Dance of the Bones (3 page)

“You expect me to stay out all night in this weather?” Gabe grumbled. “How's that possible? I don't even have a sleeping bag.”

“You won't need a sleeping bag,” Delia countered. “Your dad got out a ­couple of his father's wool blankets for you to use.”

The several colorful and tightly woven Navajo blankets that had once belonged to Fat Crack Ortiz were now among Leo Ortiz's most prized possessions. The garage and towing company that had once belonged to Fat Crack had been left to both his sons, Leo and Richard. Over time, Leo had bought out Richard's share of the business. The blankets, though, had been his alone from the beginning, inherited outright. They were kept in a cedar-­lined chest, safe from damage by moths and other insects, and were only brought out on special occasions. Gabe should have been honored that he would be allowed to use them tonight, but he was not.

“Great,” Gabe sneered. “Those scratchy old things? I'd rather freeze.”

“Suit yourself then,” his mother told him angrily. “That's totally up to you.”

 

CHAPTER 2

FOR A LONG TIME AFTER
I
'
itoi, the Spirit of Goodness, who is sometimes called Elder Brother, made everything and set Tash on his path across the sky, the days were warm and bright, and every day was just the same. That was good for making corn
—
­huhni
—­
and wheat
—
­pilkani
—­
grow and ripen in the fields, but sometimes the nights in the desert were very cold.

The ­People thought about this and decided that it would be nice to have heat whenever they wanted it. They tried to ask I
'
itoi
about it, but Elder Brother was too busy, so the Tohono O
'
odham decided they must help themselves. They held a council and decided what to do. This is how Fire
—­
Tai
—­
was brought from Tash
—­
Sun.

Early one morning, before Tash started his jumps across the sky, Old Woman
—­
O
'
oks
—­
was sent with a burden basket
—­gihwo—­
to get some of Sun
'
s heat so the ­people could have some of its warmth. O
'
oks went very fast, but even so she was far too slow. By the time she reached the East
—­
Si
'
al
—­
where Tash makes his home, Sun was already far into that day
'
s journey. He was very high in the sky by then and also very hot. When O
'
oks came home with her burden basket empty, the ­People asked her to go again, but she refused. The Tohono O
'
odham shrugged and said that O
'
oks was too old and slow, and so they sent Boy
—­
Cheoj
.
When Boy returned, he said that when he was almost there, Tash was so hot that he could not see, and so he, too, had come back empty-­handed.

The ­People thought that this was just another excuse, but they decided that they would wait until the end of Sun
'
s journey, because they wanted the heat for the night. This time they sent Kelimai
—­
Old Man, an elder. Old Man ran all day to get to the place where Tash stays at night. When he came back the next day, he did not have any heat. He said that at the end of the day Tash jumped into a big hole, and that the Desert ­People would have to send Thah O
'
odham, the Flying ­People.

Next the ­People asked Moth. Hu
'
ul-­nahgi went to the house of Sun, which, as you know,
nawoj
, my friend, is in the East on the far side of the Earth. Moth told Sun how sorry the Indians were and how much they needed Tash to return so they could grow their seeds and have food to eat.

By this time Sun was well, and he was no longer so angry. He agreed to return. But Moth was worried. He asked Sun if he could please walk farther away from the earth so it would not be so hot and make everything dry up.

Sun thought about that and then he agreed. He said that on his first jump in the morning, he would have his niece go with him and kick a ball of red dust to keep the earth from becoming too hot. He said that in the late afternoon, he would have his nephew come along and kick a red ball of dust to make the evenings cooler.

And that is why,
nawoj,
my friend, even to this day we have red clouds at sunrise and sunset, because of those red balls of dust.

BRANDON WALKER HANDED OVER HIS
drink ticket and put a buck in the bartender's tip glass. Then, taking his clear plastic cup of red wine—­Turkey Creek merlot—­he made his way through the University of Arizona bookstore teeming with the noisy chatter of enthusiastic partygoers. He found himself a quiet corner where he could be out of sight while still keeping an eye on the proceedings around him and also on the group of adoring fans clustered around his wife. Fame seemed to follow Diana Ladd wherever she went, and it was easier for Brandon to keep watch from a distance than it was to be constantly elbowed out of the way.

This cattle-­call gathering in the bookstore on Friday evening marked the opening event for that year's Tucson Festival of Books. The reception came first, followed immediately by the Authors' Dinner in one of the student union's upstairs ballrooms across the breezeway. Since Diana was thought to be one of the local literary luminaries, it was only natural that she would be front and center. Her recent biography of Geronimo,
Trail
'
s End,
had turned into a surprise blockbuster. So far it had spent seven weeks on the
New York Times
nonfiction list, clocking in this week at number eight.

The critics had raved about it: “Ladd's lyrical prose transcends the whole idea of scholarly biography and brings a tragic American icon to life on the page.”

Brandon tended to focus on positive reviews, and those were the ones he bothered remembering. Diana had taught him to mentally deep-­six those that weren't so kind.

He realized that part of what had made Geronimo “come to life” on the pages of Diana's book had to do with the fact that she had spent most of her adult life living among the original settlers of the American Southwest, most particularly among the Tohono O'odham, whose traditional homeland had, since time immemorial, been the vast valley surrounding what was now metropolitan Tucson.

Brandon understood that Diana's deft treatment of Geronimo had grown out of the presence of their son-­in-­law, Dan Pardee, in their lives. Dan's Apache heritage and the able assistance of Dan's grandfather, Micah Duarte, had given Diana, an Anglo, entrée into the world of Apache oral history and tradition that was accessible to only a select few. Without that, details of Geronimo's life both before and after his surrender might have been treated as little more than footnotes by a less talented writer.

Trail
'
s End,
along with Diana's several other books, accounted for why she was being feted tonight at the Authors' Dinner and for the remainder of the weekend. Brandon's role in the festivities was that of escort and backup. Even though he was halfway across the room, he sipped his wine and kept her in view through the crush of ­people milling around her.

Brandon knew what to watch for—­the fans who stayed too long or who monopolized her time and attention, the ­people who took it upon themselves to lay a hand on her in a more personal way than a simple handshake or greeting. And if someone became too pushy and Brandon happened to miss the warning signs, Diana could always summon him from across the room by using their secret hand signal. A simple touch to her right earlobe would alert him to the fact that one of her fans was being troublesome and needed to be encouraged to go elsewhere.

“Hey, there,” someone said from the far side of one of the movable book shelves behind which Brandon had taken shelter. “How's Mr. Diana Ladd this fine evening?”

Looking around, Brandon was dismayed to see Oliver Glassman making a beeline in his direction. Ollie Glassman was exactly the kind of person Brandon had hoped to avoid. He was a smarmy jerk who had started out as a lowly public defender before becoming the heir apparent in his father's legal defense firm. Managing to manipulate a somewhat thin résumé as a springboard into politics, Glassman had served several terms on the Pima County Board of Supervisors, was currently a member of the state senate, and was rumored to be thinking about running for Congress.

“Matty told me you and Diana would be here tonight. I believe you two are seated at our table. Matty's part of the committee that organizes the dinner, you know,” Ollie added.

That last bit of info was entirely unnecessary. Brandon Walker was well aware that Ollie's wife, Matilda Glassman, was one of the movers and shakers behind Tucson's burgeoning book festival. Diana had told him as much, and although Diana tolerated Matilda, she liked the woman almost as much as Brandon liked Ollie. If Diana had known the seating arrangements in advance, she hadn't mentioned them to Brandon. Perhaps she had neglected to do so out of concern that he'd be a no-­show. On the other hand, it was possible that she would be as surprised and dismayed as he was.

Ollie took a long pull on his wine, draining half the glass in a single gulp. “What are you doing hanging around in the kiddy-­lit section?” he asked. “Thinking about doing some writing yourself?”

In the years Diana Ladd and Brandon Walker had been married, Brandon had done plenty of duty as Diana's escort at book festivals and writers' conferences all over the country. He knew the drill. He also understood some of the pitfalls of being “Mr. Diana Ladd.” He had long ago lost count of the ­people who would look at him agog and ask, “What's it like being married to a famous person?” Another of his least favorite inquiries was a clueless “Oh, are you a writer, too?”

Ollie's inept question was a variation on the latter. Brandon's standard reply was usually: “Diana writes the books; I write the checks.” This time, however, an imp took control of his response mechanism.

“Yes,” Brandon answered. “I've even got a working title:
So You Want to Be a Sheriff When You Grow Up?
It's a how-­to book for kids who are seven or eight, and it's due to be published by a company that specializes in career guidance for grade schoolers.”

Ollie frowned and examined the small amount of wine remaining in his glass. “Sounds like a great idea. Do you think they'd want me to do one, too—­about wanting to be a defense attorney?”

It took some effort for Brandon to keep from cracking a smile. “I'm having an editorial meeting with my publisher next week,” he replied. “I'll ask her what she thinks.”

The lights blinked overhead, signaling that it was time to head for the ballroom. Catching Matty's eye, Ollie raised his empty glass. With a reproving look, his wife turned her back and returned to the bar.

“I don't know why they have to be so stingy with the wine at these affairs,” Ollie muttered. “You pay a fortune to attend, and all they give you is a single drink ticket. What's up with that? But I did want to have a word in private,” he continued. “I guess you heard about Big Bad John.”

“Big Bad John Lassiter?” Brandon asked. “I haven't heard a word from or about him since the last judge locked him up and threw away the key. That's a long time ago now. What's going on?”

Matilda delivered Ollie's wine. “We're going in soon,” she said with a scowl. “Don't be late.”

Ollie sighed and shook his head as she stalked away. “The old girl's got her panties in a twist tonight,” he observed, downing another gulp of wine. It was evident that sipping the stuff wasn't part of the man's repertoire. “I don't know why she insists on being involved in crap like this when it obviously drives her nuts.”

Brandon suspected that wrangling the complexities of the book festival wasn't nearly as much of a problem for Matilda Glassman as wrangling Oliver.

“What about Lassiter?” Brandon reminded him.

“Oh, yes, that's what I need to talk to you about,” Ollie answered, “the part about throwing away the key. Have you ever heard of a group of do-­gooders called Justice for All?”

Brandon knew a little about the organization. It was composed of ­people steadfastly devoted to freeing ­people they felt had been unjustly locked up by the criminal justice system. They utilized modern forensics, including DNA profiling, to win releases for those they believed had been wrongly accused and convicted. Brandon understood there were instances in which innocent folks had been locked up for decades. The problem was, there were also times when the JFA folks' definition of “all” often didn't seem to take the victims of the crimes—­either the homicide victims themselves or their grieving loved ones—­into account.

After decades of police work, Brandon's feet remained firmly planted on the victims' side of the fence. In retirement, he had signed on with The Last Chance. TLC consisted of a group of retired cops, criminalists, medical examiners, and district attorneys who devoted their time and energy to solving stone-­cold homicides—­the ones law enforcement had long since abandoned as hopeless. Like JFA, TLC also used modern forensics and technology to bring to account any number of bad guys who thought they'd gotten away with murder.

“Since I work for what some regard as the opposing team, I don't pay much attention to JFA,” Brandon said, edging toward the door. “I'm a lot more concerned with closing prison doors than I am with opening them. But speaking of opposing teams, weren't you Lassiter's defense attorney that first time around?”

Ollie nodded. “I was. Public defender the first time around and private for the second one when he appealed that first conviction. The case against him was all circumstantial. I never thought they'd lock him up for ‘life without' either time. I'm sure it was all my fault. I was relatively inexperienced the first time and probably didn't do quite as good a job as I should have. Five years later, I was back at the defense table again hoping we'd get him out on a technicality. Unfortunately, that didn't work, either.”

“I take it these JFA folks have now parachuted in and done what you couldn't?”

“More or less,” Glassman agreed glumly. “They seem to have negotiated a deal with the county attorney. Lassiter could either go for a third trial or he could cop to second degree and get out with time served. I sent my son, Ollie—­that's Oliver Junior, who's in the process of taking over my practice—­to look in on the situation. Pro bono, of course, just as a courtesy.

“The thing is, Lassiter is saying no-­go. He told them he doesn't want a third trial, and he's turned down the plea deal, too. Flat. Said he'd already served more than thirty years for a crime he didn't commit, and he'd be damned if he'd plead guilty to something he didn't do just to have a get-­out-­of-­jail-­free card. The JFA folks had made a big deal about working his case, and they're still hoping to save face. At this point, they've avoided making any public announcement that he won't go along with any of it. As for Lassiter? According to Junior, what he really wants right now is a chance to talk to you.”