Wormhole (The Rho Agenda #3)(63)

A low rumble in the distance was accompanied by a gust of wind in the rafters. Soon the downpour would send sheets of water from the thatched roof to join the small flood that would roll below the stilted huts, temporarily isolating the Quechan village more completely than normal. Janet rose to stand in the doorway, staring out at the gathering clouds. As the first fat drops splattered against her face, she turned her gaze to the north. Despite the ferocity of the rain forest weather, north was where the real storm was gathering. And it was likely to be a violent one.





The two-lane road needed repaving, the high desert threatening to reclaim it from civilization at any moment. It was one of many stretches of highway in need of such improvement on the Santa Clara Indian Reservation. But it wasn’t the potholes or cracks in the pavement that occupied Tall Bear’s attention, it was the beat-up white F-150 that had pulled out onto the road a quarter mile in front of him.

The vehicle could have been any one of a thousand such vehicles in this part of the country, a big four-wheel-drive pickup that had seen hard usage in rough country, the bed sagging under the memory of too many heavy loads dropped roughly atop its steel frame. Nothing unusual there. But the way it weaved back and forth across the center line brought Tall Bear’s blood to a slow boil. Not that morning drunkenness was an unusual sight here on the res; it was that this was an all-too-common occurrence that grated on him.

Switching on his lights and siren, Tall Bear closed in on the truck’s rear bumper, pleasantly surprised to see it pull over and stop along the deserted highway’s right shoulder without crashing into anything. A glance at the rear of the truck brought two things to Tall Bear’s attention. It had a heavy-duty towing package, but no license plate.

Opening his door and stepping out onto the pavement, Tall Bear approached the driver’s door, his right hand resting lightly on the butt of his Colt .45. The driver’s window was rolled all the way down, the man’s left arm resting on the window frame as calmly as if he’d just pulled up at a McDonald’s drive-through. The arm, extending from a black T-shirt sleeve, was darkly tanned and so ripped with lean muscle it appeared to have been chiseled from stone. The upper part of the man’s face was hidden by the broad brim of his hat.

“Let me see your driver’s license and proof of insurance.”

“Sorry, Officer, I must have gotten off without them.”

Something about the voice gave him pause. “Step out of the truck and keep your hands where I can see them.”

The man opened the door and stepped out to face Tall Bear. Just over six feet tall, the man wore a black T-shirt, tucked into jeans over lace-up combat boots, that emphasized a physique that matched his arms. Again Tall Bear had the impression of someone completely at ease, a feeling that didn’t match the man’s current situation.

Still unable to see all of the guy’s face due to the hat and the downward tilt of his head, Tall Bear let a hard edge creep into his voice.

“Look me in the eye when I talk to you.”

As the man tilted his head slowly upward, his voice carried a note of amusement. “Now, Jim. Is that any way to talk to an old friend?”

With the shock of sudden recognition, Tall Bear found himself staring directly into Jack Gregory’s smiling face.

Recovering with a remarkable swiftness, Tall Bear stepped forward to grip Jack’s hand. “Jack, you crazy son of a bitch! I thought you’d be smart enough to stay out of this country.”

“Guess I’ve never been that bright.”

“What the hell are you doing out here on this back road?”

“Waiting for you to drive by and catch me. Calling didn’t seem like such a great idea. Got somewhere we can have a private talk?”

“Lots of privacy out here on the res. Even got a place we can sit on a couch and have a beer.”

Jack grinned. “I could go for that. You sure your place isn’t bugged?”

“I’m not talking about my house. A buddy of mine went to visit family in Arizona. I’m watching his place while he’s gone.”

“And his beer?”

“You got it.”

“All right. I’ll follow you.”

Eddy Castillo’s house wasn’t anything fancy, a double-wide a few miles north of town with a steel carport sitting off to one side, a fenced backyard with some greenish-brown grass. Leading Jack inside, Tall Bear motioned to the couch as he opened the fridge.

“Take a load off.”

Returning with two ice-cold Buds, Tall Bear handed one to Jack and plopped down beside him. “How’s Janet?”

“Looking fine, as usual.”

Tall Bear laughed. “And the baby?”

“Beautiful baby boy. Robert Brice Gregory. We call him Robby.”

“So you finally strapped on some huevos and married her?”

“I did. Married her in a church in Puyo, Equador. Right before I came back here.”

“Damn, that’s fine. Wish I’d been there.”

“Me too.”

Jack raised the can to his lips, pausing to feel the cold condensation before dribbling the amber fluid into his mouth. As he lowered it once more, his smile returned. “By the way, I understand congratulations are in order. President of the Navajo Nation?”

“Not yet. I get sworn in next week.”