Chilling Effect (6 page)

He stomped farther along the path and paused near a copse

of trees. He glanced back. He didn’t see Aroostine’s tall, lean fi gure near the road. He blinked in surprise that she apparently had done

as he’d asked and gone back to the car. Not so long ago, she would

have pushed the issue and followed him. But not anymore.

He leaned against a tree trunk and focused on slowing his

breathing.

It’s progress that she’s consulting you, asking for your input,
he chided himself.

MELISSA F. MILLER

It was true. Ever since she’d returned from DC, she’d been close-

lipped—even for her. She was warm and attentive when they were

together, but she didn’t ask what he thought about anything that

didn’t involve their shared home life.

Switching Rufus’ brand of food? She’d engage in a heartfelt

discussion.

Agreeing to the assignment at the US Attorney’s Offi ce in John-

stown? She hadn’t even mentioned her new position until she’d been

working there for almost a week.

And that was the way it had been with everything. If it involved

their marriage, their home, or their families, they were a team. If it related to her career, he was persona non grata.

He understood. How could he not? She’d asked him to support

her when she’d moved to Washington, DC, for her big break, and

he’d agreed. But when the time came to actually put the pieces of

his life in the tidy white rows of Bankers Boxes she’d assembled for him, he couldn’t do it.

He couldn’t leave the farmhouse they’d restored together, room

by room, over the early months and years of their marriage.

He couldn’t leave his workshop with the table where he’d sanded

and carved and shaped planks and doors and boards into their new

lives. Every design choice was stuff ed full of memories, from the dry sink she’d found at a fl ea market to the wall sconces he’d rewired to mount on either side of the fi replace mantle. He couldn’t leave the creek that ran behind their place, the meadow where they’d said their vows, the diner where they had breakfast on lazy Saturdays. He was paralyzed with grief every time he contemplated those blasted

moving boxes, staring up at him empty and reproachful.

Meanwhile, she’d been sitting in a sterile, mostly unfurnished

condo, waiting for him to do what he’d promised and come to be

with her. Instead, he’d stopped returning her calls then served her with divorce papers.

40

CHILLING EFFECT

Stop beating yourself up; look to the future, not the past.
He repeated the words she’d said to him so often in the early days after they’d reconciled. And to their shared credit, they had forged forward together, leaving the past behind them, where it belonged.

Th is trip was part of their new life together, a chance to make new memories to replace the ones they’d rather not dredge up.

But now she was going to go off on a mission. He’d known this

was coming. He’d seen the excited glint in her eye when she got in

the car.

Th e hill he’d been huffi ng up crested, and he stood for a minute and surveyed the dark outline of the mountains, the tall trees bend-ing in the wind, and the stillness of the air. Th e quiet was pierced by a shrill birdcall. Joe started at the sound. Th en a dark shape swooped overhead, low and close. He ducked, stumbled backward, and nearly

lost his footing.

“A bird must fl y.”

Th e voice came from the clearing to the right and scared him

worse than the bird had. He grabbed a tree trunk to avoid tumbling

off the ridge.

A man stepped out of the dark, holding a lantern.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, a smile creasing his tanned, lined face.

Joe examined the man’s face in the light dancing from the lan-

tern. He looked to be in his midsixties or so. Long white hair, parted and braided into two neat plaits, hung over his shoulders.

“Uh, no worries, ” Joe lied. It was clear the man was a Native

American and presumably a local. But it wasn’t at all clear why he

was traipsing around in the dark while a murderer was on the loose.

Th e man extended his right hand. “I’m Matthew Cowslip.

Everyone calls me Boom.”

Joe wiped his sweaty palm on his slacks and then shook Boom’s

proff ered hand.

41

MELISSA F. MILLER

“Joe Jackman.”

“I know.”

Joe cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. Th e hairs on his

arms stood up.
Was this an ambush?

W

Th

as this an ambush?

W

e notion never would have

occurred to him a year earlier, but being targeted and drugged by a prostitute in a bar, spirited to a remote cabin, and held hostage by a homicidal Eastern European gangster tended to make a guy suspicious of overly friendly strangers.

“You do?”

“Sure. You’re with Aroostine Higgins, correct?”

“I’m her husband,” he said in a half growl, his worry mount-

ing. He didn’t know which direction the man had come from.

What if he’d already encountered Aroostine at the car? What if he’d hurt her . . . or worse? He clenched his fi sts at his side.

“Of course. Ms. Higgins called in the report of the tragic death

of one of our young people, Isaac Palmer.” Boom gave a sad shake

of his head at the mention of Palmer’s death but kept his face open and friendly, as if to reassure Joe that he meant no harm.

“Are you with the tribal police?”

“No, no. But I’m an elder and a member of the cultural board.

We’ll be working closely with the police.”

“How?”

“Community patrols, encouraging people to talk if they saw

something, that sort of thing.” Boom’s eyes narrowed and his voice

took on a pained note. “And, of course, helping to ensure our guests feel safe.”

“Your guests?”

“Th e white fat cats who want to tour our grounds, gamble away

their money in our casinos, and enjoy some overpriced alcohol and

meals while they’re at it. It wouldn’t do for our profi ts to dip if they get scared off by the death of one expendable Indian.” Anger clouded 42

CHILLING EFFECT

his face for the briefest moment. And then he smoothed it away with a too-bright grin. “Which reminds me, did you enjoy your dinner?”

“Price was right,” Joe joked. Boom’s mercurial mood shifts were

making him uneasy. And humor was Joe’s fallback when he was

uncomfortable. He wanted to get out of the woods and back to his

wife.

Boom laughed and clasped Joe’s shoulder with his free hand.

“Very good.”

“Well, Mr. Cowslip—”

“Please. It’s Boom.”

“Okay, Boom. I need to get back to Aroostine. She’s waiting in

the car. I just had to . . .”

Joe didn’t intend to tell this guy he just had to get away from his wife before he said something he regretted. Before he could come

up with a plausible lie, Boom supplied one.

“Relieve yourself?”

“Yeah, right. Nature called.”

“Hmm. Well, yes, hurry back to the missus.”

“Nice meeting you,” Joe said as he turned to head back down

the trail.

“Do you know what happens when you clip a bird’s wings?”

Joe turned back, disconcerted by the odd question. “No.”

Boom turned the lamp in his hand toward himself. He looked

exactly like a ghoulish jack-o’-lantern.

“It doesn’t have a way to cope with fl ightlessness. It becomes

irritable, meek, anxious, and fearful.”

“Oh-kay.” Joe started backing away.

“I hope you and your strong, brave wife wil stay on the reserva-

tion for a few days.”

“Why’s that?” Joe wondered where he was headed with this sud-

den change in topics.

43

MELISSA F. MILLER

“We need her help. We need an outsider who understands our

ways and traditions and can also navigate the federal issues that

Isaac’s death will certainly stir up.”

“What federal issues would those be?”

As far as he knew, Aroostine had honored Sid’s request not to

mention the potential embezzlement charges to anyone on the reser-

vation. And he couldn’t help wondering how Boom knew his wife’s

heritage. Did word spread that fast? Or was Boom more connected

than he was letting on?

“I’m sure you know as well as I do that Isaac found evidence of

embezzlement at the casino.”

Joe stared at him. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking

about,” he lied.

“I doubt that very much. Your wife didn’t make the trip out

here to talk to Isaac about the weather. Don’t worry, it’s not com-

mon knowledge. But as a member of the cultural board, I have to

have my fi nger on these issues.”

“Right. It wouldn’t do for your guests to get the wrong impression.”

“Or the right impression, as the case may be. But in this instance, I think my people have a serious problem.” Boom’s voice was grim.

“Oh?” Joe said reluctantly. Joe wasn’t at all sure what Boom was

up to but his desire to end the weird conversation and go fi nd his wife was becoming urgent.

“A fi sh rots from the head, Mr. Jackman. I’m convinced

the information Isaac uncovered traces directly back to Lee

Buckmount.” Boom dropped this bombshell with a triumphant

note in his voice.

It was clear from the way Boom emphasized the name that he

expected a reaction. He was going to be sorely disappointed.

“Who?”

Boom sighed. “Right, why would you know? Mr. Buckmount

is our chief fi nancial offi cer.”

44

CHILLING EFFECT

“Th ere’s a tribe CFO?”

“Technically, he’s the CFO of the tribe-owned corporation that

operates the casino and resort, but that’s just a nicety. He is, in reality, basically the CFO of the three tribes who form the reservation, yes.”

“And you think he killed Isaac Palmer?” he ventured, not at all

sure why Boom would be sharing his theories with a stranger in the

woods. Unless their encounter wasn’t random.

“I didn’t say that. I think Isaac Palmer’s death is related to Mr.

Buckmount’s activities.”

“You sound like a lawyer. What activities would those be?”

Boom shook his head, his braids whacking against his neck.

“I’m not sure. Possibly drug activities. I’ve thought for a while

he’s had a problem, but I’m not sure. Th at’s why I need your wife’s help.”

Joe stiff ened at the thought of Aroostine wading into a scandal

involving tribal politics ugly enough to result in murder. “I’m not sure why you think Aroostine can help you.”

“Because our community is small and insular. And because the

outside views us with disdain and suspicion. But she understands our ways—and yours. Please. Mr. Jackman, let her do what’s in her heart.”

Boom’s timbre was pleading and sincere. But Joe was just creeped

out. It was like the guy had installed a listening device in the car or something. How could he possibly know what was in Aroostine’s

heart?

“Um—”

“Just spend the night. Th e cultural board maintains an authen-

tic home we off er to rich, white philanthropists who want to get the fl avor of life on the res. You’re welcome to it. Stay, watch the sun rise over the majestic mountains and enjoy some of our cook Selena’s

hand-ground cornmeal cakes for breakfast. You’ll be my guest. If

you still want to go back to your luxury resort after experiencing all of that, well, then go right ahead.”

45

MELISSA F. MILLER

For a possibly demented old guy, Boom sure was a masterful

salesman.

“Well . . .”

“Talk to your wife. See what she says. If you want to stay, I’ll see you at the guest cottage. It’s just two doors down from Isaac’s house.”

Joe left the man standing in the clearing and hurried along the

trail back to the road. A jumble of thoughts whirled through his

mind as he tripped over rocks and roots. Boom’s comments about

drugs, crime, and profi t on the reservation were background noise.

Joe kept coming back to the cryptic remarks about clipping a bird’s wings. He couldn’t be responsible for grounding his wife, fl ightless and listless. He had to let her fulfi ll her purpose.

A bird must fl y.

He quickened his pace as the ground fl attened, running back

to her.

Aroostine milled around the car for a moment after Joe stalked off .

She had no intention of getting back in the Jeep just because he’d

told her to. At least he hadn’t said “I told you so,” in response to her announcement. Th at was progress of a sort.

Slipping into the passenger seat held some appeal. She was

tired. No, she was more than tired. She was drained. She’d started

her day with a sunrise hike and ended it by fi nding a murder victim.

Closing her eyes and leaning back against the headrest sounded like a much better way to wait out Joe’s fi t or tantrum, or whatever he was doing, than pacing back and forth.

She settled into the seat, slowed her breathing, and tried to

wipe the image of Isaac Palmer from her mind. She might have suc-

ceeded—she might even have caught a quick cat nap—if it hadn’t

been for a car that pulled up alongside the Jeep, idled for a moment, 46

CHILLING EFFECT

and then eventually parked, leaving its headlights on. Her eyes

snapped open. She blinked into the light and squinted to make out

a fi gure moving toward her car. She tensed and hit the door locks.

Tap, tap, tap.
Th e person was rapping on the passenger side window. A concerned woman peered in at her with wide, heavily