someone who wasn't Brian-would have to care for him for the rest of his life, feeding him, bathing him, and attending to his most basic needs.
'What can I do to help?' he asked.
'Keep the damn flies and ants away,' the woman told him. 'They're eating him alive.'
Brian tried to comply. He waved his Stetson in the air, whacking at the roiling flies, and he attempted to pluck off the marauding ants that peppered the man's broken body. It was a losing battle. As soon as he got rid of one ant, two more appeared in its place.
'Because there's water in the charco, a lot of undocumented aliens come this way, especially at this time of year,' the woman was saying. The name tag on the breast pocket of her uniform identified her as Agent Kelly.
'I usually try to stop by here at least once a day,' she continued. 'I saw the tracks in the sand and decided to investigate. When I first saw him, I was sure he was dead, but then I found a slight pulse. When I came back from calling for help, his eyes were open.'
Suddenly the man groaned. His eyes blinked. He moved his head from side to side and tried to speak.
'Easy,' Agent Kelly said. 'Take it easy. Help is on the way.'
Brian leaned closer to the injured man. 'Can you tell us what happened?' he asked. 'Do you know who did this?'
The man trained his bloodshot eyes on Brian's face. '… Mil-gahn,' he whispered hoarsely.
The sound of the softly spoken word caused the years to peel away. Brian was once again reliving those carefree days when he and Davy had been little, when they had spent every spare moment out in the little shed behind Davy's house, with Brian learning the language of Davy's old Indian baby-sitter, Rita Antone. When they were together, Davy and Rita had spoken to one another almost exclusively in Tohono O'othham — they had called it Papago back then-rather than English. Over time Brian Fellows had picked up some of the language himself. He knew that the word Mil-gahn meant Anglo.
'A white man did this?' Brian asked, hunkering even closer to the injured man.
'Yes,' the man whispered weakly in Tohono O'othham. 'A white man.'
'He hit you on purpose?' Brian asked.
The man nodded.
'Do you know who it was?' Brain asked. 'Do you know the man's name?'
This time the injured man shook his head, then he murmured something else. Brian's grasp of the language was such that he could pick out only one or two words- hiabog-digging, and shohbith — forbidden.
'What's he saying?' Agent Kelly asked.
'I didn't catch all of it. Something about forbidden digging. I'll bet this guy stumbled on a gang of artifact thieves, or maybe just one. The Indians around here consider this whole area sacred, from here to the mountains.'
'That's news to me,' Agent Kelly said.
Overhead they heard the pulsing clatter of an arriving helicopter. 'They've probably located the vehicles, but they'll have trouble finding us. I'll stay here with him,' she directed. 'You go guide them in.'
The helicopter landed in the clearing near where the cars were parked. After directing the emergency medical technicians on where to go, Brian went back to his Blazer and called in. 'I need a detective out here,' he said.
'How come?' the dispatcher wanted to know. 'What's going on?'
'We've got a severely injured man. He may not make it.'
'You're talking about the drunk Indian the Border Patrol found? We've already dispatched the helicopter-'
'The helicopter's here,' Brian interrupted. 'I'm asking for a detective. The guy says a white man beat him up.'
'But he's still alive right now, right?'
'Barely.'
'Go ahead and write it up yourself, Deputy Fellows. The detectives are pretty much tied up at the moment. If one of 'em gets freed up later, I'll send him along. In the meantime, this case is your baby.' The dispatcher's implication was clear: a deputy capable of investigating dead cattle ought to be able to handle a beat-up Indian now and then.
Brian sighed and headed back toward the charco. Brandon Walker was right. With Bill Forsythe's administration, the people of Pima County had gotten something different, all right.
In spades.
From somewhere very far away, Lani heard what sounded like a siren. She opened her eyes. At least, she thought she opened her eyes, but she could see nothing. She tried to move her hands and feet. She could move them a little, but not much, and when she tried to raise her head, her face came into contact with something soft.
Where am I?she wondered. Why am I so hot?
Her body ached with the pain of spending hours locked in the same position. She seemed to be lying naked on something soft. And she could feel something silky touching her sides and the bare skin of her immovable legs and arms. A cool breeze wafted over her hot skin from somewhere, and there was a pillow propped under her head.
A pillow. 'Maybe I'm dead,' she said aloud, but the sound was so dead that it was almost as though she hadn't said a word. 'Am I dead?' she asked.
The answer came from inside her rather than from anywhere outside.
If there's cloth all around me, above and below and a pillow, too,she thought, I must be in a casket, just like NanaDahd.
For weeks everyone, with the possible exception of Lani, had known that Rita Antone was living on borrowed time. The whole household knew it wouldn't be long now. For days now, Wanda and Fat Crack Ortiz had stayed at the house in Gates Pass, keeping watch at Rita's bedside night and day. When they slept, they did so taking turns in the spare bedroom.
Over the years there had been plenty of subtle criticism on the reservation about Rita Antone. The Indians had been upset with her for abandoning her people and her own family to go live in Tucson with a family of Whites. There had also been some pointed and mean-spirited criticism aimed at Rita's family for letting her go. The gossips maintained that, although Diana Ladd Walker may have been glad enough to have Rita's help while she was strong and healthy and could manage housekeeping and child-care chores, they expected that the Mil-gahn woman would be quick to send Rita back to the reservation once she was no longer useful, when, in the vernacular of the Tohono O'othham, she was only good for making baskets and nothing else.
Knowing that Rita must have been involved, ill will toward her had flourished anew among the Tohono O'othham in the wake of Brandon and Diana Walker's unconventional adoption of Clemencia Escalante. Not that any of the Indian people on the reservation had been interested in adopting the child themselves. Everyone knew that the strange little girl had been singled out by I'itoi and his messengers, the Little People. Clemencia had been kissed by the ants in the same way the legendary Kulani O'oks had been kissed by the bees. Although there was some interest at the prospect of having a new and potentially powerful Medicine Woman in the tribe, no one-including Clemencia's blood relatives-wanted the job of being parents to such a child.
By now, though, with Rita Antone bedridden and being lovingly cared for by both her Indian and Anglo families, the reservation naysayers and gossips had been silenced for good and all.
On that last day, a sleep-deprived Fat Crack came into the kitchen where Diana and Brandon were eating breakfast. Gabe helped himself to a cup of coffee and then tried to mash down his unruly hair. It was still standing straight up, just the way he had slept on it, slumped down in the chair next to Rita's bed.
'She's asking for Davy,' Fat Crack said. 'Do you know where he is?'
Diana glanced at her watch. 'Probably in class right now, but I don't know which one or where.'
'Let me make a call to the registrar's office over at the university,' Brandon had told them. 'Once they tell us where he is, I'll go there, pick him up, and bring him back home.'
Fat Crack nodded. 'Good,' he said. 'I don't think there's much time.'
Forty-five minutes later, Brandon Walker was waiting in the hall outside Davy's Anthropology 101 class. As soon as Davy saw Brandon, he knew what was going on.
'How bad is it?' he asked.
'Pretty bad,' Brandon returned. 'Fat Crack says we should come as soon as we can.'
