Warrior's Embrace (60 page)

“Eagle Mingo here.”

Bruce thanked his lucky stars for the
governor’s open-door policy that made him accessible, even in his
own home.

“I know how the toxic chemicals got into
Witch Creek.”

“Who is this?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, Governor.”
No one would ever know. And by tomorrow he’d be so long gone that
no one would ever find him. “Will you listen to what I have to
say?”

“I’m listening.”

As Bruce Graden began to talk, he knew that
he might be signing his own death warrant.

Kate settled into an easy chair with a cup of
coffee then switched on the ten o’clock news. A dark, angry face
filled the screen, shouting, “Clip Eagle’s wings.”

Kate reached for the remote control to turn
up the volume. Pickets milled around the governor’s office, waving
signs and screaming.

“Who will feed our children?”

“Who will buy our shoes?”

“Eagle Mingo, unfair to labor.”

The camera panned the crowd, and Kate leaned
forward, riveted. One dark man stood out in the crowd, a part of it
and yet strangely remote from the bedlam.

The face was vaguely familiar, but before
Kate could be certain, the camera had switched to Gracie Wood,
reporter for ADTV. Bundled against the cold in a red wool coat and
scarf, she stood outside the state house, holding a microphone in
her gloved hands. Snow swirled around her.

“In what is perhaps the first unpopular
decision of his career, Governor Eagle Mingo some weeks ago ordered
the closing of the tool and die plant on Witch Creek. Rumors that
the closure is permanent have fueled tempers and sparked the riots
you see here at the state house. The governor is in his office in
conference with attorneys, and we’re expecting him to emerge any
minute.”

In the background the picketers shouted, “We
want jobs. We want jobs.”

The camera panned back to Gracie Wood ...and
Eagle Mingo.

“Governor, the jobless are picketing your
office. Would you care to comment?”

“I regret any hardships placed on the
employees of the Witch Dance Tool and Die Plant, but I will not be
moved by strong-arm tactics. The major concern of this office is
cleaning up the toxic waste and ensuring that the tragic deaths
that occurred this summer will never happen again.”

“Are you filing charges against Witch Dance
Tool and Die?”

“No comment.”

“Two of the children were from your own
family. Is that not correct, Governor?”

Stone Face, Eagle’s political enemies called
him. But there was nothing stony about his face now. Pain etched
his features and flickered briefly in his eyes.

Kate couldn’t bear to watch, couldn’t bear to
listen. Quickly she flipped the TV off then went into the kitchen
to find some food.

A head of wilted lettuce and two shriveled
carrots stared back at her from the refrigerator. Though she had no
appetite, she knew she had to eat. She couldn’t keep up her pace
without food. Rummaging in the crisper, she found two slices of ham
left over from the days of Mark Grant.

What was he doing now? Did he miss her? Did
anybody miss her?

A wave of loneliness struck her so hard, she
leaned her head against the refrigerator. Loneliness and anguish.
All those little children, all those little graves. And it wasn’t
over yet. Who knew how many children had played in Witch Creek, how
many new cases would crop up over the next few months?

Sometimes she felt inadequate for the task
she’d set for herself. She took two deep breaths to ward off the
helpless, hopeless feeling.

“Snap out of it, Katie Elizabeth, or soon
you’re going to be having a pity party.”

With her chin jutted out, she grabbed the ham
and a jar of mayonnaise and marched to her bread box. Setting the
ham on the kitchen counter, she lifted the lid. The jar of
mayonnaise slid from her hand and crashed to the floor. Sticky goo
spattered over her shoes, and a large shard of glass ricocheted off
the floor and cut her leg.

Kate never noticed.

Inside the box lay a cloth doll with red
hair. Its neck had been sliced and blood had been smeared on the
front of its dress. With trembling hands Kate lifted the effigy.
The blood was real ...and the hair.

Violent shivers overtook her. Someone had
been in her house, someone who hated her. Still holding the doll,
she hugged herself hard to keep the shivers from becoming
convulsions.

A glimpse of white at the bottom of the bread
box caught her eye. Kate leaned over so she could read it without
touching it.

You’re next, witch.

The note was scrawled in blood.

Kate dropped the doll on top of the note and
slammed the lid of the bread box shut. Outside her window a
whippoorwill called. Or was it a signal of some kind? She knew that
many of the Chickasaws were excellent at bird imitations.

The hair at the back of her neck stood on
end. The darkness had eyes.

Moving methodically, she checked the locks on
all the doors and windows and lowered all the shades. In the safety
of her bedroom she sat huddled in the middle of the bed. Wind
moaned around the eaves, and the old house creaked and groaned.
Funny, how she’d never noticed the noises before. Now every one
raised prickles on her skin.

Something clattered against the side of the
house, and she jerked, covering her mouth with her hands. The
banging noise came again. Tiptoeing, she peeked through the
shade.

A loose shutter. She remembered now. Mark had
noticed it last week.

In the growing darkness the objects in her
room loomed large, took on a life of their own. Had she left her
robe hanging on the chair like that? And her high-heeled shoes? She
remembered kicking them off the day before, and now they sat side
by side, perfectly aligned, like soldiers waiting to go to war.

The antique wardrobe in the corner was big
enough to hide a full-grown man. Kate jerked the door open so hard,
she set the clothes swinging on the rack. The silky skirts
whispered against each other, then settled into place. She reached
inside and felt into the dark recesses of the wardrobe.

Nothing there. She was letting herself get
spooked.

She jerked up her pajamas and marched into
the bathroom, careful to lock the door. Bathed and dressed for bed,
she sat down at the vanity and reached for her hairbrush. It was
not there.

Pushing away the panic that threatened, she
began a methodical search. She had misplaced it. That was all.
People with too much on their minds frequently misplaced
things.

The hairbrush was nowhere in the bathroom,
nowhere in the bedroom. At last, emotionally exhausted with the
search, Kate turned back the covers. And there on her pillow was
her hairbrush. It lay on a black silk cloth. All the hair had been
carefully plucked from the bristles and arranged in a red circle
upon the black silk.

Another white note was pinned to the silk:
Your tormentor sees all, knows all. Nothing is safe from
me.

Kate stifled the screams she felt welling in
her throat. She felt violated.

Outside her window the mournful call of the
whippoorwill sounded once more. Moving swiftly and surely, Kate
went to the wardrobe and took down a gun.

Someone wanted her dead, but she had no
intention of being an easy target.

When the land grew weary with strife,

The Great Spirit sent rains to wash away the
blood and winds to blow away the anguish.

From the center of Father Sky came a bright
light, shining on all the earth’s people.

And into the light flew the Eagle, his great
wings outstretched, protecting the pride and the spirit and the
honor of a nation.

Martin Black Elk had been in police work for
twenty-five years, serving the last ten as chief of tribal police,
but he’d never seen tracks covered as well as those of the intruder
who came into Dr. Kate Malone’s house. Except for the things he’d
meant to leave behind—the notes, the circle of hair, the black
cloth, and the doll— there was nothing.

“Do you think you can find out who did
this?”

The dark circles under her eyes were evidence
of a sleepless night, but otherwise Dr. Malone looked as if she
would personally deal with the next person who came to her house
uninvited. Her voice was firm and her chin was high. She was
packing a gun, too. That was the first thing he’d noticed. She was
some gutsy woman.

But then, he already knew that. She’d fought
like a tiger to save his grandson’s life. That’s one reason he
didn’t mind giving up his Saturday morning.

“It’s going to be hard, Dr. Malone. Whoever
did it didn’t leave me much to go on. I’d like a list of people you
think might have a reason to do this.”

“That list would include just about everybody
in Witch Dance.”

Martin stuffed the notebook back into his
pocket. What she said was true. She’d had enemies from the day she
started building the clinic, and there were people out of work at
the tool and die plant who hated her.

“I’m going to do my best to find the perp. In
the meantime, don’t talk to the press. I’d like to keep this out of
the papers.”

“I have every confidence that you’ll find
him.”

“For you, I’ll move heaven and earth. I owe
you for saving Graham.”

“I did only what any other doctor would
do.”

“You went beyond the call of duty. A man
doesn’t forget things like that.”

She shivered as she glanced at the evidence
bag.

“It’s probably a prank.” She didn’t look as
if she believed what she was saying.

“I wouldn’t count on it. Too much is
happening in Witch Dance right now, and you’ve been right in the
center. You’ve made enemies.” He nodded at the gun on the end table
beside the sofa. “Do you know how to use that thing?”

“Right now I know enough to hit the side of a
barn, but when I’ve finished practicing, I’ll be able to give you a
run for your money.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Black Elk gathered the
evidence in bags and headed for the door. “Call me if anything else
turns up, Kate.”

“You bet.”

“And, Kate ...be careful.”

When Black Elk got back to his office, he
examined the evidence once more. The circle of hair was the most
disturbing, and the most telling. The sacred circle. The medicine
wheel. What goes around comes around. Kate’s would-be assailant was
out for revenge ...and he knew the Chickasaw culture.

Unconquered and unconquerable.

Whoever was after her wouldn’t stop until he
got what he wanted ...and he wanted Kate Malone dead.

o0o

Twelve empty soup cans were lined up on the
fence posts behind Kate’s cottage. Standing with her feet apart and
the gun in both hands, she squinted one eye and took aim. The loud
report made her ears ring and sent a crow squawking toward the
sky.

She opened her eye and counted the cans.
Twelve.

“Damn,” she said.

She shifted her stance and took aim once
more. The bullet twanged against the steel trough, and water
spurted out the hole.

“Hell’s bells. Who could do anything with
this damned coat on?”

She jerked off her coat, tossed it across the
fence then resumed her position.

In quick succession she got off four shots.
All the cans were standing.

“If you think I’m giving up, you’re sadly
mistaken.”

This is what being scared had reduced her to:
talking to tin cans. She reloaded her gun and took aim at the
carrot soup can. It hadn’t been fit to eat. Maybe her father had
been right when he’d said she ought to learn to make carrot
soup.

“Prepare to die,” she said, and then with
both eyes open she squeezed off a shot.

The twang of a solid hit rang in the still,
cold air as the carrot soup can became airborne.

Mick Malone would have celebrated with a good
Cuban cigar. But then ...Mick Malone wasn’t around to see her
triumph.

With her jaw set, Kate stood back and took
aim at the pea soup.

The watcher on the hillside smiled, knowing
his time was about to come.

o0o

Shameless. That’s what she was.

Only her second date with Eagle Mingo, and
already Deborah was trying to maneuver him toward bed. She was
succeeding, too. Partially.

He hadn’t sounded too enthusiastic about a
Saturday horseback ride, though she knew that was one of his
favorite pastimes; but he hadn’t declined either. She guessed that
was a good sign.

And now, windswept, chilled, and surfeited
with racing, she was making her way into his house. If rumor could
be trusted, he considered his house off limits to women. Some said
he eased his sexual ache with a woman in Tulsa, but others said he
hadn’t had a woman since Kate Malone, that he was celibate, like
some kind of priest worshipping at her shrine.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He bent to stoke the fire. She’d hoped for
something else. Moving close, she held her hands out to the blaze.
The heat from the fire warmed her skin, but it couldn’t compare to
the sexual heat that warmed her body.

Eagle glanced up, and Deborah held her breath
under his solemn regard. Without changing expression he reached for
her. She went into his arms in slow motion, wondering, now that she
had come this far, how she would ever fight the ghost of Kate
Malone.

She’d had many beaus in her time, but she’d
never been kissed by an expert like Eagle Mingo. If his heart was
not in the kiss, she couldn’t tell. Nor did she want to. All she
wanted was to be swept on the wave of sensation all the way to his
bed.

Heady with love and excitement, she was only
vaguely aware of having her blouse unbuttoned, barely conscious of
being led away from the fire and down the hall. But suddenly she
saw his bed, and she knew she was in the inner sanctum, a place
where no woman had been allowed.