Hour of the Hunter

“You believe this to be true?” Looks At Nothing demanded.

Fat Crack stared up at the sky. Here was an undeniable answer to his earlier prayer for help. He hadn’t expected it to come this soon, and certainly not in the guise of an old, blind medicine man, but surely the connection he had felt that afternoon was here again and stronger than ever.

“Do you remember my cousin, Gina, Rita’s granddaughter?”

Looks At Nothing nodded. “The one who was murdered?”

“Yes, near the charco of old Rattlesnake Skull Village.”

“I remember.”

“There were two men involved, two Mil-gahn. One of them was the little boy’s father, Olhoni’s father. He committed suicide afterward. The other man went to jail.” Fat Crack paused briefly.

“Go on,” Looks At Nothing urged.

“One of the men bit off Gina’s wipih, her nipple. At the time it was said the dead man did it, that he was the one who bit her, but now I don’t believe it. The same thing has happened again, just yesterday, to another woman at the base of Cloud-Stopper Mountain.”

Both men were silent for some time, listening while the coyotes and dogs passed another series of greetings back and forth, sharing the night in a way not unlike the two men sharing their wild tobacco.

“Is it possible that the spirits of the dead Apaches invaded this Mil-gahn’s spirit, making him Ohbsgam, so he is Apachelike without being Apache?”

“Yes,” Looks At Nothing agreed, impressed by Fat Crack’s intuition. “Is it possible that this other man is out of jail?”

“After six years,” Fat Crack replied, “it’s possible.”

“We must find out.”

“I know the detective,” Fat Crack said. “I met him. He was with the boy’s mother when she came to the hospital last night. Perhaps he will help us.”

“You will speak to him at once,” Looks At Nothing ordered.

“All right,” Fat Crack nodded. “Tomorrow. When we go to see the priest, I will also speak to the detective.”

“Good,” the medicine man said. “That’s good.”

Evidently, the council was finished, because Looks At Nothing snuffed out his cigarette and stood up. “It is late. We should get some rest. Come for me at my camp beside the trees in the morning. We will go together to Chuk Shon.”

Fat Crack stood up as well. One of his feet had fallen asleep. He almost fell.

“Wait, old man. I’ll go get the truck and give you a ride.”

“No,” Looks At Nothing said. “Show me where the road is. I can find my way from there.”

They flew Toby Walker to Tucson Medical Center in a helicopter. Meanwhile, Hank Maddern and Brandon Walker tried to deal with the problem of the Pima County sheriff’s car. Initially, the Cochise County detectives were determined to impound it. Eventually, though, after a late-night sheriff-to-sheriff call, it was decided to let Brandon take it back to Tucson. Even when committed by an elderly father, joy-riding was, after all, nothing but a misdemeanor.

“This isn’t the last we’re going to hear about this,” Maddern warned as he helped siphon gas into the bone- dry Galaxy. “DuShane’s going to be pissed as hell about this, and he’ll make your life miserable. You’ll wind up directing traffic at the Pima County Fairgrounds before he’s through.”

Brandon thought about his unconscious father, helpless and strapped to the stretcher, being loaded into the waiting helicopter. The medics said it looked like a massive stroke.

“Let him do his worst,” Brandon said. “Who gives a shit?”

“Good boy,” Maddern told him. “Don’t let the turkeys get you down.”

Using siphoned gas, they got as far as Benson, where they filled up both vehicles. “You turn on your lights and get your ass to the hospital,” Maddern ordered. “I’ll pick up your mother on the way and meet you there as soon as we can.”

“Thanks,” Brandon said.

He appreciated having a little extra time before facing his mother. No doubt Louella Walker would take the position that her son had failed again, as usual. Regardless of what happened, Louella could always twist it into being his fault.

Brandon found Toby Walker in the intensive-care unit hooked up to a bank of machines. The doctor he spoke to was grave.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” he said. “The next twenty-four hours are critical. We’re dealing with not only a severe stroke, but also a severe sunburn. He’s badly dehydrated. What was your father doing out in the desert alone like that?”

“He was going to Duluth,” Brandon said.

“Duluth? That’s in Minnesota.”

“I know,” Brandon replied, “but that’s where he told the gas-station attendant he was going in nothing but a pair of pajamas.”

“Your father was senile then?” the doctor asked.

“How could he be? He’s not that old.”

“You’d be surprised,” the doctor said. “We’re seeing more and more cases like this all the time. They seem to be getting younger instead of older. Even without the stroke, you’d soon find he wouldn’t be able to care for himself.”

“And with it?”

“It’s not good,” the doctor said, shaking his head. “Not good at all.”

He walked away just as Louella surged into the room on Hank Maddern’s arm and rushed up to Brandon. “How is he?” she demanded. “Can I see him?”

Brandon nodded. “You can see him once every hour for five minutes at a time.”

“Tell me. Is he going to be all right?”

“Of course, Mom,” Brandon told her. “He’s going to be fine.”

But with any kind of luck, Brandon thought, by morning Toby Walker wouldn’t be alive.

Diana couldn’t sleep. The rooms of her house were too small, too confining. With Bone at her side, she left the house and paced the yard, remembering how it had been that morning when Gary came home. He had been out all night, and she had spent the night consumed with alternating bouts of rage and worry, sure at times that he was dead in his truck somewhere, and convinced at others that he was out with another woman, just like before.

Why had she believed him when he said all that was behind him? She had trusted him enough, had enough faith in the future of their marriage, to stop taking the pill at last, to start trying to get pregnant. How could she have been so stupid?

All that long night Diana had sat in the living room, an unread book open on her lap, listening for Gary’s truck, watching for his headlights. By morning she found herself hoping that there had been an accident, that he’d wrapped himself around a telephone pole somewhere, so she wouldn’t have to face what her woman’s intuition warned her had happened, so she wouldn’t have to do anything about it, so she wouldn’t have to make a decision.

It was long after sunrise before he came home. Her heart pounded in her throat when she heard his inept fumbling at the lock. She didn’t wait long enough for him to come inside and close the door. She didn’t care if she woke up the neighbors, if all the other teachers in the compound heard every word.

“Where were you?”

“Out.”

“Damn you. Where?”

“The dance. At San Pedro. I told you I was going there.”

A cloud of alcohol-laden breath surrounded him, filling her nostrils and wrenching her gut, reminding her of her father.

“I thought they drank wine at the dances, cactus wine. I didn’t know they served beer.”