by J. A. Jance
“No relation.”
The clerk stiffened. “If that’s the case, I’m afraid we can’t treat her,” she said, shaking her head dismissively. “This isn’t a life-or-death emergency. She isn’t even bleeding anymore. Have her mother bring her in tomorrow morning. A doctor can look at her then.”
The woman was only doing her job, but Dan felt an unreasoning rage growing inside him. He recognized his anger for what it was. Eye color wasn’t the only thing he had inherited from his biological father. He also had Adam Pardee’s hot temper. It was one of the things about his grandson that Micah Duarte had done his best to counter.
Dan’s grandfather had taught him when to fight and how to fight and when to back off and walk away. As a teenager, Dan had been astonished to learn that Gramps knew karate. Micah saw to it that his grandson was one of the few black belts on the San Carlos.
Calling on those lessons now, Dan forced himself to take several deep breaths.
“Her mother can’t come in tomorrow morning because she’s dead,” he explained to the clerk, keeping his voice low and steady but forceful. “Somebody murdered her earlier tonight out in the desert. They shot and killed the mother and left this little girl alone in the desert. As an Indian she qualifies for treatment at this facility. I want her checked out. If you can’t help me, then let me talk to someone who can.”
Dan knew what Adam Pardee would have done about then. He would have slammed both fists on the counter or knocked something off it onto the floor, preferably something breakable. Dan did what Micah Duarte had trained him to do. While the clerk was thinking about what Dan had said, he walked away from her. He went back over to where Angie lay sleeping, sat down on the bench beside her, crossed his arms over his chest, and waited. He didn’t look at the clerk, but finally he heard her sigh, get up, and walk away from her desk. She went through a swinging door and disappeared.
Sitting there, Dan could still feel the stiff paper from the photo inside his shirt pocket. He, more than anyone in the world, knew what the future most likely held in store for this unfortunate little girl. Yes, Angie had lost her mother. Since Donald Rios had been Delphina’s boyfriend, that most likely meant Angie’s father was no longer a presence in her life, either, making her an orphan twice over.
At the tender age of four she would have few conscious memories of her mother, but Dan understood that in terms of physical remembrances she would probably have even less.
By the time pieces of Delphina’s life had been taken into evidence; by the time her friends and relations had sorted through the dead woman’s belongings and skimmed off what they wanted, Dan knew that there would be precious little of her dead mother left for Angie to cling to—nothing but that one single photo that he had managed to salvage.
And how did Dan Pardee know this? Through bitter experience—because that was the way it had been for him.
Someone probably still had copies of school yearbooks that showed his mother as she had been when she was in high school. And he dimly remembered there being photos of her in their apartment before she died. Those had all been head shots she’d had taken when she was still hoping to find work in Hollywood and going out on interviews and auditions.
He didn’t remember the photos in any detail. What he did remember was that his mother had been beautiful back then—with surprisingly narrow features and a winning smile. None of those pictures, however, had survived the police investigation in the bloodied apartment living room. Or, if they had, none of them had come into her son’s possession once the investigation was over.
Dan had only two things left from his mother and from that time. One was the faded letter, written on a scrap of notebook paper, that Rebecca Pardee had written to her parents back home in Arizona, asking for their help. It was the same letter Micah Duarte had carried in his shirt pocket the day he had come to L.A. to collect his grandson.
The other was a fragment of a set of Spider-Man sheets Dan’s mother had bought for Dan’s bed and had given him for his birthday. It was the same top sheet that anonymous cop had wrapped the little boy in when he had plucked the sleeping child out of his bed. The cop had used the sheet to cover the little boy’s face so he wouldn’t see the awful carnage in the living room and his mother’s blood-spattered body.
Maybe the cop had hoped that if Dan didn’t see it, he wouldn’t have to remember it, either.
Hilda, his foster mother, had washed the sheet, folded it, and put it in Dan’s paper bag the morning Micah had come to fetch him. That and the letter were the only two things Dan still possessed that he knew for sure his mother had once touched. He had treasured the sheet and slept with it in his bed night after night until it was little more than a frayed rag. Before he went to Iraq, he had cut a small piece of it out of the hem—the only part that still held together. He had placed that faded scrap of material inside the envelope along with his mother’s letter to her parents. Dan then placed the envelope inside his wallet. That treasured envelope had gone with him to war in the Middle East and it had come home from the war. It was here with him now.
Taking the photo from his pocket, he opened his own wallet. He thumbed through the contents until, tucked in among his credit cards, he found the envelope with its now-illegible address. He slipped the photo of Delphina and Angie Enos into the fragile envelope next to the faded letter and that precious scrap of material. Then he returned the envelope to his wallet, closed it, and put it away. He would keep the photo safe. Someday he would give it to Angie. It would be the one meaningful gift Dan Pardee could give the little girl—a photo of her mother smiling down at her.
Sitting there in the waiting room, Dan couldn’t help wishing that someone had done the same for him.
Just then the clerk reappeared behind her desk. “Dr. Walker will see you now,” she said, gesturing them toward a swinging door. “Right this way.”
Sells, Tohono O’odham Nation, Arizona
Sunday, June 7, 2009, 12:00 a.m.
71º Fahrenheit
Lani’s first patient that night had been a snakebite victim. Jose Thomas of Big Fields had been out cutting wood two days earlier. He had picked up a dead mesquite branch only to be bitten on the hand by a rattlesnake lurking in the cooler earth underneath the branch.
“Only a little rattlesnake,” he mumbled over and over. “Ali Ko’oi.”
The snake may have been little, but the damage wasn’t.
Snakebites were commonplace on the reservation. As a result, the hospital at Sells maintained a constant stock of antivenom. Most of the time, people who had been bitten came to the hospital as soon as possible after the incident. As long as they received antivenom treatment immediately, few of them suffered long-term ill effects.
While still in high school, Lani had worked at the Arizona Sonora Desert Museum both after school and during summer and winter breaks. She knew, for example, that Arizona is home to seventeen different kinds of rattlers, five of which are found in and around the Tucson area. Their venom came with varying strengths of toxicity, the most poisonous of which was the Mojave. When treating patients, medical professionals needed to know which kind of snake venom they were dealing with. That wasn’t always possible, especially when the victims were young children. Then the doctors involved just had to make an educated guess.
The problem with Jose Thomas was that he was an old man who lived alone.
Make that a stubborn old man, Lani thought grimly.
And he hadn’t come in to be treated right away. In fact, if it had been left up to him, he wouldn’t have come to the hospital at all. He had treated himself by lancing the wound, pouring some tequila on it, and then pouring more of the tequila down his own throat. By the time Jose’s grandson had stopped by to see him, Jose was in bed, delirious and barely conscious. He was running a dangerously high fever. The damaged flesh surrounding the bite was beginning to rot and fall away.
Once he was in the ER, Lani’s first goal was to bring down the fever by bathing him in i
ce. Then she ordered him plugged full of liquids and antibiotics. At this point, he had developed secondary infections—including pneumonia—that were more serious than the bite. She treated the bite itself as best she could, but her initial examination told her that it was more than likely that Jose would probably lose the hand. That wouldn’t happen until after he was stabilized. Until then, surgery of any kind was out of the question.
As Mr. Thomas was wheeled into the ICU, the ER’s admitting clerk, Dena Rojo, came into the cubicle. “We’ve got a problem out there,” she said, nodding toward the door.
“What kind of a problem?”
“A Border Patrol officer with a little girl. She’s got some cuts on her face, feet, and legs. I don’t think it’s serious enough for you to bother, but . . .”
“An illegal?” Lani asked.
Indian Health Services was generally exactly that—for Indians only. Exceptions were made in emergencies, when other patients could be given access to immediate care regardless of race or nationality. Border Patrol officers often found injured and dying immigrants on the reservation. During the summer, dehydration was a killer. So far this year there had already been fifteen immigrant deaths among illegal immigrants attempting to cross the border, and that was with the summer months just now heating up.
That was the basis of Lani’s inquiry. Dena shook her head.
“Indian,” she said. “Her name is Angelina Enos. We’ve treated her before. She has a chart.”
“What’s the problem then?” Lani asked.
“The guy who brought her in is no relation of hers,” Dena said. “He just found her out in the desert somewhere and brought her here.”
“Where are her parents?” Lani asked.
“Her father’s been gone for a long time,” Dena replied. “Now someone has murdered her mother.”
“Who’ll be responsible for her long-term?” Lani asked.
Dena shrugged. “Probably the grandparents. I think they live out at Nolic, but they don’t have a phone.”
Lani winced at that. She knew the village of Nolic, The Bend. That was where she had come from a long time ago, before she became Lani Walker. The fact that Lani’s blood relatives had rejected her was what had given her this other life—and a chance to be here at Sells in her scrubs, ready to help some other unfortunate child.
“Have him bring her in,” Lani said.
“You’re sure?” Dena asked.
“I’m sure.”
Sells, Tohono O’odham Nation, Arizona
Sunday, June 7, 2009, 1:00 a.m.
68º Fahrenheit
Angie woke up as Dan carried her into the ER and set her down on the examining table.
“Where are we?” she asked. “Where’s my mommy?”
“We’re at the hospital here in Sells so someone can look at the cuts on your legs and feet,” Dan explained. “Your mommy’s not here right now.”
Angie studied his face for a long time. Finally she nodded.
Hoping the clerk had clued the ER staff in on what had happened out by Komelik, he looked to the doctor for help. He did not expect Dr. Walker—Dr. Lanita Dolores Walker, as her name tag said—to be a woman or an Indian. And he certainly didn’t expect her to be beautiful. It turned out she was all three.
She stepped forward and gave Angie a reassuring smile. “This nice man brought you here so we could look at your feet and your legs,” she said. “You have quite a few scratches. What happened?”
“I went for a walk in the desert,” Angie said in a whisper. “I left my shoes in the car.”
Dr. Walker touched Angie’s knee. It was scraped and scabby. It was also hot.
“I’ll bet you were out in the desert for a long time,” she said. “Have you had anything to drink? Are you thirsty?”
“I was going to give her something to drink and something to eat, too,” Dan said quickly. “But she fell asleep as soon as I got her back to the car. The way things were going, I didn’t want to wake her up.”
Nodding, Dr. Walker called for a nurse to bring a bottle of Gatorade. Then she turned back to Angie. “What were you doing out in the desert?”
“I was there with my mommy and Donald.”
While Angie sipped her drink, Dr. Walker examined the cuts and scrapes on the little girl’s feet and legs, cleaning them and dosing them with antiseptic as she went. When Angie whimpered in pain, Dan stepped forward and took her hand.
“It’s okay,” he said. “It may hurt a little, but this will make it better.”
“I’ve heard about Mr. Pardee here,” Dr. Walker said to Angie. “I understand he usually has a big dog with him.”
Angie nodded. “His name is Bozo,” she said. “I got to pet him.”
“He didn’t bite you?” Dr. Walker asked.
Angie shook her head. “I thought he would, but he’s really nice.”
Dan was taken aback again. He supposed that, in terms of gossip, the reservation was like any other small town. Dr. Walker had probably heard tales about the terrible ohb who worked with the Shadow Wolves and who went on patrol in the company of an immense and supposedly incredibly fierce German shepherd.
“Can I use the bathroom?” Angie asked.
“Sure,” Dr. Walker said. “I’ll have the nurse take you.”
The same nurse who had brought the Gatorade lifted Angie down from the examining table, took her hand, and led her away toward a restroom. Watching her walk away from him, Dan felt like his heart was going to break. But, of course, that was what was going to happen here. The door to the examining room wasn’t the only one that would swing shut. From now on, strangers would be taking charge of Angie’s life and handing her off to whoever was destined to care for her. As Dan had explained to the admitting clerk, he was only the guy who had found her, nothing more.
“That’s a good sign,” Dr. Walker was saying.
“What?” Dan asked.
“That she needs to use the bathroom. She probably isn’t that seriously dehydrated. We won’t need to give her IV fluids.”
“Oh,” he said. “I’m glad of that.” He didn’t want to see Angie poked with a needle—any kind of needle.
“What kind of a name is Pardee?” Dr. Walker asked. “It doesn’t sound Apache to me.”
“It’s not,” Dan answered. “It’s a made-up name—my father’s made-up name. He was a stuntman in Hollywood. An Anglo-Irish, I believe. A Milgahn,” he added.
Dan might have pointed out that Lanita Dolores Walker didn’t sound like a Tohono O’odham name, either, but he didn’t. Realizing that he had said the word Milgahn aloud, he was embarrassed. When Dr. Walker replied with one of her glorious smiles he decided she was either laughing at him or else she liked it. Dan couldn’t tell which.
“How did you learn that word?” she asked.
“I bought a dictionary,” he said. “I’ve been studying.”
The doctor’s smile disappeared, but she nodded. “All right, then,” she said. “Now, getting back to Angie. Has the mother’s family been notified?”
Dan shook his head. “The M.E. was just arriving as I left the scene, but I talked to Detective Fellows. He said that officers from Law and Order most likely will handle the next-of-kin notification.”
“That’s true,” Dr. Walker said. “Although Brian Fellows could probably do it, too. He’s a good guy. People would accept it from him.”
“You know Detective Fellows?” Dan asked.
Dr. Walker nodded. “We go way back. But no matter who does the notification, it’s going to take some time. I’d rather Angie weren’t there while all of that is going on. Too traumatic.”
Me, too, Dan Pardee thought.
“So I’m going to admit her for right now,” Dr. Walker continued. “I’m sure her family will show up to collect her first thing in the morning, but if you’d like to sit with her for a while, until she gets settled into her room, I’m sure that would be fine.”
“Thank you,” Dan said. “I’ll be glad to.”<
br />
Thank you more than you know.
Tucson, Arizona
Saturday, June 6, 2009, 11:00 p.m.
72º Fahrenheit
Once Diana showed up, Brandon let Damsel out for her last walk. When they came back in from that, Diana was sitting in the living room studying the baskets.
“How was it?” he asked.
“How was what?”
“The party?”
“Abby wasn’t there,” Diana said.
“Abby?”
“Abigail Tennant. She’s been doing the night-blooming cereus party for years. She was the one who originally invited Lani to do the storytelling honors tonight. It’s not good manners to issue that kind of invitation and then be a no-show yourself.”
Brandon shrugged. “Maybe she came down with something,” he said.
“It’s still rude,” Diana insisted. “How was your day?”
Diana had been so distant of late that Brandon was a little surprised by her question. “Geet Farrell’s wife called and wanted me to stop by, so I did.”
“I remember Geet. How is he?”
“Not so good,” Brandon answered. “I’m afraid it won’t be long now.”
“I knew he had cancer. Are you saying he’s dying?”
Brandon nodded. “They’re doing hospice care at home,” he said.
“Why did he want to see you?”
“He handed over a case file to me—an unsolved homicide from 1959.”
“That’s a while ago,” Diana said, smiling.
“It is,” Brandon agreed. “I’ve spent the afternoon going over what he had, including a lead that came in just before they slapped Geet in the hospital this last time. I called the woman tonight after I got home. She lives down by Sonoita, and she invited me to come see her. I’m driving down there tomorrow morning. Want to come along?”
“Tomorrow?” Diana asked. “If the case is already that old, why the big rush now?”
“Because, as I said, Geet is dying,” Brandon said. “This case is one that has deviled him for years. If it turns out to be solvable, I’d like to do that for him before it’s too late.”