Hour of the Hunter (47 page)

Carlisle shivered at the tantalizing memory, letting his imagination travel back to the cave, remembering that long-ago desert night and the girl. Despite her objections, he had coaxed her into that huge and immensely silent place. He had started a small fire-for light he had told her-but light wasn't all the fire was for, not at all. He had other plans for those burning twigs and coals.

To begin with, she had liked being tied up, giggling drunkenly as he bound her, thinking it nothing but some kind of kinky game. Gradually, as she learned the terrible truth, her tipsy laughter changed, first to fear and then to terror and dread as the tenor of the night changed around her. Carlisle hadn't much liked her screaming when it finally came to that. Screaming showed a certain lack of delicacy and finesse on his part. He much preferred the small, animal-like whimpers of pain and the begging.

God, how her begging had excited him! Even though it was in a language he didn't speak, he had understood her well enough. He hadn't stopped when she asked him to, of course, but he had understood.

And all the while that jackass of a Gary Ladd was dead drunk in the pickup. When he did wake up finally, after the fun and games were all over, Carlisle managed to convince Gary that he, too, had been an active participant in all that had gone before, that being too drunk to remember was no excuse.

"But she's dead," Ladd had protested, as though he couldn't quite believe it Of course she was dead. Carlisle had always intended that she would be, that was the whole idea, wasn't it? But Gary Ladd was far too cowardly to value or take advantage of what he was learning, and he hadn't been smart enough to keep his mouth shut, either.

Carlisle shook himself out of what was almost a stupor and found he was sitting on the floor in front of Diana Ladd's couch. Both the boy and the old woman were tied up, although he didn't remember finishing the job. They were both watching him with strange expressions on their faces. Had he blacked out for a moment or what?

These episodes were beginning to bother him. It had happened several times of late, and it scared the shit out of him. Was he losing his mind? He'd come back to himself feeling as though he'd been asleep when he knew he hadn't been. Sometimes only seconds would have passed, sometimes whole minutes.

He inspected the knots. They were properly tied, but he had no recollection of doing it. Somehow it seemed as though his body and his mind functioned independently.

He'd have to watch that. It could be dangerous, especially in enemy territory.

"Who are you?" the boy demanded.

Carlisle looked hard at the child, recognizing some of Gary Ladd's features, but the boy had a certain toughness that had been totally lacking in his father.

"Well, son," Carlisle said in a kind tone that belied his words, "you can just think of me as retribution personified, a walking, talking Eye-for-an-Eye."

Davy Ladd frowned at the unfamiliar words, but he didn't back off.

"What does that mean?"

Andrew Carlisle laughed, giving the boy credit for raw nerve. "It means that the sins of the fathers are visited on the sons, just like the Good Book says. It also means that if you don't do every single goddamned thing I say, then I use my trusty knife, and you and your mother and this old lady here are all dead meat. Do you understand that?"

Davy nodded.

The room was quiet for a moment when suddenly, sitting there, looking him directly in the eye, the old lady began what sounded like a mournful, almost whispered chant in a language Carlisle didn't recognize. He glowered at her.

"Shut up!" he ordered.

She stopped. "I'm praying," she said, speaking calmly.

"I'm asking I'itoi to help us."

That made him laugh, even though he didn't like the way she looked at him. "You go right ahead, then. If you think some kind of Indian mumbo-jumbo is going to fix all this, then be my guest. But I wouldn't count on it, old woman. Not at all."

"Why did you do it?" she asked.

"Do what?"

"Why did you kill my granddaughter?"

Prosecutors and lawyers and police tend to limp around questions like that. Carlisle wasn't accustomed to such a direct approach. It caught him momentarily off guard.

"Because I felt like it," he said with a grin. "that's all the reason I needed."

A while later, Coyote followed the trail to where Cottontail was sitting. "Brother, you tricked me back there, and now I really am going to eat you up."

"Please, " said Cottontail, "don't eat me yet. I don't want to die until I have seen a jig dancer one last time. Do this for me and then you may eat to your heart's content."

"All right," said Coyote. "What do you want me to do?"

"Come with me over here," said Cottontail. "First I will plaster your eyes shut with pitch. then, when your eyes are shut, you will hear firecrackers popping. When that happens, you must dance and shout.

When the dance is over, then you may eat me."

So Cottontail plastered Coyote's eyes shut with pitch, then he led him into a cane field. When Coyote was in the middle of the field, Cottontail set fire to it. Soon the cane started crackling and popping.

Coyote thought these were the firecrackers Cottontail had told him about, so he began to dance and shout. Soon he began to feel the heat, but he thought he was hot because he was dancing so hard. At last, though, the fire reached him, and burned him up.

And that, my friend, is the story of the second time Cottontail tricked Coyote.

From the sound and cadence of that softly crooned chant, someone listening might have thought Rita Antone was giving voice to some ancient traditional Papago lullaby.

It included the requisite number of repetitions, the proper rhythm, but it was really a war chant, and the words were entirely new:

"Do not look at me, little Olhoni.

Do not look at me when I sing to you So this man will not know we are speaking So this evil man will think.he is winning.

"Do not look at me When I sing, little Olhoni, But listen to what I say.

This man is evil.

This man is the enemy.

This man is ohb.

Do not let this frighten you.

"Whatever happens in the battle, We must not let him win.

I am singing a war song for you, Little Olhoni. I am singing A hunter's song, a killer's song.

I am singing a song to I'itoi Asking him to help us.

Asking him to guide us in the battle So the evil ohb does not win.

"Do not look at me, little Olhoni, Do not look at me when I sing to you.

I must sing this song four times For all of nature goes in fours, But when the trouble starts, When the ohb attacks us, You must remember all the things I have said to you in this magic song.

You must listen very carefully And do exactly what I say.

If I tell you to run and hide yourself, You must run as fast as Wind Man.

Run fast and hide yourself And do not look back.

Whatever happens, little Olhoni, You must run and not look back.

"Remember it is said that Long ago I'itoi made himself a fly And hid himself in the crack.

I'itoi hid in the smallest crack When Eagle Man came searching for him.

Be like Titoi, little Olhoni.

Be like I'itoi and hide yourself In the very smallest crack.

Hide yourself somewhere And do not come out again, Do not show your face Until the battle is over.

Listen to what I sing to you, Little Olhoni. Listen to what I sing.

Be careful not to look at me But do exactly as I say."

The song ended. Rita glanced at Davy, who was looking studiously in another direction. He had listened. He was only a boy, one who had not yet killed his first coyote, but she had trained him well. He would do what he'd been told.

In the gathering twilight, Rita glanced at the clock on the mantel across the room. Seven o'clock. Fat Crack must come for her soon, because the singers were scheduled to start at nine. The very latest he could come was eight o'clock, an hour away.

One hour, she thought. Sixty minutes. If they could stay alive until Fat Crack got there, they might yet live, but deep in her heart, Rita feared otherwise. As he tied them up, she had looked into Andrew Carlisle's soul. All she saw there were the restless, angry spirits of the dead Apache warriors from Rattlesnake Skull Village. They had somehow found this Mil-gahn's soul and infected it with their evil.

Andrew Carlisle was definitely the danger the buzzards had warned her about, the evil enemy who Looks At Nothing said was both Ohb and not Ohb, Apache and not Apache. And although the process had been started, Davy was still unbaptized.

The man sat on the floor in front of her, unmoving, seemingly asleep although his eyes were open. She had heard of these kinds of Whore-Sickness trances before, although she herself had never witnessed one. She knew full well the danger.

Looking away from their captor, Rita stared over her shoulder at the basket maze hanging on the wall behind her. She remembered the ancient yucca she had harvested to find the root fiber to make it. Howi, a yucca, an old cactus, had willingly sacrificed itself that Diana Ladd might own this basket.

And, suddenly, Rita knew that Fitoi had heard her song and sent her a message even without the use of Looks At Nothing's sacred smoke. She would be like the plant that had given up its life so I'itoi's design could spread out from the center of the basket. Davy Ladd had become the center of Rita Antone's basket. She would be his red yucca root.

"Whatever you're going to do," she said softly, "the boy should not see."

Andrew Carlisle seemed startled, as though she had peered into his brain and read the secret plans written there. "Do you have a better idea?"

Rita nodded. "There's a root cellar," she said. "Off the kitchen.

Put the boy in there. I will stay with him."

"A root cellar?"

Carlisle sounded almost disbelieving. He had been worried about how to handle the growing number of hostages in case the priest showed up as well, but now here was the old lady helping out, solving the problem for him. Carlisle knew all about root cellars. There had been one in his grandmother's home, a place where he'd been left on occasion for disciplinary purposes. A root cellar would do nicely.

He rushed into the kitchen to see for himself, worried now that Diana might return before he was ready. And the old lady was absolutely right. Except for a stack of musty old boxes and a few canned goods, there was nothing else there.

Back in the living room, he grabbed the boy and carried him into the root cellar. Then he hauled the old woman to her feet and helped her shuffle along. With both prisoners safely stashed inside the room, he slammed the door shut and locked it with the old-fashioned skeleton key that was right there in the lock. For safekeeping, he put the key in his boot along with his hunting knife. Smiling to himself, Carlisle hurried back to the living room and stationed himself out of sight behind the door.

Actually, the more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea of having those first few minutes with Diana all by himself-just the two of them, one on one, sort of a honeymoon. He pulled a whetstone from his pocket and began to sharpen the blade of the hunting knife. It wasn't necessary--the blade was already sharp enough, but it gave him something to do with his hands while he waited.

The dog had already had two accidents in the priest's car between Dr. Johnston's office and the driveway. Diana was embarrassed. The vet had been right all along. She should have left Bone there overnight to recuperate.

"I'm sorry about your car, Father," she apologized.

"Don't worry about it," Father John said, driving into the yard and stopping in front of the house. "These things happen. Would you like him inside?"

Diana shook her head. "I don't think so. There's no sense taking him inside and having him be sick in there as well. If you can, take him on out to the back patio, while I work on cleaning up this mess. Ask Davy to fill his water dish with fresh water and take it out there for him."

The vet had sent the ailing Bone home on a borrowed leash. Using this, Father John coaxed the now-docile dog through a gate at the side of the house and into the backyard.

Meanwhile, Diana dealt with the lingering physical evidence of the dog's illness, removing soiled blankets from the priest's car and draping them over the wall for a quick hose down.

She was surprised that Davy wasn't waiting on the porch to greet them, but she was so busy cleaning up after the dog that the idea never quite surfaced as a conscious thought.

Leaving the windows open to let the car air out, she started into the house.

With his heart hammering in his chest, Carlisle watched the car pull into the driveway. Damn! The priest was there.

What the hell should he do now?

The man and woman in the car spoke briefly, then the priest got out, opened the door, and bent into the backseat.

What was he doing? Getting the dog? Goddamn! The dog was back, too?

What the hell kind of constitution did that dog have?

For a moment, Carlisle vacillated between following the man and staying to keep an eye on Diana Ladd. At first he couldn't understand what was going on, but then, when she pulled the blankets out of the car and turned on the hose, he realized he was getting another chance.

There was time to do both. He headed for the kitchen at a dead run.

Father John left the dog resting on the dusky patio and rose to go into the house. Seeing no sign of Rita or Davy, he stepped up to the sliding patio door, which had been left slightly ajar.

"Hello," he called. "Anybody home?"

Hearing no answer, he crossed the threshold and turned to close the door behind him just as something heavy crashed into the back of his skull.

The root-cellar door flew open. From the darkened kitchen, something heavy was thrown in with them before the door slammed shut again. Davy felt with his feet and realized it was a person lying flat on the floor, someone who didn't move when Davy touched him. At first the child was afraid it might be his mother, but finally he realized the still body belonged to Father John.