"That's why you burned me, isn't it?" she said. Her voice seemed very small. In the emptiness of the darkened cave, it was hardly more than a whisper. "You did it for him."
"So maybe you aren't so dumb after all. This way your mother is bound to make the connection, but there won't be any tooth impressions for someone to take to court the way there were with Andy."
Andy. It was hard for her to comprehend that word. How could a person who was "Andy" to Mitch Johnson also be Andrew Carlisle, the monster who had frequented the stories of Lani Walker's childhood? She had spent long winter evenings, snuggled in Rita's lap, hearing the story again and again. Lani had loved hearing how two women, the priest, the boy, and the dog had overcome the wicked Mil-gahn man. Again and again Nana Dahd had told the powerful tale of how I'itoi had helped them defeat the enemy who was, at the same time, both Apachelike and not-Apache.
"I don't suppose you ever met him," Mitch continued. "You're much too young. He was already in prison for the second time long before you were born, but if you had met him, I think you would have been impressed. To put it in terms you might understand-the Indian vernacular, as it were-I'd say he was a very powerful medicine man."
Lani knew something about medicine men-especially about Looks At Nothing, who had been a friend of Rita's. And Fat Crack Ortiz was a medicine man as well. Whatever powers they had weren't used for evil or for hurting people. Mitch Johnson's sarcastic remark burned through Lani's fear and changed it to anger, like a powerful magnifying glass focusing the rays of the sun to ignite a piece of paper.
"You can call him a medicine man if you like," she said softly. "I call him ho'ok."
"Ho'ok,"Mitch Johnson repeated. "What does that mean?"
"Monster," Lani replied.
For a moment after she said it, there was no sound in the dark stillness of the cave, then there was a short hiccup followed by a hoot of raucous laughter.
Except it didn't sound like laughter to Lani Walker. In the dark it reminded her of something else-of the rasping, unearthly, bone rattling sound a cornered javelina makes when it gnashes its teeth.
16
Now this is all that is known of Mualig Siakam. She was one of the greatest of all the medicine women in all the Land of the Desert People. She lived to be very, very old. And she taught some of her songs to a few men.
Some women tried to learn the songs, but the buzzing of the bees joined with the song in the heads of the women and made them afraid. Because they were afraid, the women would not let sleep come. Sleep was necessary in order to know all the powers which one does not see, and which are used in healing.
The Indians would take a new baby many miles to see Great Medicine Woman, andMualig Siakam would sing over the baby. She would sing over it with the white feathers of goodness which would help guard its spirit from meanness. And she would feed the baby a little of the very fine white meal which would make its body strong.
But sometimes Great Medicine Woman would refuse to sing. Then the people knew there was no hope for the child.
If the people grew angry and tried to makeMualig Siakam sing over such a child, Great Medicine Woman would scold. She would ask them what right they had overTash — the Sun-andJeweth — the Earth-and all ofI'itoi' s gifts. Then she would go into the dark inner room of her house, and thePa-nahl — the bees-would begin to roar with anger.
When that happened, all the people-even Old Limping Man-would go away.
Alvin Miller wasn't used to doing his work in front of a live audience, but that night the lab was jammed with onlookers. The Walkers were there along with Deputy Fellows and both detectives on the case, Leggett and Myers. At the last moment Sheriff Forsythe even showed up, probably summoned by Detective Myers.
"All right," Forsythe said, looking around the room. "What exactly's going on here?"
Brandon Walker looked at the man who had replaced him. "My daughter's missing," he said. "We're afraid she may have been kidnapped."
Forsythe glowered at Detective Myers. "Kidnapped. I thought you said this was a Missing Persons case. And what's all this about bones?"
Miller came across the room and handed the papers over to the sheriff. "This set of prints matches individual prints we took off the collection of bones Deputy Fellows discovered out near the reservation yesterday afternoon as well as items from the break-in at the Walker residence last night that Detective Myers was called to investigate."
Slipping on a pair of reading glasses, Bill Forsythe studied the report. "Quentin Walker," he read aloud. Then he looked up at Brandon. "Your son?"
Brandon nodded. "I want you to call in the FBI," he said.
"The FBI!" Forsythe exclaimed. "For a little domestic thing like this? Not on your life. Chances are your son and daughter were drinking or something, just the way Detective Myers said…"
Brandon turned to Alvin. "Do you still have that tape recorder here?"
Miller nodded. "Yes."
"I want you to play the tape," Brandon said.
"But I haven't finished lifting-"
"Play it," Brandon ordered. "That's the only way they're going to believe what we're up against."
A few seconds later, Lani Walker's voice was playing to all the people crowded into the lab. "Quentin," she was saying. "Quentin, Quentin, Quentin."
"Your daughter?" Forsythe asked.
Brandon Walker nodded. By the time the scream tore through the room, Diana Walker was sobbing quietly into her hands.
"You're right," Sheriff Forsythe said, when Alvin Miller finally switched off the tape player. "It's time to pull out the stops."
Breathing a sigh of relief, Brandon Walker reached out and squeezed Diana's hand.
Quentin Walker had deposited his second load of pottery in the back of the Bronco and was on his way back to the cave for the third and last one when he saw the flashing red lights turn off Highway 86 onto Coleman Road.
Climbing up and down was hard physical labor. His head was far clearer now than it had been when he started out. Even though there was no chance of the people in the police car seeing him, he froze where he was and waited for it to go past. But it didn't. Instead, it slowed and turned left, heading for the charco.
Blind panic descended on Quentin Walker. Someone's found Tommy, he thought. And now the cops are coming for me.
For the space of thirty seconds, he stood paralyzed by fear and indecision. And then, without a thought for the other people in the cave-without even recalling their existence, to say nothing of the third batch of pottery-he turned and ran back down to the Bronco. There was a single car key in his pocket. Sweeping the camouflage cover off the top, Quentin clambered into the vehicle and shoved the key home in the ignition.
Switching on the engine, he gunned it, testing the power, trying to remember exactly how he had come to be here on the mountain. Dimly he remembered driving up here, but it had seemed lighter then. In the dark, he was hard-pressed to remember how to reverse course and get back down.
He began trying to turn the Bronco around. There was little room for maneuvering inside that little clump of mesquite trees, especially when he didn't dare turn on the headlights. Those would certainly attract the attention of the cops with their flashing red lights. Even now, the cop car was headed straight for the charco.
Realizing that's where the cops were heading drove Quentin into a frenzy. The next time he backed up, he high-centered on a boulder he hadn't been able to see in the rearview mirror. Even with four-wheel drive, the Bronco didn't come loose the first two times he tried to go forward. The third time, he really goosed it, slamming the accelerator all the way to the floor, giving the Bronco every bit of power he had.