And Fat Crack Ortiz was a medicine man as well. Whatever powers they had weren't used for evil or for hurting people. Mitch Johnson's sarcastic remark burned through Lani's fear and changed it to anger, like a powerful magnifying glass focusing the rays of the sun to ignite a piece of paper.
'You can call him a medicine man if you like,' she said softly. 'I call him ho'ok.'
'Ho'ok,'Mitch Johnson repeated. 'What does that mean?'
'Monster,' Lani replied.
For a moment after she said it, there was no sound in the dark stillness of the cave, then there was a short hiccup followed by a hoot of raucous laughter.
Except it didn't sound like laughter to Lani Walker. In the dark it reminded her of something else-of the rasping, unearthly, bone rattling sound a cornered javelina makes when it gnashes its teeth.
16
Now this is all that is known of Mualig Siakam. She was one of the greatest of all the medicine women in all the Land of the Desert People. She lived to be very, very old. And she taught some of her songs to a few men.
Some women tried to learn the songs, but the buzzing of the bees joined with the song in the heads of the women and made them afraid. Because they were afraid, the women would not let sleep come. Sleep was necessary in order to know all the powers which one does not see, and which are used in healing.
The Indians would take a new baby many miles to see Great Medicine Woman, andMualig Siakam would sing over the baby. She would sing over it with the white feathers of goodness which would help guard its spirit from meanness. And she would feed the baby a little of the very fine white meal which would make its body strong.
But sometimes Great Medicine Woman would refuse to sing. Then the people knew there was no hope for the child.
If the people grew angry and tried to makeMualig Siakam sing over such a child, Great Medicine Woman would scold. She would ask them what right they had overTash — the Sun-andJeweth — the Earth-and all ofI'itoi' s gifts. Then she would go into the dark inner room of her house, and thePa-nahl — the bees-would begin to roar with anger.
When that happened, all the people-even Old Limping Man-would go away.
Alvin Miller wasn't used to doing his work in front of a live audience, but that night the lab was jammed with onlookers. The Walkers were there along with Deputy Fellows and both detectives on the case, Leggett and Myers. At the last moment Sheriff Forsythe even showed up, probably summoned by Detective Myers.
'All right,' Forsythe said, looking around the room. 'What exactly's going on here?'
Brandon Walker looked at the man who had replaced him. 'My daughter's missing,' he said. 'We're afraid she may have been kidnapped.'
Forsythe glowered at Detective Myers. 'Kidnapped. I thought you said this was a Missing Persons case. And what's all this about bones?'
Miller came across the room and handed the papers over to the sheriff. 'This set of prints matches individual prints we took off the collection of bones Deputy Fellows discovered out near the reservation yesterday afternoon as well as items from the break-in at the Walker residence last night that Detective Myers was called to investigate.'
Slipping on a pair of reading glasses, Bill Forsythe studied the report. 'Quentin Walker,' he read aloud. Then he looked up at Brandon. 'Your son?'
Brandon nodded. 'I want you to call in the FBI,' he said.
'The FBI!' Forsythe exclaimed. 'For a little domestic thing like this? Not on your life. Chances are your son and daughter were drinking or something, just the way Detective Myers said…'
Brandon turned to Alvin. 'Do you still have that tape recorder here?'
Miller nodded. 'Yes.'
'I want you to play the tape,' Brandon said.
'But I haven't finished lifting-'
'Play it,' Brandon ordered. 'That's the only way they're going to believe what we're up against.'
A few seconds later, Lani Walker's voice was playing to all the people crowded into the lab. 'Quentin,' she was saying. 'Quentin, Quentin, Quentin.'
'Your daughter?' Forsythe asked.
Brandon Walker nodded. By the time the scream tore through the room, Diana Walker was sobbing quietly into her hands.
'You're right,' Sheriff Forsythe said, when Alvin Miller finally switched off the tape player. 'It's time to pull out the stops.'
Breathing a sigh of relief, Brandon Walker reached out and squeezed Diana's hand.
Quentin Walker had deposited his second load of pottery in the back of the Bronco and was on his way back to the cave for the third and last one when he saw the flashing red lights turn off Highway 86 onto Coleman Road.
Climbing up and down was hard physical labor. His head was far clearer now than it had been when he started out. Even though there was no chance of the people in the police car seeing him, he froze where he was and waited for it to go past. But it didn't. Instead, it slowed and turned left, heading for the charco.
Blind panic descended on Quentin Walker. Someone's found Tommy, he thought. And now the cops are coming for me.
For the space of thirty seconds, he stood paralyzed by fear and indecision. And then, without a thought for the other people in the cave-without even recalling their existence, to say nothing of the third batch of pottery-he turned and ran back down to the Bronco. There was a single car key in his pocket. Sweeping the camouflage cover off the top, Quentin clambered into the vehicle and shoved the key home in the ignition.
Switching on the engine, he gunned it, testing the power, trying to remember exactly how he had come to be here on the mountain. Dimly he remembered driving up here, but it had seemed lighter then. In the dark, he was hard-pressed to remember how to reverse course and get back down.
He began trying to turn the Bronco around. There was little room for maneuvering inside that little clump of mesquite trees, especially when he didn't dare turn on the headlights. Those would certainly attract the attention of the cops with their flashing red lights. Even now, the cop car was headed straight for the charco.
Realizing that's where the cops were heading drove Quentin into a frenzy. The next time he backed up, he high-centered on a boulder he hadn't been able to see in the rearview mirror. Even with four-wheel drive, the Bronco didn't come loose the first two times he tried to go forward. The third time, he really goosed it, slamming the accelerator all the way to the floor, giving the Bronco every bit of power he had.
And it worked. Too well.
With a roar and a spray of pebble-sized rocks, the Bronco shot forward-through the grove of mesquite and right over the edge of a limestone cliff that had lain, shrouded in darkness, just beyond the sheltering trees.
Quentin mashed desperately on the brakes, trying to stop, but by then it was too late. The Bronco was already airborne. It came to earth the first time twenty yards from where it had taken off. It landed nose-first and then bounced end for end. With the screech of tortured metal and to the accompaniment of breaking glass, it turned over and over. The battered remains finally came to rest, roof down, in the soft sand of the wash that skirted the bottom of the mountain. There was no fire, no explosion, only a cloud of dust that rose up into the nighttime sky and then silently dispersed.
Not having fastened his seat belt, Quentin Walker was thrown clear the first time the Bronco rebounded off the unforgiving mountainside. He flew through the air like a rag doll and then landed with a bone-jarring thump into a sturdy thicket of low-lying manzanita.
Quentin never saw Mitch Johnson come scrambling up over the landslide debris and out the crack of that second entrance, never heard him yelling into the gradually graying nighttime sky.
'Come back here, you rotten son of a bitch!'
Lani heard the engine turn over and stutter to life. The sound was faint but distinct. Other than the Bronco, there was no vehicle within hearing distance.
