“What do you want, Old Mother?” the Little People asked.
“My daughter’s spirit is calling me from far away in the land of the Hiakim. I must go to her, but I am old and do not know the way.”
“We will help you, Old Mother. We will help you go to your daughter.”
And so the birds brought Old White-Haired Woman seeds and grain to eat along the way. The bees brought her honey, and Coyote, who had once been in the land of the Hiakim, guided her footsteps. After many, many days, they reached the village where Old White-Haired Woman’s daughter lived with her husband and her baby, but the bent old woman found that her daughter was very sick.
“Mother,” the girl told Old White-Haired Woman, “my husband’s people are waiting for me to die so they can take my baby off into the mountains and teach him to be a warrior. I want you to take him back home to the Tohono O’odham, so he can grow up to be kind and gentle. You must leave tonight. Tomorrow will be too late.”
Old White-Haired Woman was tired and wanted to rest, but she knew her daughter was right. Late that day, she loaded the baby into her daughter’s burden basket and went through the village, this way and that, so people would think she was gathering wood. Then, when she was out of sight, she started back north.
Once more the Little People came to help her, but the next morning she could hear that a band of Hiakim warriors were following her trail. When they were almost upon her, she called out to I’itoi for help. He sent a huge flock of shashani, blackbirds, who flew around and around the Yaqui warriors’ eyes until they could see nothing. Meanwhile, I’itoi led Old White-Haired Woman and her grandson into a wash that became a canyon. In this way, they went north toward the land of the Tohono O’odham.
But Old White-Haired Woman was very tired after her long journey. Finally, one day, she could go no farther. “I must stop here,” she said. So I’itoi took the boy the rest of the way home. When he came back, he found that the old woman’s feet had grown underground and all that was sticking up were two sticks of arms.
“You are a good grandmother,” I’itoi said. “You may stay here and rest forever, but once a year, you will be the most beautiful flower on the earth.” He touched the sticks. Wherever he put his fingers, beautiful white flowers grew. “Once each year,” I’itoi said, “during the night, Wind Man will be heavy with your perfume, but when the sun comes up in the morning, you will be gone.”
And that, nawoj, is the story of Old White-Haired Woman and the beautiful flower that the Mil-gahn call the night-blooming cereus. The Desert People call it kok’oi ’uw, which means ghost smell, or ho’ok-wah’o, which means witch’s tongs.
Brandon Walker never clocked in, but he worked all afternoon Sunday just the same. Trying to get a lead on Andrew Carlisle, he finally was put in touch with Ron Mallory, at home, taking the frustrated assistant superintendent away from his typewriter.
“My name is Brandon Walker,” he said by way of introduction. “I’m a homicide detective with Pima County.”
“What can I do for you, Detective Walker?” Mallory asked cordially enough, but all the while he was wondering who the hell had given this joker his home telephone number.
“I’m trying to locate Andrew Carlisle. Your records department couldn’t give me a current address.”
Carlisle! Mallory thought, alarm bells chiming in his bureaucratic, cover-thine-ass mentality. Carlisle had only got out on Friday, and somebody was already looking for him?
“He’s in Tucson somewhere,” Mallory answered. “I can probably have an address for you next week. What’s this all about?”
The slight hesitation in Walker’s answer alerted Mallory that everything wasn’t entirely as it should have been.
“I was the arresting officer on that case years ago,” Walker said. “I’m concerned about him being released into the same area where some of the witnesses still live. He may go after them.”
Mallory took a deep breath and used his shirtsleeve to wipe the beads of sweat that suddenly dotted his forehead. “Look, Detective Walker,” he said, all trace of cordiality disappearing. “Andrew Carlisle was an exemplary prisoner. He never made a bit of trouble. He was released after paying his debt to society for that particular crime. It sounds to me as though you’re out to harass the poor guy.”
“Harassment’s got nothing to do with it,” Brandon Walker countered. “I’m not the only one who’ll be looking for him.”
“What do you mean?”
“When they come asking,” Brandon added, “I’d have that address handy.”
He put down the phone and then sat there looking at it. He had wanted to have some solid information before he called Pinal County. He wondered how his information would be received once the homicide detectives knew it had been gleaned from some aging Indian medicine man over a ceremonial smoke of native tobacco.
Brandon had already looked up the phone number and even partially dialed it twice, hanging up each time before the connection was made. This time, he dialed and let it ring. When the call was answered, he asked to speak to the detective in charge of the Picacho Peak case. It was Sunday. Walker guessed correctly that the detective assigned to that case would be hard at work.
“Detective Farrell,” a voice said gruffly into the phone.
“My name’s Walker,” Brandon told him. “Detective Walker from Pima County, just down the road apiece.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m calling about your Picacho Peak case. I may have some relevant information.”
“Shoot.”
“I was the arresting officer years ago on a homicide that happened out near the reservation, the Papago. A young Indian woman was murdered. Two Anglos were the perpetrators.” Brandon Walker paused.
“So?” Farrell prodded.
“That case may be related to the new one.”
“What makes you think that?”
“The young woman’s breast was bitten. One nipple was completely severed.”
Walker could hear the other man shifting in his chair, sitting up straight, coming to attention. “Wait just a god-damned minute here!” Farrell exclaimed. “We haven’t released one particle of information about that. How the hell do you know about it?”
“That’s not important,” Brandon said. “How about if we meet and exchange information.”
“Where?”
“The coffee shop at the base of Picacho Peak. I’d like to look over the crime scene if I could.”
Farrell drew back. “That’s a little irregular. Are you working a case?”
“The bastard already went to prison for my case. At the time, most of the blame was passed along to somebody else who happened to be dead. Material evidence about the bite that would have linked this joker to that part of it mysteriously disappeared between the crime lab and the evidence room. It was never found again.”
Detective G. T. (Geet) Farrell was nobody’s dummy. “I see,” he said after a short pause. “You think this is the same guy, but because of double jeopardy, you can’t lay a glove on him for the other case.”
“You’ve got it.”
“I’ll meet you at Nickerson Farms in one hour,” Farrell said. “Bring everything you’ve got. We’ll compare notes.”
“Right,” Brandon Walker said. “I’ll be there.”
Coming back from visiting Rita in Sells with Davy asleep in the backseat, Diana Ladd pulled into the driveway of her house and felt a sudden knot of fear form in her stomach. For the first time, she was daunted by the isolation, by the vast distance-two miles or more-from her house to that of her nearest neighbor. It hadn’t seemed nearly so far with Andrew Carlisle locked safely away in prison, but now that he was out. . Bone’s welcoming woof came from just inside the door. The sound made Diana feel much better.