by Dana Mentink
The stillness was split by the sound of a dirt bike revving to life. Bill had time to press himself against the rock wall as a helmeted figure on the churning motorbike shot forward, gripping the handlebars with one hand and swinging a short-handled shovel with the other.
The shovel caught Bill in the shoulder, cutting through his shirt and into the muscle, spinning him off balance.
He rolled out of the way, tried to aim and found the bike already vanishing down the rock passage.
Pounding footsteps echoed through the canyon and Bill knew it was Heather before she ran into view.
Her mouth rounded into an O when she saw him. “Are you okay? Who was it? Did they hurt you? What happened?”
He straightened, a lance of pain arcing across his shoulder. “Too many questions.”
She huffed. “Well … take them in order, then. Are you okay?”
Pulling a hand away from his shoulder, he saw that his fingers were bloody. “Mostly. Good news is he got me with a shovel.”
“Who? How is that good news?”
“Wasn’t a gun and the shovel seems to indicate he was just a fossil hunter.”
“Just a fossil hunter?” She fisted her hands on her hips. “Last I heard, stealing fossils from private land is a crime and taking them from public land is a felony. And they shot at me, remember?”
“Shots were meant to scare you, not kill you.”
“Well, that’s comforting. At least I found Choo Choo. I put him back in the house.”
The exasperation on her face almost made him smile as he holstered his weapon. “Got to get a call in to the cops. You’re not on reservation property, but it wouldn’t hurt to let the Tribal Rangers know, too,” he said, taking out his phone as he started up the trail. She sighed loudly and fell in behind him.
“Bill,” Heather whispered, dogging his heels, “why do I get the feeling you aren’t telling me everything?”
He finished talking to dispatch and clipped the phone to his belt. “You heard every word of that call. Maybe your career makes you paranoid.”
“And maybe you’re trying to cover something up.” She squeezed in on the path next to him. “Why didn’t you want to talk about the vandalism?”
“Just didn’t.” He felt her eyes on him and he quickened his pace. “I’ll see you home. Captain Richmond will meet us there to take statements.”
He pushed on until they reached the small wood-sided cabin. He scanned the windows for any sign of movement, more out of habit than concern. Maybe Heather didn’t live alone; maybe she’d gotten married or something. He had to shake his head at that notion. Who would have the fortitude to try to corral an unpredictable creature like Heather? He’d come close, he’d thought, and that had ended in disaster. A vivid picture of his grandfather Mel sprang into his head, working with a massive wild mare crazed by a piece of barbed wire wrapped around her foreleg.
He’d stood there for hours, just watching, talking low and soft to that animal when she’d come close. Bill could still hear the frantic pounding of the hooves, the enormous body thrashing inches from his grandfather. The moment she went still, Grandpa Mel removed the wire with one swift snip of his cutters before he’d let her free to find her herd. The horse had looked at them both for one long moment before she thundered away and Bill thought he’d never seen anything so beautiful in his life. He wondered why looking at Heather brought up the old memory.
Heather pushed past Bill and opened the door. She left it ajar, so he figured she meant him to follow. Then again, she might just as easily slam the door in his face. Though he’d rather pull out his teeth one by one than admit it, the severing of their relationship had cut him to the core and now the disequilibrium he felt at having her near rolled around inside him. He stood uncertainly on the porch until she called from inside.
“Are you coming in, or what?”
Feeling as if he was about to step in front of Grandpa’s wild horse, he squared his shoulders and walked inside.
THREE
Heather left Bill to find his way and went directly to the back bedroom. Choo Choo rose stiffly, tail arcing like a pendulum, and trotted over. She sank to her knees. “Hey, boy.” She rubbed his face, muzzle gray-white against the black of his fur. “Were you scared from the gunshots? No more escaping. Let’s get you some food, huh?”
The dog gave her a lick and lumbered down the hallway. Bill looked up when they entered.
“Didn’t know you had a dog.”
“He’s new. Got him in Miami.”
Bill arched an eyebrow. “Doesn’t look new.”
“Okay, so he’s not exactly new.” She sailed past him into the kitchen and warmed some rice and chicken, which Choo Choo lapped eagerly. In truth, Choo Choo was supposedly twelve years old, according to the owner who’d kept him locked in a cement pen with no shade and sometimes no water. Heather would never admit to Bill or anyone else that she’d sold her television and paid the guy five hundred dollars to take possession of Choo Choo.
Choo Choo looked at Heather with filmy eyes as if he read her thoughts.
New or not, you’re worth every penny, sweetness.
Returning to the living room, she found Bill holding his shoulder with one hand and peering at a square of limestone with a delicate imprint of a fern, perched on a shelf.
“You into fossil collecting now?”
“No. That was my mother’s. I found a box of her things in the closet.”
She took a first aid kit off of the shelf and wet a towel. “Sit down and let’s get this over with.”
He looked at her, ink-black eyes expressionless. “It can wait.”
“I don’t want blood on my floor.”
He considered for a moment before he sat at the butcher-block table and peeled up his sleeve.
She hesitated and finally handed him the damp towel. No need to go all Florence Nightingale on a man who would rather be anywhere else. He took it and wiped the blood off his shoulder, then swabbed the wound with the antiseptic she provided.
She handed him a square of gauze, which he held in place while she taped it to his dusky skin. The muscles were hard and unyielding under her fingers.
Bill sat without complaint, his eyes examining the bookshelf next to the table and the picture of a serious woman with the same dark hair as Heather.
“Do you ever hear from her?” he asked softly.
Heather picked up the first aid supplies. “No.”
When she looked at him again, she saw the ghost of a smile on his mouth.
“Is something funny?” she asked. “A guy shoots at us, you get creamed with a shovel and something is funny?”
“Ironic, more like. You don’t like to answer questions, but you make a living prying into other people’s lives.”
Her cheeks warmed. “I make my living asking questions, not answering them. So here’s one for you. What is really going on? It seemed like you were expecting to find something entirely different than a fossil hunter. And I think you know perfectly well who vandalized your house, don’t you? Are you going to answer any of those questions?”
He sat back in the chair and pursed his lips in thought. After a moment he shook his head. “No.”
She groaned. Choo Choo scurried in, confusion in his filmy eyes. She called to him and rubbed his ears until he sank to the floor in a black mound of contentment. Bill had walled her off and she knew that she’d given him plenty of reason to do so. “You’re even more stubborn than you were before—” It was too late to undo the damage. Before Johnny was killed.
An almost imperceptible tightening of Bill’s lips made her realize she’d said exactly the wrong thing.
He didn’t reply and the silence extended into the uncomfortable zone. She squirmed in the chair trying to think of something to say to break the awkward quiet. A knock on the door startled her.
Captain Richmond stood on the step, his khaki uniform sweat stained and wrinkled. The bags under his eyes seemed to accentuate his droopy
appearance. His mustache twitched as he spoke. Next to him was a dark-skinned man in a Tribal Ranger uniform. Heather recognized him as Al Crow, a friend of Bill’s.
“You called about a trespasser?” Richmond said.
“Heard the call. Thought I’d come, too,” Crow said.
She showed them in. Crow took in the sight of Bill and his bandaged arm, and his thick brows rose in concern.
“Okay there, man?”
Bill nodded and shook hands with him and Richmond. “Glad to see you.”
Richmond cleared his throat. “Yeah. Heard you were back. Thinking about signing on with Tribal Rangers again?”
Heather saw Bill’s gaze falter for a moment. “No.” Bill stood and rolled down his ruined sleeve. “I’m retired.”
Richmond nodded slowly. “So give us the rundown.”
Bill spoke, with a few interjected comments from Heather, while the officer scribbled in his battered notebook.
“Sounds like some kids,” Crow said. “They’re always looking for things to do. Doesn’t come across like a big deal to me.”
“I’ll take a better look in the morning,” Richmond said.
“I’ll come, too,” Crow put in.
“Not your jurisdiction, Ranger,” Bill said with a smile.
Crow held up his hands and laughed. “No problem to help out a badge brother.”
Richmond nodded. “Good night, Ms. Fernandes.” He turned to Bill and jerked his head toward the porch. Bill followed him and Crow outside.
Heather itched to know what they were talking about. As she casually walked by the window on her way to the kitchen, she could not see the expression on Bill’s face, but Richmond’s brows were drawn together, his face dead serious. Crow’s arms were folded across his barrel of a chest, his gaze fastened on his boots. Heather slid open the tiny window above the sink. No reason not to catch the cool night breeze. She washed her hands and put the kettle on to boil, straining to catch bits of the conversation. Still the two men talked, until Bill held up a hand and took a step away.
She caught Richmond’s parting words to Bill as the men walked into the darkness, the captain’s hand on Bill’s shoulder.
“Watch your back, Bill. We don’t want any more murders.”
Heather watched them go, the shrill cry of the kettle mingling with the strange worry deep in her gut.
Heather woke late the next morning to Choo Choo’s snoring. She padded to the kitchen, pondering all the while. Why was Bill Cloudman prowling properties at night? And why was she worried? Bill could take care of himself. Her instincts continued to prickle until she could stand it no longer. With toast in one hand, she picked up the phone with the other.
The clerical person at the Tribal Ranger office was coolly efficient.
“No, Bill Cloudman is not consulting with the Tribal Rangers.”
“Not even in an unofficial capacity?”
“No, ma’am.”
Heather disconnected and pulled up an archived article on her laptop about the Johnny Moon slaying.
Tribal Ranger John Moon was killed yesterday by a bomb reportedly rigged by suspected killer Oscar Birch, who was holed up in a cave just outside Badlands National Park. Upon entering the cave, Moon triggered an explosive attached to a trip wire and was killed instantly. Birch escaped, while Tribal Detective Bill Cloudman, who was also on scene, attempted to resuscitate Moon. Birch was later captured at a roadblock ten miles from the site of the incident and taken into custody.
The article went on with further details and a “no comment” from Bill Cloudman.
Heather sighed. Bill didn’t want to comment on anything as far as she was concerned. Whatever closeness she’d felt between them before her arrest was gone. Choo Choo finished his breakfast while Heather paced the small front room. Though Bill’s strange behavior continued to prey on her mind, she had more practical matters to attend to. Until she retrieved her car from Bill’s place and had it fixed, she was going to have to work from home.
It took only a moment to add a line to the “latest buzz” section of the Desert Blaze website about the vandalism at Bill’s place. Her editor wouldn’t be pleased that there was no accompanying photo, but hopefully it would appease Bill. She added another entry about the upcoming church pancake breakfast and signed off before focusing on the print articles that required her attention.
She needed to write a piece on a minor fossil find by week’s end. She’d put it off for a while because it was on Bill Cloudman’s adopted aunt Jean’s property. Heather had met the amazing woman before things fell apart, and deep down, she felt ashamed at having to face her. There was also the story about the abandoned uranium pit a resident had been complaining about for years. It had the smell of a real story about it. After a phone call to leave a message with the man who’d reported the uranium pit, Heather found her attention wandering again.
“A little fresh air couldn’t hurt.” Pocketing her phone, she grabbed the dog’s leash. “Let’s go for a walk, Choo.” They headed into the glare of morning sunlight. The summer heat still surprised her every day, even though she’d lived in South Dakota for a few years as a little girl. Maybe she’d been too preoccupied then, wondering if her mother, Margot, would embrace the new beginning her father had intended for them. She hadn’t, and Margot’s dissatisfaction with her life and her health had only worsened.
Heather wiped at her face. Not even noon, and the temperatures were scorching. Tattered clouds seemed to press the heat back down at her, taunting her with the promise of a cooling rain. As she passed her mailbox at the end of the drive, she saw a note wedged underneath the red flag.
From the cops? She didn’t think so. Maybe Dr. Egan had changed his mind about the lab article. Snatching it, she read the ink scrawl.
I’ll give you the real story on Bill Cloudman.
Her fingers turned to ice. The real story? She remembered the strange phone call from the day before.
Choo Choo pulled on the leash, so Heather stuffed the letter into her pocket and followed, but her mind was alive with questions. Who had written the message and what was his connection to Bill Cloudman?
It took a few minutes of walking before she worked her way to the other side of the issue. A stranger had been on her property again, someone not willing to sign the note and leave a contact number.
Her instincts prickled like exposed wires. She made up her mind to talk to the police, in spite of her reluctance to show her face at the station again.
She and Choo Choo stuck to the shaded perimeter of the trail that led from her house down toward the canyon where the ruckus had occurred the night before. There was no sign of movement now except for an eagle soaring in lazy circles above her. The rocks sloughed away in rivers of red and gold, dotted with clumps of needlegrass and the flicker of color from some late-blooming monkshood. Choo Choo nosed along as they walked and Heather found herself moving toward the old timber bridge that spanned a low spot in the canyon, connecting her property to Charlie Moon’s.
She stopped to pour some water from a bottle into her cupped palm for the dog, who slurped it up and gave her a lick on the cheek to boot before wagging his tail at a little girl who seemed to appear from nowhere. It took Heather a moment to identify the child as Tina Moon, Johnny Moon’s sister. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, several thick strands that had escaped the elastic hanging in her eyes.
“Hiya,” she said. “You used to be Uncle Bill’s girlfriend.” She bent to pat Choo Choo.
Heather felt her cheeks go hot. “Oh, I, um, know Bill, yes. He, er, used to be a friend of mine.”
Tina shoved her hands into the pockets of her jean shorts. “Not anymore?”
Heather found the girl’s dark stare unnerving. “Have you seen your uncle Bill since he got back?”
“Uncle Charlie said Uncle Bill’s not my uncle anymore.” She sighed, fiddling with a compact she pulled from her pocket. Heather hid her smile as the girl looked into the tiny mirror
and puckered her lips. Tina put the compact away and eyed Choo Choo. “Your dog is real slow. Not like Tank. Anyway, I gotta go. I’m not supposed to be playing here.”
“Why not?”
“Uncle Charlie said there’s a monster on the loose and he’d be real mad if he knew I was out here instead of inside playing. Bye.” She gave Choo Choo a final pat and trotted off, leaving Heather in a cloud of confusion.
A monster? Maybe it was a story Charlie told to keep Tina from wandering, but the few times Heather had seen Tina in the past, the child was always on her own as she meandered around the property and her guardian had never seemed to mind before.
Then again, things might have changed since Johnny was murdered.
She thought of Bill Cloudman’s strange behavior. He was preoccupied, closemouthed, as if he, too, was on the lookout for a monster.
On her way back over the bridge, she pulled out her satellite phone and accessed the internet, typing “Oscar Birch” in the search window. It took only a moment before her suspicion was confirmed.
In spite of the radiant heat, Heather went cold inside. Tina was right. There was a monster on the loose.
Bill stood in the relative cool of his front porch that afternoon, wiping oil off his hands from fixing Heather’s Jeep. Tank shifted uneasily at his feet, waiting for a ball to be thrown or the jangle of truck keys. He let out a bark, which elicited only a distracted look from his owner, lost in the memory of a long-ago sun-scorched day.
Then, too, he’d had the tight feeling in the pit of his stomach, a prickle of instinct that told him something was going to go wrong. On that afternoon there had been a similar cover of clouds that undulated across the sky. Difference was, he hadn’t been alone then. Johnny Moon was there, chatting away, eager as always for any kind of excitement, reminding Bill in some ways of Bill’s dead sister, Leanne.
