By the time he realized it was too late for them all, Sunny Joe had kicked out the virologist flown in from New York and turned away the Arizona State epidemiologist, saying, "This is Sun On Jo land. Sun On Jo laws apply here, not yours."
"I know that," said the state epidemiologist through his particle-filter mask. "But state law requires the reservation be quarantined. No one in and no one out." And he solemnly handed over a big red sign.
Sunny Joe had nailed it to the corral fence on the spot.
Walking his horse back after posting the sign, Sunny Joe met Tomi on the dusty road.
"We're all gonna die, aren't we, Sunny Joe?"
"You knew that from the time you were a pup, Tomi."
"No, I mean we're all gonna die soon. And together."
"Would you rather die alone?"
"I'd rather not die at all." Tomi spit into the dust. "Think it's the deer mice, like the paleface medicos say?"
"Does it matter?"
"I'd like to know what killed me, yeah."
"The specialist says it's the mice. The rains made 'em multiply. They carry the virus in their bodies and in their droppings and their urine. He says we make a mistake when we abandon the hogans of those who die. The mice get in and make it their home, and when the mourning period is over, we catch it when we clean out the mice. The more who die, the more will die if we stick to our ways, he said."
"White people been trying to get us to mend our ways as long as I can remember, Sunny Joe."
"Well, even if we all turned apple now, it'd be too damn late. There's no cure. Not for this kind of hantavirus."
"That what he called it?"
"Yeah. He said the healthy had only one hope. That was to clear out. Get as clear off the reservation as possible. Desert mice are too plentiful. No way to find and trap them all so they can't spread the Sun On Jo Disease."
"You should go, Sunny Joe."
"Can't. I'm the last Sunny Joe. The tribe depends on me. How could I turn my back on my people now?"
"But you're a big man in the white world. You got money, position, fame. We're just Indians. The world will spin just fine without us."
Sunny Joe spit into the dust, killing a tiny pinacate beetle.
"I'm just as Sun On Jo as you, Tomi. Don't you ever breathe different. I said I come home to save my people or to die with them. Now I'm doing it. One or the other, I'm doing it."
Sunny Joe stared off toward Red Ghost Butte. His rugged face was thoughtful.
"It's the end of the Sun On Jos, ain't it, Sunny Joe?" said Tomi.
Bill Roam nodded. "Hell, we been dying a damn long time. Not enough children been born, and too few of 'em female. When the last Sun On Jo squaw passed through the change of life, that was it. I thought I could bring some fresh blood in and keep us going a generation or two longer, but I was a fool. It was all pipe smoke. Without another Sunny Joe to take my place, there is no future."
"What about the prophesy?"
"Which prophesy is that?"
"The one that says Ko Jong Oh will send one of his spirit warriors to help out the tribe when it is most in need."
"Yeah. Forgot about that."
"Well?"
Sunny Joe blew out a long, sad breath. "I think if old Ko Jong Oh was going to do it, old Ko Jong Oh would have done it by now. Don't you, Tomi?"
"Yeah. Guess it was just happy firewater talk."
"Maybe."
Abruptly Sunny Joe put his booted foot into a stirrup and mounted his big chestnut horse. He forked it toward the west.
"Where you going?" Tomi called after him.
"To Red Ghost Butte."
"Nothing up there but the ancient ones."
"That's where Ko Jong Oh dwells. I'm going to talk to him. Maybe he's plumb forgot about his spirit warrior. Maybe it's not too late. Maybe he'll be along directly."
"Good luck, Sunny Joe."
"Hah, Sanshin! Ride!"
And the horse disappeared in a cloud of desert dust that hung in the hot still air like the red breath of death. As soon as he inhaled it, Tomi began coughing. The trouble was, he just couldn't quite stop.
Chapter 18
Remo kept glancing in the rearview mirror as he piloted the rental car from Will Rogers International Airport. He was not followed. He was sure of it-not that there was any way the Master of Sinanju could have followed him all the way from Honolulu.
But Remo wasn't taking any chances.
Our Lady of Perpetual Care Home for the Infirm was a rambling, nun-black Victorian building ten years in need of paint, with the sign hanging on rusty chains on the lawn. Remo walked up to the dark front door not knowing what to feel. Would Sister Mary remember him? Would she still be alive?
He rang the bell and waited, focusing on his breathing. His stomach tightened in a way it used to when he was a boy and the world was a frightening place.
The door opened and a middle-aged nun peered out.
"I'm looking for Sister Novella."
The nun regarded him owlishly. "And what is your business?"
"My name is Remo. Williams," he added. The taste of the last name he no longer used was strange on his tongue. "I grew up in the orphanage where Sister Mary Margaret taught a long time ago."
"I see. Well, in that case I am Sister Novella. Come in, Mr. Williams."
Remo stepped in, and the smell of the place hit him with a shock. It was a mixture of antiseptics, candle wax and must. It smelled a little like Folcroft's main patient-care wing but not as clean. The mustiness was winning.
He followed Sister Novella to a genteel sitting room with an old-fashioned tin ceiling. Her black habit swayed as she walked, her hands tucked absently into unseen pockets. Seen from behind, her head encased in a starched wimple, she might have been Sister Mary herself.
"How did you find us, Mr. Williams?" Sister Novella asked after they had taken seats.
Remo leaned forward in his chair. "I knew Conrad MacCleary."
"And how is he?"
"Dead."
"Oh, I am sorry to hear that. Of course, I didn't know him personally. Mr. MacCleary arranged for Sister Mary to join us. It was after the fire, you know. She wasn't young, and when the orphanage-oh, what was its name?"
"St. Theresa's."
"Yes. St. Theresa's. Thank you. When St. Theresa's burned, it seemed to take the heart out of the poor dear. She had no more appetite for teaching. So she came here. First she tended to the sick and, as time passed, she duly became one of them. Mr. MacCleary seemed to take a special interest in her and asked to be informed in the event of her passing."
"Sister Mary. Is she ... ?"
"Still with us? Yes. But she was given the last rites one week ago."
"I'd like to see her as soon as possible."
"I must warn you, Mr. Williams, she may not know you."
Remo's face seemed to fragment. His shoulders dropped.
"Oh, it's not that," Sister Novella said quickly. "Her hearing is very poor, and she suffers from low vision. Cataracts, you know. You must not expect too much from her."
"I understand."
"Come this way."
They walked down a corridor and into a floral-papered wing of the rambling old house that suddenly revealed the place for what it really was-a nursing home. Old women were visible through half-open doors, lying in beds or propped up in recliners, staring vacantly at televisions with eyes connected to brains that seemed not to quite comprehend the world around them.
Remo suddenly felt a lump rising in his throat. A wave of overpowering sadness flooded through his body. He took a deep breath, charging the mitochondria of his body with reviving oxygen, drawing upon reserves of strength he knew he'd need to come face-to-face with his past.
They came to a paneled door at the far end of a musty corridor. The predominant smell in the air was candle wax.