Called Home

by Melissa F. Miller

  “Tell me the terminus points for each route.”

  Paper rustled. “Uh, like I said, Rapid City for the westbound route. Chicago for the eastbound. Sisseton for the North—up near Lake Traverse. And there’s a short spur south to Vermillion.”

  “Vermillion.” She said before he’d finished the word.

  “Are you sure? Not back home?”

  She smiled. “She went to Vermillion, Arnetto. You can bank on it.”

  “Headed there now.”

  “Good. I’ll have to share this information with the guys from Homeland Security when I talk to them, so hustle. At least you’ll have a head start.”

  “About that …” he trailed off, his voice tight and uncomfortable.

  She waited.

  “Uh … I got the sense from a buddy who works at DHS that they’re compartmentalizing their investigation.”

  “Meaning what?” She was pretty sure she knew what it meant but she had to ask.

  “Meaning they’re not going to share information with you. Roxanne, they may think you’re compromised.”

  She gripped the phone hard.

  “Find her, Arnetto.”

  “I know. Get the box.”

  “Yeah, the box. And the girl.”

  The line went silent on the other end.

  “Arnetto, did you hear me?”

  A long pause. Then, “Are you sure about this?”

  “Get. The. Girl.”

  12

  Aroostine woke at six to birdsong—high, clear, and nearby. A house wren seeking a mate, from the sound of it. She left the tent and gazed out at the water, listening to the ardent singer while she drank her morning tea.

  She had the feeling she’d dreamed about Joe. Or her spirit beaver. Or both. She knew if she was quiet for a while—if she sat and looked at the still waters or hiked a remote trail and listened to the trill of the wren, the rustle of rodents in the underbrush—the details would materialize. But as badly as she wanted to, she couldn’t spare the hour it might take. She needed to get on the road.

  She emptied her tin camping mug and headed to the bathhouse for a quick shower. When she returned to her campsite, the sun was still struggling up over the horizon. She packed with practiced, efficient movements. She had the tent disassembled and folded neatly in under three minutes.

  As she was arranging the last of her supplies in the back of the pickup truck, Rick emerged from the trees.

  “Morning.”

  “Good morning.”

  “You’re serious about shoving off early, huh?”

  “I really do have quite a distance to cover today.”

  He squinted at her. “Sounds like you’ve got somewhere important to get to.”

  The statement hung on the air. She pretended not to hear the question behind it.

  After a moment, he blinked and went on, “Well, here. Maryanne thought you might not be planning to stop to eat. So she made you some of her blueberry muffins, and a turkey and cheese sandwich.”

  He held out a square plastic container filled with muffins and a foil-wrapped sandwich.

  As she took the offered food, her tense shoulders relaxed. The homey gesture was exactly what someone from Walnut Bottom would’ve done for a solo traveler. It suddenly seemed she’d known Maryanne and Rick for years.

  “That’s very kind of her. Please tell her I said thank you.”

  He nodded. She leaned across the interior of the cab and settled the food carefully on the passenger side seat. She left the driver’s door hanging open. The keys dangled from her hand.

  He took the hint. “You be careful now.”

  She smiled. “I will. Hope the fish are biting today.”

  He gave her a wry smile. “If they are, this time I won’t leave a buffet out for the foxes.”

  She swallowed a laugh as she slid behind the steering wheel.

  As she turned the key in the ignition and the truck rumbled to life, Rick cleared his throat and drew his eyebrows together.

  “You’re good people, Rue.”

  She met his eyes. “Thanks.”

  “Bye, now.” He stood and watched as she pulled out.

  Then he waved and disappeared back into the trees.

  She pulled out slowly and beeped the horn softly as she passed Rick and Maryanne’s camper.

  She glanced down at the trip odometer. It was about five hundred miles to her next stop—a Minnesota state campground on the outskirts of Rochester. That gave her at least eight hours of driving time. Plenty of time to figure out how she planned to find Dahlia Truewind.

  And when she set up camp in Minnesota, Joe might visit her.

  Joe.

  The thought of him tore through her like a knife. She took her right hand off the steering wheel and touched the silver charm dangling from her necklace. Cool, smooth, comforting. She exhaled and returned her attention to the road.

  Focus, she told herself. She couldn’t afford another encounter with law enforcement. Sooner or later, her luck would run out.

  13

  Dahlia threw her arm over her eyes and rolled over, bumping into the side of the cramped, damp tent. The persistent beeping of the trash truck and the echoing metal clatter of the dumpster broke through her sleep-fuzzed brain.

  She flopped onto her back and stared up at the canvas canopy. It was six o’clock. She knew without having to check her watch. The city trucks came through the park every morning, and they reached the trash cans near the encampment right at six. It made for a jarring wakeup call.

  But then, she thought, as she wrestled her way out of the sleeping bag, that worked in her favor. She had to stay alert. She hadn’t seen anyone wander into the protesters’ camp since she’d arrived on Thursday night. And when she left to grab a shower, get food, or wander around the Vermillion campus looking for Mercy’s friends, she set up a primitive warning system to let her know if anyone had come by in her absence. So far, every time she checked the tripwire it had been undisturbed.

  Her relief that Bedrock Force hadn’t caught up with her was tempered by her growing disappointment that none of the activists had turned up. She needed to talk to them if she was going to piece together how much they knew about Mercy’s death.

  She stood, stooped to clear the doorway of the tent and grabbed her bag on her way outside. She jogged to the nearby bathhouse and cleaned herself up. As best she could tell in the warped rectangle of metal that served as the bathroom mirror, she looked presentable. She squinted to get a better look at her reflection. Okay, presentable-ish.

  Good enough, at any rate, to try to talk her way into the campus high-rise where Mercy had lived. She figured she’d pass for a hungover co-ed who’d slept one off on a friend’s sofa and was stumbling back home at an ungodly early hour on a Saturday morning. In fact, she mused ….

  She unbuttoned her shirt so that her tank top peeked out and loosened her smooth ponytail, pulling a few stray tendrils forward.

  There. Even better.

  She hurried through the park to the street and crossed against the light. At this hour, on a weekend, the shops were still dark and empty and there was no traffic to worry about. The campus green was equally deserted.

  She stowed her duffel bag in the bushes behind the bike rack, patted her jeans pocket to confirm the satellite communications unit was secure, then arranged herself on the steps that led to the locked lobby. Now all she had to do was wait for a Good Samaritan to wander by.

  She passed the time planning out her next steps. Assuming she could access Mercy’s apartment, she’d glean whatever she could and then head to the student union and track down Dane Painter, the editor of The Vermillion Gazette.

  While a student journalist probably wouldn’t have the resources to decrypt Ms. Markham’s device on his own, he’d take her story seriously. He had to. She’d spent a couple hours yesterday at the library reading the school paper. Dane had been all over Mercy Locklear’s death right after it happened. Articles, follow-up interviews, a
feature with her parents, a series of blistering editorials blasting the city for its inaction, the police for stonewalling, the school for trying to cover up her murder. Then … nothing.

  Dane Painter had either run out of leads or been warned off. She really hoped it was the first option, not the second. Because if he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—help her, she was going to have to find her way to Chicago. She couldn’t risk hanging around here much longer. At some point, Bedrock Force would come sniffing around, looking for her.

  The sound of a car door slamming shut echoed in the quiet morning. She jerked her head toward the noise. A mud-splattered, highlighter green Jeep was parked illegally, half in the pedestrian walkway.

  Her heart ticked up a beat.

  She didn’t take the time to analyze her reaction. The first rule of survival on the reservation was the only one that mattered: If someone, or something, gave you a bad feeling, trust that feeling. She launched herself over the side of the railing, crouched in the shrubbery, and studied the man approaching the building.

  Average height. Not thin, not fat—but solid. He looked strong and fit. His hair was short, not military regulation-length, but not much longer. As if he’d only been growing it out for a month or two. His jeans were stiff and dark. New. His t-shirt was worn and thin. And army green. He wore steel-toed work boots instead of sneakers. She couldn’t guess an age, but he carried himself like an adult, not a slouchy kid.

  This guy was no student.

  She held her breath while he clomped up the steps and stopped in front of the locked lobby doors. He studied the card reader for a few seconds then turned and scanned the quad. She craned her neck to follow his gaze.

  He was looking at the campus police station. After a moment, he seemed to decide something. He took the steps in a hurry, left the Jeep where it was, and set off toward the police station.

  Dahlia exhaled shakily. There was no reason to think this man was looking for her. But she knew in her bones that he was. She snatched her bag and fought through the bushes.

  Forget Mercy’s apartment. She needed to find Dane Painter. Now.

  14

  Aroostine stifled a yawn. The second day of driving was proving to be both easier and harder than the first.

  The act of piloting the truck had become automatic. Her palms weren’t sweating and her heart wasn’t racing as she barreled down the highway. But boredom and monotony had replaced the fear.

  She longed to be outside, with her feet on the ground and the sun warming her face, not cooped up in the truck, breathing stale air. The drive was draining her faster today. Fatigue had set in after a mere three hundred miles. She reached for another one of Maryanne’s muffins. She wasn’t even remotely hungry, but eating seemed to make the time pass slightly faster.

  Just another hundred and twenty miles until she reached the Minnesota campground. She tried to relax her tense neck and shoulders. It would feel so good to stop for the day. Stretch her legs, maybe even go for a run.

  Don’t stop in Minnesota.

  She blinked. Then she laughed nervously.

  I’m serious, Roo. You should push on. Keep going.

  Her mouth went dry.

  “J—Joe?” her voice shook. “Is that you?”

  She felt like an idiot talking to her dead husband. But that wasn’t her voice in her head, telling her to keep driving. It was Joe’s. She held her breath and waited for an answer. Ten seconds stretched into twenty, then thirty.

  The only sound was the hum of the engine and the rumble of the road.

  She slapped her hand on the steering wheel.

  “Joe, talk to me!”

  More silence.

  A dull, heavy feeling settled over her. She shook her head at her stupidity and switched on the radio. Static replaced the silence while she punched angrily through the stations with one finger, trying to find something to drown out her thoughts until she got to Rochester and set up camp.

  Because she didn’t care what the voice in her head said. She was stopping for the day in Minnesota. She glanced down at the radio display for a second to make sure it was tuned to FM, not AM.

  When she looked back up, an animal was standing in the middle of the road. A large beaver on its hind legs. Staring directly into her eyes.

  She flicked her eyes to the rearview mirror. Nobody behind her. She slammed the brake to the floor and the truck screeched to a stop, flinging her forward. The shoulder belt dug into her collarbone.

  She gripped the steering wheel and pinned her eyes on the animal. It wasn’t silver, it was dark brown. This wasn’t her spirit animal. It was real.

  It dropped its front paws to the ground and waddled to the side of the road. She watched it disappear into the trees, its paddle-shaped tail slapping the ground as it vanished. Through the trees, she glimpsed a lake. The beaver’s home, most likely.

  She raised her shaking hands to rub her eyes. Then she took her foot off the brake and brought the truck back up to speed as she tried to work through what she’d seen.

  Minnesota’s loaded with beaver, she told herself. It was a coincidence. Nothing more.

  All of which might be true. But it didn’t matter now. She was supposed to drive straight through to Sioux Falls. Joe had told her. And someone—either Joe, her grandfather, or Dahlia herself—had sent her a sign to make sure she understood.

  Got it, she breathed. Message received.

  She checked her speed and pressed down on the gas until it inched up to seventy miles per hour. She had a lot of ground to cover.

  By the time her breathing returned to normal and her heart rate slowed, she’d worked out a new plan. The low fuel indicator lit up, and the truck dinged at her. She scanned the road signs, looking for an exit with a gas station.

  After she filled the tank, she spread her map out on the dashboard and traced her new route. The Sioux Falls College offices would be closed on a Saturday, but she could park on campus and find Dahlia Truewind’s old dorm room.

  She refolded the map and returned it to the glove compartment. She waited a moment to see if Joe or any aquatic rodents wanted to weigh in on the new agenda. But no voices or visions materialized, so she started the engine and pulled out of the gas station.

  15

  Dane Painter looked like the editor-in-chief of a campus newspaper. Square jaw, square glasses with tortoise-shell frames. Sandy brown hair curling at his collar.

  He blinked at her. “I don’t understand.”

  “Which part?” Dahlia had thought she’d done a good job at laying out the entire story.

  He ran a hand through his hair. “Any of it. All of it.”

  She smothered a sigh. She needed this guy to believe her. “Okay. Let’s start over.”

  He nodded. “That’s a good idea.” Then he glanced at his watch. “Hang on. I’m starving. I haven’t had lunch yet. Have you?”

  “No. But, listen, Dane. I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to show my face on campus.” Especially not now that Jeep guy’s gone to the university police, she added silently.

  “Because of Mercy?”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll order a pizza. Delivery, okay? Nobody will see you.” He smiled reassuringly.

  “Sure, fine.” She just wanted to tell him her story and get out of here.

  “Pepperoni good?”

  “Sure,” she said again.

  He pulled up an app on his phone and placed his order. Then he pushed his sleeves up to his elbows and focused on her face.

  “Okay, run me through it again.”

  “Okay. Mercy Locklear participated in the water protests at Standing Rock.”

  “Right. She was a member of the environmental protector group. She was, uh, Native American. She felt a connection to the water, she said.” His voice faltered as if he was worried he’d offend her.

  “Yeah. She was Lakota, like me.”

  “You’re from Rosebud, too? Did you know her?”

  “No. I grew up on a diffe
rent reservation. I only met Mercy the day she died.”

  “At the park?”

  “Right.” Dahlia hesitated. Until she knew this guy was going to help her, she didn’t dare tell him everything. But she wanted to make sure everything she did tell him was true. It was like walking along the edge of a cliff.

  “But you’re not a student. And you’re not one of the protesters. So …?”

  “That’s not important. Have you ever heard of a company called Bedrock Force?”

  He answered instantly. “Who hasn’t? They’re a defense contractor.”

  “Well, they prefer private military contractor, but yeah.”

  “They were all over the place when the pipeline protests were active. They coordinated with the police and the feds to provide security and crowd control.”

  She leveled her gaze at him. “And counter-intelligence.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning Bedrock Force infiltrated the protester groups.”

  “Was Mercy one of them?”

  “No.”

  “Did she find out about them, though? Was that why she was killed?” His eyes flashed behind his glasses. Dane Painter’s mind was in overdrive, trying to tease out what happened.

  “I don’t think her death was planned or anything. But they did cause it.”

  “Do you have any proof?” He was leaning forward now, eager and attentive.

  “Sort of.”

  “Sort of?” A flicker of disappointment crossed his face.

  “Yeah, sort of. I have information that might tie Bedrock Force to her death, but it’s encrypted.”

  “What, like written in code?”

  “Not exactly. I have a device that—”

  A loud rap sounded on the door to newspaper’s office.

  “It’s probably the pizza,” he said.

  Awfully quick, she thought. But she nodded. “Sure.”

  “I’ll be back in a sec.” He picked up his wallet from the desk and weaved his way between the two rows of tables.