by CJ Lyons
He fell asleep in the kitchen chair, obviously exhausted. Fine with her, it gave her a chance to search the cabin, see if he was who he said he was. Her mom and roommate always said she was too trusting; this seemed a good time to be a bit skeptical.
She found nothing to make her suspicious of him. Besides pieces of the stripped motorcycle, Bernie’s decor reminded her of her own room in Durham: books, books, and more books. His were all classic pulp science fiction and mystery, dog-eared dime store copies. And comics. Boxes and boxes of Avengers and X-Men and others she’d never heard of. He had a TV/VCR but it got no reception, which explained the stacks of videos that looked like they’d been collected from garage sales, most missing their cases. Classic movies and TV shows, none newer than the last century.
He snuffled in his sleep, a raspy noise that made her wonder if he was coming down with something. Poor guy didn’t seem like much slumped in the chair asleep. The only threatening thing about him was the Grim Reaper tattoo across the back of his neck and scalp. She bet that hurt, getting a tattoo there.
A thud came from the roof followed by the sound of heavy footsteps. The leopard back again, letting them know it was watching, waiting. Lena shuddered. She didn’t like being at the bottom of the food chain.
There’d been no sign of the chimps but there also wasn’t anything she could do to help them if the leopard was stalking them. Just like there was nothing left she could do to help Bernie. Funny. Things weren’t really much better, but she wasn’t scared anymore. As if last night and almost dying had burned it out of her. Or maybe it was something about Bernie. Maybe God had sent him to her in answer to her prayers—or maybe He’d sent Lena to Bernie to save him? Who knew? She ate peanut butter smeared on a banana, drank some of his milk, sat by the window, and waited for the sun to rise.
Whatever it was that God had in store for her, at least now she had someone to share the burden with. A man brave enough to stand between her and danger.
She didn’t understand the danger, had no idea what she’d stumbled into. But for the first time in days—no, years, since her mom and Vonnie died—Lena felt like she wasn’t fighting alone.
* * *
Running, she was running through the trees, blood on her hands. So much blood. She stopped. Stared at her hands. Started to scream.
“Caitlyn. Caitlyn, wake up.” A man’s voice silenced her screams.
She blinked away the blood. Saw Paul leaning over her. “You’re having one of your dreams.” He crouched down beside her chair, pulled her close to him, his warmth easing her shakes. “I thought I should wake you before—”
Before she began screaming in real life. Like she had so many times before.
She pushed him away, sucked in a breath to steady herself. Paul knew too many of her vulnerabilities. She’d taken that—him—for granted. Started to depend on his strength rather than her own. Fine when she was recovering from brain surgery and almost being killed by a psychopath. After all, who could resist Paul’s easy smile and the way he offered comfort so readily? She’d thought she wanted dependable, reliable—that was Paul. Now she realized it was a mistake. Big mistake.
She needed to depend on herself, not someone else. Not even someone as nice as Paul.
“I’m fine.” The tremble in her voice said otherwise. “What time is it?”
“It’s around six.” He slid onto the other chair, his gaze never leaving her face. She turned away from his scrutiny. “Don’t you think it’s time you told me about your father?”
She breathed in and out again. The air in the room felt heavy—or maybe that was her heart. Weighed down by memory. And the thought of leaving Paul. She felt like she owed him this, the final answer, the reason why she could never be with him. Be with anyone. “I never told you how he died, did I?”
“No. Just that you were the one who—that you found him.”
She nodded even though she still faced away from him. “I was nine. My dad worked long hours. Four days or nights a week for the sheriff, then days off he’d work for my best friend’s father, Eli Hale, help him build houses.”
“Hale. And now you’re searching for his daughter.”
“Lena. Eli’s youngest. Just a baby when I saw her last. Anyway, it was a beautiful spring day and my father wasn’t working so I skipped school and stayed home, hid beneath the porch—my favorite hiding place, warm in the winter, cool in the summer. Dry most of the year. I thought my father would be fishing, such a beautiful day, and I wanted to go with him.”
She remembered the sun slanting through the latticework, casting shadows on the packed earth at her feet. So warm. Dad would be angry with her about missing school but he’d also laugh at her boldness. He always told her never to be afraid to be brave or bold if she knew it was the right thing. And with so much going wrong in Evergreen recently, she knew taking her father fishing, making him laugh and forget his worries if only for a day, was the right thing to do.
“The grown-ups were all so worried and frightened,” she continued. “Tommy Shadwick had been killed on the reservation a few weeks before. Beaten to death with a hammer and his house burned down. Folks whispered and locked their doors for the first time ever. But us kids, to us it was all an adventure—something exciting had finally happened in our tiny, dreary town.”
He scooted his chair closer to hers, wrapped his arms around her from behind. Sheer reflex had her leaning into his embrace. She just couldn’t help herself. At least that was her excuse. “Your dad, he was investigating this man’s death?”
“No. Tribal police were. And the FBI. The sheriff was working with them, of course. But Tommy Shadwick’s death was more than a case to Dad. He wasn’t sleeping, was always arguing with Mom and Mr. Hale. Mr. Hale was getting ready to do something Dad didn’t want him to do, something Dad thought was wrong. We didn’t understand it at the time—all we knew was every time we walked in a room with the grown-ups, they’d shush and send us away. Then came the day Mr. Hale came and told my dad to arrest him. Said he’d killed Tommy Shadwick. They found the hammer in his truck, blood still on it. My dad came home that night, didn’t know I was awake, waiting for him. First time I ever saw him cry.”
Paul stiffened and she realized he’d already figured out the ending of her sorry story. “So that day you skipped school—”
“I fell asleep under the porch. The sound of the shots woke me up. I ran upstairs. And there he was. Blood. Gun at his hand. Dead. All because of Eli Hale. I learned later Dad had initially provided an alibi for Eli. Even after Eli confessed, Dad maintained his innocence, said he couldn’t have done it. But obviously he was wrong. Eli killed that man. Just like he killed my dad—or good as.”
“So that’s why you’re always running. You need to abandon everyone before they have a chance to abandon you.” His hands tightened around her, and he lay his head on her shoulder. “You can stop your running now. I’m here for the long haul, Caitlyn.”
Yes, but was she? She rubbed at the scar on her temple, drew in her breath, searched for the courage to tell him the truth: she was broken, damaged beyond even his ability to heal. But she couldn’t find the words. Knowing herself a coward, she pulled free of his embrace. “What are you, a radiologist or a shrink?”
His smile was forced but he didn’t push the issue. “I’m whatever you need me to be.”
“Well, right now I sure could use a fresh pair of eyes and someone who knows their way around a search engine.” She showed him the materials she’d listed from Lena’s research and law review project. “Think you can help me fill in the blanks?”
“Sure, no problem. Are you going to get some sleep?”
She wished. “No. I need to visit an old friend. It won’t take long.”
“Your mom and uncle invited us to brunch at eleven. I think it’d be nice if we both were there. On time.” Paul was ten minutes early for everything, just like her mom. Drove her crazy that to them being on time—give or take a minute or two—was the same as
being late.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be there.”
* * *
Goose about shit himself when he got back to the VistaView and Tierney wasn’t in her room. No way he was about to tell Poppy he screwed up.
He still had no idea where the law student fit into anything, but if Wilson did his job, Tierney wouldn’t be a problem after today. Then all they’d need would be to find the cash.
He found Tierney’s car in the garage and placed a GPS tracker on it. Then he went to bed, his cell phone and laptop set to alert him of any activity. Surprisingly it was the laptop that buzzed him awake at around six in the morning, the keystroke recorder faithfully creating a copy of everything Tierney did.
Nice. Now that he had her password, once she logged off, he could gain access to her computer. From the WiFi code, she had moved to room 313. He couldn’t see the result of her Internet searches but he could see what she was searching for. What the hell was she working? Some kind of antique fraud involving Indian artifacts? She was looking at stuff from the eighteen hundreds but also checking out the Reapers and Poppy and some Indian guy who got killed a quarter century ago.
Maybe she was sleep surfing. Because he sure as hell couldn’t fit it all together.
One thing for sure. This was about a lot more than some missing law student.
His curiosity nagged at him and he set about re-creating her searches on his machine. No links that he could find between the tribal elder’s death and the Reapers, but he did figure out what she was looking for in the Eastern Band’s history. The elder dude was opposing some law that would allow the descendants of the Cherokee’s black slaves to become tribe members. And his argument was based on something called the Freedmen Pact that the tribe had negotiated way back after the Civil War. Mirroring Caitlyn, he searched for a copy of the pact but came up empty.
That’s when his phone alarmed. Tierney was on the move. But how could she be? She was still typing on her computer.
Shit. It was the boyfriend doing all the searches on the Indians. Probably the only thing Tierney had checked out was the Reapers. Made sense, the guy looked like an academic, had no clue how to handle himself in the real world. What did a woman like Tierney see in a guy like that anyway?
He grabbed his laptop, shoved it into his bag, and ran down to his bike. He could just leave her to Wilson and Karlee, but something about Tierney pulled at him. That pixie haircut, the scars she didn’t hide, the way she faced the world head-on … he had no idea but he couldn’t deny the temptation.
Wherever Tierney was going, he was going with her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
It never hurt to play nice with the locals—in fact, compared with her colleagues at the Bureau, Caitlyn was usually pretty darn good at it. Blame it on her dad, but she had a soft spot for small-town law enforcement, understood the pressures they were under and the uphill battle they fought with limited resources.
Despite it being a Saturday morning, Sheriff Markle was in his office, sipping coffee with one hand and hunting and pecking on a keyboard with the other. No sign of a secretary, probably couldn’t afford the overtime, so Caitlyn knocked on his open door to announce herself.
“I should’ve made an appointment,” she said. “You look busy.”
“It’s this damn poker run. Got all my men working traffic.” He looked up, nodded to the chair in front of his desk. Leaned back in his own, both hands wrapped around his mug of coffee. Didn’t offer Caitlyn any—not that she wanted any, from the looks of the brown stains on the coffeemaker sitting on the credenza behind him. “So, what can I do for the FBI?”
She tried a conciliatory smile. “Not the FBI. Just me.”
“Just you.” He took a sip of coffee and considered that. “Daughter of an old friend, former colleague, guess I can spare you a few minutes. What can I do for you, Caitlyn Tierney?”
“I’m still looking for Lena Hale.”
“Right.” He tapped his computer screen. “Durham PD issued an ATL, so my guys are all looking for her or her vehicle.”
The attempt to locate would help—if any law enforcement officer spotted Lena’s Honda and ran the plates through NCIC, it would show up.
“I was hoping you could tell me more about the research she was doing here,” Caitlyn said. “Her roommate told me she was researching Cherokee tribal laws from the eighteen hundreds, but you said she was asking about my dad’s death. I don’t get how the two could possibly be related.”
“You know anything about the man Eli Hale killed?”
She decided to play dumb. Better to hear it firsthand from someone involved in the investigation than old newspaper articles. “Just that he was an Eastern Band tribal elder. That’s what bought Hale the federal time. And that my dad thought Hale was innocent.”
“Elder’s name was Tommy Shadwick. Good guy but liked the limelight—always had to take the opposing view on anything, just so he could have his say. Know the type?”
“I’ve worked with a few.”
“Pain in the butt. The council would approve something, say, new street signs so emergency crews could get where they needed to be faster. Then at the last minute, Tommy’d insist they be printed in both English and Cherokee. You got any idea how expensive and time consuming it is to hand-letter a few hundred street signs? In reflective paint, no less? But that was Tommy. Said he just wanted to keep the tribe connected to their roots.”
“Isn’t that out of your jurisdiction?”
“Sure. But around here there’s a lot of miles to patrol and not so many lawmen to do it. So me and the tribal police chief, we keep in touch. Try to have lunch together every week or so. Sometimes the Bryson City chief or the chief ranger from the park stops in as well. Kind of a mutual-aid, intelligence-sharing thing.”
“So this Tommy Shadwick was a bit of a rabble-rouser. What was Hale’s beef with him?”
“Now, that’s where the ancient history comes in. You’ve heard of the freedmen?”
“Yes.”
“Hale wanted his family reinstated on the tribal rolls, and Shadwick was blocking it.”
Didn’t seem like much of a motive for murder. “And that’s why Hale bludgeoned Shadwick with a hammer and burned his house down to try to cover it up?”
“Yep. That’s what Eli Hale confessed to. It was his hammer. Because of the damage to the body done by the fire, the time of death was only approximate, so your dad’s alibi for Hale wasn’t enough to clear him. Plus the fire destroyed any other evidence. And did I mention the man confessed?” He shook his head. “Never did understand why your dad stood by him. Refused to let it go. Stubborn.” He raised his mug in a salute. “Guess you inherited that from him.”
Caitlyn couldn’t deny it. Her stubbornness had gotten her into—and out of—more trouble than she cared to admit. “Still, sounds like a pretty circumstantial case. Why didn’t Hale just shut his mouth? Any decent lawyer could’ve gotten him off.”
“Guess the guilt got to him. Once he confessed he never wavered on any of the details. Man was like a broken record. He drove to Tommy’s house, they argued, he got his hammer from his truck and went back, killed Tommy, doused the body in gasoline, lit a match, and left. The end.” A phone rang in the outer office. The sheriff looked past her for a moment, but otherwise ignored it. “Twenty-six years no one ever questioned Hale’s guilt or tried to prove him innocent. Except your father and Hale’s girl.”
“Do you think he was guilty?”
He shrugged. “Not my case, not my call. But why would a guy confess and serve life for something he didn’t do?”
Good point. “And my dad’s death? Why was Lena asking about him?”
Funny how she shied away from the term suicide now. In the past she’d always forced herself to face it head-on—bolstering her armor by refusing to deny it. But now … now it didn’t feel quite right.
“I’m not sure. There was never any question who killed Sean—you know that better than anyone. It was just
you and him at the house, you found him minutes after the shot was fired. Nothing to question.”
She sighed. “Yeah. I guess.”
The phone rang again. Caitlyn pushed herself to her feet. “Thanks, Sheriff. I appreciate your time.”
“You need anything, just holler. Do me a favor, though. Stay away from the Reapers. We got enough on our plates right now with so many of them being around for the poker run.”
“I’ll try.”
His glare said she’d best do better than try.
“What can you tell me about the Reaper you arrested last night? Goose, they called him.”
“Goose? You mean Jacob Clay. Never caused me any problems until last night. Some kind of computer software guy from Asheville until his job got downsized. Moved here full-time a little over a year ago.”
“He still in lockup? I’d like to have a little chat with him.”
“Sorry. Nothing to hold him on—he had a carry permit for the gun. He probably made it home before you did last night.”
Great. “And the other one, Weasel?”
“Lionel Underwood. Nothing to hold him on, either. But he’s a mean one. A few arrests for assault, extortion, one for kidnapping.”
“So why isn’t he locked up?”
“Never made it to trial on any of them. Witnesses all either recanted or vanished.” He shrugged again but this time it was less resigned, more defensive. “Not much I can do about it. I just pick ’em up. Up to the DA to see they stay behind bars.”
Caitlyn made it to the door but then turned back. “Look, you knew my father, right?”
“Sure. Small department. We all knew each other pretty well.” His eyes narrowed. Then he opened his hands and spread them wide. “What do you want to know?”
“Well, I guess—” She swallowed, shifted her weight from one foot to the other, suddenly feeling like a little girl. “What was he like? Was he good at his job? I mean, why—I just don’t understand—how could—”
