The Switch

by Sandra Brown

  After what seemed like hours, although it was only forty minutes, the truck topped a rise, and in the meager gray predawn light they spotted a structure in the recession below. Chief's optimism soared; but then it plummeted just as abruptly. This couldn't be their destination. The house was too modest. The pickup parked in front was too old.

  However, their driver pumped the brake pedal to slow the truck down and turned into a dirt driveway bordered by stones, which were a sad attempt at beautifying the entrance to the place, which was anything but beautiful.

  He leaned across Melina and shouted at the driver, "Are you sure you got your instructions right? Do you know where you're supposed to take us?"

  "Here."

  Chief cast a glance at Melina and shrugged, repeating laconically, "Here."

  The truck came to a grinding, shuddering stop inches from the front steps leading up to the door of the house. The driver put it in park and let the engine idle.

  "I guess we get out," Melina said.

  "I guess we do." Chief stepped from the cab and offered his hand to her. She climbed down. "Thanks," he said to the driver, who engaged the gears, let off the brake, and accelerated before Chief could even close the door.

  "Mr. Personality," he muttered, waving away exhaust and dust as the truck chugged off.

  "Jed is a man of few words."

  In unison they turned toward the voice. Dexter Longtree was standing in silhouette, framed by the open front door.

  CHAPTER 32

  Chief nudged Melina forward. She climbed the steps, her stare fixed on Longtree. "Melina Lloyd, this is Chief Dexter Longtree."

  "Chief Longtree."

  "Welcome, Ms. Lloyd."

  "Please call me Melina."

  "Come in." He stood aside and she preceded them into the house. Chief paused on the threshold to shake hands with Longtree. "Thank you for this. When I called, you had every right to tell me to go to hell."

  A smile flitted over the older man's stern lips. "Well, the day is young."

  He ushered Chief inside. A ceiling fixture provided a circle of light for the center of the room but left the corners dark. From what Chief could tell, the furnishings were old, well-used, borderline shabby. The most appealing feature of the room was the fireplace, where a low fire was smoldering. Melina made a beeline for it and extended her hands toward the warmth.

  "Hmm. That feels good." Turning around, she put her back to the hearth and chafed her arms.

  "On these chilly mornings, I wake up with stiff joints," Longtree said. "A fire helps."

  Melina smiled at Longtree, and he smiled back at her, and Chief felt a pang of irrational and juvenile jealousy, the same as he had when she had made so chummy with Pax. "We hate to impose," he said, moving to stand nearer the fire. And Melina.

  "It's no imposition, Colonel Hart," Longtree told him. "We were destined to meet again. I've been expecting you."

  "Expecting me? I didn't know until a few hours ago that I was coming anywhere near New Mexico. How could you have known?"

  Longtree gave him a long, indecipherable look, then asked if they were hungry.

  "Very," Melina replied candidly.

  He signaled for them to follow him. Melina did so without hesitation; Chief hung back. He was reluctant to get too friendly with Longtree. When it became apparent that they needed to come to New Mexico and find out what they could about Brother Gabriel and his ministry, and that they needed to arrive in a hurry and as clandestinely as possible, he had asked himself who in the area he knew who could facilitate them.

  He had no relatives. His mother's family had died out years ago. He hadn't stayed in contact with his friends on the reservation. Once he graduated from high school, he'd left that part of his life behind without a trace of nostalgia.

  A former astronaut with whom he'd flown his first shuttle mission had retired to Albuquerque, but Chief was disinclined to ask him for assistance. He still wanted NASA to know nothing about all this. Not that his former crewmate would betray his confidence, but he was reluctant to tap into that resource unless it became absolutely necessary. More than his reputation was at stake now. His and Melina's lives were in jeopardy. The last thing they needed was a media spotlight aimed at them.

  Knowing full well that it would obligate him, he'd called Longtree. He briefly outlined what he needed, then summed up by asking, "Can you help me?"

  Longtree had agreed to make arrangements at the airstrip and had promised that someone would be there to meet them with transportation. Chief had insisted on paying him for these services, that it be a business transaction with no strings attached. Longtree demurred. He didn't want to take money for what he considered a favor. Chief had been persistent. Finally Longtree had agreed to accept monetary compensation for his time and trouble.

  But Chief wasn't that naive. He realized that he might ultimately be presented a bill higher than he was willing to pay. Unfortunately, he'd seen no alternative.

  The kitchen was brighter and warmer than the living room. Melina was asking what she could do to help, but Longtree was holding a 1950s-vintage chrome chair for her. With a thank-you smile for him, she sat down at the table. He offered her something to drink and she asked for tea.

  "Colonel Hart?"

  "Call me Chief." He sat down across from Melina. "I'll take coffee if you have some made."

  Soon there was a steaming mug in Chief's hand. As Longtree went about preparing them a meal, Chief took note of the kitchen. The appliances were old, the plaster walls cracked and scarred, the pattern in the linoleum eroded in heavily trafficked spots.

  Longtree was dressed in Levi's and boots that had seen years of wear. His flannel shirt had a fraying hole in the bottom of the breast pocket, and, although his bearing and demeanor were as intimidating and regal as before, this was not the affluent-looking man he'd met in the bar of The Mansion.

  As Melina steeped her tea, she asked where the nearest reservation was, and Longtree informed her that she'd been on a reservation since she'd landed.

  "I had no idea. I guess I thought a reservation was more... contained. I apologize for my ignorance."

  "I wish all misconceptions about Indians were that harmless," he told her with another of his rare smiles.

  He set plates of food in front of them, then served his own plate and joined them at the table. Melina sighed around her first bite. "Delicious."

  It was only scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast, but Chief's mouth had started watering as soon as the aromas of cooking food had filled the kitchen. He had to force himself not to gobble and added his compliments to the cook.

  Longtree said, "I had to teach myself to cook when my wife died."

  "Was this recently?" Melina asked softly.

  "A long time ago."

  "Children?"

  He hesitated, then replied, "No."

  They ate the rest of their meal in silence. When they finished, Longtree collected the plates and carried them to the counter, then refilled Chief's coffee and her tea and sat back down. "Tell me why you're here."

  Chief looked across at Melina. "It's your story."

  She told Longtree an abbreviated version, which covered the facts and provided a fairly accurate overview of everything that had transpired since her last lunch with Gillian. After telling him how much she regretted switching places with her twin, she paused as though waiting for him to hand down a judgment. His stony features didn't flinch.

  She continued, concluding with, "Maybe Chief and I are being a little paranoid about tracking devices and such, but we don't think so. We've seen these people—whoever they are and whomever they represent—in action. As sure as I'm sitting here, they murdered Linda Croft and Jem Hennings."

  "Hennings admitted to us that he facilitated some kind of genetic engineering scheme," Chief said. "He referred to it as the 'Program.' The implication is unthinkable, especially when you consider the extent of Brother Gabriel's ministry."

  During the entire telling, Longtree h
ad sat as motionless and silent as a mountain. Then he spoke for the first time. "And you have little doubt that he's behind this plot?"

  "We don't know," Melina answered honestly. "I hate to incriminate anyone of something so heinous if it's not true. But Jem admitted that he and Dale Gordon worked for Brother Gabriel. Patients of the clinic, who meet a certain criteria, are inseminated with sperm that may not be from the donor of their choosing. That was Gordon's job. If the woman conceives, someone like Jem nurtures her through the pregnancy to see that nothing goes awry."

  "Like sleeping with me," Chief added bitterly. "Brother Gabriel preaches about establishing a new world order. In my opinion, that fits with the baby-making scenario and explains why he wants the conception of these children to be controlled and remain pure."

  "I'm convinced that if Gillian had conceived and stayed with Jem for the duration of her pregnancy, the baby would have been kidnapped just like the Andersons' baby," Melina told Longtree. "We know Jem didn't want me to talk to the FBI."

  "I started out thinking the orders to shut us up came from Hennings," Chief said. "But after seeing what happened to him... Because of my military training, I would guess the orders are coming straight from the top."

  After a time of reflection, Longtree asked, "These kidnapped children, where are they taken? For what purpose?"

  "That's what we came here to determine," Chief said. "Brother Gabriel's compound isn't far from here, relatively speaking. What do you know about it?"

  "The Temple is about a hundred miles as the crow flies. What I know about him isn't good." Longtree's expression turned even more grim than usual. "He, or rather his ministry, crooked one of the tribes out of some land. He wanted their mountain. They wouldn't sell. I think he coerced a tribal leader into selling the land out from under his own people."

  "How?"

  "What I know for fact, apart from rumor, is that the chief had two daughters. Beautiful, accomplished young women. One allegedly committed suicide just before the chief relented and sold the property."

  Melina pounced. "Allegedly?"

  Longtree's shrug was eloquent. "That was the ruling. Some questioned it. The chief's other daughter severed all ties with her family and friends and ran away to join Brother Gabriel's ministry. The last I heard, she was living in the Temple, which is built on property that once belonged to the people she has denounced. There was a lot of speculation over the level of Brother Gabriel's involvement in the dual tragedy. But the coincidence is too compelling to ignore."

  Chief looked across at Melina. "I think the son of a bitch is more diabolical than we've given him credit for."

  She asked Longtree if he thought people were being held in the compound against their will.

  "I doubt they're held in chains. But mind control can be an even stronger shackle."

  "Has Brother Gabriel ever been investigated?" Chief asked.

  "By law enforcement, you mean?" The older man shook his head. "Not to my knowledge. State and local police leave him alone. He's a taxpaying, law-abiding citizen. The federal bureaus don't want another Waco."

  "Besides, Brother Gabriel preaches good citizenship," Melina observed. "He's not anti-government. At least not overtly."

  Chief noticed that even as she was speaking, her eyes were closed and she was massaging her forehead. She looked as though sitting up required more energy than she had. `Before we storm the Temple, we've got to get some rest."

  She looked over at him. "I'm fine."

  "Well, I'm not. Is there someplace we can get a few hours' sleep?" he asked Longtree.

  Chief remained in the kitchen while Longtree showed

  Melina where she could bunk down. He was at the sink running hot water over their dirty dishes when Longtree returned. "Don't bother, Colonel Hart."

  "Chief. And it's the least I can do."

  They worked together for several minutes until all the things had been cleared from the table and the dishes were soaking in soapy water. "I'll finish them later," Longtree said. "Would you like another cup of coffee?"

  "No, thanks. I've got to try and get some shut-eye myself." But he made no move toward the door leading to the other rooms of the house. Instead, he returned to the table. Longtree took the chair across from him and waited him out.

  Chief found it uncomfortable to meet the other man's eyes. "This isn't what I expected."

  "This?"

  Chief looked around the kitchen. "I expected...”

  One side of Longtree's narrow lips tilted up into a half smile. "Something nicer."

  "I thought you were wealthy."

  "George Abbott's idea."

  "I see," Chief said, although he didn't.

  "George wanted to make a good impression on you. He thought you'd be won over more easily if we didn't appear quite so needy. We pooled our resources to buy me the new suit. Waste of money. Where am I going to wear it?" He smiled again. "I guess I can be buried in it."

  "What do you do for a living?"

  "I have a law degree, but my clients are poor. I run a very small herd of beef cattle."

  "You live here alone?"

  "My wife died twenty-six years ago."

  Chief lowered his gaze, chagrined over bringing up something that caused Longtree such obvious pain. He didn't expect him to expound and was surprised when he did.

  "She was pregnant with our first child. It had been a happy, uncomplicated pregnancy. She went into labor. I got her to the reservation clinic in time, but it turned out to be a difficult delivery. The clinic was ill-equipped and understaffed to handle that kind of emergency. For years the council had been petitioning for funds to improve and update it, but our request had been repeatedly denied.

  "My wife's condition rapidly worsened. There was no time to take her to another facility or to get an obstetric doctor here. As I watched, helpless to do anything, she bled to death. My son was cut out of her, but the cord was wrapped around his neck. He never drew a breath. I buried them together."

  The wall clock ticked abnormally loud in the resulting silence. Chief eventually stirred. "I'm sorry I made you think about it."

  "Don't be. I went a little crazy for a while, but I recovered. Eventually. Since then, even to now, whenever I think about it my resolve to improve life on the reservations is revived. I think the spirits use their deaths to keep my determination alive."

  Chief looked hard at Longtree and saw a man of conviction. Why hadn't he recognized it before? Why hadn't he seen past the expensive suit into the heart of the man wearing it? "Why did you let me go on believing in the pretense?"

  "It served our purpose, although not in the way George planned. Afterward, I was glad I had agreed to the slight deception, because your reaction to it revealed the character I had hoped to see in you. It was evident that you're a man of integrity."

  Chief gave a soft, self-deprecating laugh. "You touched some sensitive spots. You started me thinking."

  Longtree nodded approval. "I'd hate for your opinion of me, good or bad, to be the basis of your decision. I happen to think that you were sent to us. To our advocacy group. To help. To work toward bringing Native Americans into the twenty-first century with our pride, dignity, and heritage intact.

  "Some feel that we can't achieve the former without forsaking the latter. I don't. I do not believe that our heritage must be sacrificed in order for us to move ahead and join the rest of the modern world.

  "Regrettably, many of our people have victimized themselves. They've used being Indian as an excuse for their personal weaknesses. Alcoholism, depression, a lack of ambition.

  "I qualify that by stating that the underlying cause for these weaknesses is very real. We're still subject to flagrant and hateful racial prejudice. Did you know that Indians are victims of violent crimes at twice the rate of other Americans? Crimes that are inflicted on us by members of other races, not by other Indians. That's not just my opinion. The statistics are there. We have enemies. We're self-defeating. On both fronts, there'
s much that needs to be done."

  "I'm not the man to do it, Chief Longtree," Chief said earnestly.

  "You wouldn't have asked for help last night if you didn't feel a kinship with us."

  "I'm only half, you know."

  "So was Quanah Parker."

  Chief smiled fondly at the memory of his mother's stories about their famous ancestor. Like a language, Chief didn't remember a time when he didn't know about nine-year-old Cynthia Ann Parker being kidnapped from Parker's Fort, Texas, in 1836 by raiding Comanche. By the time she was a teenager, she had learned their language and adapted their customs. She married Chief Peta Nacona and bore him three children, two sons and a daughter.

  She lived with the Comanche for twenty-four years before being recaptured by Texas Rangers and, along with her daughter, restored to her family. She never readjusted, however, and died shortly after the death of her daughter. Legend maintained that she died of a broken heart over the separation from her husband and sons.

  Quanah was in his teens when his mother was recaptured. He succeeded his father as chief and became a feared warrior.

  For years he waged vicious warfare against the Army, to which he never lost a single battle.

  But in 1875, with his provisions depleted, he surrendered and moved his people to Fort Sill in present-day Oklahoma. Greatly influenced by his mother and the way in which she had adopted the Comanche life, Quanah did the reverse. He took her surname and encouraged his people to acclimate to Anglo culture. They learned to farm. The English-speaking Chief Quanah Parker established schools and was appointed a reservation judge. He counted President Theodore Roosevelt as a friend. The once-ferocious warrior became a statesman. He still waged war on behalf of his people, but his battlefield was the floor of Congress.

  "Some Comanche distrusted Quanah for being half-white, you know," Longtree said. "He was resented for adopting the white man's way of life. Should you join us, you won't be without your critics among Native Americans. But who in the public eye doesn't have opponents? Speaking strictly for myself, I see your mixed blood as an advantage. As it was for Quanah Parker."