Authors: Renee Simons
"McLaren here," she said.
"Why aren't you at the festivities?" Mac asked.
"I'll get over there eventually."
"I know you're busy with your other work, but I'd like your presence to be the first priority. Your expertise may be helpful should a crisis arise. And we've reason to believe one will."
This was the first time they'd talked since he'd asked for her help. Although his lapse into pseudo-code annoyed her, she kept her tone light. "Is this on your time or mine?"
"If you remember," he said with dry emphasis, "there was more than one element in this assignment. So I don't care if you're on the clock or off, as long as you're available when needed. Is that understood?"
Sheesh, she thought. Big brother's funny bone has been dislocated. "Understood," she echoed docilely and raised her hand in a silent salute.
"Call me if you run into any problems and remember Dad's old saying, 'forewarned is forearmed'."
He hung up, leaving her staring at the receiver. To her dismay, he'd just warned her to carry her off-duty firearm.
Inside the reservation gate and more than two miles from the newspaper building, a campground had been set up filled with tipis, stripe-roofed tents and temporary booths of all sizes and shapes. Just beyond lay a parking area choked with so many vehicles that she parked at the outer edge, far from where the powwow itself took place.
Above her, the sun rode high in the sky, like a great, brassy disk. A hot, dry light rained down on the scorched prairie. She closed her eyes and felt herself relax as she soaked in the heat. This climate suited her better than the humid summers in Virginia and New York. Even her injury hurt less out here. She wondered how the winters would be.
Reluctantly, she heeded Mac's warning, unlocked the glove compartment and removed her revolver. Once, it had represented safety and a necessary tool of her trade. Now, the silver blue object felt heavy and cold, reminding her how quickly such a weapon had ended one life and changed another. With a shudder, she chambered a cartridge,
then
dropped the revolver into her shoulder bag. She swung her legs outside and crossed the parking area.
She made her way down the rows of vehicles and drifted through the crowd. How would she locate Stormwalker, if he was here among the thousands of people? As if to emphasize the difficulty, groups of young men chanted and drummed out steady, measured rhythms that intensified the general cacophony of sound. The scene shimmered and vibrated with color wherever dancers practiced in their feathers and beads.
Crowds of appreciative buyers or curious onlookers made their way from one stall to another admiring the creations. Hordes of children converted mere chaos into total anarchy as they darted between the booths and chased each other around adults who turned their pathways into an obstacle course.
After a fruitless search of the crowd, she decided to have Mike paged over the P.A. system. Perhaps he could lead her to Stormwalker. About to enter the office, she saw
Katti
approach. Something obviously disturbed the young woman.
"I saw Stormwalker with Billy Winter and two of his
friends,
and from the way they acted, I think there's
gonna
be trouble," she said.
"Which way were they headed?"
"Toward the parking area,"
Katti
replied.
"Let's find the reservation police and get them on it."
"They're handling a multi-vehicle accident on one of the service roads."
"All of them?"
"
There's
only two guys. The
rez
can't support any more."
"Then I'll have to handle this."
"I'm going with you."
"I appreciate your wanting to help, but as a civilian you can't do anything."
"If Billy sees me, maybe he'll back off."
"Maybe.
Stay here anyway."
Zan made her way through the streams of people and between rows of parked vehicles. The wind blew in from the prairie and dried the perspiration that ran down her cheek and between her breasts. She strained to hear something that would tell her the men were out here. Finally, she heard what she hoped she wouldn't: a dull thud, followed by a grunt of pain; the two repeated in rhythmic counterpoint to each other with a regularity that sent a chill through her.
She cleared a new row and leaned into the aisle. To her right she could see that two men held a third pinned against the back of a van, while another pummeled him about the face and midsection.
Without giving
herself
time to think she palmed the .38 and moved down the line until she was directly behind the group.
"Gentlemen."
At her quietly commanding tone, the men holding Stormwalker turned. Billy Winter stopped in mid blow and faced her. All bore enough bruises to prove Stormwalker had put up a fight before they subdued him.
"Stand away from that man, please."
"You're out of your jurisdiction, Officer McLaren."
"Maybe so, but I can still report this."
Winter made no response but his gaze traveled from the weapon at Zan's side to somewhere over her left shoulder. His eyes held a strange expression combining anger and embarrassment.
"Why are you doing this, Billy?"
Katti
had followed Zan and now moved to stand beside her.
"He was told to stay away from these proceedings. He needed a lesson in obeying orders, is
all.
"
"It wasn't your place to administer it," Zan said.
"Please stop,"
Katti
whispered from behind her. "You're better than this."
After a long pause, he held up two hands in a placating gesture,
then
turned to his friends. "Let him go."
They moved away from Stormwalker, who slid to the ground. Zan looked down at his limp body, then back at
Winter
. "Where's your vehicle?"
He jerked his head to the right, where she saw a tan Jeep with official plates.
"Suppose you and your friends mount up and move out of here. If you cause this man any more grief, I'll see that you're busted and thrown into your own jail."
"I don't believe you have the clout to do that," he said, "but we'll call it quits.
For now."
When the men had sped off, she turned to the young woman. "Thanks for your help. I'll take it from here."
"Are you sure you can manage?"
Katti
asked. "He's pretty big."
"My car's close by. We'll do okay."
Katti
nodded and left. Zan knelt beside the injured man. "Geez, Stormwalker," she crooned softly. She tried, and failed, to ignore an unwelcome stirring. "You look like hell."
His face and knuckles were battered and covered with blood and his denim shirt hung in tatters. She lifted one eyelid to check his reflexes. Iron fingers gripped her wrist and pulled her hand away from his face.
"What are you doing?" he asked hoarsely through swollen lips. "I'm not dead yet."
Relieved that he was conscious and coherent enough to be annoyed, she sighed. "You look like a train ran over you."
"I feel like it, Red."
"Don't call me that. I hate it." She slipped an arm around his shoulders. "Think you can sit up?"
He nodded and together they got him upright and braced against the door of the van. He glared at her through the slits that were his eyes. "Will you quit looking at me like
that!
"
She took a handkerchief from her back pocket and dabbed at the blood staining the corner of his mouth and one eye. "Like what?" she murmured.
"Like I was a wounded deer or some poor motherless calf."
She chuckled. "An injured mule is more like it."
He tried to keep from smiling, failed and winced when the gesture strained the cut at his upper lip. A sudden gust of wind lifted the hair from her face. He touched a damp strand that clung to her heated skin and noticed the flush accenting her high cheekbones and the sheen of moisture above her lip. "You're beautiful, you know?"
"You're delirious." She sat back on her heels. "Can you walk to my car if I help?"
"Where is it?"
She pointed over her shoulder. "Over there."
"No problem. I'm in good shape for a hike."
"C'mon, Marine, it's not nearly as bad as all that." She gave him a smile. "Of course, if you feel weak, I could bring the car to you. . . ."
Alert to the goading, he chuckled under his breath. "I had a drill instructor like you."
"Did you?"
"That D.I. was the meanest
s.o.b
. I ever met."
She laughed. "Bet he got you moving pretty quick."
"Never had a choice."
She took him under the arms and supported him as they walked to her car. Every part of his body hurt and drawing breath had become difficult. The last time he'd felt this rotten had been in boot camp on Parris Island.
"I think you should go to the hospital," she said. "For x-rays, just to make sure there's no concussion or broken ribs."
"We have a doctor and a clinic in the village. Just get me back there."
He slid inside and jammed his long legs catty-corner against the dashboard. He watched her as his head rested on the back of the seat.
"What is it?" she asked.
"You're a cop, aren't you?"
"I thought you knew that."
"Mac never told me, but there was something about the way you handled yourself and . . . did I hear
Winter
call you 'Officer'?"
"I'm on recuperative leave from the Job. Pretty soon, I'll have to decide whether or not to go back."
"Don't you want to?"
Did she? She'd joined the McLaren "family business" as a way to make a contribution. Most of the time, she felt good about her job. Every so often she wondered if there was a better way to go than butting heads over a gun barrel. That same concern had forced her out of the FSA. At least that's what she told herself when she tried to rationalize why she'd left the Agency as suddenly as she had. How would she rationalize leaving the force?
"I had a close call . . . too close . . . I don't think I can hack it anymore."
"What happened?"
"I got caught in a shootout while answering a call to a break-in. Things
were
pretty dicey for a while but, as you can see, I'm still alive and kicking." She searched both sides of the road and saw only prairie. "How about pointing me toward the clinic?"
"Two rights, a left, then a mile to the next right."
"What did I interrupt back there?" she asked.
"That should be pretty obvious."
"Then let me rephrase the question: what provoked the testosterone trio to hammer you head first into the ground?"
"Have I ever told you I admire your way with words?"
"I think so. Answer the question."
"Showing up at the powwow was just too confrontational to suit them. They decided to show me the error of my ways."
"Do you want to press charges?"
"Not my style," he said. "I'll handle them my own way." He pointed to a low building. "There's the clinic."
The sign on the door indicated that the staff had set up shop at the campgrounds. "I should have thought of that," he said with a groan. "My brains must be scrambled. Take me to my mother's house."
"Isn't it your house, too?"
"In the old days, the tipi belonged to the wives, because they tanned the skins for the covers and cut new poles if their men weren't around. And they set up the tipis in each new camp."
She smiled.
"Very enlightened for the time and place."