While the phone rang, Joe finished dressing and sat down across from her with open curiosity on his face.
“Want me to put it on speaker?”
“Kind of.”
She shrugged as if to say “why not” and pressed the speakerphone button.
Another ring. Then a wary male voice answered.
“Hello?”
“This is Aroostine Higgins.”
The sound of a shaky breath being exhaled filled the room through the tinny speaker.
“Thank you for calling.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Who are you, and how do you know who I am?”
“My name isn’t really important, but I think I’m probably the last person who spoke to Isaac Palmer before he was killed.”
Joe’s eyes widened. He mouthed, “I thought that was you.”
“So did I,” she mouthed back.
The man continued, “Which is how I know who you are. Or, at least, who I thought you were when I saw you at the diner.”
“How so?”
“Isaac called me two days ago. Said some federal lawyer, name of Aroostine Higgins, was coming to see him. Said she was an Indian chick from back East. When I saw you two pull into the diner in his car I figured you were the lady he was talking about.”
Good use of context clues, she thought. Joe must have been thinking the same thing, judging by the way he nodded his head.
“You thought right.”
“Figured it was worth taking a chance to get you to contact me.”
“You’ve got me. So . . .” she trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid.
“So. I work at the drone testing facility.”
A tingle of excitement ran up her spine.
“Oh?” She struggled to keep her voice casual.
“He thought you might be interested in some drones that disappeared.”
“I might be,” she agreed.
“I’m going to need some assurances before I talk to you about that.”
“What kind of assurances?”
“The kind where you promise me I’m not going to end up like Isaac.” His voice hitched on the dead man’s name.
She bit the inside of her cheek and made a clicking noise with her tongue.
“I can’t do that. I wish I could. But I’m not going to lie to you. I’m not sure I’m not going to end up like Isaac.”
It was a true statement and not a revelation, but saying it aloud chilled her. Joe’s face tightened, and his skin paled a shade.
The man breathed a heavy sigh as he digested her words.
“Fair enough. But I need to think about this some more.”
“I understand. Why don’t I give you a call tomorrow?”
“No. I’ll get in touch with you.” He ended the call without further comment.
She stared down at the silent phone in frustration.
Joe zipped the duffel bag closed and came to stand beside her. He massaged her shoulders with strong, warm fingers, working tight knots out of her upper back.
“Buckmount’s locked in a cell, babe. You’re not going to end up like Isaac. He can’t hurt you.”
She suspected that even from behind bars, Lee Buckmount had enough reach and power to make her life miserable, if not downright dangerous. He no doubt had associates through the gaming world whose motives and backgrounds ranged from slightly shady to pure black. But voicing her fears served no purpose.
“I hope you’re right. Let’s go find out.” She scooped up Isaac’s car keys from the desk and tossed them at Joe. Then she took one last longing look at the inviting bed and headed for the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Pink and orange bands stretched across the sky as the sun set behind the mountains. Joe marveled at how different the approaching twilight felt from inside the Tercel than it had when they were tromping through the foothills of the mountains racing to find shelter and food before dark.
“It’s really beautiful country out here, isn’t it?” Aroostine said beside him.
“It is.”
They lapsed into silence. After several miles, Joe cleared his throat.
“Are you going to tell me what Boom asked you?”
He peeked over at her. Her brow was furrowed. She stared straight ahead at the long ribbon of highway in front of them while she answered.
“The tribes at White Springs have asked the Department of Justice to loan me out to help them with their investigation into Lee Buckmount’s various crimes.”
He tried to pinpoint the source of the anxiety he heard in her voice but couldn’t.
“Well doesn’t that kind of make sense? You’re going to lead the charge for the feds anyway—isn’t it really just a matter of efficiency?”
“Maybe,” she allowed. “But it would mean spending more time out here than we’d planned.”
He heard the unasked question and answered it slowly.
“We could make it work. I don’t have a ton of custom orders pending. My parents would be happy to dog sit Rufus as long as we want.”
“You’d stay out here with me?”
He glanced at her face again, but she maintained her laser-like focus on the windshield.
“If you want me to—yeah, I would.”
If she was thinking about her ill-fated move to Washington, DC, when he said he’d go with her and then hadn’t, she gave no indication. But the memory stung him.
“So, leave aside the logistics—do you want to do it?” he continued.
“I’m not sure.”
He waited.
She turned toward him. “On the one hand, yes, sure. It’d be a feather in my cap. Justice and the Office of Tribal Affairs will be thrilled to be able to point to their inter-department cooperation and sharing of resources. Boom and the Tribal Board will be happy to have someone they kind of already trust running interference with the feds. And it’s not like it’s totally outside my skill set.”
“What’s the issue, then? Why are you hesitating?”
She wrapped a strand of hair around her finger and answered in a halting, unsure voice—so soft he had to strain to hear her.
“On the other hand, I’m not sure that career advancement is really what’s motivating me. I think I’m drawn to the idea of spending time on the reservation, surrounded by the people. I know they aren’t my people, but it feels . . . right.”
“So? How is that a bad thing?”
A hint of irritation snuck into her voice. “Come on, Joe. You know, I’ve never been big on exploring my roots or embracing my nativeness. Why would I start now—thousands of miles away from home?”
No, you’ve spent your whole life distancing yourself from your history and pretending to have no roots, he thought. He stopped himself from saying it and, instead, made a gentle suggestion. “Maybe it feels safer for you to open up to that side of yourself here just because it is so far from home?”
“Hmm. Maybe.”
Encouraged, he braced himself and soldiered on. “Maybe Boom reminds you of your grandfather a little bit, too.”
Too far. Her face closed off, blank and expressionless, and she resumed her staring out the window.
After the dashboard clock showed five solid minutes of uninterrupted silence, he reached for the radio button. But when he started to turn the knob in search of a station, she closed her hand over his.
“Wait.” He focused on the road but listened hard. “I think you’re right . . . about all of it. White Springs is different enough from where I lived before—before the Higginses came for me. It doesn’t remind me of my parents. But it does feel vaguely familiar. And, yes, Boom makes me think of Grandfather.”
The words poured from Aroostine in a rush, as if they were a confession she had to make quickly, before she lost her nerve. Then she removed her hand from his, settled back against the headrest, and closed her eyes.
Joe started to speak, to suggest that working through her grief over the loss of her grandfather was long overdue, thought be
tter of it, started again, then finally decided to leave Aroostine to her thoughts. He turned on the radio and settled on the first station that was more music than static.
Aroostine closed her eyes mainly to forestall any further attempts from Joe to probe her psyche. But as soon as she rested her head, exhaustion overcame her in a wave. Rather than fight it, she let her body relax into the seat. Just a catnap, she thought.
The vast mountains shimmered, dissolved, and re-formed. Oregon’s fields of wildflowers morphed into woods she knew well—the woods behind her grandfather’s house. The rows of tall oaks covered with red, orange, and yellow leaves, stretching toward the sun, the dirt path leading past the creek and through the field of long, swishy grass. She watched from the path as a small girl with a long, dark braid swinging against her back skipped through the grass.
She knew that girl and exactly where she was headed. She was that girl. She was watching five-year-old Aroostine doing the thing she loved the most. She would make her way up the hillside to the old horse barn where her grandfather was waiting with the archery target he’d set up for her.
In the dream, Aroostine followed her girl-self at a distance. She watched the child whoop with delight when her grandfather turned and scooped her up, twirled her in a wild, high circle, and then returned her to the ground. She collapsed in a heap of giggles. Her grandfather waited until she was calm and then helped her to her feet.
“Are you ready, granddaughter?” he asked with a gentle smile.
“Oh, yes!”
“Very good.”
He bent to the ground and lifted a small child-sized bow, which he placed in her outstretched hands. He adjusted a quiver of arrows on her back then knelt beside her and turned her to face the barn’s wide west wall, where he’d painstakingly painted a perfectly round, red target. Then he knelt beside her.
The girl gripped her bow. She stared at the barn, concentrating. The tip of her tongue poked out of her mouth. She squinted, all business, and nocked an arrow. Her grandfather rested on one knee beside her and watched as the arrow flew fast and straight, heading for the dead center of the target.
A gust of wind kicked it high and slightly left of the center circle. It hit the barn and stuck in the wall. The girl’s face crumpled in disappointment but, at her elbow, her grandfather beamed.
“Very nice, child. Very close to the center.”
“But I missed.”
He nodded. “This is true. Do you know why?”
“The wind began to blow?”
“This is partially true, yes. What else happened, though?”
She wrinkled her nose and thought. “I didn’t test the wind before I aimed.”
“That’s right.”
She set her mouth, determined, and readied another arrow. Then she licked a finger and held it in the air. After a moment, she nodded and repositioned herself slightly. Then she let fly another arrow. It wobbled in the wind but curved as it arced toward the barn and landed smack in the middle of the target.
“Yes!” the girl pumped her fist excitedly.
On the path, Aroostine mirrored the movement. “Yes,” she whispered.
Her grandfather smiled and ran a hand over the girl’s hair.
Aroostine suddenly felt like an outsider, spying on them from the woods. She was about to walk away when her grandfather turned and stared over his shoulder in her direction. For a moment, she thought he’d spotted her, but he wasn’t looking at her. Instead he seemed to be looking through her.
She craned her neck and scanned the woods behind her. In the spot where he had fixed his gaze, the silver-eyed beaver had appeared. Its nose twitched in the wind; and like her grandfather, it seemed to be looking past her, at him.
After a moment of silent communication, her grandfather turned back to the girl Aroostine, took her hand, and led her to a grassy hillside and sat beside her. Aroostine listened as he told her a traditional Lenape story about a pretty maiden who was too proud for her own good—the girl rejected the beaver as a suitor because she thought it was ugly. In the end, she drowned because the beaver refused to save her when she fell in the river.
The archery lesson had happened in real life. The morality tale had not.
Aroostine started awake.
“You okay?”
She shook her head to clear it of the dream, or vision, or whatever it was.
“I’m fine. I just had a weird dream.”
He gave her a close look but didn’t press her.
“We’re almost there anyway. Do you want me to take you straight to the police station or do you want to freshen up at the guest house first?”
She looked down at her athletic wear. Ordinarily, she’d want to make herself look more presentable, but the dream was gnawing at her, making her uneasy and unsettled. Boom had told her to look for a message from her spirit guide. Instead, she’d had a dream about her grandfather warning her that she rejected her spirit guide at her peril. She had no idea what any of it meant, but she suddenly felt that it was important to talk to Boom sooner rather than later and formally agree to handle the prosecution for the tribe.
“Let’s go straight there. I promise I won’t be too long.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Boom was making a cup of tea in the worn kitchenette behind the chief’s office when Aroostine breezed into the station. He breathed a sigh of sheer relief at the sight of her—her confident stride, the dark hair streaming behind her as she hurriedly explained to the desk officer who she was and why she was there. He mixed some milk and honey into the mug and then rushed out to the lobby to meet her.
“Aroostine.”
She turned away from the desk at the sound of his voice. He waved, noting that she seemed distracted, pale, maybe a bit jittery.
“Boom, hi.” She walked around the half-moon desk and came to greet him. “How’s Ruby? And Lily?”
“They’re fine, both fine. In fact, Ruby is roasting a chicken and some vegetables for you and Joe. She was planning to leave dinner in the guest house for you as her thanks, modest though it is, for your saving her life. We all owe you a great deal more than a chicken dinner.”
Her cheeks burned red at the praise.
“That’s kind of her—unnecessary but appreciated. I’m so glad you’re still here. I’d like to talk to Buckmount and his lawyer—if Lee’s talking—or just the lawyer if he isn’t. But first I wanted to officially accept the role of prosecutor in the Tribal Court proceeding, with the caveat that I know exactly zero about tribal law or legal procedure.”
He beamed. “Understood. We’ll get you a set of law books and a manual and have them sent over to the cottage. I’m glad you decided so quickly.” He searched her drawn face. “Vision?”
She hesitated. “Sort of. Not really.”
“I hope some day you will feel comfortable enough to trust me with your messages. I’d be honored to help you interpret them.”
“Please don’t misunderstand. It’s not a matter of trust—it’s . . . complicated. And you helped me a great deal that night I had that horrible dream.” She shuddered at the memory and placed a hand on his forearm. “But I mean no disrespect. I’m just, I guess you could say, private about the whole spirit guide thing.” Her voice dropped to a whisper.
“Oh, I take no offense. I’m just offering my services in case you decide you’d like to forge a solid relationship with your spirit animal. In any case, you’re doing the Chinook people an important service. This terrible event can serve as a turning point for the tribe. From the ashes of this scandal, we can emerge stronger, more centered, with a renewed commitment to our heritage. Having a native daughter handle the case for us will help ensure the federal agencies respect our ways. That will be the focus of my leadership in all areas—a deeper understanding of the old ways.”
She smiled politely, but her face was closed off. He laughed at himself.
“Ah, please forgive the ramblings of an old man. I know you are quite busy and eager to talk
to Lee.”
“Don’t apologize, please. Your vision and plans to return to tradition remind me so much of my grandfather. I think it’s great.”
“That’s very kind of you to say.”
They stood in shared silence for a moment. She felt awkward and unsure of herself, like she was eighteen again and Joe Jackman had just walked into her Art History class and taken the seat next to hers.
“Uhm—”
He snapped out of his daze and placed a light hand on the small of her back to pilot her down the hallway.
“If you follow me, I’ll show you where Mr. Lane and Lee are waiting.”
Boom ushered her into the small, windowless room where Buckmount and his lawyer were waiting. She wasn’t sure what she expected from a high-profile criminal defense attorney named Gordon Lane, but whatever she had imagined was far splashier and sleazier than the somber, silver-haired gentleman who stood to greet her.
“Ms. Higgins, it’s a pleasure,” he intoned after Boom introduced her and scooted out of the claustrophobically crowded room.
His handshake was firm but not bone crushing, his tone self-assured but not arrogant.
“The pleasure’s mine, Mr. Lane. Please excuse my appearance.” She gestured at her yoga pants and long-sleeved T-shirt, but her voice held an undercurrent of “of course, I might look more pulled together had I not just spent two days running for my life from your client and then rescuing a woman from him at gunpoint.”
Lane either missed the unspoken jab or was too professional to let it rattle him, but his client reacted. Buckmount had rose from his metal chair and waved his handcuffed wrists at her. “Where have you been? I’ve been sitting in this blasted box for hours waiting—”
Lane turned his head almost imperceptibly toward Buckmount and arched one eyebrow by a fraction of an inch. Buckmount instantly clamped his mouth shut, fire blazing from his eyes. The attorney returned his focus to Aroostine.
“I understand today’s been trying for many people—including my client. He did receive some basic medical attention before the officers brought him here, which is appreciated. But I’m sure you agree that given his age, his ties to the reservation, and his reputation as a businessman, it would be most appropriate for you to arrange a time to interview Mr. Buckmount at your mutual convenience some time during the next few days, and let an old man go home to his bed.”
Chilling Effect (An Aroostine Higgins Novel Book 2) Page 15
