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  Vince stopped, shook himelf, pasted a waxen smile across his puss. "Sorry. Let's go talk." Vince led the way toward Emilio's glassed-in office. He'd been promising to set Emilio up with Summer for months. Emilio had a nose for the candy too. Emilio followed him inside and shut the door.

  "Have a seat, mon. What can I do for you?" Emilio went to a cube refrigerator on the wall, pulled out a couple of RC's and tossed one to Vince.

  "I need wheels, essay. Four wheel drive. Something big." He popped the can and glugged.

  Emilio sat behind his desk and put his feet up. He popped his can and drank. "Everything irie?"

  "Summer walked out on me. She took my Camaro."

  Emilio put his feet back down and leaned forward, eyes wide. "No shit? That was one sweet ride. Why'd she do that, mon?"

  "She got pissed 'cause I slapped her around a little. I caught her making googly eyes at some linoleum salesman at Dante's."

  "You got to slap 'em around now and them just so they don't start getting ideas," Emilio said. "She took that Camaro, huh. Emilio's eyes narrowed with concern. "You report it?"

  "Do I look stupid to you? Of course I didn't report it! I don't rat out my friends. But now I need something to go chase her down. I know where she lives--over in Navajo Nation. Nothing but sand and scorpions."

  Emilio turned to his computer and pecked. "What's your price range?"

  Vince grinned bodaciously. "I thought maybe we could do a little horse-trading. You might want to shut the blinds."

  Intrigued Emilio rose, went to the blinds looking out on the showroom, lowered them and closed them. He resumed his seat behind his desk with an expectant smile. "Whaddaya got?"

  Vince pulled the freezer wrapped brick of blow from his backpack and flipped it onto the desk where it thumped solid.

  "Pharmaceutic grade blow. Got it from a dentist."

  Emilio unwrapped the brick, opened the center drawer of his desk and took out a stiletto which flicked open at the touch of a button. He pulled out a smeared hand mirror and ladled a mound of white powder onto it. He wrangled the line with a business card, pulled out a cut soda straw and inhaled, one line for each nostril. His eyes popped. He stretched backward arms overhead.

  "Oh YEAH!" he said. "That's the real deal! You want some?"

  Vince was tempted but he had too much to do. "No thanks, essay. What I need are some wheels. That's got to be worth ten gees easy. You got something we can just work a trade?"

  "Momentito." Emilio reached into another drawer and brought out a small electronic pharmaceutical scale. He set the brick on the disc and turned it on. It read one kilo.

  Emilio stood. "Le's take a look." He led Vince out of the office, through the showroom where Sally and the Persian huddled by the Ferrari, out into the yard. Emilio veered right. He lumped all the SUVs together, just as he bunched all his other cars. They passed a dozen Porsches until they came to the SUVs including Porsches, Beemers, CrosSports, Jeeps, Escapes and Rovers. Vince beelined for the steel gray Hummer.

  "That's a real sweetheart," Emilio said talking fast. "Just came in--only 45 thou on the clock and cleaner than a hound's tooth. Fully loaded air, Sirius XM, OnStar, Harmon Kardon speakers, lights, heated seats, bluetooth, 425 HP V8, leather." He opened the door. Asking twenty-five. It's an '09. Want to take her for a spin?"

  "I'll give you that brick," Vince said softly.

  Emilio's eyes bugged. He looked around and swallowed. He was ready for his next bump. Cocaine made you feel like a new man. But fifteen minutes later the new man wanted a line. It hadn't been easy lately scoring hi-grade in town. The DEA had been running sting operations up and down the strip and a lot of the cartels had switched over to meth which they could produce themselves in country.

  "Let's go back to the office and talk about it," Emilio said.

  Emilio ended up paying Vince four thou in addition to the Hummer.

  ***

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  "Glenwood"

  Beadles wasted two days tracking the Permission Historical Society Collection to Aurora only to learn that the storage company had gone into foreclosure and sold off the contents of all their lockers several years ago. On to Durango.

  He ran into an unexpected spring snowstorm in the Rockies on I-70 and learned that the old Jeep's four-wheel-drive worked as he passed dozens of spin-offs by the side of the road including a couple of semis. Even with four wheel drive he had to slow way down and only got as far as Glenwood Springs where he took a room at the Glenwood Inn, including a free pass to the world's largest outdoor community hot spring, a swimming pool the length of a football field between the mountain and the interstate.

  Grabbing his swim trunkcs, Beadles left his hotel and walked a block to the springs entrance. He handed his card to a clerk and entered the big men's room where he changed into his trunks. There were at least two hundred people in the vast pool but it was so large it didn't seem crowded. Heated by thermal springs, one end was 106 degrees Farenheit, tapering down to 102 at the other end. There were coin operated back-spritzers lining the sides. Beadles sank into the hot water and felt anxiety leave through the pores.

  Sure. This was going to be a snap. All he had to do was prove the Azuma's existence, ideally find the center of their civilization, and all doors would open to him, his past transgressions forgotten. He looked up. The moon winked at him through clouds and was gone.

  A bitter worm crawled back into his heart. He'd always thought of Anatole as a friend given their class differences. And let's not kid ourselves--America was divided by class as much as anything. Maybe even more than race. Beadles was acutely aware of his "white privelege." It had been a required course when he attended Northwestern. He was also aware that he had been extraordinarily lucky to have been born into an upper middle-class family, that his parents stayed together and loved him, that he was unusually good looking and athletically gifted and had an inbuilt confidence.

  It wasn't fair to the deformed or stupid but that was life. Not all the laws in the universe could make everyone happy. Beadles had been happy. Or at least he thought he was and wasn't that the same thing? Despite his misgivings about Betty, the constant academic jockeying for position, he'd felt secure, loved and respected.

  How had Anatole felt? Beadles never asked. Anatole was a janitor. Oh sure they could call him a custodian or maintenance supervisor, but the fact was he was a janitor and he was an Indian. Whether he'd lived in a box down by the tracks or a mansion Beadles didn't know. Never asked. He did know that Anatole had a son. When Lars was born they got to talking and Anatole pulled out his phone and showed Beadles a picture of the then-sixteen-year-old Rory grinning on a pony, barebacked. The picture might have been taken a hundred years ago. There was nothing in it to indicate modernity--just the boy smiling on a the pony wearing only blue jeans, his grin a slash of white in the nut-brown face.

  White guilt reared its handsome head. Had Anatole squealed because he resented Beadles' success? Had Beadles been condescending? He racked his brain. He didn't think he had, but maybe the false bonhomie of treating the janitor as an equal was a form of condescension.

  Anatole's betrayal hurt Beadles more than Betty's. What was up with that? Every now and then Beadles thought maybe he should see a therapist. He'd never talked to one in his life except for a few perfunctory questions when applying for scholarships or jobs. He'd always thought of himself as at peace and comfortable in his own skin. He wasn't one of those emotionally troubled souls who lived in the past or the future. He'd been happy, hadn't he?

  Sure he'd been ambivalent about the birth of Lars, as would any first-time father. It took a while but he came to love the boy. And yet here he was in a hot tub in Glenwood Springs, a thousand miles from his wife and son and he didn't miss them.

  Maybe there was something wrong with him.

  He returned to his room a half hour later. It was a small family motel, no servie bar. Exhausted from driving Beadles went straight to bed and dreamed he was tr
apped in a vast desert landscape beneath a sun so harsh he could only see by shading his eyes with his fingers and staring at the ground.

  Until a shadow crossed the land.

  ***

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  "Grampa Ned"

  Summer met Grampa Ned Lead when she was five years old. Her father brought her to the medicine man to be blessed. Grandpa Ned was ancient even then and smelled of Latakia and mints. He had a pet wolf amed Wolfie and lived in a hogan.

  Over the years Summer would often seek Grampa Ned out for advice. She couldn't ask Joe or Maria whose own lives were turbulent, and often the source of her distress. She needed Grampa's wisdom now.

  Last night the banger to whom she'd sold the Camaro drove her home and helped unload the groceries she'd bought in Bosselman's. Ethan was still up playing video games, a haze of marijuana hovering smog-like around his head. He barely looked as she carried the paper bags into the house.

  "Ja get any beer?" he said.

  "Sixpack Dos Equis."

  Ethan set down the yoke and walked over to the kitchen. He peeled off a can and popped it.

  "Hey, is Grampa Ned still around?" Summer said.

  Ethan shrugged and returned to his seat. "Fuck if I know."

  Summer crashed in her old bedroom. Ethan slept on the sofa. In the morning Summer made coffee and took Maria a cup. Maria sat up and was feeling better. She had been tired as long as Summer could remember. Allergies in the summer, fighting off a flu in the winter.

  "Hey Ma, Grampa Ned still around?"

  "Far as I know, honey. I saw him at the county fair last year. That man doesn't age. Did you get my Four Roses?"

  "In the kitchen."

  "God bless you, you're a good girl."

  Promising she would say goodbye before she took off Summer left the trailer and walked to Joe Jeffords' place. Good as his word, Joe had four recapped tires in the back of his Chevy. He and Summer rode back to the Funderburk manse, around back where Arthur's 150 sat. Joe went to work. At ten o'clock it was already in the eighties. Summer went in the house, made a pitcher of lemonade and brought Joe a glass. She took a glass to Maria.

  Maria drank thirstily and set it on the bedside table next to a half dozen amber plastic pill bottles. Maria suffered from high blood pressure and fibromyalgia. "Thank you, dear. Where did you say you were going?"

  "I don't know, Ma. I got something for you." Summer took out her wallet and counted out three hundred bucks in twenties which she laid in Maria's lap. Maria picked it up hungrily.

  "What's this for?"

  "Food, booze, bills, whatever."

  Maria's eyes narrowed. "You ain't trickin' again?"

  "No, Ma. I quit that shit. I'm not going to let a man control me ever again. Listen. It's possible Vince will show up. If he does, call the Sheriff. Don't fuck around. He's a mean son of a bitch."

  Maria looked alarmed. "Why would he come here?"

  "Because I walked out on him and took his car."

  Maria flinched. "Oh honey. Why did you do that?"

  "I had to get away fast, Ma. He beat me like a rented mule. No man does that to me."

  "Why didn't you call the police?"

  "Oh Ma."

  "Well I don't have a phone."

  "What about Ethan?"

  Maria nodded hesitantly. "I think so. But I don't have the number.

  Summer rolled her eyes.

  From out back they heard the grind of a starter motor. Seconds later the old Ford roared to life and Summer clapped her hands in delight.

  "Ma, I'm borrowing Pa's truck."

  "Ain't got no insurance. Those plates are no good."

  "That's all right. Gotta go. I'll talk to you soon."

  "Ain't got no telephone."

  "Ethan does. I'll be back." Summer leaned over and kissed her mother.

  In the living room she sat next to Ethan, who was deep in battle. "Listen little bro, if my boyfriend shows up here call the police."

  Ethan worked the yoke. "What?"

  Summer grabbed the yoke. Ethan turned toward her with outrage. "Give it back!"

  "Listen! If Vince shows up here looking for me call the police! Do you understand? Do you know how to dial 911?"

  Ethan pouted. "Ain't no 911 out here."

  "Well call the sheriff. Do you copy?"

  "Yeah, yeah. Gimme the controls back."

  Fifteen minutes later she was on the road with her meager belongings including the contents of the Camaro's trunk, the Beretta a hard chunk in her front pants pocket.

  Grampa Ned lived at the end of a winding box canyon. Summer slowed way down and eased the old truck over mailbox-sized boulders, up a dry wadi beneath a couple turkey vultures circling in the azure sky. As she rounded a hairpin curve two turkey vultures took off flapping from a mound of carrion. It was a harsh country. It was best not to look too closely. Might have been a lamb from a nearby ranch or somebody's dog.

  One hour and twenty minutes after leaving Hava Summer topped a gentle rise and saw Grampa's hogan snugged up against the canyon wall, a couple cottonwood sprouting from a hidden spring. Grampa sat in front of the odd structure in a lawn chair in shades and a Cardinals hat puffing on a pipe, a buddha-like figure. An old mongrel lay at his feet on a carpet segment. The hogan was actually a geodesic dome put up by some college kids who'd volunteered for Habitat for Humanity decades ago. Two glass triangles, hinged on one side and open, acted as skylights. The thing was surfaced in roofing shingles and about as attractive as a garage but it got the job done.

  Summer drove to within thirty feet of the house, parked and got out. She wore sunglasses and had coaxed her long black hair through the back of a Not Lame ball cap she'd found in the truck.

  "Hey Grampa."

  The old man exhaled a cloud of smoke like the College of Cardinals. The dog thumped its tail. Summer knelt and stroked its head.

  "Hey Boner."

  "Hey Summer Funderburk," Grampa growled. "Ain't seen you in years. How you doing? Come set with your old Grampa. Got root beer inside. Why don'tcha bring me one too."

  She went into the hogan. It was laid out like a studio apartment with only the bathroom walled off. The great room had several navajo rugs on the concrete floor, an old wood-burning stove against one wall, and mismatched thrift store furniture. It smelled of Latakia and bacon grease. Tufts of dog hair lay on the rugs.

  She retrieved two Dad's from the ice box, went out front, handed one to Grampa and sat in the lawn chair next to him. Snugged up against the east wall they were still shielded by the morning sun.

  "You're looking good," Grampa said. "Whatchoo been up to?"

  "Working as a showgirl in Vegas."

  "Ahuh. How that working out?"

  "Not too well."

  They sat in silence for several minutes sipping root beer.

  "Grampa, I got a problem."

  "I know."

  She looked at the old man, gaze unreadable behind the wrap-around Foster Grants. "How did you know?"

  "Been dreamin' about you."

  ***

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  "The Bones"

  "What did you dream?" Summer said.

  "You're running from some white man."

  "That's true! How much do you know?"

  "Child, I don't know shit. You're out in the sun. Something's chasing you. That's all I know. Why don'tcha tell me about your troubles and then we'll cast the bones."

  Summer told him everything since moving to Vegas. "I'm afraid he'll kill me."

  She waited for Grampa to respond. He tapped the bowl of the pipe down on the edge of a rock, reached into his brocade vest, pulled out a tobacco pouch and refilled the pipe. He lit it with a kitchen match from another pocket. He puffed and blew a series of perfect smoke rings that hung in the still desert air like UFOs.

  "Well let's take a look at the bones," he said, placing his hands on his knees and heaving himself to his feet. He was five six and weighed 185. He returned a moment late
r with a dice canister from Harrah's. He sat with a grunt and handed Summer the canister.

  "Shake 'em."

  Summer shook the canister hearing the rattle of tiny bones inside and handed it to Grampa. He added a shake and prodded Boner with his toe.

  "Move it, Boner." The old dog got stiffly to its feet and resettled itself at Summer's feet. Grampa unscrewed the lid and tossed the bones on the carpet segment. Eleven tiny bones gathered from eagle, coyote and rattlesnake. They fell in an odd pattern which could easily pass for art were someone to photograph them, or glue them as they lay to a backboard.

  Grampa leaned forward with his hands on knees and grunted. He sucked air through his teeth. He turned to Summer and took off his glasses. His gray eyes were twinkly blue tucked beneath an occipital ledge.

  "You're headed for some kinda Gotterdammerung."

  Summer blinked. "What's that?"

  "This here's bigger than just you and this white man. This here involves Shipapu."

  "Shipapu. What's that?"

  "Shipapu the gateway between this world and the next. Shipapu the font of life. You're on the great north road now headed toward Shipapu."

  Summer's forehead contracted. "What does it mean?"

  "I don't know but lookit here." Grampa pointed to a formation of four tiny bones off to the side. "This here says you're gonna meet the ghost who walks in the sun."

  Despite the heat Summer felt a copperhead ripple down her spine. "Who is the ghost who walks in the sun?"

  The old man gazed into the distance. "When the Spanish came they encountered a tribe whose name we do not know. Sun worshipers, a warlike people. Their leader was a giant. The Spaniards used a woman to capture him. They gouged out his eyes and tied him to a wagon wheel and left him to die in the sun. His mother cursed the Spaniards with snakes and scorpions which rose up out of the earth and killed them all. But when they went to retrieve their leader's corpse it was not there. It is said that Skorpio only appears beneath a blazing sun and still seeks vengeance against the white man."

  He shrugged. "It's just a tale."

  "What did you say his name was?"