Authors: Beverly Barton
Stop this!aninner voice ordered.Do you hear me? Stop borrowing trouble. If something is wrong, you'll find out soon enough. No need to make yourself sick.
Andi found herself in her small kitchen—a bright, light room, with oak cabinets, cream walls and uncurtained windows that overlooked an enclosed backyard.Tea. She'd make herself a cup of herbal tea.
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Within minutes, she removed the cup of water she'd heated in the microwave, added a raspberry tea bag and dunked it several times. She preferred her tea mild and plain.
Now what?she asked herself. Try to read? Listen to music? Watch TV? Finding herself back in the living room, she sat in her favorite seat, an oversize, hunter-green leather chair. She stretched her legs out atop the matching ottoman, took a sip of tea and considered her choices. Glancing at the mantel clock, she decided to catch the late-night news and weather.
The remote lay under a couple of magazines on the side table at her right. After several clicks, she found the local channel. But while she drank her tea, her mind wandered, so she paid little attention to the series of commercials that flickered across the twenty-six-inch screen. Ever since she'd had lunch with Joanna this past week, she'd been thinking about Joe Ornelas. Joanna had casually men-tioned that Joe, her husband J.T.'s cousin, had sent her a baby gift, with a sweet note attached.
"I can't believe he picked out that adorable little frilly dress himself," Joanna had said.
"Maybe his girlfriend chose it," Andi had replied.
"Maybe.But J.T. says that Joe doesn't have anyone special in his life these days."
Yeah, sure.Like she'd believe that.Joe Ornelas wasn't the type to live without a woman. Perhaps there was no one he considered special, but she'd bet every dime of her inheritance that living there in Atlanta, Georgia, Joe had women swarming around him like bees. She figured he probably had to beat them off with a stick. After all, Joe was a hunk. And a lot of women had a penchant for handsome Native Americans.
Oh, great! You're batting a thousand tonight, aren't you,she scolded herself.You go from being disturbed by uneasy feelings to mooning over a man who walked out on you five years ago. Andi Stephens, you need to get a life!
Suddenly the news story on the television caught Andi's attention. She thought she'd heard her brother's name mentioned.Surely, not. The newscaster was talking about a murder case.
After turning up the sound, she focused on the screen. The female news anchor switched over to a live report from the scene of a shooting in Castle Springs, a small town northeast of Gallup and situated within the bound-aries of the Navajo Reservation.
"According to his neighbors, Bobby Yazzi, the murder victim, was believed to be involved in selling drugs," the male news reporter said, while the camera-man gave a wide-angle shot of the victim's apartment and of residents milling around on the street. "Although the police haven't released any information about the murder itself, our sources have told us that some neighbors saw two young men running out of the duplex-apartment and into the alley behind their houses. The police have not confirmed this, nor have they identified the young men, but we're told that the eyewitnesses know who the men are and identified them as Russell Lapahie, Jr. and Eddie Whitehorn, both Navajo youths."
Andi set her tea aside,then listened carefully, trying to absorb every tidbit of information. How was this possible? Whatwere Russ and Eddie doing anywhere near a man like Bobby Yazzi? Russ might be a bit of a hell-raiser, but he really wasn't a bad kid. He was a boy without a father. At sixteen, he was rebelling against his mother, his Native American heritage and anything that even hinted of adult authority.
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Five years ago, her half-brother's life had been vastly altered, just as hers had been, when their father committed suicide. Andi had suspected that Russ wanted to distance himself from what friends and family considered his fa-ther's shame. Now this had happened. What could it mean?
She had to contact Doli. If her stepmother didn't know about this, then Andi would have to be the one to break the news to her.Poor Doli. She'd felt lost and confused trying to raise a strong-willed boy without a man to guide him. She would blame herself for any trouble Russ had landed in this time, as she had numerous times in the past.
"This just in," the newscaster reported. "The police have put out an APB on Russell Lapahie, Jr. and Eddie Whitehorn. Both young men are wanted for questioning in the shooting death of Bobby Yazzi."
Poor boys, Andi thought. They had to be frightened.Scared out of their minds. If they had witnessed the mur-der, then whoever killed Bobby would know that her brother and Eddie could identify him.
Just as Andi stood, the telephone rang. With an un-steady hand, she lifted the receiver.
"Hello."
"Andi, this is J.T.By any chance, have you been watching TV or listening to the radio?''
"Yes, I heard. Russ and Eddie are wanted for ques-tioning." Andi gripped the phone tightly. "What were they doing at Bobby Yazzi's apartment? Neither of themare into drugs."
"I have no idea," J.T. said. "Have you spoken with Doli?"
"No, I was just going to call her, but—Have you spo-ken to Eddie's parents?"
"Yeah."J.T. paused, took a deep breath and continued. "I'm on my way over to Castle Springs now to meet Ed and Kate at the police station. Do you want me to contact Doli?"
"No, I'll call her and then I'll drive over to the reser-vation and stay with her until we find out what's going on.
Andi said goodbye, hung up the receiver and huffed out a long, loud sigh. Her uneasy feeling had proven to be right, once again. Her unerringly accurate premonition of trouble had been fulfilled. That sense of foreboding had, in the past, forecast sickness, death and accidents, usually involving someone close to her. She wished that just this once she could have been wrong.
Russ hot-wired the old truck, a rusty relic from the fifties, but one that purred like a kitten when the motor turned over.
"Damn it, Russ, this is stealing!" Eddie, who sat alongside his friend in the cab of the truck, looked from side to side out the windows,then glanced over his shoul-der.
"Hey, we have to get some kind of transportation, don't we?" Russ shifted gears, eased the truck backward and quickly maneuvered it onto the road. "We can't get very far on foot and we can't keep hiding out here in town. We're taking Mr. Lovato's truck in order to save our lives."
"Yeah, well, the police will call what we're doing stealing."
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"I call it borrowing," Russ reiterated.
On the road out of Castle Springs, they met several trucks and a couple of cars, but traffic was slow and no one followed them. Eddie rolled down a window and the cool night wind whipped his long hair into his face.
He didn't know what the heck he was doing here, on the run with Russ. Everything had happened so fast, too fast for him to think straight, to reason the right and wrong, the good and the bad. If he'd had any sense at all, he'd have vetoed the idea of going to Bobby Yazzi's to pick up some beer. Everybody knew that Bobby could provide not only the drug of your choice, but liquor of any kind to underage drinkers. When Russ's date, Jewel Begay, had made the suggestion to pick up some beer and Russ had agreed, Eddie hadn't wanted to come off sound-ing like some scared little boy. After all, he'd had a date to impress. If Jewel hadn't arranged the double date, he wouldn't have had a prayer of going out with a girl like Martina.Pretty and popular and from a good Navajo family.
When his parents found out he'd been at Bobby Yazzi's, what would they think? God, he hated even imagining their reaction. Their eldest son, of whom they were so proud, involved in a murder!
Russ flipped on the radio and fiddled with the dials, zipping from one station to another, finally settling on one. A country hit whined down to the last stanza,then news on the half hour began.
"There's an update on the murder case we told you about at ten," the announcer said. "Two Navajo youths— Russell Lapahie, Jr. and Eddie Whitehorn, are wanted for questioning in regard to the Bobby Yazzi murder that oc-curred around eight o'clock tonight. Both Lapahie and Whitehorn were seen running from the victim's apartment shortly after neighbors heard several shots fired.
"Lapahie, the son of former Navajo police captain, Russell Lapahie, Sr., is a resident of Castle Springs and well known in town. The other youth, Whitehorn, lives on a sheep ranch between Castle Springs and Trinidad. Police aren't saying if the boys are suspects in the case, but they have issued an APB on the two."
Russ shut off the radio and increased the speed of the truck. "Hell! I knew the police would think I did it.
With my record of trouble making and my father's reputation ruined because your uncle Joe ratted on him, I'm as good as dead."
"The police just want us for questioning," Eddie said.
"I think we should go back, turn ourselves in and tell them what happened."
"Do you honestly think they're going to believe us?"
"They might."
"Yeah, well, even if they do—and I don't think they will—what about the guy who really killed Bobby?
He won't have any trouble killing both of us to keep us quiet."
"Jewel can back up your story. She went in at Bobby's with you."
"Jewel was so scared that she ran, didn't she? She didn't hang around to see if we got out okay. She's not going to want to get involved. She could easily deny hav-ing seen or heard anything, just to cover her own butt."
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As much as Eddie hated to admit that Russ was right, he nodded his head in agreement. Being on the run from the police and from a ruthless killer wasn't what Eddie wanted. But what choice did he have? He couldn't turn against his best friend, could he?
"We're in this together, right?" Russ cut Eddie a side-ways glance.
"Yeah.Right."
Joe Ornelas popped the caps off six bottles, placed the open beer on a tray and carried the refreshments out from behind the bar that separated his compact kitchen from his combination dining and living room.
Hunter Whitelaw and Jack Parker still sat at the table where they'd been playing cards. Matt O'Brien picked up the TV remote and said something about checking ball scores on ESPN. Wolfe stood by the windows, his back to the rest of the Dundee agents, as he stared out into the rainy Atlanta night. Ellen Denby, their boss lady, came toward Joe, smiling.
"Need some help?" she asked.
"Just helpyourself ," he replied, holding the tray out to her. "What's up with Wolfe?" Joe nodded toward the solitary figure by the double windows that overlooked Salle Street. "This is the first time he's taken me up on my offer to play cards. I had begun to think he was avoid-ing our company."
Ellen lifted a bottle from the tray. "He knows all of us a little better than he did a few months ago. I think work-ing closely with you and Hunter on rescuing Egan Cassidy's kid might have helped." Ellen glanced over her shoulder at Wolfe, who seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts. "He's a loner if I ever saw one."
"Where's that beer?" Hunter threw up his hand and motioned to Joe to come to him. "While you're making brownie points with the boss, I'm dying of thirst." Hunter laughed. Long, low, deep, grunting chuckles.
As Joe passed the sofa where Matt sat engrossed in the sportscast, Joe handed him a beer, then headed toward the table. He placed the tray in the center, which only five minutes earlier had held the night's winnings. After Jack and Hunter grabbed their beverages, Joe picked up the two remaining bottles and walked toward the man who had separated himself from the others.
“Beer?''Joe held up a bottle in offering.
Wolfe turned slowly, nodded, accepted the beer and said, "Thanks."
"I'm glad you decided to join us tonight," Joe told him.
"I appreciate your asking me." Wolfe lifted the bottle to his lips and downed a hefty swig.
“Feel free to join us anytime. The players change, de-pending on who's in town, and we rotate apartments. Next week, it's Ellen's turn."
"Uh-huh."
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Joe had thought himself a man of few words, but com-pared to Wolfe he was a regular chatterbox. The others had speculated about the reclusive agent, who'd been with Dundee's Private Security and Investigation less than a year. Unlike the rest of them, who'd been hired by Ellen, Wolfe held the distinction of having been chosen by the owner of the agency, Sam Dundee. No one knew anything about Wolfe—not even Ellen. But she had quickly ascer-tained that the man had undeniable abilities. He was not only an expert marksman, but he hada knowledge of every aspect of the business, from weapons to strategy, from equipment to psychology.
"Damn!" Matt jumped up from the sofa. "I just lost fifty bucks on the Braves game."
"That's what you get for gambling," Ellen said.
"Look who's talking," Matt told her. "You lost thirty dollars tonight playing cards. Hell, add the fifty I lost on the ball game to the forty-five I lost here and I'm nearly a hundred dollars poorer."
"We had no idea what an expert card player Wolfe was," Hunter said. "He took us all to the cleaners."
"Are you sure you've never been a professional?" Matt asked, looking directly at Wolfe.
Wolfe shook his head. "No."
"Ah, the guy's just good at cards, the way he is at everything else." Hunter rose from his chair to his full six-four height.