Crossfire Creek

by Melissa F. Miller

  Carole, of course, did know about it, and wasted no time using that knowledge to her advantage.

  “Roo? We’re talking about an eleven-year-old girl who’s missing. This shouldn’t be a hard decision. A little girl is out there, scared and alone—”

  “Hang on. I thought you wanted me to find a mother and a daughter. Presumably, they’ve disappeared together. Right?”

  “Well, perhaps. We don’t know that for a fact. We assume so because they went missing at the same time. But there are … circumstances.”

  Circumstances? Goody. She loved circumstances.

  She cradled the phone between her neck and ear and watched Rufus, her sweet, but dopey, golden retriever turn away from the water and take off across the wide expanse of grass between the creek bank and the farmhouse, barking at the fallen leaves skittering across the lawn in the breeze. In his eagerness to chase the leaves, he’d run right past a chittering squirrel perched on the wide boulder mere feet from where Aroostine sat.

  After Rufus pawed the foliage into submission, she turned her attention back to the phone call.

  “What kind of circumstances?”

  “Let’s start at the beginning. Marlene Glasser and her eleven-year-old daughter Joy-Lynn went missing from a small town outside Cherokee, North Carolina, a week ago.”

  Seven days? She was a tracker, not a magician. Any trail the pair had left would be going cold.

  “And nobody on the Qualla thought to look for them before now? They could be anywhere by now, including out of the country.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Isn’t it always?”

  That earned a wry chuckle from the Chinook tribal judge.

  “To begin with, the Glassers don’t live on the Qualla Boundary. So it took a while for people to realize they were missing. When the girl didn’t show up for her weekend art class, Ellis Brown, who runs the children’s programs on the Qualla, started poking around.”

  “Poking around where—in Cherokee?”

  “Not exactly. How much do you know about Cherokee and the Qualla Boundary?”

  “Some. Enough.”

  Her brief stint as liaison between the Department of Justice and the Office of Tribal Affairs had given her a working knowledge. Cherokee was an anomalous success story. From the ashes of one of the worst chapters in the Cherokee Nation’s history—the theft of their lands east of the Mississippi and the deadly forced march known as the Trail of Tears—Cherokee, North Carolina, and the Qualla Boundary had emerged.

  Now a tourist destination, the town of Cherokee preserved and honored the Cherokee culture and traditions—complete with street signs in the Cherokee language— and, by all accounts, was a humming economic center. The Eastern Band of the Cherokee owned and operated two casinos—one on the Qualla and one about an hour south and west in Cherokee County. And the Qualla Boundary, while often erroneously called a reservation, was not land given to the Eastern Cherokee. It was land the Nation had purchased back from the federal government, which held it in trust.

  “Great, that’ll save me some time. Marlene and her daughter don’t live on the Qualla or in Cherokee, so it’s a bit of a morass.”

  “So where do they live?”

  “In an unincorporated community called Crossfire Creek. It lies just south of the southern boundary of the Qualla and about eight minutes from downtown Cherokee proper. It’s very close to the North Carolina/Tennessee Border and sits at the entrance to Great Smoky Mountains National Park, which adds to the ... delicacy of the situation.”

  “Just spill it, Carole.”

  Carole gave an appreciative laugh. “Marlene witnessed a murder last Sunday. A man known to the authorities as an enforcer for a loan shark, and who may also have been a small-time drug dealer, was executed in a remote, wooded area, where Marlene happened to be hiking. The local police, the tribal police, and National Park Service are engaged in an epic pissing contest about who has jurisdiction over the investigation.”

  “Of course they are.”

  “I think there’s no question the murder occurred on national parks land, so the ISB will come out the winners. But, you know, these guys have to pee on each other’s shoes first. So, nobody appears to actually be looking for the Glassers right now.”

  “ISB?”

  Aroostine was well-acquainted with the federal government’s alphabet soup of agency names, but this one stumped her.

  “Sorry. The Investigative Services Branch. It’s the National Park Service’s version of the FBI.”

  “I had no idea there was such a thing.”

  “Most people don’t. They’re a small, but elite, force. Anyway, Marlene called the local police chief to report the murder, which was her first mistake. Chief Wagner called a ranger on duty to check it out, and the ranger found the body. While the authorities were arguing over where the murder occurred and whose case it was, Marlene and Joy-Lynn vanished.”

  “They took off?”

  “I think so. At first, Ellis thought they’d been taken into protective custody, but I checked around and, at least as far as the federal government knows, that’s not the case.”

  “How did you get involved again?” Central Oregon was a long way from North Carolina.

  “Ellis knows Janice Truewind from Pine Ridge through an inter-tribal women’s council. She heard Janice’s missing daughter was found, so she called her. Janice put Ellis in touch with me. I explained I know a tracker who can find anyone, anywhere, no questions asked. I told her I’d get in touch with you. But, as luck would have it, you called me first—bored and itching for action. So here we are.”

  Aroostine stared at the afternoon sun glinting off the water and considered that, while she appreciated Carole’s faith in her tracking abilities, it’d be nice if she dialed back the guarantees. And definitely lose the ‘no questions asked’ bit. She had questions. Lots of them.

  “Why would they take off?”

  “I imagine they’re scared.”

  “Sure, I understand this woman witnessed a murder, but if she’s not involved in some way, why bolt? Is she involved?”

  “An eleven-year-old girl is missing, Roo. Do the details matter?”

  Either Carole was losing her touch, or Aroostine’s heartstrings had developed an immunity to Carole’s patented brand of tugging.

  “It matters that you’re not telling me everything. If you want me to find the Glassers, you need to be straight with me.”

  She stood, chilled through from sitting on the cold rock, stretched her back, and headed across the yard to the house. Rufus loped along beside her. As soon as she pulled open the kitchen door, the dog barreled inside and made a beeline to his metal water bowl. He drank in a hurry, lapping the water over the sides of the bowl in his haste to rehydrate.

  She filled the tea kettle with water and set it on the stove to heat while she grabbed a dish towel and mopped up the water Rufus had slopped all over the floor. Then she dug a notepad and pencil out of the drawer next to the door and pulled out a seat at the kitchen table, her pencil poised, waiting for the judge to answer her.

  The silence stretched on.

  Finally, Carole coughed. “I don’t think Marlene Glasser was involved in the murder. That said, she’s had a difficult time and may regret that she ever reported it, given her … situation.”

  “What situation?”

  “She’s raising Joy-Lynn alone. Marlene is Eastern Cherokee, but it’s not clear whether dad is a Native or even who he is. Marlene claims not to know, and Ellis says the girl never mentioned her father. When Marlene first turned up in Ellis’ office more than eleven years ago, asking about daycare for Joy-Lynn, her arm was in a sling and she was sporting large, dark sunglasses even though it was a cloudy day.”

  Her stomach turned. “Abusive ex?”

  Carole sighed a thousand-year-old sigh. “Probably. There were no visible marks on the girl, though.”

  That didn’t mean anything solid, and they both knew it. But
it gave a glimmer of hope, and Aroostine grabbed at it with both hands.

  The kettle shrieked, and she started. While Carole continued the worn, familiar tale, Aroostine turned off the burner and fixed an oversized mug of tea.

  “Ellis found a spot for Joy-Lynn in the infant program, and Marlene got a job at a car parts store outside of town. But it didn’t last long. She was fired after some sort of altercation with a customer.”

  “Lovely.”

  “Marlene bounced around, from job to job, scraping by, but couldn’t seem to hold a position anywhere for long. Then, when Joy-Lynn was almost four, she had a pre-kindergarten readiness assessment and all hell broke loose. The girl was identified as having developmental prosopagnosia.”

  “Prosopagnosia?”

  “Face blindness. Joy-Lynn has a congenital condition that interferes with the ability to recognizes faces.”

  Aroostine frowned to herself. “What does that mean exactly?”

  “It depends on the person and how severe their condition is. Some people can’t follow a movie because they have trouble telling the actors apart or they don’t recognize people when they’re out of place. But some people with face blindness can’t recognize their parents or spouses or even themselves.”

  “Yeesh.” She tried, but failed, to imagine Joe walking into a room and her not knowing who he was. As always, the thought of her dead husband, made her heart seize up. She shook her head, as if she could shake off her grief, and tried to focus on what Carole was saying.

  “Marlene was furious, refused to accept the diagnosis, and pulled Joy-Lynn from the program. Ellis didn’t see her for about a year. Until Marlene turned up, desperate for someone to watch the girl while she looked for another job. She’d been working at the discount grocery store across the street from her apartment and—”

  “No, let me guess. She was fired.”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Wait. Who babysat while she worked at the store?”

  Silence.

  “Carole?”

  “Ellis thinks she left her alone.”

  Aroostine’s heart thumped an angry rhythm. “She would have been, what, maybe five?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good Lord—”

  “The apartment was across the street from the store, within eyesight, according to Ellis. Marlene could’ve run over to check on the girl during breaks.”

  “She was barely more than a baby.” The fury inside her was building, forcing its way to the surface, threatening to boil over.

  “People do the best they can with what they have.” Carole’s voice was soft yet firm.

  That was the thing about Carole—she probably believed that. Aroostine knew better.

  She set her jaw and swallowed her retort. She shifted in the chair, stirred a dollop of honey into the cinnamon tea steeping in the mug at her elbow, and inhaled the spicy scent, hoping against hope that the aroma would be a balm to her rage.

  Carole continued, “Ellis found another spot for Joy-Lynn in the preschool program on the condition that Marlene agree to let Joy-Lynn see a counselor to help her develop strategies to deal with the face blindness, which she did. A man named Boyd Caine has been working with Joy-Lynn for more than six years now. And, I can tell you, that girl wormed her way straight into the center of Ellis’ heart. Once she aged out of Ellis’ program, she went on to the tribal-run Bureau of Indian Education school in Cherokee, where’s she’s been thriving. She just started the sixth grade.”

  “And now they’re in the wind.”

  “Yes, and there’s something else you should know. Marlene lost another job in August.”

  “Again?”

  “She kept bringing her daughter to the vacation cabins she was hired to clean. She was told not to do it anymore, and, well, she did it anyway. She was fired, which led to her missing a car payment and her car being repossessed. Then …”

  “Just tell me.”

  “When Ellis visited their place, there was an eviction notice tacked to the apartment door. It’s new, dated four days ago, after she reported the murder. Depending on when she took off, Marlene may not even know she’s being evicted.”

  “She must know she hasn’t been paying her rent,” Aroostine retorted.

  “True. But according to Ellis, she did find another job, doing remote data entry for an internet company. She’s going through a rough patch and probably needs her paycheck to hit so she can catch up on her bills. Ellis has no idea why Marlene didn’t come to her. She would’ve been able to help get her back on her feet. The point is, Marlene obviously doesn’t have the money to get very far.”

  Aroostine put down the mug and massaged her temples. “I don’t know. This sounds less like a missing persons case and more like a case of ‘my life has gone to crap and I’m going to make a fresh start somewhere else.’”

  “It does,” Carole conceded quickly.

  Too quickly.

  “But?”

  “But Ellis peeked through a window. Their stuff was still there. I think she’s still in the area, maybe hiding in the woods.”

  “In addition to the national park, there’s a national forest nearby. That’s a lot of ground to cover.”

  “That’s why I called you. Aroostine, they’re hiding. Either alone or together. But they’re in trouble.”

  “I’m not sure which one I’m hoping for—alone or together,” she said after a moment. “Marlene isn’t exactly mother of the year.”

  “Aroostine—”

  “Please spare me the speech about a mother’s love. You can believe that’s always true, but I know it’s not.”

  Carole made a noise in her throat, something between a tsk and a hmph. Aroostine went on as if she hadn’t heard it. “Is there anything else I should know?”

  “Probably loads. But that’s all I know. I can text you the location of where the body was found, I figure that’s a good starting point. Ellis can fill you in on everything else when you get to Cherokee.”

  She smiled involuntarily. Of course, Carole assumed she was going. And why shouldn’t she? She was, wasn’t she?

  She might moan and groan, but they both knew she’d hang up the phone and pack her bag. It was what she did. Now, at least.

  “Did you tell Ellis to expect Aroostine Higgins or Rue Jackman?”

  “Rue Jackman. I think it’s best. Don’t you?”

  “Probably.”

  Aroostine Higgins followed the rules. Rue Jackman operated outside the rules. Who would have thought that a false identification bearing a variation of her nickname and her dead husband’s surname would transform her from an upstanding former prosecutor who toed the line, crossed her Ts and dotted her Is, and believed in the system, to a tracker who stopped at nothing, risked everything, and gladly subverted the law to obtain justice?

  Carole, that’s who.

  She was about to end the call when Carole spoke again.

  “You’ll want to stay off the radar of the various law enforcement entities, in any case.”

  “Don’t worry. I don’t plan to traipse into the nearest police station with a fake ID and start asking questions. Besides, I don’t want to get law enforcement pee on my shoes.”

  Carole chuckled. Aroostine ended the call and started making a packing list.

  3

  The breeze carried the sound of laughter. A female laugh, rough and devoid of amusement, but a laugh.

  Adrenaline surged through Boyd Caine’s veins.

  Gotcha.

  He froze, pressing one hand against a sycamore tree to steady himself, and planted his feet in a wide, spread-legged stance to halt his progress down the pitched bank toward the creek. He stood like a statue for almost a full minute, listening hard. The high-pitched whistle of the wind and the answering rustle of leaves, bushes, and high grass filled his ears. No laughter, no conversation. Nothing to suggest a human was within earshot.

  It was just the wind.

  He shook his head, rejecting the defeate
d voice in his mind and the sour taste in his mouth.

  No.

  He’d heard her. She was here. He could feel her out there in the trees.

  He reversed course and clambered up the steep hillside, his breath coming in fast, heavy bursts. By the time he reached the top, sweat beaded his forehead. He braced his hands against his thighs and bent forward, panting.

  As he crested the hill, weak sunlight streamed through a break in the forest canopy. He squinted and raised a hand to shield his eyes. That’s when he saw the bear.

  His heart squeezed in his chest as the great black beast lumbered into the clearing.

  In the woods, a branch snapped. The sharp crack reverberated in the still pre-dawn air, echoed off rocks and trunks, and seemed to swell with strength and warning.

  Joy-Lynn jerked her head toward the noise, then whipped around to look at her mother, her eyes wide in her pale face and her lips parted in a silent whimper.

  Marlene raced across the cabin, her bare feet soundless on the plank floor. She wrapped her arms around Joy-Lynn’s narrow, trembling shoulders and pressed her mouth close to the girl’s ear to whisper, “Shh, I heard it, too. It’s probably a deer.”

  Joy-Lynn inhaled a shallow, shaky breath and nodded, unconvinced but wanting to believe her. Marlene turned Joy-Lynn to face her and placed a palm on each side of the small, heart-shaped face that looked back at her in mute terror.

  Another branch broke, closer and louder. Joy-Lynn’s face crumpled. Marlene locked her gaze on her daughter, mustered a reassuring smile despite the frenzied drumbeat of her heart, and said in a slow, low voice, “I’m going outside to chase off the deer or whatever it is. Sit on the bed and read your book or draw something until I get back. Understand?”

  “Yes, mama.” Her eyes dropped to the floor.

  “Look at me, Joy-Lynn.”

  Joy-Lynn’s gaze rose to meet her mother’s.

  Marlene studied the girl as if she were trying to memorize her high, smooth forehead, wide-set hazel eyes, the small bump on the bridge of her nose, and, most important of all, the perfectly round, dark brown beauty mark that sat above the right corner of Joy-Lynn’s mouth when her lips curved up into a smile—like the dot of a semicolon—not that Joy-Lynn had done much smiling lately. Marlene’s eyes swept across her daughter’s face to take in today’s hairstyle. Her dark brown hair, streaked through with lighter honey-colored strands left over from summer, was pulled up into two ponytails secured with mismatched hair ties—vibrant purple on the right, bright pink on the left.