Before Sunrise

by Diana Palmer

  “Thanks for coming,” Alice Jones said wearily, pausing in her slow excavation of the area around the body. It was called platforming, and each thin layer of soil had to be moved, sifted through a wire-mesh-bottomed box, and every bit and piece bagged and labeled. It was time-consuming work and, as the day began to heat up, sweaty work as well. “I really appreciate the rest of my team, now that I don’t have them with me!”

  “No problem,” Phoebe replied. “Hand me a trowel and tell me how you want me to proceed.”

  “Take a look at the victim first, if you would,” Alice said, directing her to the single point of entry they’d agreed on to protect the crime scene. “From the angle of the wound, I’ve assumed that he was shot from behind while he was bending over. There’s blood splattered on the rocks about where his head would have been in a stooping posture. The wound is small behind, large in front, and the entry hole is small and precise.”

  “A handgun,” Phoebe agreed, frowning as she studied the wound. “And he was shot from above and behind.”

  “More than likely,” Alice agreed. “If we knew what caliber, we’d know the ejection pattern and where to look for the shell. It looks to me like one shot, with a high caliber handgun at close range. I’ve got Officer Parker looking for the shell casing over there with a metal detector.”

  That would explain the odd humming sound Phoebe had heard when she entered the cave.

  “Okay,” Phoebe said, taking off her jacket. “I’m ready when you are.”

  Alice smiled grimly and handed her a trowel.

  IT WAS ARDUOUS and drawn-out, processing the crime scene. Phoebe had done excavations for years, but the dead body unnerved her. It was in the midrange of rigor mortis, and just beginning to bloat in the heat of the day. There was a faint, sickeningly sweet smell coming off the victim.

  Alice was examining the body for PMI, or a rough estimate of time of death. “I’d say he’s been out here from twelve to eighteen hours,” she told Cortez absently, “considering the progress of rigor and internal body temperature. Once we autopsy him, we can be more precise, but I’d stand by that estimate.”

  “That means he was killed sometime yesterday,” Cortez agreed.

  “Probably last night,” Alice added. “I’ve already checked his internal temperature,” she murmured, glancing dryly at her colleagues, who’d looked away while she did it. “Considering that the body loses one to one and a half degrees of temperature for every hour after death, that fits the approximate time frame I’ve concocted. He died about eleven p.m. yesterday, give or take an hour or two considering the weather report for last night. It was about fifteen degrees below the present. I’ll check with the weather guys at NOAA and get a graph and temperature readings for the area before I file my report.”

  “Pack him up and have the local funeral home send an ambulance out for him. They can hold him until he can be sent to the state crime lab for analysis,” Cortez told her. “If we’re lucky, the mortician will let you take some latent prints and DNA samples for our own lab, along with the local coroner.”

  “With the backup at HQ, it’s not going to be easy to get immediate results,” Alice reminded him.

  “Now, I know you’re on a first name basis with the lab, Alice,” Cortez coaxed. “And didn’t you date one of the new assistants up there?”

  She cleared her throat. “Actually, boss, I knocked him over a table in the cafeteria. I don’t think mentioning my name will get us ahead of the queue.”

  Everybody looked at her.

  She flushed. “It wasn’t deliberate. He pulled out my chair for me and I tripped over my own feet and he went flying into a dish of mashed potatoes and gravy.”

  “What did you do?” Phoebe asked, aghast.

  “I got up and ran for my life,” she confessed, blushing even more. “I don’t think I’m cut out for romance.”

  “Good thing, because you’re the best forensic scientist I’ve got,” Cortez said with a smile.

  She grinned. “About that raise…?”

  “Get to work.”

  She saluted him, winked at Phoebe, and bent back to her task.

  THERE WERE TWO PIECES of trace evidence that raised Cortez’s eyebrows when Alice showed them to him. One was a long blond hair. Another was minute traces of face powder on the man’s lapel when they turned him over in order to tuck him into a body bag.

  “You think a woman was with him,” Cortez mused.

  Alice nodded. “I don’t know that the trace evidence is going to give you a name, but it does indicate that there’s a witness of some sort. At least, a person who was with him before he was killed.”

  “That’s helpful,” Cortez said. His eyes narrowed. He was remembering the photo of Bennett’s sister—she had long blond hair. Her husband, Walks Far, was still in the hospital unconscious. There had to be a connection of some sort. But he didn’t say it out loud.

  The ambulance came and zipped the victim up in a body bag for transport. Alice went to her van to follow along to the funeral home, with a perfunctory wave toward Cortez and Phoebe. Tanner hitched a ride with her back to his motel. The policemen wrapped up and left as well. Phoebe had already phoned the museum and told Marie to let everyone go home and lock up. There wouldn’t be anybody there on Thanksgiving Day anyway.

  Cortez opened the passenger door of his car for Phoebe and waited until she was buckled up before he closed it.

  She glanced at him uncomfortably as he got in and fastened his own seat belt. “Do you ever feel, well, dirty after you process a crime scene?”

  He smiled gently. “Every time,” he confessed. He lifted an eyebrow. “Not quite as blasé about it as you thought, are you?”

  She returned the smile, a little sheepishly. “Not quite,” she agreed. She folded her arms over her chest and stared through the windshield as Cortez drove down the highway back toward Chenocetah. “He looked so helpless.”

  “Victims always do,” he replied. “That’s why we work so hard to solve crimes. You never get the image of the victim out of your mind, but it eases the frustration when you can at least make an arrest.”

  “It’s so complicated,” she murmured. “First an anthropologist shows up and announces that he’s found a Neanderthal skeleton. Then he’s killed, and I’m shot at, and then that man at the construction company is knocked flat. Now here’s another murder victim, who has a blond hair and face powder all over him.” She looked at him. “How do you put that together?”

  “With trace evidence and questioning.” He stopped at a traffic light just as they reached the outskirts of town.

  “You have a suspect,” she mused.

  He started, and then chuckled. “You’re perceptive.”

  “That woman who came to see me at the museum was blond,” she recalled. “I don’t remember about face powder, but she had long blond hair and a mole.”

  He nodded, stepping on the gas when the light changed.

  She studied him hungrily, enjoying his profile, her heart pounding as she remembered the feel of his mouth on hers.

  That intense scrutiny caught his attention. He glanced at her with soft, quiet eyes. “Careful,” he cautioned softly. “It’s been a long, dry spell, but my memory can reach back to that afternoon at your cabin with painful ease.”

  Her face colored softly. “It was…incredible.”

  He nodded, his jaw tautening as he averted his face. “And we’re in the middle of a murder investigation.”

  “No time for hanky-panky,” she translated with a soulful sigh.

  He laughed in spite of himself. “Besides, it’s Thanksgiving Day.”

  She grimaced. “I forgot! I have a turkey. I was going to cook it and offer you and Tina and Drake dinner today.”

  His eyebrows arched. “What a nice idea.” His dark eyes twinkled. “Should I bring some maize and venison?” he added deeply.

  She glared at him. “We are not doing the Pilgrim play,” she pointed out. “Besides, you’re a member of a
native Plains tribe, not of the Eastern tribes who mingled with the British immigrants.” She frowned. “In fact, I seem to recall that a number of the early settlers couldn’t grow crops so they stole food from the native people…”

  “Point one,” he began lazily, “Native people don’t place much emphasis on possessions. We share everything, including food. Greed is a concept we don’t embrace. Point two, the Comanche nation is an offshoot of the Shoshone nation. But we consider that any member of our various bands is family. Family is the most important concept we have.”

  “Family should be the most important,” she murmured, smiling at him. “It defines who we are.” She gave him a long, quiet scrutiny. “You’ve had to fight for your identity all your life, haven’t you?”

  He nodded. “Self-esteem comes hard to members of a minority race. The statistics speak for themselves. Education reinforces our sense of worth. It’s why my father and many other members of our community fight so hard for programs that help defeat poverty.”

  She nodded. “Activism has brought native people a long way. Especially political activism.”

  He laughed. “Don’t get me started. My father is forever hosting seminars on how to lobby for funds for community outreach programs. He’s a master planner.”

  He paused at a stop sign outside town and turned to glance at her with warm affection. But his dark eyes were sad all at once.

  “What’s wrong?” she wondered aloud.

  “I was thinking about family. About what I sacrificed for mine. I can’t regret it, because Joseph’s life was worth everything. But it was a long, lonely three years, Phoebe,” he told her.

  The same pain and loneliness and sadness in his eyes were reflected in her own. She leaned her head back against the headrest and stared openly at him. “I hated you for a long time,” she said. “I never dreamed that you hadn’t sold me out deliberately. I’m a little ashamed of that. I should have known that it would have taken something drastic to change your mind.”

  He reached out and caught her small hand in his big one. “We didn’t know each other well enough,” he replied quietly. “A few conversations, a few kisses, and we went our separate ways. You couldn’t have known how seriously I took those things. I wanted to tell you. But Isaac was already in trouble, and I knew a family crisis was looming. I had high hopes for us. Fate got in the way.”

  Her fingers tangled hungrily in his. “I would have waited forever, if I’d known—!” she began, but her voice broke on the painful memory.

  He threw the car out of gear, slipped her seat belt, and pulled her close. His mouth ground into hers hungrily. He groaned with repressed passion, his mouth opening, demanding on hers.

  She shivered as her arms closed around his neck. “I’m on fire,” she choked.

  “Yes.” He crushed her against his chest, enveloping her, as his mouth slid down her hot throat. He shuddered.

  “Take me home, Jeremiah,” she whispered brokenly. “Right now.”

  He wanted to argue. It was a bad idea. But she reached up and kissed him with anguished passion. He didn’t have the strength to resist her. With unsteady hands, he put the car back in gear and turned it around in the road, to head it back with speed toward her cabin.

  He didn’t let go of her hand the whole way.

  Her heart ran away as she recalled the exquisite satisfaction his lean, powerful body had given her. He was every dream she’d ever had, come true.

  He wasn’t blind to the danger, however, and his eyes were intent on the road as he drove down the long dirt road that led to her cabin. There wasn’t another vehicle in sight. So far, so good. He needed to be working on his investigation. But it was Thanksgiving, after all, and he’d worked all day. A little recreation was in order, although he couldn’t bring himself to think of Phoebe in those terms. What he found with her in bed was almost sacred.

  He pulled up behind her cabin and cut off the engine. His body was taut, but his mind was still working overtime.

  She studied him hungrily. “I went back to that café in Charleston every day, hoping I’d see you again,” she said huskily. “And then, the very last day, there you were.”

  His eyes flashed. “I did the same thing, totally against my will. There were so many reasons why I didn’t need to get involved with you.”

  She smiled up at him. “I know. None of them seemed to matter, though, in the end.”

  His chest rose and fell heavily. “We still have obstacles,” he stated.

  “Everyone has obstacles, Jeremiah,” she reminded him. “But considering what the last three years of my life have been like, I’d rather have the obstacles.”

  He reached out and traced her lips with his lean forefinger. “Yes. So would I.” He hesitated. “But you still don’t know much about men.”

  “You’re in a perfect position to teach me everything I need to know,” she pointed out.

  He looked down at her blouse, where two hard little peaks were evident. She wanted him. He recalled without hesitation the way her breasts felt under his mouth, the way they looked when he’d almost had her in the bed in his motel room.

  Her hands went to the buttons. She undid them, her breath rustling in her throat, and then slipped the front clasp of her bra. She pulled it open, baring her breasts to his eyes.

  “God in heaven, Phoebe,” he ground out.

  She unfastened her seat belt and moved toward him, pulling his mouth down to the soft, scented flesh. His lips opened on the hard peak of one breast, his tongue rubbing hungrily against it. She arched up to the pleasure and moaned huskily.

  His arms riveted her to him while he fed on the softness of her body. His mind barely worked at all.

  “Inside,” he said roughly. “Right now.”

  HE BARELY REMEMBERED closing and locking the door behind them as she led the way into the bathroom. He closed it and deftly undressed her between hot, hungry kisses. He guided her hands to his shirt and tie and kissed her while she returned the favor.

  Torrid minutes later, he drew her into the shower with him, almost bursting as they soaped each other in a fever of desire. It was all he could do to rinse and dry them, before the kisses became overwhelming and the need near bursting in his overheated body.

  He drew her into bed with him, their hair still damp, because he knew he’d never manage time to dry it.

  She wrapped her long legs over the backs of his thighs and arched up to him as he penetrated her with one soft, tender thrust of his lean hips. He caught his breath at the ease of his passage.

  So did she. The heat of the encounter was like a throb of delight. She gasped out loud as she lifted to him again, her body open to his eyes, her shivering need so evident that it made him wild.

  He spread her legs farther apart, his eyes dark and glittering in the soft semidarkness of her bedroom. The only sounds that managed to be heard above their furious heartbeats and the glide of flesh against sheets was the creak of the bedsprings as he thrust quickly into her receptive body.

  He groaned, shuddering as the pleasure began to demand satisfaction. His lean hands caught her wrists and slammed them to the mattress on either side of her thrashing head.

  “You’re…killing me!” she sobbed, her eyes as wild as her body.

  “We’ll die together,” he ground out. “Look into my eyes. Don’t close yours. Look. Look!”

  Her mouth opened on a feverish cry as he drove deeply into her, his body taut as drawn rope, his lips a thin line in his anguished drive for fulfillment.

  She arched up to him, sobbing, as the furious movements of his hips teased her body into an urgent demand for satisfaction. Her nails bit into his back, clawing, digging into his flesh. She cried out helplessly, her eyes widening while his body crushed down into hers again and again.

  His lean hand caught her upper thigh and clasped it hard enough to bruise as he finally found the rhythm and the pressure that made the pleasure explode in both their bodies.

  “Don’t…stop�
��don’t…stop…don’t…stop!” she sobbed, clinging to him as sweat drowned her heated body in moisture.

  He poised just above her, his eyes black with passion, and then he drove into her with the last of his strength, his eyes still biting into hers at point-blank range as she suddenly convulsed under him and cried out.

  He stiffened, his powerful body buckled over her. He groaned harshly and fell on her, crushing her into the mattress as he shuddered uncontrollably.

  “Phoebe,” he cried out at her ear, his voice deep and throbbing, like his body inside hers. “Phoebe…baby…baby!”

  Her legs curled over his and she shuddered again as the pleasure bit into her, almost painful in its satiation.

  Her arms wound around his damp back and she clung to him as they shivered deliciously in the aftermath of ecstasy, in a throbbing, sweet, hungry silence.

  He shivered again and started to lift himself, but she pulled him back down.

  “No,” she sobbed at his ear, moving helplessly. “Please don’t…please…I’m not…through…!”

  He caught his weight on his forearms and lifted his head, looking into her wide, frantic eyes as he moved on her, smiling even through the exhaustion as he watched her experience pleasure in endless little spasms.

  “Yes, it’s good, isn’t it?” he whispered, his eyes drinking in her satisfaction. “A woman’s body is capable of endless climax,” he added, shifting his hips suddenly so that she stiffened and sobbed. “But I can give you more than that. I can give you another orgasm….”

  He shifted again, roughly, his body suddenly an instrument that he played like a priceless treasure. He lifted her to a level of pleasure that she had never experienced. She was rigid, her mouth open, her eyes open almost in horror as he took her right up the spiral into ecstasy. She cried out in a voice she didn’t even recognize, and then cried endlessly when the shattering delight fell away in seconds.

  She sobbed into his throat and he held her, comforted her, in the heavy silence.