Each summer the women from the villages would go to the foothills around Baboquivari to gather the fruit from the saguaro—s bahithaj—from which they make the saguaro wine—nawait. For many years, when people from a certain village went to gather the fruit, they were met by the Evil Giantess—Ho’ok O’oks—who lived nearby. You will remember, nawoj, my friend, that Ho’ok O’oks had grown out of the dust balls that once belonged to Nephew-of-the-Sun.
Ho’ok O’oks was a powerful spirit of evil who could make people do just what she wanted. Sometimes she made them give her their best cows. Sometimes she would catch a young child and take it away with her. And although the mothers mourned for their children and pleaded with the Giantess, the children were never returned.
The Evil Giantess had such a lot of hair that when she shook her head, it was like a cloud. The children were all afraid of her. And so it became a custom for one of the women from the village to stay with the children to keep them safe. But this was not easy to do. There were horses and cattle to be watered and there was wood to be chopped to keep the fires warm to heat the ollas used to cook the cactus fruit before the syrup—sit’ol—could be turned into wine. All those things meant the women of the village were always busy.
WARDEN HUFFMAN WAS good to his word. Brandon Walker checked his weapons in one of the lockers provided, then carried Amanda Wasser’s box of documents through security. Once clear of that, a waiting guard led him to a nearby interview room, let him inside, and locked the door behind him. Brandon didn’t mind. The silence of the locked room was infinitely preferable to the noisy bedlam of the regular visitors’ room. His memories of that room—of sitting there trying to converse with Quentin through a yellowed plexiglass barrier—were painful ones Brandon didn’t wish to revisit.
The door banged open, jarring him out of his reverie and back into an equally unwelcome present. A uniformed guard ushered a grizzled old black man into the room. “You here to see John Lassiter?” he asked.
Brandon nodded. The man was in uniform. His clothing was more like hospital scrubs than guard attire. The name tag dangling on his lanyard identified him as Aubrey Bayless.
“Mind showing me some ID?”
“How come?”
Bayless shrugged. “Lassiter asked me to check, so I’m checking.”
Shaking his head with annoyance, Brandon reached into his back pocket, retrieved his wallet, and held it still long enough for the man to study it.
Finally the old man nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Right back.”
In the long silence that followed, Brandon remembered taking John Lassiter into custody. The homicide investigation was Pima County’s, but the arrest itself had been a joint operation conducted by Brandon and a Tucson PD detective named Michael Farraday. Information from a confidential informant had led them to a seedy bar called the Tally Ho on North Sixth Avenue, one that was lowbrow and scuzzy enough to be El Barrio’s clone. Once inside, they spotted Lassiter seated at the dimly lit bar, hunched over a pitcher of beer with a shot of tequila on the counter in front of him.
Naturally the place had gone quiet the moment the two detectives walked into the room. Action at the pool tables stopped cold. Lassiter was drunk enough that it took a moment for the sudden silence to penetrate his fog. He was just starting to turn on his barstool when Farraday reached out to tap him on the shoulder.
Big Bad John Lassiter immediately roared to his full height—all six-foot-six of him, without even knowing who they were or what they wanted—and he had come out swinging. He was belligerent enough that for years afterward, whenever they had been together, Brandon had reminisced with Farraday about being lucky and quick enough to dodge Lassiter’s powerful right-hand blow. It had taken both detectives to subdue the guy and get the cuffs on him, and all the while, a girl—a young woman really—had been screaming in the background, telling them to stop and begging that they not hurt him. That girl, Brandon realized now, must have been Amanda’s birth mother, and she had most likely been only a few weeks pregnant at the time.
The last time Brandon remembered seeing Big Bad John had been at the Pima County Courthouse at the close of Lassiter’s second trial. The verdict was read—guilty—and the judge had remanded him to custody. When it was time to leave, Lassiter had stood up—again to his full height—and had patiently placed his hands behind his back so the guards could cuff him and lead him back to his cell. Even in handcuffs, John Lassiter had been an imposing figure, dwarfing the guards who had swarmed around him like so many midgets. That was who Brandon was expecting to walk through the door, a giant of a man, big enough to match the song. But that wasn’t what happened.
When the interview room’s door swung open, Aubrey Bayless pushed a wheelchair into the room. John Lassiter’s clean-shaven face was familiar, but the rest of him was not. The passing years had turned him into a massive piece of humanity that seemed root-bound in a chair that appeared far too small to hold him. Brandon’s first impression was that someone had heated him up and simply melted his body into the chair.
MS, Brandon remembered after a moment. It was the same ailment that had placed Lassiter’s daughter on her red scooter. Obviously scooters weren’t part of the prison’s caregiving protocol.
Aubrey Bayless positioned Lassiter’s wheelchair on the far side of the table and disappeared into the background, taking a chair next to the door. For a few moments, Brandon and Lassiter studied each other across the table between them as well as across the years. Lassiter was the first to speak.
“Thank you for coming to see me, Sheriff Walker,” he said. “I appreciate it. And please accept my belated condolences about your son. Cirrhosis is a tough way to go. I don’t blame him for taking an early out.”
Brandon was taken aback. “You knew Quentin?”
Lassiter shrugged. “He and I talked sometimes when we were both in the infirmary. That’s how I knew about the work you do for that cold case group, TLC. Quentin told me. That’s why I asked for you.”
It took a moment for Brandon to swallow the lump that suddenly filled his throat. Words of condolence from Big Bad John weren’t at all what Brandon Walker had expected.
“Thank you for that,” he murmured. “Thank you very much.”
WHEN GABE’S EYES blinked open, at first he thought he’d gone blind. He was in utter darkness. There was no light. He could move his legs, but nothing else. His arms were secured to his sides with something that was probably duct tape. A gag was in his mouth, making it impossible to speak. Gentle swaying from side to side and the sound of tires on pavement told him he was in a moving vehicle, but he had no idea how much time had passed since the stun gun attack, followed by an injection of some kind that had knocked him loopy.
He sniffed the air. It smelled rank—as though someone had peed his pants and probably something worse. Gabe’s face went hot with embarrassment. How could he be such a coward? He couldn’t even be brave when someone had knocked him out. Then over the sound of the tires he became aware of something else—of someone else. There was another person with him in this dark place, someone who was now sobbing brokenly.
Gabe tried to shift his position, wanting to turn his face in the direction of the sound, but he couldn’t. There was an unyielding barrier just above him. In the dark and through his clothing he couldn’t tell if the low ceiling was made of wood or metal. Whatever it was, it didn’t move, and it was low enough that it didn’t allow him to turn over on his side. He could lie flat, staring up into the darkness, and that was it.
Then it occurred to him that perhaps the other person was crying because he or she had no idea anyone else was there in the darkness. It took real effort, but eventually Gabe was able to scoot his body over the few inches of floorboard between them. When he touched the form next to him, the sobbing ceased abruptly. Soon the other person moved as well, coming closer until their two bodies lay side by side.
As they lay there huddled together for comfort, it took some time for Gabe to grasp that they were almost the same size and bound in the same way. With effort, they were just able to touch fingers. When that happened, Gabe’s heart filled with inexplicable joy. Some sense he couldn’t explain told him who his companion was—Timmy José.
His friend wasn’t dead. He was there in the darkness right along with Gabe. They were both trapped, but at least they were together. Tim José wasn’t dead and neither was Gabe—at least not yet.
Then, whether it was the darkness, the movement of the vehicle, an aftereffect from whatever had been in the syringe, or a combination of all three, Gabe’s eyes closed and he drifted off again.
WHEN LANI AND Leo walked into the Ortiz house, there was no sign of Gabe, and Delia was putting away groceries. She was also in a snit. “Your son is in big trouble,” she said, turning angrily on her husband.
“Why?” Leo asked. “What did he do now?”
“I grounded him for running off from Lani the way he did,” Delia said, “but what do you think happened? I had to work for an hour or so and get some groceries. When I came home, he was gone. I told him he was grounded, and he took off anyway!”
Leo reached for his phone. “Don’t bother,” Delia said. “I already tried calling him. He didn’t take his phone along with him. It’s in the bedroom.”
Leo stared at her for a moment, then he turned abruptly on his heel and marched down the hall to Gabe’s bedroom. When he returned, his face was somber, and he was carrying a paper bag. He put the bag on the table, then he walked over to Delia and took her in his arms.
“I’m afraid it’s worse trouble than his just being grounded,” Leo said quietly.
“What?” Delia asked anxiously, pushing herself away. “What’s going on? What’s happened?”
“You know those two dead men out by Rattlesnake Skull charco?”
Delia nodded. “You told me. What about them?”
“They’ve been identified,” Leo answered. “The dead men are Carlos and Paul José.”
Delia put her hand to her mouth and sat down heavily on a nearby kitchen chair. “When you told me about it, I thought they were illegals.”
“So did everybody else, but Lani and I both thought we recognized the vehicle as belonging to the Josés,” Leo told her. “The problem is, from the way they were gunned down, they must have been into something bad. Gabe may be involved as well.”
“Are you serious?” Delia demanded. “How’s that even possible?”
“See for yourself,” Leo said, pushing a paper bag across the table to his wife. “I found this in one of Gabe’s dresser drawers. Look at the note inside.”
Delia plucked out the note and read it. When she finished, the slip of paper fluttered away from her fingers and fell to the floor. Leo picked it up and handed it to Lani so she could read it as well.
“The Josés are all involved in some kind of smuggling thing, and now they’ve pulled Gabe into it, too?”
“That’s how it sounds,” Leo agreed.
Lani looked at the bag but didn’t touch it. “That bag is possibly critical evidence,” she said. “Whatever used to be in it probably explains why Carlos and Paul were killed. That means we’re going to have to turn the bag over to the FBI.”
“But what about Tim José?” Delia asked brokenly. “If his brothers are dead, and he’s missing, is he dead, too?”
Lani chose not to speak up about the final gunshot she’d heard, at least not then. She understood the implications better than anyone else, and she wasn’t ready to bring those out in the open.
“Tim may not be dead, but he’s certainly in danger,” Lani said.
“We need to find both Gabe and Tim,” Leo declared. “I’d better start looking.”
“But don’t tell anyone why,” Lani cautioned. “At this point there’s been no official announcement about the identity of the victims. We know about that now, but we’re not supposed to, and we shouldn’t let on that we do. As far as anyone else is concerned, Gabe was grounded and took off anyway. That’s why you’re looking for him—to bring him home.”
“But what about the bag?” Leo asked. “Should I put it back where I found it?”
“You can if you want to,” Lani said, “but it’s really too late. Your fingerprints are on the bag and all our prints are on the note. At some point we’ll need to come forward voluntarily and turn it over to the FBI agents working the case.”
“But doesn’t the bag implicate Gabe in whatever it is the José brothers were up to?” Delia objected.
“It may,” Lani said, “but let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. First let’s find Gabe and see what he has to say.”
“On my way,” Leo said. “I know most of his hangouts. I’ll check those first.”
Taking his keys, he hurried out of the house, leaving Lani and Delia together in the kitchen. The two women were close now, so close that it was difficult to remember a time when they had not been friends.
“What happened?” Delia asked. “Why didn’t Gabe stay on the mountain with you?”
“Because I brought up his friendship with the Josés,” Lani said. “I told him he was going to have to make a choice between doing right and doing wrong.”
Delia’s eyes flooded with tears. “I guess it’s already too late for that, isn’t it?”
“Maybe so,” Lani agreed, “but I still want to hear what Gabe has to say.”
AFTER JOHN LASSITER’S unanticipated expression of sympathy about Quentin’s death, it took a while for Brandon Walker to regain his interview sea legs.
“I hear you have MS,” he said finally.
Lassiter nodded. “There might be better treatments on the outside than they have in here, but as far as I’m concerned, the chair’s no worse of a prison than a cell.”
“Junior Glassman told me that you wanted to talk to me about Amos Warren—that you want TLC to investigate his death.”
“I do,” Lassiter said with a nod.
“If so, you’ll need to tell me about Amos Warren,” Brandon said, leaning back in his chair, “from the beginning. How’d you two meet?”
For the second time in as many minutes, Big Bad John surprised Brandon as the huge man’s eyes misted over with tears. When he tried to speak, his voice broke before he managed to force the words to the surface. “Amos Warren was like a father to me. He was the only real father I’ve ever known. I was mad as hell at him at the time he disappeared, but I didn’t kill him. I wouldn’t.”
It was the same story Brandon had heard years before about Warren taking Lassiter under his wing and looking after him and about the blowup over Ava Martin that had ended the two men’s partnership as well as their friendship.
“I met Ava Martin,” Brandon said. “I even interviewed her.”
“I thought she was terrific,” Lassiter continued. “But that’s who we were fighting over when Amos knocked me for a row of peanuts. The cheating bastard took me down with a set of brass knuckles that nobody else in the bar ever saw. That’s the last time I saw him. I thought he was just out in the desert doing what he always did, scavenging, but when his car got towed from a hotel out by the airport, that’s when I went looking. I checked the storage unit and realized he had cleaned it out. Took everything that was there, half of which should have been mine.”
“What happened then?”
“I’d been let down by my family time and again, but when Amos pulled the same stunt, it was far worse. I thought he was my friend. I trusted him, and when he turned on me, too, I didn’t take it very well.”
“What do you mean?”
“For one thing, Ava dropped me, too. After that, I proceeded to get myself drunk and stayed that way. I’d earn some money, cash a paycheck, and go on a bender. When I ran out of money, I’d sober up and work long enough to pay for the next round of drinking. That’s pretty much how things stood—right up until just before you and that other detective showed up to arrest me.”
“What changed?”
“A couple of months before you came after me, I met another woman—a good one, this time—Bernadette Benson.”
“Amanda’s mother?”
He nodded. “She was a peach.”
“And she stuck by you?”
“Yes, she did—all through the trial and even after I got sent up. She came to see me every week until she died in a car wreck.”
“Getting back to Ava. I understand she testified against you at the trial.”
“That’s true. Amos always said she was bad news. Much as I hate to admit it, I’m pretty sure he was right.”
“What about that other friend, someone named Ken?”
“That would be Ken Mangum,” Lassiter said at once. “He testified at the first trial. When it came time for the second one, my attorney couldn’t find him. He had disappeared into thin air. I heard later that he had died—that he’d been murdered somewhere up north—Portland or Seattle, one of those—but I didn’t find out any of that until years after the fact.”
“I understand from Warden Huffman that you’ve had zero bad-conduct problems while you’ve been here, so it sounds as though you’ve made some changes.”
Lassiter nodded. “That’s the thing; once you’re inside, you’ve only got two choices. You either get better or you get worse. I decided to do what Amos did and get better.”
“Right,” Brandon agreed.
“He did five years of hard time right here in Florence. Read his way through the entire Encyclopaedia Britannica while he was at it, initialing the bottom of each page with a pencil when he finished reading it. By the way,” Lassiter added, “they still have the same set. Encyclopedias don’t wear out because not enough people use them.
“So I did the same thing Amos did—reading it and marking the pages as I went. Doing that made me feel closer to him as I read, like I could understand him better. I read the Bible, too. One is for my mind and the other for my soul. I like the encyclopedia better,” Lassiter added with a grin. “The librarian ended up getting so tired of having me underfoot all the time that she lets me take the volume I’m reading back to my cell.”
“So you’ve walked the line as long as you’ve been here?”
Lassiter nodded. “Pretty much,” he agreed. “I did it for Amos—in his memory. That’s what he would have wanted me to do, because staying out of trouble in prison is the best way to stay alive. At first, because I was big and tough, competing gangs tried to drag me into one faction or another. I refused to go, and eventually they gave up. Later on, after I got sick, they left me alone completely. That’s the one good thing about MS. Most of these guys are too dumb to realize that it’s not contagious.”
Aubrey Bayless stirred in his corner and pointed at his watch. Glancing at his own, Brandon was surprised to see how much time had passed.
“What’s in the box?” Lassiter asked as curiosity got the better of him. “You went to the trouble of bringing it, but we haven’t touched it.”
“We seem to have run out of time today,” Brandon said. “We’ll look into the box the next time around. In the meantime, I have one last question. You’ve been here a long time, more than thirty years. If you didn’t kill Amos Warren, who do you think did?”
“Ava,” Lassiter answered without a moment’s hesitation. “Had to be her. I took her to Soza Canyon a couple of times, just to screw around.”
“So she knew that was one of the places you and Amos went?”
Lassiter nodded. “I may have even told her that’s where I thought Amos was after the fight in El Barrio.”
“Did you mention your suspicions about Ava to either JFA or Junior Glassman?”
“I did, but they weren’t interested,” Lassiter said. “Those people are all about getting me off, not proving me innocent and finding the guilty party. There’s a big difference between the two.”
“Yes,” Brandon agreed, “a big difference.”
If Lassiter was lying, Brandon had to admit this was a convincing performance. “Look,” he said finally, “two separate juries have found you guilty of first-degree homicide. Justice for All has come up with grounds for either a plea deal or another trial. Apparently you’re not interested in either one. Why not?”
“Because the plea deal means exactly that,” Lassiter said. “It means I plead guilty to second degree and get out with time served. But I won’t do that, Sheriff Walker. I won’t plead guilty to something I didn’t do. Besides, I don’t want to get out.”
Brandon was taken aback. “You don’t? Why not?”
“Look at me,” Lassiter said. “I’m the next thing to helpless. Some days I can’t even get out of bed by myself. At least in prison they assign people to look after me. Aubrey here, for example,” he said, gesturing toward the black man waiting patiently in the corner. “Who would I have to take care of me on the outside?”
“What about your daughter?” Brandon suggested. “I’ve met her. I know she cares about you and has been working tirelessly on your behalf. She’s the one who brought in JFA in the first place. She has MS-related health issues of her own, but I’m sure she’d figure out a way to help you get whatever assistance you need.”
“No!” Lassiter roared, bringing his fist down with a surprisingly powerful blow that made the tabletop shudder. A moment later he winced as pain from damaged nerves shot through his body.
“No,” he said again, more quietly. “Amanda Wasser is not my daughter; she belongs to somebody else. The people who raised her are her real parents. I relinquished my right to be her father the moment she was born. If they release me, I might end up being a burden on her, and I refuse to do that. I’d rather stay where I am.”
“Then what’s the point?” Brandon asked. “If you don’t care about getting out, why do you want TLC to investigate Amos Warren’s homicide?”
“Because I didn’t do it,” Big Bad John Lassiter said. “And if I ever do meet Amanda Wasser in person, I don’t want to look the woman in the eye until the rest of the world knows I didn’t do it.”
Brandon thought about that for a moment. For reasons he couldn’t entirely explain, he realized that he believed the whole thing. He believed that John Lassiter, a twice-convicted killer, wanted to be cleared in his daughter’s eyes, no matter what else happened. And since that twice-convicted killer was someone who had once befriended Brandon’s troubled son, now proving John Lassiter innocent meant something to Brandon Walker, too.