by Pamela Clare
He'd gone in confident that he was fine. After all, he didn't have any symptoms. Then the public-health nurse had come in to discuss his sexual history and his risk factors, and his confidence had begun to fray.
"The most common symptom for someone infected with an STD is no symptoms at all," she'd said. "But you say you've always used condoms, so that's good."
He'd been deeply relieved when the results had come back negative. He'd saved the paperwork so he could prove to Kat that he was safe. He didn't want her to have to take his word for it.
He found her at her desk, typing furiously on her article, a frown of intense concentration on her face. She glanced up at him, started to rise from her chair.
"Just keep doing what you're doing. Never mind me." He sat at the intern desk and logged into his e-mail to see whether Hunter had sent him the information he needed yet. Finding nothing but Viagra spam--the last thing he needed was another damned erection--he began to surf his favorite climbing websites. But he couldn't seem to concentrate, his gaze drawn back to Kat again and again until he finally gave up and let his eyes do what they wanted to do.
She typed without looking at her fingers, glancing down at her notes from time to time, typing, deleting, then typing again. If he told her that watching her work turned him on, she'd probably just think he was coming on to her. But watching her work did turn him on--the way she nibbled lightly on her lower lip, the way she tilted her head slightly to the side, exposing her throat, the way she absentmindedly tucked her hair behind her ear, only to have it slide free again and brush against her cheek. He found himself watching the clock, impatient to get her home so that he could take up where he'd left off in the truck on the side of the road this morning.
"Oh, this is so frustrating!" She leaned back in her chair and stretched, then looked over at him and stood. "I think I need to clear my head a bit and get a cup of coffee. Do you want to come with me?"
"Sure." He stood. "I could use a cup of coffee, too."
Like hell you could, Rossiter. What you need is a cold shower.
KAT WALKED TOWARD the elevator, trying to shake loose her tangled thoughts, only too aware of Gabe beside her. Last night, he'd undressed her, held her, touched her in ways and in places that no man ever had, made her feel things--
Don't think about that now, Kat.
No, she couldn't think about that now, or she'd never get this story written. "I feel bad knowing you're spending the whole day here for my sake when you probably have important things to do. Are you bored out of your mind yet?"
"Stop worrying about me." His lips curved in a smile that made her pulse trip. "Tell me what's got you tied up. Maybe it will help if you think out loud."
She reached out to push the Down button for the elevator, but his arm was much longer, and he beat her to it. "I just don't know how to handle the looting aspect of the story. If I say too much, it would be disrespectful to the Old Ones who lived at Mesa Butte. If I say too little, I won't be doing my job as a journalist."
"I can definitely see the conflict there."
And Kat knew he understood. "I thought I could write a nut graph--"
"A 'nut graph'?" He sounded amused by the term.
"That's kind of a summary paragraph at the beginning of an article," she explained. "I can state that Mesa Butte is the site of a continuing land dispute between the city of Boulder and local Native people, who consider it sacred and use it for ceremonies. Then I can give the history of that dispute--the inipi raid, Grandpa Red Crow's death, the protest--and end the paragraph with something about discovering evidence that someone has been digging in search of artifacts."
"You'll want to say that it's under surveillance."
Kat nodded. "I'll also want to try to make people understand why looting is wrong. But if I don't confirm that artifacts have been found and stolen, maybe people will think someone is just digging around, hoping to find something."
The elevator doors opened with a ding.
Kat stepped inside, Gabe behind her, his hand on the small of her back, sending currents of awareness skittering along her spine. She pressed G for "ground floor" then turned toward Gabe as the doors slid shut. "I don't know what Tom--"
"Oh, to hell with Tom!" With a groan, Gabe pinned her up against the elevator wall with his body and kissed her hard and deep, one hand clenched in her hair, tilting her head upward, the other grasping her hip.
In a blink, Kat forgot that she was at work. On deadline. In an elevator. She forgot about the shooting. She forgot everything but him and what he was doing to her, his tongue seeking and subduing hers, his lips so hot and smooth against hers, his body pressed hard against hers.
He broke the kiss, traced the line of her jaw with his lips from her mouth to her ear, nudged her with his hips, giving away his erection. "See what you do to me, Kat?"
Before she could take in this rush of sensation, he drew up her skirt, forced her knees apart with one of his, and reached between her thighs to cup her through her tights and panties, pressing against her in slow circles. Her knees went weak. She knew where that touch could lead, what would happen if he kept touching her just ... like ... that.
"Oh!" She pushed against the pressure, liquid heat spreading through her belly. And when he flicked the aching nub of her clitoris, she moaned, the sound reverberating in the tiny space.
She heard a ding, felt the world move beneath her feet. It took her mind a moment to register that the ding was the elevator arriving on the ground floor and that the motion was the car coming to a halt.
Gabe drew back with a frustrated growl, his gaze burning into hers for the briefest moment, before he turned his back to her, shielding her as the doors slid open. Out of breath, her pulse still pounding, Kat struggled to compose herself, making sure her skirt was in place before following Gabe into the lobby and toward the cafeteria.
CHAPTER 17
GABE WOULD HAVE liked another quick and dirty make-out session in the elevator on the ride back upstairs, but he and Kat weren't alone this time. Some guy in a suit--probably a member of the ad sales team--stepped on just before the doors closed, briefcase in one hand, cell phone pressed against his ear with the other.
"I tried to close him on a fifty-two-week contract with four-color, but he wants thirteen weeks at the same discounted rate." He kept talking even after the doors had closed, sparing neither of them a glance.
That was fine with Gabe.
Holding his coffee in his right hand, he moved closer to Kat, close enough to feel the warmth of her body against his. Then he slipped his left hand behind her back and ran his fingers slowly up and down her spine. She tensed beneath his touch, gave a gratifying little gasp, a blush rising to her cheeks.
"What time do you usually head home?" He kept his voice casual.
She struggled to do the same. "I ... I usually leave close to five. I thought you said you weren't bored."
"Oh, honey, I'm not bored." Frustrated. Blue-balled. But not bored. He leaned down and lowered his voice to a whisper. "I'm just looking forward to getting you someplace more ... private."
He heard her breath catch and knew his words had hit their mark.
The elevator stopped. The doors slid open. And they were back in the newsroom.
Kat returned to her writing, while Gabe went back to surfing climbing websites. He was skimming an interview with Dean Potter and Steph Davis when his cell phone rang. He saw Hunter's number on his caller ID. "Rossiter here."
"Hey, it's Marc. I thought I'd let you know that we've hit a dead end on the pay phone angle. None of the calls were made from a phone that was near city surveillance cameras."
"Damn." Gabe had hoped they'd be able to catch the caller in action by matching the date and times on city surveillance tapes with the times of the calls. "Do you still have the addresses?"
"Yeah. I'll e-mail them to you. Darcangelo is meeting with his FBI buddy tonight, so we'll see what he turns up on the looting end." Hunter paused for a mome
nt. "How's she holding up?"
Gabe glanced over at Kat, who seemed entirely focused on writing her article. "All things considered, she's doing amazingly well. I got her a permit for the secured underground parking garage, so we don't have to worry about anyone sighting on her while she's entering or leaving the building."
"Good idea." Hunter sounded surprised that Gabe had thought of it. "Have you ever considered ditching bunnies and deer and becoming a real cop?"
"Hunter, fuck you."
Hunter chuckled. "Sorry, Rossiter, I don't swing that way."
KAT READ THROUGH the completed draft of her article and was surprised that any of it made sense. She'd had a hard enough time staying focused as it was with Gabe in the newsroom. But after what he'd done in the elevator, pinning her against the wall, kissing her until she'd felt like she was going to melt, touching her so intimately, she'd found it all but impossible to keep her mind on her work.
Oh, the man knew how to kiss! Her body still felt aroused, her lips tingling, an ache between her thighs where he'd touched her. No matter how she sat or how hard she tried not to think about it, she couldn't escape the feeling.
You're drifting again, Kat.
She forced her mind back on the article, rereading the paragraph that had taken her so long to craft.
In the latest development, the Denver Independent found evidence thatsomeonehas been illegally digging for artifacts on Mesa Butte, including trenches that appeared to have been dug with heavy machinery. This raises troubling questions about recent events at Mesa Butte, including the recent death of George Red Crow, a Hunkpapa Lakota elder and spiritual leader.
Whoever was behind the looting--and yesterday's shooting--would read between the lines and know that Kat suspected him of killing Grandpa Red Crow. It was a small step toward justice, but it gave Kat a sense of satisfaction all the same.
She had just sent her story off to the copy editors, when Sophie appeared carrying the day's mail. "I grabbed yours, too, because your box was overflowing."
"Thanks." Kat took a stack of envelopes from Sophie and set them down on her desk, glancing over at Gabe. Despite his denials, she knew he must be bored. He was used to spending the day in the mountains, after all, not sitting in front of a computer. Still, he seemed to be occupied, studying what appeared to be a Boulder street map.
I'm just looking for ward to getting you someplace more ... private.
Kat felt that familiar fluttering sensation in her belly. Would he want to have sex with her tonight? Would she stop him if he did?
She didn't know.
She forced her mind back to her stack of mail and began opening envelopes. Most were press releases from Denver-area environmental businesses trying to get her attention--green builders, a community-supported organic farm, a biodiesel collective. But there were other things, as well. A state health department notice of violation against a pharmaceutical plant. New recycling guidelines for the city's single-stream recycling program. A letter from a citizens group concerned about the impact of Denver's brown cloud on air quality in the mountains.
Then she came across a small padded envelope with no return address. She could feel something round and hard inside, and, assuming it was just another product sample or some kind of promotional swag, she opened it. A light brown something fell into her palm. She held it up, turned it over. It wasn't much bigger around than a pencil and was wider on both ends than it was in the middle, giving it a bonelike shape ...
The breath left her lungs in a rush, her blood turning to ice, her pulse thrumming in her ears. It was a bone. A human bone?
Yee nadlooshii.
The horrifying words--words that no traditional Dine would willingly speak--forced their way into her mind, leaving her dizzy, sick, shaking.
Skinwalker.
Even as she told herself that skinwalkers didn't exist, that they were nothing more than a superstition, that a bit of old bone couldn't hurt her, she felt a chill of foreboding settle in her stomach.
GABE HAD JUST written down the cross streets near the second of five pay phones in downtown Boulder when he heard Kat gasp. It took only a glimpse of her bloodless face and wide, terrified eyes to get him on his feet. "Kat? What is it?"
She held out a hand as if to keep him from coming any closer, even as her legs gave and she sank to her knees, her gaze still fixed on whatever it was that lay on her open palm, her breathing erratic.
"Kat, talk to me. What's wrong?" He knelt beside her, wrapped an arm around her waist to steady her, and leaned forward, trying to get a better look at whatever she was holding. It looked like a ... bone.
A human bone. The distal phalanx of a human finger, to be specific.
He drew her tighter against him and reached for a piece of paper, which he folded like a taco shell in his hand. "Drop it in here, Kat. Drop it in here. It's evidence."
Slowly, Kat tilted her hand, the small bone rolling off her palm and onto the paper. "D-don't . . . Don't touch it!"
"I won't. I don't want to get my prints on it." He set the piece of paper with its grisly burden on her desk.
The rest of the I-Team had noticed something was wrong and gathered on the other side of Kat's desk, whispering in hushed tones.
Matt leaned in for a better look. "What is it?"
"It looks like some kind of bone," Natalie answered.
Gabe kept his voice calm, only too aware of Kat's trembling and her fast, irregular breathing. "Sophie, call your husband or Darcangelo. Ask them to send over a couple of detectives. Is there a break room or a staff lounge anywhere?"
Tom's voice came from behind. "Bring her to the executive conference room. It's got a sofa she can lie down on. Alton, get Chief Irving on the line while you're at it. This bullshit has gone far enough. I don't want another member of my staff getting hurt."
Rage building in his chest, Gabe drew Kat to her feet. Limp as a rag doll, she leaned against him, her face still deathly pale. "Let's get you to the conference room so you can rest for a minute."
Kat walked, took a few steps, letting him guide her, then she froze and looked down at her hand. "I need to wash my hands. I need to wash--"
"Okay. I'll take you to the women's room first."
Natalie appeared beside them. "I'll come with you."
Kat drew back from them. "You shouldn't touch me. Neither of you should touch me."
"Don't be ridiculous!" The words came out harsher than Gabe had intended. He tried again. "I'm not letting go of you. I don't want you to faint and hurt yourself."
Natalie linked her arm through Kat's. "In case you've forgotten, I'm from New Orleans, voodoo capital of the United States. It's going to take something more macabre than one little old bone to scare me."
Gabe met Natalie's gaze, grateful for her help. He wondered what it was about the bone that terrified Kat so much. He knew lots of cultures had taboos about death and dead bodies. Was it something like that, or did these things hold some darker meaning for her? And not for the first time, he found himself wanting desperately to comfort her and not knowing what to say or do.
"THE BONE LOOKS human to me and very old, but I'm no expert. We'll get these to the lab and see what the forensics team has to say."
Feeling tainted and unclean despite five minutes of hand washing in hot water, Kat watched as Julian, still wearing gloves, held up the plastic evidence bag in which he'd placed the bone, examined it under the fluorescent lights, then passed the bag to Police Chief Irving, an older man with a bristly white crew cut and big belly. She wished neither of them had touched it, though she supposed their gloves and plastic bag gave them a measure of protection.
It can't hurt them. It can't hurt anyone. You have a college degree, Kat! Stop being superstitious, for goodness sake!
That was easier said than done. Until she'd realized what she was holding, Kat hadn't known exactly how much of a grip the old stories had on her. If someone had asked her yesterday whether she believed in skinwalkers, she probably w
ould have laughed. But one piece of bone was all it had taken to prove that she didn't know herself as well as she'd thought she did.
No sooner had Natalie and Gabe gotten her to the women's room than her stomach had revolted. She'd spent the next ten minutes in a bathroom stall throwing up while Natalie offered her reassurance from the other side of the door. When her stomach was finally empty, she'd felt weak and shaky, but the worst edge of her fear was gone. She'd scrubbed her hands until they were red, unable to wash away the unclean feeling.
When at last she'd left the women's room, she'd found Gabe standing just outside the door, a worried look on his face. He'd held out a disposable coffee cup. "Chamomile tea. It will help calm your stomach."
And it had.
But now, seeing the bone again--incontrovertible proof that someone wanted her to die--she found herself once more growing queasy, her hand seeming to burn where she'd held it.
Frowning with concentration, Chief Irving looked at the bone, then set it down on the polished conference room table. He met Kat's gaze, his eyes filled with the weariness and compassion of a man who'd seen too much. "I can see how getting a bone in the mail could be frightening, but I think this means something different to you that it does to us. Can you help us understand?"
Feeling both embarrassed and afraid, Kat glanced around the table from Chief Irving to Julian, who sat across from her, to Tom, who sat at the head of the table, to Gabe, who sat beside her. "It's . . . It's not something we talk about." Her body gave an involuntary shiver. She folded her hands tightly together in her lap, trying to keep them from shaking.
"Take your time," Gabe said, resting a hand reassuringly over hers.
"No Navajo person would willingly touch anything dead. It's one of our strongest taboos. Bones, bodies, even the bodies of animals--they're unclean." She searched for the right English words. "Traditional Navajo believe that there are . . . that there are those who walk among us ... witches disguised in the skins of humans or animals. They might take strands of your hair while you sleep and work evil on them. Or they might take an arrow, a bead, or a piece of ... of bone . . . and shoot it into you. We call them . . . skinwalkers."
