1 The Two Sisters Brutal Murder

The Two Sisters Brutal Murder

By

Robert Grasham William

Falcon Publishing

CHAPTER 1

"Kiss, kiss." Sara kissed the air in the general direction of her twin sister's cheeks. "I've ordered an Italian white wine. Crisp, light, and not too fruity according to the waiter who was. Fruity, that is. Speaking of, here he comes."

Andrea sat down across from her. The waiter served her glass of Pinot Grigio, spilling some of it over his hand as his shaved head swiveled back and forth between them. "Oh, my goodness gracious!"

"We're identical," Andrea said, sparing him from asking. "I'm speechless. The resemblance is positively flabbergasting."

Sara gave him a frosty smile. "My sister would like to place a drink order please. If it's convenient."

Her tone of voice which had been as Crisp as the wine got his attention. "Certainly," he said practically clicking his heels. "Forgive, forgive. Madam?"

"Club soda. Lots of ice wedge of lime please."

"I'll be back prontomente with your drink and to recite today's specials."

"I can hardly wait" Sara muttered as he glided away.

Andrea leaned forward and whispered "Is prontomente a word?"

"Is flabbergasting?"

The sisters laughed together. "I'm glad to see you smiling" Andrea remarked. "When I got here you looked grumpy enough to snarl."

"I am a little cranky" Sara admitted. "I had to drive an author to the airport this morning in time for a five fifty-eight flight. Five fifty-eight! I know publicists book flights at those ungodly hours just to provoke us media escorts."

"Who was the early bird? Anybody interesting?"

"Forgot her name. First book. Treating Your Children Like Pets. Subtitled With Amazing Results."

"Two-year-olds are sitting up and barking on command?" "I don't know. I didn't read it. But someone is. It's currently number three on the New York Times bestseller list." "You're kidding."

"Swear to God. If it's gimmicky enough it'll sell. Nowadays even I could write a book. It's just that I can't think of anything interesting to write about." She thought it over for a second or two. "Maybe about the famous and infamous I've met and barely tolerated for a day. But then I'd probably be sued."

The waiter returned with Andrea's club soda and a tiny silver basket of bread. He recited his elaborate spiel which was more about adjectives than food and retreated in a huff when they ordered avocado halves stuffed with shrimp salad off the printed menu.

Sara offered the basket to Andrea, who broke open a quarter-size biscuit spiked with pecan bits. "What about being an identical twin? You could write about that."

"There's too much material there. The field would need to be narrowed."

"Being dressed alike versus not?"

"Possibly."

"Competing for parental attention?"

"Better. How about connecting through preternatural telepathy?"

Sara eyed Andrea over the rim of her wineglass as she sipped from it.

"Which leads me to note that my twin seems awfully introspective today. What's up?"

Before answering, Andrea polished off the biscuit and dusted flour from her fingertips. "I did it."

"You know." Self-consciously she lowered her voice. "What I've been contemplating for the past few months."

Sara nearly strangled on the excellent Italian import. Her eyes, smoke-colored replicas of Andrea's, lowered in the direction of Andrea's lap, but it was out of sight beneath the table.

Andrea laughed. "You can't tell by looking. Not yet, anyway. I came straight here from the clinic."

"You mean today? Just now? I could be an aunt-in-the making as we speak?"

Again Andrea laughed. "I suppose so. If the little guys are doing what they're supposed to do going where they're supposed to go swimming upstream."

"My God, Andrea." She took another quick sip of wine. "You actually did it? You did it. You're acting so... normal. So relaxed."

"Then the gynecologist would be pleased. He had the nerve to tell me to relax. As if I could. For one thing the stirrups were cold as ice hardly conducive to relaxation. For another, this was the culmination of months of debate. It wasn't a decision I made lightly."

Artificial insemination using donor sperm. Andrea had been weighing the pros and cons for months. Sara was confident that her twin had spent hours soul-searching, but she couldn't help nursing a few ambiguities of her own. "Did you consider it from every angle Andrea?"

"I think. I hope. Although there are probably angles I didn't think of."

Those unthought-of angles worried Sara, but she kept her concerns to herself.

"Sometimes I became so ambivalent I was tempted to reject the idea altogether. I wanted to deny it had ever occurred to me and forget about it. But once the idea took hold I couldn't shake it."

"That's a good sign. When something grabs us like that it's usually for a good reason."

"Physically there was no deterrent. I'm in perfect health. I read everything I could get my hands on about alternative methods of conception. The more I read, the more conflicted I became. Honestly, I even tried talking myself out of it."

"And?"

"And I couldn't come up with a reason not to." She grinned happily. "So I did it."

"Did you use the Waters Clinic?"

Andrea nodded. "They have a high success rate a solid reputation. I liked the doctor. He was very kind. Patient. Explained everything in detail. I made an educated decision."

And it was clear from the glow on her face that she was delighted with it. "I can't believe you didn't tell me. I would have gone with you if you'd asked. Held your hand. Lent some kind of support."

"I know you support me Sara. You and Jem were the only two people I discussed it with. I'm sorry I didn't inform you of my decision. But Sara ..." Her eyes went liquid with appeal. "Please understand. I filtered your and Jem's opinions and viewpoints through your respective biases."

"I—"

"Hear me out please. When all was said and done when all the votes were in I was the one inseminated. If it's successful, I'll carry the fetus and have the child. So the decision was mine to make. Alone. I wanted to tell you. But once my mind was finally made up I didn't want it—"

"Changed."

"Or even questioned."

"I respect that. I do." She underscored it by reaching for Andrea's hand and giving it a quick squeeze. "Was Jem there?" "No."

"I still can't believe it" Sara said, taking another quick peek toward her tummy. "How do they...? How is it actually...?"

"Yesterday, a self-administered urine test indicated a hormone surge meaning that I would be ovulating within twenty-four to thirty-six hours. I called the clinic and booked the appointment. It's very clinical. They use an intrauterine catheter."

Sara listened spellbound as Andrea talked her through the procedure. "Did it hurt?"

"Not at all."

"Where'd the sperm come from?"

"Where do you think?"

Sara grinned. "I meant geographically."

"The Waters Clinic has its own sperm bank but they'd rather not use a specimen acquired locally on a local patient." "Good thinking."

"Mine came from a very reputable sperm bank in California. The specimen arrived this morning packed in dry ice. Then it was thawed and washed—"

"Excuse me?"

"That's the term. The semen is mixed with a protein and spun in a centrifuge so that what is drawn into the catheter is..." She laughed. "Sperm concentrate, I guess you could say."

"I can think of a thousand jokes all of which shall go unvoiced."

"Thanks for that."

"Do you feel any differently?"

"Not at all. I actually dozed afterward. I had to remain lying down for about half an hour. Next thing I knew, the nurse was back in the examination room asking me to dress and join the doctor in his office. He gave me a pep talk about their success rate and told me not to get discouraged if it didn't work this time and then I left and drove straight here."

Satisfied with Andrea's reassurance, Sara sat back in her chair and stared into the face identical to her own. "My, my. It's positively flabbergasting." After they'd shared another laugh at the waiter's expense, she said "Seems to me the trickiest part would be peeing on that little strip of paper."

"It did require a certain amount of skill. I was getting pretty good at it."

"And frankly..." Sara broke off and waved her hands in front of her as though erasing the unfinished sentence. "Never mind. I shouldn't say anything."

Andrea, however, already knew what her sister was thinking. "You were about to say that you prefer the old-fashioned method of insemination."

Sara shot an imaginary pistol at her. "You know me well."

"Daddy always said we share the same brain."

"Call me slutty" Sara said, giving an exaggerated shrug "but I prefer flesh and blood to catheters and stirrups. Cold metal just doesn't have the same appeal as a warm chest and hairy legs rubbing against mine under the covers. Not to mention the sexual apparatus."

"Please! Don't mention the sexual apparatus."

"Didn't you miss the heavy breathing? That marvelous buildup? That 'Oh, my God, life is beautiful' feeling? Just a little?"

"It's not about sex. I didn't do this for the thrill. I did it to make a baby."

Sara sobered. "I'm just teasing." Folding her arms on the table she said seriously "The underlying, fundamental truth of it is that you want a child."

"That's right. That's the underlying fundamental truth of it."

"Good for you" she said giving Andrea a fond smile. After a reflective moment she added "Too bad Jem is firing blanks. You could have one-stop shopped. Sex and baby-making in one."

The waiter arrived with their order. The food was garnished with fresh pansies and was almost too pretty to eat. Using her fork Andrea toyed with the tiny purple blossom atop her scoop of shrimp salad. "Jem had his vasectomy long before he ever met me."

"Which I take as good fortune." Sara raised her wineglass in a silent salute. "He's a stick."

"Sara," Andrea said reprovingly.

"Sorry." But she wasn't, and Andrea knew the apology was insincere. "But he is a dud Andrea. He doesn't make you happy."

"That's not true. I'm happy."

"Really? You don't seem over-the-moon in love to me. Unless I've missed something. Have I?"

"Apparently. Because I do love Jem."

Sara raised her eyebrow to form a skeptical arch.

"I do," Andrea insisted. "But what relationship is perfect? One can't have everything in a neat and tidy package. It's asking too much of any one person to fulfill all your needs and desires."

"In your case a baby. You've wanted one since you were a child yourself. You played with dolls while I favored skates." "Do you still want to be in the Roller Derby?"

"Yes, and I'm pissed because they switched to in-line skates, which is much harder."

Andrea laughed. "Sometimes Mother could tell us apart only by looking at our knees."

"Mine were the ones with the scabs." They laughed at shared memories but gradually Sara's smile relaxed. "If Jem's sterility is the obstacle to your having a perfect relationship ask him to have the vasectomy reversed."

"I broached it once. He wouldn't even talk about it." "Then how has he reacted to your decision?"

"Surprisingly well. In fact, whenever I expressed doubt he encouraged me to go through with it."

"Hmm." Sara was surprised to hear that. "Well, as I've said many times before he's a weird duck."

"Let's not talk about Jem. Whenever we talk about Jem, we get into an argument and I don't want anything to spoil today. On the topic of Jem, let's agree to disagree. Okay?"

"Fine by me."

They ate in silence for a moment before Sara said, "Just one more point." Andrea groaned, but she spoke above it. "If the procedure is successful and you do conceive it'll be an acid test of Jem's love."

"I've thought of that."

"Beware, Andrea. If a baby comes of this the reality might not be as rosy as it seemed in theory. Kodak moments don't occur as often as messy diapers. Jem might not be as accepting as he's led you to believe he'll be. And in fairness to him he probably believes he'll be okay with it."

She paused to sip her wine then decided to speak aloud her troubling thoughts. She and Andrea had always been candid and brutally honest with each other. "I'm a little concerned that his attitude will change when the baby is actually here. Wouldn't it be hard for any man to accept what is essentially, another man's child? At the very least Jem will harbor a few misgivings. Possibly some resentment."

"I anticipate some backlash" Andrea said. "And I took that into account. But I couldn't base my decision on possibilities and speculations. I had to stop asking myself 'what if?' or I'd never have done it. If I was going to do it I needed to do it sooner rather than later. We'll be thirty-six in a couple of months."

"Don't remind me."

"I was constantly being reminded that my biological clock is ticking. I could no longer ignore it."

"I understand."

Andrea set down her fork. "Do you, Sara? Can you understand?"

They had always sought each other's approval. Sara valued and trusted Andrea's opinion above all others and she knew the reverse was true. "Yes," Sara answered slowly "I understand it. I just don't share it. I've never felt the urge to have a child." Smiling ruefully, she added "It's good that I didn't, isn't it? My life, my future is all about my business."

She reached across the table to clasp Andrea's hand. "The maternal instinct may be the only difference between us. I think you got both portions yours and mine. If it's that strong you would have been wrong to ignore it. You needed to respond to it or you would never have been happy. So the decision you made was the right one for you."

"Oh, God, I hope so." Even knowing how meaningful this experiment was for Andrea, Sara was surprised by the level of emotion in her twin's voice. "I want a child very much, but what if… what if the child doesn't want me?"

"Excuse me?"

"What if my maternal instinct is false and I'm no good at mothering?"

"Not a chance."

"You're just saying that because you know that's what I want to hear Sara."

"Have you ever known me to mince words? I'm saying it because it's true. You'll be an ideal mother."

"I want to be." Andrea's expression, her tone conveyed her earnestness. Neither of them was given to spontaneous crying yet Andrea appeared to be on the verge of tears which could be attributed to that hormonal surge thing or was still another indication of the depth of her feeling.

She said, "Of all the decisions I've made in my life so far this is the most important one. Of all the decisions I'm likely to make in the future it's the most important one. I don't want to fail at something that is this important to me. I simply can't."

"And you won't," Sara stated definitively.

"I want my baby to be as happy with me as I'll be with him. Or her."

"It'll consider itself the luckiest kid alive. And I wish I could be that certain about everything else as I am of that. You'll be a stunning success at parenting Andrea. So put the improbability of failure out of your mind. Banish it. Bury it. It ain't gonna happen."

Her twin's firm validation of her decision made Andrea smile with relief. She blinked away her unshed tears. "Okay. My doubts are officially banished and buried."

"Well, thank God we got that out of the way."

Again Sara raised her wineglass. "Here's to you and modern medical science. I hope those microscopic tadpoles are doing their thing!"

They clinked glasses. Andrea said, "The success rate—even when all systems are go as in my case—is only twenty-five percent. It may take more than one time."

"That's not what Mother told us before our first car date."

They laughed at the memory of their mother's painful shyness when it came to discussing sex and her warnings to her daughters of its potential hazards.

"Remember that lecture? I didn't know there were that many euphemisms for body parts and intercourse!" Sara exclaimed. "But the message that came through loud and clear was that it only took one time to make a baby."

"We'll see. The doctor assured me that these were good swimmers."

"He actually called them swimmers?"

"I swear."

They giggled like teenagers over a dirty joke. Eventually Sara signaled the waiter to remove their plates and ordered coffee. "What about the donor?"

"He's only a number selected from the sperm donor's equivalent of a Spiegel's catalogue. Of all the candidates he best fit my preferences."

"Hair color. Eye color. Body type."

"Those, along with interests background, and IQ."

"So you just ordered a number out of a catalogue?" Sara asked wryly.

"This is a scientific procedure."

"Biology. Human reproduction boiled down to its most clinical form."

"Exactly."

"But..."

Andrea smiled, knowing she'd been trapped. They couldn't hide a thought from each other for long. "But I'm a human being and my body isn't a test tube. I can't be as entirely objective as I should." Staring into near space she said quietly "With the help of an unnamed person I hope to create a new individual. A baby. A personality. A soul. That's heady stuff. Naturally I wonder about the donor who he is and what he looks like."

"How could you not? Of course you wonder. But you don't have a clue?"

"Nothing. He's probably a med student who needed some extra spending money."

"And who likes to jack off. But then, they all like to jack off don't they?"

Sara winked at the man seated at the next table. He smiled back at her flattered by her flirtation.

Seeing the exchange Andrea chided her in a stage whisper. "Behave."

"He doesn't know what I said."

They were different in that way too. Sara tended to speak her mind where Andrea was more discreet. Sara said and did things that Andrea thought about but was often too inhibited to say or do. They shared the same impulses but Sara acted on them: She plunged headfirst off the high diving board. Andrea would stand with her toes curled over the end of it until dared to dive in. Sara admired her twin's circumspection. Andrea claimed to be envious of Sara's courage.

Leaving the gentleman at the next table to think what he wished Sara asked Andrea how long it would be before she knew if the artificial insemination had worked.

"I go back in a week for a blood test."

"A whole week! Are you under any restrictions?"

"None. I go about my everyday activities."

"Work?"

"I have an appointment this afternoon."

"Sex?"

"Female."

"Very funny. You know what I meant."

"I know what you meant and no there's no restriction. In fact, the doctor told me that if I had a partner who would share the child he would encourage us to have intercourse soon. That's psychologically beneficial for infertile couples who have resorted to using donor sperm when all else has failed. If they have sex on the date of the AI, there's always the outside chance that—"

"The partner's sperm was the one to fertilize the egg." "Exactly."

Sara pressed her temples with her index fingers. "Jeez, this gets—"

"Deep. I know. There are myriad facets to this issue. Endless factors to consider. Ethical and religious questions to probe and hopefully resolve. But I don't regret doing it. Nor am I going to start second-guessing the decision now that I've acted on it. In fact, if I don't conceive this time I'll definitely try again.

"Until recently, my fantasies of motherhood were nebulous. They took place in the far-distant future. But now that I've actually taken the step necessary to conceive those fantasies have crystallized. I want a baby Sara, dirty diapers and all. I want one very much. A son or daughter to care for. Someone who requires my love. Someone who loves me back."

Sara swallowed hard. "Are you trying to make me cry?" Andrea blinked back her own tears. Touching her tummy lightly she said "It's going to be a long week."

Sara sniffed, impatient with herself for becoming so sentimental. "What you need is a diversion" she stated. "Something to take your mind off it and make the time go faster."

"Such as?"

"I'm thinking." She tapped her lips with steepled fingers. After a moment she experienced a burst of brilliant inspiration. But it was immediately followed by exasperation. "Damn!" she exclaimed slapping the tabletop. "I can't believe I'm about to offer this to you."

"What?"

"Oh, what the hell?" she said making a sudden decision. She leaned across the table and said excitedly "Go in my place tonight."

"What? Where?"

"Guess who I'm escorting this evening."

"I don't care."

"Sure you do. Joseph Phil."

"The astronaut?"

"Ah-hah! Your eyes lit up when you said his name."

"If they lit up and I doubt they did it's because I'm impressed that my sister's been retained to escort such a VIP. Isn't he just back from a space mission?"

"Three months ago. He completed a shuttle mission that salvaged an important military satellite. Crucial to world peace or something like that."

"What's he doing in Dallas?"

"Receiving an award from SMU's alumni association. They're giving him a distinguished something-or-other award at a black-tie banquet at the Adolphus." She smiled wickedly. "Want to meet him?"

"I don't know how to do your job!" Andrea exclaimed. "Any more than you know how to sell commercial real estate."

"Your job is difficult. It involves interest rates and plats and stuff. Mine's a no-brainer. What's to know?"

"Plenty."

"Not so. You pick him up at the start of the evening you drop him off at the end of it."

Of course, she was grossly simplifying her job description. She had worked as an apprentice for years before her employer retired and sold her the business. Under her management it had expanded.

Essentially, unless a celebrity visiting Dallas arrived with his or her own entourage she, or one of her three carefully screened and trained employees was responsible for that individual until he was safely on his way to his next destination. She served as chauffeur confidante, shopper—whatever the client needed her to be. She sometimes groused about having to work ridiculous hours but her complaining was so much hot air because she loved what she did. Her business had thrived because she was good at it.

But she wasn't worried about Andrea taking over for her for one night. Like her, Andrea had never met a stranger in her life and she wasn't likely to become tongue-tied in the presence of Robin Joseph Phil. She'd sold real estate to men more important than he. And it would get her away from Jem Hennings for one night which in Sara's view was a bonus.

"You know where the Adolphus is, right?"

"Forget it, Sara," Andrea said, enunciating each word. "He's staying at The Mansion. You pick him up there and get him downtown by—"

"You're not listening."

"I don't listen to lame excuses. You haven't given me one good reason why you won't go."

"Then how's this? We're no longer children. Adults don't play games like this."

"We could still get away with switching."

"Of course we could but that's beside the point."

"Why?" "Because it's crazy."

"Colonel Phil doesn't know me from Adam. What's the harm?"

Andrea continued to ignore her arguments. "I've got my own business to attend to! I'm on the brink of getting a hot new ad agency to sign a contract on a new facility to the tune of three million. I'm meeting with them this afternoon to hammer out the deal points with the seller. In addition to all of the above Jem's coming over tonight. So, thank you for the thought but no."

"Joseph Phil is hot hot, hot," she taunted in a singsong voice.

"You can tell me all about him later."

"Last chance. Going, going..."

"No, Sara."

"Gone."

Frowning, and muttering over what a wet blanket Andrea was, she requested the check and insisted on treating. Outside the fashionable restaurant parking valets brought their cars around. One of the young men was staring so hard at the two of them he nearly rear-ended another car.

As they exchanged goodbyes Sara made one final pitch. "You're going to regret passing up this opportunity." "Thanks anyway."

"Andrea, he's a national hero! You'd be spending the evening with him. This could be the best gift I've given you since introducing you to the Miracle Bra."

"I appreciate the thought."

"Oh, I get it. You're still pouting."

"Pouting?"

"Because I couldn't arrange a meeting between you and Kevin Costner last month. Andrea, I've told you a thousand times that he was on a very tight schedule. There was absolutely no way."

Laughing, Andrea leaned forward and kissed her cheek. "I'm not pouting. I love you sis."

"Love you."

"Have fun with the astronaut."

She winked, drawling, "You can bet I'll try."

"I want details" Andrea called back to her as she climbed into her car. "The nitty-gritty."

"Promise. I'll call you as soon as I get home."

A strong wind blew across the desert floor lifting sand and using it to scour the face of the mountain before scattering it among the scrub brush. At the peak where the air was thinner and cooler the same wind made castanets of the saffron-colored leaves of aspen trees.

The compound, situated in the midst of the aspen grove blended so well into its setting that it was almost invisible to motorists on the highway that snaked across the desert floor miles below. The buildings were constructed of granite that had been handpicked and imported from Scotland. The rivers of color streaking through its basic gray background perfectly matched the dun and ocher and sienna hues of the surrounding landscape.

The shaded terrace on the third level of the central building served as an outdoor temple for the one presently at prayer. His knees were cushioned by a maroon velvet pillow that was elaborately embroidered. The gold and silver metallic threads glittered in the sunlight that filtered through the trees.

The cushion had been a gift to him from an admirer. It was said to have been brought from Russia by emigrants at the turn of the last century. A family heirloom it had been the gift-giver's prized possession and, as such a supreme sacrifice an enormous tribute to the one to whom she had given it.

His head was bowed. His thick blond hair appeared almost white silky in texture angelic. His eyes were closed. His lips formed silent words of supplication. His hands were folded beneath his chin. He seemed the epitome of piety. God-touched. God-blessed. God-sanctioned.

He wasn't.

A man wearing a severely tailored dark suit emerged from the wide glass door separating the terrace from the vast room inside. Without making a sound he approached the man at prayer and laid a sheet of paper beside his kneeling form tucking the corner of it beneath the velvet cushion to prevent it from being swept away by the wind. Then he withdrew just as noiselessly as he had approached.

The man at prayer suspended his petitions to the sky picked up the note and saw that it had been stamped with the day and time. Today. Less than an hour ago.

As he read the typed message a slow smile spread across his handsome features. His long, tapered hands pressed the note against his chest as though its value to him were inestimable. He closed his eyes again. Seemingly enraptured, he angled his face toward the sun.

He didn't invoke God's name, however. Instead, the name he whispered reverently was "Andrea Iloye."

CHAPTER 2

As unobtrusively as possible Robin Joseph Phil checked his wristwatch. But apparently he wasn't as subtle as he had hoped to be. George Abbot, one of the men seated across from him leaned forward. "More coffee? Or maybe something stronger this round?"

Joseph—or Chief, as he'd been nicknamed by his NASA cohorts—smiled and shook his head. "No, thanks. There's a press conference prior to the banquet tonight. I need to keep a clear head."

"We won't detain you much longer."

This came from Dexterity Cider, a man of few words who'd left most of the talking to his partner. Cider's voice was as smooth and cool as polished rock and it seemed to land on them with as much dead weight. His smile looked forced and out of place on such a stern sunburned face. The smile was a jarring misfit with the webwork of lines around his deep-set eyes and the parenthetical furrows on either side of his thin wide mouth. Only his lips were involved in the smile and they seemed unnaturally stretched.

Since the meeting began almost an hour earlier Cider hadn't moved except to stir a packet of sweetener into his coffee and then to periodically lift the dainty china cup to his mouth. His rough dark hand appeared capable of crushing the cup and saucer with one moderate squeeze. When he wasn't sipping from his cup his hands were planted solidly on the tops of his thighs.

Abbot, on the other hand fidgeted constantly. He'd removed the drinking straw from his glass of iced tea and had reshaped it a dozen times or more finally tying it into a knot. He fiddled with the matchbook in the clean empty ashtray. He continually repositioned himself in his seat as though experiencing a hemorrhoidal flare-up. He jiggled his knee. And, unlike Cider, he was all smiles.

Cider was forbidding. Abbot was ingratiating. It was a toss-up which of the two Chief mistrusted more.

Wishing to conclude the meeting he said "I appreciate your interest gentlemen. You've left me with a lot to think about."

Abbot cleared his throat nervously. "What we'd hoped, Colonel, was that you could give us something to take back."

"Today?" Chief exclaimed. "You want an answer now?"

"Not anything definitive" Abbot rushed to clarify. "Just an inkling so to speak of what your final decision might be."

"That's unrealistic." Chief looked at Dexterity Cider, whose gaze remained implacable. "My retirement from NASA won't be official for another few months and what I'll do then remains a mystery even to me." He forced a laugh. "I'm not even sure where I'll be living."

"Well, naturally we'd love for you to relocate to your home state of New Mexico," Abbot said in a voice that was too boisterous for the sedate cocktail lounge. "You grew up in New Mexico. We still claim you."

"Thank you," Chief said tersely. His memories of childhood weren't all happy.

"We'll be headquartered in Santa Fe. It would be convenient if you lived nearby."

"Convenient but not necessary" Cider intoned.

"No, of course not" Abbot concurred. He was a toady who deferred to Cider on every point. "What Dexterity is saying Colonel, is that with this job you'd have a lot of freedom to do other things. You'd be able to pursue your own interests—so long as they didn't conflict with ours of course. It'd be a win-win situation for everybody. Simple as that." He sounded like a used car salesman trying to close a sale and his toothy grin was just as untrustworthy.

"I'm afraid it isn't at all that simple Mr. Abbot."

Cider spoke again his voice reminding Chief of a snake moving through still water. "Colonel Phil, I sense you have some reservations."

"No pun intended" Abbot chortled.

He was the only one who laughed at his lame joke. Chief's eyes remained on Dexterity Cider, and neither of them smiled.

"I do have some reservations yes."

"About the organization?"

Chief took his time in answering. He didn't want to offend them although Chief Dexterity Cider was intimidating. A Jicarilla Apache, he wore waist-length braids that lay like twin plaits of black silk against the lapels of his suit jacket. Except for the occasional blink he could have been mistaken for a bronze statue in a southwestern art museum. On the other hand Chief had served under imperious military commanders who could probably curl Cider's braids.

In response to his question Chief replied, "My concerns aren't specifically about your proposed NAA."

Native American Advocacy was the name of the group they planned to charter. According to the formal proposal they had sent Chief in advance of this meeting NAA's services would be available to any tribe or reservation that needed help having its needs met. Those services would run the gamut from legal representation to fund-raising to lobbying for or against congressional bills that would directly affect Native Americans.

The lawyers and other professionals from whom they had already received commitments had agreed to participate without salary on an as-needed basis. NAA was offering Chief an annual retainer to serve as their point man their official spokesperson to the media and in Washington.

Budgetary considerations aside his initial reaction was to decline not with a mere No, but with a definitive Hell, no. Remaining as noncommittal as possible he said "I've heard and read things that I find greatly disturbing." "Such as?"

"Such as a few Native Americans getting rich off mineral rights gambling casinos and other profit centers on the reservations while many continue to live well below the national poverty level. The wealth isn't evenly distributed. Sometimes it isn't distributed at all. That bothers me. A lot."

Abbot pounced on that. "All the more reason for you to get involved. You could make a difference. Change things. That's our goal too."

Chief turned to the hyperactive man. "Aren't there already other organizations that provide similar services?"

"Yes, and they're good. But we hope to be better. The best. You would make us distinctive."

"Why me?"

"Because you're a national hero the first Native American astronaut. You've walked in space!"

"Which doesn't qualify me to be anybody's advocate."

"On the contrary Colonel Phil. When you speak people listen. Particularly the ladies" Abbot added with an offensive wink.

Phil looked at him and shook his head in dismay.

"You'd be willing to sign me up before you even know what I'd say in a given forum? Don't my political leanings enter anywhere into your thinking? You haven't even asked me what my personal philosophy is."

"But—"

Cider halted Abbot's rebuttal simply by raising his hand. The other man fell immediately silent. "Let Mr. Phil say what's on his mind George."

"Thank you."

Further discussions would be pointless because he'd already made up his mind. They'd just as well know that now. "Before I affiliated myself with any self-appointed public service group or organization I would have to be convinced first that their interest wasn't self-serving. Secondly, I would have to be convinced that the group was interested in me the man. Not me the Indian."

A long silence ensued.

Finally it was broken by Cider. "Do you disavow your heritage?"

"I couldn't, even if I wanted to. My nickname comes from it. But I've never exploited my Indian blood, either. I wouldn't accept any position where my qualifications are based strictly on my lineage."

Again Abbot laughed nervously. "It's a tremendous advantage to us that you're a descendant of Quanah Parker." "Who was half white."

Abbot had no comeback for that. After another awkward silence Cider apparently saw the benefit to beating a timely retreat. He came to his feet and Chief was suddenly cognizant of how short he was. His demeanor had made him seem much taller than he actually was.

He said, "We've given Colonel Phil enough to think about for one afternoon George. He has an important banquet to attend this evening."

Chief also stood up. Abbot looked confused as though there'd been a last-minute change in the program and they'd failed to alert him to it. Finally he stood with them.

"I appreciate the vote of confidence" Chief said as he extended his hand to Cider. "I'm flattered by the offer. But I'm not ready to commit to anything yet."

"Then it's our job to see that you get ready to commit." He squeezed Chief's hand once quick and hard then released it."Would you agree to meet us tomorrow morning so we can continue this discussion?"

"I was planning on returning to Houston fairly early."

"We're early risers. You name the time and place."

Actually, there was nothing else to discuss. Chief had known what his answer would be even before this meeting. He'd agreed to it merely as a courtesy. Listening to their pitch hadn't changed his mind. Cider looked prosperous not like an Indian who was barely scraping out a living on the reservation not like someone who'd be going to bat for the underdog and trying to right all the wrongs heaped on the Indian nations. But the cagey bastard wasn't giving him a graceful way out of a breakfast meeting.

"Oh nine hundred?" Chief asked with military briskness. "Over breakfast here in The Promenade?"

"We'll see you then" the Apache replied. Abbot quickly shook Chief's hand, then trotted after Cider as he strode from the bar.

Other happy hour patrons had turned to stare. Dexterity Cider cut a distinctive figure but he didn't exactly blend into the well-heeled crowd of The Mansion's elegant lounge especially with the beaded and fringed breechcloth he'd worn over his trousers.

"Is he an actor or something?"

Chief turned to the cocktail waitress who had sidled up to him and posed the question. "No, he's the genuine article."

"Really? Wow." Once Abbot and Cider were out of sight she smiled up at Chief. "Is there anything else I can get you Mr. Phil?"

"Not right now thanks."

"Then I hope you'll drop in again before you leave us." "Maybe I'll come in for a nightcap."

"I'll look forward to it."

He was accustomed to flirtations. He had received shameless propositions through the mail sometimes with X-rated photos enclosed. He'd had room numbers scrawled on cock tail napkins in hotel bars across the country. And once, during a formal dinner at the White House, a woman had pressed a pair of panties into his palm as they shook hands.

He more or less took female attention for granted. But this young woman was very attractive. She had mastered the dazzling Dallas-girl smile, that irresistible combination of coy southern belle and brazen cowgirl. Chief felt himself responding to it.

But damn, she was young! Or maybe he was getting old. In his younger wilder days he would have taken her smile for the open invitation it was and accepted it.

But he was no longer young and some of his wildness had been tamed. In any case he tipped her generously then wasted no time returning to his room and getting into the shower. As promised by the hotel staff his tuxedo had been pressed and was hanging in the closet. The black cowboy boots he wore with it had been shined to a high gloss.

He allowed himself a short bourbon while he dressed then mercilessly brushed his teeth and gargled mouthwash. It wouldn't do for an Indian to show up at a press conference with firewater on his breath now, would it?

Chiding himself for the chip on his shoulder he pulled on the pleated shirt and poked the onyx studs into the buttonholes. Most of the time he kept that chip on his shoulder under wraps. His conversation with Abbot and Cider was responsible for its present upsurge.

What did he have to prove? Why did he still feel the need to prove himself or to justify himself? He had nothing to apologize for. He had excelled at everything he'd ever tried. Collegiate sports. Air Force flight training. Fighter jets. War. The space program.

He would have accomplished it all despite his heritage. He'd grown up on a reservation. So what? He'd been granted no special favors. He hadn't been catered to because of it. Even so, he realized what a public relations gem he was to the space program. Rationally he knew that NASA wouldn't have entrusted three shuttle missions and their crews to an individual who wasn't qualified to command them.

But another part of him the Indian part, would always wonder if the skids of the system had been greased for him in order to make his university the Air Force, and NASA look good. Let's make allowances for the Indian kid. It'll make for great PR.

Probably no one within his experience had ever said that or even thought it. But he hated to think that someone might have. Just as he'd told Cider and Abbot, he had never used his heritage either as a crutch or as a leg up.

If somebody took that as a denial of his origin then that was their problem and just too damn bad.

He slapped a light cologne onto his face and ran his fingers through his unrelentingly straight black hair. His Native American genes had certainly been the dominate ones. He had Comanche hair, Comanche cheekbones. His mother had been fifteen-sixteenths Comanche. If it weren't for Great-Great-Grandfather, he might look even more Native American than he did.

As it was a lanky wrangler on a ranch in the Oklahoma panhandle had taken a fancy to Great-Great-Grandmother shortly after the Indian Territory became a state. From him Joseph Phil had inherited a tall rangy physique and eyes that his first lover had deemed "Paul Newman blue."

His eyes had been one of his old man's excuses for leaving. Unfortunately, he had some of his father's blood, too.

Impatient with the track of his thoughts he strapped on his wristwatch shot his cuffs and he was ready. Before leaving the room he glanced at the itinerary that had been faxed to his Houston office. He checked the name of his contact and committed it to memory.

Actually, he would have preferred to drive himself from the exclusive Turtle Creek area where The Mansion nestled, largely unseen on an ultra-private lane. With no more than an address and his reliable sense of direction he could have located the Hotel Adolphus easily.

But the group bestowing the award had insisted that he have an escort. "She's more than a chauffeur. She's media-savvy and knows all the local reporters" he was told. "You'll appreciate having Sara to run interference for you. Otherwise you'd be mobbed."

As he stepped through the doors of the hotel a woman approached him. "Colonel Phil?"

She was wearing a simple but elegantly cut and very expensive-looking black cocktail dress. Sunlight painted iridescent stripes of color onto her hair which was almost as dark as his. It was worn straight from a side part. No bangs. She had on sunglasses.

"You must be Ms. Iloye."

She extended her hand. "Sara."

"Call me Chief."

They smiled at each other as they shook hands. She asked, "How is your room? Satisfactory, I hope?"

"Complete with a basket of fruit and a bottle of champagne. The staff has treated me royally."

"That's what they're famous for."

She nodded toward a late-model Lexus waiting at the end of the canopy-covered walkway. A doorman had the passenger door already open for him. Sara tipped the young man handsomely. "Drive safely, Ms. Iloye," he said to her as he waved them off.

"You must be a regular here" Chief remarked.

She laughed. "Not me. A few of my clients stay here—the really famous ones" she added giving him a sidelong glance. "When I want to splurge I love to come here for lunch. It's good people-watching, and they make scrumptious tortilla soup."

"I'll tuck that away for future reference."

"Adjust the air-conditioning to your liking."

The curtain of dark hair swished across her shoulders as she turned her head to check for oncoming traffic before pulling out. He caught a whiff of fragrance.'

"I'm comfortable, thanks."

"What time did you arrive in Dallas?"

"About two this afternoon."

"That's good. You've had some time to decompress." "I went out to the pool."

"It wasn't too cool?"

"Not for me. I swam some laps. Worked on my tan."

She cruised to a stop at a red traffic light and turned her head. "Your tan? That's an Indian-insider's joke, right?"

He laughed, pleased that she got it and even more pleased that it didn't make her uneasy to comment on it. "Right." She smiled back and he wished she would remove her sunglasses so he could see if her eyes lived up to the rest of her face. Particularly her mouth. Her mouth made him believe in sin.

When she lifted her foot from the brake pedal and applied it to the accelerator the hem of her dress rode up an inch or so above her knee. The fabric made a sexy rasping sound against her ultra-sheer hosiery. Nice sound. Even nicer knee.

"What would you like?"

His eyes shot from her thigh to her face. "Pardon?"

"I have bottled water and soft drinks in the cooler on the floorboard behind me."

"Oh. Uh, nothing, thanks."

"I was told to prepare you for a large turnout tonight. You know about the press conference beforehand?"

"Second-level lobby."

She nodded. "It's limited to those holding a special pass. Keep in mind that the dinner officially begins at seven-thirty, but the press conference doesn't have to last until then. You're to give me a high sign whenever you're ready to stop whether it's after five questions or fifty. At your signal I'll make your excuses and hustle you toward the ballroom for the banquet. That way, I'm the bad guy."

"I don't think anyone would believe that."

"That I'm the bad guy?"

"That you're any kind of guy."

She wasn't a fool; she knew flirting when she heard it. She gave him another glance out the side of her sunglasses. "Thank you."

"Andrea?"

"Hi, Jem."

"Darling, I just checked my messages and I'm delighted. You actually did it."

"Just before lunch."

"And?"

"I'll know the result in a week."

"When did you decide for sure?"

"Yesterday. I had several bouts of cold feet and stomach butterflies but I went through with it."

"Why didn't you call me? I'd have gone with you. I would have liked being there."

"I'm sorry, Jem. I really wanted it to be private. I didn't call sooner because I met my sister for lunch. It went too long. I almost didn't make my afternoon appointment and only had time to talk to your home-number voice mail."

"Did you tell Sara?" Before she could respond he said "Of course you told Sara. What does she think about it?" "She's excited that I'm excited."

"I'm excited, too."

"I'm glad. I appreciate you for backing my decision."

"I have something for you. A surprise. I've had it for a while waiting for you to make up your mind. I'd like to bring it over."

She could hear the smile in his voice and knew he was eager to share his surprise. But she didn't want company. Trying to let him down gently she said "Jem, I know we made plans to see each other tonight but would you take a rain check?"

"Is something wrong? Don't you feel well?"

"I feel fine. Just very tired. It was... an extremely emotional experience. More so than I counted on. I didn't realize until afterward how emotionally involving it was going to be."

"In what way? Did you get upset? Cry?"

"Nothing that demonstrative. It's hard to explain."

"You had me convinced that it was a sterile clinical procedure."

"It was."

"Then I don't understand how it could be so emotionally... What was the word? Involving?"

Jem was wont to overanalyze everything. Tonight especially she didn't welcome his analysis. Trying to keep the irritation out of her voice she said "I just need some time alone. To think about it. Things. Can't we just leave it at that?"

"Sure, we can leave it at that." By his tone she could tell that he was hurt. "I would think you'd want some loving support on a night as momentous as this. Obviously I was wrong." Immediately she regretted shutting him out. Why hadn't she taken the more expedient route and agreed to his coming over and delivering his gift? It would have cost her far less stress.

But before she could extend another invitation he said brusquely "I'll call you later Andrea," and hung up.