Hour of the Hunter (30 page)

"I'd set about getting started then, but try to write it a little nicer this time, Andrew. And leave out the woman who gets burned up, the one who gets set on fire with paint thinner. That was horrible. It reminded me of the Harveys' cat."

Even now she could remember the agonized screams of that poor dying cat, her next-door-neighbors' cat, after Andrew and some of his friends had lit it on fire with paint thinner and matches. Over the years, she had almost managed to forget about it, but reading the manuscript had brought it all back in vivid detail.

The remembered sound in her head had kept her awake for hours.

Temporary relief had come when. around midnight, she had donned a robe and gone outside to burn the book. It had taken a long time. Hours even. Myrna Louise had wanted to be sure that each page was properly disposed of, with every shred of it reduced to crumpled ash, so she had fed the manuscripts into the flame one typewritten page at a time.

The problem was, after she was finished and when she went back inside, the sound came back anyway. It was screaming in heir head even now as she sat staring at this stranger in the pink silk pantsuit who was supposedly her son.

Yes, the cat was back with a vengeance, and Myrna Louise was afraid it would never go away again.

They took away the breakfast tray without Rita's noticing.

This time Understanding Woman took her concerns straight to the convent's superior. After hearing what the old Indian woman had to say, Sister Veronica made arrangements for a hasty trip to San Xavier, where they spoke at length to Father Mark. He listened gravely and agreed to take immediate action.

The next afternoon while Dancing Quail was busy with her endless dusting, she heard visitors being ushered into the convent. Soon Sister Mary Jane came looking for her.

"Someone is waiting to see you, Rita."

Dancing Quail was thunderstruck when she came to the arched doorway of the living room and found her grandmother sitting on the horsehair couch with Sister Veronica. Across a small table. in matching chairs, sat Father Mark from San Xavier and the BIA outing matron from Tucson.

Dancing Quail stood transfixed for a moment, looking questioningly from face to face.

"Good afternoon, Rita," Father Mark boomed heartily.

"Come in and sit down."

Dancing Quail slipped warily into the room. She made for a small footstool near Understanding Woman. When she sat down next to her grandmother, she looked to the old woman's weathered face for answers, but Understanding Woman made no acknowledgment.

"We're here about you and your baby," Father Mark said brusquely.

Father Mark's loud, forthright ways were often offensive to the politely soft-spoken Papagos who made up his flock.

At this frontal attack, Rita's features darkened with shame, but she made no attempt at denial.

"You must go away at once, of course," he continued.

"Your staying here is entirely out of the question. To that end, I have contacted Mrs. Manning here. Between us, we've made arrangements for you to have a position with a good family in Phoenix. Isn't that right, Lucille?"

Over the years, the outing matron's once-red hair had faded to a muddy gray, but Dancing Quail still remembered the withering look the woman had given her years before when the Mil-gahn woman discovered that the little girl from Ban Thak had no shoes.

Lucille Manning nodded. "They are a very respectable family in Phoenix.

Under most circumstances, they wouldn't consider taking someone in your ... in your condition. But Adele and Charles Clark are old friends of Father Mark's. They're also very interested in Indian basketry.

When I told them you were a basket maker, they decided to make an exception."

"I don't understand. . ." Rita began.

The priest cut her off. "Of course you do, girl! You're not stupid.

It would be very bad for Father John if you stayed here to have this baby. It would drive him out of the priesthood, destroy him completely, leave him to rot in hell. You wouldn't want to do that, now would you?"

"No, but. .

"And we've found a place where you can go. It'll be a good job, one that pays more than the sisters can."

"But what about my grandmother?" Dancing Quail asked. "What will happen to her?"

"I will go home," Understanding Woman said, speaking for the first time.

"I will go home to Ban Thak and wait to die."

Father Mark told Rita to pack her things, that the outing matron would leave shortly to take her to Tucson and the train. The girl left the convent with Understanding Woman.

"Please, ni-kahk," Dancing Quail begged. "Grandmother, please don't send me away."

Understanding Woman was adamant. "You must go, she said firmly. "To lead a holy man or a priest away from his vows is very bad luck, for you and for him as well. You must go far away and never see him again."

Without further argument, Dancing Quail gathered her things. This time she didn't use a burden basket. The girls who worked in town said that burden baskets were old-fashioned and clumsy. One of the nuns had given her a cast-off leather case. Into this battered relic, she put her own meager possessions.

She was about to strap the case shut when Understanding Woman appeared at her side. "Ni-ka'amad," the old woman said. "Granddaughter, here.

This basket is not as good as that other one. Be careful not to lose it this time."

Tentatively, Dancing Quail picked up Understanding Woman's medicine basket, the last one the old woman ever made. She opened the top and peered inside. There were the things she remembered-a clay doll, another fragment of the same beautiful spirit rock, an arrowhead, and a hank of long black hair. Tears streamed down the young woman's face as she replaced the lid and carefully edged the basket in one corner of the case.

Because of Father John, her grandmother was sending Dancing Quail away, but with her blessing rather than without. The old woman's puny medicine basket could offer only the slightest protection against the outside world, but it was far better than no protection at all.

Besides, it was the only gift Understanding Woman had to give.

The two Indians left San Xavier and drove to the Pima County Sheriff's Department. Fat Crack had been here on business numerous times, and he knew his way around. He also understood the kind of treatment they could expect.

"I want to speak to Detective Walker," he said, going up to the glass-enclosed cage that separated clerk from waiting room.

"He's not in," the clerk said.

"Can you call him?"

"He's not on duty today."

"I need to talk to him."

"I'm telling you, he's not in."

"We'll wait," Fat Crack said, and showed Looks At Nothing to a chair.

An hour later, they were still there.

Sheriff DuShane didn't usually come in on weekends, but he had forgotten his golf clubs at the office, and he needed them now. He was surprised to find two Indians seated stolidly in the front waiting area. There were usually plenty of Indians in the cell-block, but not that many out front.

"What's with the powwow in the lobby?" he asked.

The clerk shrugged. "Who knows? They want to talk to Walker. I told them plain as day that it's his day off."

"Like hell it is," DuShane growled. "You call him and tell him to get in here to take care of it. I don't need a bunch of Indians sitting around stinking up the place."

"But he's at the hospital with his father. .

"I don't give a rat's ass where he is. You get him on the horn and tell him to take care of it. Brandon Walker's in deep shit with me about now. He'd by God better not drag his heels."

Brandon Walker was both mystified and relieved by the departmental phone call that summoned him from Tucson Medical Center. The relief came from having a legitimate reason to abandon his distracted mother who was still waiting for the appearance of the second-opinion doctor, a process that Brandon could neither stop nor speed up. He wondered why two reservation Indians would insist on seeing him this ragingly hot Sunday afternoon.

In the waiting room, he immediately recognized the younger of the two as the person looking after Davy Ladd in the hospital at Sells. The old man, blind and bent, leaning on a gnarled ironwood cane, was a complete stranger.

"Would you like to come back to my office?" Walker asked.

Fat Crack translated Brandon's words. The old man shook his head emphatically, speaking rapidly in Papago.

"He wants to talk outside," Fat Crack explained. "He wants to smoke."

The crazy old coot could smoke in here where it's cool, Brandon thought, but he shrugged his shoulders in compliance and followed the other two men outside into the ungodly heat. Fat Crack led them to a small patch of shade under a thriving mesquite tree. The old man sat cross-legged on the ground and opened the flap of a leather pouch that he wore around his waist. Removing a homemade cigarette, he started to light up.

Brandon reached for his own cigarettes, but the younger man stopped him.

"Looks At Nothing would like you to join him," Fat Crack said, sitting down next to the old man.

obligingly, walker left his package of filter-tips where they were. He squatted down Close to the other two and waited. He tried unsuccessfully to estimate ages. The id-to-late forties, but the younger man was probably in his m older one's sun-dried, weathered skin defied categorizing.

After deftly lighting his cigarette with a worn brass lighter, absorbed concentration.

the old man puffed on it. He reminded Brandon of the aged Vietnamese villagers he had seen during the war, venerated old wise men who had seen one regime topple after another, and who had waited patiently for the inevitable time when the Americans would disappear as well.

At last the old man turned his sightless eyes in Brandon's direction.

He held out the cigarette, offering it to the detective. ,Nawoj,11 he said.

Brandon's first inclination was to say thanks but no thanks, that he'd have one of his own, but instinct warned him that there was more at stake here than just refusing a certain brand of cigarettes, homemade or not.

,Take it,- Fat crack urged. "Say 'nawoi-" "Say what?"

I'Nawoj," Fat Crack repeated. "It means 'friend' Or 'friendly gift."'

"Now-witch," Brandon said hesitantly, mimicking the strange sounding word as best he could. He accepted the cigarette and took a deep drag while Fat Crack nodded approval. The smoke was far stronger than the white had anticipated. He managed to choke back a fit of man coughing.

Fat Crac explained as he in turn took "a puff on the cigarette.

This is crazy, Brandon thought What if someone sees me? But just then the old man started speaking in Papago. For a gringo, Brandon Walker was fairly fluent in Spanish, but this language wasn't remotely related to that. He couldn't understand a word.

When the old man stopped speaking, the younger one translated.

"He says he's sorry about your father, but that sometimes it is better to die quick than to be old and sick."

Brandon's jaw dropped. How did this aged Indian know about Toby Walker?

"How does he ... ?" Brandon sputtered, but the old man spoke once more.

Again Fat Crack interpreted.

"He's sorry to bother you like this, but we must speak to you about my cousin, about Gina Antone, who was murdered years ago."

The blind man's mysterious knowledge about Toby Walker was forgotten as Brandon's finely honed detective skills took charge. "Gina Antone?

What about her?"

"We want to know about the other man, the one who went to jail."

"He's still in prison. In Florence."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure."

"We would like you to check." This time Fat Crack spoke on his own without waiting for the old man.

"When? Now?"

Fat Crack nodded. The Indians showed no inclination to move. Shaking his head in exasperation, Brandon Walker rose to his feet and went back inside. He was gone a long time, fifteen minutes, to be exact. During that time, Looks At Nothing and Fat Crack sat smoking in the shade in absolute silence.

Finally, Brandon Walker returned. He stood over the other two men for a moment, examining each enigmatic face. Finally, he squatted back down next to them.

"I just talked to the records department in Florence," he said.

"Andrew Carlisle was released on Friday. Now tell me, what's this all about?"

Once more the hairs on Fat Crack's neck stood up straight beneath the weight of his Stetson.

"Do you remember when my cousin was killed?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Do you remember her wipih, her nipple?"

"I remember," Walker said grimly. It was something he had never forgotten. "But the man who did that is dead," Brandon added. "He committed suicide."

"He is not dead," Fat Crack declared quietly. "It has happened again, just like that. On Friday, near Picacho Peak. The sheriff has arrested an Indian, but an O'othham wouldn't do this, wouldn't bite off a woman's nipple.

Neither would a dead man."

A spurt of adrenaline surged into Brandon Walker's system, but his face betrayed nothing. "How do you know about this?" he asked.

"From an Indian who was in jail in Florence," Fat Crack answered.

"And why did you come to me? Why not go to the sheriff in Pinal County? They're the ones who have jurisdiction in the case."

"Because," Fat Crack said simply. looking at the second Indian. "My friend here is an old man. He doesn't like to travel so far."

To release her anger, Diana's first impulse on arriving home was to clean her house from top to bottom. Not that the house was dirty. She had to find something to occupy her hands and body. She swept and mopped and scrubbed. She even ventured into the root cellar behind a door she seldom opened where she still kept all those packed boxes-Gary's stuff and her mother's stuff--sitting there like ticking time bombs of memory, filled with things she couldn't throw away because she couldn't stand to sort them.

Against one wall were Gary's boxes. Rita had packed those for her. It was the first thing Rita had done for Diana, packed Gary's belongings into tidy stacks of boxes during the three days Diana was in University Hospital having Davy. And across the narrow room, stacked against another wall, labeled in Diana's stepmother's bold, careless printing, were the boxes that held all that remained of Iona Dade Cooper's worldly possessions.