Dance of the Bones

“And how do I get there?”


“Drive to the end of Tanque Verde and keep on going. That’ll put you on Redington Road, which will take you up over the pass. Just keep following that until you get there.”

“How far?”

“The -people who called it in said they’d meet you somewhere along the way. They had to drive all the way to Pomerene to find a phone. The first call they made was to the Cochise County sheriff, but someone there pointed out that Soza Canyon is in Pima County, not Cochise. Anyway, they’re driving a blue Toyota Land Cruiser. They’ll park it alongside the road and lead you in from there.”

“Great,” Brandon muttered.

“And you’d better bring your hiking boots and some galoshes, too,” Luke told him. “They’re predicting rain for later on this afternoon, heavier in the mountains than down here.”

“What about the M.E.?” Brandon asked.

“I know they’ve been called, but there’s been a fatality MVA up around Marana. They’ll send someone out when they can.”

Much of southern Arizona is made up of relatively flat or hilly terrain with occasional sections of steep mountain ranges jutting skyward here and there. The Catalina Mountains are generally to the north and east of Tucson, and the Rincons southeast. The two distinct ranges are separated by a low--lying dividing line known as Redington Pass. Heavy summer rains could send devastating flash floods roaring through the gullies and washes that ran in veins down the mountainsides and into the valleys below.

As a detective, Brandon was allowed to take his car home. His ride was a respectable Plymouth Fury sedan with a police pursuit engine that made it fine for chasing down crooks on long stretches of open highway. But on a muddy, rain--flooded road out in the middle of the boonies, the front--wheel--drive vehicle wouldn’t be worth squat.

“Any chance of coming in and picking up a four--wheel drive?”

“Nope,” Luke answered. “I already asked. They’re all checked out for the weekend.”

Something jarred Brandon out of his nighttime reverie. He listened, wondering if he’d heard some distant sound, but when Bozo didn’t stir, Brandon didn’t, either.

HALF AN HOUR OR SO of walking later, as Gabe was finally approaching Highway 86, he heard the distant hum of an oncoming vehicle. When the turn signal indicated that a pickup—-an older--model dual--cab Silverado—-was turning onto Coleman Road, Gabe once again ducked out of sight, this time checking behind him for any patches of marauding cactus.

He listened to the sounds of doors opening and closing, of men laughing and joking and relieving themselves. Gabe caught enough of the back--and--forth chitchat to learn that these were -Indians—-a group of guys who had gone into town to buy some beer and were now headed back to the village of San Miguel for a weekend of partying. Gabe could tell that the men weren’t kids. They were older—-maybe his father’s age. They might even be friends of his father’s, but just because they knew Leo Ortiz didn’t mean they knew Gabe.

Gabe took a deep breath and stepped out into the open. His sudden appearance startled the others, but he had a plausible story at the ready.

“My friends left me here,” he said plaintively. “Can you give me a ride?”

“Hebai?” the man closest to the driver’s door asked. “Where?”

The fact that the man spoke Tohono O’odham rather than En-glish meant that the men in the group were most likely far older than Gabe’s parents. From Gabe’s point of view, that was all to the good.

“Komikch’ed e Wah’osithk,” Gabe answered.

The men exchanged surprised glances. They probably hadn’t expected that he would answer the question in their native tongue and use the traditional name, Turtle Got Wedged, rather than the Milgahn name of Sells.