by J. A. Jance
In that throwaway remark Lani almost missed the crucial name—Andy. Her heart lurched inside her chest. All night long she had been forging spiritual links between this man and the evil Ohb. Now, though, for the first time, there was some outside confirmation that connections between Andrew Carlisle of old and this new evil Ohb did exist. Lani had to know for sure.
“Who’s Andy?” she asked, swallowing an entirely new lump of fear that rose dangerously in her throat.
“Did you say ‘Who’s Andy?’ ” Mitch Johnson asked in mock disbelief. “You mean here you are, smart enough to go to University High School, but you’re not smart enough to figure all this out for yourself?”
“Who’s Andy?” Lani repeated.
“A friend of mine,” Mitch Johnson told her. “It turns out he was a friend of your mother’s as well. If you’ve read your mother’s book, then you know a whole lot about him. His name was Carlisle. Andrew Philip Carlisle. Ever heard of him?”
Sitting there in the dark, Lani’s body was covered by another wave of gooseflesh. She felt sick to her stomach. It was true, then. She was shut up in the darkened cave with a man named Mitch Johnson, but she was there with Andrew Carlisle as well, with the vengeful spirit of the evil Ohb who had raped and tortured her mother.
“That’s why you burned me, isn’t it?” she said. Her voice seemed very small. In the emptiness of the darkened cave, it was hardly more than a whisper. “You did it for him.”
“So maybe you aren’t so dumb after all. This way your mother is bound to make the connection, but there won’t be any tooth impressions for someone to take to court the way there were with Andy.”
Andy. It was hard for her to comprehend that word. How could a person who was “Andy” to Mitch Johnson also be Andrew Carlisle, the monster who had frequented the stories of Lani Walker’s childhood? She had spent long winter evenings, snuggled in Rita’s lap, hearing the story again and again. Lani had loved hearing how two women, the priest, the boy, and the dog had overcome the wicked Mil-gahn man. Again and again Nana Dahd had told the powerful tale of how I’itoi had helped them defeat the enemy who was, at the same time, both Apachelike and not-Apache.
“I don’t suppose you ever met him,” Mitch continued. “You’re much too young. He was already in prison for the second time long before you were born, but if you had met him, I think you would have been impressed. To put it in terms you might understand—the Indian vernacular, as it were—I’d say he was a very powerful medicine man.”
Lani knew something about medicine men—especially about Looks At Nothing, who had been a friend of Rita’s. And Fat Crack Ortiz was a medicine man as well. Whatever powers they had weren’t used for evil or for hurting people. Mitch Johnson’s sarcastic remark burned through Lani’s fear and changed it to anger, like a powerful magnifying glass focusing the rays of the sun to ignite a piece of paper.
“You can call him a medicine man if you like,” she said softly. “I call him ho’ok.”
“Ho’ok,” Mitch Johnson repeated. “What does that mean?”
“Monster,” Lani replied.
For a moment after she said it, there was no sound in the dark stillness of the cave, then there was a short hiccup followed by a hoot of raucous laughter.
Except it didn’t sound like laughter to Lani Walker. In the dark it reminded her of something else—of the rasping, unearthly, bone rattling sound a cornered javelina makes when it gnashes its teeth.
16
Now this is all that is known of Mualig Siakam. She was one of the greatest of all the medicine women in all the Land of the Desert People. She lived to be very, very old. And she taught some of her songs to a few men.
Some women tried to learn the songs, but the buzzing of the bees joined with the song in the heads of the women and made them afraid. Because they were afraid, the women would not let sleep come. Sleep was necessary in order to know all the powers which one does not see, and which are used in healing.
The Indians would take a new baby many miles to see Great Medicine Woman, and Mualig Siakam would sing over the baby. She would sing over it with the white feathers of goodness which would help guard its spirit from meanness. And she would feed the baby a little of the very fine white meal which would make its body strong.
But sometimes Great Medicine Woman would refuse to sing. Then the people knew there was no hope for the child.
If the people grew angry and tried to make Mualig Siakam sing over such a child, Great Medicine Woman would scold. She would ask them what right they had over Tash—the Sun—and Jeweth—the Earth—and all of I’itoi’s gifts. Then she would go into the dark inner room of her house, and the Pa-nahl—the bees—would begin to roar with anger.
When that happened, all the people—even Old Limping Man—would go away.
Alvin Miller wasn’t used to doing his work in front of a live audience, but that night the lab was jammed with onlookers. The Walkers were there along with Deputy Fellows and both detectives on the case, Leggett and Myers. At the last moment Sheriff Forsythe even showed up, probably summoned by Detective Myers.
“All right,” Forsythe said, looking around the room. “What exactly’s going on here?”
Brandon Walker looked at the man who had replaced him. “My daughter’s missing,” he said. “We’re afraid she may have been kidnapped.”
Forsythe glowered at Detective Myers. “Kidnapped. I thought you said this was a Missing Persons case. And what’s all this about bones?”
Miller came across the room and handed the papers over to the sheriff. “This set of prints matches individual prints we took off the collection of bones Deputy Fellows discovered out near the reservation yesterday afternoon as well as items from the break-in at the Walker residence last night that Detective Myers was called to investigate.”
Slipping on a pair of reading glasses, Bill Forsythe studied the report. “Quentin Walker,” he read aloud. Then he looked up at Brandon. “Your son?”
Brandon nodded. “I want you to call in the FBI,” he said.
“The FBI!” Forsythe exclaimed. “For a little domestic thing like this? Not on your life. Chances are your son and daughter were drinking or something, just the way Detective Myers said . . .”
Brandon turned to Alvin. “Do you still have that tape recorder here?”
Miller nodded. “Yes.”
“I want you to play the tape,” Brandon said.
“But I haven’t finished lifting—”
“Play it,” Brandon ordered. “That’s the only way they’re going to believe what we’re up against.”
A few seconds later, Lani Walker’s voice was playing to all the people crowded into the lab. “Quentin,” she was saying. “Quentin, Quentin, Quentin.”
“Your daughter?” Forsythe asked.
Brandon Walker nodded. By the time the scream tore through the room, Diana Walker was sobbing quietly into her hands.
“You’re right,” Sheriff Forsythe said, when Alvin Miller finally switched off the tape player. “It’s time to pull out the stops.”
Breathing a sigh of relief, Brandon Walker reached out and squeezed Diana’s hand.
Quentin Walker had deposited his second load of pottery in the back of the Bronco and was on his way back to the cave for the third and last one when he saw the flashing red lights turn off Highway 86 onto Coleman Road.
Climbing up and down was hard physical labor. His head was far clearer now than it had been when he started out. Even though there was no chance of the people in the police car seeing him, he froze where he was and waited for it to go past. But it didn’t. Instead, it slowed and turned left, heading for the charco.
Blind panic descended on Quentin Walker. Someone’s found Tommy, he thought. And now the cops are coming for me.
For the space of thirty seconds, he stood paralyzed by fear and indecision. And then, without a thought for the other people in the cave—without even recalling their existence, to say nothing of the third batch of pot
tery—he turned and ran back down to the Bronco. There was a single car key in his pocket. Sweeping the camouflage cover off the top, Quentin clambered into the vehicle and shoved the key home in the ignition.
Switching on the engine, he gunned it, testing the power, trying to remember exactly how he had come to be here on the mountain. Dimly he remembered driving up here, but it had seemed lighter then. In the dark, he was hard-pressed to remember how to reverse course and get back down.
He began trying to turn the Bronco around. There was little room for maneuvering inside that little clump of mesquite trees, especially when he didn’t dare turn on the headlights. Those would certainly attract the attention of the cops with their flashing red lights. Even now, the cop car was headed straight for the charco.
Realizing that’s where the cops were heading drove Quentin into a frenzy. The next time he backed up, he high-centered on a boulder he hadn’t been able to see in the rearview mirror. Even with four-wheel drive, the Bronco didn’t come loose the first two times he tried to go forward. The third time, he really goosed it, slamming the accelerator all the way to the floor, giving the Bronco every bit of power he had.
And it worked. Too well.
With a roar and a spray of pebble-sized rocks, the Bronco shot forward—through the grove of mesquite and right over the edge of a limestone cliff that had lain, shrouded in darkness, just beyond the sheltering trees.
Quentin mashed desperately on the brakes, trying to stop, but by then it was too late. The Bronco was already airborne. It came to earth the first time twenty yards from where it had taken off. It landed nose-first and then bounced end for end. With the screech of tortured metal and to the accompaniment of breaking glass, it turned over and over. The battered remains finally came to rest, roof down, in the soft sand of the wash that skirted the bottom of the mountain. There was no fire, no explosion, only a cloud of dust that rose up into the nighttime sky and then silently dispersed.
Not having fastened his seat belt, Quentin Walker was thrown clear the first time the Bronco rebounded off the unforgiving mountainside. He flew through the air like a rag doll and then landed with a bone-jarring thump into a sturdy thicket of low-lying manzanita.
Quentin never saw Mitch Johnson come scrambling up over the landslide debris and out the crack of that second entrance, never heard him yelling into the gradually graying nighttime sky.
“Come back here, you rotten son of a bitch!”
Lani heard the engine turn over and stutter to life. The sound was faint but distinct. Other than the Bronco, there was no vehicle within hearing distance.
Mitch Johnson roared out his dismay. “Goddamn it! What the hell does he think he’s doing?” Moments later, Johnson hurtled himself toward the pile of debris that blocked the second entrance. As he scrambled up it toward the crack at the top, loose rocks and pebbles rained down. A few of them smashed into Lani’s legs and arms. Grabbing the pot, she scrambled to safety, stopping only when her body was pressed against the far side of the cave.
She could hear Mitch Johnson shouting at Quentin. For a moment, until the rocks quit falling, Lani stayed where she was. She might have remained there longer, but something outside herself urged her to action.
Now’s your chance. Run!
Responding to that silent command, Lani stood and tried to walk. Her feet had fallen asleep. When she tried to stand on them, they were unfeeling boards beneath her. Seconds later they were alive with a thousand needles and pins.
Halfway across the floor of the cavern, she realized what she was doing and stopped cold. She had been trapped there in the cave with Mitch Johnson as surely as the spirit of Betraying Woman had been caught in her unbroken pottery. Now Lani had a chance to escape, but if the pots remained, so would Oks Gagda, imprisoned in her pottery long after the debt for betraying her people had been repaid.
Turning back toward the half-buried skeleton and her cache of pots, Lani was determined that the spirit of Betraying Woman would at last be set free.
Lani fell to her knees and felt around the dirt surface until she located the last half dozen pots—the ones Quentin hadn’t been able to fit into either his first or second trips to the Bronco. Setting the one little pot aside, reserving it in case she needed to use it as a weapon, Lani set about breaking the other pots. One at a time, she heaved them against the rock wall, hearing them splinter to pieces.
At last only the little one remained. Lani reached down and picked it up. She started to take it with her, but reconsidered. If even one pot remained, Betraying Woman would still be trapped. Hating to do it, but knowing she had to, Lani raised her arm high overhead and smashed that pot as well.
There were tears in her eyes as Lani turned back toward the interior of the cave. She was truly alone now. Her first instinct was to follow Mitch Johnson up over the pile of debris, but what if he was still out there? What if she came out on the other side only to run straight into him. No, her only chance was to find the passage that led into the outer cavern.
In a sudden panic, she realized she had lost track of the exact location of the opening of the passage.
The moon had long crossed the peak of the mountain, leaving the cave in total darkness. There was no light—at least there shouldn’t have been. But as Lani searched the darkness for which way to go, a light did appear. Not a ray of light, and not a beam either. It looked more like a shadow glowing in the dark. It seemed to hover there on the far side of the cave before disappearing into nothing.
Some people have claimed that what Lani saw was little more than a cloud of dust set loose by Mitch’s scrambling feet. But for Lani, for someone steeped in the ancient legends of I’itoi and in the traditions of the Tohono O’othham, there was no doubt about what she had seen.
The phosphorescent cloud came from the pots, all right, but not from dust. Freed now from her clay prison, Oks Gagda herself had come to show Lani the way.
Setting off across the dirt floor of the cave once again with more confidence than the darkness warranted, Lani walked to the place where it seemed to her the cloud had disappeared. She held one arm in front of her to keep from running into the rock wall, but that wasn’t necessary. At the very spot where the cloud had disappeared, the passageway into the outer cavern opened up before her.
She paused there for a moment, wondering. If Betraying Woman had deceived her own people, could her guidance now be trusted? But there were no other options. One step at a time, Lani set off down the passage. Any moment, Mitch Johnson might return to the cave to find her, bringing the spirit of his friend, Andrew Carlisle, with him, but Lani Walker was no longer alone. Elder Brother himself was with her and so was Betraying Woman.
Lani had reached the point in the passage where she felt rather than saw the walls open out around her. She was just congratulating herself on getting that far when she heard cursing and scraping coming from the front entrance of the cave. Mitch Johnson was coming back. For one heart-stopping moment, she froze. There was nothing more she could do. Mitch had her trapped in the cave. Now he would surely kill her. Or worse. Either way, she had come to the end of her endurance.
Out of the depths of Lani’s despair, Nana Dahd’s comforting words returned to the girl once more:
“Remember in the story how I’itoi made himself a fly
And hid in the smallest crack when Eagleman
Came searching for him. Be like I’itoi,
Little Olhoni. Be like I’itoi and hide yourself
In the smallest crack. Hide yourself somewhere
And do not come out again until the battle is over.
Listen to what I sing to you, Little Olhoni.
Do not look at me but do exactly as I say.”
Lani Walker was already inside a crack in the mountain; already in a cave very much like Eagleman’s cave, with a pile of bones moldering in the far corner just the way the bones of the people Eagleman had eaten had moldered in the corner of his cave. And there were cracks inside this crack. The cur
tains of falling stalactites and the growing mounds of stalagmites that she had glimpsed with Quentin’s flashlight earlier all offered places where I’itoi could possibly have hidden and where Lani might hide herself as well.
Lani Walker had grown up in two worlds, understanding much of each. She knew instinctively that the Mil-gahn, Mitch, might look at the pile of debris and immediately assume that she had followed him out, climbing up and out. It might not occur to him that she would stay inside the mountain; that without benefit of a light she would have nerve enough to trust herself to I’itoi’s power and move into the enveloping darkness rather than away from it.
With him scrabbling through the one passage and with Lani trapped in the other, there wasn’t a moment to lose. Halfway down the passage, the man-made earthen covering yielded once more to bare, jagged rocks. She could feel the sharp edges under the soles of her boots. She remembered that just before Quentin had ducked into the passage, she had glimpsed the walls of the huge cavern receding far into the mountain.
Clinging to the dank, wet wall and using it as a guide, she turned left from the mouth of the passage and fled along the side of the cavern, into the heart of the mountain.
Into the heart of I’itoi’s sacred mountain, she told herself. That is where I am going. Either I will be safe there, or that is where I will die.
Hardly daring to breathe, she scraped along, still clinging to the wall, testing each tentative stepping place before she put her weight down. She came to the first break in the wall. Feeling around it with both arms, she realized it was a stalagmite, one three feet wide and about that tall, rising up from the floor of the cave. It wasn’t large, but perhaps it was large enough to hide her. She ducked behind it just as the first jagged beams from Mitch’s flashlight flickered into the cave and then slid across the otherworldly surface of the far wall.