This time, leading Leo and Gabe, she headed straight for what had once been the main entrance to the vast cavern complex and to the part of the mountain that had long ago been brought down in order to entomb a living prisoner.

For years after that day, Lani had refused to go anywhere near Ioligam. Finally, on the occasion of her twenty-­first birthday, she had gathered her courage as well as her brother, Davy, and Davy’s good friend and almost brother, Brian Fellows, and the three of them had returned to the mountain. Brian, the son of Brandon Walker’s first wife, Jane, and a subsequent husband, was Quentin’s and Tommy’s half brother. Though there had been no clearing back then, they had gone to the collapsed main entrance armed with tools—­pickaxes, shovels, and rakes—­for the very purpose of creating one.

Together the three of them had chopped down brush, pulled out the roots, and turned over and smoothed out the disturbed earth, leaving behind a small clearing hidden under a thicket of sheltering manzanita. In one corner of the space they had used a collection of loose rocks to form a small circle in which they had erected a small wooden cross. When the memorial was finished, they had placed a lit candle inside the circle as a remembrance in honor of Betraying Woman.

Lani’s old friend and mentor, Fat Crack, was long dead. That day, Davy and Brian became the other two ­people who knew the truth about what happened to Mitch Johnson. Lani had come here today hoping that perhaps she could share that story with someone else—­with Fat Crack’s grandson and namesake. Now she wasn’t so sure she’d be able to tell Gabe anything at all about her battle with Mitch Johnson.

When Lani reached the clearing and set down her backpack, she was surprised and gratified to see that both the cross and the long empty glass that had once held the candle were still there and undisturbed. Lani smiled to herself when she saw them. Dan might think otherwise, but the fact that those relics remained reassured her that this part of Ioligam was still a sacred place.

Leo was the next to arrive. With a dull thump he dropped the bound bundle of firewood that he had brought from Bashas’ store in Sells and set down the plastic gallon jug of water he had hauled up the mountain. Then he wiggled free of his backpack, one loaded with foodstuffs, enamel-­covered tin dishes, and utensils that Lani had prepared and packed in advance of the expedition. Gabe, carrying what should have been the lightest load, arrived last, panting and out of breath. As he slumped to the ground, Lani noticed he was munching on something.

“What are you eating?”

He opened a clenched fist to reveal the remains of a half-­eaten Snickers bar. Lani knew that diabetes, often called the Tohono O’odham Curse, continued to wreak havoc on the reservation. Her response had been to take a principled stance against the use of processed sugars and flour in her own family.

Gabe had always been short and stocky. Lani, along with Gabe’s parents, worried about his diet and the possibility that he, too, might be plagued by the same disease that had cost the boy’s grandfather both his legs and eventually his life. It was for that reason the tortillas she had brought along for this trip had been made with flour ground from mesquite beans. Since Lani viewed this as a ceremonial occasion, Snickers bars were definitely not on the menu.

“Where did that come from?” she demanded, snatching the rest of the half-­eaten candy bar out of his hand.

A sullen Gabe shrugged. “From the store,” he said.

“And how did it get up here?”

“In my backpack,” he answered.

“What else is in your backpack?” she demanded. “Let me see.”

Within minutes, from among the approved items in his pack—­some extra clothing, a canteen, and his grandfather’s blankets—­Lani unearthed several pieces of contraband: a plastic-­bound six-­pack of Coca-­Cola cans, two bags of potato chips, and three more candy bars. She handed all the confiscated loot, including the remains of the original candy bar, over to Leo.

“Please take these back to the truck,” she said to him. “They won’t be needed here.”

“You’re sure you want to do this—­that you’ll be okay?” Leo asked.

“I’m sure.”

“All right then,” Leo said. “Delia and I are going to the dance at Vamori tonight, but I’ll come back for you in the morning when the dance is over.”

Gabe watched sourly as his father disappeared taking the goodies with him. “If I can’t drink Coke, what can I drink?” he wanted to know.

“You’d be surprised what a little prickly pear juice and honey can do for a cup of hot water.”

“Right,” Gabe grumbled under his breath. “I can hardly wait.”

Lani ignored his complaints. “Okay,” she told him, “it’s about time you got off your duff and helped me make camp.”

“Why should I?” Gabe objected. “Why do I even have to be here? Why can’t I just go back to town with my dad?”

“You’re here because I think you should be, and so do your parents,” Lani growled back, “and as long as you’re here, you’re also going to do what I say. Now get busy.”

“Doing what?”

In her years as a doctor, Lani Walker-­Pardee had encountered her share of surly adolescents, and Gabe was currently running true to form.

“Like gathering some rocks to make a fire pit.”

He made a beeline for the first rocks he saw—­the easy ones—­those surrounding Betraying Woman’s cross. “Not those,” she told him. “Those stay where they are. Find some others. It’ll be dark before long, and we’ll need to have the fire going by then.”

“Right,” he muttered sourly. “Who cares about having a fire?”

“You will,” she warned him, “about ten minutes after the sun goes down.”

Gabe huffed off to do as he was bidden. Watching him go, Lani felt a hint of despair. Maybe Dan and Leo were right. Maybe Baby Fat Crack Ortiz really was a lost cause.

SITTING ALONE IN MY SEATTLE penthouse, I was a very lonely and glum version of J. P. Beaumont that Friday evening. I sat in the family room in my new leather easy chair and gazed out the window at the setting sun and the busy boat traffic on Elliott Bay far below. From my bird’s-­eye view, the ferries and lumbering container ships looked like small toys—­about the size of the rubber-­band-­powered plastic toy boats I used to sail on Seattle’s Green Lake back when I was a kid.

Though I didn’t like to admit it, my beloved recliner’s replacement wasn’t half bad. It was made of smooth reddish-­brown leather and offered the kind of comfort the broken and dying springs in the old recliner could no longer provide. Even so, I wouldn’t have gotten rid of the recliner if I hadn’t been strong-­armed into relinquishing it by Jim Hunt, my once and again interior designer.

I glanced at my watch, sighed, and heaved myself out of the chair. The last thing I wanted to do that night—­the very last thing—­was go to the Behind the Badge Foundation’s Gala and Auction down at the airport Hilton. And I most especially didn’t want to go solo. My reluctance had nothing to do with the organization sponsoring the event. After all, Behind the Badge helps maintain Washington’s Fallen Officer Memorial. It also supplies much-­needed scholarship assistance to the sons and daughters of fallen officers. But the truth is, I would have much preferred whipping out my checkbook and mailing a sizable donation to actually making an appearance.

This was supposed to have been a fun event—­a double date of sorts, a foursome made up of my wife, Mel Soames, and me, along with my son, Scott, and his wife, Cherisse. Having aced his stint at the Police Academy, Scotty was now a full-­fledged member of the Seattle Police Department. Tickets to the event had been a Christmas present to Mel and me from Scott and Cherisse, and the four of us had planned to go together.