Called Home

by Melissa F. Miller

  He better move that Jeep or I’ll kick his ass myself, she thought, as she careened out into the street and blew through the stop sign at the corner.

  And you better settle down and follow the traffic regulations. If you get pulled over and get there late, Jackman really might leave. You’ll have to figure out a way to kick your own ass if you miss your one chance to get your hands on that box.

  She eased off the gas. At the next red light, she placed her gun in the glove compartment and adjusted her mirrors.

  By the time she reached Route 29, she’d relaxed into the drive. She even lowered her window a fraction to get some fresh air.

  Out of view, on the floor behind her seat, a colorful scarf danced in the breeze.

  35

  Ben Reifel Visitor Center

  The Badlands National Park

  12:45 P.M.

  “Thanks for the ride,” Dahlia sing-songed as Bryce, the dad, helped her unload the tent and the bag from the back of his minivan.

  “It was our pleasure. I mean, we got to meet a Lakota Sioux,” he enthused, shaking her hand up and down.

  “Honey?” his wife called from the front seat in a tone that said ‘Don’t forget what I told you to ask her.’

  “Right,” Bryce said to himself. “Wendy and I just wanted to check—are you sure your brother the ranger is expecting you? What if he’s not working this weekend? We can wait while you run inside and make sure. We’d hate to leave you stranded here.”

  She nodded seriously. “I really appreciate it. But I talked to him just last night. He knows I’m coming. And I’ll call my mom as soon as I’m inside and let her know I got here safe and sound,” she added loudly for Wendy’s benefit.

  “Well, if you’re sure …”

  “I am.” She smiled. “Just let me say goodbye to Cain real quick.”

  She leaned in through the sliding door and caught the boy’s eyes. He was a cool little dude. And not even remotely annoying for an eight-year old. “Have fun on the rest of your trip. And remember, the best place to spot bison is Sage Creek Rim Road.”

  “Right. And look for bighorn sheep in the Pinnacles,” he said.

  She gave him a thumb’s up sign and started to walk away.

  “Hey, Dahlia?”

  “Yeah?” she turned back.

  “You know the story you told me about what happened to Coyote?”

  “Sure.” She’d told it mainly to distract him from his parents’ discussion about Wounded Knee, which seemed kind of heavy for a third grader.

  “You said Coyote ran into Rabbit and just had to find out what was in the pouch Rabbit was carrying, right?”

  “Right, so Rabbit warned Coyote that he really didn’t want to know.”

  Cain took over and finished the old story, “But Coyote, being Coyote, didn’t listen and yanked open the pouch. And it was full of fleas, and they all jumped into Coyote’s fur.”

  “That’s how it went,” she confirmed.

  “So, I was thinking. It’s not really Coyote’s fault. Sometimes people try to convince you that you don’t really want something and try to make you think it’s bad, but it’s really so good they don’t want to share it. That happens a lot at school. I kind of think it’s Rabbit’s fault for acting so shady about the bag.”

  An image sprang into her mind. Mercy, laughing, reached for her bag. She turned this way and that, trying to keep Mercy from opening it. The more she tried to evade her, the more interested Mercy became in the bag. Then it fell open to reveal the recorder. Swanson fired his gun. Mercy, covered in blood, on the ground.

  Dahlia swayed on her feet. She was Rabbit. She’d failed to learn the lesson from the old story. Was that why it had come to her mind so easily?

  “Are you okay?” Cain asked.

  Bryce eyed her with concern.

  “Uh … yeah. A little dehydrated. I’ll fill my canteen inside. You folks enjoy the rest of your trip and have safe travels back to Connecticut.” She gave a little wave and hurried toward the visitor center before she completely lost it in front of the Huddleston Family.

  36

  State Fairgrounds

  Rapid City, South Dakota

  3:00 PM exactly

  As Aroostine’s watch beeped on the hour, Roxanne Markham’s black SUV pulled into the fairgrounds lot and came to a stop two spots away from the pickup truck. Markham killed her engine.

  Aroostine glanced at Manny, who was about forty feet away, dressed like an urban cowboy and busily pretending to load up a horse trailer after some sort of riding show.

  He tipped back the brim of his hat. The signal for I see her.

  Aroostine breathed through her nose. It was almost over. She picked up the sat-comm device from the seat next to her and nodded toward Markham through the window. Markham reached into her glove compartment and removed something. Then she fussed with her clothes, adjusting them and tugging them straight.

  She waited until she saw Markham’s hand resting on her door, then she reached for her own. In a choreographed motion, the two of them stepped out of their respective vehicles in unison.

  They approached one another slowly, striding deliberately through the two empty parking spaces separating them. Aroostine imagined they must look like a pair of old-time Western outlaws facing off. She supposed that was basically what they were.

  Instead of a gun, she had a titanium box. And instead of a gun, Markham had … she squinted into the afternoon sun … Markham had a gun.

  Her breath caught in her throat. She swept Joe’s baseball cap off her head in a fluid motion but didn’t dare turn to look at Manny. She’d have to hope he’d caught the prearranged signal for All hell is breaking loose.

  “Stop,” she called.

  Markham stopped about twelve feet away. “Is there a problem?”

  “I can see the outline of a weapon tucked into your waistband. You’re armed.”

  “Of course I’m armed. Aren’t you?”

  “No. And I’ve got to admit, I’m kind of uncomfortable with the imbalance.”

  Manny was whistling loudly as he strolled toward a large trash bin conveniently located halfway between Aroostine and Markham. He was toting a black contractor-sized trash bag he’d stuffed with crumpled newspapers to give the illusion of fullness.

  The handy location of the bin was no accident. He’d spent the first twenty minutes after she’d arrived positioning trash cans halfway between her truck and everywhere Markham might conceivably park. Each of the trash cans contained a digital motion-sensing trail camera.

  Aroostine relaxed one-eighth of a notch, which meant her teeth stopped chattering.

  “So how do you want to do this, then?” Markham asked.

  “I’ll put the box on the ground right here, then go back to my truck. Once I’m inside, you can take it. And then we go our separate ways.”

  Markham considered this. “Okay.”

  Aroostine kept her eyes on Markham as she bent her knees and placed the box on the white line denoting one edge of the parking space.

  Markham shifted her attention between Manny and Aroostine.

  Manny kept whistling.

  “Hey, buddy,” Markham called. “We’re trying to transact some private business here. Do you mind?”

  Manny turned and flashed her a big, apologetic smile. “Yo no hablo inglés.”

  Markham pursed her lips then shrugged, as if to say ‘whatever.’

  Aroostine started to back up toward the truck, her eyes locked on Markham.

  Manny made a big production of putting his trash bag beside the can because it was too big to fit inside.

  Aroostine bumped up against the bed of the truck and sidestepped her way to the door. She felt around behind her back until she located the handle then pulled the door open. She couldn’t step up into the truck backward.

  She held her breath as she turned away from Markham.

  “Down! Down!” Manny shouted.

  She fell to the ground and rolled under
the truck. A bullet pinged off the hood and whizzed to the ground several feet away.

  Manny tackled Markham from behind, pulled her to the ground in a bear hug, and used a quick wrist lock to knock the gun out of her hand like he did it every day. For all Aroostine knew, he did.

  “I’m a government contractor authorized by the Department of Homeland Security to carry and discharge a handgun,” Markham shouted at him.

  Aroostine crawled out from under the truck and sprinted for the gun. She assumed Manny had his own, so she held on to Markham’s.

  “And I’m a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigations authorized to arrest anyone I believe to have committed a felony.” He drove a knee into Markham’s back and shoved his identification in front of her face.

  “That box over there is property of my employer. Stolen property containing top-secret classified information pertaining to an oil pipeline that’s been designated a strategically important national security asset, you idiot. I’m here to retrieve it. You should be arresting her.” Markham raised her chest and strained her neck to throw Aroostine a venomous look.

  “We’ll worry about the cryptobox in a minute,” Manny told her. “I have a warrant for your arrest.”

  “Not possible.”

  “Are you Roxanne Markham?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it’s more than just possible, it’s actual.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “Conspiracy after the fact and aiding and abetting the murder of Mercy Locklear.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “The FBI received information from a confidential informant that there’s evidence in your vehicle tying you to the crime.”

  “There’s not.”

  “Then you won’t mind if I take a look. The information was fairly specific. It’s a purple and orange-gold scarf. The victim was wearing it the day she was killed.”

  Markham smiled triumphantly. “Knock yourself out. I keep my vehicle neat as a pin. You’ll see. There’s no scarf of any kind in there.”

  “Let’s take a look, shall we? I’m just going to cuff you to that light pole while I search the SUV. Seeing as how you just shot at that woman.” He dragged her to the pole.

  “Hug the pole, Ms. Markham.”

  After she complied, he snicked the cuffs on her wrists.

  Then Manny walked over to the titanium box, picked it up, and and tossed it to Aroostine. She caught it one-handed.

  “It’s unlocked,” Markham called in a taunting voice as he walked toward the vehicle.

  Aroostine leaned against the hood to watch the finale, the gun in her right hand, Markham’s precious box in her left.

  Manny made a show of searching the front seat first—center console, both side pockets, and the glove box. He emerged and raised his empty hands in a sheepish gesture.

  Markham laughed. “Told you.”

  He pulled open the rear door on the driver’s side and leaned into the SUV. About a half a second later, he was waving the scarf at Markham. He closed the door and walked toward her.

  “That’s not mine. I’ve never seen it before. Swanson must have put it there. I—”

  She stopped talking as Manny came to a stop about six inches away from her.

  “Roxanne Markham, you’re under arrest for the murder of Mercy Locklear. You have the right to remain silent …”

  37

  The Badlands National Park,

  South Unit

  6:45 PM

  Aroostine parked in the most remote parking lot, slung her bag over her shoulder, and entered the trailhead. She consulted the park brochure she’d picked up outside the visitor center to orient herself. She stopped at the backcountry register and flipped it open. Dahlia hadn’t signed it. But she was here. She scrawled ‘Rue Jackman’ across the first empty line. Then she started to hike toward the reservation.

  Judging by the fading light, she had about thirty minutes until the sun set. Plenty of time to find Dahlia. She hoped.

  Her eyes were drawn again and again to the striated mountains, rich fossil beds of gray, red, and brown ribbons that unwound across the landscape as far as she could see. The tall prairie grass undulated, swaying in the wind like so many tiny hula-skirted dancers. The effect was almost hypnotizing.

  She shook her head to clear it. She was tired, hungry, and thirsty. Perfect conditions for getting lost in the backcountry and dying of dehydration, exposure, or something more unpleasant.

  Fewer whimsical rhapsodies about the surroundings, more tracking of the girl, she commanded herself.

  And she even listened to herself.

  Until she spotted the first ward of fat prairie dogs popping up from their tunnels to stand on their hind legs to watch her. She stopped, transfixed, and studied the little creatures. She watched as they twitched their noses and drew their small sharp claws in then brought them back out. Dozens of them studied her back with serious expressions on their faces. Then they returned to their regularly scheduled socializing and eating. It was, after all, that time of day.

  She was about to move on when a prairie dog let out a series of short, sharp barks. A nearby prairie dog joined the chorus.

  Predator, predator, predator, they warned, and the entire group dove for their tunnels and the interconnected tunnels beneath the earth.

  Please be a hawk, or an eagle. She really didn’t have the energy to deal with a bobcat or a coyote at the moment. Whatever it was, it must have smelled her scent on the wind and moved on. Because after a moment of stillness, heads began to pop back out of the tunnels.

  She walked on. After ten minutes, she squatted at a fork in the path and examined a swath of prairie grass near the edge of the trail. It had been flattened by something twelve-to-eighteen-inches wide and just about three feet long. The dimensions of her tent bag. The grass had been pushed to the right. She stood and took the right fork.

  Fifty yards further along the path, she spotted the snapped twigs at the spot where Dahlia had stepped off the marked trail to cut across a field. She squinted into the distance and made out an indistinct shape just about dead even between two small rocky buttes. It wasn’t the spot she’d have chosen to make her camp, but she might have chosen it for a romantic picnic and some stargazing with a boyfriend. She headed toward it.

  At ten minutes after seven o’clock, when the last streaks of light were fading into the night she reached Dahlia’s campsite. Dahlia was sitting on a jagged rock outside Aroostine’s tent with Aroostine’s jacket wrapped tightly around her. She was eating a sandwich.

  “I don’t suppose you have another one of those,” Aroostine said as she stepped into the clearing.

  Dahlia leapt to her feet, looking for all the world like a prairie dog emerging from its burrow.

  “How did you find me?”

  Aroostine eyed the sandwich. Dahlia handed over half of it.

  “Your mother told me you and your old boyfriend had a special spot in the park. I looked at the reservation map, and I looked at the park map, and it was easy enough to triangulate your location.”

  “But how’d you know I’d be here at all? I could have gone anywhere.”

  Aroostine chewed a mouthful of cheese and … cheese … sandwich before she answered. “You could have, but you didn’t. You wanted to go home last night. And after your face was plastered all over the state as a suspected murderer, I figured you’d decided that was no longer an option. So you went for the next best thing—a place close to home that holds special meaning for you, where you feel safe.”

  Dahlia smiled at some private memory. Then her face fell. “But it’s not. Safe, I mean.”

  “You might have some coyote to contend with, but aside from the native inhabitants, you’re safe.”

  Dahlia shook her head. “No, I mean … you know. Ms. Markham.”

  “Roxanne Markham was taken into custody in Rapid City about two hours ago by FBI Special Agent Manuel Ortiz for aiding and abetting the murder of Mercy Loc
klear. I imagine Marcus Swanson has also been detained by now.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Somehow, a scarf belonging to Mercy Locklear—a highly recognizable scarf, by the way, since she was wearing it in the photograph Bedrock Force released to the press—was found in Roxanne Markham’s backseat during a routine vehicle search. That physical evidence, plus her erratic behavior regarding a certain sat-comm box, proved sufficient to charge her with murder. About three seconds after Agent Ortiz finished giving her a Miranda warning, she implicated Swanson as the gunman.”

  “But … I don’t … how’d the scarf get in her car?” Dahlia furrowed her brow and frowned at Aroostine.

  “It’s a mystery.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Yeah, I guess so. What about Jeep guy?”

  “He’s some old Army buddy of Markham’s. So far, she’s willing to throw Swanson under the bus, but not Jeep guy. I think all her skeletons will come to light by the time DHS and the FBI are finished with her. But just in case, I kept your SIM card. Consider it an insurance policy.”

  She dug the small card out of her pocket and pressed it into Dahlia’s hand.

  Dahlia curled her fingers around the SIM card. “And the FBI has the box?”

  “Yes. They want to do their own independent examination of its contents before they hand it over to Homeland Security. DHS, unsurprisingly, isn’t thrilled. But that’s for them to fight out. You and I don’t have to worry about those details.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “Believe it. You’re safe. Not only that, but you did it. You’re giving Mercy’s family closure and you’re making Bedrock Force take responsibility for what it did. And, if the cryptobox pans out, you’re going to bring a whole slew of injustices and misapplications of power to light. You did it, Dahlia.”

  The girl threw her arms around Aroostine and hugged her. “We did it.”

  “Okay, we did it. Can I take you home?”