Farrell flung the phone back on the hook. “You do know what he’s up to, don’t you?”
Myrna Louise nodded. “I do now.”
“I’m going to try to stop him,” the detective continued grimly. “Will you help? I’ll need you to come with me.”
“Yes,” Myrna Louise answered, rising unsteadily to her feet. “I’ll do whatever I can. Just let me get my purse.”
They left Weber Drive in a spray of gravel and headed for I-10. Once across the Pinal County line, Detective Farrell switched on lights and sirens and drove like a bat out of hell. They sped south on the Interstate through the hot desert evening, while Farrell’s mind grappled with the problem on three different levels.
First, he dealt with the car, navigating with fierce concentration. Second, he played radio tag, trying to get a good enough connection to be patched through to someone in Tucson who could actually help him. Third, he listened to Myma Louise Spaulding’s seemingly endless story.
It wasn’t until a Pinal County dispatcher hooked him up with the counterpart dispatcher in Pima, a guy named Hank Maddern, that Farrell finally felt as though he was talking to somebody real, someone with a sense of urgency.
“What can I do for you, Detective Farrell?” Maddern asked. “Brandon Walker told me to expect your call.”
“Where is he?”
“At the hospital. His father’s dying.”
“I’m sorry as hell to hear it, but this can’t wait. You’ve got to get him on the phone for me.”
“Why?”
“Tell him we’ve got trouble. Tell him it’s bad. I just don’t know how bad.”
“It could take some time,” Maddern cautioned. “They’re in the ICU at Tucson Medical Center. Can anyone else help?”
Considering what Myrna had told him about Carlisle’s illegal purchase of police records and what Farrell himself knew about the graft and corruption in the Pima County Sheriff’s Office, the detective was leery about bringing in any more players whose loyalty might be questionable. Maddern sounded like the genuine article, but Farrell remained skeptical. Someone high in DuShane’s administration had helped Andrew Carlisle at least once before. It might very well happen again.
“I don’t want to have to brief someone else if it isn’t necessary,” Farrell hedged. “Try getting through to Walker. I’m just now passing Picacho Peak. If you can’t reach him within a matter of minutes, then we’ll have to do something else.”
By six-thirty Wanda Ortiz, Fat Crack’s wife, was finishing the last batch of tortillas. She had started out early that morning by making six dozen tamales, a big vat of pinto beans, and another of chili. With a dozen preparations left to do before the singers arrived, she was hot, sweaty, and tired. She was also annoyed.
She was annoyed because her mother-in-law, Juanita, had refused to lift a finger to help her. Real Presbyterians didn’t participate in pagan baptisms, Juanita had archly informed Fat Crack when he had gone to his mother’s house asking for help. She wouldn’t lend her support to Looks At Nothing’s crazy idea, not even as a favor for her own sister.
So Wanda had done all the cooking herself, not complaining, but with a layer of very un-Christianlike anger seething just beneath her seemingly placid surface. This was Wanda’s second church-related battle with her mother-in-law in less than a month. The first had been over whether or not Juanita’s grandchildren would attend Presbyterian Daily Vacation Bible school. Juanita had won the skirmish hands down since the Presbyterian church also happened to own the reservation’s only swimming pool.
There were times, Wanda thought, slapping the last tortilla on the griddle and picking it off with nimble fingers, that she wished all the Anglo missionaries would go back where they came from. Even Fat Crack’s Christian-Science studies sometimes provoked her.
Wanda was still nursing her grudge when Looks At Nothing pounded on the door with his walking stick. She wasn’t especially happy to see him, either. At that particular moment, the Indian medicine man was more trouble than all the others put together.
“What is it?” she asked curtly, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Where is your husband?”
“Taking a nap. He has to stay up all night with the singers. He wanted to sleep before going to get Rita.”
“We must go now,” Looks At Nothing said urgently. “It’s started.”
Wanda shook her head. Gabe had given her strict orders not to wake him up until seven. He had spent the whole afternoon dragging a stalled BIA road grader out of a sandy wash, and he had wanted to sleep as long as possible. Looking at the agitated old man, Wanda wondered if perhaps he was crazy in addition to being blind.
“No,” Wanda replied. “Nothing has started yet. It’s too early. The singers don’t come until nine.”
“Not the singers,” he snapped. “The
In Dr. Johnston’s waiting room, Diana Ladd alternately sat and paced while Father John thumbed through a worn pet-food catalog. She berated herself for leaving Rita and Davy home alone, for being stupid about waiting for the dog, for not accepting Brandon Walker’s offer of help. When Dr. Johnston’s receptionist got up to leave, Diana asked to use the phone.
The phone at home rang nine or ten times without anyone answering. That in itself wasn’t alarming. When Rita was out in her room, she and Davy sometimes didn’t hear the phone ringing.
Just as Diana started to hang up, Rita answered. “Hello.”
“Rita, it’s me. Diana. Is everything okay there?”
“Okay?” Rita’s voice seemed distant, hollow. “Yes. Everything here is okay.”
“Bone’s still with Dr. Johnston,” Diana rushed on. “We’re waiting for him. We’ll be home as soon as we can. Did Davy tell you he can go with you if you have to leave before I get home?”
“No,” Rita replied. “He didn’t tell me, but that’s good.”
Diana hung up, too preoccupied to think it odd that Rita had answered the phone instead of Davy. Without leaving the desk, Diana decided to swallow her pride and call Brandon Walker. The least she could do was let him know what had happened and ask for his advice, but he wasn’t in. With a frustrated sigh, Diana sat back down. It was probably just as well. What she and Rita planned for Andrew Carlisle should be kept totally secret. If she talked to Brandon Walker, she might accidentally let something slip.
Father John glanced at her. “The dog’s going to be fine,” the priest said reassuringly, misreading her agitation as concern for Bone. “We got him here so soon after it happened that I’m sure he’ll be okay.”
Diana nodded but said nothing. According to Rita, things were still all right at home, but with Andrew Carlisle on the loose, the dog was really the least of her worries. She sat there wishing she’d left the.45 at home with Rita.
“It’s taking so long,” she said, glancing at her watch for the second time in less than a minute.
“Some things can’t be rushed,” Father John replied.
Diana started to argue and then thought better of it. What Father John didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. If he thought she was only worried about the dog, so be it.
Now that he was actually inside Diana Ladd’s house, Carlisle felt downright invincible. His plans were working perfectly. Still holding the boy, Carlisle ordered the old woman to sit down on the couch. She did so at once. Her immediate compliance gratified him. Carlisle was sure that holding the boy hostage would work exactly the same magic on Diana Ladd. With Davy in jeopardy, she would have to submit to his every demand, give him whatever he wanted when and how he wanted it.
The phone blared, startling him so that he almost dropped the child. He held the knife to Davy’s throat. “Answer it,” he growled at the old woman. “Try anything funny and the boy dies.”
Clumsily, Rita heaved herself off the couch and hobbled over to the phone. Carlisle nodded with satisfaction at her curt answers. As far as he could tell, she made no attempt to pass along any secret messages.
