Hour of the Hunter, page 25
Practicing biofeedback, a trick they’d taught him in the Joint, Carlisle managed to get his breathing back under control. Don’t get mad—get even, he told himself. That was the secret.
Finally, with the embryo of a plan forming in his head, he got up and went over to the dresser. Deliberately, he felt along the front of it until he found a loose piece of fascia board. He tugged at it until it broke off in his hands, then he went out into the living room still carrying the broken piece. He walked past his mother, who had not yet moved from her rocker.
“Where are you going?” She asked the question mechanically, strictly out of habit, even though she didn’t want to. She had no need to know where her son was going or what he would do, but she was unable to change a lifetime’s worth of asking.
“To the lumberyard,” he said. “I need some glue. A piece of wood broke off the dresser in my room.”
Away from the house, away from her, he was able to think more clearly. He bought the glue for the dresser. He also bought some caulking compound and a caulking gun. He told the man at the check stand that he was installing a tub in an add-on bathroom.
By the time he came back home, Andrew Carlisle was his old self again, his old charming self.
“Sorry I was so upset earlier, Mama,” he said. “It’s not that big a deal, really. Besides, you’re right. It probably wasn’t all that good a book in the first place.”
“You’re not mad at me anymore?”
“No,” he lied. “Not at all. How about going out to dinner? We could go someplace special, for a steak or whatever you like.”
Myrna Louise’s eyes lit up. She was always game for going out to dinner. “I really like that place over in the shopping center,” she said. “Lulubelle’s or whatever. They have good ribs.”
“That settles it,” her son told her with an easy smile. “That’s where we’ll go then, and tomorrow, if you like, we could ride down to Tucson together. I have a few more errands to run. It’s a long drive. It would be fun to have some company.”
Late in the afternoon, Diana and Davy drove out to Sells. Right after they arrived, Diana took Davy around to the side of the building and held him up so he could speak to Rita through the open window. Then, warning him not to talk to anyone else in her absence, Diana left him in the lobby and went down the hall to Rita’s room.
“Davy sure looks good,” Rita said. “The cut on his head isn’t too bad?”
“No. It’s fine. He’s proud of all his stitches.”
The two women were quiet for a moment. Over the years, they had spent so much time alone together that long silences between them were not unusual. There was nothing in the older woman’s placid countenance to warn Diana that a storm was coming.
“My nephew was here earlier,” Rita said at last. “He came to give me some news.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“Carlisle.”
At the sound of the name, Diana’s heart caught in her throat. “What about him?”
“He’s out.”
“When?”
“Friday. Already he has killed again.”
“No. Are you serious?”
Rita nodded. “Fat Crack told me. They have arrested an Indian, but it was Carlisle who did it. He bit her.”
“My God,” Diana breathed. “I’ll have to get in touch with Detective Walker right away and let him know.”
“No,” Rita said. “Detective Walker already tried with Carlisle, and he failed. Gina is dead. Your husband is dead, and now Carlisle is free. We will not give Detective Walker another chance.”
“What are you saying?” Diana asked. She knew what Rita was thinking, but she didn’t dare put it into words.
“I remember what he said in the hallway,” Rita continued slowly. “When the deputy’s back was turned and when he thought no one else was looking. He said he would come for you, for us. Let him.”
“Let him? Do nothing and wait for him to come after us?”
Rita nodded. “That’s right. I have one very old friend who is a powerful medicine man. He and my nephew will help us.”
An involuntary shiver ran up and down Diana’s spine. “You’re saying we should take care of Carlisle ourselves?”
“Yes.”
“But how can we when we don’t even know where he is?”
“He will come to us. We must let him.”
“And then what?”
Rita considered her words carefully before she spoke. “The Tohono O’odham only kill to eat or in self-defense. If Carlisle comes after us, then it is self-defense, isn’t it?”
It wasn’t as though Rita Antone was attempting to talk Diana Ladd into something she had never considered on her own. Selling the idea wasn’t necessary. For almost seven years now, Diana had longed to throttle Andrew Carlisle with her bare hands.
“How do we find him?” Diana asked.
“We don’t,” Rita answered. “Windmill doesn’t go looking for Wind Man. Neither will we. While we wait for him to come, we have much to do.”
Chapter 14
IT IS SAID that long ago a young woman from the Desert People fell in love with a young Hiakim, a Yaqui, and went to live with his family far to the south. The mother of the girl, Old White-Haired Woman, loved her daughter very much and missed her. Every evening she would go out to the foothills and call to her daughter’s spirit, and every night there was an answer. One night, though, she heard nothing.
That night she went to her husband and said, “My daughter needs me. I must go to her.”
Her husband, who was also old and lame besides, shook his head. “You are a bent old woman, and the Hiakim live far from here. How will you find your way?”
“The Little People will help me,” she said. So the next morning she got up and called to Ali Chu Chum O’odham, the Little People, in their own language, for Old White-Haired Woman still remembered how to speak to them. As soon as they heard her call, the animals came right away.
“What do you want, Old Mother?” the Little People asked.
“My daughter’s spirit is calling me from far away in the land of the Hiakim. I must go to her, but I am old and do not know the way.”
“We will help you, Old Mother. We will help you go to your daughter.”
And so the birds brought Old White-Haired Woman seeds and grain to eat along the way. The bees brought her honey, and Coyote, who had once been in the land of the Hiakim, guided her footsteps. After many, many days, they reached the village where Old White-Haired Woman’s daughter lived with her husband and her baby, but the bent old woman found that her daughter was very sick.
“Mother,” the girl told Old White-Haired Woman, “my husband’s people are waiting for me to die so they can take my baby off into the mountains and teach him to be a warrior. I want you to take him back home to the Tohono O’odham, so he can grow up to be kind and gentle. You must leave tonight. Tomorrow will be too late.”
Old White-Haired Woman was tired and wanted to rest, but she knew her daughter was right. Late that day, she loaded the baby into her daughter’s burden basket and went through the village, this way and that, so people would think she was gathering wood. Then, when she was out of sight, she started back north.
Once more the Little People came to help her, but the next morning she could hear that a band of Hiakim warriors were following her trail. When they were almost upon her, she called out to I’itoi for help. He sent a huge flock of shashani, blackbirds, who flew around and around the Yaqui warriors’ eyes until they could see nothing. Meanwhile, I’itoi led Old White-Haired Woman and her grandson into a wash that became a canyon. In this way, they went north toward the land of the Tohono O’odham.
But Old White-Haired Woman was very tired after her long journey. Finally, one day, she could go no farther. “I must stop here,” she said. So I’itoi took the boy the rest of the way home. When he came back, he found that the old woman’s feet had grown underground and all that was sticking up were two sticks of arms.
“You are a good grandmother,” I’itoi said. “You may stay here and rest forever, but once a year, you will be the most beautiful flower on the earth.” He touched the sticks. Wherever he put his fingers, beautiful white flowers grew. “Once each year,” I’itoi said, “during the night, Wind Man will be heavy with your perfume, but when the sun comes up in the morning, you will be gone.”
And that, nawoj, is the story of Old White-Haired Woman and the beautiful flower that the Mil-gahn call the night-blooming cereus. The Desert People call it kok’oi ’uw, which means ghost smell, or ho’ok-wah’o, which means witch’s tongs.
Brandon Walker never clocked in, but he worked all afternoon Sunday just the same. Trying to get a lead on Andrew Carlisle, he finally was put in touch with Ron Mallory, at home, taking the frustrated assistant superintendent away from his typewriter.
“My name is Brandon Walker,” he said by way of introduction. “I’m a homicide detective with Pima County.”
“What can I do for you, Detective Walker?” Mallory asked cordially enough, but all the while he was wondering who the hell had given this joker his home telephone number.
“I’m trying to locate Andrew Carlisle. Your records department couldn’t give me a current address.”
Carlisle! Mallory thought, alarm bells chiming in his bureaucratic, cover-thine-ass mentality. Carlisle had only got out on Friday, and somebody was already looking for him?
“He’s in Tucson somewhere,” Mallory answered. “I can probably have an address for you next week. What’s this all about?”
The slight hesitation in Walker’s answer alerted Mallory that everything wasn’t entirely as it should have been.
“I was the arresting officer on that case years ago,” Walker said. “I’m concerned about him being released into the same area where some of the witnesses still live. He may go after them.”
Mallory took a deep breath and used his shirtsleeve to wipe the beads of sweat that suddenly dotted his forehead. “Look, Detective Walker,” he said, all trace of cordiality disappearing. “Andrew Carlisle was an exemplary prisoner. He never made a bit of trouble. He was released after paying his debt to society for that particular crime. It sounds to me as though you’re out to harass the poor guy.”
“Harassment’s got nothing to do with it,” Brandon Walker countered. “I’m not the only one who’ll be looking for him.”
“What do you mean?”
“When they come asking,” Brandon added, “I’d have that address handy.”
He put down the phone and then sat there looking at it. He had wanted to have some solid information before he called Pinal County. He wondered how his information would be received once the homicide detectives knew it had been gleaned from some aging Indian medicine man over a ceremonial smoke of native tobacco.
Brandon had already looked up the phone number and even partially dialed it twice, hanging up each time before the connection was made. This time, he dialed and let it ring. When the call was answered, he asked to speak to the detective in charge of the Picacho Peak case. It was Sunday. Walker guessed correctly that the detective assigned to that case would be hard at work.
“Detective Farrell,” a voice said gruffly into the phone.
“My name’s Walker,” Brandon told him. “Detective Walker from Pima County, just down the road apiece.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m calling about your Picacho Peak case. I may have some relevant information.”
“Shoot.”
“I was the arresting officer years ago on a homicide that happened out near the reservation, the Papago. A young Indian woman was murdered. Two Anglos were the perpetrators.” Brandon Walker paused.
“So?” Farrell prodded.
“That case may be related to the new one.”
“What makes you think that?”
“The young woman’s breast was bitten. One nipple was completely severed.”
Walker could hear the other man shifting in his chair, sitting up straight, coming to attention. “Wait just a god-damned minute here!” Farrell exclaimed. “We haven’t released one particle of information about that. How the hell do you know about it?”
“That’s not important,” Brandon said. “How about if we meet and exchange information.”
“Where?”
“The coffee shop at the base of Picacho Peak. I’d like to look over the crime scene if I could.”
Farrell drew back. “That’s a little irregular. Are you working a case?”
“The bastard already went to prison for my case. At the time, most of the blame was passed along to somebody else who happened to be dead. Material evidence about the bite that would have linked this joker to that part of it mysteriously disappeared between the crime lab and the evidence room. It was never found again.”
Detective G. T. (Geet) Farrell was nobody’s dummy. “I see,” he said after a short pause. “You think this is the same guy, but because of double jeopardy, you can’t lay a glove on him for the other case.”
“You’ve got it.”
“I’ll meet you at Nickerson Farms in one hour,” Farrell said. “Bring everything you’ve got. We’ll compare notes.”
“Right,” Brandon Walker said. “I’ll be there.”
* * *
Coming back from visiting Rita in Sells with Davy asleep in the backseat, Diana Ladd pulled into the driveway of her house and felt a sudden knot of fear form in her stomach. For the first time, she was daunted by the isolation, by the vast distance—two miles or more—from her house to that of her nearest neighbor. It hadn’t seemed nearly so far with Andrew Carlisle locked safely away in prison, but now that he was out . . . Bone’s welcoming woof came from just inside the door. The sound made Diana feel much better.
Davy sat up. “We’re home already?” he asked.
“We’re home,” Diana told him, but without the internal thrill those words still sometimes gave her. Knowing Andrew Carlisle could come looking for her any time made the house seem less a refuge and more a trap—a trap or a battleground.
But then Andrew Carlisle had been a battleground from day one, from the moment she first heard his name. She had almost finished earning her bachelor’s degree by then. Carrying extra loads and going to summer school she had graduated only one semester late. Gary was eager to get out of Eugene. He said he was only keeping his promise about going elsewhere and starting over. She found out much later that he had nearly come to blows with his adviser over plagiarism in his dissertation. If he hadn’t left the University of Oregon voluntarily, he would have been thrown out.
Gary was the one who first heard about the creative-writing program being offered in Arizona. He claimed that a similar one being offered in Eugene wasn’t nearly as good. Both Diana and Gary had applied, but only one was accepted. Diana still smarted at Gary’s words the day the two matching envelopes came. They matched on the outside, but the contents differed. One said he was in while the other announced that she wasn’t.
“I guess there’s only going to be one writer in our family,” Gary had said with that infuriating grin of his, “and I’m it.”
Those words gnawed at her still, kept her tied to her desk when she ought to have been outside enjoying her child and her life. Later, when Gary learned how hurt she was over it and, more important, when he’d wanted her to find a job in Arizona to support them, he claimed it was all a joke, that he hadn’t meant a word of it. But that was after his parents learned about the canceled dissertation at the U. of O., after they cut their fair-haired boy off from any further financial aid.
And so, in the spring of 1967, Andrew Carlisle entered Diana’s and Gary’s lives—insidiously almost, like some exotic, antibiotic-resistant strain of infection that ordinary remedies don’t touch. Diana didn’t like the man from the moment she met him at that first faculty tea, the only one to which spouses were invited. She had wanted to be there as a full participant, not as some extraneous guest. She resented what she regarded as Professor Carlisle’s oily charm.
Gary, on the other hand, was captivated. Once classes started, that was all he could talk about—Professor Carlisle this and Professor Carlisle that. Sometime during that first semester, she couldn’t remember exactly when, the “Professor” part was dropped, first in favor of last name only and later in favor of “Andrew.”
Meanwhile, she found herself a job. Not in Tucson, where applicants outnumbered positions ten to one. She went to work in the boonies, teaching on the Papago for one of the most impoverished school districts in the entire country. The pay wasn’t all that bad, and the job did come with housing, a thirteen-by-seventy mobile home parked in the Teachers’ Compound at Topawa. It wounded Diana’s pride to be forced to accept company housing, but with Gary in school full time, every penny counted.
At first Gary carpooled into Tucson with two other students, but then, as his days got longer, as he came more and more under Carlisle’s spell, he bought himself a beater pickup so he could come and go as he liked.
Did Diana see trouble brewing? Did she read the writing on the wall? Of course not, she was too much her mother’s daughter, too busy maintaining a positive mental attitude in the face of mounting disaster, too busy believing that what Gary Ladd said was the gospel. Every once in a while, the smallest splinter of doubt might worm its way into her consciousness, but she ruthlessly plucked it out. Gary was working hard, she told herself. The stack of typewritten pages on his desk grew steadily taller, offering mute testimony about work on his manuscript. Besides, Diana had interests enough of her own to keep her occupied.
There weren’t any Indians living in Joseph, Oregon, when Diana was growing up. The Nez Perce had long since been exiled from their ancestral lands to the wilds of Oklahoma and back to a reservation in Idaho, but Diana had learned something about them in her reading, had discovered in books things about Chief Joseph and his loyal band of followers that would have given her father apoplexy. After all, to Max Cooper’s unenlightened way of thinking, the only good Indian was still a dead Indian.
