by J. A. Jance
"Yes," Lani said. "I heard."
"But don't put too much store in it," he added. "Because I'll kill the son of a bitch in a second if you don't behave. Do you understand me? Whether Quentin lives or dies is up to you. If you try to run, or if you make any trouble at all, I'll kill him, no questions asked. Do you understand?"
Lani nodded her head. "Yes," she said quietly. "I understand."
And she did, too. If Vega said he would kill Quentin, then he would, friend or not.
"I don't make idle threats, you see."
"No," Lani said. "I know you don't."
Once again, Nana Dahd 's war chant came whirling into Lani Walker's heart out of the darkness of that locked, long-ago root cellar.
"Listen to what I sing to you,
LittleOlhoni. Listen to what I sing.
Be careful not to look at me
But do exactly as I say."
For a moment it seemed to Lani that Rita herself was riding in the truck with them, telling Lani what she had to do to survive. Lani realized then that she was right. The two sets of darkness and the two evil Ohbs were somehow merging into one. And the advice Nana Dahd had once given Davy Ladd was the same advice Rita was giving Lani now in the Bronco.
"I'll do it," Lani said quietly. "I'll do exactly what you say."
It might have sounded to Vega as though she were speaking to him, answering him, but in Lani Walker's heart and in her mind's eye, she was actually speaking to Nana Dahd.
The words formed clearly enough in her head, but when it came time actually to speak them, they came out fuzzy and disjointed. Like her rubberized legs earlier when she had struggled to walk, the lingering effects of the drug still interfered with Lani's ability to use her tongue. That was evidently exactly what Vega expected.
He loosened his clawlike grip around her leg and gave the top of her thigh a possessive pat. It was all Lani could do not to dodge away under his touch.
"Good girl," Vega said. "Your mother told me you were smart. I'm glad to see some evidence that it's true."
Vega had spoken to Lani's mother, to Diana? When? How? Lani wondered. And what was it he had said earlier about dropping something off at the house? Something about presents? What presents?
Lani cringed then, thinking about the terrible picture she had seen on his easel, the one he had drawn of her, the one with her body naked and with her legs spread open to the world. What if he had taken that one to her parents? Or else, what if he had done something to them? Her heart quailed at the thought.
"Why did you go to my house?" she asked.
Vega reached in his pocket and pulled out a key, one Lani recognized. "Why wouldn't I?" he said. "You gave your brother your key so he could return your bike for you."
By then the Bronco was on I-19 and starting off at the exit to Ajo Way. It seemed to Lani that they were headed for the reservation while off to the right, hidden behind a single barrier of rugged mountain, lay Gates Pass and home. Or whatever was left of home.
"You didn't hurt my parents, did you?" she asked at last.
Vega frowned. "You're awfully full of questions at the moment."
"Did you?" Lani insisted.
He turned his face toward her, his face glowing ghostlike in the reflected headlights of an oncoming vehicle.
"I haven't hurt them yet," he said. "But then, it's probably a little too early. Don't worry, though, they'll be getting your message before long."
"What message?" Lani asked.
"Don't you remember? You made it yourself, a very special tape for both your mother and father."
A tape? Lani could remember nothing about a tape, nothing at all. "I don't remember any tape," she said.
Vega grinned and patted her again. "It's all right if you don't remember," he said. "But what I can tell you is that once they hear it, neither one of your parents is ever going to forget it, not as long as they live."
The patrol car, lights flashing, had barely stopped at the end of the driveway when the Walkers' telephone started to ring. While Brandon went to meet the deputy, Diana raced for the phone, hoping beyond hope that the caller would be Lani. It wasn't.
Jessica Carpenter's mother, Rochelle, was on the phone. "I got your message," she said. "I hope you don't mind my calling this late. We saw the emergency lights as I was bringing Jessie home from the concert. Lani's all right, isn't she?"
"Lani seems to be missing," Diana said, fighting to force the words out around the barrier of a huge lump that threatened to block her throat. "Jessie hasn't seen her then?"
"Not all day," Rochelle Carpenter said. "The last time they talked was last night. Jessie said Lani was all excited about something she was doing for you this morning before work, something about an anniversary present."
Diana caught her breath at the thought that maybe this was a clue, something that might lead them to Lani or at least tell them where to start looking. "Could I talk to Jessie?" Diana asked. "If we could find out what that was, maybe it would help us find her."
Moments later, a subdued Jessica Carpenter came on the phone. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Walker. I hope Lani's going to be okay."
"Just tell me what you know about what Lani was doing earlier this morning."
"What if it ruins a surprise?"
"Please," Diana said. "That's a risk we'll have to take."
"It was something about a picture. Lani said she had met a man who was going to paint a picture of her to give to you and Mr. Walker for your anniversary. When we talked last night, she was all excited and asked me what I thought she should wear."
"Did she tell you what she decided?" Diana Walker asked.
"What she wore in February when she was one of the rodeo princesses. That pretty flowered shirt, her cowboy hat, her boots. I don't know for sure if that's what she wore, but she said she was going to."
The phone trembled in Diana's hand. She was listening to Jessie Carpenter's voice but she was thinking about Fat Crack's warning about the danger from Shadow of Death, the warning Diana had laughed off and dismissed without a thought. Was Lani's mysterious disappearance somehow connected to that?
"Her rodeo clothes?" Diana managed to mumble in return. "Did she say why she chose those?"
"Something about the man, the artist, wanting her to look like an Indian."
The doorbell rang. "I'd better go. Someone's at the door," Diana said hurriedly. "Thank you, Jess. I'll pass this information along to the deputy."
But Jessie Carpenter wasn't quite ready to be off the phone. "You don't think anything bad has happened to Lani, do you, Mrs. Walker?"
Hot tears stung the corners of Diana's eyes. "I hope to God nothing has," she said.
By the time Diana put down the phone in the kitchen and headed for the living room, Brandon was already escorting Detective Ford Myers into the house, leading him to the same couch where Deputy Garrett was already seated with his notebook in hand.
Diana's heart fell as soon as she saw Detective Myers. Why him? she wondered.
Ford Myers had gotten himself crosswise of Brandon very early in the course of their professional lives. The two of them had gone head-to-head on more than one occasion over the years, but once elected sheriff, the civil service protections Brandon himself had instituted had made getting rid of Myers tough. As a result, Myers had stayed on, growing more and more disgruntled.
During that critical election campaign, when Brandon had been running against Bill Forsythe in the aftermath of the Quentin Walker protection-racket allegations, Detective Myers had been one of several members of the department who had been openly critical of Brandon Walker's administration.
"What seems to be the problem?" Myers was saying as Diana walked into the room.
"It's our daughter," Brandon answered. "Her name is Lani. Full name Dolores Lanita Walker. She's sixteen. She left for work on her bike around six o'clock this morning and never arrived. Tonight she was supposed to go to a concert with a friend of hers from up the street. Lani didn't show for that, either."
"We didn't actually see her then," Brandon answered. "She left us a note. We didn't worry about her all day because we thought she had gone to work at the Arizona Sonora Desert Museum. This evening, though, when we came back from dinner, her supervisor from work had called and left a message. Mrs. Allison said on the phone that when she was going to miss a shift like she did today that she needed to call in."
"You've spoken to this Mrs. Allison?"
Brandon shook his head, but plucked the Post-it note with Lani's handwritten message on it and handed it over to the detective. "Not yet," Brandon said, as the detective perused the note. "As you can see, she had plans to go to a concert this evening."
"What kind?" Myers asked. "One of those rock concerts?"
"I doubt it. She goes in more for country western. You could talk to her friend, Jessica Carpenter. She could tell you what kind of concert it was."
"And you said Lani rides her bike to work?"
"That's right. She could drive one of the cars, but she prefers the bike. When my wife and I came home a little while ago, though, the bike was back home, lying in the middle of the carport. Her bike was here, but Lani wasn't. Every light in the house was on."
The detective glanced at Deputy Garrett. "A break-in then?" Myers asked.
Garrett shook his head. "I haven't been able to find any sign of it so far. Either the doors were left unlocked-"
"They weren't," Brandon interrupted.
"Or whoever it was let themselves in with a key. Other than a gun-a Colt.357-nothing else seems to be missing, although there is some glass breakage in Sheriff Walker's study."
"Where was the Colt?" Myers asked.
"Locked in my gun cabinet," Brandon answered.
"And was that broken into?"
Garrett shook his head. "Again, whoever it was must have used a key," the deputy said.
"The key was in my desk drawer," Brandon said.
Ford Myers raised his eyebrow. "So whoever it was knew where to look. You said something about breakage, Deputy Garrett? What's that all about?"
"Plaques, diplomas, and framed certificates," Garrett answered. "That kind of thing."
"Anything else missing besides the gun?" Myers continued. "Money? Jewelry?"
Brandon shook his head. "We haven't really checked that yet," he said. "We called for a deputy before we went snooping around."
Myers nodded. "I see," he said. "Now, tell me," he continued, "have you two been having any trouble with your daughter recently?"
"Trouble?" Diana asked, interjecting herself into the conversation for the first time. "What do you mean, trouble?"
"Boy trouble, for instance," Myers said with a casual shrug of the shoulders. "Hanging out with the wrong crowd. Problems with drugs or alcohol."
Diana was shaking her head long before he finished. "No," she declared. "Absolutely not! Nothing like that. Lani's a fine kid. An honors student. She's never given us a bit of trouble."
Myers stuffed his notebook into his pocket and then glanced at Deputy Garrett. "How about if I have the deputy here show me the damage in your office."
Brandon's face was tight with suppressed anger. "Sure," he said. "That'll be fine."
As the two officers started out of the room, Diana made as if to follow them, but Brandon stopped her. "We'll wait here," he said.
As soon as Garrett and Myers were out of earshot, a furious Diana Walker turned on her husband. "What the hell does he mean, hanging out with the wrong crowd?"
"Hush. Don't let him hear you," Brandon said. "You know where the SOB is going with all that, don't you? I do. I'll bet he's going to call this a family disturbance. He'll say Lani's a runaway. He's not going to lift a finger until he has to. He'll go by the book on this one, one hundred percent. Guaranteed."
Diana was outraged. "Not lift a finger? What do you mean?"
"Hide and watch," Brandon told her. "I've seen it before. Nobody plays the official rules game better than Ford Myers. I think maybe he invented it."
They were sitting waiting in grim silence a few minutes later when Myers sauntered back into the room. "If you have any jewelry or cash in the house, you might want to check it," he suggested.
"We don't keep cash around," Brandon said. "And not that much jewelry. But I'm sure Diana will be glad to check."
Wordlessly, Diana got up and walked into the bedroom. Nothing appeared to be out of place. Her jewelry box was where it belonged and nothing seemed to be missing. Fighting back tears, she walked on down the hall and checked Lani's bedroom. Jessica was right. The flowered cowboy shirt, Lani's Stetson, and Tony Lama boots were all gone from the closet. Diana returned to the living room just as Myers was getting ready to leave.
"I checked," she said. "Everything is here, except for the outfit Jessica said Lani was planning to wear. That one is gone."
"Good enough, Mrs. Walker," Myers said. "Deputy Garrett and I will be shoving off for the time being. If you still haven't heard anything from Lani by tomorrow morning, call in after six and we'll go ahead with the Missing Persons report at that time."
"I can tell you what clothes Lani was wearing when she left the house," Diana said. "In case you're interested, that is."
"That information should go into the Missing Persons report when you make it." Myers smiled. "Chances are, though, it won't even be necessary. Most of the time, these kids turn up long before the twenty-four-hour deadline. I'm sure your husband can tell you how it works, Mrs. Walker. By allowing that day's worth of grace time, we can cut down on unnecessary paperwork. Right, Mr. Walker?"
"Right," Brandon said.
"And as far as the gun theft and the vandalism is concerned, on a low-priority residential robbery like this, I won't be able to schedule someone to come out and lift prints until regular work hours next week. And besides, that may not prove necessary, either."
"What do you mean?" Diana asked. "Why wouldn't it be necessary?"
Myers shrugged. "What if the whole thing turns out to be a family prank of some kind? If your daughter took the gun herself on a lark, just to do a little unauthorized target practice, it might be better not to have those prints on file, don't you think?"
"But Lani wouldn't-" Diana began.
"Sure," Brandon said, urging Detective Myers and the deputy out the door. "I see what you mean. Thanks for all your help."
Diana was fuming when Brandon turned to face her. "Why did you let him off the hook like that?" she demanded. "Lani doesn't even like guns. She would never-"
"I let Detective Myers off the hook because he has no intention of doing anything, and I do." With that, Brandon Walker stalked toward the kitchen, with Diana right on his heels.
"What?" she asked. "What are you going to do?"
"I could lift prints myself, but that might screw up some prosecutor's chain of evidence," Brandon said, picking up the phone. "So instead, I'm going to make a few calls. There are some people in this world who owe me. It's time to call in a few of my markers."
Fingerprints were Alvin Miller's life. From the time an ink pad showed up as a birthday present for his sixth birthday party, he had found fingerprints endlessly fascinating. He had left a trail of indelible red marks across the face of his mother's new Harvest Gold refrigerator and dishwasher. His mother had confiscated the damn thing after that and thrown it in the garbage.
By the time Alvin was sixteen, he had turned an Eagle Scout project into a volunteer position as an aide in the latent fingerprint lab for the Pima County Sheriff's Department. Upon high school graduation, he had transformed his volunteer work into a paying job. Now, at age thirty-four and without benefit of more than a few college credits, he was the youngest and least formally educated person in the country to be placed in charge of a fully automated fingerprint identification system.
The civil service protections former sheriff Brandon Walker had instituted over the years kept his successor from doing politicall
y based wholesale firings, but Bill Forsythe wasn't above finding other ways of unloading what he considered deadwood. One of the people he wanted out most was Alvin Miller. To have some of the best, most up-to-date equipment in the Southwest in the hands of an "uneducated kid" was more than Forsythe could stand. He wanted somebody in that position with the proper credentials-somebody people around the country could look up to, somebody about whom they would say, "Now there's a guy who knows what he's doing."
Since his election, Sheriff Forsythe had hit Alvin Miller where it hurt the worst-in the budget department, chopping both money and staff. The "automated" part of AFIS sounds good, but the part that precedes the automation-enhancing the prints so the computer can actually scan and analyze them-is a labor-intensive, manual process. Forsythe had cut so far back on staffing the fingerprint lab that it should have been impossible for it to function-would have been impossible-had the lab been left in any hands less capable or dedicated than those of Alvin Miller.
He worked night and day. He put in his eight hours on the clock and another eight or so besides almost every day, Saturdays and Sundays included. Only forty hours a week went on the clock; a whole lot more than forty were freebies.
Because Alvin had so much hands-on practice, he was incredibly quick at manually enhancing those prints. He could read volumes into what looked like-to everyone else's untrained eyes-indecipherable circles and smudges. When it came to fingerprints, Alvin found each was as unique as he'd always heard snowflakes were supposed to be. And once he had dealt with a print, he remembered much of what he saw. Twice now, he had managed to make a hit-fingering a current resident in the Pima County Jail for another unrelated crime before feeding the information into the computer.
When Carley Fielding, Pima County's weekend lab tech, called earlier that evening to see what she should do with the three boxes of bones Detective Leggett wanted printed, Alvin Miller happened to be in and working. Lifting fingerprints off human bones was nothing Alvin had ever done before. The prospect was interesting enough to take him away from whatever he had been working on before.
It turned out that bones were easy to process. It didn't take long for Alvin to figure out that more than one person had handled the bones. Some had done so with gloves on, but only one had handled them bare-handed. Alvin sorted through one set of dusted prints after another until he was convinced that he had found the best possible one.
