his usual late-morning lunchtime. Once he left Geet and Sue’s neighborhood, he found himself on one of Casa Grande’s larger multi-lane streets. He drove past the first Burger King he saw without even slowing down, choosing instead to pull in at a Mexican food joint called Mi Casa Ricardo.
It was the kind of place Brandon Walker liked—family-owned and unpretentious. He ordered iced tea, a cheese crisp, and carne asada fajitas . He knew he was ordering too much food, but he counted on having some leftovers to take home to Damsel, who firmly believed that restaurant doggie bags had been invented solely for her benefit.
His cell phone rang as he took the first bite of cheese crisp. “How was it?” Ralph Ames asked,
Brandon knew Ralph wasn’t referring to the cheese crisp. Brandon had called Ralph in Seattle as soon as he had received Sue Farrell’s phone call summoning him to Casa Grande.
“Pretty rough,” he said.
“How long do you think he has?” Ames asked.
“Not long,” Brandon answered. “He’s put up a hell of a fight, but we’re down to short strokes. I’d say a couple of weeks at the most. Maybe only days.”
“I had been planning to come down to Arizona the end of next week,” Ralph said. “I’ll see if I can move that up some. I’d like to see him before it’s too late.”
“He gave me the Brinker file,” Brandon said.
“Good,” Ralph said. “I expected that he would. You’re the logical successor on that one. Weeks ago Geet mentioned that he had a new lead. I know he was hoping he’d be able follow up on it himself, but of course—”
“Right,” Brandon said. “The clock wound down before he had a chance. I told him I’d look into it right away. There’s nothing I’d like better than to tell Geet in person that we finally have some answers.”
“Amen,” Ralph Ames said. “I know that would mean more to him than anything else you could possibly do.”
“I’ll do my best,” Brandon said.
Tucson, Arizona
Saturday, June 6, 2009, 5:00 p.m.
92º Fahrenheit
E ven though it was more than an hour early, by five o’clock Bozo was parked in front of the door that led to the garage. When it came time for Dan to leave, the dog wasn’t taking any chances on his being forgotten, and he wasn’t.
When Dan saw K-9 units on Cops, the dogs always rode in the backseat. Not in Dan Pardee’s world. The dog that had saved his life was front and center. Well, front and rider’s side. As they headed out to the reservation, Bozo rode with his head hanging out the window. It was a lot hotter to ride with the window open, but Dan was happy to do it. Bozo deserved that and more.
First they stopped by Motor Pool and filled up with gas. Then they headed out onto the reservation. Just east of Sells the highway climbed over a low pass. Each time he drove down the far side and saw the high school campus and the town of Sells spread out in front of him, Dan was always surprised by how alien he felt. When he had signed on with the Shadow Wolves he had imagined that being an Indian working on a reservation would make things simple—that this was a place where he would finally fit in. And that was true—he did fit in with his unit, with the Shadow Wolves themselves, but he didn’t fit in on this particular reservation any more than he had fit on the San Carlos.
On the San Carlos the difficulty had stemmed from the fact that Dan was only half Apache. On the Tohono O’odham, it was because he was any Apache at all. His last name didn’t give it away. After all, Pardee was his father’s name, an Anglo name. But in almost no time at all, the people who lived there had figured out that Dan’s mother had been Apache. Just his manner of speech gave him away. Among the Tohono O’odham being Apache was not okay—definitely not okay.
In the old days, the various Apache tribes—and there were several—had lived by their wits, raiding other tribes of what they had grown and gathered. It
It was the kind of place Brandon Walker liked—family-owned and unpretentious. He ordered iced tea, a cheese crisp, and carne asada fajitas . He knew he was ordering too much food, but he counted on having some leftovers to take home to Damsel, who firmly believed that restaurant doggie bags had been invented solely for her benefit.
His cell phone rang as he took the first bite of cheese crisp. “How was it?” Ralph Ames asked,
Brandon knew Ralph wasn’t referring to the cheese crisp. Brandon had called Ralph in Seattle as soon as he had received Sue Farrell’s phone call summoning him to Casa Grande.
“Pretty rough,” he said.
“How long do you think he has?” Ames asked.
“Not long,” Brandon answered. “He’s put up a hell of a fight, but we’re down to short strokes. I’d say a couple of weeks at the most. Maybe only days.”
“I had been planning to come down to Arizona the end of next week,” Ralph said. “I’ll see if I can move that up some. I’d like to see him before it’s too late.”
“He gave me the Brinker file,” Brandon said.
“Good,” Ralph said. “I expected that he would. You’re the logical successor on that one. Weeks ago Geet mentioned that he had a new lead. I know he was hoping he’d be able follow up on it himself, but of course—”
“Right,” Brandon said. “The clock wound down before he had a chance. I told him I’d look into it right away. There’s nothing I’d like better than to tell Geet in person that we finally have some answers.”
“Amen,” Ralph Ames said. “I know that would mean more to him than anything else you could possibly do.”
“I’ll do my best,” Brandon said.
Tucson, Arizona
Saturday, June 6, 2009, 5:00 p.m.
92º Fahrenheit
E ven though it was more than an hour early, by five o’clock Bozo was parked in front of the door that led to the garage. When it came time for Dan to leave, the dog wasn’t taking any chances on his being forgotten, and he wasn’t.
When Dan saw K-9 units on Cops, the dogs always rode in the backseat. Not in Dan Pardee’s world. The dog that had saved his life was front and center. Well, front and rider’s side. As they headed out to the reservation, Bozo rode with his head hanging out the window. It was a lot hotter to ride with the window open, but Dan was happy to do it. Bozo deserved that and more.
First they stopped by Motor Pool and filled up with gas. Then they headed out onto the reservation. Just east of Sells the highway climbed over a low pass. Each time he drove down the far side and saw the high school campus and the town of Sells spread out in front of him, Dan was always surprised by how alien he felt. When he had signed on with the Shadow Wolves he had imagined that being an Indian working on a reservation would make things simple—that this was a place where he would finally fit in. And that was true—he did fit in with his unit, with the Shadow Wolves themselves, but he didn’t fit in on this particular reservation any more than he had fit on the San Carlos.
On the San Carlos the difficulty had stemmed from the fact that Dan was only half Apache. On the Tohono O’odham, it was because he was any Apache at all. His last name didn’t give it away. After all, Pardee was his father’s name, an Anglo name. But in almost no time at all, the people who lived there had figured out that Dan’s mother had been Apache. Just his manner of speech gave him away. Among the Tohono O’odham being Apache was not okay—definitely not okay.
In the old days, the various Apache tribes—and there were several—had lived by their wits, raiding other tribes of what they had grown and gathered. It
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