Читать книгу From Mission To Marriage - Lyn Stone - Страница 8

Asheville, North Carolina—September 25th

C lay’s ears ached, his head hurt and, after the flight, he was in no mood for a cheerful greeting. He could see he was about to get one, though. The candidate was waiting for him, wearing that same wide smile she wore in her photos. No one had told her yet that she was being considered for COMPASS. As far as she knew, he was only there as a rep from Homeland Security, come to assist her in the investigation.

She held up a hand-lettered sign with his name on it and looked straight at him. He nodded and strode over to her, his most intimidating glare daring her to be chipper.

She stuck out her hand. “Agent Senate? Thanks for coming, sir. I’m Vanessa Walker.”

Cate had been right—this one was small, probably pounds, and she looked about eighteen years old. He knew better, though. She was twenty-seven.

“Agent Walker,” he acknowledged, shaking her hand. Hers felt delicate, but her grip was strong. Not surprising. She had graduated second in her class at the FBI Academy and weaklings didn’t get through there.

She laughed self-consciously and broke the connection, tossed the sign into a nearby trash receptacle and tried to take his carry-on away from him. It weighed a ton, so he held on. She let go with a shrug. “Okay. Off to baggage claim. You have a nice flight?”

He grimaced ahead of them at the young mother dragging the five-year-old with the whine and the twitchy feet, who’d performed a horizontal River Dance on the back of his seat. “Not really.”

“Turbulance?” she persisted, following his line of sight to the kid. She didn’t bother suppressing a chuckle.

“You might say that.”

“Sorry. Would you like a drink?”

He stared at her as if she had lost her mind.

“Can you? Drink, that is?” Perky. Too perky.

“Of course I can drink.”

“Do you?”

“Not much. Why?”

She shrugged. “Some people have a problem with alcohol. I like to identify the ones who do and avoid them in working situations. Got shot once when I didn’t. Friendly fire, too.”

Clay mumbled a curse.

“Don’t get touchy. It’s a fact. Do you smoke?”

“An occasional cigar, never around loaded weapons.”

She laughed, a low sensual sound that did something salacious to his insides. “Ah, a sense of humor. Here we are!” As if reaching the baggage ramp were a feat to celebrate.

They stood silently as they waited for the baggage to begin making its slow circle. But silence seemed more than she could stand for long. She took a deep breath and released it. “So, where are you from?”

“Why?”

Her lips tightened with exasperation. “I’m making polite conversation. Is it a secret?”

He focused on the empty baggage ramp. “McLean, Virginia.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Conoy, Manahoac or Delaware?”

“Do you really need the family history?” God, he sounded grumpy, even to himself. He tried to temper the question with a smile. It wasn’t her fault he was exhausted.

“Nope.” Again she shrugged. “Just wondered. My mother was Italian, by the way. Daddy met and married her when he was in service. Most of us aren’t full-bloods. And with those eyes of yours, it’s pretty obvious—”

Clay couldn’t believe her lack of tact. “Why would you care?”

“No reason. I just think it’s good they sent an Indian. You’ll understand what I mean when I say I’ve got a feeling something’s gonna pop.”

“Oh, right,” he said cynically. “That mystical thing we have going. How could I forget all those movies I watched?”

“You like to scoff, don’t you? But you know it’s so. My boss thinks my informant’s just a woman taking potshots, trying to get this guy locked up because she found out he was an ex-con and he scares her. Me? I take it seriously when somebody discovers a possible threat and bothers to call it in.”

She took a breath, something he was beginning to wonder whether she ever needed. “I believe her. Bad vibes on this one.”

“Vibes. Lovely,” Clay muttered.

Her smile had disappeared. “I know Hightower. He’s capable of this.”

“You know him personally? Should be a piece of cake then.”

“Don’t bet on that, but we’ll get him sooner or later. Just hope it’s sooner.”

Clay closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to relieve his headache. With a resigned sigh, he opened them and saw he had missed his bag and would have to either run after it or wait for it to come around again. “Damn.”

“Was that one yours?” She chased it down before he could answer. All that energy of hers was making him tired.

Watching her struggle with the heavy suitcase suddenly struck Clay as funny. Since he’d just returned from an assignment in Seattle, maybe he was spazzed out from lack of sleep. By the time she had thumped it down on the terminal floor, he had sobered. He walked over and picked it up. “That’s it. Let’s go.”

“You won’t need a rental car, by the way,” she told him. “We have an unmarked you can use, or I’ll cart you around since we’ll be working together. I like to drive.”

Yeah, she looked young enough to have just taken her first driving test. Her tailored red pantsuit fit a body any sixteen-year-old would envy, breasts high and firm, waist tiny and hips slender. She wore her ink-black hair slicked back into a braided knot. No jewelry besides the small silver studs in her earlobes. Her nails were bare, short and beautifully shaped. She wore no makeup that he could discern except for a touch of lip gloss.

Either she was a natural beauty or very skillful with the war paint. He suspected the former and approved her apparent lack of vanity. Oddly, that made him wish he could compliment her, but he didn’t. It would be highly un-PC to say anything that might be considered a come-on to a prospective hire or a fellow agent.

His dark mood had improved by the time they reached her vehicle. It was a tan Ford Explorer with only a couple of years on it. Comfy and cool. He stretched his legs, leaned his head back, closed his eyes. To his surprise, she remained quiet for a good half hour. A really good one, during which he grabbed a few z’s. He wasn’t interested in scenery and sleeping kept him from staring at her.

When he woke up and checked his watch, he realized he felt a little better. At least his headache was gone and his ears had popped so he could hear normally again.

“Had you rather go straight to your home away from home or the office?” she asked, sounding a bit tired herself now. She was no longer smiling, no longer perky.

“Office. Might as well get the show on the road. Will I be able to interview your caller today?” It was already midafternoon.

“No problem. She lives in Cool Spring on the way to where you’ll be staying.”

Clay noted the change in his new temporary partner grow even more marked as they approached her place of work. So marked that he felt compelled to ask “Is something wrong?”

“Agent Roan sent me to pick you up but he’ll offer you one of the guys to work with instead of me. Count on it.”

“Because you’re female? That’s ridiculous,” Clay said vehemently. Vehement only because he had already entertained some reservations about her himself since meeting her. Her size, her flagrant optimism, her lack of broader experience in law enforcement. But she was a well-trained agent, and according to her record, beyond simply capable. He hated any kind of discrimination and would not be a party to it. Walker was getting her chance.

He had to work with her. How else would he determine whether she would fit in COMPASS? Even if she wasn’t quite ready, she would have months of extra training to prepare her for that job if he did recruit her. As for her boss trying to edge her out of this investigation, Clay set her mind at rest. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

She shot him a wry glance. “It’s not the boy-girl thing if that’s what you’re thinking,” she admitted. “See, I sort of overstepped my bounds by conferring with the chief out at Qualla about the case. It was hard not to since we’re related. The boss is still ticked off that I discussed it. We butt heads pretty regularly.”

Clay smiled at her moxie. “Nothing scares you, I guess.”

She treated him to a blinding white smile that showed dimples. “Not much, no, but I have to admit, you’re a little scary. I’m glad you’re on my side. You got a wife?”

Damn, she kept throwing him curveballs. “No,” he said. “No wife.”

“Not surprised,” she commented just as they parked. She popped her seat belt and hopped out of the car, energy crackling around her like static electricity. “You’re the best-looking man I’ve seen in a long time, but that scowl of yours would terrify the bejesus out of most women.”

But not her, obviously. Clay could only shake his head in wonder. The girl was outrageous, without a smidgen of diplomacy, and sort of exhausting to be around. He imagined the local Bureau would be delighted, or at least a little relieved, if he did steal her away from them.

“Agent Walker?” he called as she started up the steps, intending to advise her to let him do the talking when they went inside.

She stopped to wait for him at the top. “Might as well call me Van,” she said, pausing with her hand on the door. “Everyone else here does. I think they like to pretend I’m a guy.” She wrinkled her nose.

“Then they must have excellent imaginations,” Clay said, without thinking that the comment sounded sexist until it was already out there.

“Thanks. May I call you Clay? Not in there, of course,” she assured him, gesturing at the door with a quick lift of her chin.

“No problem.” What else could he say without sounding unfriendly, even pretentious?

A glance at his watch told him it was nearly four o’clock. “Let’s get this out of the way and then get busy. If that informant of yours is not jerking us all around, we don’t need to lose any time on useless networking.”

Her smile flashed again. “Hey, my kind of man.” She swept open the door and indicated he should precede her.

A quarter hour later, Van cradled her coffee cup and sat with one hip hitched up on her desk, trying to hear what was going on in the boss’s office. The walls were thin, but not thin enough to catch the words, only to hear that the argument to replace her was subtle, noncombative, but intense.

Two of her fellow agents, Buddy Dean and Joe Middle-brooks, listened with her unabashedly, watching for her reactions.

In defense of her boss, Vanessa knew half his reasons for disliking her were probably valid. He would be telling Agent Senate how she was too outspoken, too ambitious and that she tried entirely too hard. How those things caused resentment.

Dammit, she had to be an overachiever. How else could she prove herself? Everybody in the world knew that a woman had to work twice as hard to prove herself in a male-dominated field. In a same-case scenario, a man was applauded for his initiative while a woman was labeled overly aggressive and presumptuous.

Not that they meant to be chauvinistic around here. The men she worked with were good people, dedicated and conscientious. They worked hard and made a difference. All she wanted was to keep up with them and gain their respect.

She tried to keep a low profile. Not that she was all that modest and certainly not lacking in ambition, but Van was afraid the boss would think she was trying to beef up her participation into something that might get her promoted. This time she was going all out, begging for the lead on the case, even if it meant working with another agency on it. This threat was very real.

Hightower wasn’t finished. But even with that considered, it had been a homemade bomb, not even a large one. Even she knew it was a local problem, technically not warranting FBI intervention. She wouldn’t be in on it if Lisa hadn’t called her directly and gotten her involved. So Van had to wonder why the powers-that-be had sent Agent Senate down here to assist. Scary as it was, this was not a national threat.

The door opened and Clay came out wearing that scary frown she hoped to have a chance to get used to. Vanessa stood and put down her coffee cup, ready to bow out gracefully if Roan had changed Senate’s mind. Buddy and Joe stood, too, fully expecting to be called to duty in her place.

“We’re burning daylight, Agent Walker. Let’s go,” Senate said, looking straight at her. She caught the almost undetectable hint of a smile in his eyes.

Van gave herself a mental high five and barely contained a whoop. Instead, she calmly picked up her purse and slung it over her shoulder. “Yes, sir.”

The urge to wink at Buddy and Joe almost overwhelmed her, but she refrained. Decorum had suddenly become important, at least until she was outside the building.

On the way to the car, she gave him a pat on the arm and thanked him. He cut those steely gray eyes at her and Van got the distinct feeling she had overstepped again. Maybe he didn’t like to be touched.

On the sixty-mile drive to Cool Spring, she kept her mouth shut except to thank him again, briefly and more circumspectly, for going to bat for her. He muttered that she was welcome and then concentrated on studying the written report of her interview with Lisa Yellowhorse that the chief had provided. Man, could this guy focus.

He had great hair, wore it long and tied back neatly. Though he looked better than presentable in a business suit, she could easily imagine him on horseback, flying like the wind, dressed in feathers, loincloth, leggings and moccasins. She’d seen way too many movies. This guy could definitely play a Hollywood Indian.

His features looked less Iroquois than Plains—sharp angles, square jaw, high cheekbones and a very slight hook to the nose. As large as he was, at least six-two and heavily muscled, he might even have Viking blood for all she knew. His size, height and those cool, gray eyes of his didn’t come out of the Indian gene pool. Neither did the five o’clock shadow he was wearing.

She realized all of a sudden that she was physically attracted to him. Okay, more like bowled over. No point revealing that to him, however. He didn’t like her much and she was definitely not interested in mixing it up with a superior who probably could burn her career if she made a wrong move.

Oh well, he was great to look at and she could enjoy that without feeling bad about it. She kept stealing glances while he was busy reading the report.

He thumped the page with the back of his fingers. “Very detailed. Good work.”

“Thanks.” Van enjoyed the unaccustomed thrill that came with praise, not something she had basked in very often since her college days. “Any questions?”

“Your AIC isn’t convinced Hightower’s behind this. Are you certain Ms. Yellowhorse is being straight? Maybe she’s a disgruntled lover or just scared to have him living with her.”

“Gut feeling,” she replied with a succinct nod. “And it all fits. Circumstantial at the moment, I know, but you’ll see I’m right.”

He turned to look at her fully, remaining silent for a minute. “Tell me about your escapes.”

She laughed. “My what?”

“Roan told me you’ve pulled yourself out of the fire so many times, he feels the urge to bury you under a mountain of paperwork so you’ll survive to see thirty. Details, please. Start with the robbery you interrupted six months ago.”

“He’s exaggerating,” she said with a scoff. “I dodged a few bullets, that’s all. The perps were lousy shots.”

“But you’re obviously not,” he remarked with the ghost of a smile.

Van shrugged. “I have a good eye. It’s probably inherited, but I’ve practiced a lot, too. My grandfather was a sniper in ’Nam. Taught me a few tricks.”

“Enough to qualify for the Olympic team, apparently. What about the fire after that bomb went off in the casino? They thought you were trapped.”

“It was jump off the roof or burn and it was only two stories, not necessarily a fatal leap. What would you have done?” Van hated talking about that. Fire was her worst nightmare and had nearly finished her off. She rubbed the back of her neck with one hand and flexed her left leg. “No serious injuries, thank goodness.”

“And you saved two people by pushing them off that roof.”

She shook her head impatiently. “Yeah, but I had to coldcock one and shove him off unconscious. Poor ol’Bobby Rock has a bad fear of heights. I worried that the fall would break his neck, but it was that or let him go up in smoke.”

“What about last year, the hostage thing at the school? You did okay, Roan said. Hard to think with a gun to your head, but you managed to talk the perp into surrendering.”

She made a face. “He was just a kid.”

“With a .45 full of hollow points. You’ve faced death square in the face several times now. I’m interested. Which time destroyed your fear of it?”

“Who says one did? But I will say this, I believe I’ve survived for a reason. I just don’t know what it is yet.”

His look was intense when she glanced over at him.

“Are you a loose cannon?” he asked quietly.

She faced the road again. “No. If we get into a dicey situation, you can count on me to react appropriately. Are you worried?”

“If you’re convinced that you’re destined to do something so great that a higher power is keeping you alive against all odds, then, yes, I am definitely worried.”

She laughed. “Get real. Don’t you think I know God helps those who help themselves?”

“So you’re religious?”

“Most people in law enforcement are. Aren’t you?” she asked.

“Let’s not get into that. Sorry I brought it up.”

“Well, you did, so brief answer, please. Do you believe in that higher power you mentioned, yes or no?”

He paused. “Yes, but if God’s a woman, she could change her mind on a whim. Maybe decide to let someone else perform whatever task you think you’re programmed to do, so I wouldn’t trust fate too far if I were you.”

Van laughed, but it was a little bitter. “My, my, here I was thinking you’re so politically correct and then you come out with something weird like that. Women are inconstant, gods or not, huh?”

“It was a joke to get you off the topic of religion.”

“Well, you can forget comedy, my friend. Some chick dumped you, right? Now you’re down on the whole female gender.”

He was hiding a smile, she could tell. “I’m thirty-six and unmarried. How do you know I ever liked women to begin with?”

“Because when you checked out my breasts, your expression did not indicate envy,” she explained, her reaction deadpan.

He laughed out loud. The sound was new and Van liked it. She was shaking up that stoic warrior image to hell and gone. It was what she did best, making men laugh. Even the boss unbent a little when he wasn’t ready to throttle her about something.

“See? You’re no match for me,” she told him, turning the Explorer down the dirt road outside Cool Spring that led to Lisa Yellowhorse’s house. “We’re almost there. I’ll introduce you, but you do all the talking. I have her on tape and we’ll compare notes later.”

From the corner of her eye, she could actually see him morph into agent mode again. She suspected that was his usual state. She hoped her joking around had helped him to relax a little. After the interview, he had another surprise coming, so she definitely wanted him in a good mood.

On impulse, and because it was more convenient than stashing him in one of the tourist traps, she planned to book him at Hotel Walker, her grandparents’ house.

She had figured that a stranger from D.C. might enjoy soaking up a little Cherokee culture while he was here. She hadn’t known ahead of time that he probably was already steeped to the eyeballs in it. Who would have thought they would send an Indian?

That was okay, though. She would pass it off as hospitality of the People. No way he could refuse that.

Clay found Lisa Yellowhorse to be a plain woman, round-faced and a bit sullen. She wore a mismatched shirt and slacks, a pair of tube socks that had seen better days and no shoes. She had obviously been in the process of braiding her hair after a shampoo; he caught the scent of apples wafting from it. She greeted them cordially and offered them a chair.

She was a practical woman who made her living renting out the upstairs rooms and the basement apartment of the old clapboard her mother had purchased twenty years ago. Clay wondered whether she was the type to take up with a man like James Hightower, and, if she had, was she vindictive enough to frame him for something after a breakup? That scenario didn’t seem likely, but he wasn’t discounting it yet.

Ms. Yellowhorse proceeded to describe her reasons for calling Vanessa. Small bits of what appeared to be detonation cord and other discarded paraphernalia had led to her suspicions. There were empty boxes that had once contained a garage door opener and a set of screws, an empty roll of duct tape and an actual piece of fuse. You had to wonder where a woman like Yellowhorse would get this sort of stuff simply to use for a frameup. No, Clay believed she was legit and had the public’s best interest in mind when she’d called this in.

The woman had called Vanessa because she was aware that Vanessa worked for the Bureau and had been instrumental in Hightower’s former conviction.

“I wanted to stake out the Yellowhorse place just in case Hightower comes back, but Roan didn’t think it was necessary,” Vanessa said as she drove back to the main road.

“He told me what he thinks,” Clay admitted. “You want to fill me in on your history with Hightower?”

“He killed my cousin.”

Clay nodded. “Roan mentioned you might have a little vendetta going against Hightower because of that. Do you?”

“Well, it’s not as if I know Lisa Yellowhorse well enough to conspire with her to frame James for this. If Roan seriously believed that, he wouldn’t have agreed to let me investigate.”

Clay noted she didn’t appear to be upset by his questions, so she’d probably defended herself before on this issue.

She seemed confident. “After the bogus call that got me to the casino for the big blast and Lisa’s finding the fuse pieces, things just sort of fell into place.” She shot him a wry smile. “He’s the one. He has no compunction about killing, I can tell you that.”

“What’s the story on the murder?”

She sighed, her fingers tightening on the steering wheel. “After four years of getting knocked around and refusing to report him, Brenda had reached her limit and was talking divorce. Surprise, surprise when she accidentally fell out of a raft in white water.” A pause ensued as Vanessa swallowed hard, then she glanced at him with her dark eyes narrowed. “She was not wearing a life jacket. She was not dressed for rafting. She was six and a half months pregnant. What would you conclude?”

“Sounds like premeditation. First-degree homicide,” Clay muttered a curse, shaking his head. “He only did four years?”

She shrugged, still gripping the steering wheel as if it were Hightower’s neck. “Yeah. The D.A. went for first degree, but the jury couldn’t agree on the premeditation. The thing was, she didn’t die right away. Some other rafters happened along, got her out of the water and got her breathing again. But she had a head wound that put her in a coma. She stayed on life support until the doctors thought the baby could make it.”

Clay didn’t ask, but she answered his unspoken query.

“Little Dilly’s alive and well, thriving.”

“Thank God. Her name is Dilly?”

“Delinda,” she explained, smiling for real now, pride showing. “Our beautiful blessing.” She went on about Hightower. “The first bombing is only the beginning. James hasn’t done his worst. That was just to get our attention. He’s out for blood. Mine and probably others who were responsible for his conviction.”

“You didn’t put that in the report,” Clay remarked.

“Because I only put down the facts, not supposition. Even though I know beyond a shadow who did it and why, I can’t prove motive. But I will,” she assured him.

For the first time, Clay saw the determination and drive he was looking for. Gone was the Pollyanna attitude and the youthful exuberance that had characterized her before. Here was an agent with a mission she would die to complete.

“He had the schedule for the annual Indian Fall Fair in October and a layout of the fairgrounds, Lisa said,” Vanessa reminded him. The woman had dwelled on it during Clay’s questioning. “Thousands attend it and they won’t be spread out. Everyone I know and love is involved in one or more of the events, exhibits or concessions. For spectators, we have a festival in May,” Vanessa explained. “This one is usually the first week in October and sometimes called ‘the fair. ’It’s like a country fair, sort of, only we have many more exhibits, local crafts, fancy dances and drumming, stick ball games and so forth. It’s mainly for the residents, but we do have some tourists and dignitaries.”

“Should you even be on this case?” he asked.

“Why not, because I have a personal interest in nailing him to the wall? Nobody minded that we were related by marriage when I found him after Brenda’s death. I took him down and I testified against him, too, for all the good it did. Four lousy years!” She huffed in disgust.

“Are there any other suspects?” he asked, wondering whether she had even considered it.

She shook her head. “Hightower’s our best bet, but I’m keeping an open mind.”

“Good, that’s what I wanted to hear. All right, back to business. Extra guards will be hired for a round-the-clock watch on the fairgrounds for any suspicious activity. Can the local force handle that?”

“Yes, and we’ll run the dogs through to sniff out any explosives before anyone’s allowed in, then do gate checks.”

Clay nodded his approval. “Let’s get with your chief and the council, maybe round up a contractor to put in cement barriers to prevent crashing the fences with a truck bomb.”

Vanessa remained quiet, but the air in the car was thick with unspoken argument.

“Okay,” Clay said. “What?”

She cleared her throat and flexed her hands on the wheel as she drove. “We need to locate Hightower before he strikes again, not just set up to react. Word’s already on the grapevine that everyone should keep an eye out for him and notify us when he’s spotted. That’s one great advantage to living in a community with only a few thousand people. Like Cheers, everybody knows your name.”

“Clever, involving the citizens.” Clay smiled. She was rapidly justifying a chance with COMPASS. So what if she was mouthy, nosy and had a warped sense of humor? He had put up with worse from the Sextant crew. He didn’t know the members of the COMPASS team very well yet, but she’d probably fit right in.

“Hungry?” she asked, braking as they reached the paved road and waiting for his answer.

“I am. Is there somewhere around here we can grab a few burgers before you take me to my hotel?”

She put on the left blinker and began to turn. “Oh, we’ll do better than that. How about barbecue, beans and fry bread? My grandparents eat at five, a blood-sugar thing, but there’ll be plenty left.”

Clay frowned. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Not feed you and put you up? What are you thinking? If I don’t bring you home, the tribal council will haul me into court for sedition or something, not to mention that the grans would skin me alive.” She shook her head fiercely. “Uh-uh, no way you can get off the hook, so deal with it.”

“Put me up? Stay with them? No, I couldn’t—”

“You don’t understand. You have to unless, of course, you want to insult the whole tribe. And discredit yours while you’re at it.”

“No, you don’t understand,” he said, knowing the time had come to make things clear to her. “I don’t have a tribe.” It was true. He could not remember his mother’s people and his father refused to tell him who they were. The first few years of Clay’s life were a blur, spent at a place only God could identify, because Clayton Senate Sr. had gone to the grave with that secret six years ago.

She flashed a saucy grin. “Well, you have one now, brother, whether you want one or not. Tsi lu gi. That means welcome.”

Clay huffed out a breath of resignation and muttered, “Wa do.”

“My God, you speak Tsalagi?” she asked with a laugh of delight. “You’re Cherokee! Why didn’t you say so?”

He didn’t tell her he also knew Navajo and several other Native American tongues. He had a way with languages and these were simple to learn, a relative hobby, compared to Russian and Arabic.

Wherever you went in this business, it paid to talk the talk, or at least to be able to listen to it.

He normally kept his mouth shut and did just that, but this woman had a strange effect on him. In one afternoon, she had slipped under his guard, caused him to reveal a hell of a lot more about himself than his best friends knew, and had even made him laugh out loud.

For the first time, Clay sensed how dangerous Vanessa Walker was going to be to life as he knew it. And yet, he also realized he would not avoid her even if he could. Running scared was not his way. Father had called him a brave countless times and, while it had been meant as more insult than compliment, Clay did his damnedest to live up to the name.