Free Before Sunrise by Diana Palmer Page A

road playing my radio so loud that people’s houses shake,” she replied, mentioning a pet peeve. “And when someone finally tells those people that they’re risking not only hearing loss but actual brain damage at those high sound levels, there will be lawsuits.”
    â€œAmen,” he seconded, chuckling.
    â€œAnyway, I hope those notes help catch whoever did it. Nobody should be killed for being a little crazy,” she said.
    â€œYou don’t think there’s a chance he was telling the truth?” he asked hesitantly.
    â€œNot a chance on earth,” she said firmly. “Now what do I owe you for those bullets? And you’d better tell me the truth, because I’m calling the local gun shop to ask.”
    He grimaced and told her. She wrote him out a check.
    â€œAnd thank you for the lessons and the loan of the pistol,” she added. “I’m really grateful.”
    â€œNo problem. I’d better get back to work. You watch your back,” he added.
    She smiled. “Sure.”
    Â 
    T HAT EVENING , when Drake got off work, he knocked on the door of the room in a local motel where Cortez was staying.
    â€œCome in,” the older man said, sounding weary.
    Drake opened the door. There sat Cortez in a chair in his sock feet, jeans and a black T-shirt with a sleeping toddler sprawled on his broad chest. His hair was loose down his back and he looked as if he’d die for some sleep.
    â€œHe’s teething,” Cortez said. “I finally took him to the clinic and got something for the pain. For both of us,” he added without a smile, but with a twinkle in his dark eyes. “What do you want?”
    â€œI brought some information.” He handed the slip of paper to Cortez and watched him unfold it. “That’s what Miss Keller remembers about her conversation with the anthropologist. It was on disk, but I had it transcribed for you.”
    â€œShe’s very thorough.”
    â€œShe should be doing ethnology, not overseeingsome little museum,” Drake said. “She’s overqualified for the job.”
    Cortez glanced at him. “What do you know about ethnology?”
    â€œAre you kidding? I’m Cherokee. Well,” he corrected quietly, “part Cherokee. My father was full-blooded. My mother was white and she got tired of her family making remarks about her little half-breed. She walked out the door when I was three. Dad drank himself to death. I went into the army at seventeen and found myself a home, where a lot of people have mixed blood,” he added coldly.
    Cortez studied him silently. “I had a Spanish ancestor somewhere.”
    â€œIt doesn’t show,” Drake said flatly. “I imagine you fit in just fine with your people.”
    â€œYour people outnumber us.”
    â€œWhich half of my people do you mean?” Drake asked ruefully.
    â€œThe Indian half. And even among my people, there are only about nine hundred of us who still speak Comanche,” Cortez said. “The language is almost dead. At least Cherokee is making a comeback.”
    â€œNo two people speak it alike,” Drake said. “But I get your point—it’s still a viable language.” He looked at thelittle boy with soft eyes. “Going to teach him how to speak Comanche?”
    Cortez nodded. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he studied Drake. “But he’ll have your problem. His mother is white.”
    Drake was looking at the sleeping child intensely. “Does she live with your people?”
    Cortez’s eyes flashed. He averted them. “She…died a month after Joseph was born,” he said reluctantly.
    â€œSorry,” Drake said at once.
    â€œIt wasn’t that sort of marriage,” the older man said coldly. “I appreciate the notes. Did Phoebe tell you to give them to me?”
    â€œShe said they might be useful to the FBI,” Drake hedged.
    Cortez’s big