by J. A. Jance
And, suddenly, Rita knew that I’itoi had heard her song and sent her a message even without the use of Looks At Nothing’s sacred smoke. She would be like the plant that had given up its life so I’itoi’s design could spread out from the center of the basket. Davy Ladd had become the center of Rita Antone’s basket She would be his red yucca root.
“Whatever you’re going to do,” she said softly, “the boy should not see.”
Andrew Carlisle seemed startled, as though she had peered into his brain and read the secret plans written there. “Do you have a better idea?”
Rita nodded, “There’s a root cellar,” she said. “Off the kitchen. Put the boy in there. I will stay with him.”
“A root cellar?”
Carlisle sounded almost disbelieving. He had been worried about how to handle the growing number of hostages in case the priest showed up as well, but now here was the old lady helping out, solving the problem for him. Carlisle knew all about root cellars. There had been one in his grandmother’s home, a place where he’d been left on occasion for disciplinary purposes. A root cellar would do nicely.
He rushed into the kitchen to see for himself, worried now that Diana might return before he was ready. And the old lady was absolutely right. Except for a stack of musty old boxes and a few canned goods, there was nothing else there.
Back in the living room, he grabbed the boy and carried him into the root cellar. Then he hauled the old woman to her feet and helped her shuffle along. With both prisoners safely stashed inside the room, he slammed the door shut and locked it with the old-fashioned skeleton key mat was right there in the lock. For safekeeping, he put the key in his boot along with his hunting knife. Smiling to himself, Carlisle hurried back to the living room and stationed himself out of sight behind the door.
Actually, the more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea of having those first few minutes with Diana all by himself—just the two of them, one on one, sort of a honeymoon. He pulled a whetstone from his pocket and began to sharpen the blade of the hunting knife. It wasn’t necessary—the blade was already sharp enough, but it gave him something to do with his hands while he waited.
The dog had already had two accidents in the priest’s car between Dr. Johnston’s office and the driveway. Diana was embarrassed. The vet had been right all along. She should have left Bone there overnight to recuperate.
“I’m sorry about your car, Father,” she apologized.
“Don’t worry about it,” Father John said, driving into the yard and stopping in front of the house. “These things happen. Would you like him inside?”
Diana shook her head. “I don’t think so. There’s no sense taking him inside and having him be sick in there as well. If you can, take him on out to the back patio, while I work on cleaning up this mess. Ask Davy to fill his water dish with fresh water and take it out there for him.”
The vet had sent the ailing Bone home on a borrowed leash. Using this, Father John coaxed the now-docile dog through a gate at the side of the house and into the backyard. Meanwhile, Diana dealt with the lingering physical evidence of the dog’s illness, removing soiled blankets from the priest’s car and draping them over the wall for a quick hosedown.
She was surprised that Davy wasn’t waiting on the porch to greet them, but she was so busy cleaning up after the dog that the idea never quite surfaced as a conscious thought. Leaving the windows open to let the car air out, she started into the house.
With his heart hammering in his chest, Carlisle watched the car pull into the driveway. Damn! The priest was there. What the hell should he do now?
The man and woman in the car spoke briefly, then the priest got out, opened the door, and bent into the backseat. What was he doing? Getting the dog? Goddamn! The dog was back, too? What the hell kind of constitution did that dog have?
For a moment, Carlisle vacillated between following the man and staying to keep an eye on Diana Ladd. At first he couldn’t understand what was going on, but then, when she pulled the blankets out of the car and turned on the hose, he realized he was getting another chance. There was time to do both. He headed for the kitchen at a dead run.
Father John left the dog resting on the dusky patio and rose to go into the house. Seeing no sign of Rita or Davy, he stepped up to the sliding patio door, which had been left slightly ajar.
“Hello,” he called. “Anybody home?”
Hearing no answer, he crossed the threshold and turned to close the door behind him just as something heavy crashed into the back of his skull.
The root-cellar door flew open. From the darkened kitchen, something heavy was thrown in with them before the door slammed shut again. Davy felt with his feet and realized it was a person lying flat on the floor, someone who didn’t move when Davy touched him. At first the child was afraid it might be his mother, but finally he realized the still body belonged to Father John.
“It’s the priest,” he whispered to Rita.
Before locking them in, Carlisle had warned they would die if they made noise, so Davy and Nana Dahd spoke in subdued whispers.
“Try to wake him up,” Rita said.
Davy moved closer to the man and nudged him, but the priest didn’t stir. His labored breathing told them he wasn’t dead. “He won’t wake up,” Davy said.
“Keep trying,” Rita told him.
Diana stepped onto the porch and turned the doorknob. Suddenly, with no warning, the door gave way beneath her hand, yanking Diana into the house.
Before she could make a sound, before she could reach for the handle of the .45, iron fingers clamped down over her face and mouth. The razor-sharp blade of a hunting knife pressed hard against the taut skin of her throat.
“Welcome home, honey,” Andrew Carlisle said. “You’re late. It’s not nice to keep a man with a hard-on waiting.”
Diana shook her head wildly, struggling to escape, but he ground his punishing fingers deep into the tender flesh of her face. “Oh, no, you don’t lady. Make one sound, and everybody dies. Starting with you.”
21
SO I’ITOI WENT to see Gopher Boys, who guard the gates of those who live below. “I need people to come help me,” I’itoi said. “I have people from the East and the West, from the North and the South, who will help me fight Evil Siwani. Are there any people here who will help me fight my enemy?”
“First,” said Gopher Boys, “you must sing for four days to weaken your enemy. After that, come again, and we will open the gates.”
Meanwhile, Evil Siwani worried about how many warriors I’itoi would bring with him, so he sent Coyote to see. Coyote ran to the top of Baboquivari and looked down just as Gopher Boys opened the gates. The people who would help I’itoi started coming out, more and more of them all the time.
It is said that long ago, if Coyote didn’t like something, he could laugh and change it. So Coyote laughed and said, “Will these people never stop coming?” Right then the hole in the earth slammed shut, and no more people came out.
Coyote ran back to tell Evil Siwani that I’itoi was on his way with many warriors. Wherever there were people who heard about the coming battle, they were happy to join forces with I’itoi. Finally, I’itoi’s warriors camped for the night just a little way from Evil Siwani’s village. I’itoi called his people together.
“Whoever kills first in the morning will have first choice of the place he wants to live.”
She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t, not with his hand damped over her face, crushing her cheeks and nostrils together, cutting off her ability to breathe. Carlisle had grabbed her from behind. She felt his hot breath on the back of her neck.
“Take the gun out of the holster,” he ordered, “nice and easy. Hold it by the handle with your thumb and forefinger. We’re going to walk over and put it down on the table, very carefully.”
Where are Davy and Rita? she wondered. Where is Father John? If he was still out behind the house, he might come in and help….
The blade of the knife pressed against her skin. “I don’t want to cut you, baby. Blood’s real messy for what I have in mind, but I will if I have to. Don’t try me. The gun. Now!”
Faint from lack of oxygen, she thought maybe mat was all he intended—strangling her, but then he eased his pincerlike pressure, allowing her to gulp desperate mouthfuls of air.
“The gun!” he repeated.
She reached for it silently, cursing Brandon Walker as she did so. He had been right, damn him. She’d never had a chance to touch the gun, to say nothing of using it. All having the gun had done was to make her stupid, to give her a false sense of security.
She removed the gun from its holster and held it as she’d been told. With Carlisle clutching her from behind, they glided from door to table like a pair of grotesque waltzing skaters.
“That’s better,” he muttered once the .45 was resting on the tabletop. “Much better. Now turn around and let me look at you.”
“Where’s Davy?” she asked, without turning. “What have you done with Davy and Rita?”
His voice rose menacingly. “I gave you an order, goddamnit! Turn around.” He grabbed her by one shoulder and spun her toward him. The abrupt motion threw her slightly off balance. She almost fell, but he caught her by one wrist and held her upright. The knife seemed to have disappeared into thin air, but as soon as his powerful fingers closed around her wrist, Diana knew he didn’t need the knife. Not really. His hands alone were plenty strong enough.
“Where’s Davy?” she asked again, trying to keep her voice steady, trying not to let it expose her rising terror.
He grinned back at her. “Where’s Davy?” he mocked. “Where do you think he is? What will you give me if I show him to you? A kiss maybe? A piece of tail?”
Carlisle’s tone was light and bantering, but Diana’s wrist ached from the punishing pressure of his fingers. She knew then, with a sinking heart, that strangling wasn’t it. Carlisle would never let her off that easy.
Someone seeing the frozen tableau from outside the window might have thought the man and woman to be lovers standing face to face, might have imagined them holding hands and exchanging endearments in preparation for a romantic kiss. The man was smiling. Only a glimpse of the woman’s stricken face betrayed the reality of their desperate life-and-death struggle.
“Let me go!” She started to add, “You’re hurting me,” but she didn’t. Life with Max Cooper had taught her better than that. In an uneven contest where defeat is inevitable, she had learned to show no reaction at all, to deny her tormentor his ultimate gratification—the perceptible proof of his victim’s pain.
“You know you’re going to give me whatever I want, don’t you?” he leered at her, relentlessly pulling her closer. Steeling herself, she refused to shrink away from him, refused to cringe, but even as she struggled against him, she was beginning to fear the worst—Davy and Rita were dead. They had to be. If not, they would have given her some sign, some reason to hope.
“One way or another,” Carlisle continued, “like it or not, I’m going to have yon six ways to Sunday, little lady, so you could just as well get used to the idea, lay back and enjoy it, as they say. Now tell me, how’s it going to be, hard or easy?”
She didn’t respond.
“That was a joke,” he said, laughing. “Didn’t you get it?”
By then, their lips were almost touching. For an answer, she brought her knee up and rammed it into his groin. Stunned, he doubled over, grabbing himself, groaning with pain. Momentarily, he let go of her hand, giving her the chance she needed. Dodging backward and to one side, Diana groped for the handle of the .45.
The gun was a there three feet away, but it could just as well have been three miles. She picked it up and used both hands to pull back the hammer, but before she could aim or pull the trigger, Carlisle tackled her, slamming her hard against the wall, knocking the wind from her lungs, forcing her hand up into the empty air overhead. The gun discharged with an earsplitting roar, blasting a hole in the stucco ceiling before he knocked it from her hand and sent it whirling across the room.
“That’s going to cost you, bitch!” he snarled. “That cute trick is really going to cost you.”
He came after her then in a blind heat of rage, tearing the clothes from her body, sending her sprawling. They crashed to the floor together with him on top, using Diana’s body to cushion his own fall. The back of her head bounced off the Mexican tile. A kaleidoscope of lights danced before her eyes. The room swirled around her while she drowned in a sea of despair. Davy’s dead, she thought My son is dead….
By the time she could see again or breathe or move, resistance was useless. Carlisle was on her, inside her, pounding away.
Davy was still trying to waken the priest when the root cellar was rocked by the roar of gunfire. Frightened, the boy cringed against the wall. No one had to tell him what the sound meant. That terrible man, that ohb, was out there with his mother, trying to kill her. Maybe he already had. Out in the living room, braced by Nana Dahd’s secret song, it had been easy to pretend to be brave, but now cowardly tears sprang to his eyes.
“Don’t let him kill my mommy, Nana Dahd,” he sobbed. “Please don’t let him.”
“Quiet!” Rita ordered.
Davy was startled by the harshness in Nana Dahd’s voice. Never had she spoken to him so sharply. “Listen. Come help me with the medicine basket. I can’t get it out by myself.”
Davy scrambled over the priest’s prone form. He felt, around Rita’s body until he located the medicine basket still hidden beneath the ample folds of her dress. The basket was too large to slip out without first unfastening some of the buttons.
“Hurry,” she urged as he struggled in the dark with the buttons and the slippery material. When the basket came free, it popped out and fell to the floor. “Find it,” Rita ordered. “Take off the lid and give me the owij.”
Davy groped on the floor until he found the basket with its tight-fitting lid still securely closed. After some struggle, he finally pried open the lid and fumbled inside until his fingers closed around the awl.
“Here it is,” he said.
“Good. Put it in my good hand, men come close. Hold your hands steady and as far apart as you can.”
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
For an answer, she poked at the twine around his wrists with the sharp point of the awl, the same way she had poked it through thousands of strands of coiled cactus. Pulled taut, the twine cut sharply into Davy’s wrists. The child yelped with pain.
“Quiet,” she commanded. “Don’t make a sound, Olhoni, no matter how much it hurts.” He bit his lip to stifle another cry.
“Once we are free,” Rita continued, “we must stand on either side of the door and be absolutely silent. When the door opens, the ohb will be there. He will expect us to be tied up just as he left us. When he does not see us, he will step into the cellar. I will try to hit him with my cast or stab him with the owij. We will have only one chance, You must not wait to see what happens. Like I said in the song, you must run somewhere and hide.”
“But what about you and my mother?” Davy whispered.
“No matter what happens, you must stay hidden until morning, until someone you know comes to find you.”
Looks At Nothing sat hunched forward in the speeding tow truck as though by merely peering blindly ahead through the windshield he could somehow remove all obstacles from their path. “How soon will we be there?” he asked.
Fat Crack was driving flat out, red lights flashing. “Fifteen minutes,” he said, not daring to take his eyes from the road long enough to check his watch. “Ten if we’re lucky.”
For a time, there was no sound in the cab other than the wind rushing through the open windows. “We will probably have to kill him, you know,” the old man said finally. “Before it’s over, one of us may kill the ohb. Have you ever killed before?”
It was a startling question, asked in the same man
ner Looks At Nothing might have inquired about the weather, but this was no rhetorical question, and it demanded a serious answer. “No,” Fat Crack replied.
“I have,” Looks At Nothing continued. “Long ago. When I worked in the mines in Ajo, I accidentally killed a man, another Indian. Afterward, there was no one to help me paint my face black, no one to bring me food and water for sixteen days. That is one of the reasons I’itoi took away my sight. If you are the one who kills the ohb, I will bring you food and water. If I do, will you bring it to me?”
As a child, Fat Crack had heard stories of how ancient Papago warriors who killed in battle were forced to remain outside their villages, purifying themselves by eating very little and by praying for sixteen days until the souls of those they killed were finally quiet. This was 1975. He was driving a two-ton tow truck, not riding a horse. After-battle ceremonies should have been a thing of the past, but they were not. Looks At Nothing was absolutely serious, and Fat Crack could not bring himself to deny the medicine man’s request.
“Yes, old man,” Fat Crack replied. “If you kill the ohb, I will bring food and water.”
Louella Walker left Toby’s bedside long enough to use the rest room down the hall. When she returned, she touched Brandon’s shoulder. Although his eyes were wide open, he jumped as though wakened from a sound sleep. She nodded toward the door, and he followed her into the hallway.
“What is it?” he asked.
“There’s a phone call for you at the nurses’ station.”
He seemed dazed. “A phone call? For me?” he asked vaguely.
She nodded. “Over there.”
Watching him go to the phone made her heart ache. He looked much as his father had looked years earlier—the same impatient gestures, the same lean features. But Brandon was almost a stranger to her. She had expended so much energy and concentration denying what was happening to Toby that she had totally lost touch with her son.