Stargazer's Woman

“I’m going to the bedroom to get my things,” she called out to him a second later, never glancing back.

“Hurry,” he said, moving over to the window to keep watch.

KRIS THREW SOME JEANS, changes of underwear and a few long-sleeved T-shirts into a small canvas bag. She could pack in a hurry. She’d done it so many times it was almost second nature to her.

She was still angry with Max for not telling her about Harris long before now. He was too good at keeping secrets, and that made him dangerous—ally or not.

She took a deep breath, then let it out again. Anger would only interfere with what they had to do. It was a luxury she couldn’t afford, not when their lives were at stake.

She stared at the bag, then on impulse packed her duck-shaped slippers. They were undeniably silly looking, but they had a soft shearling interior that felt incredibly indulgent. She’d had them for years and they never failed to make her sigh when she slipped them on after a long day. Although she doubted she’d have occasion to wear them around Max, the slippers were her way of affirming that her life would be normal someday.

“Are you ready?” he called out from down the hall.

“Let’s go,” she said, coming out to meet him.

As they were getting into his truck, he glanced over at her. “I know you’re still trying to decide whether to trust me or not, so I’d like you to keep something in mind. This is my turf, Kris,” he said. “You’ve been away for several years and some things around here have changed, but I know this area like the back of my hand. Who and what I am can give us an edge—but you have to be willing to rely on me and my judgment. Any hesitation on your part may get us both killed.”

“You’re still not telling me everything. I know it and you know it.” She held up one hand, stemming his protest. “Do you trust without reason?”

Max expelled his breath in a hiss as he started the truck’s engine. “Okay. Good point. Both of us will have to work at this,” he conceded.

“Your job’s to get the platinum. I want Harris. That may place us in opposite camps somewhere down the line.”

“Things have changed so you have nothing to worry about. I can’t risk leading Harris to the platinum, so he’s now my priority, too.”

As soon as they were back on the road, heading west toward the Navajo Nation, she shifted in her seat. “Harris wants us, so why don’t we use that to draw him in?”

He considered what she’d said and nodded. “That’s a good plan, but we’d need some serious backup close by.”

“We can manage it as long we cover each other’s back.” Seeing him hesitate, she challenged, “I can handle it, can’t you?”

Her words were brave enough, but as he glanced over at her hands he saw her toying with her necklace. “No one’s made of steel,” he answered quietly.

“And here I thought you were,” she teased with a hesitant smile.

He laughed. “Me? Nah. I just put on a good show, that’s all,” he said, eyes twinkling. “It’s a survival thing I learned as a cop.”

She laughed, knowing better. She’d seen him in a crisis situation. Although he felt pain and bled like everyone else, he had that toughness of spirit that defined a warrior.

“Hang on. I want to make sure we haven’t picked up a tail,” he said, suddenly making such a sharp turn off the highway that she had to grab onto the seat.

Max drove down the wide dirt road leading toward a tribal housing development, then made several detours and reverses. Finally they reached a solitary road parallel to the main highway. They were heading east again now, but the land was so flat and barren here they would have seen any vehicle attempting to follow them.

Twenty minutes later, he finally got back on the main highway. Traffic was heavy now, with many vehicles heading home at the end of the work day.

“Keep checking behind us,” he said. “There’s no one there now, but doesn’t mean there couldn’t be.”

“I’ll handle that. You take care of what’s in front of us,” she answered. “It’s going to be dark in an hour or so. Where are we going?”

“Remember that souped-up van Harris and his partner were driving? I thought we’d go talk to people who specialize in those kinds of modifications. We need the type of shop that doesn’t ask too many questions or keep regular hours. I have a source who might be able to tell us who fits the bill around this area.”

After a short drive to the eastern outskirts of Farmington, Max pulled up into a parking slot outside the fenced-in garage that housed Birdsong Enterprises. A big garage bay was open, and several mechanics in blue overalls were working on a highly modified stock car behind another fence.

“What is this place? I see security cameras everywhere, and that fence must be twenty feet high.”

“They don’t advertise their location, but a relative of mine, Ranger—you saw him back at your nursery—works for the Birdsong Racing Team. This is their local headquarters,” he answered.

Ranger, wearing coveralls with “Blueeyes” embroidered above the pocket, came through the gate in the interior fence to meet them as they stepped out of Max’s truck. The men nodded to each other but didn’t shake hands.

Without preamble, and possibly because she was standing right there, Max asked Ranger about local performance shops with dubious reputations.

“The closest of these shops is a few miles farther down the highway, just outside Bloomfield, across the road from the cemetery and adjacent to the Wildcat Drilling Company’s yard. The shop has a really bad reputation among serious independent repair shops, especially when it comes to their sources of used and rebuilt parts. The guy who owns it, Jerry Parson, has gotten busted several times for possession of stolen property. He seriously hates cops, so watch yourself.” He cleared his throat. “A few months ago, some poor jerk tried to offer Parson some stolen headlights. He got mistaken for a cop and ended up on the banks of Farmington Reservoir, naked, unconscious and beaten half to death. He refused to press charges, but the story got out anyway.”

Max nodded. “That’s undoubtedly what Jerry wanted—the PR.”

“You’ve heard of him?” Ranger asked.

“Sure, back when I was a police officer. But I never met him. Good thing, considering where I’m going next.”

“There’s a guy inside our shop who knows Parson well enough to give you some up-to-date background. You might want to talk to him before you set out.” Ranger glanced at Kris. “It would be better if he went in alone, Ms. Reynolds. Joe won’t say much around people he doesn’t know.”

“No problem,” Kris answered, wondering how long ago Max had told Mr. Blueeyes her name.

MAX WENT INSIDE THE GARAGE. In an adjacent bay were two mechanics working on a high-performance carburetor. When he got closer, Max recognized one of the Navajo men, a warrior he’d previously known only as Smoke. His last name, embroidered on his work overalls, was Yazzie.

“I needed to get you away from the woman, Thunder,” he said as Max joined him. “I have a message for you from Hastiin Bigodii. He recommends that you concentrate on Harris first, then the platinum.”

“I agree. That’s why our current plan is to draw him to us, make the collar, then worry about the recovery.”

“Hastiin Bigodii also wanted me to remind you that if you need backup, help won’t be far.”

“Understood.”

Smoke then handed Max a newspaper photo of Harris, not so much for him, but for Kris. Judging from the background it had probably been taken during the Police Athletic League’s charity baseball game a few years ago.

Thanking him, Max walked back outside. Kris was already seated in his truck when he opened the door and slipped behind the wheel. “You understand the kind of place we’re going into, right?” he asked.

“Yeah. Otherwise I’d have suggested we stop for dinner first. I’m starving, but I’d hate to get into a fight on a full stomach. I’m assuming we’re liable to get jumped once we start asking questions, right?”

“That’s the way I see it, but don’t worry, I have a plan.”

“I’m all ears.”

After he filled her in, she said, “Okay. Let’s go for it.”

He was really beginning to like her. Instead of inundating him with questions about his plan, she was willing to play things out and roll with the punches. Before switching on the ignition, Max reached under the seat for his gun, removed it from the holster and stuck it into his waistband. It was uncomfortable there, but a holster was something a cop would have, not an amateur thief.

They were underway a short time later. Then less than a mile away from the shop, they stopped on a deserted road. Taking water from a bottle he had behind the seat, he prepared some sticky mud and smeared it over the plate, partially hiding the numbers and letters.

“This should work with our cover as amateurs,” he said.

“Do these kinds of places—like the one we’re going to—close at regular hours?” Seeing the surprised look he gave her, she added, “You know, to blend in.”

“If they’ve got cars to work on, they’ll be there.”

A drilling company yard, with its stacks of drill casings and other heavy gear, nearly hid the old, converted gas station. They saw a cemetery and funeral home across the highway but almost drove past the garage before seeing the small sign that read Power House.

Max pulled in quickly and parked in front of a battered tow truck. Two sedans, probably belonging to the mechanics, were parked on the west side of the building, and a large blue pickup was on the east side.

There were four bays, one of which was open to the street. Two men were working on an old sedan, one gunning the engine while the other took a look beneath the hood. They could see shelves of auto parts taking up the far bay, and two more men were removing the tires from another sedan up on a lift.

“Here we go,” Max said. “It’s show time.”

As they wandered toward the open bay, Max placed a casual arm around her shoulders. A spark of desire rippled through her from the close contact between their bodies. She pressed herself against his side, enjoying the warm sensations, and smiled at him.

“Making it look good as ordered,” she whispered.

“I need to talk to the owner,” Max yelled to one of the men, trying to be heard over the machine gun rattle of the air hammer being used to remove the car wheel nuts.

An overweight, heavily tattooed man wearing a dingy white T-shirt came out of the office area, looked at Max, then gave Kris the once-over.

“Nice set of wheels, man,” he said, glancing at the truck. “But we don’t have parts for something like that.”

“Not looking for parts, dude. I came to sell it—cheap,” he said.

“Before the owner finds out, I’m guessing?” the man surmised, then gave Kris a longer look this time.

“If your ole lady is nice to me, we might still be able to cut a deal.”

“Watch your mouth,” Max growled.

“Just playing with you, dude,” the man said, putting his hands up in the air. “But tell me, what makes you think I’d be interested in a hot truck?”

“Hot? Hey, I just can’t find where I put the papers, and I need some cash, you know? A guy I know said you’d do business without a bunch of questions, so how about five thousand? Cash,” he added. “Heck, you could get twice that for the parts.”

Max got a look at the last vehicle in the garage, a van that could have been the twin of the hopped-up job John Harris had used. He stepped forward for a closer look but the tattooed man he figured was Jerry Parson blocked him.

“You looking for a fight?” Max challenged, his gaze cold as granite.

The man laughed. “Hey, ease up, dude. Jerry’s the name. That’s all you need to know.” He looked out the bay door at Max’s truck. “You’re offering me a good price,” he said, considering it.

“That price is only good for someone who doesn’t need any paperwork, or have any more questions.”

“A few questions come with this deal. Gotta watch my own back,” Jerry said.

Max suddenly realized that he couldn’t see Kris anymore. Instinct told him that he had better keep Jerry’s attention focused. “You’re starting to sound like a cop now…. Wait a minute. Are you fronting for them? You wired?” he demanded loudly, looking around at the other employees.

As he moved around, feigning panic, he caught a glimpse of Kris inside the small office.

“Cops?” Jerry laughed loudly. “Us? Get serious!”

Max decided to enhance his paranoia up a notch.

“That John guy, the one who was driving that same van earlier today,” he said, pointing. “He’s the one who sent me here. Bet he’s a cop. Am I right?”

Kris reappeared at the side door near the office, and one of the mechanics spotted her immediately. She held up a half-eaten candy bar, smiled at him, then held it out to him. “Wanna bite?”

When the guy grabbed her by the arm instead, and pulled her close, she backhanded him with the knuckles of her free hand. Then, in a fluid follow-up, she reached down and pinched the nerve in his free hand, forcing him to his knees. Squealing with pain, he let go of her arm.

“They’re the cops, boss,” the man yelled, stepping back and giving her plenty of room. “See those moves?”

“Ex-marine, butthead,” Kris shot back. “Every lowlife who tries to paw me gets the same treatment.”

Jerry blindsided Max with a jab to his ribs, nearly knocking him down. “They’re just screw-ups, not cops,” he answered, then stared hard at Max. “I don’t know any Harris, and that van’s a repo. You trying to jerk me around?”

Max stepped back and pulled out his pistol. “Back off!” he ordered, waving it around so everyone could see.

“Okay. You’re cops,” Jerry spat out.

“Wrong, Jerry,” Max answered. “Which means you’ve really got a problem now. You shouldn’t have ticked me off.” He motioned for Kris to join him, then handed her his gun. He then grabbed Jerry, spun him around, and took the small pistol and holster he’d seen earlier at the small of the man’s back.

“Keep everyone here, honey,” he called out to Kris.

“I’m going to see if they’ve got some cash we can take along—payment for our time.”

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