and bloody after I’itoi scalped them in punishment for betraying him, sat there soaking up the sun on their coal- black living wing tips.
The buzzards were alive and wanted to be alive. Suddenly, so did Rita. Olhoni still needed her. I’itoi did not.
Clawing her way, hand over hand, Rita scrambled down from the roof of the moving vehicle, fought her way back inside the ambulance until she stood peering curiously down at the shrunken form still strapped to the stretcher. For some time, she gazed dispassionately at the body, amazed by how terribly ancient that old woman seemed, by how worn and wrinkled and used-up she was, but not yet ready to be dead.
With a terrifying jolt, the electrical current passed through her body, hammering her heart awake once more, and she was home.
Andrew Carlisle took his time coming down the trail. He searched back and forth, combing the mountainside until he found the two empty beer cans they had dropped on the way up. No sense in leaving a set of identifiable fingerprints. He knew from what he’d learned in Florence that the chances of homicide cops finding a “stranger” assailant were slim as long as the stranger was reasonably smart and played it cool.
The waning afternoon sun scorched the ground around him. No one had yet ventured into the deserted rest- area parking lot by the time he returned to his victim’s car. He helped himself to another beer-still cold, thank God- and started the Toyota. He turned off the air-conditioning and drove down the freeway with the windows open, letting the hot desert air flow freely over his body. It was outside air. He was free.
Fortunately, there was plenty of gas in the car, so he didn’t have to stop before he got to Phoenix. He drove straight to the Park Central Mall in Phoenix proper and parked in an empty corner of the lot. There, as afternoon turned to evening, he went through the woman’s purse and removed all the cash, over two hundred dollars’ worth. Beneath the seat he discovered a gun, a Llama.380 automatic. He had planned to take nothing that belonged to his victim, nothing that could tie him back to her, but the weapon was more temptation than he could resist. Trying to purchase a weapon if he wanted one later might cause people to ask questions. So he pocketed the gun.
Carefully, systematically, he went over every surface in the vehicle, wiping it clean of prints. Then he did the same to the beer cans and jewelry before he took them to a nearby trash can. The clothing he ditched in another can, this one at Thomas Mall on his way to the airport.
Sky Harbor was his last stop. Once there, he pulled into the long-term lot and took a ticket. One last time he wiped down everything he remembered touching since Park Mall-the door handle, steering wheel, gearshift, window knob, and keys. Then, placing the newly wiped keys back in the ignition, he got out of the car and walked away.
It was dark by then and much cooler. In the hubbub and hurry of the airport, no one noticed him walk away. It would be a five-mile hike to his mother’s new house in Tempe, but he wasn’t afraid of walking. In fact, walking that far would be a real treat.
Chapter 4
Around seven, Brandon Walker emerged from his cubicle and ventured down the hallway hoping to bum a cigarette and some company from Hank Maddern in Dispatch.
“Who knows. .” Brandon began by way of greeting, walking up behind the dispatcher’s back.
“. . what evil lurks in the hearts of men?” Maddern finished without turning. Both men laughed.
The intro to the old radio show
Sheriff DuShane, reelected over and over by comfortable margins, had himself one hell of a political machine, to say nothing of a lucrative handle on graft and corruption. One outraged deputy had printed up and distributed a bumper sticker that said, SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL SHERIFF. GET A MASSAGE. He had been all too right; he was also no longer a deputy.
DuShane may have been crooked, but he was also nobody’s fool. He knew the value and necessity of real cops to do the real jobs. That’s where the Shadows came in. They did all the work, got none of the glory, and most of them wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Hank Maddern, who had reigned supreme in Dispatch for more than ten years, held the dubious honor of being the most senior Shadow. He worked nights because he preferred working nights.
“Hey, Hank, got a smoke?” Brandon asked.
Maddern pulled a crumpled, almost-empty pack from his breast pocket and tossed it across the counter. “Didn’t quit smoking, just quit buying?”
“I’ll even up eventually,” Brandon said, shaking out the next-to-last cigarette.
“Right. You working on a case or hiding out?” Hank Maddern knew some of what went on in Brandon Walker’s home life because he often fielded Louella Walker’s calls.
“Hiding out,” Brandon admitted, breathing the smoke into his lungs. “Too bad it’s so quiet.”
“Give it time. It’s Friday. Things’ll heat up.”
As if on cue, the switchboard buzzed, and Maddern picked up the line. Brandon, with the cigarette dangling almost forgotten between his fingers, lounged against the counter. He gazed off into space, letting his mind go blank. He wasn’t ready to go back to his cubicle, and he sure as hell wasn’t ready to go home.
Maddern, listening intently on his headset, made a series of quick notes. “What was that name again? L-A- D-D, first name Diana?”
Immediately, Brandon Walker’s attention was riveted on Maddern. Even after six years, Diana Ladd’s name was one he remembered all too well. What was going on with her now?
“The boy’s name is David,” Maddern continued. “Yeah, I’ve got that, and you’re Dr. Rosemead? Repeat that number, Dr. Rosemead, and the address, too.”
Maddern reviewed his notes as the doctor spoke, verifying the information he had already been given.
“Sure,” he said. “I understand, it’s not life-threatening, but you’ve got to talk to the mother. Right. We’ll get someone on it right away. You bet. No problem.”
He dropped the line and reached for the duty roster, running his finger down the list, checking the availability of cars and deputies.
“What’s going on?” Brandon asked.
“Car accident. Out on the reservation. A kid’s been hurt, but not seriously. Needs a few stitches is all. Unfortunately, they took him out to the Indian Health Service in Sells. The doc there can’t lift a finger because the kid’s an Anglo. They’ve tried reaching the mother by phone. Ma Bell says the line’s off hook.”
“I’ll go,” Brandon Walker offered at once.
“You? How come? You’re Homicide. I already told you, the kid’s not hurt bad.”
“I’ll go,” Walker insisted.
“You really don’t want to go home, do you? But don’t bother with this. I’ve got a car out by Gates Pass right now.”
“Gates Pass?” Brandon said. “Doesn’t she still live in Topawa?”
Maddern did a double take. “You know the lady?”
Walker nodded grimly. “From years ago.”
“If you want to take her the bad news, then, be my guest,” Maddern continued. “But the address they gave me doesn’t say Topawa. It’s out by Gates Pass somewhere. The telephone number is a Tucson exchange.”
The dispatcher scribbled the phone number and address on another slip of paper and handed it over to Brandon just as the switchboard lit up again. Maddern turned to answer it, waving Brandon away. “Later,” he said.
Brandon Walker didn’t return to his cubicle. Instead, he hurried directly out to the parking lot where his unmarked Ford Galaxy waited. It was almost dark, but the temperature inside the closed vehicle was still unbearably hot. Before leaving the lot, Walker rolled down all the windows. Switching on the air-conditioning was pointless since it didn’t work. Repairs on grunts’ cars got shunted to the bottom of the priority list when it came to
