J. JANCE - Hour of the Hunter

Fat Crack helped his aunt into the truck. She winced at the high step necessitated by the tow truck’s running board. “How are you?” he asked.

“All right, but the cast is heavy, and my arm aches.”

“I’ll try not to hit too many bumps,” Fat Crack told her. “We have to stop in Crow Hang to see about the singers. Are you sure you want to start with that tonight? Wouldn’t it be better to wait until you’ve rested some more?”

“No,” Rita said. “Tonight will be fine.”

At Hawani Naggiak, Crow Hang Village, Fat Crack left Rita in the truck while he went to negotiate with the singers. Rita leaned her head back against the cab window and closed her eyes. She felt weak and tired. She hadn’t felt this weak since that long-ago time in California when she got so sick.

Late that September morning when she jumped off the freight train in Redlands, she asked directions and walked the eight miles out of town to the Bailey orange farm. She didn’t know what else to do. Telling everyone she was going to meet her brother was fine as far as it went, but the truth was, she didn’t have a brother. Gordon Antone was Louisa’s brother. He didn’t know Dancing Quail at all. Still, he was someone with a name, someone who would speak her language, and maybe, if she asked him, he really would help her find a job.

The sun was going down when she finally found her way to the right ranch. The people she saw working there were mostly Mexicans. When she tried asking them about Gordon Antone, they didn’t understand either English or Papago.

Almost ready to give up, she tried speaking English to a young Mil-gahn child. As soon as she asked about an Indian, he grinned and nodded. “Sure,” he said. “You must mean the chief. He’s working in the toolshed.” He pointed off toward a small outbuilding. “Over there.”

Dancing Quail found Gordon Antone bent over a file, sharpening the edge of a hoe. He looked up as she stepped into the doorway, blocking out the sunlight and turning the place into dusty gloom.

“Are you the one they call Chief?” she asked, speaking softly in Papago.

“ Heu’u ,” he replied. “Yes.”

Gordon Antone put down the hoe and file. The figure silhouetted in the doorway was that of a young male, but the voice definitely belonged to a female. “Who are you?” he asked.

“A friend of your sister’s, of Louisa’s. She said if I came here, you might help me find a job.”

“You know Louisa? But she’s in Phoenix. How did you get here?”

“On the train,” Rita replied simply. “Last night. I ran away.”

“You came all that way alone? From Phoenix?”

“I rode the freight train with some others.”

Gordon got up and walked over to the doorway so he could see her better. “What is your name?”

“My people call me Dancing Quail, but the Mil-gahn call me Rita, Rita Antone.”

“Your name is the same as mine.”

Now that she was here, talking to Gordon, she could tell he was someone who was easy to talk to. Just being with him made her feel much better. His saying that made her laugh.

“Yes,” she said. “We share the same name. I told the men on the train that you were my brother.”

With her hair cut short, dressed in a boy’s clothing, and grimy from travel, Dancing Quail was still a very beautiful young woman. For Gordon Antone, far from home and missing his family and friends, the real miracle was finding another person who spoke his own language. That made her more than beautiful.

“Not your brother,” Gordon Antone said, “but I will be glad to be your friend.”

At least Andrew Carlisle didn’t lose his head. He was furious with Myrna Louise, outraged was more like it, but he had sense enough to melt into the background before all hell broke loose. The owner of the El Camino charged out of an apartment across the street and looked up and down the road in both directions, but by then Myrna Louise had disappeared around the corner.

When the U-Stor-It-Here manager showed up a few minutes later, cops were already on the scene taking their reports. Carlisle chose that momentary confusion to reappear, walk past everyone, and head for his locker. Despite the stifling heat, he went inside his unit and closed the door. He had to think, to plan.

By now he had opened the envelope and suspected that Myrna Louise had also opened it, damn her straight to hell. So what the fuck was she thinking when she grabbed the car and took off like that? he wondered. Would she turn him in? No, that didn’t seem likely. Would she know what he was up to? Maybe, maybe not. That was a tough call. After all, she was his mother, and mothers often refuse to believe bad things about their precious darlings no matter how convincing the evidence.

No, she probably wouldn’t turn him in, but would she try to stop him? Damn her, she had already done that, just by taking the car. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Did she think he’d just give up? Not bloody likely. Go after her and get the car? How could he? For one thing, where would she go? Home, probably, if she could make it that far. He doubted it. The Valiant seemed to be pretty much on its last legs.

Actually, the more he thought about it, the more he decided it was just as well Jake Spaulding’s car was gone. He’d have to get a new one, and that might be inconvenient at the moment, but for what he was planning, he couldn’t risk using an undependable vehicle. No, what he needed was a new car. Not necessarily brand new, but certainly different-“reliable transportation,” as they say in car dealer’s parlance. Once he had another vehicle, he’d figure out some way to make his plan work anyhow. Not only for Diana Ladd, but also for Myrna Louise. As of now, she was on his list twiceover.

It pissed him off that she’d got away clean like that, but he’d get even for that eventually. His main problem now was one of time. How long before she would open the trunk and discover what was in it? If she did that, maybe she’d turn him in after all. He’d have to move forward, probably a whole lot faster than planned.

Standing there waffling back and forth, he was startled by a knock on the door. His heart went to his throat. Damn! The gun was still in the car along with Myrna Louise.

“Yes?” he called.

“Police,” a voice answered.

His hands trembled as he went to open the door. As soon as he did so, he shoved his hands in his pockets. The two uniformed cops he had seen earlier stood outside, both holding clipboards.

Carlisle concentrated on keeping his voice neutral and calm. “What seems to be the trouble, Officer?”

“We’re investigating the broken gate,” one of them said. “A car smashed through it. Next it took off and bashed the El Camino across the street. You came not long after that. Did you happen to see anything out of the ordinary?”

Carlisle shook his head. “Nope,” he said. “I didn’t see a thing.”

The cops apologized for disturbing him and left. It took a while for his breathing to settle back down, to get his mind back to the problem at hand. First and foremost, he thought, he had to have another car.

Focused on solving that one problem, he prepared to leave his storeroom, but first he rummaged around until he found the bulky box that contained not only his first draft of Savage , but Garrison Ladd’s manuscript as well. It was a good thing that hotshot detective had never found either one. Carrying the box, he locked the door and walked toward the street. The cops waved to him as he passed, but that was all. They didn’t really notice him, and he was careful to do nothing that would attract their attention.

In his search for Andrew Carlisle’s mother, Detective Farrell had struck out completely. The apartment complex in Peoria where Myrna Louise Taylor had been living at the time of her son’s trial was such a transient place that it turned out to be a total dead end. She had evidently moved on from there more than three years earlier. The manager had been on duty for only six months. The complex’s group memory didn’t stretch back any further than that.