Kiss the Bees

11

So I'itoi gave orders to chase the evil ones to the ocean. When they reached the shore of what is now the Gulf of California, Great Spirit sang a song. As I'itoi sang, the waters were divided and the Bad People rushed in to go to the other side. Then Elder Brother called the waters together again, and many of the PaDaj O'othham-the Bad People-were drowned, but some reached the other side.

Great Spirit again tried to have his good warriors kill those evil ones that had escaped the waters, but the warriors would not. AndI'itoi — Spirit of Goodness-felt so ashamed that he made himself small and came back from the other side through the ground, under the water.

Many of his people returned withI'itoi, but some could not, and these were very unhappy, for thePaDaj O'othham who had not been destroyed were increasing.

ThenI'itoi 's daughter said she would save these good Indians who were not happy. She took all the children to the seashore, where they sat down and sang together. This is the song thatI'itoi 's daughter andA'ali — the Children-sang:

O white birds who cross the water,

O white birds who cross the water,

Help us now to cross the water.

We want to go with you across the water.

Kohkod — the Seagulls-heard the song. They came down and studiedI'itoi' s daughter and the children. ThenKohkod flew up and circled around, singing:

Take these feathers that we give you

Take these white feathers that we give you-

Take the feathers floating round you

And do not fear to cross the water.

So the Indians took the white feathers that the seagulls gave them. They bound the feathers round their heads and crossed the water safely. That is why,nawoj, my friend, theTohono O'othham keep those white feathers-thestoha a'an — very carefully, even to this day.

Candace and David had a beautiful dinner together in the hotel dining room. The champagne Candace ordered was Dom Perignon. "It's okay," she said, sending a radiant smile in Davy's direction over the top of the wine list. "Daddy said we could have whatever we want. It's on him."

"Exactly how much did Bridget and Larry's wedding set your folks back?" David asked once the sommelier left the table. Bridget was Candace's next older sister. Her wedding had taken place two months before Davy and Candace met.

Candace shivered. "You don't even want to know," she said. "It was a complete circus. She had nine attendants."

David gulped. "Nine?"

"The reception was a sit-down dinner for three hundred at the club. It was awful. 'Ghastly' is the word Daddy used. He was a little drunk before it was all over that night. I remember him taking me aside and telling me that night that no matter what, he wasn't going to go through that again."

The waiter returned carrying a champagne bucket. Candace winked at Davy. "All Daddy's doing is making good on that promise."

The wine was served with all due ceremony. "I finished reading your mother's book last night," Candace Waverly said over the top of her glass a few moments later. "You hardly ever talk about that, you know. I remember your saying once that your mother was a writer, but until she won that big prize last month, and until Mom saw her on 'The Today Show,' I didn't know she was an important writer. My dad only reads boring stuff like The Wall Street Journal and Barron's, but still he's dying to meet her. So's Mother."

"She'll probably be in Chicago on tour sometime," David said without enthusiasm. "Maybe she can meet your folks then."

"What do you think of it?"

"What do I think of what?" David Ladd asked. "Of her going on tour? Of her meeting your parents?"

Candace glared at him in mock exasperation. "No, silly. Of her book."

In fact, like his stepfather, David Ladd had avoided reading Shadow of Death like the plague, and for many of the same reasons. For the first seven years of his life, Davy had been an only child, the son of a woman obsessed by her dream of becoming a writer. In the beginning, maybe Davy hadn't had to contend with sibling rivalry as such, but there had always been competition for Diana Ladd Walker's attention. All his life David had felt as though he was forever relegated to second place, first behind Diana's typewriter, and then behind Brandon Walker and Lani and a succession of ever smaller computers.

With that foundation, it wasn't at all surprising that Davy regarded his mother's increasing success in the world of writing with a certain ambivalence. When it came to Shadow of Death, however, ambivalence turned to active abhorrence. He resented the idea that his mother would have anything at all to do with Andrew Carlisle-with the monster who had single-handedly brought so much destruction on the Ladd family. Andrew Carlisle was the single individual who bore ultimate responsibility for the death and subsequent disgrace of David Ladd's father, Garrison. Once released from prison, Carlisle had come back to Tucson. In a binge of vengeance, he had brutalized and raped David's mother while Davy himself remained imprisoned and helpless behind a locked root-cellar door.

Whatever innocuous words Diana Ladd Walker may have used to tell her side of that story, the one thing they couldn't absolve Davy of was the fact that he hadn't helped her. After all, what kind of a son wouldn't save his mother? Whenever David Ladd thought of those long-ago events, it was always with an abiding sense of shame and failure. He had let his mother down, had somehow forsaken her, leaving her defenseless in her hour of need. What could be more shameful than that?

For years Davy had fantasized about that day. In those imagined scenarios, he always emerged from the cellar and did battle with the evil Ohb. In those daydreams, Davy Ladd always fought Andrew Carlisle and won.

In writing Shadow of Death, Davy doubted his mother had taken his feelings on the subject into account. By reporting what happened in a factual manner-and Diana was always factual-she had no doubt held up Davy's glaring inadequacy for all the world to see. Everyone who read the book-even Candace-would know about David Garrison Ladd's terrible failure in the face of that awful crisis.

"I haven't read it," he said after a long interval.

Candace looked shocked. "You haven't? Why not?"

David Ladd thought about that for a minute more before he answered, fearing that just talking about it might be enough to bring on another panic attack and send his heart racing out of control.

"I guess you had to be there," he said finally. "Maybe my mother doesn't mind reliving that day, but I do. I don't ever want to be that scared or that powerless again."

"But you were just a child when it happened, weren't you?" Candace objected.

David nodded. "Six, going on seven," he said.

"See there?" Candace continued. "You're lucky. Most kids never have a chance to see their parents doing something heroic."

"Heroic!" David echoed. "Are you serious? Stupid, maybe, but not heroic. She could have had help if she'd wanted to. Brandon Walker wasn't my stepfather then, but I'm sure he offered to help her, and I'm equally sure she turned him down. The other thing she could have done was pack up and go someplace else until the cops had the guy back under lock and key."

"Still," Candace returned, "she did fight him, and she won. He didn't get away with it; he went to prison. So don't call your mother stupid, at least not to me. I think she was very brave, not only back then-when it happened-but also now, for talking about it after all these years and bringing it all out in the open."

David didn't want to quarrel with Candace, not in this elegant dining room populated by fashionably dressed guests and dignified waiters. "I guess we're all entitled to our opinions," he waffled. "You can call her brave if you want to. I still say she was stubborn."

Candace grinned. "So you could say that you come by that honestly."

David nodded. "I guess," he said.

They lingered over dinner for the better part of two hours, savoring every morsel. Then they went back up to their room and made love. Afterward, Candace fell asleep while Davy lay awake, waiting to see if the dream would come again, and worrying about what he would do if that happened.

How the hell could he be engaged and about to elope, for God's sake? He liked Candace well enough, but not that much. No way was he in love, and yet her suitcases were all packed and waiting by the door. And her father's bribe-her father's astonishingly generous twenty-five-thousand-dollar bribe! — was safely stashed in the side pocket of Candace Waverly's purse.

Davy rolled over on his side. Candace stirred beside him, sighed contentedly in her sleep, and cuddled even closer. The soft curls on her head tickled his nose and made him sneeze.

All his life David Ladd had pondered the mystery of his parents' relationship. He had never met his father. Everything he had heard about Garrison Ladd from his mother had been steeped in the dregs of Diana's disillusion and hurt. As a teenager, David had often asked himself if it was possible that his parents had ever loved one another. If not, if they had never been in love, why had they gotten married in the first place? What had caused them to disregard their basic differences in favor of holy matrimony?

Now, lying next to Candace, he was blessed with an inkling of understanding. Perhaps Garrison and Diana had been swept along on a tide of misunderstanding and confusion neither one of them had nerve enough to stop. Perhaps they had woken up married one day without really intending to. David had read a book once called The Accidental Tourist. And now here he was about to become an accidental bridegroom.

And it would happen, too. Candace would see to it. Unless Davy himself had brains and guts enough to do something to stop it.

David Ladd had been brought up by Rita Antone, by a woman raised in a non-confrontational culture. Among the Tohono O'othham, yes is always better than no.

He wondered, as he drifted off to sleep, if someone had told Candace Waverly that little secret about him, or if she was simply operating on instinct. Probably instinct was the correct answer, he thought.

As far as he could tell, women were like that.

Mitch hadn't thought that the girl would still be so far out of it, but she was. She lay quietly, making hardly any protest when he donned a pair of latex gloves and scrubbed her whole body with a rough, sun-baked towel-parts he had touched and some parts he hadn't-making sure that no traces of his own fingerprints lingered anywhere on her skin.

It took time to make the tape, asking her leading questions in a way that elicited mumbled but predictable answers. By the end of that, though, Mitch was concerned that it would soon be time to leave for town to keep the date with Quentin. Still Lani Walker dozed on and off. That frustrated Mitch no end. What he required from her-what he wanted more than anything-was awareness and fear. Without those, what he was doing just wasn't good enough. He knew he would have to treat her with scopolamine once more before they left for town-a much lighter dose this time-but in the meantime…

Taking out a pair of rubber-handled kitchen tongs he had purchased new for that sole purpose, he laid the metal teeth on the burner of the stove, turned on the fire, and set them to heat. He didn't take them off the flame until the rubber handles were starting to smolder.

When Mitch returned to the bed, he found Lani Walker sleeping peacefully once again. He stood for a moment looking down at her and feeling godlike, observing the smooth skin of her body, flawless still, except for those few white marks. He had the power to leave that body flawless or to mar it forever. There was never any real question of whether or not he would do it. There was only one decision left to make-choosing which one he would take.

"Lani!" he called out sharply. "Lani, wake up."

The long lashes fluttered open, but the dark eyes that looked questioningly up at him were vague and confused. There was no still comprehension in them, still no fear.

"Watch this," he said.

For ease of use, Mitch had left the tape recorder sitting on the floor beside the bed with the controls set on pause. With his gloved left hand, he reached down and punched the "record" button, then he slammed his good knee into her abdomen. The force of the blow sent the wind rushing out of her. Holding her pinioned to the bed with the full weight of his body, he clamped the scorching teeth of the tongs into the fullness of her right breast, an inch and a half on either side of the tender brown nipple.

Even tied hand and foot, Lani bucked so hard beneath him that she almost pitched him off her. He had to grab hold of her waist with his free hand to keep from being thrown onto the floor. Even that far away, the fierce heat from the searing tongs warmed the skin of Mitch's own face. The shockingly sweet smell of singeing flesh filled his nostrils.

It was a magic moment for Mitch. Feeling that naked body writhe in agony beneath his was as good as any sex he ever remembered. But the best part about it was the scream. That was far more than he could have hoped; better than anything he had ever imagined. Hearing Lani Walker's shriek of torment, it was all Mitch could do to hold back an answering moan of his own, one of exquisite pleasure rather than pain.

At last she lay still beneath him. As soon as she did so, he unclasped the tongs. He had to force the metal free from the charred skin. Around the wounded flesh, a wave of shocked goose bumps slid across her body. Mitch was surprised to see them. Who knows? he thought. Maybe it did as much for her as it did for me.

Reaching down, he quickly switched off the tape before she had a chance to say something that might somehow lessen the impact of that beautifully unearthly scream. Her sudden stillness was so complete that for a moment Mitch was afraid she might have fainted, thus depriving him and putting a temporary end to his fun. But no, when he looked down, her watery, tear-filled eyes were wide open, staring up at him in outraged, accusing silence.

Mitch Johnson wanted her to speak to him then, but she did not. If nothing else, he would have liked her to beg and plead with him not to hurt her again, but she didn't do that, either. After that one shrill, involuntary cry, no further sound escaped Lani Walker's lips, not even a whimper.

As the girl studied him, Mitch thought about Eve in the Garden of Eden. Like Eve growing beyond her mindless goodness, Lani had emerged from the cocoon of her drug-induced slumber. Willingly or not, she had now tasted the forbidden fruit. The dark, burning eyes she focused on him had been forever robbed of their trusting innocence.

"Welcome to the real world, babe," Mitch Johnson said, then he turned and walked away.

He held the tongs under running water from the faucet long enough to cool them down, until the fierce heat sizzled away, first into steam and then into nothing. Once they were cool enough, he put them back in the shopping bag they'd come in originally. Then he rewound the tape to the beginning, returned it to the plastic carrying case, and put that in the bag as well.

This one's for you, Andy,he thought. It's a promise I made and one I kept. Somehow I doubt Diana Ladd Walker will like it as much as you would. In fact, she won't like it at all, but it's something she and Brandon Walker will never forget, not as long as they live.

The pain was so blindingly intense that for a time Lani wasn't aware of anything else. The whole universe seemed centered in the seared flesh of her wounded breast. It overwhelmed her whole being. There were no words that encompassed that awful hurt, no thoughts that made such inhuman cruelty understandable.

At last, though, through her unseeing anguish, Lani became aware of the man standing over her, aware of his eyes pressing in on her and of her nakedness under that invasive gaze. She squirmed, as if hoping to escape that look, but the scarves binding her hands and legs held her fast. The only way to combat that look was to stare back at him, holding his gaze with her own.

Studying him, she was suddenly aware that he wanted something more from her, as if what he had already taken wasn't enough; as if he longed for something else in order to achieve real satisfaction.

Trying to imagine what that could be somehow took her mind away from the searing pain arcing through her body like the burning blue flash of her father's welding torch. And then, as clearly as if she had read his thoughts, she knew. Standing there, clothed in his presumed superiority, he was waiting for her to speak, to say something. It was almost as though he needed her to acknowledge his brutality and then bow before it.

Her only weapon was to deny him that satisfaction. She kept quiet, biting her lips to hold them together. After a long moment, he melted out of her line of vision, leaving her to ride out the terrible pain alone and in utter silence.

But somehow she wasn't alone. The vision came surging at her out of the past the moment she closed her eyes.

Lani was five years old again, standing naked in front of the mirror in her parents' bathroom. She had pawed through her mother's makeup and found the tube of concealer, the white lipstick-looking stuff Diana sometimes put under her eyes before she applied her other makeup.

Carefully, looking down at her body rather than watching her reflection in the mirror, Lani drew a perfect pair of half-moons on her flat chest, encircling the little brown knob of flesh that would someday grow into a nipple.

Then, pulling on her nightgown, she went racing through the house. She wanted to show someone her handiwork, but her parents were out. Instead, she went searching for Rita Antone. She found Nana Dahd in her room at the back of the house, working on a basket.

"Look," Lani crowed, pulling up her nightgown. "Look at what I did. Now I can be just like Mommy."

Rita's face had gone strangely pale and rigid the moment she saw the circle Lani had drawn on her body.

"Go wash," she ordered, in a terrible voice Lani Walker had never heard before. "Go wash that off. Do not do it again! Ever!"

"But why can't I be like Mommy?" she had said later, after she had showered for a second time. Once again dressed for bed, she had come back to Nana Dahd's room to say good night and hoping to make some sense of what had happened.

"Shhhh," Nana Dahd had told her. "Your mother looks like that because the evil Ohb did something to her. Because he hurt her. You shouldn't say such things. Someone might hear you and make it happen."

Now someone had.

Lani's eyes came open. The pain wasn't any less. If anything, it was worse. She looked down at the angry welt of seared flesh. It was red now and blistered, but someday it, too, would be a pale white scar, almost the same as the one that encircled the nipple on her mother's right breast.

And that was the moment when, without being able to say how, Lani knew this was the same thing. Lani had learned from reading her mother's book that Andrew Carlisle had been blinded and terribly disfigured by the bacon grease Diana Ladd had thrown at him. And she remembered a few weeks earlier, when her mother had told her father at dinner that it had said in the paper that Andrew Carlisle was dead.

Mr. Vega had worn his hair long and in a ponytail when he had been out on the mountain, painting. This man's hair was very short. He was neither blind nor disfigured, but he was somehow connected to the evil Ohb.

Knowing that, Lani had a blueprint of what to do.

"I'm going to untie you now."

Once again the man was standing over her. "Actually, 'untie' isn't the word. Do you see this knife?"

In one hand he held a long narrow knife. The blade was very long and it looked sharp. "I'm going to cut you loose," he continued. "If you don't behave, I'll use it on you. Do you understand?"

Lani nodded again.

"All right then."

One at a time, he cut through the strands of silk that had held her captive. As soon as he set her limbs free, the pins and needles in her arms and legs-the cramps in her shoulders and hips-were bad enough that the new pain took some of Lani's attention away from the pulsing throb in her breast.

"Get up now," he ordered.

She tried to stand and then fell back on the low bed with a jarring thud. "I can't," she said. "My legs are asleep."

"Well, sit there, then." He turned away for a moment and came back holding out a cup. "Drink some of this," he said, sounding almost solicitous. "That must hurt, and maybe this will help deaden the pain."

Lani had figured out by then that he must have drugged her, that he must have put something in the orange juice she had drunk that morning or whenever it was when she was supposedly posing for him. And if he had drugged her once, no doubt he was going to do it again.

She reached up as if to take the cup. Instead of taking it, though, she slapped it out of his hand, gasping with pain at the shock of the cold water slicing across her burned flesh, searing it anew.

"Why, you goddamned bitch!" he muttered. "There's still some fight left in you, isn't there. But believe me, there's plenty more where that came from."

He walked as far as the kitchen. She saw him pouring something into a fresh cup of water, then he came back. This time, before he gave her the cup, he knotted his other hand into the hair at the back of her neck, yanking her head backward.

"This time you'll drink it like a good girl, or I'll hold you down and pour the stuff down your goddamned throat. Got it?"

She nodded.

He placed the cup in her hand, and this time she drank it down. When she gave it back to him, he checked to make sure it was empty.

"That's better," he said. "You swallowed every drop. Here are your clothes now. Get dressed."

Concerned about fingerprints, he had rinsed out her clothing earlier that morning, but hadn't bothered to dry them. How could he? He didn't have a dryer, and if he had hung them on the clothesline, someone might have noticed. They were still a sodden lump when he tossed them into her lap.

"I can't wear these," she said. "They're wet."

"So? This isn't a fucking Chinese laundry," he told her. "Go naked if you want to. It sure as hell doesn't matter to me."

After a struggle, she finally managed to pull on the jeans. The shirt hurt desperately whenever it touched the burned spot on her breast, but at least the man couldn't look at her anymore. Without further protest she pulled on the wet socks and forced on the boots.

"Come on now," he said impatiently. "Off we go."

With her legs shaking beneath her, she staggered across the room. A few feet away, she stopped beside the easel. There in front of her was a picture-a picture that was undeniably of her.

Mr. Vega saw her stop beside the picture and look. "Well," he said. "What do you think? Is this the kind of thing you had in mind for your parents' anniversary present?"

"Tohntomthadag!" she said.

"You were talking Indian, weren't you," he observed. "What do those words mean?"

Lani Walker shook her head. She never had told Danny Jenkins that s-koshwa means "stupid." Not caring what he might do to her, she didn't tell Mr. Vega that in Tohono O'othham, the single word she had spoken, tohntomthadag, means "pervert."

In the forty minutes between the time Brian Fellows called Dispatch for assistance and the arrival of the detective, Brian stayed in the Blazer. Working on a metal clipboard, he started constructing the necessary paper trail of the incident. He began with the call summoning him to assist Kath Kelly and had worked his way up to unearthing the bones when he realized how stupid he was. Rattlesnake Skull, the ancient village that had once been near the charco, had been deserted for a long time, but it had probably been inhabited for hundreds of years before that. It made sense, then, that there would be nothing so very surprising about finding a set of human remains in that general area. In fact, it was possible there were dozens more right around there.

Brian Fellows was still considered a novice as far as the Pima County Sheriff's Department was concerned. He cringed at how that kind of mistake might be viewed by some of the department's more hard-boiled homicide dicks, none of whom would be thrilled at the idea of being dragged away from a Saturday-afternoon poolside barbecue to investigate a corpse that turned out to be two or three hundred years old.

Brian was putting together his backpedal routine when a dusty gray departmental Ford Taurus pulled up beside him. When the burly shape of a cigar-chomping detective climbed out of the driver's seat, Brian breathed a sigh of relief. Dan Leggett. Of all the detectives Brian might have drawn, Dan Leggett would have been his first choice. Dan was one of the old-timers, someone who had been around for a long time. Dan had grown up in law enforcement under Brandon Walker's leadership. He had a reputation for doing a thorough, professional job.

Tossing his clipboard to one side, Brian clambered out of the Blazer and hurried forward to meet the man.

"So what have you got here, Deputy Fellows?" Leggett asked. He handed Brian a plastic water jug and then paused to light a half-smoked cigar while Brian gulped a long drink. "Dispatch tells me they sent you out here to investigate a dead steer," he continued once the cigar was lit. "They claim you turned that steer into first a beating and now a homicide."

"I never said it was a homicide," Brian corrected, hoping to salvage a smidgeon of pride. "And it isn't even a whole body. I dug up some human bones is all. If it turns out to be some Indian who's been dead a few hundred years, you'll probably think I'm a complete idiot."

"Suppose you show me where these bones are and let me take a look for myself. Afterward, depending on the results, we can take a vote on Deputy Brian Fellows's powers of observation and general reliability."

"This way," Brian said. He led Detective Leggett over to his small collection of previously unearthed skeletal remains. "There's a skull down there too," the young deputy said. "Down there, toward the far end of the hole. As soon as I realized what it was, I left it there for fear of destroying evidence."

Leggett blew out a cloud of smoke, held the cigar so he was upwind of both the cigar and the smoke and downwind of the bones. He stood there for a moment, sniffing the air. Finally, he stuffed the cigar back in his mouth.

"Thank God whoever it is has been dead long enough that he or she doesn't stink," he said. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a second cigar and offered it to Brian. "Care for a smoke?" he asked.

Brian shook his head. "No, thanks," he said.

Leggett shrugged and stuffed the cigar back in his pocket. "Just wait," he said. "If you're in the dead-body business long enough, you'll figure out that there are times when nothing beats a good cigar. At least, that's what I keep telling my wife."

Clearly amused by his own joke, Leggett was still chuckling as he pulled on a pair of disposable latex gloves and then dropped to his hands and knees in the dirt. Chomping down on the lit cigar, he held it firmly in place while he used both hands to paw away loose sand. Brian kept his mouth shut and watched from the sidelines.

It wasn't long before Dan Leggett picked up a small piece of bone and tossed it casually onto the pile with the others. "Looks like a finger to me," he mumbled.

Still saying nothing, Brian waited anxiously for Leggett to locate the skull. Eventually he did, pulling it out of the dirt and then holding it upside down while sand and pebbles drained out through the gaping holes that had once been eyes and nose. When the skull was finally empty, Dan Leggett examined it for some time without saying a word. Finally, with surprising delicacy, he set it down on the ground beside the hole, then he stood for another long moment, staring at it thoughtfully while he took several leisurely puffs on his cigar.

Brian Fellows found the long silence difficult to bear, but he didn't say a word. Lowly deputies-especially ones who intend to survive in the law enforcement game-learn early on the importance of keeping their mouths shut in the presence of tough-guy homicide detectives. Finally, Leggett looked up at Brian and gave him a yellow-toothed grin.

"Well, Deputy Fellows," Leggett said, "it looks to me like you're in the clear on this one." He knocked a chunk of ash off the end of the cigar, but Brian noticed he was careful none of it landed in the hole or on any of the recently disturbed dirt around it.

Brian had been holding his breath. Slowly he let it out. "Why do you say that?" he asked.

"Because, if this guy had been dead for a couple hundred years, I doubt his head would have five or six silver fillings. I doubt the Indians who lived around here back then were much into modern dentistry."

"No," Brian agreed. "I suppose not. Can you tell what killed him?"

Leggett shook his head. "Much too soon to tell," he said. "Looks like there was quite a blow to his head, but it doesn't mean that's what killed him."

Stuffing the cigar back in his mouth, the detective climbed out of the hole. Brian was surprised to think the detective would give up the search so soon.

"So what do we do now?" Brian asked.

"We dig," Leggett returned. "Or rather, you dig and I watch. I've got a bad back. I trust you were wearing gloves when you handled those first few bones?" Brian nodded.

"Good boy. Chances are there won't be any fingerprints, but then again, you never can tell."

As the sun went down behind the Baboquivari Mountains in the west, Detective Leggett sat to one side of the hole, smoking, while Brian Fellows dug. He pawed in the soft dirt with renewed vigor. Slowly, one bone at a time, the grisly collection beside the hole grew in size. After several minutes of finding nothing, Brian was about to give up when his gloved fingers closed around something thin and pliable.

"What's this?" he asked. "Hey, look. A wallet."

Leggett was at his side instantly, hand outstretched to retrieve the prize. "This hasn't been down there long," he said, holding it up to examine it in the fading light. Leaving the wallet to Detective Leggett, Brian returned to searching the hole for any remaining evidence.

"That's funny," Leggett reported a few moments later.

"What's funny?"

"There's a current driver's license here," Leggett reported. "One that still has a year to run. I would have thought the corpse was far too old for that."

"What's the name?" Brian asked, climbing out of the hole.

"Chavez," Leggett answered. "Manny Chavez. Indian, most likely. There's a Sells address but no phone number. Want to have a look?"

Leggett handed the wallet over to Brian, leaving the plastic folder opened to the driver's license page. Brian glanced at it, started to give it back, then changed his mind to take a second look.

"Wait a minute," he said, pointing to the picture. "That's the guy from this afternoon. I'm sure of it."

"What guy?"

"The one we air-lifted into TMC just before I called for a detective. The one who'd had the crap beaten out of him before Kath Kelly found him."

"You're sure it's the same guy?"

"Hell, yes, I'm sure."

"In that case," Leggett said, "I guess I'd better go talk to him. You stay here and keep the crime scene secure. I'll call for a deputy with a generator and lights to come out and relieve you."

"What are you going to do?" Brian asked.

"I already told you. Go to the hospital and talk to the guy."

"How?"

"What are we doing, playing Twenty Questions?"

"How are you going to talk to him?" Brandon insisted.

"You're some kind of comedian, Deputy Fellows," the detective said. "To quote a former President, read my lips. I'm going to talk to Mr. Chavez with my mouth."

"Do you speak Tohono O'othham? " Brian asked.

"No, do you?"

Brian nodded. "As a matter of fact, I do."

"No shit?"

"No shit!"

For a moment Leggett stood looking at him. Finally he shrugged. "In that case," he said, "I guess we'll get somebody else to secure the damn crime scene, because you're coming with me."

Mitch Johnson had a large, trunk-sized box that he sometimes used to haul canvases around. Both the top and floor of the custom-made wooden box had matching grooves in them that allowed him to stack in up to twenty wet canvases without any of them touching each other. In advance of heading into town with Lani, he had emptied the box and loaded it into the back of the Subaru. Then, after blindfolding Lani with one of the cut pieces of scarf, he led her out of the Bounder.

Already the new dose of scopolamine was having the desired effect. Clumsy on her feet, she stumbled and fell against him as she stepped down out of the RV. It gratified him to hear the involuntary moan that escaped her lips when the injured breast, encased now in a still-sodden cowboy shirt, brushed up against his body.

"Smarts, does it, little girl?" he asked.

The Bounder was air-conditioned; the Subaru had been sitting in the afternoon sun. The interior of the box was stifling as he heaved her inside, sending her body sprawling along the rough, splintery bottom. There were ventilation holes in the sides-that was, after all, the point of the thing. He put canvases inside it to dry. That meant that once he turned on the air-conditioning in the car, the temperature inside the box would reduce some, too. Enough to keep her from croaking, most likely. Not enough for her to be comfortable.

Mitch had slammed the tailgate shut and was headed for the driver's seat in the Subaru when he saw a set of blue flashing lights snaking across the desert floor from Tucson. His heart went to his throat. A damned cop car! Surely they hadn't already discovered the girl was missing. How could they?

Close to panic, he almost had a heart attack when the car slowed at the turn-off to Coleman Road and then again as the pair of headlights came speeding toward him. By then he could hear the siren wailing through the still desert air.

What the hell do I do now?he wondered. Really, there wasn't any choice. He would have to gut it out. Bluff like hell and hope for the best, but in the meantime, he started the engine on the Subaru and then turned on both the radio and the air conditioner at full blast. That way, if the girl was still aware enough to make any noise, chances were the cop wouldn't hear her.

Moments later, with his heart pounding in his throat, he saw the headlights take a sharp turn to the left a mile or so north of where the Bounder was parked. He could still see the blue lights flashing, but behind them there was only the pale red glow of taillights.

"Whew!" Mitch said aloud. "I don't know what the hell that was all about, but it was too damn close for comfort."

Wanda and Fat Crack were getting ready to go to the dance at Little Tucson. They had always enjoyed going to summertime dances, although Wanda liked it less now than she had before her husband's elevation to tribal chairman. Before when they went to dances, they danced. Now, often as not, she was left to dance with one of her sons or grandsons while Gabe went about the never-ending business of politicking.

"Did you tell her yet?" Wanda asked, as she watched Gabe fasten the snaps on his cowboy shirt.

They hadn't been talking about Delia Cachora, but Fat Crack knew at once who and what Wanda was asking about. Wanda had disapproved of his bringing Delia back to the reservation, after thirty years away, to take on the assignment of tribal attorney.

"We need somebody who knows how to go head-to-head with all those Washington BIA bureaucrats," Gabe had told his wife back then while the tribal council was wrangling over the decision. "If she can handle those guys, she can take on Pima County and the State of Arizona."

As Gabe expected, Delia Chavez Cachora did fine when it came to dealing with Mil-gahn paper-pushers. Where she fell short of the mark was in relating to the people back home, the ones who had never left the reservation. And that was part of the reason Fat Crack had hired David Ladd to serve as her intern. Schooled by Gabe's Aunt Rita and old Looks At Nothing, Davy had forgotten more about being a Tohono O'othham than Delia Cachora could ever hope to know.

When Gabe didn't answer, Wanda knew she was right. "You'd better tell her pretty soon," she warned. "Davy's supposed to be here next week, isn't he? She may be real mad when she finds out."

Looking in the mirror, Gabe slipped a turquoise-laden bola tie on over his head. He sighed as he pulled it tight under his double chin. "You're right," he said. "She'll be mad as hell. Maybe I'll tell her tonight, if I have a chance. If she's there. That way she'll have time to get used to the idea before Monday when I have to see her at work."

The shrug Wanda sent in her husband's direction as well as the derisive look said as clearly as if she had spoken that Wanda Ortiz didn't think Delia Cachora would be over the issue of Davy Ladd anytime soon.

"She'll be at the dance, all right," Wanda told her husband. "If her Aunt Julia has anything to say about it, Delia will be working in the feast house."

The painful shock of scraping along the rough wooden floor shattered Lani's druggy haze and brought her back to agonizing awareness. But it's better to hurt, she thought. At least that way I know what's going on.

The blindfold had caught on a splinter of wood and had been pulled loose as she slid across the floor. When she realized the scarf was gone and opened her eyes, she knew it was daylight from the light leaking in through the ventilation holes. The interior of the box felt like a heated oven. Moments later, a car engine started and she could feel a tiny breath of cool air blowing across her damp clothing. The car started, but for some time it didn't move.

There in the dark and alone, without the man watching her and gloating, there was no need to hold back the tears. Lying flat on her back, she gave in to both the pain and to her growing despair, letting the tears flow. She couldn't understand why this calamity had befallen her, or what she could do about it.

Somehow, in her aching grief, Lani raised one hand to her throat. There, beneath her fingers, she felt the smooth, woven surface of the basket, the o'othham wopo hashda she had made from her own hair and from Jessie's.

What if her hair charm, her kushpo ho'oma, fell into the hands of this new evil Ohb? Lani had woven the maze, the ancient sacred symbol of her people, into the face of the medallion. It was bad enough that Mr. Vega had copied the basket onto that awful picture of his, the one he had drawn of her while she slept, but Lani was suddenly determined that, no matter what, he would not have the basket itself.

Struggling in the dark, she worked desperately to unfasten the safety pin that kept the woven brooch on the slender gold chain. Even as her fingers struggled with the pin, Lani could feel the drug cloud begin to wrap itself around her, dulling her senses at the same time it soothed the terrible throbbing of her wounded breast.

She fought the drug with all the resources she could muster. And even though she couldn't hold it off forever, she did manage to keep it at bay long enough to slip the precious woven disk into the safety of her jeans pocket.

Only then did she give in and let the enveloping sleep overtake her. Whatever the drug was, Lani hated it because it had made her helpless and turned her into a victim. At the same time, she loved it, too, because while she slept, the searing band of pain that was now her right breast no longer hurt her. The drug put her mind to sleep and the pain as well.

Her last waking thought was that Mr. Vega was right. The drug was awful, but it did help.

David Ladd fought his way up out of the nightmare with the awful scream still ringing in his ears. Throwing off the covers, he sat up in bed, shaking all over and gasping for breath.

"David!" Startled out of a sound sleep, Candace sat up in bed beside him. "For God's sake, what's the matter?"

"It was a dream," he managed, through chattering teeth, but already the punishing heartbeat was pounding in his head and chest. Another attack was coming. Helplessly, he fell back on the pillows.

Scrambling out of bed, Candace reached for the phone. "I'll call a doctor."

"No, please. Don't do that," Davy begged.

"But David…"

"Please. Just wait! It'll go away in a few minutes. Please."

He held out one trembling hand. Reluctantly, Candace put down the phone and grasped his hand. With a worried frown on her face, she settled back down on the bed beside him. For the next several minutes she leaned over him, murmuring words he could barely hear or understand but ones that somehow comforted him nonetheless. Eventually the terrified beating of his heart began to slow. When his breathing finally steadied, he was able to speak.

"I'm sorry, Candace. I didn't mean for you to…"

Realizing that the immediate crisis was past, her solicitous concern turned to a sudden blast of anger. "So what are you on, David Garrison Ladd?" she demanded. "Crack? Speed? LSD? All this time you've had me fooled. I never would have guessed that you did drugs."

"But I don't," David protested. "I swear to God!"

"Don't give me that," she snapped back at him. "I've been around enough druggies in my life to know one when I see one."

"Candace, please. It's nothing like that. You've got to believe me. This has been happening to me for weeks now, every time I go to sleep. First there's an awful dream and then-" He broke off, ashamed.

"And then what?" she demanded.

"You saw what happens. My heart beats like it's going to jump out of my body. I can't breathe. I come out of it soaked with sweat. The first time it happened I thought I was having a heart attack. I thought I was going to die."

"You should see a doctor," Candace said.

"I did. He told me I was having panic attacks. He said they were brought on by stress and that eventually I'd get over them."

"I've heard about panic attacks before," Candace said. "One of the girls in the dorm used to have them. Isn't there something you can take?"

"Nothing that wouldn't be dangerous on a cross-country drive," David told her. "All of the recommended medications turn out to be tranquilizers of some kind."

"Oh," Candace said. "And how long has this been going on?"

"For a couple of weeks now, I guess," David admitted sheepishly.

"And why didn't you tell me before this?"

David shrugged his shoulders. "I was embarrassed. I didn't know what you'd think about me if I told you."

"And it's always the same thing? First the dream and then the panic attack?"

"Yes," David said, "pretty much, but…" The rest of the sentence disappeared as he gazed off into space.

"But what?"

David swallowed. His voice dropped. Candace had to strain to hear him. "I used to dream about the day Andrew Carlisle came to the house and attacked Mother. But now the dreams are different."

"Different how?"

"Different because Lani is in them. At the time all that happened, Lani wasn't even born. This one was different, and it was the worst one yet."

Getting up off the bed, David walked over to the window and stared outside at Chicago's nighttime skyline. He stood there in isolation, his shoulders hunched, looking defeated.

"You said this dream was worse than the others," Candace said. "Tell me about it."

David shook his head and didn't speak.

"Please tell me," Candace urged, her voice gentler than it had been. "Please."

David shuddered before he answered. "I was certain the first attack was over," he said at last. "Mother was in the kitchen because I could already smell the bacon cooking. Burning, really. Then the door to the cellar fell open, just the way it always does in the dream, except this time, the room was empty except for Bone, my dog. He was there in the kitchen, licking up the bacon grease, but the house itself was quiet and empty, as though everybody had left."

"Where did they go?"

Davy swallowed. "I'm coming to that. I called Bone to come, and the two of us went from room to room, trying to figure out where everybody had gone. I checked every room but there was nobody to be found, until the last one, Lani's. They were in there, Lani and the evil Ohb. He had her on the bed and he was-"

Davy broke off and didn't continue.

"He was raping her?" Candace supplied.

Davy shook his head. "I don't know. I couldn't see. All I know is he was hurting her, and she was screaming." He put his hands over his ears as though Lani's scream were still assailing them. "It was awful."

"It was a dream," Candace said firmly. "Forget it. Come back to bed."

"But Rita, our baby-sitter, always said that dreams mean something. When I was a freshman in high school, I went out for JV football. One day Lani was taking a nap and she woke up crying, saying that I was hurt. Mom was trying to tell her it was nothing but a dream when the school nurse called to say that she thought my ankle was broken and that Mom needed to come pick me up."

"You're saying you think Lani might be hurt?"

Davy shook his head. "I don't know what I'm saying. All I know is, that scream was the worst thing I've ever heard."

"She never called us back tonight, did she?" Candace said thoughtfully.

Davy shook his head. "No," he said. "She didn't."

"So let's try again." Ever practical, Candace sat up in bed, plucked the telephone receiver out of its cradle and handed it over to Davy. "It's only a little after nine there," she said matter-of-factly. "Maybe somebody will be home by now. What's the number?" she said.

Grateful beyond measure that Candace hadn't simply dismissed him as crazy, David Ladd held the phone to his ear while she dialed, then he waited while it rang. "The damned machine again," he said finally, handing the receiver back to her. "Go ahead and hang up."

"Leave another message," Candace ordered. "Tell Lani or your parents, either one, to call you back as soon as they get home."

Eventually the beep sounded in his ear. "Hi, Mom and Dad," he said. "I'm still trying to get hold of Lani, but I guess nobody's home. Give me a call. You already have the number. Bye."

He put down the phone. Candace was looking up at him. "Better?" she said.

David nodded.

"Lie back down, then."

He did as he was told. Moments later Candace snuggled close, her naked leg against his, her fingers brushing delicately across the hair of his chest.

"Whatever happened to Bone?" she asked. "I've read your mother's book, but I don't remember her saying what happened to the dog."

"Poor old Oh'o," Davy said. "I haven't thought of him for years. When we first moved to Gates Pass he was my only friend and playmate. Nana Dahd always used to say that the first word I spoke was goks-dog-the day she brought him home as a gangly puppy."

"What kind of dog was he?"

"A mutt, I'm sure. He looked a lot like an Irish wolfhound-he was that big, long-haired, and scraggly-but he could jump like a deer."

"What was it you called him again?"

" Oh'o. In Papago… in Tohono O'othham… that means bone. And that's what he was when Rita first brought him home, skin and bones. But he was a great dog."

"What did he die of?"

"Old age, I guess. The year I turned thirteen. His kidneys gave out on him. My friend Brian Fellows and I carried him up the mountain behind the house and buried him among the rocks where the three of us all used to play hide-and-seek. Bone always loved being It."

"I guess he really messed up the guy's arm. His wrist, anyway."

"Andrew Carlisle's wrist?"

Candace nodded. "From what your mother said in the book, when you let him into the kitchen, he went after the guy tooth and nail."

"He did?"

"Yup. He wrecked it. She talked about that in one of the scenes that takes place in the prison, about how when she saw him again after all those years, his face was all scarred up from the bacon grease. She talked about his arm then, too, about how he had to wear it in a sling."

"Well, I'll be damned," David Ladd said. "I never knew that before, or if I did, I've forgotten."

Slowly, almost unthinkingly, Candace's fingers began to stroke the inside of Davy's thigh. "Stick with me, pal," she said. "I'll teach you everything I know."

She seduced him then, because she thought he needed it. Because it was the middle of the night and because they were both awake and young and had the stamina to do it more than once a night. Afterward, as David Garrison Ladd drifted off into the first really restful sleep he'd had in weeks, he felt as though, for the first time in his life, he had made love.