Carlisle accepted Mallory's abrupt dismissal with good grace. 'I'll do that,' he said, pocketing the ticket and then reaching back across the desk to give Ron's pudgy hand a firm shake. 'And you keep on writing.'
'I will,' Mallory responded fervently. 'Count on it.'
Carlisle smiled to himself as he left Mallory's office.
Mendez, sitting at his desk in the outer office, noticed the smile and assumed it had something to do with his release, but it was really over Ron Mallory's unfortunate choice of words. Funny that he would say it just that way- knock.
For those were indeed Andrew Carlisle's'intentions. His version of 'knocking 'em dead' had nothing to do with the literary endeavor that he had already been working on in secret during his enforced six-years' worth of spare time.
He would knock a certain someone dead, all right, although he didn't yet know how. He didn't yet know where to find his intended victim, either-if she was still on the reservation, or if she'd left there and moved on.
Finding her would take time, but he had plenty of that.
He had all the time in the world.
A guard took him to Florence and put him on the Tucson-bound Greyhound.
At Marana, he got off and walked back under the freeway to the entrance ramp on the other side.
He put down his bag and stuck out his thumb, angling for a ride northbound to Phoenix.
He'd go to Tucson eventually, when he was ready, but first he wanted to talk to his mother. Myrna Louise would be surprised and happy to see him. She was always good for a handout.
Davy Ladd knew his mother was working, so he spent the morning outside, along with Bone, a scrawny black- and-tan mutt with predominantly Irish wolfhound bloodlines. The dog, fierce-looking and bristle-faced, with a squared-off, rectangular head the size of a basketball, was never far from the boy's heels.
The two of them hiked up the mountain behind Davy's house, scrambling over warm red cliffs, straying further than they should have from the house. As the hot sun rose higher overhead, both boy and dog went looking for shade. Bone crept under a scrubby mesquite, while Davy hunkered down in the narrow band of shade at the foot of a perpendicular outcropping of rock.
It was there he found the cave with an opening so small he didn't see it for a while even though he was sitting right next to it. Poking his head in, he decided it wasn't a cave after all, because caves were flat, and this one went up and down like a tall chimney in the rock. A circle of blue sky showed at the very top. He wiggled through the small opening and found that, once inside, there was barely room enough for him to stand up straight. Despite its small, confined size, the place was surprisingly cool. Davy warily checked it for snakes.
People and dogs weren't the only ones who needed to escape the heat.
Suddenly, outside, Bone set up a frantic barking. Peering out, Davy saw the dog, nose to the ground, searching around wildly.
Hide-and-seek was a game they played sometimes-the solitary child and his singularly ugly dog pretending to be scouts heading off a band of marauding Apaches, maybe, or hunters stalking mule deer in the mountains.
With a joyous bark, the dog discovered the boy's hiding place.
Panting, he thrust his big head into the opening and tried to climb in as well. There wasn't room for both of them to be inside at once, and Davy came out laughing.
It was then he heard Rita calling him from far below.
'Come on, Bone,' the boy said. 'Maybe it's time for lunch.'
But it wasn't. Rita Antone, the Indian woman who lived with them and took care of him, waited in the yard with both hands planted sternly on her hips as the boy and the dog returned from the mountain.
“Where were you?' she asked.
“Playing.'
“It's time to come in now. I'm going to the reservation to sell baskets. If you want to go, you'd better ask your mother.'
Davy's eyes widened with excitement. 'I can come with you?'
'First go ask.'
Worried about disturbing her, Davy crept into his mother's makeshift office. For a minute or so, the boy stood transfixed, watching Diana Ladd's nimble fingers dance across the keys. How could her fingers move so fast?
His mother's shoulders stiffened with annoyance when she sensed his presence behind her. 'What is it, Davy?' she asked.
He sidled up beside her, standing with his fingers moving tentatively along the smooth wooden edge of the door that served as her desk. The child knew his mother wrote books at that desk during the summers when she wasn't teaching.
He didn't know exactly what the books were about-he had never seen one of them-but Rita said it was true, so it had to be. Rita never told fibs.
She had explained that his mother's work was important, and that when she was busy at her typewriter, he wasn't to interrupt or disturb her unless absolutely necessary. This time it must be okay. Rita had told him to do it.
'What is it, Davy?' Diana Ladd repeated sharply. 'Can't you see I'm busy? I've got to finish this chapter today.'
Sometimes his mother's voice could be soothing and gentle, but not now when she was impatient and eager to be rid of him. Hot tears welled up in Davy's eyes. He stood with his face averted so his mother wouldn't see
