Renee Simons Special Edition (51 page)

All emotion fled behind the mask he assumed. Satisfied that she'd made her point, she walked away. Once again, he matched her steps.

"Why are you still here?" she asked.

"I have a message for you from your brother."

"Couldn't you have told me sooner?" She really didn't want an answer and held up a hand as he started to respond. "What did he say?"

"He wants you to get in touch with Ken Becker."

"From the Agency? What's he doing here?"

"He retired some years back. He's running the probation department in town and acting as liaison between us and the Federal Security Agency."

Apparently the mole in her brother's organization worried him enough to send him to the outside for help.  As head of the FSA, the decision was his to make, but she wasn't sure she agreed with the move any more than she'd agreed with his assigning Dar to the case that had gotten him killed. Reversing direction, she started for her car.

"Change your mind about going to the newspaper office?" Stormwalker asked.

"For the moment."

With its top down, the MG sped along the highway. Zan gripped the wheel with a white-knuckled ferocity born of rage. Her pulse pounded with it; her lips flattened to a thin, tight line. How she hated dealing with a man who'd killed with impunity, who'd violated every principle of loyalty and honesty she lived by. Hated this world of intrigue and the fact that she'd allowed her brother Mac to drag her back into it when she'd promised, vowed, never to return.

Yet here she was, about to plow through the very agency databases she once maintained, on a search for evidence of Stormwalker's innocence or, she hoped fervently, guilt. Because she'd refused to set foot inside the
Virginia
compound, Mac had okayed
Thunder
Valley
as a work site. If the mole followed Stormwalker there, Zan would provide backup in a confrontation. Big Brother had decided that "covering the major's butt" was a small price to pay for the chance to return him to federal prison. A lot he knew.

The brief first encounter with Stormwalker had taken every ounce of self- discipline she possessed and still had nearly broken the back of her restraint. So how could she hope to function during the next eight weeks? She slammed her palm against the steering wheel. What did eight weeks matter when measured against the five years since Dar's death?

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.