“I came to talk to you about Gabe Ortiz,” she said.

“The boy from your campout?”

Lani nodded. “He and the youngest José brother, Timothy, are best friends, and as far as we can tell, they’re both missing. With Paul and Carlos dead, I’m worried about Tim. He hasn’t been seen since last night, and Gabe was seen possibly being forced into an unidentified pickup earlier this morning.”

Leaning back in her chair, Agent Howell frowned. “Just how is it that you happen to know the names of the two victims? That information has yet to be released.”

Lani stiffened. Clearly Agent Howell had focused on only one small part of what Lani had said. If that’s how the woman was going to play the game, Lani could, too.

“I’m not sure how the names came to my attention,” Lani answered with a shrug. “Smoke signals, maybe? The tom-­tom telegraph? Does it matter how I know? The point is, I do. The real issue here is that Gabe and Tim are missing.”

“I’m assuming Gabe’s parents have reported the situation?”

“Gabe’s father is probably doing so right about now,” Lani answered. “I thought you should know as well, in case the two boys happen to be together.”

“That’s very kind of you, Dr. Pardee. We appreciate your assistance, and I’m sure the tribal police will be looking into the missing persons situation.”

Dismissively, Agent Howell made as if to reopen her computer, but Lani placed her hand on top of the lid. She had fully intended to go into detail about the bag and the note they had found in Gabe’s drawer. That was no longer the case.

“I’m not finished,” Lani insisted, still holding the computer shut. “Have you spoken to Lorraine José and done the next-­of-­kin notification?”

“We’re not in the habit of discussing investigations with civilians,” Agent Howell said icily. “You need to remove your hand from my computer.”

“And you need to get over yourself. You need to remember that you’re a guest of the Tohono O’odham Nation, and you need to start acting like it. Lorraine José is one of my patients. I’ll be seeing her in a few minutes, and I need to know what to expect.”

“Yes, the mother has been notified,” Agent Howell said.

“Good,” Lani replied. “That’s all I wanted to know.”

With that, Lani removed her hand, stalked out of the café, and drove straight to the hospital. In the convalescent wing she found Lorraine José, sitting in a chair next to her bed, weeping.

“They used to be such good boys,” she said brokenly as Lani sat down on the bed beside her. “What did I do wrong?”

“You did nothing wrong,” Lani murmured. “I’m sure you did the best you could.”

“Carlos and Paul are dead,” Lorraine added, “and now we can’t find Tim.”

“Does Tim have a phone? Have you tried calling him?”

Lorraine nodded. “We all have phones. Max bought them. When I dialed Tim’s number, he didn’t answer. I asked the FBI agents if they couldn’t trace his phone some way. Because I’m not a signer on the account, they couldn’t do it just on my say-­so. The one agent, the man, said he’d need to go to town and get a warrant before they could do something like that. I don’t know how long that will take.”

“What’s Tim’s number?” Lani asked.

“There are so many, I can’t keep them all straight. They’re in my cell phone in the bedside table.”

“May I?” Lani asked.

“Sure.”

Lani retrieved the phone and scrolled through the recent calls list, jotting down numbers as she went—­numbers for Carlos, Paul, and Tim. “What about Max’s phone?”

Lorraine shrugged. “He probably took it with him when they locked him away up in Florence. He’s the one whose name is on the account.”

“Has anyone gotten in touch with him about what happened last night?”

“After the FBI agents stopped by, I called Father O’Reilly. He said he’d go to Florence and tell Max. He’s probably on his way there now.”

Lorraine’s sister and brother-­in-­law turned up just then. Lorraine turned to them hopefully. “Any sign of Timmy?”

“Not yet,” the sister said.

Lani pocketed her list of phone numbers and took her leave. Out in the hallway, she used her phone to call the number listed as Timmy’s. Not surprisingly, there was no answer. It went straight to voice mail, and Lani knew there was no point in leaving a message.

CHAPTER 19

ON THE WAY BACK TO the village, Turtle and the children met Horned Toad—­Mo’ochwig. Turtle asked Horned Toad to go tell the women that Shining Falls had been hurt and that he, Turtle, was bringing the children home. Horned Toad ran quickly to carry the message. As soon as the women in the village heard the news, they hurried up the mountain—­some to meet Turtle and the children and some to help Shining Falls. But when they reached Shining Falls, the Evil Giantess was already lifting her up.

Ho’ok O’oks told them, “There is no place in your village for someone who is sick. I will take this girl to my home in the mountains, the one that is made of saguaro sticks.”

Because they were afraid of the Evil Giantess, the women consented, but they brought a bed and some food to the shelter, and sometimes they sat with Shining Falls.

Ho’ok O’oks told the women it was foolish for them to waste their time looking after a sick girl. “I am a medicine woman,” she said. “I will sing the songs and bring the medicine that will make her well.”

Ho’ok O’oks went away and returned with a bag of feathers. Some of the feathers were gray, some were white, and some were red. Ho’ok O’oks put the gray feathers around the girl’s injured foot, then she waved the red and white feathers over Shining Falls’s face. Slowly the girl’s eyes closed.

When the women saw this, they decided it was time to return to their work, but the next day, when they returned, Shining Falls was still sleeping.

WHEN I MADE IT BACK to our condo at Belltown Terrace in the early afternoon, I was not a happy camper. I do not like to shop. I have never liked shopping. I hated it back in the old days when Karen and I were married and we didn’t have two nickels to rub together. My financial situation has changed remarkably since then, but my attitude toward shopping remains the same. So after spending most of the morning and part of the afternoon being dragged from one furniture emporium to another with Jim Hunt, our interior designer, I was beat and cranky.

And my mood didn’t improve when I found a message on my machine from some guy named Brandon Walker, claiming he was a friend of Ralph Ames. He said he was hoping I could give him some help with a case he was working for Ralph’s cold case group, TLC.

My initial assumption, of course, was that Mel had somehow ratted me out to Ralph. I suspected that the two of them were conspiring behind my back to bring me into the TLC fold whether I wanted to be involved or not.

Still, I went ahead and returned the call because that’s who I am—­someone who returns calls rather than ignores them—­but I wasn’t exactly cordial.

“Brandon Walker?”

“Yes.”

“J. P. Beaumont here. You called?”

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said, sounding genuinely apologetic. “I believe I mentioned this in my message—­I got your number from Ralph Ames. Do you know anything about TLC?”

“Some,” I admitted with a singular lack of enthusiasm. My terse answers weren’t exactly encouraging, and neither was my tone of voice, but Walker plowed on anyway.

“I’m working a case down here in Arizona that may have connections to a cold case from up your way. I’m looking for some help.”