He was standing in front of the dresser, about to put the bag in a drawer, when he realized that he’d stuck the four gems from the strainer into the pocket of his jeans. He had them in hand and was about to return them to the jar when he realized there was no way for Carlos or anyone else to tell how many gems had been concealed in the peanut butter. If Gabe kept them, did that mean he was one of the Bad ­People, too?

The gems didn’t exactly speak to him. What he heard in his head was Lani’s long-­ago voice telling him one of the I’itoi stories and explaining how four was a sacred number because all of nature goes in fours—­four seasons, four directions. Was this the same thing? Was that the reason there had been four diamonds in that single spoonful of peanut butter—­not three or five or six, but four? Maybe this was a message from I’itoi, or maybe even the trickster, Ban—­Coyote—­whispering in Gabe’s ear and telling him those four diamonds now belonged to him.

He returned them to his pocket. Then, stripping off his jeans and underwear, he turned to a far more pressing matter—­getting the last of those pesky cholla spines out of his bare behind. When he had most of them removed, he got into bed and turned out the light. He was still chilled, and Gabe was grateful to pull the covers up around him. There may have been the sharp end of a cholla spine or two still sticking him, but he had walked too far and was too tired to notice.

He fell asleep and dreamed of bats—­hundreds of bats, maybe even thousands. During the dream he noticed something odd. He was out in the desert somewhere all by himself, and although the bats were flapping all around him, for some strange reason, he wasn’t the least bit afraid.

CHAPTER 9

AFTER BUZZARD RETURNED WITHOUT FIRE, ­people were still cold at night, and the stories of those who had tried to bring back fire only made them want it more. They held another council and decided that they should send something that flies at night, so they asked Bat—­Nanakumal—­to go to Tash’s house, slip in through a crack, and bring back Fire. Nanakumal said he would try. The next day Bat set off. When he left for Tash’s house, he was covered with soft gray feathers.

The ­People were sure that Bat would succeed, so that night they stayed awake, waiting for him to return.

It was very dark. At last they saw a light coming, and it flashed from side to side and there was a great roar. When the light reached the earth, there was a loud bang. Some of the Indians were frightened and hid, but others said it is Tai—­Fire—­flashing like the sun. They ran as fast as they could to the spot and found a place where the grass was burning and so was a tree.

One of the men, an elder, ran to the burning tree, took one of the branches, and waved it in the four directions—­North, East, South, and West—­so the ­People would know not to be afraid.

There was still much noise and many flashing lights. The ­People called the noise Bebethki—­Thunder—­and the flashing lights, Wepgih—­Lightning.

The ­People were so excited to have Fire that they forgot all about Bat. The next day they went looking for him. They found poor Nanakumal hanging limp in a tree. He had not one feather left. Tash had burned Bat black, all the way to the skin. Bat was so ashamed of how he looked that no one could coax him into showing himself. That is why, nawoj, my friend, even to this day, Bat comes out only at night.

AS THE NIGHT SOUNDS OF distant traffic hummed in the background, Brandon’s thoughts returned to that Sunday afternoon summons that had taken him from Gates Pass in the Tucson Mountains on the far west side of town to the base of the Catalinas on the far east side.

That day, as he drove, he’d kept a wary eye on the weather and the less-­than-­optimal road conditions. Redington Pass Road was primitive to begin with, and summer rains had made it virtually impassable in spots. Not only that; a wall of white and gray thunderclouds was boiling up on the back side of the mountains, rolling in from the southeast. If a gully washer was in the offing, Brandon knew he’d be lucky to get to the crime scene and even luckier to make it back home. And if the medical examiner’s folks were very far behind him, they might be no-­shows altogether.

It took the better part of two hours from the time he left home before Brandon finally spotted a light blue Land Cruiser parked alongside the road. A man and a woman stood leaning against each of the front fenders. Brandon pulled up alongside the vehicle and rolled down the window.

“Are you the folks who called the sheriff’s department?”

Nodding, the woman stepped forward. She was young and blond, with windblown hair and a peeling sunburned face, complete with a freckled nose. “I’m Suzanne Holder, and this is my partner, Kent Perkins.”

Kent didn’t seem any too happy. “Took you long enough,” he muttered glumly, peering over his shoulder at the tower of clouds marching toward them. “I was expecting lights and sirens. That storm’s going to be here any minute.”

Brandon put his Plymouth in Park and stepped out of the vehicle, proffering his ID wallet as he did so. “I was told these were skeletal remains,” he said, “so it’s not exactly a life-­and-­death situation. As you can see from my ID, I’m Detective Brandon Walker with the Pima County Sheriff’s Department. What have you got here?”

Suzanne studied the badge and ID before handing it back. “Don’t mind Kent,” she said with a laugh. “He’s a city slicker from California. He always translates times and distances in terms of freeways.”

“So what have you found?” Brandon prodded. “And what brought you out here in the first place?”

Suzanne answered the second question first. “We’re grad students in anthropology at the University of Arizona. In the past ­couple of years there have been lots of unsubstantiated rumors about Papago artifacts being found in this area. The problem is, the San Pedro is a long way from the Papago’s traditional haunts. There were far more Apaches here in the past than there were Papagos. So for the past few weeks, Kent and I have been spending a lot of time out in this area, trying to sort out those rumors once and for all.”

“Is there a chance that’s what the remains in question are all about?” Brandon asked. “Maybe they’re Indian artifacts, too.”

“I doubt it,” she said.

“How about if I have a look? How far is it?”

“A mile and a half,” she answered, “maybe two.”

“Can you lead me there?”

“Of course,” Suzanne responded. “Kent can wait here and flag down the M.E. Here are the keys,” she added, tossing a key ring in his direction.

Suzanne appeared to be several years younger than Kent, but she was clearly in charge, and Brandon wondered if the Land Cruiser wasn’t hers as well.

Brandon went back to his car and radioed in to Dispatch. Luke told him that the M.E. van was still a good forty-­five minutes out. Brandon figured that was information Kent didn’t need to have. Rolling up his window and locking the door on his patrol car, he went around to the trunk. He kept a sports bag back there loaded with spare clothing in case a quick change was needed. Dumping those out, he loaded in gloves, evidence markers, and a supply of evidence bags as well as a camera and extra rolls of film. Then, carrying the bag with him, he crossed the road and followed Suzanne into seemingly trackless desert.

With the coming storm, the temperature had dropped from midday highs of well over a hundred to something maybe ten degrees cooler in a matter of minutes, but from Brandon’s point of view, it was still plenty hot, especially with the thickening humidity. He had to bite back the temptation to repeat that old saw about “mad dogs and Englishmen.”