Kiss the Bees

13

Then all the people near the village of Gurli Put Vo-Dead Man's Pond-were told to come to a council so they could arrange for the protection of their fields. Everything that flies and all the animals came with the Indians to the council. And everybody promised to watch carefully so that the Bad People of the south should not again surprise them.

WhenPaDaj O'othham had eaten all the corn which they had stolen, they were soon hungry again. So they began once more to think of the nice fields of the Desert People. They began to wish they could steal the harvest, but they did not know how to accomplish this because, as you know, the Indians and their friends, the Flying People and all the animals, were on guard.

Then a wise old bad man toldPaDaj O'othham what to do.

Now when the Desert People held that council to arrange for the protection of their fields, they were so excited that they called only the people who live aboveground. So this wise old bad man toldPaDaj O'othham to call all the people who live under the ground: Ko'owi — the Snakes,Nanakshel — the Scorpions,Hiani — the Tarantulas,Jewho — the Gophers,Chichdag — the Gila Monsters, andChuk — the Jackrabbits. The Bad People said they would give all these people who live under the ground good food and beautiful clothes if they would go through the ground to the fields of the Desert People and fight theTohono O'othham while the Bad People stole the crops.

Chuk — Jackrabbit-did not like this plan. The Indians had always been good toChuk, and he did not want to fight them. But Jackrabbit did not know what to do.

Some bumblebees were sitting in a nearby tree.Hu'udagi — the Bumblebees-toldChuk to run with all his speed to the Desert People and tell them how PaDaj O'othham were planning to steal their harvest. The Bumblebees said they would tell U'uwhig — the Birds.

So Jackrabbit ran. He went in such a hurry that he took longer and longer jumps. As he jumped longer and longer, his legs grew longer and longer. That is why, my friend, even to this day, Jackrabbit's legs are so much longer than the legs of his brother rabbit,Tohbi — the Cottontail.

Lani awakened in the dark. She was hot. Salt, leached from her sweat-stained shirt, had seeped into the raw wound on her breast. The smoldering pain from that was what had wakened her, and it seemed to expand with every breath, filling her eyes with tears. Her whole body was stiff. Her back ached from lying on what seemed to be uneven grooves in the floor beneath her.

While she had been asleep, she had been dreaming again, dreaming about Nana Dahd. In the dream Lani had been a child again. She and Rita had been walking together somewhere, walking and talking, although that was impossible. By the time Lani first knew Rita Antone, Nana Dahd was already confined to a wheelchair.

Lani emerged from Rita's comforting presence in the dream, and she longed to return there, but this time when she wakened, she didn't seem to emerge gradually. There was no lingering fog of confusion the way there had been before. She knew at once that she was a prisoner and that she had been drugged. Perhaps the man named Vega had given her a much smaller dose this time, or perhaps some of the effect had been evacuated out of her system-sweated out of her pores by the perspiration that soaked her clothing.

Lani felt around her, trying to assess the hot, dark cage in which she was imprisoned-a huge wooden crate from the feel of it. Her searching fingers reached out and touched sturdy walls a foot or so on either side of her. They refused to give or even so much as creak when she tried pushing against them. Then she pounded on the wood until her knuckles bled, but if anyone heard, no one came to her aid.

The darkness around her at first seemed absolute, but at last she noticed rays of yellow light penetrating the darkness. The light, as if from street lights, told her that it was still night. She was near a road. She could hear the muffled roar of traffic-the sounds of heavy trucks, anyway. Periodically the box shook with what had to be the earth-shaking rumble of a nearby passing train.

For a while Lani tried yelling for help, but the heavy wooden box swallowed the sound, locking the noise inside with her. Her shouting, like the pounding that had preceded it, brought no help. No one would come, she realized at last. Rescue, if it came at all, would have to come from inside, from Lani herself. Otherwise, she would simply lie in this overheated box until the heat got to her or until she died of thirst or starvation.

As she had done countless times in the past, she reached up to her throat to touch her kushpo ho'oma — her hair charm-only to discover it was missing. At first, when her fingertips touched only the naked gold chain, she thought she had lost the medallion and she was bereft. Seconds later, though, she remembered taking it off and putting it in her pocket-hiding it there in hopes of keeping it out of the hands of the evil man who had hurt her so badly.

It was still there in her pocket, exactly where she had hidden it. That reassured her. At least Vega hadn't stripped off her clothes again, hadn't discovered where she had hidden the charm, so perhaps, this time, he had left her alone.

She had no idea how long she had been asleep. From that moment early in the morning-some morning-when she sat down on the rock for him to begin sketching her until now could have been one day or several, for all she knew. For one thing, she had been out of it long enough for him to draw that second picture. Just thinking about that-about lying there naked in front of him all that time, for what must have been hours-made her wince with shame. And if Lani didn't remember any of that, there might be other things the man had done to her that she didn't remember, either.

She lay very still and tried to sense the condition of her body. Other than the damaged breast and what felt like a series of splinters in her back, she seemed to be intact. If he had raped her, she would feel it, wouldn't she? There was a sudden feeling of relief that deserted her a moment later. Of course he hadn't raped her. Not yet. That was why she was still here. That was what awaited her once he came back-that and more.

In that moment, Lani saw it all with appalling clarity. Of course Vega would return for her. He had no intention of her staying in the box forever until she died of heat prostration or thirst or starvation. He had locked her in the crate for a reason-so she would be available to him, helpless and waiting, when it was time for whatever came next.

Sooner or later, Vega would come back for her. Closing her eyes in the darkness, she saw him again, with an almost gleeful smile on his face, standing over her with the overheated tongs in his hand. Vega was a man who enjoyed inflicting pain. When he came back, Lani knew full well that he would hurt her again.

Had she been standing upright, that awful realization might have tumbled her to the ground. As a child Lani had heard the stories of Ohbsgam Ho'ok — Apachelike Monster-who lived around Rattlesnake Skull and who carried young girls away with him, never to be seen again. Vega was like Ohbsgam Ho'ok. They were different only in that Vega was real. He was a bully-strong and mean and powerful. Lani was alone and helpless.

"The best thing to do with a bully is to ignore him," Davy had told Lani once. After yet another run-in with Danny Jenkins at school, she had turned to her older brother for advice.

"Those guys thrive on attention," Davy had continued. "That's usually all they want. If you treat 'em like they don't exist, eventually they melt into the woodwork. The only way to get the best of them is to try to understand them, to figure out what their weaknesses are. Then, the next time they come after you, you'll know what to do."

Following Davy's suggestions, Lani had made a show of ignoring Danny Jenkins all the while she studied him. It didn't take long for her to realize that he was desperately afraid of not being accepted, of not fitting in. Bullying was his sole defense, his weapon against being bullied himself. Once Lani understood all that, she had been able to use that knowledge to turn Danny Jenkins into a friend.

But how could she understand someone like Mr. Vega? And did she want to? How was it possible to comprehend a person who was capable of such cruelty? Trying to find a more comfortable position for her aching back, she settled herself on the rough floor and pulled the cloth of the shirt away from the singed skin of her breast. Then she closed her eyes and tried to think.

Just like Danny Jenkins, Vega thrived on power and on other people's pain. He had hurt her, yes, and he would do so again, but hurting her wasn't the real point, or, at least, not the only one. She sensed that what he had done and would do to her constituted a means to an end rather than an end in itself. His real purpose was to hurt her parents. She didn't understand the why of that, but she knew it to be true. Vega wasn't Andrew Carlisle, but there was some connection, some bond between them. Vega was fueled by the same kind of rage and lust for revenge that had caused the evil Ohb to invade the house in Gates Pass long before Lani was born.

So that was most of what she knew. Vega was angry and cruel and hot-tempered. Bagwwul — one easily angered. That word, which Rita had taught her, seemed to come to Lani through the coils of the basket pressed tightly in the palm of her hand. She remembered Vega's fierce anger when she had slapped away the cup he was holding out to her; how he had yanked her hair back as he forced her to drink the second one.

Anger was one of Vega's weak spots. He demanded obedience but had to enforce that obedience with either drugs or some other form of restraints. That meant he was also chu ehbiththam — a coward. Only cowards attacked their enemies when they were helpless and unable to fight back. His outrageous physical assault on Lani had been staged when she was tied hand and foot, when she could do nothing to defend herself.

Obedience. Lani's thoughts strayed back to that word and stayed there. And once again, out of the past or out of the basket, Lani heard Rita's voice, singing to her:

"Listen to what I sing to you,

LittleOlhoni. Listen to what I sing.

Be careful not to look at me

But do exactly as I say."

Do exactly as I say.

Lani hadn't even been born on the day of the battle with the evil Ohb, but she heard the words to that life-saving war chant as clearly as if she herself had been locked in the long-ago darkness of that root cellar along with Rita and Davy and Father John.

Perhaps the two darknesses-the one in the root cellar and the one here inside Vega's stifling wooden crate-were exactly the same thing.

"That dollhouse looks just like my dad's," Quentin said, taking a confused look around as they pulled up the long curving driveway of the Gates Pass house. "What are we doing here?"

"Dropping off your sister's bicycle," Mitch told him.

Lani Walker's knapsack had yielded a garage-door opener and a door key as well. "Take a look in that paper bag over there," he said. "The gate-opener-door and house key are both inside. Get 'em out, would you?"

Quentin seemed dazed and stupefied. His fumbling movements were maddeningly slow, but he did as he was told. "How'd you get these?" he asked, holding up both the key and the opener once he had finally succeeded in retrieving them.

"I already told you. Lani gave them to me so we could bring the bike back," Mitch answered. "What did you think, that I stole them? And don't just sit there holding the damn thing. Press the button, would you?"

Obligingly, Quentin pressed the button, and the wrought-iron electronic gate swung open. Quentin started to hand the opener over to Mitch. "Keep it," Mitch told him. "We'll need it again on the way out. Now drag the bike out of the back. Where does it go, do you know?"

Quentin shrugged. "Right here in the carport, as far as I know."

By the time Quentin finally managed to unlock the back door, Mitch Johnson was fairly dancing with anticipation-like a little kid who has waited too long to go to the bathroom. After watching the house for weeks, Mitch Johnson was ready to be inside. He had always planned on invading Brandon's home turf as part of the operation. As the door finally opened, Mitch felt almost giddy. All those years he had been moldering in prison, Brandon Walker had been living here in what he believed to be a safe haven. Well, it wasn't safe anymore.

Carrying the bag with its few remaining goodies, it didn't take long to distribute them. Mitch directed Quentin to leave the tongs in the kitchen sink and the cassette tape under his stepmother's pillow.

Quentin seemed puzzled. He held the tape up to the light and examined it. "What's this for?" he asked.

"It's just a little something Lani wants your dad and stepmom to have. It's their anniversary pretty soon, isn't it?"

"I guess so," Quentin agreed. "So how do you know Lani?"

"We met at her job," Mitch said. "At the museum."

Mitch couldn't help being a little in awe of Quentin's capacity. Based on how much booze he had probably drunk, that little bit of scopolamine should have laid the guy low. As it was, Quentin Walker's mental faculties were noticeably dim, but he was still walking and talking.

"Why are we doing all this?" Quentin asked, leaning up against the doorway to steady himself. "And why's it so hot?"

"I already told you," Mitch said. "It's a favor for your sister."

"Oh," said Quentin.

The last room they entered was Brandon Walker's study. Quentin had told Mitch that was where Brandon Walker kept his guns, and that was what they went looking for-Brandon's gun cabinet. While Quentin pawed through the top desk drawer, searching for the key to the locked cabinet, Mitch Johnson surveyed the room. He was fine until he saw the framed plaque hanging on the wall along with any number of other awards.

The 1976 Detective of the Year award had been presented to Detective Brandon Walker by Parade Magazine as a result of his having solved a homicide case, one in which two men were murdered and another was severely injured.

The plaque on the wall didn't say that, didn't reveal all those details. It didn't have to. Mitch knew them by heart. This was the award-the recognition-that had come to Brandon Walker for arresting Mitch Johnson himself. For arresting a man who was engaged in the wholly honorable pursuit of protecting God and country from the invading hordes. Those wetbacks had been illegal trespassers on U.S. soil, intent on taking jobs away from real Americans who were out of work. Mitch was the one who should have been given a medal for getting rid of that kind of scum-a medal, not a jail sentence.

The rage that hit Mitch Johnson on seeing that framed award went far beyond anything he had ever imagined. Years of pent-up frustration boiled over when he saw it. That was the worst part of the whole operation, the moment of his greatest temptation.

Years ago, in similar circumstances, Andy had simply fallen victim to Diana's body, losing his focus and purpose both, in satisfying his biological cravings. By resisting the pull of Lani's tight little body, by not tearing into her when it would have been so easy, Mitch Johnson had already proved to himself that he was a better man than his mentor. Seeing that plaque sitting smugly on the wall was far worse for Mitch than merely wanting to be inside some stupid woman's hot little twat.

What Mitch wanted to do in that moment was take a gun-any gun would do, but preferably an automatic-and mow through every picture in the place. It would have been easy. Even as the thought crossed his mind, Quentin Walker was in the process of handing Mitch a Colt.357 that would have blasted the whole room to pieces. And brought cops raining down on them from miles away.

Taking a deep, calming breath, Mitch caught himself just in time. He dropped the weapon into his pocket. "What's all this shit?" he said, gesturing.

"What?" Quentin asked. "The stuff on the wall?"

Mitch nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"Dad used to call it his Wall of Honor."

"Knock it down," Mitch said. "Knock that crap down and break it."

"All of it?" Quentin asked, staring from frame to frame.

"Why not?" Mitch told him. "Your father never did anything for you, did he?"

"No, he didn't," Quentin agreed, reaching for the first piece, a framed diploma from the University of Arizona. "Why the hell shouldn't I?"

Raising the diploma over his head, Quentin smashed it to pieces in a spray of glass in the middle of the floor. While Quentin worked his way down the wall, Mitch took the Detective of the Year Award off the wall. He studied it for a moment with his fingers itching to do the job, but that wouldn't have worked. Quentin's prints wouldn't have been on the frame.

"Do this one next," Mitch said, handing it over. Even as he watched the piece smash to pieces on the tiled floor, he gave himself full credit and gloated over the victory. His was the triumph of rational thought over base emotions.

Had Quentin Walker's mental faculties been a little less impaired, he might have noticed that from the moment they climbed inside his newly purchased Bronco, Mitch Johnson had been wearing latex gloves. Quentin wasn't.

He didn't notice; didn't even question it. To Mitch's way of thinking, that made all the difference.

Do exactly as I say, Lani was thinking.

As the phrase spun through her mind, she suddenly realized that the words to Nana Dahd 's war chant, the ones she had sung to Davy so long ago in order to save his life, were also important to Lani-to save her life as well.

She remembered Mr. Vega's instant fury the moment she had disobeyed him. Obviously whatever drug he had given her-both earlier on the mountain and later at his house-was something that produced compliance, that made her do whatever he said. If Lani was going to save herself-and it was unlikely anyone else would-then she had to make sure that he didn't give her any more of it. She would have to watch for a chance to get away. If the opportunity presented itself, she would be able to take advantage of it only so long as she remained clear-headed.

That was the moment when she heard the tailgate of the Subaru swing open. A moment later she heard someone fiddling with the outside of the crate, as though they were opening a padlock hasp. Lani had been lying with the tiny people-hair medallion clutched in her hand, gleaning as much comfort as she could from the tightly woven coils. Now, though, before Vega opened the door on the crate, she stuffed the tiny basket back into the pocket of her jeans. Then she forced herself to lie still, closing her eyes and slowing her breathing. By the time the door swung open, Lani Walker appeared to be sound asleep.

"Come on, sweetheart, rise and shine," Vega said, grabbing her by the ankle and dragging her once again across the rough, splintery floor of the crate. "Wake up. We're going for another little ride."

Yanked upright, Lani found herself standing between the Subaru and an idling sport utility vehicle, an old Bronco. A sleeping man was slumped against the rider's side door. "Come on around to the other side," Vega ordered. "Can you walk on your own, or am I going to have to carry you?"

Lani, planning on acting dazed, didn't have to fake stumbling. Her legs felt rubbery beneath her-rubbery and strangely disconnected from her brain and will. When she staggered and almost fell, Vega grabbed her hair, hard, and held her up with that. The pull was vicious enough that tears came to her eyes, but it also helped clear her head. In a moment of quiet, she heard a readily identifiable squeak and realized that the fist knotted in her hair was encased in a rubber glove.

Desperate to get away, she looked around. They were standing in one corner of a large gravel parking lot. There were no other people visible anywhere. The only other vehicles were parked next to the darkened hulk of a building half a block away-too far to try running there for help.

After a moment, Vega slammed shut the tailgate of the Subaru, twisting the key to lock it once more. Lani considered screaming, but just as they started around the back of the Bronco, with Lani's hair still knotted painfully in Vega's gloved fist, another train rumbled past on the track that bordered the edge of the lot. With all that noise, there was no point in attempting to scream for help, not even out in the open. Over the racket of the train, no one would have heard her anyway.

Vega wrenched open the driver's door to the Bronco and shoved her inside. "There you go," he said. "You sit in the middle. That way I'll be able to keep an eye on you."

The unexpected push sent her piling across the bench seat and rammed the tender flesh of her already throbbing breast against the steering wheel of the car. Another intense jolt of pain shot through her body. She managed to suppress a shriek. Even so, a yelp of pain escaped her lips. On the far side of the car, the sleeping man stirred and looked at her.

"Hey, what's this?" he mumbled sleepily. "What's going on?"

Quentin! What was he doing here?

"It's too soon, Quentin," Vega said. "Go back to sleep. I'll let you know when it's time to wake up."

With his head dropping back to his chin, Quentin did as he was told.

The odor of beer was thick in the car, and Quentin was snoring softly. A hundred questions whirled through Lani's mind, but she asked none of them. Asking questions or showing too much interest in what was going on around her was probably an invitation to another drink of whatever Vega had given her earlier. Maybe he had fed some of the same stuff to Quentin.

"I suppose you're a little surprised to see him, aren't you?" Vega said, climbing in behind Lani and shifting the Bronco into gear. "We're just having a little family reunion tonight. Your brother helped me drop off a few presents for your parents. Now the three of us are going for a ride. We have some errands to run."

Vega's earlier ugly mood seemed to have lifted. He was in high spirits, whistling under his breath as he drove out of the lot onto Grant and from there onto eastbound I-10. Whatever had happened during the interval while Lani had been locked in the car seemed to have left him feeling particularly happy.

"Your brother's here," Vega said, instinctively answering Lani's unasked question, "because Quentin's a good friend of mine."

Assuming from the way he made the statement that no reply was necessary, Lani kept quiet. Seconds later, however, an iron grip clamped shut on her leg, just above her left knee. As the muscular fingers dug into her flesh, she squirmed under the punishing grip but resisted the urge to cry out.

"Did you hear me, little lady?" he demanded. "I said Quentin's a good friend of mine."

"Yes," Lani said. "I heard."

"But don't put too much store in it," he added. "Because I'll kill the son of a bitch in a second if you don't behave. Do you understand me? Whether Quentin lives or dies is up to you. If you try to run, or if you make any trouble at all, I'll kill him, no questions asked. Do you understand?"

Lani nodded her head. "Yes," she said quietly. "I understand."

And she did, too. If Vega said he would kill Quentin, then he would, friend or not.

"I don't make idle threats, you see."

"No," Lani said. "I know you don't."

Once again, Nana Dahd 's war chant came whirling into Lani Walker's heart out of the darkness of that locked, long-ago root cellar.

"Listen to what I sing to you,

LittleOlhoni. Listen to what I sing.

Be careful not to look at me

But do exactly as I say."

For a moment it seemed to Lani that Rita herself was riding in the truck with them, telling Lani what she had to do to survive. Lani realized then that she was right. The two sets of darkness and the two evil Ohbs were somehow merging into one. And the advice Nana Dahd had once given Davy Ladd was the same advice Rita was giving Lani now in the Bronco.

"I'll do it," Lani said quietly. "I'll do exactly what you say."

It might have sounded to Vega as though she were speaking to him, answering him, but in Lani Walker's heart and in her mind's eye, she was actually speaking to Nana Dahd.

The words formed clearly enough in her head, but when it came time actually to speak them, they came out fuzzy and disjointed. Like her rubberized legs earlier when she had struggled to walk, the lingering effects of the drug still interfered with Lani's ability to use her tongue. That was evidently exactly what Vega expected.

He loosened his clawlike grip around her leg and gave the top of her thigh a possessive pat. It was all Lani could do not to dodge away under his touch.

"Good girl," Vega said. "Your mother told me you were smart. I'm glad to see some evidence that it's true."

Vega had spoken to Lani's mother, to Diana? When? How? Lani wondered. And what was it he had said earlier about dropping something off at the house? Something about presents? What presents?

Lani cringed then, thinking about the terrible picture she had seen on his easel, the one he had drawn of her, the one with her body naked and with her legs spread open to the world. What if he had taken that one to her parents? Or else, what if he had done something to them? Her heart quailed at the thought.

"Why did you go to my house?" she asked.

Vega reached in his pocket and pulled out a key, one Lani recognized. "Why wouldn't I?" he said. "You gave your brother your key so he could return your bike for you."

By then the Bronco was on I-19 and starting off at the exit to Ajo Way. It seemed to Lani that they were headed for the reservation while off to the right, hidden behind a single barrier of rugged mountain, lay Gates Pass and home. Or whatever was left of home.

"You didn't hurt my parents, did you?" she asked at last.

Vega frowned. "You're awfully full of questions at the moment."

"Did you?" Lani insisted.

He turned his face toward her, his face glowing ghostlike in the reflected headlights of an oncoming vehicle.

"I haven't hurt them yet," he said. "But then, it's probably a little too early. Don't worry, though, they'll be getting your message before long."

"What message?" Lani asked.

"Don't you remember? You made it yourself, a very special tape for both your mother and father."

A tape? Lani could remember nothing about a tape, nothing at all. "I don't remember any tape," she said.

Vega grinned and patted her again. "It's all right if you don't remember," he said. "But what I can tell you is that once they hear it, neither one of your parents is ever going to forget it, not as long as they live."

The patrol car, lights flashing, had barely stopped at the end of the driveway when the Walkers' telephone started to ring. While Brandon went to meet the deputy, Diana raced for the phone, hoping beyond hope that the caller would be Lani. It wasn't.

Jessica Carpenter's mother, Rochelle, was on the phone. "I got your message," she said. "I hope you don't mind my calling this late. We saw the emergency lights as I was bringing Jessie home from the concert. Lani's all right, isn't she?"

"Lani seems to be missing," Diana said, fighting to force the words out around the barrier of a huge lump that threatened to block her throat. "Jessie hasn't seen her then?"

"Not all day," Rochelle Carpenter said. "The last time they talked was last night. Jessie said Lani was all excited about something she was doing for you this morning before work, something about an anniversary present."

Diana caught her breath at the thought that maybe this was a clue, something that might lead them to Lani or at least tell them where to start looking. "Could I talk to Jessie?" Diana asked. "If we could find out what that was, maybe it would help us find her."

Moments later, a subdued Jessica Carpenter came on the phone. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Walker. I hope Lani's going to be okay."

"Just tell me what you know about what Lani was doing earlier this morning."

"What if it ruins a surprise?"

"Please," Diana said. "That's a risk we'll have to take."

"It was something about a picture. Lani said she had met a man who was going to paint a picture of her to give to you and Mr. Walker for your anniversary. When we talked last night, she was all excited and asked me what I thought she should wear."

"Did she tell you what she decided?" Diana Walker asked.

"What she wore in February when she was one of the rodeo princesses. That pretty flowered shirt, her cowboy hat, her boots. I don't know for sure if that's what she wore, but she said she was going to."

The phone trembled in Diana's hand. She was listening to Jessie Carpenter's voice but she was thinking about Fat Crack's warning about the danger from Shadow of Death, the warning Diana had laughed off and dismissed without a thought. Was Lani's mysterious disappearance somehow connected to that?

"Her rodeo clothes?" Diana managed to mumble in return. "Did she say why she chose those?"

"Something about the man, the artist, wanting her to look like an Indian."

The doorbell rang. "I'd better go. Someone's at the door," Diana said hurriedly. "Thank you, Jess. I'll pass this information along to the deputy."

But Jessie Carpenter wasn't quite ready to be off the phone. "You don't think anything bad has happened to Lani, do you, Mrs. Walker?"

Hot tears stung the corners of Diana's eyes. "I hope to God nothing has," she said.

By the time Diana put down the phone in the kitchen and headed for the living room, Brandon was already escorting Detective Ford Myers into the house, leading him to the same couch where Deputy Garrett was already seated with his notebook in hand.

Diana's heart fell as soon as she saw Detective Myers. Why him? she wondered.

Ford Myers had gotten himself crosswise of Brandon very early in the course of their professional lives. The two of them had gone head-to-head on more than one occasion over the years, but once elected sheriff, the civil service protections Brandon himself had instituted had made getting rid of Myers tough. As a result, Myers had stayed on, growing more and more disgruntled.

During that critical election campaign, when Brandon had been running against Bill Forsythe in the aftermath of the Quentin Walker protection-racket allegations, Detective Myers had been one of several members of the department who had been openly critical of Brandon Walker's administration.

"What seems to be the problem?" Myers was saying as Diana walked into the room.

"It's our daughter," Brandon answered. "Her name is Lani. Full name Dolores Lanita Walker. She's sixteen. She left for work on her bike around six o'clock this morning and never arrived. Tonight she was supposed to go to a concert with a friend of hers from up the street. Lani didn't show for that, either."

"That's the last time you saw her?" Myers asked. "This morning?"

"We didn't actually see her then," Brandon answered. "She left us a note. We didn't worry about her all day because we thought she had gone to work at the Arizona Sonora Desert Museum. This evening, though, when we came back from dinner, her supervisor from work had called and left a message. Mrs. Allison said on the phone that when she was going to miss a shift like she did today that she needed to call in."

"You've spoken to this Mrs. Allison?"

Brandon shook his head, but plucked the Post-it note with Lani's handwritten message on it and handed it over to the detective. "Not yet," Brandon said, as the detective perused the note. "As you can see, she had plans to go to a concert this evening."

"What kind?" Myers asked. "One of those rock concerts?"

"I doubt it. She goes in more for country western. You could talk to her friend, Jessica Carpenter. She could tell you what kind of concert it was."

"And you said Lani rides her bike to work?"

"That's right. She could drive one of the cars, but she prefers the bike. When my wife and I came home a little while ago, though, the bike was back home, lying in the middle of the carport. Her bike was here, but Lani wasn't. Every light in the house was on."

The detective glanced at Deputy Garrett. "A break-in then?" Myers asked.

Garrett shook his head. "I haven't been able to find any sign of it so far. Either the doors were left unlocked-"

"They weren't," Brandon interrupted.

"Or whoever it was let themselves in with a key. Other than a gun-a Colt.357-nothing else seems to be missing, although there is some glass breakage in Sheriff Walker's study."

"Where was the Colt?" Myers asked.

"Locked in my gun cabinet," Brandon answered.

"And was that broken into?"

Garrett shook his head. "Again, whoever it was must have used a key," the deputy said.

"The key was in my desk drawer," Brandon said.

Ford Myers raised his eyebrow. "So whoever it was knew where to look. You said something about breakage, Deputy Garrett? What's that all about?"

"Plaques, diplomas, and framed certificates," Garrett answered. "That kind of thing."

"Anything else missing besides the gun?" Myers continued. "Money? Jewelry?"

Brandon shook his head. "We haven't really checked that yet," he said. "We called for a deputy before we went snooping around."

Myers nodded. "I see," he said. "Now, tell me," he continued, "have you two been having any trouble with your daughter recently?"

"Trouble?" Diana asked, interjecting herself into the conversation for the first time. "What do you mean, trouble?"

"Boy trouble, for instance," Myers said with a casual shrug of the shoulders. "Hanging out with the wrong crowd. Problems with drugs or alcohol."

Diana was shaking her head long before he finished. "No," she declared. "Absolutely not! Nothing like that. Lani's a fine kid. An honors student. She's never given us a bit of trouble."

Myers stuffed his notebook into his pocket and then glanced at Deputy Garrett. "How about if I have the deputy here show me the damage in your office."

Brandon's face was tight with suppressed anger. "Sure," he said. "That'll be fine."

As the two officers started out of the room, Diana made as if to follow them, but Brandon stopped her. "We'll wait here," he said.

As soon as Garrett and Myers were out of earshot, a furious Diana Walker turned on her husband. "What the hell does he mean, hanging out with the wrong crowd?"

"Hush. Don't let him hear you," Brandon said. "You know where the SOB is going with all that, don't you? I do. I'll bet he's going to call this a family disturbance. He'll say Lani's a runaway. He's not going to lift a finger until he has to. He'll go by the book on this one, one hundred percent. Guaranteed."

Diana was outraged. "Not lift a finger? What do you mean?"

"Hide and watch," Brandon told her. "I've seen it before. Nobody plays the official rules game better than Ford Myers. I think maybe he invented it."

They were sitting waiting in grim silence a few minutes later when Myers sauntered back into the room. "If you have any jewelry or cash in the house, you might want to check it," he suggested.

"We don't keep cash around," Brandon said. "And not that much jewelry. But I'm sure Diana will be glad to check."

Wordlessly, Diana got up and walked into the bedroom. Nothing appeared to be out of place. Her jewelry box was where it belonged and nothing seemed to be missing. Fighting back tears, she walked on down the hall and checked Lani's bedroom. Jessica was right. The flowered cowboy shirt, Lani's Stetson, and Tony Lama boots were all gone from the closet. Diana returned to the living room just as Myers was getting ready to leave.

"I checked," she said. "Everything is here, except for the outfit Jessica said Lani was planning to wear. That one is gone."

"Good enough, Mrs. Walker," Myers said. "Deputy Garrett and I will be shoving off for the time being. If you still haven't heard anything from Lani by tomorrow morning, call in after six and we'll go ahead with the Missing Persons report at that time."

"I can tell you what clothes Lani was wearing when she left the house," Diana said. "In case you're interested, that is."

"That information should go into the Missing Persons report when you make it." Myers smiled. "Chances are, though, it won't even be necessary. Most of the time, these kids turn up long before the twenty-four-hour deadline. I'm sure your husband can tell you how it works, Mrs. Walker. By allowing that day's worth of grace time, we can cut down on unnecessary paperwork. Right, Mr. Walker?"

"Right," Brandon said.

"And as far as the gun theft and the vandalism is concerned, on a low-priority residential robbery like this, I won't be able to schedule someone to come out and lift prints until regular work hours next week. And besides, that may not prove necessary, either."

"What do you mean?" Diana asked. "Why wouldn't it be necessary?"

Myers shrugged. "What if the whole thing turns out to be a family prank of some kind? If your daughter took the gun herself on a lark, just to do a little unauthorized target practice, it might be better not to have those prints on file, don't you think?"

"But Lani wouldn't-" Diana began.

"Sure," Brandon said, urging Detective Myers and the deputy out the door. "I see what you mean. Thanks for all your help."

Diana was fuming when Brandon turned to face her. "Why did you let him off the hook like that?" she demanded. "Lani doesn't even like guns. She would never-"

"I let Detective Myers off the hook because he has no intention of doing anything, and I do." With that, Brandon Walker stalked toward the kitchen, with Diana right on his heels.

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

"I could lift prints myself, but that might screw up some prosecutor's chain of evidence," Brandon said, picking up the phone. "So instead, I'm going to make a few calls. There are some people in this world who owe me. It's time to call in a few of my markers."

Fingerprints were Alvin Miller's life. From the time an ink pad showed up as a birthday present for his sixth birthday party, he had found fingerprints endlessly fascinating. He had left a trail of indelible red marks across the face of his mother's new Harvest Gold refrigerator and dishwasher. His mother had confiscated the damn thing after that and thrown it in the garbage.

By the time Alvin was sixteen, he had turned an Eagle Scout project into a volunteer position as an aide in the latent fingerprint lab for the Pima County Sheriff's Department. Upon high school graduation, he had transformed his volunteer work into a paying job. Now, at age thirty-four and without benefit of more than a few college credits, he was the youngest and least formally educated person in the country to be placed in charge of a fully automated fingerprint identification system.

The civil service protections former sheriff Brandon Walker had instituted over the years kept his successor from doing politically based wholesale firings, but Bill Forsythe wasn't above finding other ways of unloading what he considered deadwood. One of the people he wanted out most was Alvin Miller. To have some of the best, most up-to-date equipment in the Southwest in the hands of an "uneducated kid" was more than Forsythe could stand. He wanted somebody in that position with the proper credentials-somebody people around the country could look up to, somebody about whom they would say, "Now there's a guy who knows what he's doing."

Since his election, Sheriff Forsythe had hit Alvin Miller where it hurt the worst-in the budget department, chopping both money and staff. The "automated" part of AFIS sounds good, but the part that precedes the automation-enhancing the prints so the computer can actually scan and analyze them-is a labor-intensive, manual process. Forsythe had cut so far back on staffing the fingerprint lab that it should have been impossible for it to function-would have been impossible-had the lab been left in any hands less capable or dedicated than those of Alvin Miller.

He worked night and day. He put in his eight hours on the clock and another eight or so besides almost every day, Saturdays and Sundays included. Only forty hours a week went on the clock; a whole lot more than forty were freebies.

Because Alvin had so much hands-on practice, he was incredibly quick at manually enhancing those prints. He could read volumes into what looked like-to everyone else's untrained eyes-indecipherable circles and smudges. When it came to fingerprints, Alvin found each was as unique as he'd always heard snowflakes were supposed to be. And once he had dealt with a print, he remembered much of what he saw. Twice now, he had managed to make a hit-fingering a current resident in the Pima County Jail for another unrelated crime before feeding the information into the computer.

When Carley Fielding, Pima County's weekend lab tech, called earlier that evening to see what she should do with the three boxes of bones Detective Leggett wanted printed, Alvin Miller happened to be in and working. Lifting fingerprints off human bones was nothing Alvin had ever done before. The prospect was interesting enough to take him away from whatever he had been working on before.

It turned out that bones were easy to process. It didn't take long for Alvin to figure out that more than one person had handled the bones. Some had done so with gloves on, but only one had handled them bare-handed. Alvin sorted through one set of dusted prints after another until he was convinced that he had found the best possible one.

That was where he was when his phone rang. "Al?" a familiar voice asked. "What the hell are you still doing there working at this time of night?"

"Sheriff Walker!" Alvin Miller exclaimed. A pleased smile spread over his face as he recognized his former boss's voice. "How's it going?"

"Not all that good. I need some help."

"Hey, if there's something I can do," Al Miller told him, "you've got it."

"I know," Brandon Walker said. "And as it turns out, there is something you can do, Al, because I just happen to have a houseful of fingerprints that need to be lifted."

"What house?" Alvin Miller asked.

"Mine."

"The same one you lived in before? The one out in Gates Pass?"

"That's it. But I don't want to get you in trouble with your new boss by taking you away from something important."

"Don't worry about it," Alvin Miller said with a grin. "My new boss isn't going to say a word. As far as Bill Forsythe and his damned time clock are concerned, I'm not even working tonight. That being the case, I can come and go as I damned well please. See you in twenty minutes or so, give or take."

Once Brandon was off the phone with Alvin Miller, Diana took her turn and tried dialing the number Davy had left on his message. She was surprised when a faraway desk clerk told her that she had dialed the Ritz-Carlton. She was even more surprised when the voice of a sleep-dulled young woman answered the phone. Moments later Davy's voice came through the receiver as well.

"Hi, Mom," he said. "How's it going?"

Just hearing her son speak brought Diana close to tears. She had to swallow the lump in her throat before she could answer. "Not all that well at the moment," she said. "Lani's missing."

"What?" Davy asked.

"Lani's gone," Diana said bleakly.

"What do you mean, gone?"

"I mean she's not here. She never showed for that concert with Jessica, and she didn't show up for work today, either."

"Maybe she went to visit somebody else. Have you checked with her other friends?"

"We're checking," Diana said, "but I thought you'd want to know what was going on."

"You don't think she's been kidnapped, or something, do you?" Davy demanded. "Shouldn't somebody contact the FBI?"

"Brandon is handling it."

"What can I do to help?" Davy asked urgently.

"Nothing much, for right now," Diana answered. "I just wanted you to know, that's all."

"Thanks," he said. "Are you and Dad going to be all right?"

Diana felt herself choking on the phone. "We'll be okay," she said. "But hurry home. Hurry as fast as you can. And call every night so we can keep you posted."

"I will," Davy said. "I promise."

A stricken David Ladd handed the phone over to Candace. "I was right," he said. "Something awful has happened. Lani's gone."

Candace was the one who put the phone back in its cradle and switched on the light. "Gone where?" she asked.

Davy shrugged. "Nobody knows."

"Your parents think she's been kidnapped?"

"Maybe, but they're not sure. Candace, I've never heard my mother this upset. She never even asked who you were." While he spoke, Davy had crawled out of bed and was starting toward the bathroom.

"What are you doing?" Candace asked.

"I'm going to shower and get dressed."

"But why?"

"So I can leave. You heard me. I told Mom I'd be there as soon as I can. If I go right now, I can be halfway to Bloomington before morning rush hour starts."

"We,"Candace said pointedly. "If weleave right now. Besides, it's Sunday; there isn't going to be a rush hour."

David nodded. "I meant we," he said.

"Doesn't that seem like a stupid thing to do?" Candace asked.

"Stupid? Didn't you hear what I said? This is a crisis, Candace. My family needs me."

"I didn't say going was stupid. Driving is. Why not fly?" Candace asked. "We can put the tickets on my AmEx. If we take a plane, we can be in Tucson by noon. Driving, that's about as long as it would take us to make it to the Iowa state line."

"What about the car? What about all my stuff?"

"I'll call Bridget," Candace said decisively. "She works only a few blocks from here. If we leave the parking claim ticket at the desk, she can come over on Monday after work, pick up the car, and take it home with her. She and Larry can keep it with them until we can make arrangements to come back and get it later. In the meantime, we can take a cab to the airport. That's a lot less trouble than fighting the parking-garage wars."

Candace wrestled a city phone book out of the nightstand drawer and started looking through it.

"What are you doing?" David asked.

"Calling the airlines to find the earliest plane and get us a reservation."

David looked at her wonderingly. "You'd do this for me? Go to all this trouble?"

She looked at him in mock exasperation as the "all lines are busy" message played out in her ear. "David," Candace said, "we're a team. I've been telling you for months now that I love you. If there's a crisis in your life, then there's a crisis in mine, too."

Just then a live person somewhere in the airline industry must have come on the phone. "What's your earliest flight from Chicago to Tucson?" she asked. There was a long pause. "Six A.M.?" she said a moment later.

Looking at the clock on the nightstand, Candace groaned. "Not much time for sleep, is there? But that's the one we need. Two seats, together, if you have them." There was a pause. "The return flight?" She glanced questioningly in David's direction. "I don't know about that. I guess we'd better just leave the return trip open for now."

After making arrangements to pay for the tickets at the counter, Candace put down the phone. "Don't you think we ought to try to sleep for another hour or so? We don't want to get there and be so shot from lack of sleep that we can't help out."

Obligingly, Davy lay back down on the bed, but he didn't crawl back under the sheets because he didn't expect to fall asleep again. He did, though. The next thing he knew, the alarm in the clock radio next to his head was going off. It was four-thirty.

From the light leaking out of the bathroom and from the sound of running water, he could tell that Candace was already up and in the shower. Moments later, David Ladd was, too.

He was standing under the steaming spray of water when he remembered his dream from the day before-the dream and Lani's horrifying scream.

Rocked by a terrible sense of foreboding, Davy braced himself against the shower wall to keep from falling. He knew now that the scream could mean only one thing.

Dolores Lanita Walker was already dead.