by Ruth Wind
"I'll be fine, I swear."
"You'll have the dogs here. They're great protectors, but don't get nervous if they bark at something. Every so often, they pick up the wolves howling and go nuts."
Juliet put a hand on Sitting Bull's hindquarters and dug her hands into his long thick fur. He groaned and licked her wrist, then fell back to the floor.
Desi opened a long closet and took out a rifle and a box of what Juliet assumed were shells or bullets or whatever. She frowned. "I thought Josh took the gun away from you."
"Please." The word was droll. "He needed to feel better because he's a cop, but there's no way I'd be out in the woods without a rifle."
"What do you need it for?"
"The emergency is a cougar that's been stalking goats. He got one tonight, and injured two more. The rancher shot it, but it took off and now he's worried. If I'm out there looking at bloody goats, I want to be sure I'm not that cat's next meal."
"Desi! That sounds dangerous."
"I'll be all right." Desi put on her heavy coat and tugged her braid out, flinging it over her shoulder like a rope. Juliet liked the sturdy, capable aura that surrounded her sister, and she wondered how it would feel to know how to stitch up an injured goat or do surgery on a wolf or deliver a colt. "I doubt I'll even see the cat, but if he's injured badly, he might be very dangerous."
"Be careful."
"Always."
* * *
After Desi left, Juliet dragged the futon mattress to an open spot in front of the fire, bringing dogs and a book with her. There were things Juliet did not love about her sister's cottage. Taking fast, somewhat chilly baths got on her nerves pretty quickly. She sometimes felt anxious about not using too much power or water and knew Desi eyed her excesses—or at least she felt eyed—with disapproval.
But she loved the woodstove. The smell of it, that wispy, smoky, woodsy scent; the flickery warmth of it, the sound of it crackling, popping. Desi kept piles of pillows and blankets around and it was easy to pile them up into drifts, then camp down with a book and a cup of hot chocolate and a good novel and read and read and read.
With the dogs. Which was the other thing she loved about the fire and pillows and reading experience—puddles of dogs surrounding her like a moat. All of them were wolf mixes, of course, dogs Desi had adopted over the years, but they were very different animals nonetheless.
Tecumseh had the best fur, thick and fluffy and white, and he liked to speak in little groans and mutterings that Desi told her were indications of the husky portion of his parentage. He loved cuddling, too, which is why she liked him being on the bed with her. She hugged him like a stuffed animal.
Crazy Horse was a fluffy, nervous mutt with big paws and silky black fur and a head that seemed too big for his body. He startled easily and liked to bark, but charmed Juliet by putting his head down and huddling close to her body for attention.
The beauty of the three was an aloof gray-and-black dog named Sitting Bull. He had burly shoulders and a thick tail, and ears that stood alertly on his elegant wolf's head. He didn't speak much, but he was devoted to Desi and brought her tidbits to share now and again, various massacred small animals. He was clearly the alpha. The other dogs deferred to him. He usually slept a bit to the outside of the pack.
Alone in the cabin, with the fire and the dogs for company, Juliet gazed toward sky visible through the window and at the stars twinkling so far away, and the day leaked back into her mind for review.
The day—Claude and his girlfriend, the confrontation on the street. Helene and Glory. Joshua Mad Calf. She smiled. Speaking of alpha wolves!
The flashback, which had been so violent and intense—maybe one of the worst she'd had so far—replayed, too. She pressed cold fingertips to her twitching left eyelid and tried to think about it calmly. It was just a memory replay, nothing to worry about. Time healed wounds like this, and hers would be healed, too.
But the truth was, the flashbacks seemed to be getting worse, and she wasn't sure quite why. The rape, as these things went, had not been particularly terrible—Juliet had been horrified by some of the stories a few women had told in the group therapy sessions she'd attended. Terrible rapes, involving torture or violence or scarring. By comparison, Juliet's had been a very ordinary rape.
She'd been on a business trip in late winter. That was part of the irony, of course. For months, she'd been going to a grim neighborhood in Long Beach to work for the immigrant center, and had never even been frightened.
The business trip was to Albuquerque for a deposition on a civil rights case involving illegal immigrants and their employers. The day had been a long one, and Juliet had a slight headache by the time she got back to her hotel. As always, she was staying in an upscale hotel, with above-average security measures, and as always, she paid attention to her surroundings.
But it was such an ordinary night. An ordinary business hotel. An ordinary hotel restaurant and an ordinary sandwich she ate while she read the newspaper and nursed a single glass of red wine. There were quite a lot of family groups in the restaurant itself and she sat at the bar to give them room. A crime drama played on the television in the corner, and there were a handful of other business travelers in the lounge area watching it.
A businessman at the bar, well-dressed with gray at his temples, asked if she minded if he smoked. She apologized but admitted that she did mind. He politely stepped outside. When he came back in, Juliet was devouring a French Dip and he gave her a smile. "It's a gorgeous night out there," he said. "The patio is enclosed, you know, so it's safe."
"Thanks."
She finished her meal and paid for it, and headed for her room. The door to the patio area stood open, and she thought, what the heck. She still had a headache. Maybe she needed a little fresh air.
It was dark, but there were lights around the pool, and a couple sat at one end of the area, so she felt safe enough. She'd just walk once around the pool, then go back upstairs and take a hot bath.
She was nearly back at the starting point when someone grabbed her from behind, one hand slapping around her mouth and the other around her waist. She had time to make a soft gulping sound before her attacker dragged her backward into a dark copse of trees. A branch scraped across her arm painfully, and his hand was cutting hard into her mouth and she couldn't quite figure out what was going on.
At first, she thought, "this is probably not as bad as I think."
He was not a big man, but he was strong. "Don't say a word and it will go smooth and easy. If you make a single sound, I'll hurt you."
Terror bloomed in her chest, spread through her limbs, making her feel weak.
She could only whimper softly. He maneuvered her to the ground, shoved a handkerchief into her mouth, and unzipped her dress. She froze.
It was going to happen. He was going to rape her.
She began to shiver violently, uncontrollably, and he shook her, once. "Stop that! I won't hurt you if you just cooperate."
Her dress fell down her arms, and he did something—she later found out he cut it—so her bra fell off. The night air struck her exposed skin, his hands clutched her breasts, and she nearly gagged, feeling physically sick at the invasive touch of this stranger.
Tears dripped down her face. Shame. She squeezed her eyes tight against it.
"Stop crying," he growled, and jerked her into place. "I hate that."
But however much he hated it, she couldn't stop, not the crying or the shivering. She shivered as he ripped off her panties and shoved himself into her. It hurt. It took forever and it made him mad. He shoved her this way and that, hands grabbing, groping, twisting.
Bizarrely, she heard the sound of diners just a stone's throw away, the clatter of silver against plates. The smell of margaritas and cigarettes filled her nostrils. He finally finished, and she wept harder in relief and in more fear—would he do it again? Would he kill her?
He pushed her down to the ground face-first and picked up her clothe
s. He hit her once, very hard, and she didn't move for a minute, terrified he would do it again. His footsteps disappeared almost eerily fast.
She lay there, stunned, for an indeterminate amount of time, then slowly she moved one arm. It functioned normally and she spread it out, looking for something to cover her nakedness. She found her dress, but everything else was gone, including her shoes.
There was no help for it. She shook out the dress, tugged it over her head then stood there a moment, trying to get her bearings. She felt light-headed and strange, as if she'd run too long on the treadmill or something, but some still-coherent lawyer part of her brain insisted she look around for anything that might be a clue. She tried to figure out how to mark this exact spot, and finally broke a branch and stuck it in the ground where the grass was already springing back around the imprint of her body.
That done, she made her way out of the trees and looked for the couple that had been sitting at the end of the swimming pool. They were gone. In dismay, she had to go back into the doorway she'd come out of, and go back into the restaurant.
The bartender took one look at her, and picked up the phone. "Get the police here," he harked, then slammed the phone down, came around the bar, and managed to snag Juliet and lead her to a chair before she fell down.
"Breathe, honey," he said. "You're all right now."
She bent over and put her head to her knees. Then it came to her that she must look frightening, her hair mussed and shoes off, and she didn't want the children in the restaurant to be frightened. "Maybe," she said, straightening slightly, "I should just go in the other room, out of sight?"
"I can take you to the office," he said. "Lean on me."
So they went to the restaurant office and someone brought her a drink of water.
By the book, she thought now, running her fingers through Tecumseh's thick fur. She'd done absolutely everything by the book. The police came and took her to the hospital to be examined, evidence collected. As these things went, she had escaped without much damage. Some bruising. A black eye and a split lip, and scrapes down the front of her body. The nurse tended her gently, directed her to a rape counselor.
Juliet had attended the counseling sessions, including the group sessions her therapist recommended. She talked it out with people she trusted, cried and got it out like that. She even escaped the looming specter of HIV and STDs and could finally move on with her life.
Or so she thought.
It was little things that went wrong. She couldn't remember things very well, like where she parked her car or what time an important meeting was. She dropped the ball in court one day when a man reminded her of the businessman in the restaurant that night.
She couldn't sleep at night and couldn't stay awake in the daytime. She didn't want to have sex, and at first, Scott was patient, but he understandably grew frustrated as time went by. In sympathy, she finally gave in. It wasn't traumatic, she didn't mind it, particularly, but she didn't feel anything, either.
Maybe she never would. Sometimes it felt like something was broken inside of her when she was raped. Some unnamable part, an invisible spiritual limb that now lay in shards, jamming up the emotional works.
As if he sensed her distress, Crazy Horse sighed and snuggled closer. Juliet clasped his furry warmth and buried her face in his warm fur and wondered what it would be like to be a wolf in a pack.
Safe, she thought. Safe and warm.
* * *
Chapter 8
« ^ »
At 4:21 a.m., Josh's cell phone rang. "Joshua Mad Calf," he said gruffly.
"Josh, we found a body." It was his boss, Dave Jiramillo, on the reservation. "You need to get down here."
"Body?" Josh croaked. "What body? Dead of what?"
"Not sure yet. There's some mauling, but we're not sure if it's the cause of death. Looks like he's been shot."
"What?" Josh swore. "Murdered, you mean?"
"Looks like it."
Before he could help himself, Josh swore again. He put his head down into the pillows, listening to directions to the location, his heart thudding heavily in his chest. Unease. Warning. This was not going to be good, he could feel it.
"An animal's been at him," Dave said, "so it's not a particularly pretty crime scene."
"I'll be there as soon as I can."
He dressed, called his mother to let her know he'd be bringing Glory over, then wrapped up his sleepy-headed child into a thick blanket and carried her two blocks. The moon was high over the Mariposa ridge, spilling cold light down the grassy slopes, illuminating the ghostly quiet of the middle of the night. No one was about but a pair of dogs ambling down the empty streets. In the distance, an owl hooted.
Appropriate.
His mother was waiting, bundled in her robe. She pushed the screen door open and Josh carried Glory into the room she used there, made sure she was settled, and went back to the main room. "I don't have time to talk," he said in a quiet voice, kissing her forehead, "but they found a body up on the reservation, and I've gotta go check it out."
Helene took a breath and crossed herself, half-Catholic after all these years. "Go," she said.
With dread, he pulled his hat close down on his head and headed out, a bad feeling sitting hard in his gut. The reservation started at the edge of Mariposa, forming the western border of the town and stretching for 1900 square miles into the San Juan mountains, inhospitable and difficult country that was too steep for farming or most ranching. There were no passes through the mountains, not even many jeep tracks. Until a few years ago, the people had been distributed in seven very poor villages that based their livelihood in sheep farming, wool, and loaning out bodies to the hotel and ski industries during the winter months. For most of the twentieth century, it had been one of the poorest reservations within U.S. borders.
Then gambling swept through the Indian nations, one after the other, and the Mariposa Utes had finally approved the measure. They raised capital through elections and by leasing several hundred acres of prime land to developers, and built the casino. It had been wildly successful. The nation was no longer poor.
Crime had increased, but not dramatically, and certain crimes—namely Indian on Indian—had even decreased.
Murder on the rez, and even in Mariposa, was not unheard of, but it was rare. A few years ago, there had been a dramatic family crime—two teens killing their parents and two friends—and there were the usual spousal murders. Josh couldn't think of a time he'd ever been called to an outdoor crime scene with a murdered body.
This one was not far into the rez, only a couple of miles from town, a field bordered by public forest and open grazing. When Josh arrived, the area had been secured with yellow police tape, and a police cruiser from Mariposa had come in with floodlights to illuminate it enough for an investigation, but even given the drama, there were not many people there—a few deputies, the coroner, the Mariposa county hard crimes detective, and two tribal officers. They were all waiting, respectfully, for Josh to arrive. He settled his hat and stepped out, slamming the door smartly.
He didn't like dead bodies much. He'd done his time as an MP in the first Gulf War and had witnessed enough violent death there to see him through to the end of his own days. It was the biggest reason he'd chosen to come back home to the reservation rather than take a job in the cities.
But even out here, there was sometimes something ugly. This scene, for instance. Stark white light blistered the body into sharp black and white lines. It sprawled facedown in a sloppy patch of mud, the clothes shredded along the upper back and around the shoulders. Josh could see a long braid, but out here, that could be male or female, though this body looked male.
"Do we have an ID?" Josh asked.
"'Fraid so," the deputy said, a stout young woman with high red cheekbones. "Claude Tsosie, a Navajo enrolled on the tribal rolls at Tuba City. He's been shot, in the chest."
Claude.
Josh shook his head, the sense of dread doubli
ng, tripling. "Estimated time of death?"
"Coroner thinks maybe about 10:00 p.m."
"And who found the body?"
"Paul Martinez, over there. He was walking home from his girlfriend's house and saw the white of the shirt."
Josh nodded. "Who have we talked to?"
"Nobody yet."
"All right." Josh stepped in to take a better look. His training, cold and analytical, kicked in as he took notes and barked out orders and collected evidence, but a little voice in his head prayed silently: please let Desi have a good alibi.
* * *
Juliet awakened to the sound of her cell phone ringing Alicia Keys' song about "a real man," her signal that it was Scott calling in. Jolted guiltily out of sleep, she pushed the dog off of her and scrambled in her socks to the counter, where her purse sat, and managed to snare the phone before it stopped ringing.
"Hello?" she said breathlessly.
"Hi, Juliet," Scott said. "Did I wake you?"
It was freezing in the cabin and Juliet scurried back to her piles of pillows and blankets and dogs. "I guess you did. What time is it?"
"Eight here, so nine there."
"Wow." She looked over her shoulder—Desi was already gone. "My sister must have just let me sleep."
"So, you're at the cabin? I thought you didn't have reception there?"
Wincing at how very quickly her lie had come back to haunt her, Juliet said, "You know how it is with cell phone reception. Sometimes it's great, sometimes horrible. Maybe it's a very clear day."
"Well, at any rate," he said, "I'm glad to finally be able to talk to you. I miss you."
Juliet plucked at the yarn used to quilt the enormous blanket over her legs, emptiness crashing through her. "Me, too."
"You must be getting some excellent rest."
"I really am. Desi and I got a lot done yesterday, too—restraining order and some legal paperwork filed."
