Dance of the Bones

Moving restlessly in the darkness, Tim’s hand came in contact with the back of Gabe’s fist. Tim’s fingers were hot to the touch, as though he was burning up with a fever. That’s when Gabe realized Tim wasn’t just thirsty—-he was dehydrated, and maybe Tim’s assessment was right. If Henry Rojas didn’t come back for them soon, Tim might die after all.

Suddenly, without knowing how it happened, Gabe was back in one of those hospital rooms. He had gone to visit an old, old woman, Mrs. Lopez. She was lying in the bed, restless and moaning. The sides of the bed had been put up to keep her from falling. Gabe had reached out to touch her hand and had known in that moment that she was going to die, that this was the last time he would see her.

How had he known that? Gabe wondered. How had he understood Death was coming?

Holding his breath, he reached out now and sought Tim’s hand once more. The skin was hot to the touch, but the sense of foreboding and dread Gabe had felt in Mrs. Lopez’s hospital room didn’t descend on him. If Tim was dying, it wasn’t happening right now. It wasn’t happening yet.

Then, something else came back to Gabe from that same long--ago hospital room. He had sat down on the floor beside Mrs. Lopez’s bed, close enough that her hand could touch the back of his head through the bed rails. Gabe had sung to her that day, a healing song whose words he could no longer remember. What he did remember was that as he sang she had quieted. She had stopped thrashing in the bed, had stopped moaning. He had sung the song four times—-for all of nature goes in fours—-and when the song was finished and he left the room, she was sleeping peacefully.

Maybe that was what was needed right now—-a healing song that would let Tim José fall asleep so he wouldn’t notice how slowly time was passing in the stifling darkness, so he would forget how thirsty he was.

Without knowing where the words came from—-perhaps from the four stones clutched in his hand—-Gabe Ortiz began to sing.

We are here, Elder Brother, two boys in a box.

We are alone in the dark, Spirit of Goodness,

Hungry and thirsty and asking for help.

The man who put us here is not a good man.

He pretends to be good, but he is not.

There is something in him that is evil,

I’itoi, something in him that is bad.

Help us to know what to do, Elder Brother.

Help us to know what to do.

You have given us a weapon, Elder Brother,

A weapon that the bad man didn’t see.

The weapon was a gift, a knife, that let us

Cut our bonds, and now we wait,

Wait for that evil man to return. When he does

Help us fight him, Elder Brother,

Help us fight him, that we may live.

We are two boys in a box who need your help,

Elder Brother, two boys who need your help.

Gabe sang the song through four times, and by the time he was done, two things had happened. Tim had fallen asleep, and Gabe himself no longer felt thirsty.

TODD HATCHER WAS GOOD TO his word. Within twenty minutes of my handing him the joint Calliope Horn/Ava Martin problem, he was back on the phone. “I found her,” he said. “Her name is Calliope Horn--Grover now—-Reverend Calliope Horn--Grover. She and her husband, the Reverend Dale Grover, are partners in an outfit called Pastoral Outreach. It specializes in ministering to homeless shelters throughout the Seattle area.”

Having just read through the Danielson/Horn interview, I was impressed that Calliope had somehow made good on her ambitions of becoming a minister to the homeless. Good for her!

“Any idea where they live?”

“Probably only blocks from you,” Todd said. “Their address is on Elliott. I have a phone number if you want it.”

“Of course I want it.” He read off the number, and I jotted it down. “Any luck on Ava?”

“One problem at a time,” Todd admonished. “And don’t expect miracles.”

Duly chastened, I dialed the number he had given me without any idea of what I’d say when someone answered. After all, I wasn’t with Special Homicide anymore, and I wasn’t with Seattle PD, either. For the first time in decades, I was operating entirely on my own.

“I’m looking for Reverend Calliope Horn--Grover,” I said when a woman answered.