The Grey Pilgrim (9 page)

Zigzag

screaming!

Someone was screaming. J.D. bolted upright surrounded by the dying echo. Something imprisoned his arms and feet. He strained and tore free. They were only sweat-soaked sheets.

He stood beside his bed, confused, not yet sure where he was or what, if anything, he’d heard. His breath was short and ragged and his heart slammed in his chest.

There was another sound, hammering. Fists against a door. His door. And a voice.

“J.D., you all right? J.D.? Open up!”

“Yeah. Right. I’m OK. I’m coming.” His voice croaked, was hardly recognizable. He cleared his throat and tried again.

He was starting to wake up, the dream was losing its stranglehold. He had an uncomfortable idea that he knew who had been screaming, screaming along with Questas. He had done it before, but not for a long time. He had thought, hoped, it was over.

He found his way to the light switch, grabbed a robe, and went to the door. Jesus Gonzales was standing there, looking worried. He had his gun out of his holster and J.D. thought maybe he’d been close to kicking his way in.

“You OK?” he asked. J.D. didn’t look so good. He still didn’t feel that great either. Too many shreds of the nightmare clung to the corners of his mind.

“Yeah, fine,” he lied. “Put your gun away and come in.”

It was bright morning outside. A cheerful place, very different from the one he’d just left. He went around the living room opening shades and curtains, letting sunshine in and ghosts out.

“Want some coffee?” J.D. asked. Jesus stood in the doorway. He’d put the gun away but he still looked worried, uncomfortable, like a mother who’s just begun to wonder if her child might somehow turn out to be abnormal.

J.D. found his way to the kitchen. Sure enough, it was right where he’d left it. The way he was feeling, that was reassuring. He hadn’t quite been confident it would be there.

He searched for the percolator and found it under the stack of dirty dishes in his sink. He substituted a clean sauce pan and started boiling water while he set out cups on the table in the breakfast nook. When the water started rolling he poured in some coffee grounds. What he really wanted was a good stiff drink, but Jesus was already too worried about him, and the deputy might not think morning drinkers were appropriate material for the law enforcement field.

J.D. also wanted a cigarette and spent close to a minute prowling around the living room looking for one before he remembered that he hadn’t smoked since Spain. After the pneumonia the doctors recommended against it, and he’d taken so long getting back his strength that he’d started doing what they asked. He turned on his radio instead, twirling past a couple of soap operas and a gruesome account of what Hitler’s blitz was doing to London until he found a station that was playing Mozart. It was just the thing to coax his soul away from the realm of the dead and back to that of the living. He picked up his notebook and carried it back into the kitchen, tossing it beside his cup so Jesus wouldn’t realize how confused he still was. As he wandered around he muttered a half-hearted explanation about a bad dream as a result of an over spiced supper.

Jesus didn’t look convinced. “Come in, sit,” J.D. told him. The deputy obeyed, but he moved slowly, softly, with exaggerated care as though he was afraid any sudden sound or movement might shatter his host. J.D. had to admit that he felt a little fragile.

“How you want your coffee? Cream? Sugar?”

“Just black.” The wooden bench of the nook groaned beneath Jesus’ weight as he lowered himself onto it. He was a big man and the fit was tight. J.D. refrained from a sympathetic groan of his own. He pulled the boiling coffee off the stove, found an egg, and broke it into the mix. It was a trick he’d learned in Spain. He’d learned a lot there.

J.D. filled the cups. His hands didn’t shake nearly as much as he expected when he carried the coffee to the table. He put the saucepan back over a low flame and sat down across from the deputy.

“So, what brings you out at this ungodly hour? Just drop by to interrupt my sweet dreams?” The clock over the stove said that it was 10:30. It was pretty weak humor, but the best he could manage.

“I called your office. They said you hadn’t been in yet. I thought you might still be here. They said you work pretty late sometimes.”

J.D. wondered if they hadn’t meant drink late instead, then he realized Jesus’ tone had been a little distant, maybe faintly hurt. The big man was genuinely concerned and he’d been trying to laugh the whole thing off.

“Whatever, I’m glad you came,” J.D. said, trying to sound conciliatory. “That dream needed interrupting.”

“What was it about?”

“You know,” he lied, “I can’t remember already. Just something big with fangs and claws that had me confused with a Baby Ruth.

“But then, unless you’ve taken up psychoanalysis as a hobby, I’d guess you didn’t drive over here just to talk about my dreams. Aren’t you on night shift? Didn’t you just get off? Shouldn’t you be working on dreams of your own about now?”

There was room for more than one motherly act in that kitchen. Jesus grinned and nodded. “Yeah, long night. They’ve had me working downtown on that Hollywood-style premiere of
Arizona
, you know, the movie made at that town they built as a set on the other side of the Tucson Mountains. Big crowds, big stars, big deal in a small town like Tucson—even a fake Indian village on Congress Street. Lots of foolishness, but folks were pretty well behaved.

“After I freed up last night, I did some prowling around out among the real Indians on the San Xavier. I’ve been looking up people I know and keeping the word out that I was interested in getting in touch with Jujul and his village. I ran into a couple of kids I grew up with. They’d had too much to drink and I drove them home. On the way we talked some old times until they decided they could still trust me. They tell me one of Jujul’s people was visiting some of his relatives out on the west edge of the San Xavier Reservation. Neither of them saw this fellow, but pretty much everybody out there knew he’d come in. It’s a hard place to keep secrets, even though they’re all real worried about how this thing’s going to turn out.

“Jujul must have sent that one in to try to get a feel from his civilized kin about what’s going on. What the tribe and the BIA and the rest of us are up to and how hard we’re looking for them, not to mention where.

“I asked if maybe they could set up a meet. Just me and him and whatever friends he wanted to bring along so’s he could feel safe. Me, I’d be there unofficially. My word not to try to arrest him. Just talk. I’d tell him what we wanted and he could tell me what they wanted. We’d look for the easiest way for all of us to get out of this without anybody getting hurt. But the boys tell me they think he’s gone already. They promised to get word to his people though. They’ll set it up if he’s available and willing, or leave word in case he or somebody else comes back.”

J.D. sipped his coffee. It was pretty awful. There were lots of loose grounds the egg had missed. Not surprising, the trick hadn’t worked that well in Spain either.

“You think they were in good enough shape to remember to do it?”

Jesus tasted his coffee. He scowled and put the cup back down. “They’d had a lot,” he admitted, “but by the time we talked about that stuff they’d sobered up some. They’ll do what they promised.”

“Did you expect one of Jujul’s bunch to show up this soon?” J.D. asked.

“Yeah. It’s been a month. He’s had time to move his people quite a ways and set up his winter village. Course, he could have sent one out while they were still moving. Still, I guess I’ve been expecting somebody any time.

“What interested me most, though, and brought me over to interrupt your beauty sleep, was that when I asked my friends if Jujul and his people were in Mexico they said they didn’t know. Apparently, this one was keeping real quiet about where they are. He just wouldn’t say. It makes me think maybe Jujul didn’t go to Mexico after all. If they were safely across the border, I think this guy would have bragged about it. Said something about how they were where we couldn’t touch them instead of keeping his mouth shut.”

“Zigzag,” J.D. said. It didn’t sound like an appropriate comment and Jesus looked at him curiously. “It’s how his name translates into English. Mary Spencer told me that just the other night. She said it was traditional for the Papago to have two names. The practice is becoming less common, but Jujul’s is a fairly primitive bunch. She said they get one name from a medicine man. That name is secret. It wouldn’t get shared, except maybe with people they were really close to. So they called each other by nicknames or relationships. Jujul’s old enough to have been named in the traditional way and have picked up a nickname that stuck. Nicknames usually reflect some physical aspect or the sort of character a person is. Zigzag. Don’t you see? He could be called that because he’s a perverse bastard with a tendency to do the unexpected.”

J.D. realized he’d almost been babbling with excitement. He shut up and looked at Jesus expectantly. “What do you think?” he asked. “You know the Papago a lot better than I do.”

“When you’ve got a name like mine, you tend not to think too much about other people’s, except as something handy to call them by. I never thought about how his name translates, but you could be right. The old man’s certainly proved contrary enough so far. Somebody said they had trouble with him during the census. He didn’t want his people and cattle counted, but whatever started this probably goes back a lot further than that.”

“So, if we’re right, Jesus, where do you think he might be? If he didn’t take his people to Mexico, where would he take them?”

Jesus contemplated his coffee but prudently refrained from drinking more. “Big desert out there,” he said. “He could be anywhere. He could have chosen almost any of it for almost any reason. Could have even headed right back to his old village, except that I’ve had the tribal police keeping an eye on it. Maybe somewhere along the north part of the reservation, if he’s expecting us to think he went south. Just knowing he’s contrary doesn’t tell us what he’s contrary to. Hell, J.D., I don’t know. If it was me, I’d have gone to Mexico.”

“Me too,” J.D. agreed. “But all of a sudden I’ve got this gut feeling he’s come closer to Tucson. You sure they couldn’t be somewhere on the San Xavier?”

“No, they could be. Not likely, but they could. But if they are, I’ll hear about it. I’ve got too many contacts out there with too many people who like to gossip.”

“You’re right, of course, but wouldn’t it be a colossal joke on us for him to move his people right under our noses. It strikes me as the sort of thing that would appeal to a man with a zigzag in his personality.”

Jesus absently toyed with the badge on the front of his uniform. “Yeah, Papagos have a sense of humor all right.” He confirmed it with a laugh.

They batted ideas back and forth and Jesus refused J.D.’s offer to warm his coffee. They finally agreed the San Xavier Reservation was almost certainly out, as was the area right around Sells. Both were too crowded with people willing to cooperate with the tribal police or friends, like Jesus, in other agencies. But there was a lot of area along the eastern border of the Reservation, not too far from Tucson, that was still pretty remote. Places where it would be relatively easy for Jujul to avoid contact, not only with the various agencies searching for him, but even with other Papago if he wanted. J.D. suggested asking some pilots to fly over the area and see what they could find, but Jesus pointed out that Papagos move around a lot and there probably wasn’t any way of telling one bunch from another from the air. They settled on putting out fresh feelers to the Papago villages they knew of along the border and asking the ranchers in the same area to let them know if they encountered any strange Papagos looking for trade or work.

J.D. offered Jesus a fresh cup of coffee but he politely refused, made some excuses, and began his retreat. He was almost out the door when he turned back and smiled apologetically.

“Speaking of names, J.D.?” he asked. “It occurs to me I don’t know yours, just the initials.”

“With good reason,” J.D. replied. “For what it’s worth, though, I’ll tell you what Fitzpatrick means.”

Jesus managed to look interested, even if it wasn’t what he’d asked.

“It means some English or Irish noble once had his way with a peasant girl. Put her in the family way, as my father liked to explain it, without putting her in his family. Though he didn’t marry her, he was at least kind enough to acknowledge her child. Fitzpatrick means Patrick’s son, or more exactly, in the idiom of the time in which such names originated, Patrick’s bastard.”

Jesus laughed. “That explains a lot about your character,” he said. He went down the walk and waved as he climbed into the patrol car. Out of habit, he left the neighborhood with his foot to the floor.

J.D. was feeling better, almost human. He had a sudden urge to talk to Mary. See if the likelihood Jujul hadn’t gone to Mexico gave her any ideas. He’d forced himself to stay away from her for three whole days. This was a good excuse to see her again. Any excuse was a good one.

Kiva on a Shoestring

Larry had a pencil in his mouth and a sheaf of papers in his hand when he answered the bell He opened the door wide and stepped aside so J.D. could enter.

“Come in, come in,” he said around a delighted grin. “I’ve been working on an article for
The Kiva
, trying to trim two thousand words down to the three hundred they’ve allotted me. Having some publications is going to be important when I get my degree and start job hunting.

“I think if I cut out everything but verbs, the length will come out about right. It won’t detract much from what I say either. You can’t do much theorizing about Hohokam culture in three hundred words, or if you do, offer any evidence to support it. On the other hand, I can’t blame the Arizona Archaeological and Historical Society. They publish
The Kiva
on a shoestring. If your entire journal can only be about ten pages long, you can’t offer most of it to the first graduate student who happens along.

“I haven’t gotten very far. I was still wondering whether they’ll count the words in the title against me when you rang the bell. Come on in and let me get you some coffee.”

J.D. followed Larry out to the kitchen, depositing his hat on the hall tree as they passed.

“Sorry to bother you,” J.D. apologized. “It’s just that some-thing’s come up and I wanted to get Mary’s point of view on it.”

“I’ve been meaning to call you,” Larry began.

J.D. waved off the apology before it could get started. “You were just tired. I should have sent you home at a reasonable hour. Not your fault, mine.”

Larry still looked embarrassed and not entirely convinced, but he didn’t argue.

J.D.’s opinion of Larry was more than a little confused. He never would have put up with the lad if doing so hadn’t provided an excuse to be near Mary. Still, it was hard to dislike someone who seemed to think you were the prototype for the hero of Hemingway’s new best-seller, however absurd the comparison. Under other circumstances he might have learned to like Larry Spencer, maybe even tolerate the insatiable curiosity that prompted the archaeologist to pry into J.D.’s life with the same enthusiasm he brought to opening ancient graves. Larry was oblivious to the horrors he might find, or the fact that anyone’s sensibilities might be offended. He just couldn’t pass up a chance to expose himself to that which was previously unknown.

J.D. sipped his coffee. “Actually, that wasn’t why I was going to call,” Larry told him, stirring cream and sugar into his. “Mary wanted to call you herself, but things just moved too fast and there was too much to do.”

J.D. raised his eyebrows and peered across the table letting his impatience show. Larry wasn’t slow. He caught on and got to the point.

“She’s in the field,” he said. “Left first thing this morning. She got word from a rancher that a fairly primitive Papago band had come in to trade, and it was one of the places she’d put out feelers. Anyway, the village talked it over and agreed to take her. She got the call night before last and she’s been frantically making arrangements ever since. Old Doc Sherwood nearly had a conniption, having to change teaching assistants in the middle of the semester like this, but he’d known it might happen so there wasn’t much he could do other than grump about it. Still, we had to get formal permission for her to take incompletes on this semester’s course work, and she had lots to explain to the guy who’s going to take her place with Sherwood. She already had her trade goods packed, and couldn’t take much personal stuff, but we went out and bought her an old pickup truck so she could get it all out to this fellow’s ranch and so she can get back whenever she wants. After all, we’ve got no idea how long she’ll be away, so I wanted her to have some sort of transportation as handy as possible.”

“She’s gone?” J.D. asked. He suddenly felt a lot older.

“Yeah. Don’t worry, though. She’ll be OK. She knows these people and she knows the desert. She’ll get along just fine.

“Listen, if what you’ve come across is really important, maybe I can help. A little of what she’s learned has rubbed off on me. Or maybe I can find somebody who can get you an answer. If it’s not too urgent, we should be able to get word to her in a few weeks, probably get a reply back in less than a month.”

“No, no, it wasn’t really that important,” J.D. said, climbing out of his chair. “just an excuse to drink somebody else’s coffee. Sorry I bothered you, Larry. I shouldn’t have.”

Larry followed him back down the hall, telling him he hadn’t interrupted anything and was welcome to stay for as much coffee as he liked. J.D. thanked him but kept going. As J.D. climbed into his Ford, Larry called out something about getting together soon. J.D. didn’t seem to hear.

When Larry went back in the house he discovered J.D.’s hat was still on the hall tree. It confirmed the gravity of what he thought the marshal was involved in, and made a three-hundred word article on Hohokam archaeology seem awfully insignificant by comparison.