Sleepwalk (27 page)

“Okay,” Bob Banning said, squeezing Frank’s shoulder reassuringly. “Let’s just check a few things and see where we are. And how does that leg feel?”

Frank’s lips tightened. “Hurts like hell,” he admitted. “Feels like I kicked something.”

“You did,” Susan Paynter told him. “Me.” Then she
smiled. “Don’t worry about it. I have a feeling that in this case, it really
did
hurt you a lot more than it hurt me.”

“Great,” Banning commented dryly. “Well, when we’re done here, we’ll take him in and X ray the leg again.” He peeled Frank’s left eyelid back, examined the pupil carefully, then repeated the procedure on his right eye. A few moments later he was at the foot of the bed, running the tip of a pencil up the bare soles of Frank’s feet.

Instantly Frank jerked his feet away, then groaned as the flash of pain shot through his broken leg.

“Serves you right,” Banning commented wryly. “Kicking nurses, indeed! Well, your reflexes seem to be in good shape. Other than your leg, how do you feel?”

Frank shrugged uncertainly, then leaned forward so Susan could strip off his filthy hospital gown. “Given what Susan says happened, not too bad, I suppose. But what
did
happen?”

Banning shook his head. “I wish I could tell you,” he said, starting to make notations on Frank’s medical chart. He glanced at his watch, frowned slightly, and turned to Susan Paynter. “How long ago did the seizure begin?”

Susan’s eyes darted toward Frank, then returned to the doctor. “It was strange,” she said, her voice muted. “I have my watch set to beep on the hour. And it had just beeped when I heard Frank scream. It was midnight. Exactly midnight.”

It had been more than a year since Brown Eagle had last been in Borrego, and as he left the pueblo at the first light of dawn the next morning, he felt as if he were embarking on a journey into an alien territory. He fell into the steady pace that could carry him across the desert all day if need be, but instead of turning his mind inward to close out the tedium of a long walk, he watched and listened eagerly as the landscape around him changed.

The last rustlings of the night creatures fell silent as they crept back into their burrows, shielding themselves from the heat of the day and the predators that stalked them from the sky as well as on the desert’s floor. As the sun rose, Brown Eagle turned to face it, silently welcoming it back to the mesas. His eyes swept the sky, searching for the familiar shape of the bird whose name he bore, but this morning the sky was empty.

Brown Eagle took it as an omen. Today his personal
totem had abandoned him. As he continued on his way toward the town, he felt lonely and unprotected.

He paused on the fringes of Borrego, feeling the familiar hostility that seemed to emanate from the town like an invisible sandstorm. During the months he’d stayed in Kokatí, avoiding the town completely, he’d almost forgotten the hostility toward his people that hung over it. But he’d never learned to ignore the way people looked at him, or, more exactly, failed to look at him, acting for the most part as if he didn’t exist at all. He’d never grown used to their silent contempt for the Kokatí, and over the years, as his senses had sharpened with age instead of growing dull, he felt the malice clearly whenever he was forced to come down off the mesa. It seemed to reach out to him, as if it were trying to crush him.

He moved on, his head down, the pavement under his feet feeling too hard, the acrid smell of the refinery and the ugly cinder-block houses offending his senses. Finally he came to the house where his daughter had once lived. He walked around to the back door and let himself into the kitchen, sensing immediately that his grandson had not wakened yet.

He sat down at the kitchen table and waited.

Almost an hour later Jed, a bathrobe hanging loosely from his shoulders, came into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. He stopped short, shocked by the sight of someone sitting at the table, then realized who it was.

“Grandpa? What are you doing here? How long have you been here?”

Brown Eagle grinned at Jed’s surprise. “About an hour. I came to find out about your father. Is he going to be all right?”

Jed nodded, but then he eyed his grandfather suspiciously. “How did you know?” he asked.

“I saw them bring him down from the dam yesterday. In fact, I told him not to go into it at all.”

Jed scowled darkly. “Great,” he said. “I told him to be careful, Jude told him to quit his job, and you warned him not to go in the dam. He really listens to all of us, doesn’t he?”

Brown Eagle eyed his grandson dispassionately. When Jed came up to the pueblo to visit him, there was so much of the Kokatí about him that he sometimes forgot the other half of the boy’s heritage. But here, in his home in Borrego, Brown Eagle could see the other side of Jed, the side that would forever be alien to the Kokatí, the side he’d inherited from his father.

“Maybe he’s as stubborn as you,” he said. “It wasn’t so very long ago you thought I was a crazy old Indian. Frank probably still thinks so.”

There was a knock at the back door, and a moment later Jed let Judith Sheffield in. She put a box of fresh doughnuts on the counter, then noticed Brown Eagle. “I—I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I thought Jed was by himself. If I’m interrupting something—”

“It’s okay,” Brown Eagle told her. “Jed didn’t know I was here either.” He eyed the box on the counter, and Judith groaned, handed it to him. He bit into one of the doughnuts, then, spoke again. “Tell me about Frank. Is he really going to be all right?”

Judith’s eyes darted toward Jed. “I—I’m not sure,” she said. “I called the hospital this morning, and they wouldn’t tell me much, but I got the feeling something happened during the night. I came over to get Jed so we could both go see him.”

Brown Eagle stood up. “We’ll all go,” he said. “He’s
still my grandson’s father. He might not listen to me, but I care what happens to him.”

As they drove to the hospital, Judith glanced at Brown Eagle in the rearview mirror. His face looked odd: his eyes, open and unmoving, seemed fixed on some object a few feet in front of him.

She turned her concentration to the road ahead, but a minute or so later, when she glanced in the mirror again, nothing had changed.

Brown Eagle seemed unaware of his very surroundings, as if he’d disappeared somewhere within himself, some place neither she nor anyone else could follow. Finally she turned to Jed. “Is he all right?” she whispered, nodding toward the backseat of the Honda where Brown Eagle sat, staring sightlessly out the window.

Jed glanced back, then nodded. “He’s fine,” he said. “He doesn’t like the town, you know. So in his mind, he’s gone somewhere else. The mesa, probably.”

Jed’s words echoed in Judith’s mind as she continued driving. He’d said them so matter-of-factly, as if there were nothing strange about them at all.

She wondered if he even realized that until a few days ago, when he’d gone up there himself and spent the night in the kiva, he’d never have said such a thing, much less understood it.

Margie Sparks, her ample figure clad in a fading pink housedress, tapped at Randy’s door, then let herself in. Randy was sprawled on his back, his eyes closed, and for a moment Margie thought he was still asleep.
But when she spoke softly to her son, Randy’s eyes opened and he sat up.

Margie eyed him carefully. His eyes were rimmed with red, and his complexion had the same sallow look her husband’s always had the night after he’d been out on a toot. “You’ve got a hangover, haven’t you?” Margie challenged, going to the window and pulling the drapes back, deliberately letting the morning sun glare into Randy’s eyes. When the groan of protest she’d expected didn’t come, she glanced back at Randy, then opened the window itself to air out the stuffy room. When she turned to face Randy again, fully expecting him to have buried his head under the pillow, she was surprised to find him still sitting up in bed, the sun in his eyes, exactly as she’d left him a moment before.

“What’s wrong with you?” she demanded. “Don’t feel so good?”

Randy shook his head. “I feel fine,” he replied.

Margie frowned. Well, at least that was normal: no matter how bad he looked on a Saturday morning, he always insisted he felt fine. And he always lied about drinking, just as if she was blind and couldn’t see how he looked. “What were you doin’ last night?” she demanded.

“Me and some of the kids went up on the mesa,” Randy mumbled.

Margie rolled her eyes knowingly. “And I ’spose you’re going to tell me you was just lookin’ at the stars, and nobody brought no keg of beer, right?”

Randy said nothing.

“Well?” Margie pressed, her voice taking on a shrill note.

Randy’s eyes met hers. “We were just lookin’ at the stars,” he said. “Nobody brought no keg of beer.”

Margie glared angrily at him. “You sassin’ me? ’Cause if you are, I’m gonna have to have a talk with your pa. Now you tell me what you was doin’!”

Randy’s face remained impassive. “We got a keg of beer, and we got drunk.”

“Who?” Margie asked, suddenly suspicious. What was Randy up to this time? she wondered. “Who was with you?”

Obediently, Randy recited the list of names. When he was finished, Margie nodded knowingly. “Well, I might have known that half-breed Arnold kid would be there. He bring the beer?”

Randy shook his head. “I did,” he said, his voice almost toneless.

Margie’s mouth dropped open in surprise. What was going on? She’d have sworn that no matter how much she browbeat him, he’d never have admitted to having gotten the beer himself. Then she thought she understood.

“You’re lyin’ again, aren’t you?” she prodded.

Randy shook his head, and once more Margie looked at him, trying to puzzle out what might have happened to him. Then she remembered the flu shots they’d given at school the other day. Vaguely, she remembered reading somewhere that sometimes the shots caused the disease instead of preventing it. She laid her wrist against Randy’s forehead.

It seemed a little hot to her, but that could just have been the hangover.

“You sure you’re not sick?”

“I’m okay, I guess,” Randy said, his voice still listless. Then he fell silent, staring off into space.

Margie cocked her head. “Randy? Is something wrong?”

Randy slowly turned to gaze blankly at his mother. “No,” he said in the same dull monotone as before. “I’m fine.”

Margie frowned thoughtfully How many times had Randy claimed he felt lousy just so she’d let him stay in bed? And now, even looking like death warmed over, and owning up that he’d been out drinking till God knows when, he claimed he was fine. “Maybe you better go wash your face,” she said. “It might make you feel better.”

Immediately Randy got out of the bed and padded out of his room. A moment later Margie heard the sound of water running in the bathroom down the hall She plumped up Randy’s pillow, then headed toward the kitchen. “You come into the kitchen as soon as you’re through in there, hear?” she called as she passed the bathroom door, expecting no reply and already sure that as soon as he finished in the bathroom, Randy would go back to bed.

“Okay,” Randy replied.

Margie stopped in her tracks and gazed perplexedly at the closed door to the bathroom.

A few minutes later Randy appeared in the kitchen. He slid onto his chair, then sat still, as if waiting for his mother to serve him. “What’s the matter?” Margie carped at him. “Can’t you get your own orange juice?” She started toward the refrigerator, knowing Randy would never bestir himself—something he’d learned from his father. By the time she got there, Randy already had the door open and the pitcher of orange juice in his hand.

Margie regarded the boy in puzzlement, then slid a bowl of cereal in front of him as he sat back down at the table. To her surprise, Randy made no move to drink
the juice or start eating the cereal. “Well?” she asked. “Aren’t you going to drink it?”

Randy stared at the glass for a moment, then picked it up and began to drink. Only when the glass was empty did he put it back on the table.

Margie frowned. “Do you want another?” she asked.

Randy shrugged. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’m fine.”

“Well, you don’t seem fine to me,” Margie groused, her lips pursing.

Her frown deepened as she studied Randy’s eyes. There seemed to be something odd about them—they had a dazed look, as if there were something Randy didn’t quite understand. “I think maybe you’d better go back to bed,” Margie said at last.

Silently, Randy rose to his feet and disappeared back down the hall toward his room.

For a moment Margie considered calling Dr. Banning, but then changed her mind. Hangovers could do funny things to people. Probably all Randy needed was another few hours in bed.

After all, there wasn’t really anything wrong with him, except for that funny look in his eyes. He just seemed totally listless; not at all like his regular self.

Well, for today, at least, she wouldn’t worry about it. She’d just keep an eye on Randy, she decided, and if he wasn’t better by tomorrow, she’d take him to see the doctor.

Frank Arnold was sitting up in bed, glowering angrily when Judith and Jed, followed by Brown Eagle, spotted him through the open door to his room. Judith was about to ask him what was wrong, when they entered
the room and she saw Otto Kruger standing at the foot of Frank’s bed.

“Will you tell him to get out of here?” Frank growled, jerking his thumb at Kruger.

“Now, come on, Frank,” Otto said. “I didn’t come here to get you upset. I just wanted to find out how you are.”

“And I told you,” Frank grated, his jaw clenching so that his words shot through his teeth like tiny darts. “I’m going to hire a lawyer, and I’m going to sue. What happened yesterday was no accident. Bill Watkins knew that pipe turned into a chute, and you knew it too. I know what happened, Kruger. They want me to shut up, and they’re willing to kill me to do it. So I’m going to sue them. The whole bunch—UniChem, Borrego Oil, Kendall, Watkins, and you. Then we can all find out what’s going on. Who knows?” he added. “Maybe we’ll even find out what happened to Max!”