truck that warm summer's night in the still-eddying smoke from the old man's cigarette had nerve enough to say otherwise.
Twenty-one years had passed between then and now. Two of Davy Ladd's four fathers were dead-Father John for twenty years and Looks At Nothing for three years less than that. One of the two mothers, Rita Antone, was gone as well.
Of the six people charged by the medicine man with Davy Ladd's care and keeping, only three remained- Diana Ladd Walker, Fat Crack Ortiz, and Brandon Walker.
'That's the pouch that belonged to the old blind medicine man, isn't it?' Brandon asked.
Fat Crack, nodding, passed the cigarette to Brandon. 'Nawoj,' Fat Crack said.
At Diana's insistence, Brandon Walker had quit smoking completely years ago. When he took that first drag on the ceremonial tobacco, the sharp smoke of the desert tobacco burned his throat and chest. He winced but managed to suppress a cough.
'Nawoj,'he returned, passing the cigarette back to Gabe.
For a time after that, the two men smoked in utter silence. Only when Brandon with typical Anglo impatience was convinced that Fat Crack had forgotten how to speak, did Gabe Ortiz open his mouth.
'I finished reading Diana's book last night,' he said at last. 'It gave me a bad feeling. Finally I took the book outside and sang a kuadk over it.'
'A what?' Brandon asked.
' Kuadk. One of the sacred chants of discernment that Looks At Nothing taught me. That's how I learned the evil Ohb is coming back.'
Brandon frowned. 'Even though he's dead.'
Fat Crack nodded. 'I can't see the danger, I just know it's coming.'
Brandon shook his head. There was no point in arguing. 'What are we supposed to do about it?' he asked.
'That's what you and I must decide.'
Brandon Walker sighed. Abruptly he stood up and walked back to the counter to fetch the pitcher of tea. In the process, he seemed to shake off the effects of the smoke and all it implied.
'What do you suggest?' he asked irritably. 'In case you haven't noticed, I'm not the sheriff anymore. I'm not even a deputy. There's nothing I can do. Nothing I'm supposed to do.'
Realizing that Brandon Walker was no longer in touch with the spiritual danger, Gabe attempted to respond to the physical concerns. 'Maybe you could ask the sheriff to send more patrols out this way,' he suggested.
'Why? To protect us from a dead man?' Brandon Walker demanded. 'Are you kidding? If I weren't a laughingstock already, I sure as hell would be once word about that leaked out. I appreciate your concern, Gabe. And I thank you for going to all the trouble of stopping by to warn us, but believe me, you're wrong. Andrew Carlisle is dead. He can't hurt anybody anymore.'
'I'd better be going, then,' Gabe Ortiz said.
'Don't you want to stay and see Diana? She should be home before long.'
Fat Crack shook his head. If Brandon wouldn't listen to him, that meant that the evil here in the kitchen would grow stronger still. He didn't want to sit there and feel it gaining strength around him.
'I'll be late for dinner,' he said. 'It'll make Wanda mad.'
When he stood up, his legs groaned beneath him. His joints felt stiff and old as his whole body protested the hours he had spent the night before seated in that uncomfortable molded plastic chair. Wanda had picked up a whole set of those chairs on sale from Walgreen's at the end of the previous summer. Now Gabe understood why they had been so cheap.
'Do me a favor, nawoj, my friend,' Gabe Ortiz said, limping toward the door. 'Do something for an old man.'
'You're not so old,' Brandon Walker objected. 'But what favor?'
'Think about what I said,' Gabe told him, slipping the deerskin pouch back into his pocket.. 'And even if you don't believe what I said, act as though you do.'
'What's that supposed to mean?'
'Be careful,' Gabe answered. 'You and Diana both.'
Brandon nodded. 'Sure,' he said, not knowing if he meant it or not.
Outside, Gabe Ortiz paused with his hand touching the door handle on the Crown Victoria. 'What are you going to do with all that wood out there?' he asked.
'Oh, that.' Brandon shrugged. 'Right now I'm just cutting it, I guess,' he said. 'I haven't given much thought to what we'll do with it. Burn some of it over the winter, I suppose. Why, do you know someone who needs wood?'
'The ladies up at San Xavier sure could use it,' Gabe answered. 'The ones who cook the popovers and chili. Most of the wood is gone from right around there. They have to haul it in. And the chips would help on the playfield down at Topawa Elementary. When it rains, that whole place down there turns to mud.'
'If somebody can use it, they're welcome to it,' Brandon said. 'All they have to do is come pick it up.'
'I'll have the tribe send out some trucks along with guys to load it.'
'Sure thing,' Brandon said. 'They can come most anytime. I'm usually here.'
As soon as Gabe Ortiz's Crown Victoria headed down the road, Brandon Walker returned to his woodpile. A reincarnated Andrew Carlisle? That was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. Still, there was one point upon which Brandon Walker fully agreed with Fat Crack Ortiz-writing Shadow of Death had been a dangerous undertaking.
Four years earlier, on the day the letter arrived from Andrew Carlisle, Brandon Walker and Diana Ladd had already been together for seventeen years. They had come through the trials and tribulations of raising children and stepchildren. Together they had survived the long-term agonies of writing and publishing books and dealt with the complexities and hard work of running for public office. There had been difficulties, of course, but always there had been room for compromise-right up to the arrival of that damned letter. And from that time since, it seemed to him they had been locked in a downward spiral.
That was Brandon's perception, that things had been hunky-dory before the letter and had gone to hell in a handbasket afterward, although in actual fact everything wasn't absolutely perfect beforehand. They had already lost Tommy by then, and Quentin had already been sent to prison on the drunk-driving charge. But still…
The letter, ticking like a time bomb, had come to the house as part of a packet of publisher-forwarded fan mail. Diana had opened the envelope and read the oddly printed, handwritten letter herself before handing it to her husband.
MY DEAR MS. WALKER,
AFTER ALL THESE YEARS IT MAY SURPRISE YOU TO HEAR FROM ME AGAIN. FURTHER, IT MAY COME AS NEWS TO YOU TO KNOW THAT I HAVE RECENTLY BEEN DIAGNOSED AS SUFFERING FROM AN INEVITABLY FATAL DISEASE (AIDS). I AM WRITING TO YOU AT THIS TIME TO SEE IF YOU WOULD BE INTERESTED IN WORKING WITH ME ON A BOOK PROJECT THAT WOULD CHRONICLE THE CIRCUMSTANCES THAT BROUGHT ME TO THIS UNFORTUNATE PASS.
I HAVE ALREADY ASSEMBLED A GOOD DEAL OF INVALUABLE MATERIAL FOR SUCH A PROJECT, BUT I AM OFFENDED BY THE RULES CURRENTLY IN EFFECT THAT MAKE IT IMPOSSIBLE FOR CONVICTED CRIMINALS TO REAP ANY KIND OF FINANCIAL REWARDS FROM RECOUNTING THEIR NEFARIOUS DEEDS, INCLUDING WRITING BOOKS ABOUT SAME. BECAUSE SOMEONE SHOULD BE ALLOWED TO MAKE AN HONEST BUCK OUT OF SUCH AN UNDERTAKING, I AM WILLING TO TURN THE ENTIRE IDEA, ALONG WITH MY ACCUMULATED MATERIAL, OVER TO A CAPABLE WRITER-WITH NO STRINGS ATTACHED-TO DO WITH AS HE OR SHE MAY CHOOSE.
YOU ARE UNIQUELY QUALIFIED TO WRITE SUCH A BOOK, AND I BELIEVE THAT OUR TWO DIVERGING POINTS OF VIEW ON THE SAME STORY WOULD MAKE FOR COMPELLING READING, EVEN IF WE BOTH KNOW, GOING INTO THE PROJECT, EXACTLY HOW IT WILL ALL TURN OUT.
DURING MY YEARS OF INCARCERATION HERE IN FLORENCE, I HAVE FOLLOWED YOUR FLOURISHING (PARDON THE UNINTENTIONAL ALLITERATION) CAREER WITH MORE THAN CASUAL INTEREST. THIS HAS BEEN DIFFICULT AT TIMES SINCE IT TAKES TIME FOR NONFICTION WORK TO BE TRANSLATED INTO EITHER
