“Neosho is here, Jacque.”
“How do you know?”
“I smell him. I hear his heart. The one with him is afraid.”
“How close?”
Wind Dancer shook his head. “I cannot tell. But they are walking or Neosho’s breathing would be different. He is not afraid of these police. You must tell them to be careful.”
“He’s not going to become invisible or something, is he?”
Wind Dancer smirked. “No, Jacque. He is like me. We are men not gods or skinwalkers.”
They moved along at a steady pace as Jacque tried to gain understanding. “Then how do you explain the display of strength and agility on the balcony this morning. Scared the hell out of me.”
“I do not know. I did not have this gift in my world. But Neosho and I strongest in our village. Maybe we become more so here.” He jerked his head up and sniffed. “There.” He pointed to a covered shelter where picnics and family reunions gathered. Several trees budded out into soft shades of pink, blocked a clear observation of the area.
Jacque didn’t see them at first but spoke quietly into his mic to alert the others to move in when he noticed movement ahead. Drawing his weapon, he hunkered down and displayed the stealth approach ingrained in him since he graduated the police academy way too many years ago. He felt Wind Dancer do the same next to him and wondered if this was some kind of nineteenth-century instinct for the hunt kicking in.
Neosho and the gang member appeared to be in a heated discussion when Jacque stepped out in the open. “Get your hands up, Neosho, or so help me God, I’ll shoot you down.”
The black man raised his hands instantly. “I didn’t do nothin’ wrong. This whack job forced me to come with him.”
Neosho kept his hands at his sides as he glanced down his nose at the young gang member then at Wind Dancer who stood with his legs slightly apart and hands out from his side as if ready to catch a fly ball at Wrigley Field. The Osage’s eyes narrowed as they connected with Wind Dancer’s. He moved forward.
“Stop or I’ll shoot,” Jacque promised. It didn’t stop him. Jacque fired once landing a bullet in Neosho’s shoulder.
The Osage stumbled back slapping a hand over the bleeding wound. Without warning he let out a warrior bellow. Jacque twitched, giving him a precious second, but Neosho already knocked him to the ground and his gun into the muddy grass. The sound of other uniformed reinforcements filled the air as the two men rolled on the ground.
Wind Dancer jerked Neosho up by the collar of his Green Bay Packer jacket and tossed him away as if he weighed no more than a child’s toy. Wobbling to a stand, Jacque gasped for air and listened to the two combatants argue.
“You are sick, Neosho. You can be saved with this new world medicine.”
Neosho stood in slow motion and glanced around him as more officers arrived, all with drawn weapons. Jacque noticed how Osage checked the area around him until his eyes landed on the gang member who had been taken aside by another officer.
“Then bring Cleopatra to me with this medicine.”
“She waits for us. She will give you what you need. They can take care of your arm, too. Come with me.” Wind Dancer extended his hand.
But before he could say more, Neosho slammed into him like a raging bull, knocking him back. Jacque watched as Wind Dancer remained standing, aware once more of the strength he possessed in this place.
As they ran at one another, the police drew closer. Jacque held up his hand so they wouldn’t make a dangerous move and stoke an already smoldering fire.
The detective rubbed his chest as he staggered between his men and further danger. He waved them back. Only Wind Dancer could handle this beast. If his Glock couldn’t do it, then he didn’t have much hope another shot would do the trick. The sound of two grunting warriors bent on revenge reminded him of battling buffalos butting heads.
One blow met with another as each warrior tried to subdue the other. They were evenly matched until Wind Dancer knocked Neosho to the ground and the Osage laughed.
“Why do you cackle like a yipping coyote, Neosho?” Wind Dancer panted, wiping a trickle of blood from his nose.
The Osage rolled to his knees. “Your hatred and jealousy of me prevents you from recognizing the real danger.” He pushed to stand, fell then jumped to his feet. Both men raised their chins and sniffed the air. “Your woman is not safe. Go. I need her, too.”
Wind Dancer’s eyes widened as concern flooded his face.
“You smell him? He comes for her.”
Wind Dancer let out a howl and shoved the Osage before racing toward the parked cars. Before Jacque could react, Neosho snatched the gang member away from the officer who held him by the arm, and the two tore down the street away from the police.
“After them!” Jacque yelled, starting after Wind Dancer. “Don’t let those two get away.” But he could already tell Neosho could outdistance any of his men.
~~~~
Cleo edged closer to the window, but the officer stepped away from the car and spoke into his radio. The locks popped up, and the rear driver’s side door swung open. Startled, she saw Jacque bending down to peer inside. He grinned and motioned for her to come out.
“Where is Wind Dancer? Is he okay?” Cleo took Jacque’s hand, letting him help her out. “Your hands are like ice, Jacque. What is going on? Did you find Neosho?”
“No.” Jacque glanced over his shoulder toward the park. He waved the officer guarding her away. He stood too close to her—unease crept into her bones. His eyes traveled from her hair down her face and rested on her mouth. “Wind Dancer will be here soon.”
Cleo tried to move back, but the car blocked her way. “Where did you get those clothes?” He removed his hard hat and stole a glance at his orange vest. At a sudden awareness of the danger lurking in front of her, she sucked in breath to scream but froze as the Frenchman leaned in to inhale her scent.
“You smell wonderful, like the flowers growing on the plains along the Platte River.”
“Jacque?” She dared to hope the detective might be making a move on her.
“Cleopatra!” Wind Dancer yelled from across the street. “Run!”
Chapter 12
Cleo shoved at the Frenchman’s chest, but he blocked her escape by trapping her with a hand planted on the door frame on either side of her. He continued to grin as his eyes traveled around her face as if mapping a memory. The fear welling up inside paralyzed her so she could only whimper when his hand moved to touch her cheek.
She squeezed her eyes shut against his icy touch, until she felt his hand jerked away. Wind Dancer threw him with incredible strength, but the Frenchman moved only a few feet.
“What are you doing?” he panted, stepping between Cleo and the Frenchman. “You can’t be here.” He lowered his voice. “Neosho is close. Go to him, but stay away from Cleopatra.”
“You finally get to be with her. I am happy for you, my friend. But I need her, too.”
Before Wind Dancer could protest, Cleo came alongside him to face the Frenchman. “Why? How can I help you?”
“You will draw Neosho out. He is already gone. The police can’t catch him. I can do many things, but so can the Osage. His anger blocks my ability to follow.”
“Yet, you found us.”
He cocked his head to the side. “I found you.” Laying a hand on his chest he addressed Cleo. “Your heart is good. Helping others, like your father, is a way of life for you. Not so for us.” He tilted his head toward Wind Dancer. Taking a deep breath then holding it for a few seconds before exhaling with a slowness that seemed to go on forever, he took in his surroundings. “The air is bad here. It smells of garbage and urine. But you”—he paused, a soft smile on his face—”smell like a spring rain and flowers from long ago. Neosho will have no trouble finding you. I will be there to catch him.”
Cleo gazed up at Wind Dancer. “Maybe we could work together, Joseph.”
“No. Skinwalkers are deceiving. He wi
ll take your soul and wander with it forever.”
“I could not do such a thing to you.” The Frenchman’s brow wrinkled. “You who gave me a chance to live a little longer to revenge my wife, your sister’s death. Have you forgotten how brutal he was to your nephews?”
“No. I have not forgotten.” Wind Dancer’s heavy tone drew Cleo closer.
“Hey!” Jacque’s voice carried a tone of panic as he barreled across the street, catching sight of the Frenchman. The man should be dead, not walking around like he hadn’t taken a bullet to the chest several days earlier.
“Good-bye, Wind Dancer.” The Frenchman picked up his hard hat and strolled off toward the nearby barricade.
Jacque tore after the skinwalker, but he disappeared around the corner. He returned to the officer he’d called Dirty Harry. “What the hell were you doing?”
“Sorry?”
Cleo, followed by Wind Dancer, came to stand next to the bewildered officer. “I got out of the car on my own, Jacque.”
“I thought he was you, Detective Marquette.” The officer wilted under his superior’s anger.
“Did you notice how he was dressed? Do I look like someone from the Village People?” The officer opened his mouth as if to respond, when Jacque landed a disgruntled glare at him then addressed his new friends. “Why didn’t you stop him?” He pointed a finger so close to Wind Dancer’s nose, the Pawnee’s eyes crossed. “Then there’s Neosho. We had him, rather you had him, and what? You let him escape, knowing we could never catch up? He took a bullet and barely flinched!” His shout drew no reaction from Wind Dancer.
“Lower your voice, Jacque.” Cleo laid a hand on his arm, but he jerked away to stare down the street. “I’m beginning to wonder whose side you’re on, Joseph.”
Wind Dancer bumped his chest into Jacque, eyes narrowed to slits of fire. “If I hadn’t returned, Cleo would be gone. Your man could not protect her. I knew this, but I trusted you anyway. And, if you aren’t careful, he will take you as well.”
“Me?” he scoffed. “Why?”
“Isn’t it obvious? What did he do a few minutes ago? He can impersonate you and go anywhere. If he steps inside you—”
“Wait a minute! Are you saying he’s like a body snatcher or something? I’m not buying it.”
“Jacque,” Cleo whispered. “I think what Joseph is saying is the Frenchman could take over your body without your permission. I don’t understand all of this either. He may not want your soul. It seems he wants the chance to kill Neosho.”
“Well, that makes two of us.”
“I prefer he be alive, Jacque. I want to run some tests on him to see if the strain of smallpox is the same we face in this universe.” She reached for his arm, but he stepped away again.
Several uniformed policemen came across the street to join them.
“He got away, Detective Marquette. The guy runs like a gazelle. He practically carried the kid with him. For once, I think a gang member actually wanted to be taken in by the police.”
Jacque thanked him then ordered a roadblock to be set up to enclose the park and a few surrounding blocks the Death Apostles frequented. “Maybe we’ll catch a break and spot him again.” He took a call on his cell phone then clicked off. “Great. More complications. Let’s go.”
“Why? What happened?” Cleo climbed into the backseat of his car.
When he got behind the wheel, he told them, “The Department of Defense wants to talk to you, Cleo. The FBI is standing by as well. We’re to head over there.”
“Department of Defense? That can’t be good?”
“My feeling exactly. Buckle our boy in. This is going to be a quick ride.”
~~~~
Wind Dancer turned in circles as they entered the two-story foyer of the FBI building. Wind Dancer stared upwards through the wall of glass like a little boy searching for his missing kite. He stumbled when someone bumped into him and said, “Excuse me,” then continued on. The décor in the center of the foyer held oblong planters of greenery, surrounded by empty benches. Sunlight streamed in through the octagonal panes of glass, making a pattern across the floor.
“Why are these plants hard and brittle, Cleopatra?” Wind Dancer fingered the leaves.
“They’re plastic.”
“Plastic. I don’t understand.” He peeled off a leaf and lifted it to his nose then took a bite out of it before spitting it out onto the floor.
“No. Joseph, they’re artificial.”
“Art. Ti. Ficial.” He broke the word down to remember it.
“Not real. These are pretend plants.”
“Why are they pretending?” Wind Dancer cocked his head.
Jacque grinned as he halted his quick pace. “Yeah, Cleo? Why?”
“Are they trying to trick people into eating them so they will grow thin?” Wind Dancer removed another leaf to smell. “They would not eat much, I’m sure.”
“No—” Cleo began.
Jacque interrupted. “Exactly. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but Americans tend to have a weight problem these days. We put these in various places so when they get the munchies they can graze on this crap. No calories, no taste, and won’t induce a diabetic coma.”
Wind Dancer nodded with seriousness. “I don’t know what calories and diabetic coma is but you might want to try this.” He handed Jacque a plastic philodendron leaf. “You are getting thick around the middle. It would be bad, I think, if you caught a coma.”
Cleo’s laughter echoed upwards, and Jacque’s sheepish grin thinned as he threw the leaf in the planter. “Thanks. I’m good.”
“I’m not sure you are trying hard enough,” the Pawnee added.
“No. I mean…” Jacque threw up his hands. “Never mind. This is hopeless. Cleo, don’t let this guy talk when we meet up with the DOD. Those guys won’t be amused about some universe-jumping Indians bent on destroying life as we know it.”
Cleo chuckled and he grinned.
~~~~
Jacque rolled his eyes upward then noticed two suits and a military man coming around the corner of a nearby hall. He took a deep breath then cast a concerned glance toward Cleo and Wind Dancer.
“Detective Marquette.” The older of the two FBI agents extended a hand that he guessed could lift a basketball like a snowball, his thin smile as plastic as the plants behind him. “I’m Agent Farentino, and this is Agent Crosby.” Another round of handshakes. The man in uniform didn’t appear as ready to make friendly gestures.
Jacque shoved his hand at the colonel. “And you are?”
The African American army officer impressed him as someone who might eat thumbtacks instead of granola for breakfast. He bet smoothies had no place in his regular diet. He wore a no-nonsense scowl on his round face and stood a good three inches taller than him. His wide mouth drooped down at the corners. The colonel eyed the detective in a slow examination.
“Colonel Thaddeus Jefferson.” He grabbed the detective’s hand in a firm grip as if to measure an opponent. An effective tool in the intimidation department. “Department of Defense.”
“Detective Marquette. Chicago PD.” He couldn’t help but smirk as he squeezed the colonel’s hand with his own form of posturing. “What can we do for you?”
The colonel observed Cleo and Wind Dancer with cold disregard as they approached. Cleo immediately extended her hand, but Wind Dancer stiffened.
Jacque noticed how Cleo offered a sweet smile that possessed the ability to disarm the tension between the two men. Even so, the hairs on his neck stood at attention. Just because she melted his resistance, didn’t mean two bullheaded Neanderthals would respond the same way.
“This is Joseph Wind Dancer.”
“Yes. We know.” The colonel took Cleo’s hand but released it almost the moment he touched it. His focus remained on the Pawnee. He motioned in the direction of a long corridor. “This way. We need to clear a few things up before you are allowed to leave.”
Jacque bristled, stepping into the colone
l’s personal space. “Excuse me. We came here to be helpful. We’ll leave when we’re damn good and ready, Colonel Jefferson. You have no jurisdiction over me or these people. Maybe that’s how it works in D.C., but here it ain’t going to happen.”
“Settle down, Detective.” Agent Farentino held up his hand. “We’re not detaining you or these people. Right, Colonel?”
The colonel arched a brow and stepped aside. “This way.”
The detective took Cleo’s elbow and took a step away then stopped when he realized Wind Dancer and the colonel still stared menacingly at each other. “Joseph,” he snapped, “let’s go.”
Wind Dancer raised his chin, glaring down his nose at the colonel who was a little taller than him. “Are you a buffalo soldier?”
Of course, he referred to the 10th Calvary soldiers made up of African Americans during the eighteen hundreds. Their regiment fought the plains Indians on a number of occasions and would be their only reference to African Americans in uniform.
One corner of the colonel’s mouth curved up. “No. But my great, great, great-grandfather had that honor. Do you have a problem with that?”
Wind Dancer took a threatening step toward him, but Jacque stepped between the two. “Later, Joseph. Whatever happened in the past has nothing to do with this guy. Keep your head in the game. This isn’t the Wild West.”
The colonel continued to smirk, but Jacque could do nothing about his attitude.
They followed the FBI agents and the colonel down a long, sterile white corridor to a conference room. The lights automatically flipped on when they entered. Wind Dancer crouched then stood up and looked around, hands fisted at his sides. The FBI agents exchanged glances as if wondering if the man with hair down to the middle of his chest and very much a Native American might be simple in the head. Cleo’s explanation about the environmentally friendly lights must have added to the impression.
Dark Side of Morning (Wind Dancer Book 1) Page 10