The girl looked away and didn’t answer.
“Joy-Lynn?”
“Please don’t tell my mom that Rory knows. She’s my BFF and she’ll never tell anyone. So, yeah, she wears the socks for me, but I can recognize her anyway … on the bus, at least.”
A kid should be allowed to have a secret with her best friend forever.
“I’m not going to tell your mom. But you should. I bet it doesn’t feel very good to keep a secret from her.”
She shrugged. “If she’s face blind, too, she’s keeping one from me.”
Aroostine had to grant her that. “Still.”
“Are you going to tell anyone about my mom?”
“I think I need to ask her myself. It’s important to know so we can protect the two of you.”
“Maybe don’t tell her where you got the idea?”
“We’ll see.” Aroostine hid a smile. Out of her peripheral vision, she spotted her backpack in the footwell. “Hey, I meant to tell you. I found a bunch of your pictures. They’re in my bag at your feet.”
“You did? Where?”
“In your pillowcase. Well, in two of your pillowcases, actually. What’s up with the boots?”
She glanced over at the girl as the truck bumped over the seam where the gravel park road connected with the paved section that ran through the Qualla. Joy-Lynn’s face was ash gray.
“Are you okay, kiddo?”
“Yeah. I just … I can’t remember the man’s face, but I can’t forget his boots.” She pulled her legs up and propped her feet on the edge of the seat, wrapping her arms tightly around her knees.
They rode in silence until they reached the cultural center’s rear parking lot.
22
Ranger Painter knocked on the bedroom door.
“Come in,” Marlene called over her shoulder as she smoothed the wrinkles out of the blanket.
The door opened a crack.
“I’m behind here, making up the beds.” She was between the foot of the bed and the door.
He craned his neck and head around the edge of the door. “Special Agent Banks just called. He’s finishing up at the office and should be here real soon. Will you be okay for a few minutes if I run over to my place to let Rory in? She’s on her way back from soccer practice and she forgot her key. Or you could come along, if you like.”
“I’ll be fine. I’m going to finish making the beds and put our clothes in the dresser. I know we won’t be here long, but it’s just nice to have a real place to stay, don’t you?”
He smiled. He had a kind smile. Too bad it would fade from her mind the minute he turned around.
“I’ll bet. I won’t be long. Don’t open the door for anyone. If Special Agent Banks gets here before I do, he won’t mind cooling his heels outside until I get back with the key. Okay?”
“You got it. And Ranger—”
“Please, Luke.”
“Luke. Thank you … for everything.”
“You’re welcome, Marlene. I’ll be back in a jiffy.” He rapped his knuckles on the door and ducked out of the room.
She waited until she heard the Jeep start up and drive away, kicking up a spray of gravel as he left. His leaving made her decision easier.
She finished putting away Joy-Lynn’s clothes. She ran her palm over the purple paint-splattered long-sleeved shirt Joy-Lynn wore to her Saturday art classes on the Qualla. She refolded a pair of jeans. Paired several sets of loose socks, folding them one over the other into tidy packets. The mundane, comfortable work of mothering calmed her racing mind.
When everything was in place, she picked up her blaze orange ball cap and threaded her ponytail through the back. She pulled on her fleece jacket and pawed through the duffel bag until she found the sheathed hunting knife.
Nobody wanted to say it to her, but she wasn’t stupid. The killer wanted her. She couldn’t sit here in this cabin and wait for him to come looking for her. Not when Joy-Lynn might be here when he came. And he would come. That much she knew. Special agents, park police, and security details or not, for good or ill the man thought she’d seen him kill another human being.
And there was only one way he’d respond to that.
She surveyed the room one final time, walked down the short hallway, unlatched the door, and stepped outside.
23
Pat powered down the computer after submitting the electronic requisition forms and checking the status of his approval to expedite Luke’s request for a bootprint match and analysis. He was turning out the light when his phone dinged. He pulled out the mobile device and read the notification. The phone records were in.
He flicked the light back on and flung himself into the desk chair to read the report. It was only two lines:
Call originated from a number assigned to the Qualla Cultural Center but not currently in active use. Extension unknown.
The Qualla. No, not just the Qualla. The freaking Cultural Center, where he’d just sent an eleven-year-old girl and a civilian whom he didn’t fully trust.
Great work, Pat. Really great work. He pulled up his dialer to call Rue Jackman and warn her. That’s when he realized he didn’t have her phone number.
He unleashed a series of increasingly creative curses, which he cut off abruptly when the phone sitting on his borrowed desk rang. Who would call him on a landline? Only one way to find out. He plucked the receiver off the base.
“Patton Banks.”
“Pat, It’s Mercy. I’m glad I caught you.”
Mercy was a rock-solid data analyst at the FBI. She knew how to keep her mouth shut. And she owed him a favor. Well, she had. They were even now.
“You almost didn’t. I was walking out the door.”
“I didn’t want to call you on an unsecure cell phone for this.”
Crap.
“What did you find?”
“The Iowa license plate number you gave me is a valid plate number.”
“That’s good news.”
“Not exactly. It was last used by a Mark Aaron Dahlmeyer, who died in 1974. It’s been out of circulation ever since.”
“How’s that possible?”
“Iowa doesn’t require residents to surrender or recycle their old plates. It could’ve been sitting around in an abandoned barn or something and someone just grabbed it and sold it on the black market or whatever.”
“Great.”
“It gets worse. There’s no record of a Rue Jackman in any county in Iowa. No Rue Jackman is listed as a former or present member of the state bar of any jurisdiction I’ve been able to search. I can’t say for certain she was never a lawyer. But I also can’t tell you a damn thing about her. She’s a cipher, Pat.”
He squeezed the phone in his hand and listened to his pulse hammer in his ear.
“Pat?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Thanks, Mercy.”
“Sorry I don’t have better news. I can run her name through some more sensitive databases in the morning. But I have a task force meeting in twenty minutes, so I wanted to get you what I could tonight.”
“I appreciate it. And you can stand down. I’ll get the information on Rue Jackman through a different avenue.”
“Oh? NSA?”
“No, I’m going to shake it loose from the woman herself. Literally, if I have to.” His voice vibrated with rage.
“Uh, Pat?”
“Yeah.”
“You might want to calm down some first.”
“You’re probably right. But I don’t have that kind of time. Thanks again, Mercy.”
“Be smart, buddy.”
He returned the phone to the base with more force than was strictly necessary and tore out of the office. He sprinted for the Jeep, hoping he wasn’t too late.
24
Marlene slipped through the trees and picked up the path to the creek. If the man was looking for her, he’d probably start at the creek. After all, that’s where he’d nearly caught her.
She circled around to the far sid
e of the creek, hid high on the rocky hillside, and hunkered down. The rest of her plan was sketchy, at best. But she’d have time to flesh it out while she waited for the killer to show himself. She leaned back against a rock and tried to get comfortable while remaining alert.
It was, she knew, a long shot that he’d show up and that she’d get the best of him. But she had to try. She couldn’t let Joy-Lynn grow up with this ever-present danger hanging over her head. No, it wasn’t the threat that was the worst of it. It was the not knowing.
She flashed back to high school. The loud whispers in the halls. Slut scrawled across her gym locker in red lipstick. The crude taunts of the boys, especially in her second trimester, when she started to show. And the whole time, not knowing which of her snickering classmates had pinned her down that night in Dick Wagner’s parents’ basement. He, whoever he was, knew her name and … somehow … knew she wouldn’t be able to identify him. She’d sat in classes with him. He might even have been one of the handful of guys who was kind to her in the aftermath, holding doors open as she waddled through them, hugely pregnant, her cheeks burning with shame. She’d never know.
The snap of a twig pulled her out of the nightmare memories and back to her real and present danger. She wrapped her fist around the knife at her side and tried to listen for footsteps over the drumbeat of her heart. She scanned the creek bank below, saw no one and nothing. She raised her gaze to the opposite bank and the woods beyond it, squinting, seeking any sign of movement. A flash of clothing. A tree branch whipping back. Still nothing.
Then the skin on the back of her neck prickled.
“Hello, Marlene.” The voice in her ear was a rough whisper, but she knew she knew it from somewhere.
She jerked around.
The man—tall, blond, thin—smiled coldly.
She ran her eyes over him. Nothing about him gave her a clue. Had she cleaned his house? Checked out his purchases at the store? Or did he deliver her mail?
She had no idea. But he knew her. The heat and anger in his eyes told her that much.
“Cat got your tongue?”
She stared at him, mute and frozen. This was a bad idea.
“Should have kept your mouth shut in the first place, and we wouldn’t be here.”
She swallowed, trying to work up the saliva to unglue the words stuck in her throat. Her grip tightened on the knife.
The man went on. “I don’t understand why you called the police. Costa was scum, and everyone knew it. His death is no great loss. I, on the other hand, am a productive member of society. I mean, I help people.”
He helps people? Was it Dick Wagner? Out of uniform, she couldn’t place the police chief, but she knew he had a paunchy beer belly. This man did not. Was he a ranger? Oh, please Lord, don’t let him be a park ranger. Had she delivered her daughter into the hands of wolves?
She finally managed to croak. “You killed a man.”
“And now, I’m going to have to kill you, leaving Joy-Lynn effectively an orphan. An orphan who can’t recognize her own face in the mirror. Was it worth it, Marlene?”
She gasped involuntarily. He knew. That narrowed the list to just a handful of names—all people she trusted with the truth about Joy-Lynn’s condition. Outrage at the betrayal began to swirl deep in her core, fast and furious, and broke through her paralyzing fear.
She lunged at him, slashing with the knife. He dodged left, nimble and sure-footed, and she stumbled backward, sliding down the creek bank.
He reached out and grabbed her right wrist with his left hand, twisting until her hand was turned backward at a sharp angle. Then he chopped down across her knuckles, landing a strong blow with his right hand. At impact, the knife flew out of her hand and landed several feet away, under a scrubby bush.
She dove for it, and he pounced. He tackled her around the waist and slammed her to the rocky ground hard enough to knock the wind out of her. As she struggled to catch her breath, he reached into his pocket and removed a shiny black object.
It took her adrenaline-flooded brain an extra beat to name it. Gun. She closed her eyes.
A flash of white. And then nothing.
25
Joy-Lynn was chattering away with the art teacher, Joel Pine, while Aroostine and Ellis sat in a pair of overstuffed armchairs several feet away. Ellis had offered her tea, and Aroostine’s hands were wrapped around the hot mug as she savored the scent of ginger and cinnamon.
“So that’s how I met Janice Truewind,” Ellis was saying when a thunderous crash sounded in the hallway.
Ellis froze mid-sentence. Joel threw them a panicked look over Joy-Lynn’s head. Aroostine lowered her mug to the table using precise, careful movements and stood silently. She put a finger to her lips.
Ellis whispered, “It’s probably just Boyd.” But her tone was entirely unconvincing.
She scanned the room, looking for something, anything, she could use as a weapon. The noise repeated, even louder.
“I think someone’s hammering on the exterior door. It’s locked, right?”
Ellis nodded.
“Everyone stay here. Lock this door behind me.”
Joel cleared his throat. “It doesn’t lock.”
“Close it and wedge a chair under the knob.”
“Got it.”
She crouched beside Joy-Lynn. “It’s going to be okay. Stay with Ellis and Mr. Pine. I’ll be right back.”
The girl nodded her head wordlessly. Aroostine inhaled, filling her lungs and trying to control her shallow, too-quick breathing. She crept toward the door.
“Rue Jackman, come out here and open this damn door,” A male voice roared as the pounding resumed outside.
She knew that voice. She exhaled. “False alarm. It’s just an ill-tempered parks employee.”
Ellis side-eyed her. “Really?”
“Yeah, apparently Special Agent Banks has his panties in a twist.” She flashed Joy-Lynn a grin, and the girl giggled. “I’ll handle it.”
She marched out into the hallway and headed for the exit door at the back of the building. The criminal investigator glowered at her through the glass. She stared at him for a few seconds before turning the lock to open the door.
He wrenched it open before she’d even removed her hand from the lock.
“Explain yourself,” he shouted as he pushed his way into the building.
“Explain myself? What in the blazes is wrong with you?”
He stalked toward her. She took an instinctive step back then stopped herself. No. Predator animals can read fear. Show no fear.
“Who are you?”
His pale blue eyes were darkened by rage.
“Special Agent Banks, you need to calm yourself.”
“Who are you?” he demanded, taking another step toward her.
She planted her feet, determined not to move, and tried to ignore her pulse jumping in her throat.
“I told you, I’m a tracker.”
“What’s your name? Rue Jackman doesn’t exist. Your license plate is registered to a man whose been dead for over forty years. Start talking.” He spat the words from between clenched teeth. A vein in his neck pulsed.
Her anger whooshed out of her. Oh, crap.
He gave a short nod and a contemptuous laugh. “Cat got your tongue?”
She cleared her throat and spoke in a low, calm tone. “My name is Aroostine Higgins. Roo is a nickname. Jackman was my husband’s surname.”
He was stone-faced. “Keep going.”
“I’m not from Iowa. I’m Eastern Lenape. I was born in Pennsylvania, where I still live. I was a lawyer. I mean, I am. I don’t practice anymore, but I worked for the Department of Justice Criminal Division in D.C. under Sid Slater. Then I moved to the Office of Tribal Affairs where I was a liaison reporting to Grace Skolnick. You can call them both and check.”
“Oh, I will.” His anger ticked down a notch. “Are you undercover now?”
“Um … yes, but no.”
“Ms. Higg
ins ….” His voice rumbled a warning.
She took a deep breath. Sid and Grace would vouch for her, she was sure of that. She was less sure about Carole, but she had to give him something. “I’m telling you this in confidence, okay?”
He nodded, tight-lipped.
“The short version is this: I was in Central Oregon on vacation several years ago. I was still a prosecutor at that point. Sid called and asked me to interview a witness while I was there. I went to the Chinook reservation to meet him, but he’d been executed. And, well, it’s a long story, but I worked with the tribal judge, a woman called Carole Orr, to bring his killer to justice.”
“Does this long story have a point?”
“Carole and I stayed in touch. When I was out on bereavement leave from the Office of Tribal Affairs after Joe, my husband, died, she came to see me—”
“Did your husband really die?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, you seem to be allergic to the truth. So, how much of any of what you say is BS and how much is true? I have no idea.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“You are a liar.”
How dare he. Rue Jackman might lie when needed, but Aroostine Higgins was a fundamentally honest person. It was who she was. Almost without thinking, she whipped her arm out to slap him.
He grabbed her wrist in a lightning-fast motion. “Don’t even think about it. Do you want to add assaulting a federal law enforcement officer to your list of crimes?”
“Let me go.”
He dropped her arm.
She narrowed her eyes. “Carole asked me to find a missing Lakota girl in South Dakota. Given the … circumstances … she provided me with a cover identity. I did find the girl, and I worked with federal law enforcement officers to uncover a national security breach and the murder of a college student. I … I’m not sure I can tell you the names of those officers because they are undercover.”
She watched as his anger deflated. Sheer befuddlement took its place. “Who the hell are you, Aroostine Higgins?”
Crossfire Creek Page 13
