by J. A. Jance
So Jackrabbit ran. He went in such a hurry that he took longer and longer jumps. As he jumped longer and longer, his legs grew longer and longer. That is why, my friend, even to this day, Jackrabbit’s legs are so much longer than the legs of his brother rabbit, Tohbi—the Cottontail.
Lani awakened in the dark. She was hot. Salt, leached from her sweat-stained shirt, had seeped into the raw wound on her breast. The smoldering pain from that was what had wakened her, and it seemed to expand with every breath, filling her eyes with tears. Her whole body was stiff. Her back ached from lying on what seemed to be uneven grooves in the floor beneath her.
While she had been asleep, she had been dreaming again, dreaming about Nana Dahd. In the dream Lani had been a child again. She and Rita had been walking together somewhere, walking and talking, although that was impossible. By the time Lani first knew Rita Antone, Nana Dahd was already confined to a wheelchair.
Lani emerged from Rita’s comforting presence in the dream, and she longed to return there, but this time when she wakened, she didn’t seem to emerge gradually. There was no lingering fog of confusion the way there had been before. She knew at once that she was a prisoner and that she had been drugged. Perhaps the man named Vega had given her a much smaller dose this time, or perhaps some of the effect had been evacuated out of her system—sweated out of her pores by the perspiration that soaked her clothing.
Lani felt around her, trying to assess the hot, dark cage in which she was imprisoned—a huge wooden crate from the feel of it. Her searching fingers reached out and touched sturdy walls a foot or so on either side of her. They refused to give or even so much as creak when she tried pushing against them. Then she pounded on the wood until her knuckles bled, but if anyone heard, no one came to her aid.
The darkness around her at first seemed absolute, but at last she noticed rays of yellow light penetrating the darkness. The light, as if from street lights, told her that it was still night. She was near a road. She could hear the muffled roar of traffic—the sounds of heavy trucks, anyway. Periodically the box shook with what had to be the earth-shaking rumble of a nearby passing train.
For a while Lani tried yelling for help, but the heavy wooden box swallowed the sound, locking the noise inside with her. Her shouting, like the pounding that had preceded it, brought no help. No one would come, she realized at last. Rescue, if it came at all, would have to come from inside, from Lani herself. Otherwise, she would simply lie in this overheated box until the heat got to her or until she died of thirst or starvation.
As she had done countless times in the past, she reached up to her throat to touch her kushpo ho’oma—her hair charm—only to discover it was missing. At first, when her fingertips touched only the naked gold chain, she thought she had lost the medallion and she was bereft. Seconds later, though, she remembered taking it off and putting it in her pocket—hiding it there in hopes of keeping it out of the hands of the evil man who had hurt her so badly.
It was still there in her pocket, exactly where she had hidden it. That reassured her. At least Vega hadn’t stripped off her clothes again, hadn’t discovered where she had hidden the charm, so perhaps, this time, he had left her alone.
She had no idea how long she had been asleep. From that moment early in the morning—some morning—when she sat down on the rock for him to begin sketching her until now could have been one day or several, for all she knew. For one thing, she had been out of it long enough for him to draw that second picture. Just thinking about that—about lying there naked in front of him all that time, for what must have been hours—made her wince with shame. And if Lani didn’t remember any of that, there might be other things the man had done to her that she didn’t remember, either.
She lay very still and tried to sense the condition of her body. Other than the damaged breast and what felt like a series of splinters in her back, she seemed to be intact. If he had raped her, she would feel it, wouldn’t she? There was a sudden feeling of relief that deserted her a moment later. Of course he hadn’t raped her. Not yet. That was why she was still here. That was what awaited her once he came back—that and more.
In that moment, Lani saw it all with appalling clarity. Of course Vega would return for her. He had no intention of her staying in the box forever until she died of heat prostration or thirst or starvation. He had locked her in the crate for a reason—so she would be available to him, helpless and waiting, when it was time for whatever came next.
Sooner or later, Vega would come back for her. Closing her eyes in the darkness, she saw him again, with an almost gleeful smile on his face, standing over her with the overheated tongs in his hand. Vega was a man who enjoyed inflicting pain. When he came back, Lani knew full well that he would hurt her again.
Had she been standing upright, that awful realization might have tumbled her to the ground. As a child Lani had heard the stories of Ohbsgam Ho’ok—Apachelike Monster—who lived around Rattlesnake Skull and who carried young girls away with him, never to be seen again. Vega was like Ohbsgam Ho’ok. They were different only in that Vega was real. He was a bully—strong and mean and powerful. Lani was alone and helpless.
“The best thing to do with a bully is to ignore him,” Davy had told Lani once. After yet another run-in with Danny Jenkins at school, she had turned to her older brother for advice.
“Those guys thrive on attention,” Davy had continued. “That’s usually all they want. If you treat ’em like they don’t exist, eventually they melt into the woodwork. The only way to get the best of them is to try to understand them, to figure out what their weaknesses are. Then, the next time they come after you, you’ll know what to do.”
Following Davy’s suggestions, Lani had made a show of ignoring Danny Jenkins all the while she studied him. It didn’t take long for her to realize that he was desperately afraid of not being accepted, of not fitting in. Bullying was his sole defense, his weapon against being bullied himself. Once Lani understood all that, she had been able to use that knowledge to turn Danny Jenkins into a friend.
But how could she understand someone like Mr. Vega? And did she want to? How was it possible to comprehend a person who was capable of such cruelty? Trying to find a more comfortable position for her aching back, she settled herself on the rough floor and pulled the cloth of the shirt away from the singed skin of her breast. Then she closed her eyes and tried to think.
Just like Danny Jenkins, Vega thrived on power and on other people’s pain. He had hurt her, yes, and he would do so again, but hurting her wasn’t the real point, or, at least, not the only one. She sensed that what he had done and would do to her constituted a means to an end rather than an end in itself. His real purpose was to hurt her parents. She didn’t understand the why of that, but she knew it to be true. Vega wasn’t Andrew Carlisle, but there was some connection, some bond between them. Vega was fueled by the same kind of rage and lust for revenge that had caused the evil Ohb to invade the house in Gates Pass long before Lani was born.
So that was most of what she knew. Vega was angry and cruel and hot-tempered. Bagwwul—one easily angered. That word, which Rita had taught her, seemed to come to Lani through the coils of the basket pressed tightly in the palm of her hand. She remembered Vega’s fierce anger when she had slapped away the cup he was holding out to her; how he had yanked her hair back as he forced her to drink the second one.
Anger was one of Vega’s weak spots. He demanded obedience but had to enforce that obedience with either drugs or some other form of restraints. That meant he was also chu ehbiththam—a coward. Only cowards attacked their enemies when they were helpless and unable to fight back. His outrageous physical assault on Lani had been staged when she was tied hand and foot, when she could do nothing to defend herself.
Obedience. Lani’s thoughts strayed back to that word and stayed there. And once again, out of the past or out of the basket, Lani heard Rita’s voice, singing to her:
“Listen to what I sing to you,
> Little Olhoni. Listen to what I sing.
Be careful not to look at me
But do exactly as I say.”
Do exactly as I say.
Lani hadn’t even been born on the day of the battle with the evil Ohb, but she heard the words to that life-saving war chant as clearly as if she herself had been locked in the long-ago darkness of that root cellar along with Rita and Davy and Father John.
Perhaps the two darknesses—the one in the root cellar and the one here inside Vega’s stifling wooden crate—were exactly the same thing.
“That dollhouse looks just like my dad’s,” Quentin said, taking a confused look around as they pulled up the long curving driveway of the Gates Pass house. “What are we doing here?”
“Dropping off your sister’s bicycle,” Mitch told him.
Lani Walker’s knapsack had yielded a garage-door opener and a door key as well. “Take a look in that paper bag over there,” he said. “The gate-opener-door and house key are both inside. Get ’em out, would you?”
Quentin seemed dazed and stupefied. His fumbling movements were maddeningly slow, but he did as he was told. “How’d you get these?” he asked, holding up both the key and the opener once he had finally succeeded in retrieving them.
“I already told you. Lani gave them to me so we could bring the bike back,” Mitch answered. “What did you think, that I stole them? And don’t just sit there holding the damn thing. Press the button, would you?”
Obligingly, Quentin pressed the button, and the wrought-iron electronic gate swung open. Quentin started to hand the opener over to Mitch. “Keep it,” Mitch told him. “We’ll need it again on the way out. Now drag the bike out of the back. Where does it go, do you know?”
Quentin shrugged. “Right here in the carport, as far as I know.”
By the time Quentin finally managed to unlock the back door, Mitch Johnson was fairly dancing with anticipation—like a little kid who has waited too long to go to the bathroom. After watching the house for weeks, Mitch Johnson was ready to be inside. He had always planned on invading Brandon’s home turf as part of the operation. As the door finally opened, Mitch felt almost giddy. All those years he had been moldering in prison, Brandon Walker had been living here in what he believed to be a safe haven. Well, it wasn’t safe anymore.
Carrying the bag with its few remaining goodies, it didn’t take long to distribute them. Mitch directed Quentin to leave the tongs in the kitchen sink and the cassette tape under his stepmother’s pillow.
Quentin seemed puzzled. He held the tape up to the light and examined it. “What’s this for?” he asked.
“It’s just a little something Lani wants your dad and step-mom to have. It’s their anniversary pretty soon, isn’t it?”
“I guess so,” Quentin agreed. “So how do you know Lani?”
“We met at her job,” Mitch said. “At the museum.”
Mitch couldn’t help being a little in awe of Quentin’s capacity. Based on how much booze he had probably drunk, that little bit of scopolamine should have laid the guy low. As it was, Quentin Walker’s mental faculties were noticeably dim, but he was still walking and talking.
“Why are we doing all this?” Quentin asked, leaning up against the doorway to steady himself. “And why’s it so hot?”
“I already told you,” Mitch said. “It’s a favor for your sister.”
“Oh,” said Quentin.
The last room they entered was Brandon Walker’s study. Quentin had told Mitch that was where Brandon Walker kept his guns, and that was what they went looking for—Brandon’s gun cabinet. While Quentin pawed through the top desk drawer, searching for the key to the locked cabinet, Mitch Johnson surveyed the room. He was fine until he saw the framed plaque hanging on the wall along with any number of other awards.
The 1976 Detective of the Year award had been presented to Detective Brandon Walker by Parade Magazine as a result of his having solved a homicide case, one in which two men were murdered and another was severely injured.
The plaque on the wall didn’t say that, didn’t reveal all those details. It didn’t have to. Mitch knew them by heart. This was the award—the recognition—that had come to Brandon Walker for arresting Mitch Johnson himself. For arresting a man who was engaged in the wholly honorable pursuit of protecting God and country from the invading hordes. Those wetbacks had been illegal trespassers on U.S. soil, intent on taking jobs away from real Americans who were out of work. Mitch was the one who should have been given a medal for getting rid of that kind of scum—a medal, not a jail sentence.
The rage that hit Mitch Johnson on seeing that framed award went far beyond anything he had ever imagined. Years of pent-up frustration boiled over when he saw it. That was the worst part of the whole operation, the moment of his greatest temptation.
Years ago, in similar circumstances, Andy had simply fallen victim to Diana’s body, losing his focus and purpose both, in satisfying his biological cravings. By resisting the pull of Lani’s tight little body, by not tearing into her when it would have been so easy, Mitch Johnson had already proved to himself that he was a better man than his mentor. Seeing that plaque sitting smugly on the wall was far worse for Mitch than merely wanting to be inside some stupid woman’s hot little twat.
What Mitch wanted to do in that moment was take a gun—any gun would do, but preferably an automatic—and mow through every picture in the place. It would have been easy. Even as the thought crossed his mind, Quentin Walker was in the process of handing Mitch a Colt .357 that would have blasted the whole room to pieces. And brought cops raining down on them from miles away.
Taking a deep, calming breath, Mitch caught himself just in time. He dropped the weapon into his pocket. “What’s all this shit?” he said, gesturing.
“What?” Quentin asked. “The stuff on the wall?”
Mitch nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
“Dad used to call it his Wall of Honor.”
“Knock it down,” Mitch said. “Knock that crap down and break it.”
“All of it?” Quentin asked, staring from frame to frame.
“Why not?” Mitch told him. “Your father never did anything for you, did he?”
“No, he didn’t,” Quentin agreed, reaching for the first piece, a framed diploma from the University of Arizona. “Why the hell shouldn’t I?”
Raising the diploma over his head, Quentin smashed it to pieces in a spray of glass in the middle of the floor. While Quentin worked his way down the wall, Mitch took the Detective of the Year Award off the wall. He studied it for a moment with his fingers itching to do the job, but that wouldn’t have worked. Quentin’s prints wouldn’t have been on the frame.
“Do this one next,” Mitch said, handing it over. Even as he watched the piece smash to pieces on the tiled floor, he gave himself full credit and gloated over the victory. His was the triumph of rational thought over base emotions.
Had Quentin Walker’s mental faculties been a little less impaired, he might have noticed that from the moment they climbed inside his newly purchased Bronco, Mitch Johnson had been wearing latex gloves. Quentin wasn’t.
He didn’t notice; didn’t even question it. To Mitch’s way of thinking, that made all the difference.
Do exactly as I say, Lani was thinking.
As the phrase spun through her mind, she suddenly realized that the words to Nana Dahd’s war chant, the ones she had sung to Davy so long ago in order to save his life, were also important to Lani—to save her life as well.
She remembered Mr. Vega’s instant fury the moment she had disobeyed him. Obviously whatever drug he had given her—both earlier on the mountain and later at his house—was something that produced compliance, that made her do whatever he said. If Lani was going to save herself—and it was unlikely anyone else would—then she had to make sure that he didn’t give her any more of it. She would have to watch for a chance to get away. If the opportunity presented itself, she would be able to tak
e advantage of it only so long as she remained clear-headed.
That was the moment when she heard the tailgate of the Subaru swing open. A moment later she heard someone fiddling with the outside of the crate, as though they were opening a padlock hasp. Lani had been lying with the tiny people-hair medallion clutched in her hand, gleaning as much comfort as she could from the tightly woven coils. Now, though, before Vega opened the door on the crate, she stuffed the tiny basket back into the pocket of her jeans. Then she forced herself to lie still, closing her eyes and slowing her breathing. By the time the door swung open, Lani Walker appeared to be sound asleep.
“Come on, sweetheart, rise and shine,” Vega said, grabbing her by the ankle and dragging her once again across the rough, splintery floor of the crate. “Wake up. We’re going for another little ride.”
Yanked upright, Lani found herself standing between the Subaru and an idling sport utility vehicle, an old Bronco. A sleeping man was slumped against the rider’s side door. “Come on around to the other side,” Vega ordered. “Can you walk on your own, or am I going to have to carry you?”
Lani, planning on acting dazed, didn’t have to fake stumbling. Her legs felt rubbery beneath her—rubbery and strangely disconnected from her brain and will. When she staggered and almost fell, Vega grabbed her hair, hard, and held her up with that. The pull was vicious enough that tears came to her eyes, but it also helped clear her head. In a moment of quiet, she heard a readily identifiable squeak and realized that the fist knotted in her hair was encased in a rubber glove.
Desperate to get away, she looked around. They were standing in one corner of a large gravel parking lot. There were no other people visible anywhere. The only other vehicles were parked next to the darkened hulk of a building half a block away—too far to try running there for help.
After a moment, Vega slammed shut the tailgate of the Subaru, twisting the key to lock it once more. Lani considered screaming, but just as they started around the back of the Bronco, with Lani’s hair still knotted painfully in Vega’s gloved fist, another train rumbled past on the track that bordered the edge of the lot. With all that noise, there was no point in attempting to scream for help, not even out in the open. Over the racket of the train, no one would have heard her anyway.