by Diana Palmer
“What kid?” she asked, feeling her heart break all over again.
“He’s got a little boy with him. They’re staying in a motel in town. I noticed a woman going in and out—the baby-sitter, I suppose. He didn’t treat her like the kid’s mother.”
“A boy or a girl?” She had to know.
“A boy. About two years old,” he replied. “Cute little boy. Laughs a lot. Loves his dad.”
Phoebe couldn’t picture Cortez with a child. But it explained why he might have married in such a rush. No wonder he hadn’t been interested in going to bed with her, when he already had a woman in his life. He could have told her…
“I brought a target with me,” he interrupted her thoughts. “I thought we could draw Cortez’s face on it.”
She laughed.
“That’s better,” he said, smiling at her. “You don’t laugh much.”
“I’d given it up until you came along,” she replied.
“Time you started back. Come on. The coffee was good, by the way. I’m particular about coffee.”
“Me, too,” she agreed. “I live on it.”
He led her to his truck. He reached in and pulled out a wheel gun, a .38 caliber revolver. “This is easier to use than an automatic,” he told her. “It’s forgiving. The only downside is that you only get six shots. So you have to learn not to miss.”
“I don’t know if I can hold a pistol steady anymore,” she said dubiously.
He pulled out a target shaped like a man’s head and torso. “We’ll work on that.”
She frowned. “I thought targets had circles inside circles.”
“In law enforcement, we use these,” he replied solemnly. “If we ever get into a shootout, we need to be able to place shots in a small pattern.”
The target brought home the danger she was in, and the unpleasant thought that she might have to put a bullet in another human being.
“In World War I, they noticed that the soldiers were deliberately aiming over or past the enemy soldiers when they shot at them,” he told her. “So they stopped using conventional targets and started using these.” He stuck it in the ground in front of a high bank, moved back to her, opened the chamber and started dropping bullets in. When he had six in the chamber, he closed it.
“It’s a double action revolver. That means if you squeeze the trigger, it fires. The trigger is tight, so you’ll have to use some strength to make it work.” He handed it to her and showed her how to hold it, with the butt and trigger in her right hand while she supported the gun with her left hand.
“This is awkward,” she murmured.
“It’s a lot to get used to. Just point it at the target and pull the trigger. Allow for it to kick up a little. Sight down the barrel. Line it up with the tip on the end of the barrel. Now fire.”
She hesitated, afraid of the noise.
“Oops. I forgot. Here.”
He took the pistol, opened the chamber, laid it on a fallen log. Then he dug into his pocket for two pairs of foam earplugs.
“You roll these into cones and stick them in your ears,” he instructed. “They’ll dull the noise so it doesn’t bother you. Honest.”
She watched him and parroted his actions. He picked up the pistol, closed the chamber, and handed it back to her with a nod.
She still hesitated.
He took it from her, pointed it at the target and pulled the trigger.
To her surprise, the noise wasn’t loud at all. She smiled and took the pistol back from him. She squeezed off five shots. Three of them went into the center of the target in a perfect pattern.
“See what you can do when you try? Let’s go again,” he said with a grin and began to reload it.
TWO HOURS LATER, she felt comfortable with the gun. “Are you sure you won’t get in trouble for loaning me this?” she asked.
“I’m sure.” He looked around her property. The house was all alone on a dirt road. There were mountains behind them and a small stream flowing beyond the yard. There were no close neighbors.
“I know it’s isolated,” she said. “But I’ve got Jock.”
He glanced toward the dog, lying asleep on the porch. “You need something bigger.”
“He has big teeth,” she assured him.
“Would you consider moving to town?”
She shook her head. “I refuse to run scared…and I love the peace and solitude out here.”
He grimaced. “Well, I’ll see what I can come up with for protection.”
“On your budget? They’ll suggest a string attached to a lot of bells,” she replied with a chuckle.
“Don’t I know it. But I’ll work on it. Listen, if you need me, you just call. The sheriff’s department can find me, anytime.”
He was really concerned. It made her feel warm. “Thanks, Drake. I really mean it,” she added.
“What are friends for?” he teased. “Oh. Almost forgot.” He opened the truck and handed her two boxes of shells. “That should do the trick.”
“You have to tell me how much it is. I’m not letting you buy my ammunition,” she added firmly. “I get a salary, too, you know.”
“It’s probably less than mine,” he muttered.
“We’ll have to compare notes sometime. Go on. Tell me.”
“I’ll tell you Monday,” he promised. “See you at your office. Okay?”
“Okay. Thanks again.”
“No problem. You keep your doors locked and that dog inside with you,” he added. “He’s no good to you if somebody gets to him first.”
“Good point.” She nodded.
He gave her a last concerned look, climbed into his truck and waved as he sped off down the road, leaving a trail of dust behind him.
Phoebe opened the chamber of the pistol, stuck the ammunition in her pockets, and went back inside with Jock right beside her.
SHE WASN’T REALLY AFRAID until night came. Then every small sound became magnified in her head. She heard footsteps. She heard voices. Once, she fancied she heard singing, in Cherokee of all things!
She gave up trying to sleep about five in the morning, got up and made coffee. She sat at the kitchen table with her head in her hands, and suddenly remembered the file she’d made at her office about things she recalled from her conversation with the murder victim. She’d meant to bring it home and give it to Drake, and she’d forgotten. She’d have to try to remember when he came by her office.
There was an odd sound in the distance again, like soft singing, in Cherokee. Puzzled, she got up and went to the door and looked out, but there was nothing there. She laughed to herself. She must be going nuts.
Phoebe left for work a half hour early. As she pulled out onto the main highway, she had a glimpse of an SUV parked on the side of the road opposite her driveway. A man was sitting in it, looking at a map. In the old days, she’d have stopped and asked if he needed help finding something. Now, she didn’t dare.
She drove to the museum with her mind only half on the highway. She wondered if she should call her aunt and tell her what was going on. But Derrie would only worry and try to make her quit the job and move to Washington. She wasn’t willing to do that. She was making a life for herself here.
When she got into her office, she pulled up the small file she’d written, detailing her conversation with the dead man, and she printed it out. As an afterthought, she copied it onto a floppy disk and put it in a plastic case for Drake. Perhaps something she recalled would help the investigation and solve the crime.
She was inclined to discount the man’s story about Neanderthal remains, however. If there had been such a presence anywhere in North America, surely it would have been discovered in the past century.
DRAKE STOPPED BY LATE that afternoon with news about the investigation.
“The FBI guy may be a scoundrel, but he’s sure at the top of his game professionally,” he remarked with an impressed smile. “He’s already turned up some interesting clues.” He held up a hand. “I reall
y can’t tell you,” he said at once, anticipating questions. “I’m in enough trouble already.”
“For what?” she asked, aghast.
“It would take too long to tell you. I’ve asked the guys to do an extra patrol out your way at night,” he added. “Just in case.”
“Thanks. I owe you for the bullets,” she said. “And I’ve got something for you.”
He followed her into her office with a puzzled smile. “For me?”
“Well, for you and the FBI, really,” she had to confess, handing him a folded piece of paper and the CD. “It’s every little detail I could recall about what the man said, how he sounded, background noise, and so forth. It’s not much, but it may trigger some sort of connection when you know more about him.”
He was reading while she was talking. “Hey, this is pretty good,” he said, nodding. “You’ve got a good ear.”
“I don’t go down the road playing my radio so loud that people’s houses shake,” she replied, mentioning a pet peeve. “And when someone finally tells those people that they’re risking not only hearing loss but actual brain damage at those high sound levels, there will be lawsuits.”
“Amen,” he seconded, chuckling.
“Anyway, I hope those notes help catch whoever did it. Nobody should be killed for being a little crazy,” she said.
“You don’t think there’s a chance he was telling the truth?” he asked hesitantly.
“Not a chance on earth,” she said firmly. “Now what do I owe you for those bullets? And you’d better tell me the truth, because I’m calling the local gun shop to ask.”
He grimaced and told her. She wrote him out a check.
“And thank you for the lessons and the loan of the pistol,” she added. “I’m really grateful.”
“No problem. I’d better get back to work. You watch your back,” he added.
She smiled. “Sure.”
THAT EVENING, when Drake got off work, he knocked on the door of the room in a local motel where Cortez was staying.
“Come in,” the older man said, sounding weary.
Drake opened the door. There sat Cortez in a chair in his sock feet, jeans and a black T-shirt with a sleeping toddler sprawled on his broad chest. His hair was loose down his back and he looked as if he’d die for some sleep.
“He’s teething,” Cortez said. “I finally took him to the clinic and got something for the pain. For both of us,” he added without a smile, but with a twinkle in his dark eyes. “What do you want?”
“I brought some information.” He handed the slip of paper to Cortez and watched him unfold it. “That’s what Miss Keller remembers about her conversation with the anthropologist. It was on disk, but I had it transcribed for you.”
“She’s very thorough.”
“She should be doing ethnology, not overseeing some little museum,” Drake said. “She’s overqualified for the job.”
Cortez glanced at him. “What do you know about ethnology?”
“Are you kidding? I’m Cherokee. Well,” he corrected quietly, “part Cherokee. My father was full-blooded. My mother was white and she got tired of her family making remarks about her little half-breed. She walked out the door when I was three. Dad drank himself to death. I went into the army at seventeen and found myself a home, where a lot of people have mixed blood,” he added coldly.
Cortez studied him silently. “I had a Spanish ancestor somewhere.”
“It doesn’t show,” Drake said flatly. “I imagine you fit in just fine with your people.”
“Your people outnumber us.”
“Which half of my people do you mean?” Drake asked ruefully.
“The Indian half. And even among my people, there are only about nine hundred of us who still speak Comanche,” Cortez said. “The language is almost dead. At least Cherokee is making a comeback.”
“No two people speak it alike,” Drake said. “But I get your point—it’s still a viable language.” He looked at the little boy with soft eyes. “Going to teach him how to speak Comanche?”
Cortez nodded. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he studied Drake. “But he’ll have your problem. His mother is white.”
Drake was looking at the sleeping child intensely. “Does she live with your people?”
Cortez’s eyes flashed. He averted them. “She…died a month after Joseph was born,” he said reluctantly.
“Sorry,” Drake said at once.
“It wasn’t that sort of marriage,” the older man said coldly. “I appreciate the notes. Did Phoebe tell you to give them to me?”
“She said they might be useful to the FBI,” Drake hedged.
Cortez’s big hand absently smoothed the sleeping child’s back. He stared ahead of him without seeing anything. “She lives in a dangerous place, so far out of town.”
“I’ve got the guys doing extra patrols,” Drake said. “She knows how to shoot. I think if her life depended on it, she would use it to protect herself.”
“She’d shoot to wound an attacker and she’d be dead in seconds,” he said flatly.
“You’re full of cheer,” Drake said with faint sarcasm.
Those coal-black eyes pierced his face. “Why did he call her?” he asked abruptly. “Why not go to the state authorities or local law enforcement…why Phoebe?”
Drake frowned. “Well…I don’t know.”
Cortez lifted the sheet of paper again and studied it. His eyes narrowed. “He mentioned a daughter.”
“That’s about as much as we know about this John Doe,” Drake said grimly. “His fingerprints aren’t on file in any database. That’s the first thing we checked..”
“I know. Our investigator ran them last night,” Cortez told him. “We drew a blank as well, and I won’t tell you how our criminalist convinced the lab to leapfrog over other pending cases to do ours.”
“The anthropologist was of Cherokee descent,” Drake reminded him. “That means he might have relatives on the Rez…”
“That’s an assumption. The larger part of your nation is in Oklahoma,” Cortez interrupted.
Drake stopped speaking with his mouth still open. “That’s right!”
“I live in Oklahoma,” Cortez murmured absently. “So we’re left with two questions. What the hell was he doing here, and where did he come from? Maybe he has a car, but in another state.”
“That’s a lead I’ll check out as soon as I get back to work. I’ll go see the tribal council, too,” Drake told him. “Maybe he’s got relatives in one of our clans. If so, the same clan in Oklahoma would know him, if he’s from there.”
“Good thinking. One other thing we dug out,” Cortez added. “Someone staying at the motel saw a dark SUV parked outside the night of the murder. It hasn’t been seen since. You might have your colleagues keep an eye out…why are you laughing?”
“I guess you haven’t noticed that every other vehicle in this county is an SUV,” Drake murmured. “They’re perfect for mountain driving, with four-wheel drive.”
“Damn.” His broad chest rose and fell with a frustrated deep breath. The child made a murmur at the movement and then shifted his little body and went back to sleep. “There’s another possibility,” Cortez said after a minute, his heavy brows drawn together in thought. “We were told that a lot of Cherokee people work in construction around here. What if our visiting anthropologist was related to one of them?”
Drake pursed his lips. “That’s possible. If I can track down his clan, I may be able to dig up a few relations here. I’ll get Marie to help. She is a bit of a talker, but she’s very smart, too. She and I together have more cousins on the Rez than our tribal council—and that’s saying something.”
“Marie?”
“My cousin. She works for Miss Keller at the museum.”
Cortez averted his eyes. “I remember her. She spoke Cherokee to me. I was…abrupt with her.”
“So I heard.”
Cortez glanced toward the other man, who was smiling amuse
dly. “I hadn’t seen Phoebe in three years,” he said. “It was a difficult day.”
Drake hesitated. “I don’t know you. Probably I’m going to tick you off for even asking. But Miss Keller is a unique woman…”
Cortez turned his head and looked at the younger man.
Drake held up a hand. The expression was like a loaded gun. “I’m not involved with her, or likely to be,” he added at once. “Let me get the words out before you take offense.”
Cortez still glared.
Drake cleared his throat. “I’ve only known her a short time. But Marie’s been with her for three years. She said that Miss Keller was a basket case when she came here. An older woman, her aunt I believe, came to visit and asked Marie to keep a close eye on her, because she’d had some sort of personal problem that almost caused an emotional breakdown. She’d taken some pills…”
“God!” Cortez exclaimed harshly.
The look on Cortez’s face stopped the words in Drake’s throat. He swallowed, hard.
The toddler stirred and protested. Cortez fought to calm down. He soothed the little boy’s back and took a deep, slow breath. His big hand had a faint tremor.
“Miss Keller doesn’t know that Marie told me that,” Drake said, his voice quieter, softer now. “But I thought you should know, too.”
Cortez didn’t look at him. He was staring into space again, his whole body tense. “Coyote lies in wait everywhere for us,” he said with bridled fury, mentioning a character from Native American folklore which was common to almost every tribe—Coyote, the trickster, the enemy spirit.
“He does,” Drake agreed quietly. “But sometimes we can outwit him.”
The dark, turbulent eyes met his. “I’d cut off my hand before I would voluntarily hurt Phoebe. What happened…was a family matter that forced me into a decision I would never have made, if I’d had any freedom of choice at all.”
Drake frowned. “Would it have something to do with that little boy?” he wanted to know.
“Everything,” Cortez said heavily. He looked at Joseph with loving eyes. “I thought it would be easier for Phoebe if she hated me.” His eyes closed. “I never dreamed that she might…” He couldn’t even finish the thought. It tormented him that a woman like Phoebe, so bright and loving and full of life, could be driven to such sorrow because of him. It wounded his very soul.