Kiss of the Bees

“That’s why you burned me, isn’t it?” she said. Her voice seemed very small. In the emptiness of the darkened cave, it was hardly more than a whisper. “You did it for him.”

“So maybe you aren’t so dumb after all. This way your mother is bound to make the connection, but there won’t be any tooth impressions for someone to take to court the way there were with Andy.”

Andy. It was hard for her to comprehend that word. How could a person who was “Andy” to Mitch Johnson also be Andrew Carlisle, the monster who had frequented the stories of Lani Walker’s childhood? She had spent long winter evenings, snuggled in Rita’s lap, hearing the story again and again. Lani had loved hearing how two women, the priest, the boy, and the dog had overcome the wicked Mil-gahn man. Again and again Nana Dahd had told the powerful tale of how I’itoi had helped them defeat the enemy who was, at the same time, both Apachelike and not-Apache.

“I don’t suppose you ever met him,” Mitch continued. “You’re much too young. He was already in prison for the second time long before you were born, but if you had met him, I think you would have been impressed. To put it in terms you might understand—the Indian vernacular, as it were—I’d say he was a very powerful medicine man.”

Lani knew something about medicine men—especially about Looks At Nothing, who had been a friend of Rita’s. And Fat Crack Ortiz was a medicine man as well. Whatever powers they had weren’t used for evil or for hurting people. Mitch Johnson’s sarcastic remark burned through Lani’s fear and changed it to anger, like a powerful magnifying glass focusing the rays of the sun to ignite a piece of paper.

“You can call him a medicine man if you like,” she said softly. “I call him ho’ok.”

“Ho’ok,” Mitch Johnson repeated. “What does that mean?”

“Monster,” Lani replied.

For a moment after she said it, there was no sound in the dark stillness of the cave, then there was a short hiccup followed by a hoot of raucous laughter.

Except it didn’t sound like laughter to Lani Walker. In the dark it reminded her of something else—of the rasping, unearthly, bone rattling sound a cornered javelina makes when it gnashes its teeth.

16

Now this is all that is known of Mualig Siakam. She was one of the greatest of all the medicine women in all the Land of the Desert People. She lived to be very, very old. And she taught some of her songs to a few men.

Some women tried to learn the songs, but the buzzing of the bees joined with the song in the heads of the women and made them afraid. Because they were afraid, the women would not let sleep come. Sleep was necessary in order to know all the powers which one does not see, and which are used in healing.

The Indians would take a new baby many miles to see Great Medicine Woman, and Mualig Siakam would sing over the baby. She would sing over it with the white feathers of goodness which would help guard its spirit from meanness. And she would feed the baby a little of the very fine white meal which would make its body strong.

But sometimes Great Medicine Woman would refuse to sing. Then the people knew there was no hope for the child.

If the people grew angry and tried to make Mualig Siakam sing over such a child, Great Medicine Woman would scold. She would ask them what right they had over Tash—the Sun—and Jeweth—the Earth—and all of I’itoi’s gifts. Then she would go into the dark inner room of her house, and the Pa- nahl—the bees—would begin to roar with anger.

When that happened, all the people—even Old Limping Man—would go away.

Alvin Miller wasn’t used to doing his work in front of a live audience, but that night the lab was jammed with onlookers. The Walkers were there along with Deputy Fellows and both detectives on the case, Leggett and Myers. At the last moment Sheriff Forsythe even showed up, probably summoned by Detective Myers.

“All right,” Forsythe said, looking around the room. “What exactly’s going on here?”

Brandon Walker looked at the man who had replaced him. “My daughter’s missing,” he said. “We’re afraid she may have been kidnapped.”

Forsythe glowered at Detective Myers. “Kidnapped. I thought you said this was a Missing Persons case. And what’s all this about bones?”

Miller came across the room and handed the papers over to the sheriff. “This set of prints matches individual prints we took off the collection of bones Deputy Fellows discovered out near the reservation yesterday afternoon as well as items from the break-in at the Walker residence last night that Detective Myers was called to investigate.”

Slipping on a pair of reading glasses, Bill Forsythe studied the report. “Quentin Walker,” he read aloud. Then he looked up at Brandon. “Your son?”

Brandon nodded. “I want you to call in the FBI,” he said.

“The FBI!” Forsythe exclaimed. “For a little domestic thing like this? Not on your life. Chances are your son and daughter were drinking or something, just the way Detective Myers said . . .”

Brandon turned to Alvin. “Do you still have that tape recorder here?”

Miller nodded. “Yes.”

“I want you to play the tape,” Brandon said.

“But I haven’t finished lifting—”

“Play it,” Brandon ordered. “That’s the only way they’re going to believe what we’re up against.”

A few seconds later, Lani Walker’s voice was playing to all the people crowded into the lab. “Quentin,” she was saying. “Quentin, Quentin, Quentin.”

“Your daughter?” Forsythe asked.