keeping her fear firmly in the background of her consciousness. Most of the time, anyway, but the arrival of unfamiliar cars always brought it to the forefront.

The tires bounced down the rough, rocky road, and the headlights caught her in a piercing beam of light, blinding her, trapping her silhouetted against the night sky. She stood there paralyzed and vulnerable, while fear rose like bile in her throat.

From near the base of the ladder, she heard Bone’s low-throated warning growl. The urgency of the sound prompted her to action, jolted her out of her panic. The headlights moved away. In sudden pitch darkness, she scrambled clumsily toward the ladder.

“Bone,” she called softly, hoping to reach the ground in time to catch the dog’s collar and keep him with her, but the tall, gangly hound didn’t wait. Still growling, he raced to where the rocky, six-foot wall with its wooden gate intersected the corner of the house. The wall would have stopped most dogs cold, but not the Bone, a dog with the size and agility of a small mountain goat. Bounding from rock to rock, he scrambled up several outcroppings to the top, then flung himself off the other side.

As the car pulled to a stop in the front drive, the dog hurled himself out of the darkness toward the car, lunging like a ferocious, tooth-filled shadow at the front driver’s side tire. Using the dog’s attack as cover, Diana slipped into the house unnoticed. She was already in the living room when the trapped driver laid on the horn.

Cranking open the side panel of the front window, she called, “Who is it?”

The driver must have rolled down his window slightly, because the dog left off attacking the tire and reared up on his hind legs at the side of the car, barking ferociously.

“Call off this goddamned mutt before he breaks my window!” an outraged voice demanded.

“Who is it?” Diana insisted.

“Detective Walker,” the voice answered. “Now call off the dog, Diana. I’ve got to talk to you.”

As soon as she heard the name, Diana recognized Brandon Walker’s voice. A sudden whirlwind of memory brought the buried history back, all of it, robbing her of breath, leaving her shaken, unable to speak.

His voice softened. “Diana, please. Call off the dog.”

She took a deep breath and hurried to the door. “Oh’o. lhab,” she ordered in Papago, stepping out onto the porch. “Bone. Here.”

With a single whined objection and a warning glare over his shoulder at the intruding car, the dog went to her at once and lay down at her feet.

Brandon Walker switched off the headlights and the engine. Cautiously, he opened the door, peering warily at the woman and dog waiting on the lighted porch.

“Are you sure it’s all right? Shouldn’t you tie him up or something? That dog’s a menace.”

“Bone’s all right,” she returned, making no move to restrain the animal. “Why are you here? What do you want?”

“I’ve got to talk to you, Diana. There’s been an accident.”

“An accident? Where? Who?”

“Out on the reservation. Your son David’s been hurt. Not bad, but. .”

“Davy? Oh, my God. Where is he? What’s happened?”

Hearing the alarm in Diana’s voice, the dog rose once more to his feet with another threatening growl. Diana grabbed Bone’s collar and shoved him into the house, closing the door behind him.

With the dog safely locked away, Brandon Walker moved closer. “It’s not as bad as it sounds,” he reassured her quickly, “but the Indian Health Service doctor can’t do anything about either treating him or letting him go until they talk to you. Your phone isn’t working.”

Diana’s hand went to her throat. She looked stricken. “I forgot to put it back on the hook when I quit working.” She started toward the house, leaving him standing there.

“Wait. Where are you going?”

“To call the hospital and get my car keys,” she said. Two minutes later, she emerged from the house and headed toward her car, a tiny white Honda.

“Why don’t you let me drive,” Brandon offered, motioning toward the far more powerful Galaxy. “We’ll make better time, especially if we use the lights.”

She wavered for a moment, vacillating between driving herself and accepting his offer of help.

“What did the doctor say?” Brandon pressed.

“That Davy will have to go on into Tucson for stitches.”

“See there? Let me drive. That way, you can take care of the boy.”

The detective’s good sense overcame Diana Ladd’s stubborn independence. Without another word, she headed for his car.

Later, as the Ford roared down the highway, lights flashing overhead, Diana noticed she was still holding the partially full bottle of PineSol. She clearly remembered putting it down when she used the phone, but in her frantic rush to leave the house, she must have unconsciously picked it up again. As unobtrusively as possible, she slipped the offending bottle out of sight under the seat of the speeding Galaxy. Diana Ladd was upset, and she didn’t want the detective to realize exactly how upset she was.

Fat Crack Ortiz owned the only gas station in Sells. He also owned the only tow truck. Consequently, he was the first member of Rita Antone’s family to be notified of the accident on Kitt Peak Road.

After towing the demolished Jimmy back to the station, he hurried straight to the hospital. One of a handful of Christian Scientists on the reservation, Fat Crack subscribed to neither medical doctors nor medicine men, but he was prepared to be open-minded as far as other people’s beliefs were concerned.

As soon as he turned up in the emergency-room lobby, one of the nurses, Effie Joaquin, recognized him. “Is it serious?” he asked.

Effie nodded. “It sure is. She’s ruptured her spleen and broken some ribs and one arm. There may be other internal injuries as well. She went into cardiac arrest in the ambulance. Do you want to see her before she goes into surgery?”

“If I can,” Fat Crack said.

The nurse ushered him into the emergency room. Rita, looking pale and shrunken, lay on a gurney with an IV bag draining into her flaccid right arm. The other arm was swathed in bulky, bloody bandages. He walked over to the gurney and bent close to Rita’s head.

“Ni-thahth?” he whispered gently in her ear, speaking the traditional words for his mother’s elder sister.

Her eyes fluttered open, darted around wildly for a moment, then settled on his face. “Ni-mad,” she returned. “Nephew.”

“I will pray for you,” he said, reaching out and touching her grasping fingers, feeling his own power flowing into her. His auntie did not believe according to his lights, but Fat Crack’s faith was strong enough for both of them.

“Olhoni,” she whispered.

Her nephew had not heard the name before. At first he didn’t understand what she was saying. He thought she was still worried about the spooked steer that had caused the accident.

“He’s fine,” Fat Crack reassured her. “You didn’t hit him at all.”

Rita shook her head impatiently and wet her parched lips. “The boy,” she said. “Davy. He’s outside. Stay with him. Until his mother comes.”

“Sure, Ni-thahth,” he told her. “I will see that he isn’t left alone.”

Rita’s eyes closed then as Effie came to get the gurney. “The operating room is ready now,” she said. “You’ll have to wait outside.”

“Yes,” Fat Crack said. “I will wait.”

Myrna Louise fixed her son a quick dinner of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast, washed down with a tumbler of her own rotgut vodka, then she showed him into the tiny second bedroom.

“Jake’s clothes are still in the closet there,” she said. “I haven’t gotten around to calling Goodwill to come pick them up. Maybe some of it will fit.”

Andrew Carlisle waited until his mother left the room and closed the door behind her before he hurried over to the bed. He groaned with disappointment. Three large self-addressed envelopes lay there on the chenille bedspread-manuscript-sized envelopes-each address, written in his own clear hand, said Mr. Philip Wharton.

Damn! So none of the three so-called literary agents had had balls enough to take it. He ripped open the envelopes one by one. A copy of his manuscript, A Less Than Noble Savage, was in each, along with three separate form letters saying thanks, but no thanks. For obvious reasons, he hadn’t used his old agent, but these jerks were treating him like a rank amateur.

Damn them all straight to hell anyway! Who the hell did they think they were, turning him down with nothing more than a form letter? Not even a personal note? They didn’t know what they were missing-who they were missing-but he’d show them.

Hands trembling with suppressed rage, he tore each of the rejection slips into tiny pieces and threw the resulting confetti into the garbage. Those stupid bastards didn’t know good writing when they saw it. They were too busy selling the public on half-baked, vapid fantasy/mysteries written by limp-wristed creeps who never once bloodied their own hands.

What had Andrew Carlisle always drummed into his students’ heads? Write what you know. If you want to know how it feels to be a murderer, try choking the life out of something and see how hard it is, how much effort it takes, and see how you feel about it afterward.

He felt a sudden stirring in his groin as he remembered Margaret and how it had felt to drain the life out of her. He knew now, from going through her purse and car, that the blonde’s name was Margaret, Margaret Danielson-Margie for short.

The pulsing urge came on him suddenly. He forced himself to undress and lie on the bed and just think about her. He allowed himself to masturbate until he found release, because it was far too soon for him to do anything else.

Rita opened her eyes. A brilliant white light was shining above her. Around the periphery of her vision, several people in green caps and face masks stood over her. All she could see were eyes-eyes and a few anxious frowns, no one she recognized, no one she knew.

A man leaned over her. She smelled the sharp, pungent odor of aftershave. He patted her arm gently. “It’s going to be fine, Rita. Everything’s going to be okay.”

Dr. Rosemead meant his reassuring touch and softly uttered words to offer his patient some comfort. They had exactly the opposite effect. She shrank away from his fingers, her whole body convulsing and struggling against the restraints that bound her to the operating table even though every movement sent sharp stabs of pain through her body.

“Anesthetic!” Dr. Rosemead ordered sharply. “For God’s sake, give her something!”

Davy sat quietly in the busy waiting room next to the mountain of a man he knew to be Nana Dahd’s nephew. The cut on his head had mostly stopped bleeding, although his hair was still sticky in spots where more blood had oozed out since the last time someone had cleaned it off. One of the nurses had said he would probably need stitches. He wondered if they used a sewing machine or maybe just a needle and thread.

His head ached, and when he tried to move around, he felt dizzy, so he sat still. The man next to him spoke to him briefly in Papago when he first sat down, then he seemed to go away completely. His body was there, but his mind seemed far, far away. It made Davy think of the way his mother was sometimes when she was working, so he contented himself with sitting and watching.

Being in that room was almost like being invisible. The people around him glanced at him and then looked quickly away. They spoke to one another in Papago, and the things they said made him realize they didn’t know he understood what they were saying. They called Rita by another name, Hejel Wi’ithag, which means Left Alone. They called him by another name, too-Me’akam Mad, or Killer’s Child. He couldn’t understand why they called him by such a strange, mean name, or why they seemed not to like him.

Davy was tired, and his head hurt. He wanted Rita, but the nurses said she was in surgery. They said she was badly hurt. And where was his mother? Why wasn’t she here? Just thinking about it made fat tears try to leak out the corners of his eyes. He squinted hard to keep that from happening. He sighed and tried to swallow the huge lump in his throat.

For the first time in more than an hour, the huge man next to him stirred and looked down at the little boy. Then, raising his broad, bare arm, he pulled Davy against him.

At first Davy started to resist, but only when he was resting against the enveloping warmth of the man’s massive chest did the boy realize how cold he was and how tired. He stopped struggling and let his eyes close.

Pillowed against Fat Crack Ortiz’s massive bulk, Davy Ladd fell fast asleep.