by J. A. Jance
When Delia first returned to Sells, she would have walked up to Lani at the picnic table and immediately demanded to know what she wanted. But time had passed. Delia’s Aunt Julia, along with Fat Crack and Leo Ortiz, had counseled her on ways of fitting in. She had learned, for example, that it was better to stop and wait to be acknowledged before speaking. The old Delia would have pressed for information as to why Lani had sent Gabe to awaken her. The new Delia stood silently waiting for an invitation to be seated and allowing Lani to speak at a pace of her choosing. An expertly rolled cigarette lay on the table along with a worn leather pouch Delia remembered had once belonged to Fat Crack.
Finally Lani motioned Delia to a spot at the table. “Do you know about Little Lion and Little Bear?” she asked.
“I guess,” Delia said with a shrug. “I believe Gabe told me that story once. Aren’t those the two boys who were raised by their grandmother, the ones who had beautifully colored birds?”
“Parrots,” Lani said, nodding.
“People were jealous of the boys because they wanted the colored feathers. They killed the grandmother, but the boys managed to escape. Before they, too, were killed, they threw the birds off the mountains to the east, thus creating Sunrise and Sunset. Right?”
Lani smiled. “Yes,” she said. “Do you know what happened then?”
Delia was dying to ask for Lani’s decision about taking Angie, and the old Delia would have done so at once, but now she knew better. Posing that question directly would be rude. Instead she went back to what she remembered of the story.
“I thought the legend ended once the boys were dead.”
“No,” Lani said. “There’s more. The spirit of the grandmother called for the dead boys to come home. She told them where to bury her body. Four days after they did that, a plant grew up there—wild tobacco, wiw. Little Bear and Little Lion harvested it the way Wise Old Grandmother told them.
“The people who had killed the two boys were worried when the boys came back. They called a council. They didn’t invite Little Bear and Little Lion to join them, but the two dead boys came anyway, bringing the tobacco with them. When the people sat in the circle, the two boys sat there, too. Coyote was there and told them they should light the tobacco and pass it to the person next to them, saying ‘Nawoj,’ which means ‘friend’ or ‘friendly gift.’ And that’s the origin of the Tohono O’odham’s peace smoke.”
“As opposed to the peace pipe in all those cowboy movies.”
Nodding, Lani held up Looks at Nothing’s venerable old leather pouch in one hand and the hand-rolled cigarette in the other. “That’s what I have here.”
“Wild tobacco?” Delia asked warily. Her first husband had returned from his round of powwow travels with a penchant for smoking peyote, and the results of that had been nothing short of disastrous. “That’s all it is—tobacco?”
Lani nodded. “Botanists will tell you it’s really called Nicotiana trigonophylla, and that’s all it is, Indian tobacco. It was harvested and dried the same way Little Lion and Little Bear’s grandmother told them to; the same way Fat Crack taught me; the same way Looks at Nothing taught him.”
“But what’s it doing here?” Delia asked.
“I’m proposing that you and I should have a council and smoke the peace smoke,” Lani said.
Delia was mystified. “But why?”
Lani smiled to think how much Delia sounded like her son just then.
“On the day my brother Davy was baptized,” Lani answered, “Looks at Nothing, Fat Crack, an old Catholic priest named Father John, and my father all smoked it together. Until that happened, Davy was a boy with two mothers and no fathers. From that moment on, he was a boy with two mothers and four fathers. The four men hadn’t been friends before that, especially Looks at Nothing and Father John, but from then on they were. I’d like for us to do the same thing—smoke the peace smoke and become friends.”
“Because of Angie?” Delia asked.
“Not just because of Angie,” Lani said. “Fat Crack told my father once that someday he hoped the two of us would be friends. I’m beginning to think maybe he was right.”
With that she lit the cigarette, using a match rather than the lighter. She took a long drag, and then passed the cigarette to Delia. “Nawoj,” she said.
For a time the two women sat in silence with the desert heat shimmering around them and with the sweet-smelling smoke enveloping them as well.
“When I first came back here I was jealous of you,” Delia admitted at last. “I didn’t understand why Fat Crack spent so much time with you. I thought he should be teaching what he knew to Leo or Richard, to one of his own sons, instead of to someone else, especially to someone who was being raised by Anglos. Now, though, I understand why. Leo and Richard weren’t interested in all those things—not the way you are. Not the way Gabe is.”
Delia passed the cigarette back to Lani.
“And then, even though he was a Christian Scientist, Fat Crack insisted that we should invest tribal money in turning you into a doctor. I lobbied against that as well. I thought your Anglo parents should foot the bill for your education. Now, though, I understand that, too, because I see what you’re doing. Yes, you’re a medical doctor, but you understand the traditional ways and take those things into consideration.”
There was another period of silence, punctuated by puffs of smoke. “Did you know my mother is gay?” Delia asked.
Lani shook her head. “No.”
“My parents broke up when I was little,” Delia said. “For a long time I assumed it was because my father was a drunk. It turns out that was one reason for the split, but it wasn’t the only one. My mother was attracted to women. Ruth Waldron, the woman who eventually became my mother’s partner—who still is my mother’s partner—came from money, old East Coast money. Ruth saw to it that I had every educational advantage her money could buy.”
“So you were a girl with two mothers, too,” Lani murmured. “Just like I was with Diana Ladd and Nana Dahd.”
Delia smiled and nodded. “With Fat Crack’s encouragement, the tribe saw to it that you got your education. An Anglo paid for most of mine. I’m hoping that between the two of us we can do the same kind of thing for Angelina Enos—give her the same kind of advantages that were given to us. So have you made a decision?” Delia asked. “Are you willing to take her?”
“Yes,” Lani said. “I am, and I’m willing to take her today. I think it’s criminal that the Escalantes would turn her away just as they turned me away.”
“Good,” Delia said. “I’m glad to hear you say that.”
“But how will all this work?” Lani asked. “I can’t just walk into the hospital and insist that they hand her over.”
“Yes, you can,” Delia said. “Right after I spoke to you I called Judge Lawrence. He’s drawing up a court order declaring you to be Angie’s temporary guardian. All you have to do is go by his place and sign it.”
Lani was taken aback to think that Delia had known in advance what her decision would be. “What about later?” she asked. “What if some other relative of Angie’s comes forward and offers to take her?”
“They won’t,” Delia declared. “They didn’t come for you, and they won’t come for Angie.”
Delia Ortiz took one last drag on the smoldering remnant of the cigarette. “Nawoj,” she said again as she passed it back.
Much to her surprise, Delia Ortiz realized that somehow the wiw had done its magic work. Through the haze of sweet-smelling smoke it seemed entirely possible that she and Lanita Dolores Walker could be friends after all, exactly as her father-in-law, Fat Crack, had intended.
Tucson, Arizona
Sunday, June 7, 2009, 12:00 p.m.
89º Fahrenheit
By the time the Aces showed up in person, Brian had typed up what he had, including the contact information for Detective Mumford in Thousand Oaks and a cell phone number for Dan Pardee. He would have been glad to hand off the paper
and get the hell out, but things didn’t work out that way.
“This is all you’ve got?” Jake Abernathy asked derogatorily after scanning through the pages.
Detective Abernathy knew he was Sheriff Forsythe’s “chosen one.” He came complete with the requisite ego and attitude. He understood Brian had to be pissed about being taken off the case, and he couldn’t help rubbing Brian’s nose in it. At least he couldn’t help trying to, but Brian refused to take the bait.
“Yup,” he said. “That’s all we have so far. You’ll probably want to follow up with Detective Mumford over in Thousand Oaks. She’s working on tracking phone records.”
Making the suggestion was a deliberate ploy. Brian was reasonably sure that based on that, he could expect that the Aces wouldn’t give Alex Mumford the time of day.
“I think Rick and I can track down phone records on our own,” Jake told him. “Now what about this witness—the little girl who supposedly saw the killer. If we go out to the res to interview her, will we need to bring along a translator?”
Brian didn’t call the Tohono O’odham Nation “the res” ever.
“No,” he said. “Her name is Angelina Enos and she speaks English.” A lot better than you speak Tohono O’odham, he thought.
“Where is she?”
“The last I heard she was in the hospital at Sells. But you have Dan Pardee’s number. He can probably tell you where she ended up going.”
Abernathy frowned. “According to this, he’s the Border Patrol guy who found her along with the bodies. Why would this jerk know where she is? Is he a relative of some kind?”
No relation, Brian thought, and no jerk, either.
“I had my hands full, and he was willing to look after the kid,” Brian said aloud.
“Okay, okay. We’ll track him down and see what he has to say,” Jake said. Then he turned to his partner. “We should probably check with Border Patrol and take a look at his statement, too.”
He turned back to Brian. “You’re pretty sure that Jonathan Southard is the guy?”
Brian nodded.
“Any leads on where he went?”
“Since he came here to take out his mother, there’s some concern that his next stop might be Ohio. That’s where his father lives. I spoke to Hank Southard a little while ago. He says there’s some mistake. His son wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Right,” Abernathy said. “That’s what relatives always say.”
Brian had made a stack of copies of Jonathan Southard’s driver’s license photo. Jake Abernathy noticed them for the first time. “What are those?” he asked.
“Copies of Southard’s photo,” Brian said. “I was going to have a deputy take them out to the airport. That way, if he tries to get on a plane, people there will know to keep an eye out for him.”
“Good thinking,” Abernathy said. “Why don’t you do that?”
Why not indeed! Brian thought. He could have refused. He could have told Jake that he should send a deputy instead, but Brian didn’t believe in confrontation for confrontation’s sake. As far as Brian was concerned, a phone call to Homeland Security was probably also in order, just in case Southard was trying to head out of the country, but that was no longer his call to make.
“Sure thing,” he said, tapping the stack of photos. “Glad to be of service. I’ll drop these off on my way home.”
Sonoita, Arizona
Sunday, June 7, 2009, 12:00 p.m.
79º Fahrenheit
It was close to noon when Diana and Brandon left June Holmes’s house. With the summertime sun blazing down on them, Brandon overrode his wife’s veto. He closed the convertible top and turned the AC to high for the ride back to Tucson.
“Did you get what you needed?” Diana asked.
Brandon sighed. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I know what she told me, but I don’t know how much of it to believe. What about you? When you came inside, you looked upset. Are you all right?”
Diana considered his question for some time before she answered it. “No,” she said at last. “I don’t think I’m all right at all.”
Brandon looked at her nervously. “Why?” he asked. “What’s wrong? Are you sick? Do you need to go to the doctor?”
“Because I’m seeing things,” she replied. “I’m seeing people who aren’t there—dead people. I talk to them. They talk to me. They tell me things.”
“What people?”
“Garrison Ladd,” she answered after another long pause. “Andrew Carlisle. My father. All those people from my past that I don’t want to see keep showing up uninvited.”
“How long has this been going on?” Brandon asked.
She noticed that he didn’t try to talk her out of it. He didn’t tell her she was wrong or that she was making things up. Obviously he believed her.
“Several months,” she said. “It started while I was trying to finish the book. It was like they ganged up on me. Is that what happens with Alzheimer’s patients?” she asked. “Is that what happened to your father? Or is this some other kind of dementia? I suppose I should have gone to a doctor, but . . .”
Her voice trailed away. Even though that was what Brandon had been thinking—what he’d been worried about all along—it took his breath away to have the word spoken aloud like that between them, and he understood all too well why she hadn’t wanted to discuss it with anyone, most especially not with her husband.
“I don’t know,” Brandon said. “I don’t think anybody knows everything about those kinds of issues. They’re complicated and not easily sorted out.”
Diana nodded. “I know how much dealing with your father bothered you, and I don’t want to put you through that kind of thing again. I had been thinking about going out in a blaze of glory—of taking this out for a drive and running it off a cliff somewhere. That’s what my invisible friends all think I should do, but not you. Right?”
“You’re right,” he answered at once. “Not me.” He thought about what she had said then asked, “Is that why you want to sell this?” He patted the Invicta’s steering wheel.
Diana nodded again. “That’s why. I knew you wouldn’t want me to do it. I thought getting rid of the car would get rid of the temptation.”
Brandon Walker took a deep breath. Diana’s mental lapses were exactly what he had feared for days, weeks, and months, but now that they were talking about all this—now that it was out in the open—it didn’t seem so bad. His father and mother had learned to cope. He and Diana would, too.
He reached across the seat and put his hand on Diana’s shoulder. “If that turns out to be what this is, it’s pretty damned grim,” he said. “But I also remember the vow I made—for better or for worse, in sickness and in health. If Alzheimer’s is what worse means, then I’m in for the whole ride and so is the Invicta. Even if I have to hide the keys.”
Diana swallowed hard and nodded. By then nodding silently was all she could do. Her voice was stuck in her throat.
“Even toward the last, when my father barely knew up from down, he loved to go for rides, and that’s what we’re going to do—with the top down whenever possible. You, me, and Damsel—the three of us together. You took care of me when I had bypass surgery, and I’m prepared to do the same for you. Got it?”
“Yes,” she managed.
“We’ll need to talk to the kids,” Brandon went on, taking charge and laying out a plan of action. “We’ll need to let them know what’s been going on and what we’re worried about. Davy can help us deal with the legal ramifications. And now that we’ve got a doctor in the family, maybe Lani can give us some advice on what’s happening these days as far as medications and care are concerned. All right?”
“All right,” Diana agreed.
“In the meantime,” Brandon said, “what are you doing this afternoon?”
“Nothing,” she said. “Why?”
“Then I’d like to invite you and Damned Dog here to take a day trip to Casa Grande. I believe I finally have
some answers for Geet Farrell, and I want to give them to him in person.”
Diana turned and looked in the backseat. She was relieved to see that Damsel was there—the dog and no one else.
“They’re gone,” she said. “The people who were here earlier are gone.”
“Good,” Brandon said. “They may come back, but if they do, let me know. You’re not in this alone any longer. They’ll have to deal with me, too.”
The idea of Max Cooper having to deal with Brandon Walker was something Diana had never considered before. For the first time in a long time she smiled and really meant it.
“Thank you,” she said. “Next time I see any of them, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
Tucson, Arizona
Sunday, June 7, 2009, 12:15 p.m.
90º Fahrenheit
Frustrated by being shut out of the investigation but with the photocopied license photo in hand, Brian was just leaving his desk to head home when his phone rang. Megan O’Rourke, Pima County’s chief CSI investigator, was on the line.
“I thought you’d want to know that we did find some brass cartridges,” she said.
“Great,” he said, “but I’ve been moved off the case. You should probably pass that information along to Jake Abernathy.”
“Believe me, God’s gift to women has already let us know that he’s taken charge of the case and also the universe,” Megan said with a laugh. “When I asked him about a related investigation in California, he laughed it off and allowed as how he’d let me know about it if and when the connection was verified. That’s why I’m calling you. Tell me about that other case.”
“Last night three homicides and a dead dog turned up shot to death in Thousand Oaks, California,” he said. “The victims had been dead for several days. We suspect it’s the same shooter. Let me give you the lead detective’s contact information.”
Once Brian was off the phone, he took the copies of Jonathan Southard’s head shot and set off for Tucson International Airport. When he arrived, two Pima County patrol cars were parked on the departing passenger driveway. That meant that the uniformed officers Brian had asked to be sent to the airport were still there and continuing to interface with the TSA officers at the passenger screening stations. Keeping a few copies of the photo for himself, he parked in the driveway and took the rest of the stack inside.