The old lady confounded all predictions and lived to a 101, refusing to leave the walled confines of the compound until the very end, but letting the place fall to wrack and ruin around her. She died, and the wreckage went up for sale at almost the same time Gary Ladd's life-insurance proceeds came into Diana's hands.
After spending her entire childhood in housing tied to her father's job, Diana Ladd wanted desperately to escape the mobile home in the Topawa Teachers' Compound housing, to bring her baby home to a house that belonged to her rather than to her employer. She jumped at the chance to buy the derelict old house. dissuade her, patiently The realtor had done his best to pointing out all the things that were wrong with the place.
it was full of garbage--of dead bread wrappers and empty tin cans and layers of old newspapers six feet deep. The plaster was falling off the lath in places, windows were cracked and broken, the roof leaked, and the toilet in the only bathroom had quit working. Throughout the house, falling wiring was a nightmare of jury-rigged repairs, but Diana Ladd was not to be deterred. She bought the place, warts and all, and she and Rita Antone set about fixing it up as best they could.
Six years later, the remodel was stalled for lack of Money. To solve that problem, Diana had temporarily set aside home-improvement projects in favor of finishing her book.
Writing it was pure speculation, of course. She had made some preliminary and reasonably favorable inquiries, but the book wasn't sold yet. She hoped that when she did sign a contract, she'd be able to hire a contractor to complete some of the heavier work.
Standing on the roof, she watched the approach of an oncoming pair of headlights on the road overhead Approaching her driveway, the vehicle slowed to a craw and the turn signals came on. As the unfamiliar car turned off the blacktop, Diana Ladd suffered a momentary panic.
For years, she had steeled herself against the possibility of Andrew Carlisle's coming after her in the same way she had prepared herself for the possibility of a snakebite. With Carlisle, as with the neighborhood's indigenous snakes, you assumed a certain amount of risk and did what you could to protect yourself.
Rattlesnakes rattle a warning before they strike, and so had Andrew Carlisle. The last time she had seen the man in the hallway at the courthouse, he had mouthed a silent threat at her when his accompanying deputy wasn't looking. "I'll be back," his lips had said noiselessly.
Over the years, she had learned to live with that threat, treating it seriously but keeping her fear firmly in the background of her consciousness. Most of the time, anyway, but the arrival of unfamiliar cars always brought it to the forefront.
The tires bounced down the rough, rocky road, and the headlights caught her in a piercing beam of light, blinding her, trapping her silhouetted against the night sky. She stood there paralyzed and vulnerable, while fear rose like bile in her throat.
From near the base of the ladder, she heard Bone's low-throated warning growl. The urgency of the sound prompted her to action, jolted her out of her panic. The headlights moved away. In sudden pitch darkness, she scrambled clumsily toward the ladder.
"Bone," she called softly, hoping to reach the ground in time to catch the dog's collar and keep him with her, but the tall, gangly hound didn't wait. Still growling, he raced to where the rocky, six-foot wall with its wooden gate intersected the corner of the house. The wall would have stopped most dogs cold, but not the Bone, a dog with the size and agility of a small mountain goat. Bounding from rock to rock, he scrambled up several outcroppings to the top, then flung himself off the other side.
As the car pulled to a stop in the front drive, the dog hurled himself out of the darkness toward the car, lunging like a ferocious, tooth-filled shadow at the front driver's side tire. Using the dog's attack as cover, Diana slipped into the house unnoticed. She was already in the living room when the trapped driver laid on the horn.
Cranking open the side panel of the front window, she called, "Who is it?"
The driver must have rolled down his window slightly, because the dog left off attacking the tire and reared up on his hind legs at the side of the car, barking ferociously.
."Call off this goddamned mutt before he breaks my window!" an outraged voice demanded.
"Who is it?" Diana insisted.
"Detective Walker," the voice answered. "Now call off the dog, Diana.
I've got to talk to you."
As soon as she heard the name, Diana recognized Brandon Walker's voice.
A sudden whirlwind of Memory brought the buried history back, all of it, robbing her of breath, leaving her shaken, unable to speak.
His voice softened. "Diana, please. Call off the dog."
She took a deep breath and hurried to the door. "Oh'o. Ihab," she ordered in Papago, stepping out onto the porch.
"Bone. Here."
With a single whined objection and a warning glare over his shoulder at the intruding car, the dog went to her at once and lay down at her feet.
Brandon Walker switched off the headlights and the engine. Cautiously, he opened the door, Peering warily at the woman and dog waiting on the lighted porch.
-Are you sure it's all right? Shouldn't you tie him up or something?
That dog's a menace."
"Bone's all right," she returned, making no move to restrain the animal.
"Why are you here? What do you want?"
"I've got to talk to you, Diana. There's been an accident."
"An accident? Where? Who?"
"Out on the reservation. Your son David's been hurt.
Not bad, but - - ."
"Davy? Oh, my God. Where is he? What's happened?"
Hearing the alarm in Diana's voice, the dog rose once more to his feet with another threatening growl. Diana grabbed Bone's collar and shoved him into the house, closing the door behind him.
With the dog safely locked away, Brandon Walker moved closer. "It's not as bad as it sounds," he reassured her quickly, "but the Indian Health Service doctor can't do anything about either treating him or letting him go until they talk to you. Your phone isn't working."
Diana's hand went to her throat. She looked stricken. "I forgot to put it back on the hook when I quit working."
She started toward the house, leaving him standing there.
"Wait. Where are you going?"
"To call the hospital and get my car keys," she said.
Two minutes later, she emerged from the house and headed toward her car, a tiny white Honda.
"Why don't you let me drive," Brandon offered, motioning toward the far more powerful Galaxy. "We'll make better time, especially if we use the lights."
She wavered for a moment, vacillating between driving herself and accepting his offer of help.
"What did the doctor say?" Brandon pressed.
"That Davy will have to go on into Tucson for stitches."
"See there? Let me drive. That way, you can take care of the boy."
The detective's good sense overcame Diana Ladd's stubborn independence.
Without another word, she headed for his car.
Later, as the Ford roared down the highway, lights flashing overhead, Diana noticed she was still holding the partially full bottle of PineSol. She clearly remembered putting it down when she used the phone, but in her frantic rush to leave the house, she must have unconsciously picked it up again. As unobtrusively as possible, she slipped the offending bottle out of sight under the seat of the speeding Galaxy. Diana Ladd was upset, and she didn't want the detective to realize exactly how upset she was.
Fat Crack Ortiz owned the only gas station in Sells. He also owned the only tow truck. Consequently, he was the first member of Rita Antone's family to be notified of the accident on Kitt Peak Road.
After towing the demolished Jimmy back to the station, he hurried straight to the hospital. One of a handful of Christian Scientists on the reservation, Fat Crack subscribed to neither medical doctors nor medicine men, but he was prepared to be open-minded as far as other people's beliefs were concerned.