Before Sunrise

TWO 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.

SHE 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.

DRAKE 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.

“You don’t think there’s a chance he was telling the truth?” he asked hesitantly.

“Not a chance on earth,” she said firmly. “Now what do I owe you for those bullets? And you’d better tell me the truth, because I’m calling the local gun shop to ask.”

He grimaced and told her. She wrote him out a check.

“And thank you for the lessons and the loan of the pistol,” she added. “I’m really grateful.”

“No problem. I’d better get back to work. You watch your back,” he added.

She smiled. “Sure.”

THAT EVENING, when Drake got off work, he knocked on the door of the room in a local motel where Cortez was staying.

“Come in,” the older man said, sounding weary.

Drake opened the door. There sat Cortez in a chair in his sock feet, jeans and a black T-shirt with a sleeping toddler sprawled on his broad chest. His hair was loose down his back and he looked as if he’d die for some sleep.

“He’s teething,” Cortez said. “I finally took him to the clinic and got something for the pain. For both of us,” he added without a smile, but with a twinkle in his dark eyes. “What do you want?”

“I brought some information.” He handed the slip of paper to Cortez and watched him unfold it. “That’s what Miss Keller remembers about her conversation with the anthropologist. It was on disk, but I had it transcribed for you.”