Dance of the Bones Page 3

  “I stopped by the garage earlier today and talked to Leo about this,” Dan said. “He’s afraid Gabe is a lost cause, and so am I. Leo’s not even sure Gabe will agree to go.”

  “He’ll go,” Lani said determinedly. “I’ll see to it that he does. Not going is not an option.”

  “Then let me go with you,” Dan said, “please. If I ask Mrs. Hendricks, I’m sure she’d be happy to look after Micah and Angie. I promise, I’ll stay in the background and won’t get in the way of whatever you two need to do.”

  Angie was Dan and Lani’s ten-­year-­old adopted daughter. She was a responsible kid, but she was still far too young to be left in charge of her little brother overnight.

  “No,” Lani said firmly, “this is a private transaction between Gabe and me. It has to be just the two of us.”

  Dan was inordinately proud of Lani’s role as a physician on the reservation, but he was somewhat less enthusiastic about her status as a traditional medicine woman. Although they had both been raised and educated off the reservation, Lani was the one who seemed to cling to the old ways and honor them, while Dan was more likely to shrug them off.

  Still, Dan wouldn’t give up. “But why does it have to be now?” he asked. “It’s still cold as hell out there at night, freezing in fact. Couldn’t all this wait until after it warms up a little?”

  “It can’t,” Lani said simply. “The next time we both have the weekend off, it’ll be the middle of May. This has to be done tonight, Dan. Gabe and I will spend the night sharing stories—­I’itoi stories. Tomorrow at midnight it’ll already be the middle of March. After that, it’ll be too late.”

  Dan knew then that he was licked. When it came to storytelling, Lani was a strict observer of all applicable rules and rituals. Among the Desert ­People, stories were traditionally called “winter-­telling tales.” They were to be shared only in the wintertime. That meant they could be told between the middle of November and the middle of March. The rest of the year they were off-­limits.

  “Got it,” Dan said, capitulating at last. “But you will take your Glock, right?”

  In the past several months, at least two Tohono O’odham women driving home alone from shopping trips to Tucson had been forced off Highway 86 at gunpoint by bands of illegal immigrants. One woman had been raped by the men who had jacked her car. The other had been beaten and left for dead. After the second incident, Dan had insisted that Lani obtain a concealed carry permit. He had purchased a Glock for her and made sure she knew how to use it.

  “Even if you’re not worried about smugglers, then have it along in case you run into a snake fresh out of hibernation.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lani said, giving her concerned husband a smile and a mock salute. “Wouldn’t leave home without it. Now, how about helping me drag this stuff out front? Leo and Gabe will be by any minute to pick me up.”

  “You’re sure you don’t need my help carrying gear up the mountain and making your campsite?”

  “Stop worrying,” Lani said. “Leo promised to handle all that.”

  Dan sighed. “All right then,” he said. “Have it your way.” With that, he picked up Lani’s loaded backpack and headed for the front door.

  “DO I HAVE TO GO?” Gabe Ortiz whined. He was lying on the bed, playing with the controls on his Xbox. “Why can’t I just stay here? It’s going to be cold out there. We’ll probably freeze to death up on the mountain.”

  Delia Cachora Ortiz, hands on her sturdy hips, glared at her son. “You won’t freeze, and yes, you have to go. As for why? Because I said so.”

  As tribal chairman, Delia Ortiz wielded a good deal of influence all over the vast Tohono O’odham Nation. Her husband, Leo, was on the tribal council—­a representative from the Sells District. The respect Gabe and Delia were shown outside their home didn’t necessarily carry over into what went on inside. Delia knew she bore most of the responsibility for what had happened. Gabe was an only child. She had coddled him, spoiled him. For a time, that hadn’t mattered, but once he turned twelve, it seemed as though someone had flipped a switch. Up till then, the boy, named in honor of his grandfather, Gabe “Fat Crack” Ortiz, had always been an excellent student and a good kid. Now his grades had fallen through the floor, and he was palling around with a bad bunch of kids.

  Delia and Leo had tried their best to warn Gabe that he was headed for trouble. They had reasoned with him, threatened, and cajoled until they were blue in the face, but nothing they said had the least effect. As a last resort, they had turned to Lani for help, hoping she could somehow work a miracle. The geographical cure she suggested wasn’t at all what Delia and Leo had expected. Packing the boy off to what amounted to a boarding-­school situation in Tucson sounded like a last resort, but it would be better than his ending up in juvie.

  That was what tonight was all about. Lani was determined to take Gabe into the desert and try to convince him to turn his life around. His parents’ other option to help him avoid juvie was to send him to live with Delia’s mother and attend school on the East Coast. Leo had told his wife straight out that he didn’t believe having Lani Walker-­Pardee “shake a few feathers” at the boy would do the least bit of good, but Delia was desperate, and a dose of Lani’s medicine-­woman treatment was their last hope.

  “Put down that game, get off your butt, and pack up,” Delia ordered. “You’ll need a coat, a scarf, and probably some extra pairs of socks.”

  “You expect me to stay out all night in this weather?” Gabe grumbled. “How’s that possible? I don’t even have a sleeping bag.”

  “You won’t need a sleeping bag,” Delia countered. “Your dad got out a ­couple of his father’s wool blankets for you to use.”

  The several colorful and tightly woven Navajo blankets that had once belonged to Fat Crack Ortiz were now among Leo Ortiz’s most prized possessions. The garage and towing company that had once belonged to Fat Crack had been left to both his sons, Leo and Richard. Over time, Leo had bought out Richard’s share of the business. The blankets, though, had been his alone from the beginning, inherited outright. They were kept in a cedar-­lined chest, safe from damage by moths and other insects, and were only brought out on special occasions. Gabe should have been honored that he would be allowed to use them tonight, but he was not.

  “Great,” Gabe sneered. “Those scratchy old things? I’d rather freeze.”

  “Suit yourself then,” his mother told him angrily. “That’s totally up to you.”

  CHAPTER 2

  FOR A LONG TIME AFTER I’itoi, the Spirit of Goodness, who is sometimes called Elder Brother, made everything and set Tash on his path across the sky, the days were warm and bright, and every day was just the same. That was good for making corn—­huhni—­and wheat—­pilkani—­grow and ripen in the fields, but sometimes the nights in the desert were very cold.

  The ­People thought about this and decided that it would be nice to have heat whenever they wanted it. They tried to ask I’itoi about it, but Elder Brother was too busy, so the Tohono O’odham decided they must help themselves. They held a council and decided what to do. This is how Fire—­Tai—­was brought from Tash—­Sun.

  Early one morning, before Tash started his jumps across the sky, Old Woman—­O’oks—­was sent with a burden basket—­gihwo—­to get some of Sun’s heat so the ­people could have some of its warmth. O’oks went very fast, but even so she was far too slow. By the time she reached the East—­Si’al—­where Tash makes his home, Sun was already far into that day’s journey. He was very high in the sky by then and also very hot. When O’oks came home with her burden basket empty, the ­People asked her to go again, but she refused. The Tohono O’odham shrugged and said that O’oks was too old and slow, and so they sent Boy—­Cheoj. When Boy returned, he said that when he was almost there, Tash was so hot that he could not see, and so he, too, had come back empty-­handed.

  The �
�People thought that this was just another excuse, but they decided that they would wait until the end of Sun’s journey, because they wanted the heat for the night. This time they sent Kelimai—­Old Man, an elder. Old Man ran all day to get to the place where Tash stays at night. When he came back the next day, he did not have any heat. He said that at the end of the day Tash jumped into a big hole, and that the Desert ­People would have to send Thah O’odham, the Flying ­People.

  Next the ­People asked Moth. Hu’ul-­nahgi went to the house of Sun, which, as you know, nawoj, my friend, is in the East on the far side of the Earth. Moth told Sun how sorry the Indians were and how much they needed Tash to return so they could grow their seeds and have food to eat.

  By this time Sun was well, and he was no longer so angry. He agreed to return. But Moth was worried. He asked Sun if he could please walk farther away from the earth so it would not be so hot and make everything dry up.

  Sun thought about that and then he agreed. He said that on his first jump in the morning, he would have his niece go with him and kick a ball of red dust to keep the earth from becoming too hot. He said that in the late afternoon, he would have his nephew come along and kick a red ball of dust to make the evenings cooler.

  And that is why, nawoj, my friend, even to this day we have red clouds at sunrise and sunset, because of those red balls of dust.

  BRANDON WALKER HANDED OVER HIS drink ticket and put a buck in the bartender’s tip glass. Then, taking his clear plastic cup of red wine—­Turkey Creek merlot—­he made his way through the University of Arizona bookstore teeming with the noisy chatter of enthusiastic partygoers. He found himself a quiet corner where he could be out of sight while still keeping an eye on the proceedings around him and also on the group of adoring fans clustered around his wife. Fame seemed to follow Diana Ladd wherever she went, and it was easier for Brandon to keep watch from a distance than it was to be constantly elbowed out of the way.

  This cattle-­call gathering in the bookstore on Friday evening marked the opening event for that year’s Tucson Festival of Books. The reception came first, followed immediately by the Authors’ Dinner in one of the student union’s upstairs ballrooms across the breezeway. Since Diana was thought to be one of the local literary luminaries, it was only natural that she would be front and center. Her recent biography of Geronimo, Trail’s End, had turned into a surprise blockbuster. So far it had spent seven weeks on the New York Times nonfiction list, clocking in this week at number eight.

  The critics had raved about it: “Ladd’s lyrical prose transcends the whole idea of scholarly biography and brings a tragic American icon to life on the page.”

  Brandon tended to focus on positive reviews, and those were the ones he bothered remembering. Diana had taught him to mentally deep-­six those that weren’t so kind.

  He realized that part of what had made Geronimo “come to life” on the pages of Diana’s book had to do with the fact that she had spent most of her adult life living among the original settlers of the American Southwest, most particularly among the Tohono O’odham, whose traditional homeland had, since time immemorial, been the vast valley surrounding what was now metropolitan Tucson.

  Brandon understood that Diana’s deft treatment of Geronimo had grown out of the presence of their son-­in-­law, Dan Pardee, in their lives. Dan’s Apache heritage and the able assistance of Dan’s grandfather, Micah Duarte, had given Diana, an Anglo, entrée into the world of Apache oral history and tradition that was accessible to only a select few. Without that, details of Geronimo’s life both before and after his surrender might have been treated as little more than footnotes by a less talented writer.

  Trail’s End, along with Diana’s several other books, accounted for why she was being feted tonight at the Authors’ Dinner and for the remainder of the weekend. Brandon’s role in the festivities was that of escort and backup. Even though he was halfway across the room, he sipped his wine and kept her in view through the crush of ­people milling around her.

  Brandon knew what to watch for—­the fans who stayed too long or who monopolized her time and attention, the ­people who took it upon themselves to lay a hand on her in a more personal way than a simple handshake or greeting. And if someone became too pushy and Brandon happened to miss the warning signs, Diana could always summon him from across the room by using their secret hand signal. A simple touch to her right earlobe would alert him to the fact that one of her fans was being troublesome and needed to be encouraged to go elsewhere.

  “Hey, there,” someone said from the far side of one of the movable book shelves behind which Brandon had taken shelter. “How’s Mr. Diana Ladd this fine evening?”

  Looking around, Brandon was dismayed to see Oliver Glassman making a beeline in his direction. Ollie Glassman was exactly the kind of person Brandon had hoped to avoid. He was a smarmy jerk who had started out as a lowly public defender before becoming the heir apparent in his father’s legal defense firm. Managing to manipulate a somewhat thin résumé as a springboard into politics, Glassman had served several terms on the Pima County Board of Supervisors, was currently a member of the state senate, and was rumored to be thinking about running for Congress.

  “Matty told me you and Diana would be here tonight. I believe you two are seated at our table. Matty’s part of the committee that organizes the dinner, you know,” Ollie added.

  That last bit of info was entirely unnecessary. Brandon Walker was well aware that Ollie’s wife, Matilda Glassman, was one of the movers and shakers behind Tucson’s burgeoning book festival. Diana had told him as much, and although Diana tolerated Matilda, she liked the woman almost as much as Brandon liked Ollie. If Diana had known the seating arrangements in advance, she hadn’t mentioned them to Brandon. Perhaps she had neglected to do so out of concern that he’d be a no-­show. On the other hand, it was possible that she would be as surprised and dismayed as he was.

  Ollie took a long pull on his wine, draining half the glass in a single gulp. “What are you doing hanging around in the kiddy-­lit section?” he asked. “Thinking about doing some writing yourself?”

  In the years Diana Ladd and Brandon Walker had been married, Brandon had done plenty of duty as Diana’s escort at book festivals and writers’ conferences all over the country. He knew the drill. He also understood some of the pitfalls of being “Mr. Diana Ladd.” He had long ago lost count of the ­people who would look at him agog and ask, “What’s it like being married to a famous person?” Another of his least favorite inquiries was a clueless “Oh, are you a writer, too?”

  Ollie’s inept question was a variation on the latter. Brandon’s standard reply was usually: “Diana writes the books; I write the checks.” This time, however, an imp took control of his response mechanism.

  “Yes,” Brandon answered. “I’ve even got a working title: So You Want to Be a Sheriff When You Grow Up? It’s a how-­to book for kids who are seven or eight, and it’s due to be published by a company that specializes in career guidance for grade schoolers.”

  Ollie frowned and examined the small amount of wine remaining in his glass. “Sounds like a great idea. Do you think they’d want me to do one, too—­about wanting to be a defense attorney?”

  It took some effort for Brandon to keep from cracking a smile. “I’m having an editorial meeting with my publisher next week,” he replied. “I’ll ask her what she thinks.”

  The lights blinked overhead, signaling that it was time to head for the ballroom. Catching Matty’s eye, Ollie raised his empty glass. With a reproving look, his wife turned her back and returned to the bar.

  “I don’t know why they have to be so stingy with the wine at these affairs,” Ollie muttered. “You pay a fortune to attend, and all they give you is a single drink ticket. What’s up with that? But I did want to have a word in private,” he continued. “I guess you heard about Big Bad John.”

  “Big Bad John L
assiter?” Brandon asked. “I haven’t heard a word from or about him since the last judge locked him up and threw away the key. That’s a long time ago now. What’s going on?”

  Matilda delivered Ollie’s wine. “We’re going in soon,” she said with a scowl. “Don’t be late.”

  Ollie sighed and shook his head as she stalked away. “The old girl’s got her panties in a twist tonight,” he observed, downing another gulp of wine. It was evident that sipping the stuff wasn’t part of the man’s repertoire. “I don’t know why she insists on being involved in crap like this when it obviously drives her nuts.”

  Brandon suspected that wrangling the complexities of the book festival wasn’t nearly as much of a problem for Matilda Glassman as wrangling Oliver.

  “What about Lassiter?” Brandon reminded him.

  “Oh, yes, that’s what I need to talk to you about,” Ollie answered, “the part about throwing away the key. Have you ever heard of a group of do-­gooders called Justice for All?”

  Brandon knew a little about the organization. It was composed of ­people steadfastly devoted to freeing ­people they felt had been unjustly locked up by the criminal justice system. They utilized modern forensics, including DNA profiling, to win releases for those they believed had been wrongly accused and convicted. Brandon understood there were instances in which innocent folks had been locked up for decades. The problem was, there were also times when the JFA folks’ definition of “all” often didn’t seem to take the victims of the crimes—­either the homicide victims themselves or their grieving loved ones—­into account.

  After decades of police work, Brandon’s feet remained firmly planted on the victims’ side of the fence. In retirement, he had signed on with The Last Chance. TLC consisted of a group of retired cops, criminalists, medical examiners, and district attorneys who devoted their time and energy to solving stone-­cold homicides—­the ones law enforcement had long since abandoned as hopeless. Like JFA, TLC also used modern forensics and technology to bring to account any number of bad guys who thought they’d gotten away with murder.