Elder Brother's Maze

Prologue

THE O’ODHAM

Araven watched from the upper branches of a palo verde tree, cocking its black head to aim first one and then the other bright eye at the old O’odham woman shuffling toward it through the sand of a desert wash. She wore her grey hair in one thick braid that fell down the middle of her bent back, a man’s long sleeve shirt, faded into a speckled white, and a long, brown, baggy skirt that swayed with each step. She was following an ancient trail that led to the edges of Yavapai land, what the whites call Fort McDowell Reservation on the outskirts of Scottsdale, her head kept at an angle to the ground by the headpiece of her carrying net. The net was filled to its stick frame with baskets woven of willow and devil’s claw. She’d come ten miles; only another ten to the city’s northern reaches.

The raven rustled its feathers and the old woman stopped. The bird opened and closed its sharp, black beak as if speaking, and the woman tilted her head up to gaze at it. She was also panting in the early summer heat, and she put her gnarled hands on her hips to rest, shrugged under the straps of her kiho. Then she heard the words of the huge, black bird, and she gave it her deepest, dried apple frown, moved a hand to her heart.

The raven opened and closed, opened and closed its beak.

Chapter One

Cave Creek, Arizona

Early June, 1993

Guy finished another beer and slammed it down, rattling the empty bottles crowding the table. He was a tall, sandy-haired man in his mid-twenties, slouched low in the chair, lean and rangy in a faded blue work shirt, worn jeans, scuffed boots; a battered, brown Stetson occupied the seat next to him. He pulled the glasses off his face, chucked them on the table, and roared, Stanley, you’re really pissing me off now, as he rubbed his eyes and the knob on the bridge of his nose where it had been broken—twice. Guy’s voice echoed through the cavernous bar, and he heard rather than saw the men sitting on the row of stools along the counter swivel to look in his direction. He lurched forward, knocking the table and sending another shock wave tinkling through the glass, Where’s my god-damned beer?

Okay, okay, Stan muttered, hold your fuckin’ horses.

Guy waited with his hands in fists on the table. Finally he turned in his chair and squinted the bartender into focus. Stanley, his big paunch swathed in an apron, was carefully polishing a glass. Guy straightened out of his drunken slouch. In a moment he would explode out of his chair and send the table flying.

But Stan slung the towel over his neck and reached into the cooler. Guy sank back in the seat, wincing as he stretched his long legs out under the table, and watched Stan weave toward him through the empty chairs and tables. Then when Stan set the bottle down, wiped his hands on the apron, and grabbed the necks of several empties, Guy snarled: Leave ‘em there. I told ya once already.

Yeah, well, fine, then—keep your empties, Stan said, backing off. I’m keeping track, too, you crazy fuck, and I think you’ve about drunk up your cash. He made a gesture at the cash register with his thumb but kept retreating toward the bar. "Why the hell did you come in here to get sloshed? The least you could do is pick someplace where nobody knows ya."

Guy heard the row of old geezers along the bar rustle with talk, but they were careful to keep their backs to him.

I’m not takin’ any chances with you, Stanley said over his shoulder. One phone call and you’re back in jail, buddy. He slammed the wooden counter down behind him and resumed rinsing glasses.

Guy raised the cold bottle and pressed it against his forehead, feeling rage rise like blood into his throat. He took a long swallow of beer and set the bottle down carefully, imagining the blow that would send Stan reeling—a single, solid pop to that sagging jowl. He picked at the label on the bottle, took another swig of beer. Four months in jail had clearly not done much to mellow him, and he shook his head, amazed at his own bad character; here he was, celebrating his release, and ready to ruin it all for the satisfaction of sitting a stupid bartender back on his rump.

The door opened and brilliant desert sunlight sliced through the bar. Guy heard the sound of a woman’s high heels and went rigid. Suddenly he knew Stan had been right—Guy had picked the wrong bar to get drunk in. Stan was shielding his eyes to look, then he grunted and turned, frowning, to the row of men hunched over their beers along the bar.

Guy wished he’d gone straight to the stables that morning to grab Tristan like he’d planned; he wished he hadn’t drunk so damn many beers. He was so tense he had to turn his whole body to look at her. The door was still ajar, the light outlining a woman’s curves but she was faceless against the glare, with hair curling away from her head in all directions. Still he knew: Lily.

He swung back around and fumbled for his beer, wrenched himself upright. He heard the door bang shut behind her, and as the dark reclaimed them, her cool voice, addressing Stan: Well? Is he here?

It had been months since he’d seen her, and Guy was startled again as their eyes met. She wore tight jeans and a low-cut, white blouse that seemed to glow around the curve of her breasts as she moved toward him through the tables. She smiled and held his eyes, pushed her platinum-blonde curls behind one ear, letting him look, making him look. God, he’d missed her. Yet he couldn’t believe, after everything they’d been through, knowing everything he knew now—everything he suspected he knew now—shit, how could she still make him feel like this?

She came up to his table and stopped with the edge pressing against the front of her jeans. Looks like you’ve been busy.

Guy thought about putting his glasses on but he didn’t. He just squinted up at her, letting his eyes slide all the way down, then up again to her face. He noticed she carried a purse but no folders or envelopes, and he wished again that he wasn’t so smashed.

Jesus, Guy, she said, slipping into a chair, moving bottles aside, You get out of jail and the first thing you do is go on a binge?

An’ what, exactly, would you do, Lily? Guy countered, trying not to slur his words, but Lily rolled her eyes at him anyway.

Well, I think I’d pick a nicer place than this, at least.

A sigh escaped him. Then, How’d ya know I was here? he demanded.

Come on. I knew you’d be released this morning. Manny was expecting you to call him for a ride. Lily found a spot beside his hat for her purse, spaces between the bottles for her elbows. You know, poor Tristan really missed you for a while, there, she mused. Manny’s got him eating again, but he still seems spooked all the time. Crazy, huh? A big old stallion like that, and such a baby. Guy’s eyes kept returning to the shadow between her breasts, but he looked up, surprised, when she put her hand on his arm. I want to thank you for not going by the stables. That would’ve been cruel. He’s in good hands, you know—Manny’s taking care of him.

Guy felt himself blushing at her touch. I was headed there, he answered lamely.

Well, please don’t—for all of our sakes. Lily turned her profile to him, surveying the dark bar. Stan must have noticed her glance because she shook her head, no, and smiled in that direction. She was still girlish despite being in her early thirties with high cheeks, a chiseled nose, the flawless skin that only money can buy. Guy decided again that she was beautiful, and that he hated her. She looked around, glanced under the table, and said: Traveling light, aren’t you? Do you want me to ask Manny to bring you your stuff? It’s all there in the trainer’s house—right where you left it. Then she leaned towards him over the table again; it seemed to Guy to be a purposeful display of cleavage.

His eyes followed his thoughts farther down her blouse. But then he roused himself, pushed back from the table. Lily, I’ve got everything I need right here. He spread out his arms.

She smiled back at him, a patient smile one offers to misbehaving children, and looked him over. I think you’ve lost some weight. And you really need a haircut. Don’t they have barber shops in jail? Then she dropped her head. Aren’t you going to ask me about Rose? she asked, her eyes averted. "You haven’t forgotten her, I’m sure."

Oh, come on, Lily, he groaned. Again? Look, there was never . . . . It was just . . . . His brain was whirling, the words running into each other in his head. For Christ’s sake. Why are you so jealous of a fifteen-year-old girl, anyway? She’s just a fucking kid.

I’m not jealous, Lily protested. I’m protective.

Yeah, right, he said, toying with the nearly empty bottle in his hands.

You have to stay away, Guy, Lily went on. She didn’t take your incarceration well. It . . . it made her worse. It’s like we’re all holding our breath, waiting for her to explode.

Jesus, he spat out, grabbing the table edge to keep from smacking her. The bottles jingled into life again. "You make it sound like it’s my fault the kid’s fucked up! My whole fucking life’s fucked up—‘cause of what you did . . . made me do." He took a slug of beer. To hell with Lily—to hell with her and her crazy little sister.

Lily had sat back at his outburst but she didn’t seem at all afraid of him. Such a temper, she chided. It’s always getting you into trouble, isn’t it. She had a way of tilting her head slightly to one side and looking up at him through a stray curl that made him crazy. And your choice of beverage, of course. She reached out and brushed just the tips of her fingers over the hand that was still gripping his beer bottle on the table between them, and despite himself, despite the self-loathing, despite his hatred for her, he felt himself responding to her touch. I’m sorry, Guy. You know, I really did care for you. But you weren’t . . . . And all the things Guy wasn’t started piling up in his head. But Lily wasn’t done: Look, it wasn’t me who made this mess, and it wasn’t you. We both know who did this, and now I’m just trying to cut my losses and get the stables back on its feet.

So there it was: he was just another loss to her, just something to get over and be done with. And she still had Tristan. He put the bottle to his mouth again and drained it.

Lily sighed, watching him, and threw a look over Guy’s shoulder at the men drinking at the bar. Then she pulled a thick, white envelope out of her purse and pushed it toward him. "This should keep you in beer for awhile—and away from my sister and my stables. I want your word on that."

When you called . . . . We had a deal, Lily.

Lily sat back. Guy, I tried. I couldn’t get the lawyer to agree. I . . . . Really, I wish I could do more, but . . . .

Don’t fuck with me, Lily. Guy leaned forward menacingly. Tristan’s papers. You said.

"Guy, it won’t work. It’s all locked up in the estate. Look, four months—I’m sorry about that. But you took things into your own hands—I didn’t make you do it. So it’s over now; it’s done. Just take the money and stay away."

"You fuckin’ bitch—he’s my horse . . . ." His chair fell over as he stood, weaving slightly, towering over her, but Lily just smiled up at him, showing him those perfect, white teeth.

He’s not your horse, Guy. You don’t have a legitimate claim.

"I saved him, Guy breathed down on her. You know that. He’d a been gone with the rest of ‘em."

Lily responded with her brilliant smile.

He shoved the table into her ribs and one of the bottles fell with a loud clatter to the floor, and then Stan was waddling toward them, saying, What’s going on?

Never mind. I’m okay, Lily told him. She waved him away, her bracelets jingling. I was just about to leave, anyway. Stan backed up, but he kept looking from her to Guy. It’s okay, Lily assured him again. She waited until Stan had returned to his post by the phone to stand up. You’re scaring Stan, she said. Why don’t you go get some dinner? You look like you need a good meal a lot more than all this beer.

Go to hell, Guy mumbled, dropping his head, his eyes on the table, beaten. It was all sinking in: he had no job, now, no prospects, and nothing to show for the past three years, no horse, no future, no dreams.

Guy, I’m sorry. Look at me. Come on.

But he wouldn’t—he couldn’t. Don’t go. Don’t go kept running through his mind. They had planned to build the best Arabian stable in the Valley together; they’d had the bloodlines to do it. Gone—all but Tristan. Gone.

You let Manny know how to contact you, okay, once you get settled. And maybe—some day, when this has all blown over and everyone’s forgotten about it—well, I don’t know. She sighed again, shouldered her purse. We’ll see.

She’d strung him along. She’d used him. How many times had she promised him that damn horse? His fingers itched for her throat but even more desperately he did not want her to leave.

Just please understand, if you come near the stables, I’ll have to call the police.

I’m going to take him, Lily, he assured her, finally raising his head.

Don’t be stupid. Because I will, I’ll call the cops. She turned from the table. And you know as well as I do, Guy, she added over her shoulder, they’ll put you away for good this time.

Guy stood with his fists clenched at his sides, watching her ass move as she walked away. He snatched up the envelope. Here, take your fuckin’ blood money with you, he called after her. He threw it as hard as he could and watched the envelope bounce off her back.

Lily swung around, and Guy realized that he’d finally managed to make her angry, but he’d also drawn every eye in the place.

Okay, that’s it, she said, then, Suit yourself. She stooped down to retrieve the envelope. You’re a fool. She opened her purse and put the money back inside it. You’re mean and self-destructive, just as bad as Rose. And I can’t take any more of that.

It’s not over yet, Lily, Guy said, slurring his words just a little. It’s just beginning. He tried to grin but knew it must look more like a snarl; his lips felt numb over bared teeth. Lily frowned but didn’t answer, then turned away from him again, and for a long moment the only sounds in the bar were her heels tapping across the floor and the water singing through the pipes in the john. Then the light cut through the room again as she flung open the door, and Guy waited, head down, his eyes squeezed shut, for the slam.

A couple hours later Guy stood in the parking lot of the Wander On Inn, swaying a little and wishing he could steal one of the battered pickup trucks that lined the front of the bar like horses tethered to a rail. He had hot-wired so many cars as a teenager he knew he would still be able to do it in less than a minute, even in the pitch black of a desert night. But he didn’t have a screwdriver, and his pocket knife had been confiscated during his arrest. Damn good thing, too, he told himself. He made it over to the shoulder of the road and stuck his thumb out.

There wasn’t much traffic on the outskirts of Cave Creek at night, but finally a car slowed down for him. The ride took him down Pima Road, and once he saw the blank expanse of the Pima-Maricopa Indian Community through the bug-smeared windshield, Guy told the driver where he wanted to be let off. He had to get to Manny’s place. Manny would be his inside man; he still had his job at Desert Arabians. And he owed Guy for that—Guy had been the one to hire him.

When they’d met, Manny had been working the stock pen in the old Veteran’s coliseum, wrangling horses for the All-Indian Rodeo, and Guy had found himself watching this big O’odham Indian as much as the show. Manny was huge, barrel-bellied, his skin sun-burned to almost black, with raven black hair cut square over his eyes and hanging, long and heavy, over his meaty shoulders. When he moved—and the man was in constant motion in the midst of the herd—that hair flowed out in all directions like a horse’s mane.

Guy was impressed at first because, for a big guy, Manny got around the holding pen so fast, but after he’d watched for a while he realized the control Manny had over those broncos was much more subtle and efficient than speed. The horses were boiling around inside the enclosure, their sharp hooves flying shoulder high, crowded and panicked. But with a few moves Manny had the whole herd skidding to a stop, a sudden yank and he was leading the gelding he wanted out of the corral by a handful of mane.

Ordinarily, Guy would never have approached him, but he had just met Frank at the horse auction in February, had only months ago agreed to help him start up Desert Arabians, and they needed another handler. So Guy had made his way out of the grandstand, past the knees of the granddad with a black hat planted on his long, grayed braids and a chest-full of heavy silver and turquoise necklaces, and down the littered stairs to follow the dirt track that the lined the arenas. Then Guy had stood for a while with his arms hanging over the top rail of the holding pen, until finally he’d decided to say something about the weather: Hell of a hot day for April, ain’t it?

You’ve got that right, Manny had agreed without even turning around.

Guy stumbled through an introduction and said, with some pride, that he represented a new stable in Cave Creek.

Manny had just grunted. He’d stood regarding Guy for a moment, his arms folded like blocks across his chest, then he’d gone back to work, leaving Guy staring through the dust into the half-empty stands across the arena, struggling for the next set of words.

When the last of the bulldoggers had slammed to the ground, scrambled up and limped off, whacking the dirt from their clothes, Guy had wiped his glasses with his shirt tail and made a comment about what a good job handling for Desert Arabians would be: You know how it is with a new outfit. There’s lots to be done, but, especially at this place, you get a lot of say in how to do it. You’re, you’re good. Guy had gestured behind him at the horses. You should sign on with us. We can seal the deal with a beer; I’ve got a six-pack in a cooler in the back of my truck.

Manny had only half turned, his thumbs hooked through his belt loops, his big hands covering the whole front of his jeans. And why the hell exactly are you talking to me? he’d asked menacingly. You think I don’t already have a job, for Christ’s sake? For a minute Guy thought he had a fight on his hands, but Manny eventually turned back around to spit in the dirt.

Guy swore quietly and started for his truck. He’d never gotten along well with people, ever since he was a kid he’d either been tongue-tied or too damn blunt, and he’d learned the hard way that it was better if he could make himself walk away from disagreements with bigger men. But while Guy was waiting at the street light to cross Fifteenth Avenue, standing with his hands jammed in his pockets, surveying the smashed cups and popcorn discarded at the curb, he’d glanced back and seen Manny strolling toward him across the parking lot.

They had finished the first six-pack in no time and bought another before Manny started talking. I’m ready to quit roofing, he’d pronounced, sitting on the open tailgate. No more sweating like a pig on some white bastard’s mansion. To hell with that. They had it right in the old days—they’d sleep all day during the summer, get up and work all night. My father, he’d be out cultivating cotton by moonlight. He never sweat a drop.

Manny had grown louder and more insistent as the night wore on, and he’d nearly started a fight in the parking lot of a Circle K while Guy was inside getting a bottle this time. Guy had gotten a hand on Manny’s arm and pulled him back toward the truck, ignoring the jeers of the teenagers who had encircled them. Playing the peace keeper was a new role for him, and Guy kept nodding and grunting happily as Manny rambled on.

By the time they’d finished the whiskey Manny was crazy-eyed and prophetic, sitting on the hood of the truck somewhere out in the desert. My kids, they don’ care about the old ways; it’s not going to help ‘em, anyways. The old people are all dyin’. The songs are dead. The stories are all gone and forgot. ‘No Tribe Spirit,’ my wife’s grandma tells my Marina. What the hell is that? Well, don’ ask me, ‘cause I don’ have any god-damn idea.

Guy wasn’t following it all—as soon as the booze had run out he’d gotten a hell of a headache. Finally he was driving down a narrow cow track on the reservation, listening to Manny’s ragged snores and looking for the cement brick house Manny had sworn was out there, somewhere, surrounded by the shaggy arms of tamarisk.

Now Guy had come full circle and was almost back to where they’d ended up that night. He righted himself in the seat as the car slowed to a stop at the intersection he’d named, mumbled at the driver, leaned into the door and staggered out, back into the night. His first thought as the car pulled away, spraying gravel, was that he didn’t have his glasses. His hand came up to his face to check. Or his hat, for that matter. Guy stood on the side of the road, squinting to watch the car’s receding tail lights—two red streaks against the dark.

But Guy didn’t need glasses to know which way to walk, since the side of Pima Road he stood on was lined with neighborhood streets, brick walls and houses, lights at every corner, and the other side looked blank and empty. He wavered over the blacktop, surprised to find his feet so uncooperative, and stumbled into the lumpy, fenceless fields of the reservation.

As he walked, head down, staring at the ground he could barely see, Guy allowed himself to think back the four long years