Myrna Louise saw Andrew turn away from the door, shaking his head in disgust with his mouth twisted into an angry grimace. He was coming back to the car, madder than ever. Seeing him like that scared her, and that’s when she decided not to wait.

  The keys were there, the engine already running. So what if she didn’t know how to drive a car? She had been riding in them for sixty years. She had seen other people do it, hadn’t she?

  Sliding across the bench seat, she peered nearsightedly down at the gearshift and read the letters: P. R. N. D. L. The car was stopped and the needle pointed to P. That probably meant Park, she theorized. R would mean Reverse, D Drive, and L Low. Maybe she should start out in that, Low.

  Cautiously, she moved the gearshift to L, and then put a tentative foot on the gas. The engine raced. The car rocked in place, but it didn’t move forward. Something was wrong. Then she remembered—the emergency brake. Jake had always talked about the importance of using the emergency brake.

  Without letting up on the gas, she released the hand brake. At once, the Valiant crashed forward into the gate, breaking the lock, knocking the gate itself loose from its hinges. She glanced in Andrew’s direction. The noise had alerted him, and he was coming after her, running hard. Frightened now, desperate to get away, she shoved the gearshift to R, and found herself backing up at a terrifying speed. She tried turning the steering wheel, but the car went in exactly the opposite direction of what she intended. She heard rather than saw the dumpster crumple under the weight of the Valiant’s rear bumper.

  Andrew vaulted forward. Almost at the car, he reached out to grasp the door handle. Myrna Louise had never before seen such looks of unmasked fury distorting her son’s face. What would he do to her if he caught her? Not waiting to find out, she shoved the gearshift needle over to D—D for Drive, D for Disappear—hit the gas pedal, and took off. She never looked back.

  Slowing but not stopping at the intersection, she made it into traffic on Alvernon only because three other alert drivers managed to dodge out of her way.

  It served Andrew right, Myrna Louise thought, gripping the steering wheel for all she was worth and seesawing it back and forth. Sons should never talk to their mothers that way, no matter what!

  Fat Crack arrived at the hospital in Sells and found Rita sitting in a wheelchair on the front sidewalk. “Are you ready to go?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I didn’t like it in there. I didn’t want to wait inside.”

  Actually, knowing his aunt’s opinion about Mil-gahn doctors, Fat Crack was surprised she had stayed put in the hospital for as long as she had. His mother had told him that ever since returning from California, Rita had adamantly refused to visit an Anglo doctor for any reason. She would have done the same thing after the accident, too, but arriving unconscious by ambulance made refusing admission impossible.

  Fat Crack helped his aunt into the truck. She winced at the high step necessitated by the tow truck’s running board. “How are you?” he asked.

  “All right, but the cast is heavy, and my arm aches.”

  “I’ll try not to hit too many bumps,” Fat Crack told her. “We have to stop in Crow Hang to see about the singers. Are you sure you want to start with that tonight? Wouldn’t it be better to wait until you’ve rested some more?”

  “No,” Rita said. “Tonight will be fine.”

  At Hawani Naggiak, Crow Hang Village, Fat Crack left Rita in the truck while he went to negotiate with the singers. Rita leaned her head back against the cab window and closed her eyes. She felt weak and tired. She hadn’t felt this weak since that long-ago time in California when she got so sick.

  Late that September morning when she jumped off the freight train in Redlands, she asked directions and walked the eight miles out of town to the Bailey orange farm. She didn’t know what else to do. Telling everyone she was going to meet her brother was fine as far as it went, but the truth was, she didn’t have a brother. Gordon Antone was Louisa’s brother. He didn’t know Dancing Quail at all. Still, he was someone with a name, someone who would speak her language, and maybe, if she asked him, he really would help her find a job.

  The sun was going down when she finally found her way to the right ranch. The people she saw working there were mostly Mexicans. When she tried asking them about Gordon Antone, they didn’t understand either English or Papago.

  Almost ready to give up, she tried speaking English to a young Mil-gahn child. As soon as she asked about an Indian, he grinned and nodded. “Sure,” he said. “You must mean the chief. He’s working in the toolshed.” He pointed off toward a small outbuilding. “Over there.”

  Dancing Quail found Gordon Antone bent over a file, sharpening the edge of a hoe. He looked up as she stepped into the doorway, blocking out the sunlight and turning the place into dusty gloom.

  “Are you the one they call Chief?” she asked, speaking softly in Papago.

  “Heu’u,” he replied. “Yes.”

  Gordon Antone put down the hoe and file. The figure silhouetted in the doorway was that of a young male, but the voice definitely belonged to a female. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “A friend of your sister’s, of Louisa’s. She said if I came here, you might help me find a job.”

  “You know Louisa? But she’s in Phoenix. How did you get here?”

  “On the train,” Rita replied simply. “Last night. I ran away.”

  “You came all that way alone? From Phoenix?”

  “I rode the freight train with some others.”

  Gordon got up and walked over to the doorway so he could see her better. “What is your name?”

  “My people call me Dancing Quail, but the Mil-gahn call me Rita, Rita Antone.”

  “Your name is the same as mine.”

  Now that she was here, talking to Gordon, she could tell he was someone who was easy to talk to. Just being with him made her feel much better. His saying that made her laugh.

  “Yes,” she said. “We share the same name. I told the men on the train that you were my brother.”

  With her hair cut short, dressed in a boy’s clothing, and grimy from travel, Dancing Quail was still a very beautiful young woman. For Gordon Antone, far from home and missing his family and friends, the real miracle was finding another person who spoke his own language. That made her more than beautiful.

  “Not your brother,” Gordon Antone said, “but I will be glad to be your friend.”

  At least Andrew Carlisle didn’t lose his head. He was furious with Myrna Louise, outraged was more like it, but he had sense enough to melt into the background before all hell broke loose. The owner of the El Camino charged out of an apartment across the street and looked up and down the road in both directions, but by then Myrna Louise had disappeared around the corner.

  When the U-Stor-It-Here manager showed up a few minutes later, cops were already on the scene taking their reports. Carlisle chose that momentary confusion to reappear, walk past everyone, and head for his locker. Despite the stifling heat, he went inside his unit and closed the door. He had to think, to plan.

  By now he had opened the envelope and suspected that Myrna Louise had also opened it, damn her straight to hell. So what the fuck was she thinking when she grabbed the car and took off like that? he wondered. Would she turn him in? No, that didn’t seem likely. Would she know what he was up to? Maybe, maybe not. That was a tough call. After all, she was his mother, and mothers often refuse to believe bad things about their precious darlings no matter how convincing the evidence.

  No, she probably wouldn’t turn him in, but would she try to stop him? Damn her, she had already done that, just by taking the car. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Did she think he’d just give up? Not bloody likely. Go after her and get the car? How could he? For one thing, where would she go? Home, probably, if she could make it that far. He doubted it. The Valiant seemed to be pretty much on its last legs.

  Actually, the more he thought about it, the more he decided it was just as well Jake Spaulding’s car was gone. He’d have to get a new one, and that might be inconvenient at the moment, but for what he was planning, he couldn’t risk using an undependable vehicle. No, what he needed was a new car. Not necessarily brand new, but certainly different—“reliable transportation,” as they say in car dealer’s parlance. Once he had another vehicle, he’d figure out some way to make his plan work anyhow. Not only for Diana Ladd, but also for Myrna Louise. As of now, she was on his list twiceover.

  It pissed him off that she’d got away clean like that, but he’d get even for that eventually. His main problem now was one of time. How long before she would open the trunk and discover what was in it? If she did that, maybe she’d turn him in after all. He’d have to move forward, probably a whole lot faster than planned.

  Standing there waffling back and forth, he was startled by a knock on the door. His heart went to his throat. Damn! The gun was still in the car along with Myrna Louise.

  “Yes?” he called.

  “Police,” a voice answered.

  His hands trembled as he went to open the door. As soon as he did so, he shoved his hands in his pockets. The two uniformed cops he had seen earlier stood outside, both holding clipboards.

  Carlisle concentrated on keeping his voice neutral and calm. “What seems to be the trouble, Officer?”

  “We’re investigating the broken gate,” one of them said. “A car smashed through it. Next it took off and bashed the El Camino across the street. You came not long after that. Did you happen to see anything out of the ordinary?”

  Carlisle shook his head. “Nope,” he said. “I didn’t see a thing.”

  The cops apologized for disturbing him and left. It took a while for his breathing to settle back down, to get his mind back to the problem at hand. First and foremost, he thought, he had to have another car.

  Focused on solving that one problem, he prepared to leave his storeroom, but first he rummaged around until he found the bulky box that contained not only his first draft of Savage, but Garrison Ladd’s manuscript as well. It was a good thing that hotshot detective had never found either one. Carrying the box, he locked the door and walked toward the street. The cops waved to him as he passed, but that was all. They didn’t really notice him, and he was careful to do nothing that would attract their attention.

  In his search for Andrew Carlisle’s mother, Detective Farrell had struck out completely. The apartment complex in Peoria where Myrna Louise Taylor had been living at the time of her son’s trial was such a transient place that it turned out to be a total dead end. She had evidently moved on from there more than three years earlier. The manager had been on duty for only six months. The complex’s group memory didn’t stretch back any further than that.

  Stymied and discouraged, Farrell trudged back to his car where the steering wheel, door handles, and seats were all too hot to touch. He turned on the car’s air-conditioning full blast, but it made very little headway. Gingerly fingering the controls on his radio, he called in to check for messages.

  There were several, but the only one he paid any attention to was from Ron Mallory. The assistant superintendent at the Arizona State Prison was anxious to keep his cushy job. He was doing everything possible to cooperate with Farrell’s investigation.

  Instead of heading straight out of town, Farrell drove to Metro Center, the nearest air-conditioned mall, and went inside to use a pay phone. “What’s up?” he asked when he finally had Ron Mallory on the line.

  “I’ve got a name for you,” Mallory said. “I had to ask more than once, but when I finally got his attention, Carlisle’s ex-cellmate came up with his mother’s new last name, Spaulding. It was something else before that. She remarried a year or two ago.”

  “Anything else besides last name? Location maybe? Husband’s first name?”

  “Sorry. The last name was all I could dredge out of this guy. I was lucky to get that much.”

  “You’re right,” Farrell agreed. “It is progress. I can’t expect the whole case to be handed to me on a silver platter.”

  Myrna Louise made it home in one piece. That in itself was no small miracle. She got the hang of steering fairly well, although she tended to run over curbs going around corners. Her worst problem was keeping steady-enough pressure on the gas pedal. She constantly sped up and slowed down. For the last sixty miles, she held her breath for fear of running out of gas. She didn’t dare go to a gas station and turn off the motor. What if she couldn’t get it started again? All she could think of was how much she wanted to be home, safe in her own little house.

  If God got her home all in one piece, she promised, she’d never ask him to do anything for her again.

  Chapter 18

  AS DIANA AND Davy returned home from San Xavier, Fat Crack’s tow truck was parking in the front drive. Diana was momentarily concerned about the presence of a strange vehicle, but Davy was ecstatic when he caught sight of Rita. He was ready to leap from the car well before it stopped.

  “Be very gentle with her, Davy,” Diana cautioned. “She had surgery, you know. She has stitches, too.”

  “On her head?”

  “No, on her tummy.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Davy promised, scurrying toward the truck. Reaching the door just as Fat Crack handed Rita down, Davy stopped short, daunted at first by the huge Indian’s presence. Then, remembering who the man was, he stepped forward. “Hi,” he said shyly to Fat Crack.

  Davy’s first instinct was to throw himself at Rita, but remembering his mother’s warning, he hung back until Rita raised her good arm and beckoned him to her. He hugged her gingerly around the waist while she patted the top of his head. The gesture activated his “On” switch. With a grin, he jumped away from her and pointed to the shaved spot on his head.

  “See my stitches?” he boasted. “How many do you have? Can I see them?”

  Rita smiled and shook her head. “No, you can’t see them, and neither can I. I’m too fat.” She laughed, and so did Fat Crack.

  During this exchange, Fat Crack pulled several loaded hospital-issue plastic bags from the truck. “I’ll take these inside,” he said.

  Fat Crack went on ahead. Rita limped after him with Davy holding tightly to her good hand. Diana waited at the front door, holding it open. “Welcome home,” she said.

  “Thank you.”

  There was a strange formality between the two women, as though neither knew quite how to behave in the presence of Rita’s blood kin. “Do you want him to take your things out back?” Diana asked.

  Rita nodded. “I’ll go, too. I want to rest.”

  Davy started to follow her, but Diana called him back. “You and the dog go outside and play,” she said. “Rita’s tired.”

  His face fell in disappointment, but Rita came to Davy’s rescue. “It’s okay. They can both come along. I missed them.”

  Despite DuShane’s ass-chewing, Brandon still hung around the office. He wanted to be there in case his mother called, and he didn’t want to miss any messages from Geet Farrell. He took the time to read the Arizona Sun cover to cover, including both the brief account of Toby Walker’s ill-fated joy-riding incident, and the much longer front-page article about the brutal stabbing of Johnny Rivkin, a well-known Hollywood costume designer, knifed to death in his downtown Tucson hotel room.

  Brandon read about the bloody Santa Rita murder with a professional’s interest in what was going on, to see what his competition at Tucson PD was doing on the case. He routinely read about homicides committed in the city in case something in the killer’s MO coincided with one of his unsolved county cases. In this instance, nothing rang a bell.

  Several times he was tempted to call Diana Ladd to check on how she was doing, but each time he reconsidered. He’d been summarily thrown out of the woman’s house both times he’d been there. She wasn’t exactly keeping the welcome mat out for him. Brandon Walker knew he was a dog for punishment, but Diana Ladd dished out more abuse than even he was willing to take.

  Every time he thought about that exasperating woman, he shook his head. He wanted so much to make her see reason, to help her understand the error of her ways. It was crazy for her to hole up in that isolated fortress of hers and wait for disaster to strike. Supposing her idea did work. Supposing Andrew Carlisle showed up, and she somehow managed to blow him away. What would happen then? Maybe Carlisle would be dead; but so might she. Whatever the outcome, Walker was convinced an armed confrontation would irreparably harm Davy.

  Diana didn’t realize that her son was a fragile child, Brandon decided. Women always thought their male offspring tougher than they were in actual fact. Davy needed something from his mother, something he wasn’t getting. Brandon couldn’t tell quite what it was, but he sat there thinking about it, wishing he could help.

  Gradually, as time passed, a plan began to form in his mind. He would help, after all, whether or not Diana Ladd wanted him to, whether or not she even knew it. As soon as Brandon got off work that afternoon, he would take the county car home, borrow his mother’s, stop by the hospital long enough to check on his parents, and then head out for Gates Pass. He’d lie in wait outside Diana’s house all night long if necessary. If Andrew Carlisle actually showed up out there, he’d run up against something he didn’t expect—an armed cop rather than some wild-eyed latter-day Annie Oakley packing a loaded .45.

  In fact, the more Brandon Walker thought about the idea, the better he liked it. As a cop, he had behaved responsibly in doing what he could to talk Diana Ladd out of her foolhardy scheme. But since she was too hardheaded to give up, Walker would use her as a magnet to draw Andrew Carlisle to him. Diana might be the tender morsel necessary to lure Carlisle into the snare, but Brandon Walker would be the steel-jawed trap.

  * * *

  Diana went into the kitchen to fix herself a glass of iced tea. The one dusty box she had carried in from the root cellar still sat on the kitchen table. Diana looked at the box and sighed. “There’s no time like the present,” she said aloud, quoting one of Iona’s old maxims.