by J. A. Jance
The phone blared, startling him so that he almost dropped the child. He held the knife to Davy’s throat. “Answer it,” he growled at the old woman. “Try anything funny and the boy dies.”
Clumsily, Rita heaved herself off the couch and hobbled over to the phone. Carlisle nodded with satisfaction at her curt answers. As far as he could tell, she made no attempt to pass along any secret messages.
“Who was it?” he asked when she put the phone back in the cradle. “Diana Ladd?” The old woman nodded. “What did she say?”
“She’ll be back soon.”
“Good,” he said. “We’ll be waiting, won’t we? Pull the cord out of the wall.”
The old woman hesitated as though she didn’t understand him. He brandished the knife over the now fully awake boy. Seeing the knife, the boy regarded him through terrified eyes, but he made no effort to fight.
“I said pull it out,” Carlisle repeated. “No more phone calls.” Rita yanked the phone cord from its receptacle, and Carlisle smiled. “Good. Now, back on the couch.” He almost laughed aloud at the way the old woman jumped to do his bidding. He was enjoying having them all by the short hairs.
Carlisle knew firsthand how abject submission works. If he had learned nothing else, his tormentors in Florence had taught him that lesson well. He had seen how, in order to avoid pain, victims can become so eager to please that they transform themselves into willing participants in their own destruction. The old woman’s reaction was a textbook case. Diana Ladd’s would be as well.
With the younger woman, though, he would have to be careful. Pacing would be everything. He would have to restrain himself in the beginning and not go too far. The kind of dehumanizing submission he wanted from her would take time and effort and a certain amount of finesse.
There were those in the prison community who took the position that raping a rapist qualified as poetic justice and maybe even as a kind of aversion therapy. Well, Andrew Carlisle was here to tell those jokers mat it hadn’t worked out that way for him. Physical violation hadn’t “cured” him at all. Instead, it had only added fuel to his Diana Ladd bloodlust, given him something else to blame her for. He’d spent years planning every move of his campaign against her. He wouldn’t settle for anything less than total capitulation. He looked forward to having Diana Ladd crawling naked on the floor before him. He wanted to see her on her hands and knees, subject to his every whim. He wanted the pleasure of hearing the bitch beg.
Carlisle sat the boy down on one end of the couch and ordered him to stay still while he tied up the old woman. Busy with the twine, Carlisle found he was having difficulty concentrating. His whole body pulsed with eagerness for the coming confrontation. What would happen in those first crucial minutes? he wondered. Would she fight or give in at once? Would the very sight of him strike terror in her heart? Would she guess what was in store for her? He didn’t think so. The others hadn’t, why should she?
For the first time, Carlisle considered whether or not she’d bring the priest back with her. He hoped not. Carlisle was not a religious man, nor was he terribly superstitious, but the idea of killing a priest lacked appeal. Not only that, he was reluctant to expend his energies on any side issue that might dull his appetite for the main course.
“What are you going to do?” the old woman asked, intruding rudely into his thoughts. He didn’t answer immediately. Finished tying her one good hand to the cumbersome cast, he went to work binding her swollen ankles together, hobbling her like a horse with the short lengths of twine he had cut up and brought along for that express purpose. Advance planning was everything.
“Whatever I want,” he replied nonchalantly. “I’m going to do whatever I want.”
Diana was about to call home again when Dr. Johnston returned to the waiting room. It was almost seven, a whole hour after the veterinarian’s office had been scheduled to close.
“I think we’re over the hump now,” Dr. Johnston said. “He’s been one sick puppy, but I believe he’s going to be okay. Plenty of rest, plenty of liquids. Tell Davy not to overtax him for the next few days. He’s probably through the worst of it, but we’d better cover your car seat with some old blankets, just in case.”
Dr. Johnston’s assistant, a burly teenager named Scott, carried the ailing dog back out to Father John’s car and laid him gently on a layer of hastily assembled blankets. With a huge sigh, the dog put his chin on his front paws and closed his eyes.
“Call me in the morning,” Dr. Johnston said, “and let me know how he’s doing.”
Diana replied with a grateful nod. “I’ll call first thing.”
“That was weird,” Scott said as Father John’s Buick pulled out of the office parking lot.
“What’s weird?” Dr. Johnston asked.
“How come that lady was wearing a gun?”
“A gun? Was she really?” Dr. Johnston sounded startled. “I was so concerned about the dog that I never even noticed.”
The old woman sat silently at one end of the couch. Carlisle ordered Davy to the opposite end, where he began tying the boy up as well. He wanted his prisoners relatively immobile but easily transportable when necessary, because Carlisle had no intention of playing out his whole game in Diana Ladd’s house.
It was fine for the first major skirmish to take place here. Invading Diana’s private territory and bloodying her there was an essential part of his psychological warfare against her. But after mat, after he’d humiliated her and established a pattern of absolute control, then he would take his prisoners to the cave, to Gary Ladd’s own special cave, for dessert.
Carlisle theorized mat the isolated cave by what had once been Rattlesnake Skull Village was eminently suited to his purposes. No one, not even that wise-ass young detective, had ever figured out that the cave, not the charco, had been the actual scene of Gina Antone’s last moments on this earth.
During the pretrial proceedings, Carlisle had made absolutely sure that no one knew of the existence of Gary Ladd’s manuscript with its whining references to the cave. Once he left three more bodies there to rot, he would have all the more reason to see that Gary Ladd’s crude manuscript disappeared off the face of the earth. Too bad Myrna Louise hadn’t thrown that in the burning barrel instead of Savage. She would have been doing something useful for a change.
He thought longingly about the cool, dark cave, about how the timeless limestone walls would swallow up whatever agonized sounds his particular brand of pleasure might wring from his captives. In that dusky cave, with the added luxury of total isolation, no one would interrupt him or interfere with the process. There, once and for all…
Carlisle had tried explaining that same thing to Gary Ladd years before, the morning after their little debacle, but the man had been hysterical when he learned the girl was dead, astounded that things had got so far out of hand while he slept.
Even then, things would have been fine if Ladd hadn’t lost his nerve and gone back later to move the body so she could have a proper burial. The fool dumped her in a water hole, for God’s sake, thinking people would be stupid enough to believe she had drowned. With the rope burns around her neck and her nipple bitten off? What the hell kind of dumb-ass idea was that? And then, a week later, if Carlisle hadn’t stopped him, Ladd would have gone to town and confessed for both of them, taking his tell-tale manuscript with him. Thanks a lot, buddy, but no thanks.
Carlisle shivered at the tantalizing memory, letting his imagination travel back to the cave, remembering that long-ago desert night and the girl. Despite her objections, he had coaxed her into that huge and immensely silent place. He had started a small fire—for light he had told her—but light wasn’t all the fire was for, not at all. He had other plans for those burning twigs and coals.
To begin with, she had liked being tied up, giggling drunkenly as he bound her, thinking it nothing but some kind of kinky game. Gradually, as she learned the terrible truth, her tipsy laughter changed, first to fear and then to terror and dre
ad as the tenor of the night changed around her. Carlisle hadn’t much liked her screaming when it finally came to that. Screaming showed a certain lack of delicacy and finesse on his part. He much preferred the small, animal-like whimpers of pain and the begging. God, how her begging had excited him! Even though it was in a language he didn’t speak, he had understood her well enough. He hadn’t stopped when she asked him to, of course, but he had understood.
And all the while that jackass of a Gary Ladd was dead drunk in the pickup. When he did wake up finally, after the fun and games were all over, Carlisle managed to convince Gary that he, too, had been an active participant in all that had gone before, that being too drunk to remember was no excuse.
“But she’s dead,” Ladd had protested, as though he couldn’t quite believe it. Of course she was dead. Carlisle had always intended that she would be, that was the whole idea, wasn’t it? But Gary Ladd was far too cowardly to value or take advantage of what he was learning, and he hadn’t been smart enough to keep his mouth shut, either.
Carlisle shook himself out of what was almost a stupor and found he was sitting on the floor in front of Diana Ladd’s couch. Both the boy and the old woman were tied up, although he didn’t remember finishing the job. They were both watching him with strange expressions on their faces. Had he blacked out for a moment or what?
These episodes were beginning to bother him. It had happened several times of late, and it scared the shit out of him. Was he losing his mind? He’d come back to himself feeling as though he’d been asleep when he knew he hadn’t been. Sometimes only seconds would have passed, sometimes whole minutes.
He inspected the knots. They were properly tied, but he had no recollection of doing it. Somehow it seemed as though his body and his mind functioned independently. He’d have to watch that It could be dangerous, especially in enemy territory.
“Who are you?” the boy demanded.
Carlisle looked hard at the child, recognizing some of Gary Ladd’s features, but the boy had a certain toughness that had been totally lacking in his father.
“Well, son,” Carlisle said in a kind tone that belied his words, “you can just think of me as retribution personified, a walking, talking Eye-for-an-Eye.”
Davy Ladd frowned at the unfamiliar words, but he didn’t back off. “What does that mean?”
Andrew Carlisle laughed, giving the boy credit for raw nerve. “It means that the sins of the fathers are visited on the sons, just like the Good Book says. It also means that if you don’t do every single goddamned thing I say, then I use my trusty knife, and you and your mother and this old lady here are all dead meat Do you understand that?”
Davy nodded.
The room was quiet for a moment when suddenly, sitting there, looking him directly in the eye, the old lady began what sounded like a mournful, almost whispered chant in a language Carlisle didn’t recognize. He glowered at her. “Shut up!” he ordered.
She stopped. “I’m praying,” she said, speaking calmly. “I’m asking I’itoi to help us.”
That made him laugh, even though he didn’t like the way she looked at him. “You go right ahead, then. If you think some kind of Indian mumbo-jumbo is going to fix all this, then be my guest. But I wouldn’t count on it, old woman. Not at all.”
“Why did you do it?” she asked.
“Do what?”
“Why did you kill my granddaughter?”
Prosecutors and lawyers and police tend to limp around questions like that. Carlisle wasn’t accustomed to such a direct approach. It caught him momentarily off guard.
“Because I felt like it,” he said with a grin. “That’s all the reason I needed.”
A while later, Coyote followed the trail to where Cottontail was sitting. “Brother, you tricked me back there, and now I really am going to eat you up.”
“Please,” said Cottontail, “don” teat me yet. I don’t want to die until I have seen a jig dancer one last time. Do this for me and then you may eat to your heart’s content.”
“All right,” said Coyote. “What do you want me to do?”
“Come with me over here,” said Cottontail. “First I will plaster your eyes shut with pitch. Then, when your eyes are shut, you will hear firecrackers popping. When that happens, you must dance and shout. When the dance is over, then you may eat me.”
So Cottontail plastered Coyote’s eyes shut with pitch, then he led him into a cane field. When Coyote was in the middle of the field, Cottontail set fire to it. Soon the cane started crackling and popping. Coyote thought these were the firecrackers Cottontail had told him about, so he began to dance and shout. Soon he began to feel the heat, but he thought he was hot because he was dancing so hard. At last, though, the fire reached him, and burned him up.
And that, my friend, is the story of the second time Cottontail tricked Coyote.
From the sound and cadence of that softly crooned chant, someone listening might have thought Rita Antone was giving voice to some ancient traditional Papago lullaby. It included the requisite number of repetitions, the proper rhythm, but it was really a war chant, and the words were entirely new:
“Do not look at me, little Olhoni.
Do not look at me when I sing to you
So this man will not know we are speaking
So this evil man will think he is winning.
“Do not look at me
When I sing, little Olhoni,
But listen to what I say.
This man is evil.
This man is the enemy.
This man is ohb.
Do not let this frighten you.
“Whatever happens in the battle,
We must not let him win.
I am singing a war song for you,
Little Olhoni. I am singing
A hunter’s song, a killer’s song.
I am singing a song to I’itoi
Asking him to help us.
Asking him to guide us in the battle
So the evil ohb does not win.
“Do not look at me, little Olhoni,
Do not look at me when I sing to you.
I must sing this song four times
For all of nature goes in fours,
But when the trouble starts,
When the ohb attacks us,
You must remember all the things
I have said to you in this magic song.
You must, listen very carefully
And do exactly what I say.
If I tell you to run and hide yourself,
You must run as fast as Wind Man.
Run fast and hide yourself
And do not look back.
Whatever happens, little Olhoni,
You must run and not look back.
“Remember it is said that
Long ago I’itoi made himself a fly
And hid himself in the crack.
I’itoi hid in the smallest crack
When Eagle Man came searching for him.
Be like I’itoi, little Olhoni.
Be like I’itoi and hide yourself
In the very smallest crack.
Hide yourself somewhere
And do not come out again,
Do not show your face
Until the battle is over.
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.”
The song ended. Rita glanced at Davy, who was looking studiously in another direction. He had listened. He was only a boy, one who had not yet killed his first coyote, but she had trained him well. He would do what he’d been told.
In the gathering twilight, Rita glanced at the clock on the mantel across the room. Seven o’clock. Fat Crack must come for her soon, because the singers were scheduled to start at nine. The very latest he could come was eight o’clock, an hour away.
One hour, she thought. Sixty minutes. If they could stay alive until Fat Crack got
there, they might yet live, but deep in her heart, Rita feared otherwise. As he tied them up, she had looked into Andrew Carlisle’s soul. All she saw there were the restless, angry spirits of the dead Apache warriors from Rattlesnake Skull Village. They had somehow found this Mil-gahn’s soul and infected it with their evil. Andrew Carlisle was definitely the danger the buzzards had warned her about, the evil enemy who Looks At Nothing said was both Ohb and not Ohb, Apache and not Apache. And although the process had been started, Davy was still unbaptized.
The man sat on the floor in front of her, unmoving, seemingly asleep although his eyes were open. She had heard of these kinds of Whore-Sickness trances before, although she herself had never witnessed one. She knew full well the danger.
Looking away from their captor, Rita stared over her shoulder at the basket maze hanging on the wall behind her. She remembered the ancient yucca she had harvested-to find the root fiber to make it. Howi, a yucca, an old cactus, had willingly sacrificed itself that Diana Ladd might own this basket.