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  But it had only been a matter of a few years before Geronimo’s second wife and another child were killed. They had been part of a small band of women, children, and old folks who had voluntarily come in from the mountains for the safety and peace promised on the grounds of Ft. Grant. Alerted to the approach of a mob of deranged white people driving buggies and wagons from Tucson, the army officer in command had sent frantic appeals to cavalry units away on patrol. But help had arrived too late to prevent the slaughter of the defenseless Apaches.

  Thanks to his magazines, Sterling was aware that many famous criminals had similar grievances with the governments or communities that had failed to deliver them either protection or justice.

  Of course Sterling knew there was no excuse for crime. But for Geronimo it had been war in defense of the homelands. He liked the way the Police Gazette specials took an understanding view of the criminal’s life. Still it was clear that the law did not accept any excuses. They had all died violently. Got the gas chamber or the electric chair. Or got shot down. Except for Geronimo. The specials always ran a whole page of inky, fuzzed photographs showing them after they’d been gunned down; halos of black blood around their heads; then later propped on snow-white marble slabs.

  It was clear that crime did not pay. Geronimo had been one of the few famous American public enemies who had not died in an ambush or at the end of a noose. But Geronimo had been sentenced to live out his days a prisoner at Ft. Sill, Oklahoma—punishment worse than death. Geronimo and the great warrior Red Cloud had both been condemned to the gallows in their day as savages and murderers. But both had been masters of guerrilla warfare; one fighting the U.S. cavalry on the upper Great Plains, the other outrunning five thousand U.S. cavalrymen in the impenetrable desert mountains of northern Sonora. But some years later, elected for a second term, President Teddy Roosevelt had scandalized his political adversaries by inviting Geronimo, Red Cloud, and Quanah Parker to ride in his inaugural parade. To critics, Teddy Roosevelt said all a new president owed voters was a good show—precisely what he had delivered to them!

  Sterling was pretty sure Cole Younger and some of the Jesse James gang had been part Indian by their looks in old photographs. Sterling knew the Starrs had been Oklahoma half-breeds. Sterling thought he was probably one of the few Indians interested in famous Indian outlaws. He knew tribal leaders and so-called Indian experts preferred that Indians got left out of that part of American history too, since their only other appearances had been at so-called massacres of white settlers.

  What Sterling knew about the Great Depression of 1929 he had learned from his detective and crime magazines. The government boarding-school history teachers had seldom ever got them past the American Civil War. Sterling had been a boy during the Depression, but it had made little or no impression on people at Laguna. Most, especially the old-timers, had said they never even knew a depression was going on, because in those days people had no money in banks to lose. Indians had never held legal title to any Indian reservation land, so there had never been property to mortgage. But winters those years had been mild and wet for the Southwest. Harvests had been plentiful, and the game had been fat for the winter. The Laguna people had heard something about “The Crash.” But they remembered “The Crash” as a year of bounty and plenty for the people.

  Seese got up from her lounge chair by the pool and helped Sterling unload colored rocks from the wheelbarrow. She didn’t know anything about any kind of garden, and especially not rock gardens, whatever they were. “Where did you grow up?” Sterling was on his hands and knees arranging little orange stones around the base of a jojoba bush. He was afraid to look in case Seese did not like his question. But there was the quick little laugh she gave when she was nervous, and then she said, “Oh, I grew up in a lot of places. Military family.”

  “No gardens,” Sterling said, clearing away some weeds that had died since the last rain. “No gardens. Not much of anything to remember.” Seese was smoking a cigarette and staring off in the distance toward the city. Sterling could see she had one thing she never forgot, one thing always very near. “I was telling you about my magazine articles,” Sterling said. “You know, we can go see the place Dillinger’s gang got caught.”

  Seese turned all the way around to face him. “Here?”

  Sterling felt a big grin on his face. He nodded.

  She laughed. “Okay. We’ll go tomorrow when the rest of them are gone.”

  BOOK TWO

  SAN DIEGO

  TV TALK SHOW PSYCHIC

  THERE IS CONFUSION in her dreams and memories of the child. First there is the odd dream of the snapshots of a boy, twelve or thirteen. In the dream she knows the boy is dead by the remarks others make as they look at the photographs. She is seized by the loss of him and awakens crying. She is stunned because in the dream Monte had been older, as he might look years from now. Monte would be almost two years old, wherever he was; David had kidnapped Monte when he was six months old. Seese refuses to believe he is dead. The dreams are her contact with him. She feels she has actually been with him after these dreams. She awakens crying because the odor of the baby lotion and his skin are immediate and she feels she has only just set him down in his bed. Because of these dreams she is certain he is not dead. At other times she reasons that the child probably is not alive since David spent thousands hiring detectives and paying informants. She has read about the anguish one feels as the memories of the beloved gradually recede. She knows this is to be expected. Still, she shuffles the baby pictures like a deck of cards, trying furiously to deal up just the one that will bring her back to a moment with him. She is determined to be the first not to forget. One of the few for whom the memories never dim.

  As long as she is able three or four times a year to dream about him and to awaken feeling as if she has actually been with him, holding him close, she thinks the memories are holding. She had been afraid she might become too satisfied with these dreams. She had dreamed him newborn again in her arms. The ache of the loss that woke her did not recede as the day went on, but increased with every sniff of coke, with every hit off the joint, until she was tearing open cupboards looking for any kind of alcohol, any bottle of pills. She was staying in the penthouse on her lawyer’s advice. The lawyer wanted Seese. His wife had injured her back in a sailing accident. That was what he told her. Seese had never trusted him. Beaufrey once said the best lawyers were the best crooks. The lawyer liked the idea of a young mistress in an elegant penthouse overlooking a stretch of private beach outside La Jolla. Of course from the kitchen breakfast bar he could point out the high rise where the senior partners were preparing appellate briefs and corporate articles. She had quit opening his bills months ago. Beaufrey had taken David and left her with the apartment and enough money and drugs to kill herself. Beaufrey had left the country in a hurry with David. Before David could change his mind. She knows she had sex with the lawyer, but can’t remember a single time, nothing they did.

  She tells Sterling she does not have much of a past or much to remember, but they both know she is holding out. He isn’t what she thought an Indian would be like. You don’t think of Pueblo Indians reading the Police Gazette and knowing all about John Dillinger. When Seese said this to Sterling, his wide face had been all a big smile, and she said, “That’s what I mean too,” pointing at his face and his mouth. “Oh,” he said, “you thought Indians didn’t ever smile or laugh,” and they were both laughing. Suddenly she stopped to remember how long it had been since she had laughed without a weight pulling from somewhere behind. With the lawyer she had laughed but knew that the feeling wasn’t true. He did not love her. Things would not work out.

  Seese wonders how far back these things go. She has nightmares about diving into a pool that is too deep. Before she can manage to surface she is out of air. High above her she can see the sky and round, puffy clouds as she drowns. She remembers having the nightmare only twice before she had the baby. Both times it was the night before a ma
th test in college. She got lost in the lines and equations; she could imagine any number of possibilities from all the signs and symbols. She read many things into them, many more than mathematicians had anticipated. Now she knows that all of it is a code anyway. The blue sky and puffy clouds seen through the deadly jade water of the nightmare pool was a message about the whole of creation. The loss of the child was another, more final message, or at least that was how it was translating—she was only just finding out that this was a translation, that the last morning she had held little Monte in her arms loving him perfectly—that had been an end too. When the drugs affected her in a certain way she was able to study the message calmly as if watching pebbles at the bottom of a stream; she could not feel the temperature of the water. She could feel nothing after that last morning. Dark green water had closed over her head.

  Beaufrey and David had taken Monte or hired someone to take Monte, but then something terrible had gone wrong. This was the story she now believed because David had had her followed, had the phone tapped and had even telephoned himself, asking to hear his son cry. The lawyer had taken the call because she knew she would break down. But David had misunderstood, and next there had been the gunman; the reasoning, the lawyer later explained, was that once Seese was dead, the court would award custody of the baby to the father. But Seese did not have Monte.

  In La Jolla she had been in the habit of standing for hours in front of the glass walls facing the ocean. But it could have been a blank wall. She stared and saw nothing—not the waves rising and falling on the beach or the banks of clouds on the southwest horizon. The wind had riffled the waves so they glittered like thousands of tiny mirrors—blinding reflections that left white afterimages before her eyes. The afterimages were in the shapes of teeth—incisors, canines.

  After Monte had been kidnapped, Seese could not bear to look at shadows or shapes of clouds, patterns the dampness made on the beach sand, because instantly her brain gave them definite forms. She would see the toy giraffe in a cloud. She would see the print of a small hand left by the splash of a wave.

  After the gunman had fired through her bedroom window, she had called the lawyer. She was not surprised he wanted her to go away, to start a new life. He was afraid of what might happen to himself and his marriage if she remained alone in the glass penthouse above the sea. He was right of course, and her doctor had suggested it too. She had seen the doctor about her eyes, and the problems she was having with the bright reflections almost blinding her. It was the cocaine mostly, he said, and as her psychiatrist he was prescribing a change. She had to leave the surroundings so familiar and once part of her life with the child. But she could not seem to leave the place although everything reasonable and sane told her she must. She could feel an animal circling inside her, pacing around and around in her stomach and chest. It was a fierce animal; it would not stop waiting or searching the place she had last seen her child.

  She had not heard the shot. The gunman might have been four hundred yards away. Broken glass had streamed across the unmade bed like water. For an instant she had confused this with the blinding afterimages on her retinas. She had been too drunk and too high to be afraid. The lawyer came and searched but could find no bullet. For an instant he was about to accuse her of breaking the windows herself until she pointed out that the glass had collapsed into the room. A fury she had never known swept over her at that moment, and she turned on the lawyer. “Even as drunk as I am, I’m not that stupid,” Seese said. The lawyer had never suspected she was capable of such anger. He moved under the blow like a boxer trained to keep moving mechanically no matter how hard he was hit. Later Seese decided he’d come for a last fuck, that little gesture of comfort for a hysterical woman.

  “It might not be Beaufrey and David,” he warned her, still recovering his balance. If he could have frightened her, he might have regained the advantage. “It could be the others,” he continued.

  “We are even,” she said. Her voice was loud. She wanted them to hear that, so if it was them who had kidnapped her baby, Monte, them who were shooting, they would stop.

  The lawyer began to say that he had it from reliable sources that X, Y, and Z had still not been paid for Beaufrey’s last big delivery from Mexico City. Seese stared at him while he made his pronouncements. He worked for all of the big players. She wanted to shove her .380 automatic into his mouth and pull the trigger until the clip was empty. “You know better than that!” she had screamed at him. “I’m out of it! I left before I had my baby!”

  The lawyer was picking up slivers of glass from the pale lavender sheets. “I’ll stay with you tonight.” He was sitting on the edge of the bed still searching for bits of glass.

  “No.”

  “Come on, Seese, you aren’t being quite fair with me. I love you, and I want to help you.”

  Seese knows what the Cuban maid is thinking. The Cuban maid had worked for the lawyer’s father for years. The old judge is connected with powerful people. The maid resents being there. She knows they kill hired help when they come to get the big cheese. The maid does not think much of this skinny blond woman. Small cheese. She does not think anyone will get killed except Seese. But the maid hates missing her evening television shows.

  “What’s that?”

  “One of those shows—they get people—people doing things—you know—swallow pennies, hold spiders.” The maid speaks English without an accent. Elena knows that if she were blond and that skinny, she would be living here. So the hatred, Seese reasons, is not of me. Elena hates all skinny, blond women. Seese rolls another joint and pours more whiskey. “What’s she doing?”

  “Oh, some old Mexican Indian they claim—she claims she can see the past and tell the future.” Elena is from Cuba where they don’t have any Indians. Anyone can see Elena is descended only from white ancestors.

  Seese is drunk. She can see women lining up to speak into a microphone. The television studio audience. “What? What?” Seese is too high and too drunk to hear what the woman from the studio audience has said to the microphone. The face of the talk show host fills the screen.

  Elena’s tone is impatient. “She asked her things!”

  “What things?”

  Elena is not afraid to show this bitch the truth. She is spending the night with the white trash only as a favor to the boss. The boss already has another one. This one is on her way out. Elena is tired. She has no patience for this silly blond bitch who is so stupid she lost her own baby, then cries about it when she gets drunk.

  “Just watch!” The maid enjoys snapping at her. She enjoys commanding: “Watch! And you’ll see. People who have lost things—that man there had a winning lottery ticket, then he lost it.”

  “How?”

  The maid grits her teeth. She hates people who want to talk while the television is on. Elena is almost yelling now. “I don’t know! It blew out the window of his car! Watch! Just watch!”

  The marijuana and whiskey feel like lazy updrafts of warm ocean air the gulls ride. Seese lets herself be carried far from the angry Cuban woman and from the scattered glass slivers. Seese begins watching the television screen intently. The Mexican Indian woman seems to be speaking only to her. The woman’s hair is coal-black, but the skin of her face is brown and meshed with fine wrinkles. Seese giggles. The Mexican Indian woman dyes her hair.

  According to the show’s host, the woman finds missing persons. The TV camera comes in for a close-up of a newspaper clipping: “Mass Murder Site Located.” The old woman’s face fills the screen. She is smiling but her eyes are not friendly. Her eyes know many things never meant to be seen. The contents of shallow graves. The thrust of a knife. Things not meant to be heard; the gurgling cough the victim makes choking on his own blood while a calm voice on a tape recording narrates exactly how the execution must be performed. Her eyes said, plenty of women have lost babies and small children. They die of dysentery and infections all the time. They starve, get shot, bombed, and gassed.

&
nbsp; Seese could feel the weight rising up in her chest, but the old woman’s eyes continued: In villages in Mexico and Guatemala they lay out little children and babies every day. Their little white dresses and gowns are trimmed in blue satin ribbon. Seese was crying, but like the television, she seemed to make no sound. The maid ignored her, intent on the television show.

  Now the old woman’s eyes were closed and her head had fallen back as if she were dozing, but Seese could see her lips were moving. Seese could not stand it. She reached for the volume knob. When Elena started to protest, Seese pointed at the door. “Get out! I’m better off alone.”

  Seese did not bother to watch Elena storm out the door. She was watching the old Mexican woman. The old woman was some sort of clairvoyant. She was rattling off what she was seeing: trash cans are stuffed with newborns. Garbagemen in Mexico City find four hundred fetuses and dead newborns each day, not counting the ones found floating facedown among the water lilies in fountains outside the presidential palace.

  At this point Seese had lost track of what was happening on the screen. The talk show moderator was trying to calm a woman standing at the studio audience microphone. The psychic had opened her eyes and was wiping her brow with a large white handkerchief. A woman’s voice from the television says, “The dead rest just fine—it’s only your mind that keeps them alive and lost,” but Seese can’t see who is saying this—unless the talk show host has suddenly got a woman’s voice. Seese gets up quickly and turns the television off. She does not like the idea of hallucinatory voices talking about the dead. She has had too much to drink. She has to get to bed. She is going to track down that old Mexican Indian woman and get her to help.