Renee Simons Special Edition (52 page)

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."

"How're your folks and your sister?"

"Step-sister - and you'll have to ask her. We don't talk much."

She tucked a strand of hair behind one ear and shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. As if sensing she needed some privacy, Stormwalker moved to the end of the counter and turned his back to them. Hunter and the girl talked quietly for a few minutes. Zan got the impression things weren't going well, but because she couldn’t hear their conversation, she felt justified in staying in the shadows. Stormwalker turned toward them just as Hunter shook his head. Zan tried to catch his eye, but he didn't appear to see her.

"I wish I had something for you," Hunter said. "But I just hired on someone to help. I can't afford to pay two of you."

Stormwalker rejoined them. "What's the problem?"

"This one needs a job to start her life up again but she's having a problem convincing anyone to trust her."

"Do you trust her?"

"Yeah, I'd take her on if I could."

"Is she able to handle the heavy stuff?"

"I'm strong," the girl said. "I can do it."

Stormwalker looked at her. Zan was certain he saw what she did from a distance: the fear and anger in the young woman's dark eyes and a sturdy, uncompromising pride in the set of her shoulders.

"Give her the job, Kola."  Stormwalker spoke softly, but with authority.

"You sure?" Hunter asked.

"I'm sure."

Stormwalker nodded and went to the door without acknowledging Zan’s presence. Confused by what she’d seen, she slipped out just behind him. She needed answers, although the questions would leave no doubt that she’d intruded on a private moment.

"Why did you do that? You needed the job."

He turned to her. His features bore no expression, not even surprise that she'd witnessed the scene. "Guess snooping is another family trait."

Zan felt her cheeks flame, but said nothing. She’d set herself up for his scorn.

"She needed the job," he said. "For me, it was just camouflage. Something else will turn up."

"Well, that was a good thing you did back there. I just wanted you to know that I thought so." Awkward, unsure of herself and of what to say, she stepped down into the street.

"You seem surprised," he said.

She faced him. "I wouldn't have expected. . . ." Her next words would have been insulting so she left them unspoken.

"How would you know what to expect?"

The accusation behind his question heated her cheeks again. She shrugged. "I know what I need to know."

He followed her down the steps and stood beside her, his height and solid build nearly overpowering her. Able to look most six-footers squarely in the eye, at this moment she wished for another two inches in height or, at least, some breathing room. She fought the impulse to take a backward step and open up some space between them. She would not retreat before this man.

"Are you all moved in and hooked up?"

The softness in his tone proved as distracting as his touch had been. "Yes."

"Then I'll see you around."

Relieved that he'd gone, she went back inside. She’d long ago lost her appetite, the reason why she’d come over in the first place, but she wanted to meet the store keeper.

John-Two Hunter watched her approach from behind his counter. She held out her hand. "Mr. Hunter, I'm Alexandra McLaren."

"You're the one who's gonna be working with Mike Eagle."

She considered his choice of words, then decided they were close enough to the truth.

"He asked me to give you whatever help I could. Bein' just a storekeeper, I don't know what that might be, but I'll start a tab for you. If you need supplies but are short of cash you just come on in and pay me when you can. How does that sound?"

"That's very kind of you."

He nodded. "Anything else you need?"

"I saw what happened before with the young woman and Stormwalker. I was . . . surprised."

His lips tightened for a moment, then relaxed. Had she offended him?

"If you knew him as well as we do around here, you wouldn't have been."

"Why not?"

"He's always done things like that - looked out for folks, stepped in and helped without bein' asked. Been that way since he was a kid. Around here, we don't expect anything else from him."  He pulled a rag from his back pocket and swiped at the already spotless counter top. "If you stay awhile, you'll see some things different from how the newspapers and television make 'im out to be. I'd keep an open mind if I was you."

Disturbed by the man's remarks, she nodded and left without making any purchases. The scene had altered her preconceptions about Stormwalker, adding an unexpected dimension to his character. She didn't want to think he possessed qualities of compassion, generosity or concern. Such traits would punch a gaping hole in her concept of him as a cold-hearted killer and make her personal mission harder than she'd anticipated.

On his way to the newspaper building, Stormwalker recalled his conversation with Alexandra McLaren. She'd granted him a big concession, but that didn't mean he'd won her over. He would have to be careful around her, holding a tight rein on his own anger and allowing her the time she needed to change her mind about him. Her opinion had become important to him. Was it only because he needed her help?

  He stepped inside. The great barn of a building was brightly lit, but the presses were silent. He called out, "Uncle? You here?"