J. JANCE - Hour of the Hunter

Thinking about Margie Danielson made him remember the newspaper waiting in the car. He asked the waitress for one more cup of coffee and went out to retrieve The Arizona Sun. It was important to stay abreast of how the Picacho Peak investigation was going. If the cops suddenly moved away from their Indian suspect, if they somehow stumbled on a lead that would point them in the right direction Andrew Carlisle needed to know at once so he could take appropriate countermeasures.

He turned to the second section, the local news section, and the name Ladd jumped off the page at him. How lucky could he get? There he was, Garrison Ladd’s own kid, complete with a picture and more than a few helpful details. Hardly able to contain his excitement, Carlisle read through the column. The names were all there, ones he’d thought he would have to search out, one by one, over a lengthy period of time-Rita Antone, Diana Ladd, and David Ladd. If the boy had been in a car accident, his name and address were now part of an active police report. Carlisle knew from personal experience that, for a price, almost everything in the Pima County Sheriff’s Department was up for sale. Cash on delivery. Discretion advised.

Jubilant, he paid his bill, adding in an extra tip, and headed for Weber Drive. Maybe he’d take his mother out to celebrate that night. She wouldn’t have to know exactly what they were celebrating. He’d spend some of Johnny Rivkin’s cash and take her someplace nice like Casa Vieja in old Tempe or maybe little Lulu’s just up the street.

Myrna Louise was sitting in her rocker when he came into the house. Fortunately, he had left the Hartmann bag in the car. His mother sniffed disapprovingly when she saw the pink pantsuit. “You shouldn’t dress like that, Andrew. What will people think? Roger was right. You should have had that first haircut much sooner.”

Carlisle felt far too smug to let Myrna Louise draw him into that decades-old argument. “Don’t look so upset, Mama. Your neighbors won’t even notice. They’ll think your sister came to visit, or your cousin from Omaha.”

“I don’t have a cousin in Omaha,” Myrna Louise insisted.

“It was just a figure of speech,” Andrew Carlisle told her. “I don’t know why this disturbs you so. It’s like wearing a disguise. Maybe you should try it sometime. It’s fun, like playing dress-up. Didn’t you play dress-up when you were a child?”

“When I was a child,” she replied stubbornly, “but not when I was fifty years old.”

Carlisle went into his bedroom. He saw at once that the stack of manuscripts was missing from the bookshelf. Turning on his heel, he charged back down the hall to the living room.

“Where are they, Mama?” he demanded.

“Where are what?”

“Don’t give me that. You know what I mean. Where are my manuscripts, the ones that came in the mail?”

“I burned them,” she replied quietly. “Every single page.”

Carlisle’s jaw dropped. “You what?”

“Outside. In the burning barrel. I burned them all.”

Andrew Carlisle went livid, his hands shook. “What the hell do you mean, you burned them?”

“They were trash, Andrew. Smutty, filthy trash. You have no business writing such terrible things, about all those people killing and being killed. It made my blood run cold. Wherever do you get such terrible ideas!”

Andrew Carlisle sank into a chair opposite his mother, hoping she was lying, knowing she wasn’t.

“Mama,” he croaked. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Those were my only copies of A Less Than Noble Savage. I’ll have to rewrite it from scratch.”

“I’d set about getting started then, but try to write it a little nicer this time, Andrew. And leave out the woman who gets burned up, the one who gets set on fire with paint thinner. That was horrible. It reminded me of the Harveys’ cat.”

Even now she could remember the agonized screams of that poor dying cat, her next-door-neighbors’ cat, after Andrew and some of his friends had lit it on fire with paint thinner and matches. Over the years, she had almost managed to forget about it, but reading the manuscript had brought it all back in vivid detail.

The remembered sound in her head had kept her awake for hours. Temporary relief had come when, around midnight, she had donned a robe and gone outside to burn the book. It had taken a long time. Hours even. Myma Louise had wanted to be sure that each page was properly disposed of, with every shred of it reduced to crumpled ash, so she had fed the manuscripts into the flame one typewritten page at a time.

The problem was, after she was finished and when she went back inside, the sound came back anyway. It was screaming in her head even now as she sat staring at this stranger in the pink silk pantsuit who was supposedly her son.

Yes, the cat was back with a vengeance, and Myrna Louise was afraid it would never go away again.

They took away the breakfast tray without Rita’s noticing.

This time Understanding Woman took her concerns straight to the convent’s superior. After hearing what the old Indian woman had to say, Sister Veronica made arrangements for a hasty trip to San Xavier, where they spoke at length to Father Mark. He listened gravely and agreed to take immediate action.

The next afternoon while Dancing Quail was busy with her endless dusting, she heard visitors being ushered into the convent. Soon Sister Mary Jane came looking for her. “Someone is waiting to see you, Rita.”

Dancing Quail was thunderstruck when she came to the arched doorway of the living room and found her grandmother sitting on the horsehair couch with Sister Veronica. Across a small table, in matching chairs, sat Father Mark from San Xavier and the BIA outing matron from Tucson; Dancing Quail stood transfixed for a moment, looking questioningly from face to face.

“Good afternoon, Rita,” Father Mark boomed heartily. “Come in and sit down.”

Dancing Quail slipped warily into the room. She made for a small footstool near Understanding Woman. When she sat down next to her grandmother, she looked to the old woman’s weathered face for answers, but Understanding Woman made no acknowledgement.

“We’re here about you and your baby,” Father Mark said brusquely.

Father Mark’s loud, forthright ways were often offensive to the politely soft-spoken Papagos who made up his flock. At this frontal attack, Rita’s features darkened with shame, but she made no attempt at denial.

“You must go away at once, of course,” he continued. “Your staying here is entirely out of the question. To that end, I have contacted Mrs. Manning here. Between us, we’ve made arrangements for you to have a position with a good family in Phoenix. Isn’t that right, Lucille?”

Over the years, the outing matron’s once-red hair had faded to a muddy gray, but Dancing Quail still remembered the withering look the woman had given her years before when the Mil-gahn woman discovered that the little girl from Ban Thak had no shoes.

Lucille Manning nodded. “They are a very respectable family in Phoenix. Under most circumstances, they wouldn’t consider taking someone in your. . in your condition. But Adele and Charles Clark are old friends of Father Mark’s. They’re also very interested in Indian basketry. When I told them you were a basket maker, they decided to make an exception.”

“I don’t understand. .” Rita began.

The priest cut her off. “Of course you do, girl! You’re not stupid. It would be very bad for Father John if you stayed here to have this baby. It would drive him out of the priesthood, destroy him completely, leave him to rot in hell. You wouldn’t want to do that, now would you?”

“No, but. .”