Daniel Hecht_Cree Black 02 (14 page)

The thought sobered her, and she was suddenly aware of how little knowledge she brought to any aspect of this problem. She
felt like asking what being Dinê meant to Joseph Tsosie. Then, humbled, realized she lacked the insight to probe him any further.

They drove into the strip in Window Rock and dropped off their passengers at the parking lot where dozens of people had set
up booths and racks to sell their wares. Continuing north on 12, they passed more of the lovely stone forms Cree had admired
on her way in, and then veered away into open land again. They passed a cemetery with American flags flying on almost every
grave—the Navajo Veterans Cemetery, according to a flaking sign. The graves were knee-high mounds of rock rubble, topped
by festoons of plastic flowers, colorful trinkets, flags, and the standard government- issue white tab of a vet's headstone.
Beyond the barbed-wire fence that marked the cemetery's formal confines, a bulldozer had pushed aside the brush, cutting a
narrow red-dirt slash that was entirely filled by a single long row of graves, bright and forlorn as an abandoned circus.

As if the cemetery reminded him of something he'd been wanting to say, Joseph cleared his throat deliberately. "I want to
be very clear about Tommy's status. I've generally agreed with Julieta that the IHS or state mental health systems may not
know what to do with him, so I've been willing to take some risk and let him come back to the school. But I'm not as pessimistic
about the system as Julieta is, and as his primary physician, I have to see he receives appropriate care. Which means one
more crisis and he's got to go back to the hospital. I gave instructions to Lynn Pierce to that effect. She doesn't call me
first. She calls an ambulance."

"And what happens to him then?"

"It's up to his grandparents. Personally, I'd recommend long-term treatment somewhere." He paused, then articulated his point:
"You may or may not have access to him. The hospital probably won't let you treat him in any way. The grandparents, it's hard
to say, but I'd guess not."

Cree thought about it, feeling headachy and overwhelmed. She agreed with Joseph, but she was also sure that no conventional
methods would remove the invader from Tommy. If she and Edgar couldn't have access to him, he might never be freed of the
thing. The whole situation put even more pressure on her investigation.

"Thank you for being candid with me, Joseph," she said at last.

He nodded, and they didn't say any more as he drove into Fort Defiance and pulled up in a new-looking hospital complex. There
were trees here, Cree saw, and beyond the hospital grounds residential streets with actual green lawns and paved sidewalks.
Joseph shut off the truck, and before Cree could gather her bag he'd come around to open her door. She let him help her down.

"We'll get you to the ER. I'll leave you there, but I'll check in later to make sure you're okay. Ask for Dr. Bannock, he
should be on today. If you're released, you can rest up here until I can drive you back tonight. Or Julieta can come up and
get you." He looked at her for her response, steady brown eyes, and she nodded.

Joseph had slept for at most three hours, and he was about to begin a long day of caring for others. Yet he looked fit for
it, weary but capable and in command of himself.

Abruptly she knew why Lynn Pierce and Julieta took such comfort from him. She felt an almost overpowering desire to tell him
how much she appreciated his help, his innate courtesy and restraint, his calm, his concern for Julieta and Tommy. But she
didn't know him well enough to tell him. It would only embarrass him and possibly offend him.

Instead, she raised one hand and lightly took his arm. If he sensed any intent besides an unsteady woman's need for assistance,
he didn't show it. They went up the sidewalk like that, and Cree saw their reflections in the hospital's big glass doors:
one beat-up-looking Anglo parapsychologist looking very much out of her depth, shyly holding the arm of a tired but trim Navajo
doctor who wore a bemused expression as he thought ahead to his day's rounds.

14

CREE MADE it back to Oak Springs at one o'clock, getting a ride with a grocery supplier who was bringing a load of mutton
and eggs to the school's kitchen. Expecting the delivery, Julieta had called the company and arranged for her to be picked
up, apparently a fairly common ridesharing procedure. The Navajo man who drove the refrigerated box truck was plump and talkative
and a big baseball fan who probed Cree for everything she knew about the Seattle Mariners. She was surprised at how much she
did know and began to suspect she'd inherited Pop's baseball gene after all. They parted as good friends at the cafeteria
building's service entrance.

Cree cut over to the central drive, the pain in her head a fading memory. X-rays had shown no skull fracture, and Dr. Bannock
had concluded that it was safe to take painkillers. It felt good to move, to be outside. The air was dry and comfortably warm,
just right. In the bright daylight, the school had a different aspect: isolated, but very much full of the fizz of bright
energy Cree associated with young people. Like batteries, these buildings had been daily charged with their chatter, earnest
effort, laughter, flirtation, passing hurts and worries, frustration, homesickness, and discovery. A rainbow mix.

Just east of the athletic field, the mesa presented a palisade of cliffs and fallen rock rubble. In the bright sun, it looked
merely melancholy and anonymous, not threatening. None of the formations resembled faces in the slightest; the nightmare she'd
had last night receded, and the pall of menace dissipated. In fact, the endless rolling desert all around seemed to invite
her, to encourage big physical gestures, and she wished she could go running. A long one, out and out until she was alone
in the circle of horizon.

Maybe tomorrow, she decided, when her bruised braincase had regrouped.

Where to start? She needed to call Edgar and Joyce, get Joyce going on some research before she came, suggest some ideas about
diagnostic technology to Ed. And she should call Paul, too, just to check in. But most important, she needed to spend time
with Tommy, feel him out when her head wasn't killing her. She should see his living space, too, look at his drawings or notebooks,
his school essays, the things he'd brought from home, whatever he surrounded himself with. Somehow begin to answer the question,
Who is Tommy Keeday?

She came around the corner of the gym building to see Tommy and several others taking turns batting a softball on the baseball
diamond. Lynn Pierce sat on a bench to the left of home plate, watching. Cree assessed the state of her skull and decided
that opportunity took precedence over discomfort.

Play stopped when she ambled over to the batter's cage, the weekend staffers and Tommy looking at her in perplexity.
"Yaàtèeh!"
she called. The truck driver had coached her on how to pronounce the Navajo hello, and it seemed to melt the ice. "Can I join
you? Looks like you need a catcher."

In the role of pitcher now, Tommy looked dubious, but he said some few words of introduction in Navajo that made the others
smile and relax. Cree took it as a welcome. She dropped her purse on the bench, rummaged in the equipment bag there, and came
up with a glove that would do. Lynn caught her eye with a bronze-flecked glance.

The rules were like pickup goofing anywhere, she quickly determined, just like the neighborhood "games" she sometimes joined
with Zoe and Hy and friends. Not enough people to have a real game, so you took turns batting and enduring the insults of
the others until general consensus determined you'd embarrassed yourself enough and it was someone else's turn. Scattered
rather randomly on the bare-dirt diamond, the fielders tossed each hit around before bouncing the ball back to the pitcher.

Besides Tommy, the other players were three men and one woman, and a pair of young teenagers, a boy and a girl. From behind
the fence, Lynn explained that they were all staff; the teenagers were children of one of the men, visiting for the weekend.

"What did Tommy say when I came?" Cree asked quietly.

"He introduced you as a friend of mine and Julieta's. Very politely, I might add."

The batter who had just come up was a short, muscular man in his early thirties, dressed in the school's kitchen uniform of
blue slacks and smock. He was wearing Nike running shoes, but he took up the aluminum bat and tapped the edges of his soles
meaningfully, as if clearing his cleats. The fielders laughed, pretended to be fearful, and began yammering about long-ball
hitters. That quickly evolved into suggestive puns about long balls and long bats until the teenage girl, scandalized, laughed
and shushed them.

"It's better to have a catcher," the batter said over his shoulder. "Otherwise the batter chases it every time, you fall asleep
out there, waiting. What happened to your head?"

Cree touched the butterfly bandage above her right eyebrow, grimaced, and told him, "A stupid accident with Ms. McCarty's
horses."

He relayed the news to the others in Navajo, and they nodded commiseratingly.

Standing behind the plate, she savored the feel of the group. They had folded around her quickly, perfectly content to have
this stranger among them as long as she was willing to play. Aside from the thump inside her head, it was very pleasant: the
sun warm on her cheek, the air clean and sweet-spicy, the sky a vast dome of blue that set off the rust hues of the mesa.

Even Tommy looked okay. She watched him as he caught the ball and briefly inspected it. He appeared to have a problem with
a muscle cramp in his left calf, and he looked less than pleased to have her butting in, but otherwise, outwardly, he seemed
like a pretty normal kid, playing some Softball.

Tight-lipped, Tommy pitched, the batter swung and missed; Cree nailed it in her glove and flipped it back to Tommy as the
fielders jeered the batter. As if to set them straight, he knocked the next pitch over their heads. It landed with a puff
of dust well out in the desert, where the lonesome-looking outfielders had to chase it.

"Not too bad," Tommy called. "For an old man."

The batter watched with satisfaction as they retrieved the ball and tossed it around. "What's your name?" he asked over his
shoulder.

"Cree."

He grinned back at her. "You don't look Indian."

"It's not after the tribe. Just a nickname."

He nodded and turned back to the field, then freed a hand from the bat to mime shaking hands in the air. "Ben," he told her.

He hit another two dozen balls and then it was Tommy's turn at bat. Coming in from the mound, the boy seemed to approach Cree
warily. He traded his glove for Ben's bat and scowled as he took a practice swing off to one side.

"Don't worry," Cree told him quietly. "I won't hassle you. I'm off duty."

He made a small, tight smile. "Like I believe you."

"I never mix business with pleasure, trust me." It was a lie, actually. She wouldn't outwardly probe him, but with him standing
only five feet away she found herself extending her senses toward him, straining to feel the thing that must be lurking in
him. The best she could do was to note a tiny, ambiguous buzz of dissonance.

"I'm serious," she went on. "I can use some exercise. Outside, sunshine, some air in my lungs—it feels good. Being here is
very exciting for me. It's so different where I come from. You're probably used to it, but for me it's beautiful and new."

He nodded as he set his stance, then swung at the first pitch and missed. Ben pitched hard, letting the ball go in a shallow
arc after a fast bolo windup. Cree caught it with a smack, looked wide-eyed at her hands and yelled at him as she tossed it
back, "Hey, take it easy! Wanna burn a hole in my glove?"

Ben grinned and underhanded another fast one, which Tommy slapped on the ground toward the left. The woman at third base fielded
it badly, then made a wild throw to first, laughing at herself and earning the scorn of everyone. As Tommy watched them toss
it around he rotated his left ankle, pointed his toe, leaned on it to stretch out the muscle cramp. Cree waited, hands on
knees behind him.

Who are you?
she asked in her thoughts.
What do you want?

"Why did you ask me about ghosts last night?" Tommy whispered over his shoulder. "Is that what you do? Something with ghosts?"

He must have been thinking about that comment ever since last night, Cree knew suddenly, and she chided herself for her carelessness—
for tossing that provocation at him, failing to realize how closely a very smart boy would inspect what had been said. How
much it would frighten a confused kid, no matter how skeptical he claimed to be.

She shook her head. "I'm off duty, remember? I really don't have you under a microscope. We should both just play and relax
now. I think we both could use it."

"Is that what you're thinking is the matter with me?" Tommy persisted.

Ben caught the ball again and made an elaborate show of preparing to pitch. Tommy got set and when the ball came he whapped
it over the first baseman's head, foul.

"The answer I have is complicated," she told him quietly. "Because I don't think of these things the way other people do.
If you want, I'll be happy to explain later, when we have more time."

Tommy turned his back on the chattering fielders as they flipped the ball around. "Does that mean Mrs. McCarty and Dr. Tsosie
think it, too?"

"The more important question is, What do
you
think?"

Tommy eyes were wide and desperate. He seemed to struggle with how to answer, and at last whispered hoarsely, "I have to fight
it. All the time."

Appalled, Cree realized for the first time the terror that Tommy must be living with, and how bravely he concealed it. Take
the fear anyone felt when struck by a severe illness, and compound it a hundred times with the fear of the unknown—the awful,
sick sense of strangeness that so often accompanied the paranormal. That metaphysical terror. The fact that he was talking
to her now showed how desperate this boy was. She felt her heart leap out toward him, an unbearable desire to comfort and
protect.

"You can feel it? Now?" Cree was aware that Lynn Pierce was watching them closely. She wondered how much the nurse could hear.

In a tiny voice, he said, "In my calf. It's like a charley horse. This little ball that tightens up. Like it's trying to make
my leg move by itself."

Ben pitched and Tommy swung and missed. Cree returned it and put her hands on her knees to wait for the next pitch. Ben wound
up, slung it, Tommy fouled it far away east of first base, toward the mesa.

"What about when it gets bad? Times like last night?"

Tommy's leg was really bothering him now. He laid the bat down so he could use both hands to rub the calf fiercely. Cree caught
only the briefest of glimpses when his pants leg hitched, but she was shocked at the striating bands and mounds moving under
his smooth skin. He kept his face half turned to the field, barely moved his lips as if to conceal his urgency from the others:
"I can't remember."

"Is it always the same?"

The bent head gave a shake. "Sometimes it's different. Sometimes it's fast, it just
snaps,
it catches you off guard. But the way it was last night, when it's coming it's like . . . when you're going to throw up. You
try not to think about it, try not to let it get worse, but it keeps coming and coming until you can't help it."

"Oh, man, Tommy. That must be so hard!" Cree said. Tommy's brown eyes reconnoitered hers and seemed relieved not to find condescension
there. Still, craning her senses toward him she felt nothing but that queer sizzle that could be a foreign presence or, she
had to admit, the mind of a troubled teen with a psychological problem—some unconscious need so desperate that it had to
seek this drastic, exotic form of expression. Her spine tingled at the thought: That was terrifying, too. She had to quell
the urge to go to him, hold him, stroke away the tension in his face.

"Hey, batter!" Ben yelled. "Incoming!"

Tommy picked up the bat. He took a pitch, waited for the next, swung and missed. Ben kept at him until he swatted one into
the outfield. They didn't talk for a time as he hit a few more. Each metallic
pank!
of the aluminum bat rang painfully in Cree's head.

"So what do you think is the best thing to do for it?" she whispered. "What would be the best thing for you?"

"Just to die. Not to feel that ever again."

"No! Not a good solution. Let's work on a better one, huh?"

He shook his head as he turned mostly toward her. "You don't get it. You don't know."

"I know I don't! That's why I need you to tell me!"

His eyes flicked at her, glistening with an animal quality. "One time our sheep had this thing. There'd been a big hatch of
this kind of fly . . . You couldn't see it until after shearing, but then you could see these . . . lumps. On their backs,
their stomachs? The lumps moved by themselves. Kind of . . . pulsing. It was the worms, the maggots, under the skin. Eating
the sheep alive."

The image stunned and sickened Cree: the parasite inside, remorseless, growing, consuming its living host. Tommy's alert eyes
reacted to her inability to respond, and she felt she'd failed him.

"Okay, Tommy," Ben called. His voice startled them both. For the last few moments, a suffocating, fearful intimacy had wrapped
around them, isolating the two of them, closing them off from the big sky and brisk air and the warm camaraderie of the other
players. "A few more and it's Judy's turn. Stop flirting with the cute
bilagâana
and let's go. She's too old for you, yeah?"

The others laughed shyly, watching to see how Cree took it. She made a smile that she knew looked forced. But Tommy managed
some comeback in Navajo that got them all laughing again. On the next pitch, he connected hard and sent a level drive straight
back at the pitcher's mound. Ben ducked under the ball as it hummed low up the middle and over second base. The fielders whistled
appreciatively and then berated Ben for his arrogance and cowardice and general lifestyle: "Duck and cover, huh, Ben?" " 'Stop,
drop, and roll,' man!" "Hey, no—for Ben, more like 'sex, drugs, and rock and roll.'"