He sneered. He actually sneered. She hadn't thought anyone used that particular expression outside of bad movies and worse TV shows. 'I know more than enough,' he replied. 'I know how you were when I dumped you, that you figured you could get along with The Man. I know that's shorthand for selling out. You're still letting wasichu tell you what to do, what to say, what to think. You haven't changed, Jennifer.'
You dumped me? Yeah, fer sure, and I'm a blond. She didn't know whether to laugh at him or herself. Oh David, like you aren't a tool of The Man whether or not you admit it. The Man manipulates you just by being for something- even if it was good for you, you'd be against it. And don't think that smart people aren't able to figure that out after talking with you for two minutes. But she didn't say anything; she just sighed after a long moment. 'Look, I have a job to do, and it happens to be for our people. Are you going to get out of the way?'
'There's nothing in there for you, Jennifer,' he said, not moving. 'There's no one in there who wants to talk to you.'
Since he obviously hadn't asked anyone in the meeting if they were willing to talk to her, that patent untruth made her lose her patience. 'I'd like to hear that for myself, thank you! And I'd like to get a chance to talk to someone who just might know something that could help all of us, instead of a fool who acts like a white man and makes assumptions without waiting to hear the facts.'
She could have slapped herself for calling him a fool, but it was too late to take it back.
He didn't move. He just stood there with that scowl on his face, in what had to be an unconscious reflection of a James Dean poster. 'That's what this meeting is all about,' he said abruptly. 'We're making up our minds about what we're going to do about this situation. There are at least some people here who have the sense to talk to experts instead of waiting to get trapped by smart cops.'
'We?' she raised her eyebrow, which so far was the only change she'd made in her expression. At least she could take comfort in the fact that she had more control over her body language than he had over his. 'I hadn't noticed you driving any bulldozers lately. Or have you suddenly turned into a construction worker in the past week?'
He ignored the remark. 'I'm here to advise these people, before they get into something too deep to pull out of. We're going to vote on whether we should talk to anybody at all-whether we should take everything straight into the courts as a minorities harassment case. That way we get protection and bypass all the bullshit.'
A harassment case? She was incredulous. There was blood spilled out on that site; some of his people and hers were dead. How could he possibly be thinking of something so- petty? How dare he reduce this situation to trivialities?
That was when her temper went the way of her patience. This was not a law-class exercise, this was the real world- and there were real people who were really dead.
'Dammit, David,' she snarled, 'there's more than just a harassment case going on when you've got a body count! You jerkoff, there's dead people involved here, kids whose daddies aren't coming home, and somebody's responsible for their deaths! That's murder in my book, and not some two-bit legal sideshow!'
She dug into her pocket and came up with a handful of business cards. She shoved the cards at him, feeling her blood pressure rise with every second. 'When you and the boys get tired of playing Indians and cavalry, give me a call,' she said sarcastically. 'Maybe then we can start getting things settled, and maybe together we can find out who's responsible.'
He didn't take the cards; they dropped to the ground at his feet.
She turned on her heel and walked off, so angry she could hardly see. She stalked stiff-kneed and stiff-spined all the way back to the truck, threw herself inside, started it up, and backed out with a spinning of tires and spitting of gravel. This time she left tire marks on the road.
But at the crossroads, her temper cooled; she pulled over and beat her hands on the steering wheel. She wanted to beat her head on it-but that would leave bruises, and a bruised forehead would be hard to explain to the folks.
Oh, I just ran into David Spotted Horse, and I started beating my head against a wall. . . .
Then again, they'd probably accept that.
'Good job, Talldeer,' she muttered under her breath. 'Really good job. Congratulations. You really made your point, didn't you. Damn, damn, damn-'
Why did he have to be there? Why couldn't it have been some other macho asshole from the Rights Movement? She could have handled a stranger. She wouldn't have lost her temper. She'd handled every flavor and color of macho jerk there was, including those of her own people who had accused her, openly or veiled, of selling out to the White Man. Of being an Apple-red on the outside, white on the inside. She'd done it successfully, too. If it had just been a stranger-
But it wasn't a stranger. It was him. All the old memories, all the old attraction-all the old baggage. If he wasn't such a jerk-
The hormones gave her another thrill along her nerve endings. They didn't care if he was a macho idiot. All they knew was that he had been cute and now he was a hunkarama, right in the same style and league as some of the gorgeous guys who'd been making beautiful scenery in Last of the Mohicans and Dances With Wolves. Yeah, it was all still there.
'If he wasn't such a jerk, you'd be in bed with him in a New York minute,' she said aloud, scolding herself. 'Jennifer, you are such a pushover!'
Jennifer, you are such a dope. The minute David shows up, you've got helium heels.
She put her head down in her hands, and tried to think around the hormones and the anger. I was yelling loud enough to be heard in the next county. I'm sure they heard me inside. If I'm lucky, someone in there will pick up one of those cards, or make David give him one. If I'm really lucky, it 'II be someone with the sense Wah-K'on-Tah gave a gnat, and he'II call me. If I'm not lucky, I'm going to have to try and talk one of these guys into hearing me out before he pitches me out on my butt.
Well, there was one man who would not be at that meeting. At least one of the men who'd been injured was still in the hospital and not so drugged up that he couldn't talk. Larry Bushyhead had had something fall on him when the dozer exploded; from the tally at the hospital the injuries were cracked ribs and broken ringers, but not much else. If she left now, she could make it before visiting hours were over.
He wasn't an ex-employee, either; he was a witness to everything that had happened before the explosion. He could have some valuable information about the guys who'd quit, and about what had happened that day.
And at least he wouldn't be someone who made her hormones prance around like performing dogs.
The hospital corridor was empty; most of the patients on this floor were drugged into happy-or at least pain- free- oblivion. They'd turned the corridor lights down for the benefit of those who wanted to sleep.
I really hate hospitals, she thought absently. The places always smelled like disinfectant and dead flowers, and they were always too cold. No wonder the nurses wore sweaters on duty. She listened to her own footsteps and the mingled sounds of a dozen TV and radio stations as she walked the empty corridor to a room halfway along its length.
'Hi,' she said cautiously, poking her head around the doorframe. Larry was in a double, but there wasn't anyone in the other bed, and the nurse on duty said that his wife was out looking for some dinner. It was the usual hospital semi-private; Larry was in the bed nearest the window and the bathroom; Hillcrest had their bathrooms on the outside wall rather than the inside. The curtains were closed, and the TV was off, with only the light over his bed still burning. This was a good time to talk to him.
Heck, it was a great time to talk to him; if he felt like talking to her, he wouldn't be inhibited by the presence of a roommate or his wife.
'Hi,' he said, looking up from the paper he was trying to read; from the way he'd been squinting at it, he wasn't having much luck with it. 'What can I do for you?'
He looked interested, at least, and not like she was imposing on him. She took another step that put her in the doorway. Now that she was closer, there was no doubt of his Osage blood. Tall, rangy, with dark brown hair and mild eyes that were probably deceptive, he looked enough like her father to be a cousin. He'd gotten someone to bring him real pajamas, which was just as well, because she figured that, tall as he was, the hospital gown was just long enough to save him from technical exposure.
'I'm Jennifer Talldeer, and the insurance company that covers Rod Calligan hired me to ask some questions,' she said, carefully. 'I promise I'm not from Workman's Comp, and nothing you tell me will have any effect on your hospitalization. Do you feel like answering them? If you don't, I'll be happy to leave you in peace, but if you do, it
