Renee Simons Special Edition

by Renee Simons

  She would harness her rage so it worked for and not against her. She would turn negative emotions around and use them to achieve something positive. No problem. She could do that. She'd done it. More than once.

  The knowledge calmed her. For the first time, she glanced at the speedometer. She'd been tooling along at 85 in a 65 mile-an-hour zone. She adjusted the speed downward. Not in time, however. In the distance, but closing in fast, a siren blared. She parked on the shoulder and waited for the sheriff's patrol to pull over. The deputy walked back to her car and did a quick visual check.

  "License and registration please, ma'am."

  Zan handed over her identification. He examined the contents of the black leather folder and grinned at her. "Hey there, Officer McLaren, you should know better."

  "You're right, Deputy. I should."

  "Well, at least I won't have to listen to any dumbass excuses on this one." He walked around the car, as if checking the plates, then returned. "Where you headed?"

  "Just cruising around."

  "Cruisin' and then some." He shook his head. "Why's the New York police in such an almighty hurry?"

  "I'm not on the job. Just on vacation."

  "You ain't gonna enjoy it much from the ass end of a ditch. So I suggest you slow things down just a mite."

  "Thanks for the warning, Deputy." She gave him a questioning glance. "It is a warning?"

  "This time, and only 'cause Kenny Becker asked me to watch out for you. If you don't abuse the speed limit with this little hot rod of yours, we'll get along just fine."

  "I'll watch myself. Count on it."

  With a momentary thought as to why Kenny had announced her arrival to the sheriff's department, she turned the key, waved and put the car in gear to finish her trip to the town of Crossroads.

  At Town Hall, a security guard pointed her in the direction of the Cabot County Probation Department. One flight down and to the right, Zan saw the sign saying "KENNETH BECKER/KNOCK ONCE AND ENTER." She followed directions.

  The man behind the desk looked up and smiled. He'd been a mainstay at the Agency, hardworking and loyal, completing every assignment in an efficient, if unimaginative, way.

  "So here's where you've hidden yourself all these years," she said as they shook hands.

  "This is a pretty sweet deal." He flipped his wire-rimmed glasses to the top of his head, where they rested precariously on his disheveled and thinning sandy hair. He pointed to the general area of her midriff. "How's the injury?" he asked.

  "Healing. How did you find out?"

  "Word got around you'd been shot on the job. Everyone knew you'd joined the NYPD after O'Neill was blown away."

  His choice of words stung, but death was a reality all Agency field operatives accepted without melodrama.

  "And here we are, back in service of the FSA," Becker said.

  "I guess my being on recuperative leave was too good an opportunity for Mac to ignore," she said.

  Kenny shrugged. "He needed you. He would have found another way to get you."

  "So much for being in control of my life." She gave a short, bitter laugh. "I see he 'unretired' you."

  "I'm just helping out during the current emergency."

  "You could have refused."

  "You heard enough talk around the McLaren dinner table to know that when the big boys issue an invitation, you show up in your best bib and tucker."

  "I can't believe you approve of Stormwalker's release or his being here."

  "Mac would have had to call in a bunch of favors to manage that. He wouldn't have gone to the trouble without good reason." He handed her a sealed packet and a blue manila folder. "You'll have to sign for the package. The folder's mine. Would you care to take a look at the major's stats?"

  She opened the folder and went straight to transcripts of his court martial. They contained information about Dar's death that had been held back from all but those directly concerned. She had not been one of them.

  Her cursory reading revealed little in the major's favor except his denial of guilt and his own version of events. She needed more time to go through the thick file.

  "Can I borrow this?"

  "For a day or two, then you'll have to return it."

  Zan rose. "I met a deputy sheriff on the way here. 'Winter', I think his name tag said. Do we want the locals to know I'm here?"

  A flush dusted Kenny's pale cheeks and his lips thinned for a fraction of a second. "Only Deputy Winter. You never know when you'll need backup."

  The husky quality in his voice told her she'd hit a nerve. Did he think she'd questioned his judgment? She smiled. "I would have thought that was you, Agent Becker."

  His answering smile failed to reach his eyes. "Not any more. I'm retired. Remember?"

  While she could only guess at the source of the sour note, it certainly was there. "Thanks for the consideration. I'll see you day after tomorrow." She scribbled her initials on the receipt and held up the folder. "To return this."

  Eager to get at the material Mac had sent, she completed her errands and headed back to the reservation.

  Her camper stood beneath a lone cottonwood tree so it would benefit from the shade and still be convenient to the utility poles behind the newspaper building. As she made the turn, she spotted Stormwalker towering over the newspaper editor in the doorway of the long, red brick building. She parked in the shadow of the camper and walked around to the two men.

  Mike Eagle was leaning against the door frame as she approached. "Can I help you with something?" the newspaperman asked. His frigid tone reinforced the feeling he would give that help with reluctance.

  "I just wanted to let you know that the power and light people will be out day after tomorrow to run a line to the camper and the phone installers the day after that."

  "You're not wasting a minute, are you?" the man asked.

  "I have a lot to do in a short period of time."

  Stormwalker looked from Zan to Mike. "I didn't know you and Ms. McLaren knew each other, Uncle."

  "Oh, yeah. Though I can't say I like her bein' here."

  "I had no idea you were related," Zan said.

  "Not by blood," Stormwalker said. "But we function as an extended family on the rez. He's been a second father to me most of my life, and like a brother to my mom."

  "Yeah," Mike said, watching Zan with suspicion. "His parents and I go so far back you could say I knew him before he was born. After five years in prison, he's finally home and I don't want him taken away again. But then, we discussed all this when you first got here."

  "Yes, we did. And I told you then I would do my best to be honest and fair."

  Mike Eagle's skepticism showed on his face. "I've seen many examples of the white man's justice, and it's neither honest nor fair."

  "I understand how you feel, Mr. Eagle. Frankly, if I'd known how close you are to the major, I wouldn't have put you in such an awkward position. So if my being around makes you uncomfortable, I'll find somewhere else to work."

  "If you're here I can keep an eye on you."

  "Is that important?"

  "The only way I'm gonna feel safe is to know what's going on. So, you go ahead with your plans." He raised a hand. "But the first sign you're screwing up my nephew's life, you're outta here. You got that?"

  "Fair enough," she replied. "I'll make sure the workmen don't disturb you too much." She nodded to Stormwalker and left.

  As he watched her go, an errant beam of sunlight caressed her hair, turning it the color of burnished copper. He looked at Mike, who was examining him. "What?" he asked.

  "You trust her?" the older man asked.

  "Maybe. You obviously don't."

  "No further than I can fling a rattler."

  Stormwalker grinned. "I'm surprised you'd give her even that much working room."

  "Only because of the way you look at her."

  "And how's that?"

  "Like a hungry mountain lion contemplating his next meal." Stormwalker'
s gaze followed the woman down the street. He watched the subtle sway of her hips and the long denim-clad legs. "I don't think one meal would do it, Uncle."

  Chapter 2

  Stormwalker had given himself time to adjust to his new condition. Although his years in the Corps had taught him to accept regimentation, the loss of personal freedom while in prison had been harder to handle than he'd expected. He planned to make the most of this unaccustomed luxury.

  After checking in with Kenny Becker, he'd indulged in the pleasure of no routine. He slept late, ate when hungry and cleaned out the barn because he wanted to, not because he'd been given an order.

  Today, he woke with the sun because he had things to do. He wanted to see his grandmother, who lived miles from the village in a remote area of the reservation, and he had to find a job that would provide protective cover for the real reason he was here - to be a sitting duck.

  Out on the porch he faced the rising sun and silently recited a small prayer to the day, taught to him by his grandfather many years before. He thought the words slowly, in cadence with the chant he could hear in his memory, just as his grandfather had sung it.

  The prayer had become a friend in recent years and had helped him master the monotony of each day behind the stone walls that separated him from the world. Would it continue to work if he was obliged to serve out the remainder of his sentence? He shook his head. He would need more than one childhood prayer to help him through the torture of another twenty-five years behind bars.

  "Get your butt in gear and find that job," he muttered. "Then you can visit Grandmother."

  He turned his back on the pastel sunrise. After morning chores he would head over to the general store. The owner, John-Two Hunter, had always been a friend. Maybe that hadn't changed.

  Zan's camper had been a mobile communications van decommissioned by the FSA in favor of a more modern unit. Converted into a motor home, it proved to be perfect for her needs, especially after Mac added the computer equipment.

  During the trip from Virginia, she'd towed the MG so she'd have a set of wheels for local driving. Mac had insisted the MG was unsuitable for the terrain, but it represented a rare memento of Dar. She held on to the classic because it had been his.

  With her sandwich and a glass of iced tea, she sat down at the postage stamp-sized dining table to examine the packet of material from Mac. She pulled out a plastic case containing a stack of computer CDs. Untitled and numbered one through twenty-four, the small squares represented a formidable body of information. Reluctant to begin slogging through the data, she returned to Kenny's folder.

  A much younger Stormwalker in Marine dress uniform stared at her from an old photo. His unusual eyes shone with youthful determination, pride, and an almost painful innocence, reflecting his confidence in a future still waiting to unfold. He could have been posing for a recruitment poster.

  With her own eyes closed, she conjured up the man as he now looked. She had no trouble picturing him, although she hadn't been aware of much beyond his imposing size and the eyes glittering with bitter humor. Well, there was that smile. . . .

  More than the length of his hair had changed. His face had lost the fullness of youth. The skin stretched tautly across his cheekbones, making them seem sharper, more oblique. Two deep grooves bracketed his mouth like visible markers of pain and disillusion. Older and more hardened, this man had been hurt and had healed but carried scars that rankled.

  She found an entry saying that Stormwalker's wife had divorced him just before the trial. Left to fight alone on her son's behalf, his widowed mother had pursued whatever meager course of action had been open to her, even hiring a civilian lawyer to make sure the military juggernaut didn't roll over and flatten him on its way to meting out its brand of justice.

  She continued reading, absorbing as much as she could from the material. When she finished, she poured more iced tea and went outside to sit beneath the tree. Despite the heat, she wanted to breathe fresh air instead of the canned atmosphere of the RV. With her back against the rough bark she took a sip of the tea and closed her eyes to concentrate on what she'd learned so far.

  Michael Stormwalker would be forty on his next birthday. He'd grown up on the reservation, had been an excellent student and a star athlete in college. He'd risen through the ranks of the Corps without any missteps or detours, and had been well-liked and trusted by his superiors and his men. She found an editorial in which Mike Eagle insisted that Stormwalker's success had led to the major's destruction by the very system he pledged to protect.

  Everything seemed to be going just fine career-wise until the assignment in Vlad. Security had been breached at the American embassy there, where a young marine guard in love with a foreign agent had given her access to the embassy's floor plans and security procedures. He'd killed himself, leading everyone to wonder what the other side actually had and of what importance.

  Stormwalker agreed to play "decoy" in the hope of determining just how much damage had been done. With the approval of senior officers, he assumed command of the unit and eventually made contact with the other side. He obtained the hoped-for information and sent back reports, none of which could be found. When Dar was killed, Stormwalker was accused of betraying his mission and was implicated in the shooting.

  Zan stared at the man's stats. Why had he let Mac talk him into volunteering for undercover work? Was he just another victim of her brother's persuasiveness? Not likely. She pulled a pen and a pad of yellow stickums from her shirt pocket, and wrote why him?

  A sudden wave of heat washed over her, whether from frustration, the weather or Stormwalker's image; she couldn't be sure. She picked up the glass and held it against her forehead. The cooling moisture beading on the outside helped redirect her focus from the man to his case history.

  Although the Navy prosecutor contended that Dar had been killed because he found proof of the major's treasonous acts, the investigators uncovered no evidence to back up the claim. On the other hand, Stormwalker failed to unearth the reports he claimed could exonerate him, leading to a conviction on the espionage charge and a mandatory thirty-year sentence.

  Stormwalker hadn't appealed the verdict. Wouldn't an innocent man appeal? She scribbled another note - why no appeal? Surely his mother and lawyer would have tried to convince him to take his case to a higher court. Why hadn't he listened to them? And why was Mac now so willing to believe in his innocence?

  She got to her feet and went back inside the RV, brushing off her jeans as she walked. She needed time to sort out what she'd learned and she needed supplies. Maybe she could accomplish one while doing the other.

  A few minutes later, she entered the reservation's general store, barely contained in a log cabin fronted by a wide porch, and tried to isolate the mélange of aromas: onions, garlic and sage, tobacco and soap, kerosene and paint. Further on, her nostrils twitched at the pungent scent of pine resin emanating from cords of wood stacked in a corner.

  She moved around, examining shelves filled with everything from housewares to school supplies and toys. Clothing racks featured remnants of summer and harbingers of the colder seasons to come.

  As she explored, footsteps broke the silence. Hearty voices traveled to where she browsed at a wall of old paperbacks. She turned to see Stormwalker and another man grin at each other as they grasped forearms in a one-handed grip.

  "Hau, Kola. Good to see you, Friend. We heard you were coming back."

  "Where'd you hear that?"

  The store owner looked injured. "Gimme a break, son."

  Stormwalker laughed. The pleasure in his voice stirred Zan's pulse and started a fluttering in her stomach. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, willing away the jittery feeling.

  "You learn that white man's talk from your son?"

  The older man's broad face beamed. "Got to keep current so my boy and I can speak the same language." He stepped behind the counter. "He'll be coming from college in a few days. You won't know him, he's
grown so tall." He watched Stormwalker then, dropping his voice a fraction and adding, "He'll be glad to see you. He always looked up to you."

  "I didn't set a very good example, did I?" The regret in Stormwalker's voice surprised Zan.

  "We talked about it. I told him there wasn't a man over the age of ten didn't make a mistake or two in his life and unless he was prepared to be a saint, we'd best allow you yours. He seemed to understand."

  Hunter offered a cigarette to Stormwalker, who declined.

  "I need a job, Cousin. Do you have work for me?"

  John-Two curled his bottom lip as he considered the request. "Guess I could use some help - with the heavy stuff. I'll be layin' in supplies for the powwow, and later, for the months we get snowed in." He narrowed his eyes and gave Stormwalker a questioning look. "I'm not so sure this is the right kind of job for you. I can't pay a lot and it ain't much more than hard labor." He shook his head. "Don't seem right, somehow."

  Stormwalker shook his head and said something Zan couldn't understand. John-Two looked at him sharply, answering in a low tone, in the same language.

  Only a moment before, she'd wished she were a fly flitting from one spot to another, never staying very long but observing the action up close before she buzzed off again. Now she realized the metamorphosis would have been useless unless the fly understood Lakota.

  "I'll take that cigarette now," Stormwalker said.

  John-Two held out the pack with a smile. "Just like your grandfather. He wouldn't smoke until the deal was done."

  "Grandfather never forgot the old ways."

  They went silent for the moment, giving Zan an opportunity to approach them. Just as she stepped forward, a young woman entered and greeted Hunter. Her arrival sent Zan back into the shadows with a twinge of conscience about her eavesdropping. Guilt feelings or not, Zan made no move to leave. What better way to learn about Stormwalker than watching him in action?

  "Well," John-Two said, "here's another returnee from the white man's law and order. When they cut you loose, Daughter?"

  "A couple of days ago."