Kiss of the Bees (49 page)

For just a moment, in that dim gray light, Lani thought she saw the pale figure of a woman glide behind the man who called himself Mitch Vega. Lani saw the figure pause and then move on.

The shadowy shape was there for such a brief moment that at first Lani thought, perhaps, she had made her up. But then, as Lani kept on singing, a strange peace enveloped her. She felt perfectly calm—as though she were being swept along in the untroubled stillness inside a whirlwind. And since Lani understood by then that, like Betraying Woman, she was going to die anyway, there was no longer any reason for her to remain silent.

“Why do you hate them?” she asked.

“Hate who?” Mitch returned.

“My parents,” Lani answered. “That’s why you’ve done all this—drugged me, drugged Quentin, brought us here. That’s the reason you drew that awful picture of me, as well. To get at my parents, but I still don’t understand why.”

“It’s not your parents,” Mitch said agreeably enough. “It’s your father.”

“My father? What did he do to you?”

“Did your father ever mention the name Mitch Johnson to you?”

“Mitch Johnson? I don’t think so. Is that you? I thought your name was Vega.”

“Mitch Whatever. It doesn’t really matter, does it?” He laughed then. The brittle laughter rattled hollowly off the walls of the cave. “That’s a pisser, isn’t it! Brandon Walker cost me my family, my future, and twenty years out of my life, but I’m not important enough for even the smallest mention to Brandon Walker’s nearest and dearest.”

“What did my father do to you?” Lani persisted.

“I’ll tell you what he did. He locked me up, and for no good reason. Those goddamned wetbacks are sucking the lifeblood out of this country. They were wrecking things back then, and it’s worse now. All I was trying to do was stop it.”

The word “wetbacks” brought the story back. “You’re him,” Lani said.

“Him who?”

“The man who shot those poor Mexicans out in the desert.”

“So your father did tell you about me after all. What did he say?”

“He wasn’t talking about you,” Lani answered. “He was talking about the award. I was dusting in his study and I asked him about some of his awards. The
Parade Magazine
Detective of the Year Award was—”

“He was talking about his damned award?”

Lani heard the change in the tenor of his voice, the sudden surge of anger. The lesson she should have learned when she had slapped the drug-laden cup away from her lips seemed so distant now, so far in the past, that it no longer applied. What difference did it make? He was going to kill her anyway.

“That’s why they gave it to him,” she said quietly. “For sending you to prison. You killed two people and wounded another. I think you got what you deserved.”

“Shut up,” Mitch Vega-Johnson snarled. “Shut the hell up. You don’t know the first goddamned thing about it.”

Listen to me, Little
Olhoni,
and do exactly as I say.

Once again Nana
Dahd’
s song came to mind and she began to sing quietly—
jupij ne’e
. She whispered the strength-giving words, not loud enough for Mitch to hear, but loud enough that they might fall on the ears of Betraying Woman, that they might reach out to that other trapped spirit who had spent so long shut up in the cave.

When Mitch had taken her prisoner and when he had hurt her, he had caught her unawares. Lani had learned enough about him now to realize that he was simply waiting for Quentin to finish loading the pots. When that task was accomplished, Mitch would come after Lani again—after Lani and Quentin both.

Minute by minute, the danger was coming closer, and singing Nana
Dahd’
s song was the only way Lani knew to prepare for it, to achieve
ih’in
. This time, when he came after her, she would be ready. Perhaps she would not escape—escape did not seem possible—but with the help of
I’itoi
and of Betraying Woman, Lani would meet her fate in a way that would make Nana
Dahd
proud. In the face of whatever Mitch Vega-Johnson had to offer, Lani would be
bamustk
—unflinching.

That was the other thing
Siakam
meant—to be a hero, to endure. Nana
Dahd
had given her that word as part of her name. Dolores Lanita Walker was determined that, no matter what, she would somehow live up to the legend of that other
Mualig Siakam
, to the other woman from long ago, the one who had been Kissed by the Bees.

Driving to the department, Brandon and Diana Walker said very little. Brandon had always thought that having a child die a violent death had to be a parent’s worst nightmare. But it turned out that wasn’t true, because having one child murdered by another was worse by far. There was no way for him to come to grips with the enormity of the tragedy, so he took refuge in action and drove.

Pulling into the familiar parking lot, he was struck by the difference between then and now, between when he used to park in the slot marked reserved for sheriff. Back then, he would have walked into the building to issue orders and direct the action. Tonight, instead of calling the shots, he was coming in as a family member—as the father of both victim and perpetrator. Instead of being able to tell people what to do, he was going to have to ask, maybe even beg, for someone to help him.

Shaking his head at his own powerlessness, he parked the car in a slot marked visitor.

“What are we going to tell them?” Diana asked, as they headed for the public entrance.

Brandon was still carrying the paper bag that held the cassette tape and plastic case. “Before I tell anybody anything, I’m going to try to get these to Alvin. That way he can start lifting prints. Once he’s done with the tape, we’ll try to get someone to hold still long enough to listen to it.”

“Will they believe it?”

“That depends,” Brandon told her.

“On what?”

“On the luck of the draw,” he answered. “With any kind of luck, Detective Myers will still be home in bed.”

Walking into the reception area, the young clerk recognized Brandon Walker immediately. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

“I’m looking for Alvin Miller,” Brandon answered.

The clerk frowned. “I doubt he’s here. I’m not showing him on the ‘in’ list.”

“Do me a favor,” Brandon said. “Try calling the fingerprint lab and see if he answers.”

And he did. Within minutes, Alvin Miller had come out to the reception area to escort Brandon and Diana back to the lab. “What’s going on?” he asked.

Brandon handed over the bag. “Do me a favor,” he said. “We need prints lifted off these.”

“All right,” Alvin returned.

“Then I’ll need something else.”

“What’s that?”

“You can call up prints by name, can’t you?”

“Sure,” Alvin answered. “If the prints went into the system with a name, then we can get them out that way, too. Whose name are we looking for?”

“My son’s,” Brandon Walker said, his voice cracking as he spoke.

“Your son’s?”

Brandon nodded. “His name is Quentin—Quentin Addison Walker. He’s only been out of Florence for a matter of months, so his prints should be on file.”

Without another word, Alvin Miller walked over to a computer keyboard and punched in a series of letters. The whole lab was silent except for the air rushing through the cooling ducts and the hum of fans on various pieces of equipment. For the better part of a minute, that sound didn’t change. Then, finally, with a distinctive
thunk,
a printer snapped into action.

Eventually, the print job was complete. Only when the lab was once again filled with that odd humming silence did Alvin reach out to retrieve the printed sheet from the printer. Preparing to hand it to Brandon, he glanced at it once. As soon as he did so, he snatched it away again and held it closer to study it more closely.

“Holy shit!” Alvin exclaimed.

“What is it?” Brandon asked.

“I haven’t run the prints yet,” he said. “I was just about done enhancing them, but I recognize one of these. Has your son been out to visit you recently?”

“My son and I are currently estranged,” Brandon Walker said carefully. “He hasn’t been anywhere near Diana’s and my house since
before
he was sent to prison. Not as an invited guest,” he added.

“But this print—the one right here on the end,” Alvin said, handing the sheet over to Brandon at last. “That’s the same print I took off the desk in your office and also off one of the pieces of broken frame.”

Brandon looked down at the piece of paper in his hand. The last print, the one in the corner, had a diagonal slice across it. Nodding, he handed the set of prints back to Alvin.

“He almost cut his thumb in half with my pocket knife when he was eight,” Brandon said quietly. “He took my pocket knife outside and was showing off with his little brother when it happened. You’ll probably find the same prints on the tape and tape case as well.”

“You think your son Quentin has something to do with your daughter’s disappearance?”

Brandon Walker sighed. In the space of a few minutes’ time, the former sheriff seemed to have aged ten years.

“With my daughter’s murder,” he corrected. “It’s all on the tape, but before you turn it over to a detective, I want it checked for prints. Diana’s and mine are on there along with whatever others there are. You understand, don’t you, Alvin?” he asked. “I need to know for sure.” He glanced in Diana’s direction. “We both need to know.”

“Right,” Alvin said.

He took the bag and carried it over to his lab area, where he carefully dusted both the tape and the case with graphite, bringing out a whole series of prints. Then, using a magnifying glass, he examined the results for several long minutes.

Finally, putting down the glass, he turned back to Brandon and Diana. “It’s here,” he said. “On the case, at least.”

Brandon Walker’s eyes blurred with tears. His legs seemed to splinter beneath him.

“I was afraid it would be,” he said. “We’d better go out front and talk to a detective. I’m sure whoever’s assigned to this case will need to hear that tape as soon as possible.”

“How come?” Alvin Miller asked. “What’s on it?”

Brandon Walker took a deep, despairing breath before he answered. “We believe . . .” he said, fighting unsuccessfully to keep his voice steady, “. . . that this is a recording of our daughter’s murder.”

Together, Diana and Brandon Walker started toward the door. “Ask to talk to Detective Leggett,” Alvin Miller called after him. “He doesn’t know it yet, but it turns out he’s already working this case.”

By the time Davy and Candace picked up their tickets at the counter and then went racing through the terminal to the gate, they were both worn out. Once aboard America West Flight 1, bound for Tucson, Candace fell sound asleep. Davy, although fidgety with a combination of nerves and exhaustion, fought hard to stay awake. They were flying in a 737, and Davy was stuck in one of the cramped middle seats, sandwiched between Candace, sleeping on his left, and a bright-eyed little old lady on the right. The woman was tiny. Her skin was tanned nut-brown. The skin of her lips and cheeks was wrinkled in that distinctive pattern that comes from years of smoking. Rattling the pages, she thumbed impatiently through the in-flight magazine.

David sat there, bolt upright and petrified, worried sick that if he did fall asleep, he would instantly be overtaken by yet another panic attack. If, as the emergency room doctor had insisted, the attacks were stress-induced, then Davy figured he was about due for another one. There was, after all, some stress in his life.

His experience with Candace in the hotel earlier meant that he was no longer quite so concerned about what she would think of him when another attack came along. What would other people think, though? The lady next to him, for instance, or the flight attendants hustling up and down the aisle, dispensing orange juice and coffee, what would they do? He could imagine it all too well. “Ladies and gentlemen,” one of them would intone into the intercom. “We have a medical emergency here. Is there a doctor on board?”

Stress. Part of that came from finishing school and going home and getting a real job without even taking whatever had happened to Lani into consideration. In the years while Davy was attending law school in Chicago, he had held himself at arm’s length from his family back home. Somehow it seemed to him that there wasn’t room enough in his heart for all of them at once—for the Arizona contingent and for the Ladd side of the family in Illinois. To say nothing of Candace.

Looking at her sleeping peacefully beside him, Davy couldn’t quite believe she was there. In his scheme of things, Candace had always been part of his Chicago life, and yet here she was on the plane with him, headed for Tucson. Not only that, she was going there with Astrid Ladd’s amazingly large diamond engagement ring firmly encircling the ring finger on her slender left hand.

Davy hadn’t exactly popped the question. Nevertheless, they were engaged. Candace was planning a quick wedding in Vegas while Davy squirmed with the knowledge that his mother and stepfather had barely heard her name. He hadn’t told them any more about her than he had told them about his other passing romantic fancies. It hadn’t seemed necessary.

Now, given the circumstances, telling was more than necessary. It was essential and tardy and not at all one-sided. Just as he hadn’t talked about Candace to his parents, the reverse was also true. There was a whole lot he hadn’t told Candace, either.

The lush lifestyle in which Candace Waverly had grown up in Oak Park, Illinois, was far different from what prevailed in the comparatively simple house in Gates Pass. And if Candace’s experience was one step removed from the Tucson house, it was forever away from Rita Antone’s one-room adobe house—little more than a shack, really—which had been Nana
Dahd’
s ancestral home in
Ban Thak
.

Coyote Sitting, Davy thought. Just the names of the villages were bad enough.
Hawani Naggiak
—Crow Hanging;
Komkch’eD e Wah’osidk
—Turtle Wedged;
Gogs mek
—Burnt Dog. Davy knew them equally well in English and in
Tohono O’othham
, but what would Candace think when he tried to explain them to her?