Before Sunrise (7 page)

The next morning, she was just finishing her small breakfast when she heard the sound of a truck coming down her long dirt driveway. Jock, her black chow, was barking loudly from his vigil on the front porch.

Phoebe went onto the porch in sock feet, jeans and a sweatshirt, a cup of coffee in one hand. Drake drove up in a black truck and parked at the steps.

“Got some more coffee?” he asked as he dragged out of the truck in boots, jeans, and a black T-shirt under a black and red flannel shirt. “I need fortifying. I've just been flayed, filleted and grilled by the FBI!”

P
HOEBE STARED AT HIM
. “The FBI?” she asked warily.

“Your buddy Cortez,” he replied, following her inside. He'd been wearing dark glasses, but he folded them and tucked them into his shirt pocket. He sat down heavily at her kitchen table. “That man would intimidate a timber rattler!” he exclaimed.

“What did he want to know?”

Drake gave her a wry glance as he poured cream in the coffee she'd given him. “We could make a list of the things he didn't want to know—it would be shorter. I gather you told him I was giving you shooting lessons?”

She grimaced. “Sorry. I did.”

“He doesn't think you'll shoot another person regardless of the incentive,” he added.

Her jaw fell. She wanted to argue with that premise, but she couldn't.

He shrugged. “I had to agree. Sorry,” he added wryly.

“I'm a wimp. What can I say?” She sighed. “But I think I might be able to shoot to wound somebody.”

“That would probably cost you your life. We're talking split seconds here, not deliberating time.”

She studied him curiously. He'd looked very young when he was coming by her office to check on things, but in the morning light, she realized that he was older than she'd first thought.

He gave her a grin. “You're thinking I've aged. I have. Cortez put ten years on me. See these gray hairs?” He indicated his temples. “They're from last night.”

“He's a little abrasive,” she agreed.

“A little abrasive,” he muttered. “Right. And the Smoky Mountains are little hills.” He traced the rim of his coffee mug. It was faded, like most of her dinnerware, but serviceable. “Obviously you've met him before.”

She nodded. “He's a sort-of friend,” she said evasively.

“He knew you were here before he ever came to investigate the murder,” he said abruptly.

Her eyes widened with surprise. “How?”

“He didn't say. But he's worried about you. He can't seem to hide it.”

She didn't know how to take that. She stared at her coffee cup.

“Most people who come to small towns like this—people who aren't born here—are trying to get away from something that hurts them,” he said slowly. “Marie and I figured that's why you're here.”

She lifted the cup to her mouth and took a sip, ignoring the sting of heat.

“And now I understand the reason,” he added with pursed lips. “It's about six foot one and has the cuddly personality of a starving black bear.”

She laughed softly.

“I could think up lots more adjectives, but they wouldn't suit the company,” he mused. He shook his head. “Damn, that man goes for the jugular. I'll bet he's good at his job.”

“He was a federal prosecutor when I knew him,” she revealed. “And he was good at it.”

“He went voluntarily from a desk job to beating the bushes for lawbreakers?” he asked, surprised. “What would make a man do that?”

“Beats me. Maybe his wife didn't like living in D.C.”

He was still for a few seconds. “He's married?”

She nodded.

“Poor woman!” he exclaimed with heartfelt compassion.

She laughed in spite of the pain.

“That explains the kid, I guess,” he mused.

“What kid?” she asked, feeling her heart break all over again.

“He's got a little boy with him. They're staying in a motel in town. I noticed a woman going in and out—the baby-sitter, I suppose. He didn't treat her like the kid's mother.”

“A boy or a girl?” She had to know.

“A boy. About two years old,” he replied. “Cute little boy. Laughs a lot. Loves his dad.”

Phoebe couldn't picture Cortez with a child. But it explained why he might have married in such a rush. No wonder he hadn't been interested in going to bed with her, when he already had a woman in his life. He could have told her…

“I brought a target with me,” he interrupted her thoughts. “I thought we could draw Cortez's face on it.”

She laughed.

“That's better,” he said, smiling at her. “You don't laugh much.”

“I'd given it up until you came along,” she replied.

“Time you started back. Come on. The coffee was good, by the way. I'm particular about coffee.”

“Me, too,” she agreed. “I live on it.”

He led her to his truck. He reached in and pulled out a wheel gun, a .38 caliber revolver. “This is easier to use than an automatic,” he told her. “It's forgiving. The only downside is that you only get six shots. So you have to learn not to miss.”

“I don't know if I can hold a pistol steady anymore,” she said dubiously.

He pulled out a target shaped like a man's head and torso. “We'll work on that.”

She frowned. “I thought targets had circles inside circles.”

“In law enforcement, we use these,” he replied solemnly. “If we ever get into a shootout, we need to be able to place shots in a small pattern.”

The target brought home the danger she was in, and the unpleasant thought that she might have to put a bullet in another human being.

“In World War I, they noticed that the soldiers were deliberately aiming over or past the enemy soldiers when they shot at them,” he told her. “So they stopped using conventional targets and started using these.” He stuck it in the ground in front of a high bank, moved back to her, opened the chamber and started dropping bullets in. When he had six in the chamber, he closed it.

“It's a double action revolver. That means if you squeeze the trigger, it fires. The trigger is tight, so you'll
have to use some strength to make it work.” He handed it to her and showed her how to hold it, with the butt and trigger in her right hand while she supported the gun with her left hand.

“This is awkward,” she murmured.

“It's a lot to get used to. Just point it at the target and pull the trigger. Allow for it to kick up a little. Sight down the barrel. Line it up with the tip on the end of the barrel. Now fire.”

She hesitated, afraid of the noise.

“Oops. I forgot. Here.”

He took the pistol, opened the chamber, laid it on a fallen log. Then he dug into his pocket for two pairs of foam earplugs.

“You roll these into cones and stick them in your ears,” he instructed. “They'll dull the noise so it doesn't bother you. Honest.”

She watched him and parroted his actions. He picked up the pistol, closed the chamber, and handed it back to her with a nod.

She still hesitated.

He took it from her, pointed it at the target and pulled the trigger.

To her surprise, the noise wasn't loud at all. She smiled and took the pistol back from him. She squeezed off five
shots. Three of them went into the center of the target in a perfect pattern.

“See what you can do when you try? Let's go again,” he said with a grin and began to reload it.

 

T
WO HOURS LATER
, she felt comfortable with the gun. “Are you sure you won't get in trouble for loaning me this?” she asked.

“I'm sure.” He looked around her property. The house was all alone on a dirt road. There were mountains behind them and a small stream flowing beyond the yard. There were no close neighbors.

“I know it's isolated,” she said. “But I've got Jock.”

He glanced toward the dog, lying asleep on the porch. “You need something bigger.”

“He has big teeth,” she assured him.

“Would you consider moving to town?”

She shook her head. “I refuse to run scared…and I love the peace and solitude out here.”

He grimaced. “Well, I'll see what I can come up with for protection.”

“On your budget? They'll suggest a string attached to a lot of bells,” she replied with a chuckle.

“Don't I know it. But I'll work on it. Listen, if you need me, you just call. The sheriff's department can find me, anytime.”

He was really concerned. It made her feel warm. “Thanks, Drake. I really mean it,” she added.

“What are friends for?” he teased. “Oh. Almost forgot.” He opened the truck and handed her two boxes of shells. “That should do the trick.”

“You have to tell me how much it is. I'm not letting you buy my ammunition,” she added firmly. “I get a salary, too, you know.”

“It's probably less than mine,” he muttered.

“We'll have to compare notes sometime. Go on. Tell me.”

“I'll tell you Monday,” he promised. “See you at your office. Okay?”

“Okay. Thanks again.”

“No problem. You keep your doors locked and that dog inside with you,” he added. “He's no good to you if somebody gets to him first.”

“Good point.” She nodded.

He gave her a last concerned look, climbed into his truck and waved as he sped off down the road, leaving a trail of dust behind him.

Phoebe opened the chamber of the pistol, stuck the ammunition in her pockets, and went back inside with Jock right beside her.

 

S
HE WASN'T REALLY AFRAID
until night came. Then every small sound became magnified in her head. She heard
footsteps. She heard voices. Once, she fancied she heard singing, in Cherokee of all things!

She gave up trying to sleep about five in the morning, got up and made coffee. She sat at the kitchen table with her head in her hands, and suddenly remembered the file she'd made at her office about things she recalled from her conversation with the murder victim. She'd meant to bring it home and give it to Drake, and she'd forgotten. She'd have to try to remember when he came by her office.

There was an odd sound in the distance again, like soft singing, in Cherokee. Puzzled, she got up and went to the door and looked out, but there was nothing there. She laughed to herself. She must be going nuts.

Phoebe left for work a half hour early. As she pulled out onto the main highway, she had a glimpse of an SUV parked on the side of the road opposite her driveway. A man was sitting in it, looking at a map. In the old days, she'd have stopped and asked if he needed help finding something. Now, she didn't dare.

She drove to the museum with her mind only half on the highway. She wondered if she should call her aunt and tell her what was going on. But Derrie would only worry and try to make her quit the job and move to Washington. She wasn't willing to do that. She was making a life for herself here.

When she got into her office, she pulled up the small file she'd written, detailing her conversation with the dead man, and she printed it out. As an afterthought, she copied it onto a floppy disk and put it in a plastic case for Drake. Perhaps something she recalled would help the investigation and solve the crime.

She was inclined to discount the man's story about Neanderthal remains, however. If there had been such a presence anywhere in North America, surely it would have been discovered in the past century.

 

D
RAKE STOPPED BY LATE
that afternoon with news about the investigation.

“The FBI guy may be a scoundrel, but he's sure at the top of his game professionally,” he remarked with an impressed smile. “He's already turned up some interesting clues.” He held up a hand. “I really can't tell you,” he said at once, anticipating questions. “I'm in enough trouble already.”

“For what?” she asked, aghast.

“It would take too long to tell you. I've asked the guys to do an extra patrol out your way at night,” he added. “Just in case.”

“Thanks. I owe you for the bullets,” she said. “And I've got something for you.”

He followed her into her office with a puzzled smile. “For me?”

“Well, for you and the FBI, really,” she had to confess, handing him a folded piece of paper and the CD. “It's every little detail I could recall about what the man said, how he sounded, background noise, and so forth. It's not much, but it may trigger some sort of connection when you know more about him.”

He was reading while she was talking. “Hey, this is pretty good,” he said, nodding. “You've got a good ear.”

“I don't go down the road playing my radio so loud that people's houses shake,” she replied, mentioning a pet peeve. “And when someone finally tells those people that they're risking not only hearing loss but actual brain damage at those high sound levels, there will be lawsuits.”

“Amen,” he seconded, chuckling.

“Anyway, I hope those notes help catch whoever did it. Nobody should be killed for being a little crazy,” she said.