In the Arms of Stone Angels (8 page)

The deputy quit arguing and got back to business. By the time the sheriff saw her again, the Nash kid was leaning against Tate's patrol car and she was crying. She looked a wreck. He had a boy and a girl of his own in college, but thank the good Lord neither of them had turned out like this.

“What's up with your hair? That some new punk style?” He didn't keep up with what kids did these days, but her hair had been hacked to shreds. And she still didn't say anything or look him in the eye.

Taking a special interest in the 911 complaint, Sheriff Logan hadn't been exactly surprised to find this girl in the thick of it. His nephew had called him personally to warn him that she had made trouble at Chloe Seaver's and left with two bikers who'd crashed the party. And that she probably would try to drag other kids into her mess.

His nephew had no reason to lie.

“Brenna Nash. So this is your encore?” He shook his head and clenched his jaw. “You've only been here a couple of days and you can't stay out of trouble. You might get away with behavior like this in the big city, but not here.” He shifted his gaze to his deputy. “Arrest her and lock her up.”

“I'll take her statement,” Deputy Tate said.

“No, I'll do it. Just do like I told you. And I want her handcuffed, too. She's not getting a free ride, not in my town. And make sure you get a photo of all of this.” He waggled a finger at her with a look of disgust on his face. “I don't want her sayin' we did this.”

He'd seen too many kids like the Nash girl, a product of neglect from a mother who couldn't handle her. And if she had sneaked into Red Cliffs mental hospital to visit that damned Indian kid—like he suspected after he'd gotten the call from Dr. Sam Ridgeway and heard his description of the
visitor—maybe he'd been wrong to dismiss the girl's involvement in the murder of Heather Madsen. He still had questions about that and she wouldn't get a slap on the wrist for what she'd done tonight, not if he had anything to say about it.

His nephew had been right to call him. Derek had been worried for the Nash girl. And making that call couldn't have been easy for him.

“I want her locked up and off my streets,” he said to his deputy. “And get her mother down to the jail now. She doesn't get to sleep in while her kid is terrorizing the town and tying up law enforcement. Who the hell does she think she is, coming back to Shawano like this?”

He wanted to look Kate Nash in the eye to tell her that he hadn't been wrong about her kid being trouble.

Not then.

Not now.

The Shawano jail was ten times scarier than I had remembered it. Or maybe being back here—like a three-sixty déjà vu—made it worse. The cell stank like piss and the walls were smeared with black. My little box had a dirty stainless steel sink and a toilet that hung on the wall in the open. I'd have to be totally desperate to use it. Another prisoner at the end of the row was snoring real loud, making a gross throaty noise that sounded like he'd stop breathing any second, if I could only be so lucky.

I sat in the dark on my bunk, dressed in an orange jumpsuit that was so big on me that I had to roll up the sleeves and pant legs. And when the bars closed in on me, my sudden claustrophobia was the icing on my pity cake. I felt sick. And from the stares I had gotten from the cops in booking, I must have looked like shit.

Jade and Derek had totally screwed me over—and I'd never seen it coming.

“Yeah, Chloe. Nice party.”

I didn't want to cry, but I did.

The only good thing about how I'd been found was that Deputy Tate had been the first cop on the scene. He didn't say much. And he'd been quick to cover me with a blanket, but I couldn't look him in the eye. After he'd cut me a break at the cemetery on my first night in Shawano, I felt like I'd let him down. And with me riding in the back of his patrol car, in my own little cage, he kept eyeing the rearview mirror. It was hard to miss the worry in his eyes, but he never said anything. Guess that was okay. I didn't feel like talking anyway.

Jade and Derek and the others were counting on me being humiliated, so I'd keep my mouth shut. And I had to admit that telling the truth would be way worse. I would have been better off making up something less degrading that didn't make me sound so frickin' stupid. Everything they'd done had been intended to intimidate me. And it had worked.

Even if I wanted to report what really happened, no one would believe me. I'd look like the whack job that came to town looking for a fight. And I had picked up where I'd left off. A real loser. Not even my own mother would believe me after Jade and Derek lined up witnesses to back any story they wanted. I'd be outnumbered.

“So what else is new?” I mumbled as I wiped tears off my cheeks.

What happened came at me in cruel flashes that I'd never forget. Derek's buddies hauled me off to a bedroom and poured liquor down my throat until I threw up. And when they stripped off my clothes, I was terrified. I'd never been so scared in my life. I thought they would take turns raping me, but that didn't happen. Once they saw the razor scars I'd cut into my arms and thighs, that gave Jade an idea. When she came back into the room, she had a razor and asked Derek
to hold me down. I screamed and struggled to get free, but I wasn't strong enough.

Jade cut off my hair. She hacked at it until it was shredded. After she'd done her worst, Derek punched me in the face. I didn't remember much after that, except the laughter as they paraded me through the party. After that, some guys shoved me into a truck and dumped me in the middle of nowhere—without any clothes—their idea of a joke.

Until tonight, only my mom had ever seen me naked.

I ran my trembling fingers through what was left of my hair and I cried harder. I was so royally screwed. And I had a bad feeling that I hadn't seen the worst. I shut my eyes and leaned my head against the cinder block wall. The darkness swallowed me whole and I welcomed it. I desperately wanted to turn the clock back, but since I couldn't do that, I pictured one of the last times I felt safe and at peace.

Thinking about White Bird had become a Band-Aid to my soul.

 

Being down by the creek was always special, but after the sun went down, that was when magic took over. White Bird felt it, too. I saw it in his dark eyes.

Nightfall was special for both of us.

The moon shed its luster and dappled the swirling creek water with pure glitter. And the sound of the water trickling over stones became music to my ears. I saw the world with different eyes back then. And I felt absolutely everything. The cool night air blew through my hair and the darkness was a welcoming embrace that I'd grown to love.

And White Bird had opened my eyes to all of it.

One memory in particular took shape in my mind. His voice had come to me first, as if he'd whispered in my ear to
get me to remember it. It made my ear tickle and I smiled. I should have felt the cut on my lip, but I didn't.

White Bird had wanted so desperately to belong to the Euchee that he'd listened to the elders of the tribe and read everything he could at the library on his people. But when he discovered how important the language of signs was to them, he devoured anything he could on the subject. He felt a mystical connection to the earth and to the universe and to the tribal ancestors who had come before.

The study of signs had become like a religion to him. And one night he shared his thoughts with me after we'd hiked a trail along the creek and we sat staring up at the full moon. There wasn't a cloud in the sky and the moon looked huge. And everything was dusted in a powdery blue, including us.

We sat on a large boulder, back-to-back, staring up into the starry heavens. The warmth of his skin came through his shirt and I swear I felt his heart beating in time with mine. And his voice resonated through his chest and into me like an undeniable charge of electricity.

Pure magic.

“The ancient tribes used to read signs in everything,” he told me. “But man became a great skeptic. And science and technology demanded proof. Having faith wasn't good enough anymore. And reading signs became nothing but superstition.”

I loved listening to him talk. His voice had become a melody I couldn't shake, but that night he sounded more serious. He wanted me to understand something very important to him.

“But, Brenna, I believe there is only a thin veil that separates the mystical world from the reality we think we see. We only have to open our minds to the possibility. If we accept that
dreams can be interpreted for signs to guide us, why would our waking hours be so different?”

“What are you saying?” I asked and turned toward him. “You sound like a fortune cookie.”

He smiled and brushed a strand of hair from my eyes. And when he did, a sprinkle of the moon reflected in his eyes and glistened off his long dark hair. The moon's bluish haze colored his hair like the sheen on a raven's wing.

“I'm serious, Brenna. The universe is whispering to us. And we gotta keep our hearts and minds open to hear it.” He touched my cheek. “I feel this connection most when I'm here with you, especially in this place. I want to know if you feel it, too.”

Looking into his eyes, I could believe anything. And I wanted to believe as he believed—as deeply as he felt it—but I wasn't sure that I had it in me. I didn't feel smart enough. And why would the universe speak to me? I was just a kid.

Being at the creek with him had made me different. I knew it and felt it in my heart, but how much of that was me being a girl in love?

“Yes. Being here with you, it's special for me, too.” I hadn't exactly lied. And my answer made him smile. That was all that mattered to me.

“This may sound weird coming from a kid without a family, but I want…” He struggled to find the right words. “I want you to be part of my tribe, Brenna. There's a connection between us that I never want to lose. It would mean a lot to me if you'd…think about it.”

It took a moment for what he said to sink in. But once it did, I remembered how I felt. I wanted to cry. He had such a simple way of talking. And nobody had ever touched my
heart the way he did. He had no idea how much his simple request had moved me.

Me?
He wanted me to be a part of his adopted family. Me, the weird kid who never fit anywhere.

“Think about it? I'd be—” I struggled for my own words “—honored.”

His smile broke my heart. I knew how much family and being connected to another human being meant to him. He wanted to belong. And I knew exactly how he felt.

“I never told you before, but on the day we met, I knew you were coming,” he said. “A raven came to me in a dream and told me. I had been waiting that day…for you.”

I melted when he told me that. I pictured him waiting for me like we were two lovers destined to meet and it made me feel even more special. But later—after I had learned that in Celtic, my name meant “Little Raven”—his words always gave me goose bumps.

White Bird slipped his hand into mine and said, “When my parents died, I was so angry. I got into fights all the time. Guess I was mad that they left me without anyone to take care of me, but I just didn't understand.”

“Understand what?”

A rumble of thunder sounded in the distance. Something wasn't right. In my memory of what happened between us that night, I hadn't remembered a storm coming, but now I heard it distinctly.

A sudden headache gripped me. I didn't remember that happening, either. My memory of White Bird rolled on in my head. The same yet different. And he pretended not to notice the sound of the storm. That wasn't like him.

“After someone dies, they become connected to all living things,” he explained. “Because the past merges with the
present. Wouldn't that be amazing if that could happen? Many religions have this concept of the all-knowing soul. Do you believe this is possible?”

I remembered thinking that maybe he was hinting that he knew about dead people, too, but I wanted to hear what he'd say first before I blurted out the weird shit I'd seen. I had been working my way up to telling him about all of it, but a part of me was afraid he'd think I was an idiot.

I felt my headache getting worse as I played my part in the memory, telling him the same thing I did that night. I was straddling a line with one foot in the present and the other…only God knew where.

“Well, yeah. I'd like to think that when I die, that something of me will live on.” Like a strange out-of-body experience, I forced the same grin I had that night. I saw myself doing it. I was there…and yet not. “And I sure would like to be smarter if that happens. Know stuff, you know?”

“Exactly.” He laughed. “But I think if we open our minds to the universe showing us signs, we don't have to die to awaken that part of our soul. Why wait to get smarter? Why not open our minds to the possibility now?”

He didn't expect an answer. It was like he was exploring the idea for himself and using me as his sounding board. And he never pressured me to believe what he did. White Bird put his arm around me and kissed me in the moonlight. In my true memory of that night, I had never felt so safe and at peace. I was connected to him, to the stars, to the moon and even to the frog that croaked in the distance.

In that instant, I
did
believe.

But the menacing thunder reminded me something had changed. Things weren't as they should have been. And the ache in my head made me grimace in pain. What was
happening to me? Now even White Bird felt it. He stared at me in sudden panic.

Something wasn't right and he felt it, too.

Lightning tore across the night sky over our heads and the distant thunder I had heard before, now rumbled beneath us like the earth was splitting apart. Everything shook like an earthquake. Only this time, it wasn't just in my imagination. White Bird felt it. Our connection to the universe and to each other ended in a terrifying rush. He yelled something at me that I couldn't hear. His lips were moving but nothing came out until seconds later.

“Brenna, help me. I need you. Now!” White Bird grabbed my arm and shook me. “Wake up.”

I gasped and stared into his desperate eyes, but the instant I did, his face split in two.

“What's happening?” he cried out. “No! Don't let this happen. Not now.”

An intense light emerged from inside him, blinding me. It shot through his eyes, his mouth and through his gaping skull, but he didn't scream. His body went slack and he dissolved into tiny windblown fragments that swirled and dropped into the shadows as if he'd been only a fleeting thought that I couldn't quite grasp. The moon had vanished and the sounds of the creek and the forest fizzled away as if none of it had happened.

White Bird's voice had reached out to me through a cherished memory and made me doubt whether I was awake or asleep—or something far worse.

“Don't go. Stay with me,” I pleaded to no one. And I reached out and felt nothing.

This time, my eyes opened wide as if it had been for the first time and I felt my heart slamming against my ribs. I sat and
glared into total darkness. It took time to see shapes, enough for me to know where I was.

The Shawano jail.

White Bird begging for my help? That wasn't how I recalled that night by the creek. In a strange twilight—caught between my awareness and a dreamworld—he had called out to me and begged for my help. Had I only dreamed it? Was it one of my nightmares?

Or had the moment been real?

“Oh, my God. What's happening to me?”

Reality was slipping through my fingers like shifting sand and I didn't know how to stop it. I ran a hand through my shredded hair and saw the bars of the jail around me. That part of my reality hadn't been a dream, but the bizarre mix of my actual memories of White Bird and my waking nightmare had been so real that I still felt his touch on my arm.

My skin prickled as if a roach had crawled across my skin. And the hair on my neck shifted like someone had touched me in the dark.

“Where are you? Please…talk to me again. I'm here.” I called out to him and peered through the darkness, half expecting him to step out of the shadows like the dead did when they showed themselves to me, but when that didn't happen, I was more depressed than I'd ever been.

“I'm losing it. I'm
really
losing it.”

My guilt could have instigated the whole thing, but why did it feel so real? I couldn't shake the feeling that I was missing something. And why had I chosen that particular moment in time? At first I thought that memory had been random, but what if it hadn't been?