It was eleven-thirty, and at Northern Arizona University the training room was empty. The walking wounded from the basketball team, the ski team, the gymnastics and wrestling and ice hockey teams, had been there and gone. Frank Diacono walked between its familiar tables and past the battery of whirlpools to the small office of the assistant trainer. The door was open.
"Morning, Lew," he said. "Got a minute?"
Lewis Quahu looked up from his morning report. "I've always got a minute for you, Frank. Are you going running this noon?"
"Yeah." Diacono stepped in and closed the door behind him. That told Quahu this wasn't an ordinary visit, but he did not change expression. He was of medium size, brown, and twenty-five, from Fourth Mesa on the Hopi Reservation, 120 miles northeast of town. He and Diacono were not really close, but they were friends who often kept one another company on their noontime runs—cross-country if snow didn't interfere.
"But just now," Diacono went on, "I'm looking for information."
"What do you need to know?"
"I understand you're pretty traditional—as a Hopi, I mean."
Quahu didn't actually move his shoulders, but his voice carried a shrug. "I guess so. For someone with a master's in physical therapy, who lives two hours' drive from the reservation, I'm pretty traditional."
"What do you know about Indian spirits?" Diacono asked. "I'm interested mainly in the one in the San Francisco Peaks."
The Hopi looked at him. "The traditional Hopi belief is that there's one there."
He looked the big man over. Lewis Quahu was very selective of whom he talked to about such things. In fact, he'd never talked about Hopi beliefs to an Anglo. But when one of the football team that fall had decided derisively to name him "Big Chief Quahu," Diacono had nipped it in the bud. He'd collared the player and asked him if he'd like a "friendly little rassle." It had been obvious that beneath his calm exterior Diacono had been angry, and when the young man declined, Diacono had asked if he'd like some close personal supervision during conditioning workouts. The harassment had ceased.
So looking now at the slightly uncomfortable defensive coordinator, Lewis Quahu made a decision. "Sit down," he said. Frank lowered himself into a chair. "Specifically what's your interest?" Quahu asked. "Maybe I can help you."
Diacono told him what had happened on the mountain the previous summer. As he talked, he watched Quahu for any sign of how the Hopi was receiving this; when he was done, he still had no inkling. "So what I want to know," Frank added, "is, was I hallucinating—or is there really an Indian spirit up there? Do you personally feel that there is?"
"There's a spirit up there, all right, but I wouldn't necessarily call him an Indian spirit. He's just a spirit; a powerful one. People refer to him as an Indian spirit because Indians know he's there and pay him respect. And he's friendly to Indians."
"How could I get to know him on friendlier terms?"
"Why don't we go up there together next summer?" Quahu suggested. "I've got a steam bath in my house. We can fast and steam for a couple of days to purify ourselves, and then hike up there."
"Does it take all that?"
Quahu didn't answer at once. "I'll tell you what," he said after a few seconds. "There's a guy, a Caucasian down around Phoenix, who was really into 'Indian spirits' a couple of years ago. He got to know my Uncle Ernie, who's the medicine chief of the Eagle Clan at Fourth Mesa, and some medicine chiefs of other tribes. Ernie said this guy could really talk to kachinas, as good as anyone he'd ever seen. He said the guy is a really powerful medicine man, and the only Anglo he was ever willing to talk to about Hopi beliefs.
"That's probably the guy you should get with. I'm not all that expert, and a medicine chief probably wouldn't talk to you about it. If you think you're interested enough to go down to Phoenix and talk to him, I can probably get you his phone number from my uncle."
"I'd appreciate that," said Frank. "I really would." He looked at what he was saying while he said it. It didn't make any sense to him, but there it was.
"Okay," Quahu said, "I'll call my uncle tonight. He may have the guy's number, but if he doesn't, he'll remember his name and the town he lives in, and you can probably get the number from Phoenix directory assistance.
"I'll call you when I find out. If you don't hear from me by nine tonight, give me a ring. I might need to be reminded."
Diacono nodded and got up. "Thanks, Lew," he said. "Let me know what the call costs you, and I'll pay you back."
Quahu shook his head slightly. "I'm doing it for a friend," he said. "I wouldn't take money for that."
Diacono returned to his office wondering why he'd done what he'd just done. It was as if he was operating on a hidden purpose, hidden from himself. All he knew for sure was that it had felt like the thing to do, and that somehow it had grown more out of last Friday night at Van Wyk's than out of that summer night on the mountain.
Which made no sense to him at all.
But Frank had always tended to follow his hunches; he'd never been too much of a head case. He seldom worried about what to do, or regretted what he'd done. Just do it right, that was the thing.
This was foreign territory for him, though, and he told himself it was okay to feel uncomfortable about it.