He probably has a Chevron and a Shell. Maybe a couple of others.'
'That's where we'll start then, with gas stations.'
They headed north on Swan, stopping at every gas station along the way where Brandon knew his father had a working credit card. They went west on Broadway and south again on Alvernon. At a Chevron station on Alvernon south of Twenty-second Street, they finally hit pay dirt. The young Mexican kid tending the pumps remembered To by Walker well.
Hey, man, I thought it was crazy. This guy comes in wearing pajamas and no shoes, driving a county car, and wanting to know how to get to Duluth. Where the hell is Duluth?'
'Minnesota,' Brandon said quietly.
'Duluth,' Maddern repeated. 'Why Duluth?'
'It's where he grew up. On a farm outside Duluth.'
The attendant thumbed through the credit-card receipts.
'Here it is. Tobias Walker. He took 15.9 gallons of premium and said something about a farm, about going there for dinner. He asked me how to get back over to 1-10, and I told him.'
I They drove to where Alvemon intersected with the freeway. 'Which way?' Walker asked. 'He's got plenty of gas. He could drive two hundred and fifty miles in either direction without having to stop for more.
'At least we know what to do now,' Maddern said.
'What's that?'
'Call the Highway Patrol. If your dad's out on the freeway, it's not just our problem anymore.'
Public transportation as known in the Anglo world was nonexistent on the reservation. Hitchhiking was the alternative.
As Fat Crack left Casa Grande for Sells late in the afternoon, he stopped for a hitchhiker just inside the reservation boundary. Fat Crack could tell from the way the man shambled after the truck that he was drunk, but he offered a ride anyway. 'Where to?'
'The Gate,' the man said. 'I just got outta jail, and I want to get drunk. It sure was bad in there.'
For an Indian, this was a talkative drunk. Fat Crack found himself hoping his rider would pass out and sleep until they reached Sells.
They drove past the turnoff to Ahngam. 'Do you know Eduardo Jose?' the rider asked.
Fat Crack nodded. Eduardo Jose's bootlegging exploits were legend.
'His grandson's sure in big trouble,' the man continued.
'They brought him in to the jail tins morrung. For raping and killing a white lady.'
'That's too bad,' Fat Crack told him.
They drove for several more miles in stony silence. Both of them knew full well that Indians who went to jail for raping white women didn't generally live long enough to see the inside of a courtroom, let alone a penitentiary.
'He bit her,' the man said much later. 'What kind of a sickness would make him do that?'
But a stunned Fat Crack didn't answer right away. 'You say he bit her?'
The man nodded. 'Her wipih,' he said. 'Her nipple.
Almost off. One of the deputies told a cook, who told some of the others.'
The hairs on the back of Fat Crack's neck stood erect under his gray Stetson. He had heard once before about someone who did that to women, a killer who bit off his victims' nipples. It had happened to Gina, his cousin.
Supposedly, Gina's killer was dead.
The cab of the tow truck was suddenly far too small, and the hot air blowing through the opened windows took Fat Crack's breath away.
Just as Looks At Nothing, despite his blindness, had known unerringly where to find the shady grove of uses, Fat Crack knew at once, despite the fact that Gary Ladd was dead, that there was some connection between this dead woman at Cloud Stopper Mountain and his cousin, found murdered in the charco of deserted Rattlesnake Skull Village seven years earlier.
Unable to do anything else about it, Fat Crack tightened his grip on the steering wheel, and he began to pray.
Diana must have slept. When she woke up, it was early evening. She dressed hurriedly and guiltily, worrying about what Davy was up to.
She found him on the living-room couch. She could see his head over the back of the couch and see Bone's long, curving tail sticking out from in front of it.
'Are you hungry?' she asked, pausing in the doorway.
Davy didn't look up. He was working on something in his lap, staring down intently, lips pursed, shoulders hunched, brow furrowed.
'What are you doing?' Diana asked when he didn't answer.
She walked up to him and peered down over his shoulder.
His lap was full of whitened yucca leaves. In his hand was the small awl Rita had given him for his birthday.
