'Why don't you let me drive,' Brandon offered, motioning toward the far more powerful Galaxy. 'We'll make better time, especially if we use the lights.'
She wavered for a moment, vacillating between driving herself and accepting his offer of help.
'What did the doctor say?' Brandon pressed.
'That Davy will have to go on into Tucson for stitches.'
'See there? Let me drive. That way, you can take care of the boy.'
The detective's good sense overcame Diana Ladd's stubborn independence.
Without another word, she headed for his car.
Later, as the Ford roared down the highway, lights flashing overhead, Diana noticed she was still holding the partially full bottle of PineSol. She clearly remembered putting it down when she used the phone, but in her frantic rush to leave the house, she must have unconsciously picked it up again. As unobtrusively as possible, she slipped the offending bottle out of sight under the seat of the speeding Galaxy. Diana Ladd was upset, and she didn't want the detective to realize exactly how upset she was.
Fat Crack Ortiz owned the only gas station in Sells. He also owned the only tow truck. Consequently, he was the first member of Rita Antone's family to be notified of the accident on Kitt Peak Road.
After towing the demolished Jimmy back to the station, he hurried straight to the hospital. One of a handful of Christian Scientists on the reservation, Fat Crack subscribed to neither medical doctors nor medicine men, but he was prepared to be open-minded as far as other people's beliefs were concerned.
As soon as he turned up in the emergency-room lobby, one of the nurses, Effie Joaquin, recognized him. 'Is it serious?' he asked.
Effie nodded. 'It sure is. She's ruptured her spleen and broken some ribs and one arm. There may be other internal injuries as well. She went into cardiac arrest in the ambulance. Do you want to see her before she goes into surgery?'
'If I can,' Fat Crack said.
The nurse ushered him into the emergency room. Rita, looking pale and shrunken, lay on a gurney with an IV bag draining into her flaccid right arm. The other arm was swathed in bulky, bloody bandages. He walked over to the gurney and bent close to Rita's head.
'Ni-thahth?' he whispered gently in her ear, speaking the traditional words for his mother's elder sister.
Her eyes fluttered open, darted around wildly for a moment, then settled on his face. 'Ni-mad,' she returned.
'Nephew.'
'I will pray for you,' he said, reaching out and touching her grasping fingers, feeling his own power flowing into her. His auntie did not believe according to his rights, but Fat Crack's faith was strong enough for both of them.
'Olhoni,' she whispered.
Her nephew had not heard the name before. At first he didn't understand what she was saying, He thought she was still worried about the spooked steer that had caused the accident.
'He's fine,' Fat Crack reassured her. 'You didn't hit him at all.'
Rita shook her head impatiently and wet her parched lips. 'The boy,' she said. 'Davy. He's outside. Stay with him. Until his mother comes.'
'Sure, Ni-thahth,' he told her. 'I will see that he isn't left alone.'
Rita's eyes closed then as Effie came to get the gurney.
'The operating room is ready now,' she said. 'You'll have to wait outside.'
'Yes,' Fat Crack said. 'I will wait.'
Myrna Louise fixed her son a quick dinner of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast, washed down with a tumbler of her own rotgut vodka, then she showed him into the tiny second bedroom.
'Jake's clothes are still in the closet there,' she said. 'I haven't gotten around to calling Goodwill to come pick them up. Maybe some of it will fit.'
Andrew Carlisle waited until his mother left the room and closed the door behind her before he hurried over to the bed. He groaned with disappointment. Three large selfaddressed envelopes lay there on the chenille bedspread manuscript-sized envelopes-each address, written in his own clear hand, said Mr. Philip Wharton.
Damn! So none of the three so-called literary agents had had balls enough to take it. He ripped open the envelopes one by one. A copy of his manuscript, A Less Than Noble Savage, was in each, along with three separate form letters saying thanks, but no thanks. For obvious reasons, he hadn't used his old agent, but these jerks were treating him like a rank amateur.
Damn them all straight to hell anyway! Who the hell did they think they were, turning him down with nothing more than a form letter? Not even a personal note? They didn't know what they were missing-who they were missing but he'd show them.
Hands trembling with suppressed rage, he tore each of the rejection slips into tiny pieces and threw the resulting confetti into the garbage. Those stupid bastards didn't know good writing when they saw it. They were too busy selling the public on half-baked, vapid fantasy/mysteries written by limp-wristed creeps who never once bloodied their own hands.
What had Andrew Carlisle always drummed into his students' heads?
Write what you know. If you want to know how it feels to be a murderer, try choking the life out of something and see how hard it is, how much effort it takes, and see how you feel about it afterward.
