Called Home

by Melissa F. Miller

  “I’ll talk to him, but I’ll tell you right now … you’re barking up the wrong tree. Dahlia was embarrassed by me, by our life. The idea that she’d want to be like me is too funny for words.”

  “Still. Could you ask him?”

  “I’ll get on it right away.” She added softly, almost as an afterthought, “It’s strange, though, your bringing up Bedrock Force today.”

  “Why?”

  “The timing. I was watching the news when you called, and they were doing a piece on that girl who got killed.”

  “What girl?”

  “I can’t remember her name. It happened a week and a half, two weeks ago, maybe. She was a Vermillion University student from the Rosebud Reservation. Anyway, a reporter went to Vermillion to do an update on the story, and the campus police referred all questions to Bedrock Force. Just seemed strange. Then you called asking about Bedrock Force. Weird, huh?”

  “Weird,” Aroostine agreed.

  She ended the call and stood motionless in the noisy laundry facility, working through her next move.

  17

  Come on, Mom. Dahlia crossed the fingers of her left hand as she punched in the digits for her mother’s house phone with her right.

  Still busy.

  She swore under her breath. Leave it to her mom to have what was probably the only landline in South Dakota without call waiting. But that function cost extra, so of course she wouldn’t spring for it. And the cellular service on the reservation ranged from spotty to nonexistent, so she’d never bothered to get a mobile phone.

  The situation had frustrated her when she’d still lived at home. But now—now, it was going to get her killed.

  Stop being dramatic, she ordered herself. It didn’t work. She was right to be scared, so pretending that she wasn’t was just stupid.

  Bedrock Force was looking for her. And they were close, really close. They’d almost caught her at Mercy’s building and then again at Dane’s office. How did they always know where to look for her? And was the guy in the green Jeep working with the men in the black suits or not? He had to be—who else could be looking for her?

  She’d ditched her cell phone. She paid cash for everything. What was she missing?

  Maybe they’re just really good at this. And you’re a dumb Injun in over your head.

  Out of nowhere, Carole’s Orr’s voice whip-cracked through her head. Young lady, nobody is ever going to treat you with more respect than you treat yourself. You set the standard. Set it high.

  The memory of her old boss helped a little. Her shaking legs felt less gelatinous—not steady, but not quite as wobbly. She drew herself up straighter.

  “Hey, you done or what?”

  She gave the hopped-up addict the stink eye. She’d beat him to the payphone by half a minute, at least. But instead of giving her even a little bit of privacy, he’d leaned against the vending machine and stared at her while she fed quarters into the slot.

  “Almost.”

  He twitched and she flashed a fake smiled. He was itching for a fix, and she was probably standing between him and his dealer. She needed to get ahold of her mother and then get out of here before this guy lost it.

  One more time. Please, let it ring. Let her answer.

  This time the irritating electronic pulse of the busy signal was replaced by ringing. She closed her eyes and sagged against the rough stucco wall, weak with relief.

  Thank you.

  But the ringing continued. Three rings, four rings …

  And then the machine picked up.

  What message could she possibly leave—Hi, Mom, I dropped out of school, got a job, witnessed a murder, stole government property, and now I’m on the run. What’s new with you?

  She slammed the phone back on the receiver blindly, thick tears swimming in her eyes, and pushed passed the junkie who was making an obscene gesture. She was sure the words he yelled after her were equally delightful, but they bounced off her, unheard.

  She raced into the ladies room. She ran the cold water and cupped her hands under the stream. She splashed the water over her face again and again, until the lump dislodged from her throat and she could breathe.

  Then she patted her cheeks and forehead dry with a rough paper towel, gripped the rim of the porcelain basin, and stared at herself in the mirror.

  Now what?

  Her reflection stared back at her, wide-eyed and pale.

  Forget about Mercy Locklear—for now, at least. You need to disappear. For real.

  18

  Roxanne gritted her teeth and cranked up the tension on the stationary bike. It was six o’clock on a Saturday evening, and the basement gym was deserted, exactly the way she liked it.

  The poor saps assigned to work on the weekend team had cleared out between five and five-thirty—headed home to suburban developments with manicured lawns and attached garages or further out, past the highways and big box stores to country lanes that snaked through the fields to sprawling ranches with split-log fences and barns. They opened their front doors at the end of the day to houses where soft, smiling wives flitted around kitchens in the last stages of prepping dinner, kids clambered over each other yelling ‘Daddy’s home!,’ and dogs wagged their tails to greet their masters.

  Normal. Ordinary. Comforting, or so she assumed. But that life wasn’t for her. It made her anxious, the banality and the civility of it all.

  She pedaled faster, her feet slipping in the clips. As if she were actually cycling away from the prospect. Her breath came harder and heavier, until her lungs seared.

  She’d heard of people like her, soldiers who couldn’t transition back to civilian life when they left the military. The counselors called it difficult re-entry, acted like it was a thing she’d want to overcome.

  She let out a half-laugh, half-snort at the thought. She loved being a soldier. Life and death, black and white, good and evil. These were the things she understood. Insurgents, jihadists, fighters, even terrorists. The rules of engagement were known, knowable.

  But trying to fit into society was a mystery, a mission with no clear objective. The shifting, sideways interactions of regular citizens in a stable country during peacetime kept her off-balance. She was always worrying she’d miss some subtle but vital social cue, some unspoken arrangement, a secret handshake that everyone knew but her.

  She wanted nothing to do with any of it.

  If she hadn’t landed at Bedrock Force, with its comforting rules and routines, hierarchy and discipline, she figured she’d be living out of her car by now, scrounging up enough money for a bottle of cheap whiskey every day or three to dull her memories.

  Of course, it could all go away in an instant. In the fraction of a second it took a girl to swipe a box off her desk. What would she do if they fired her over this? Where would she go?

  She ramped up her speed to outpace her demons. As her legs began to burn with built-up lactic acid, the longed-for calm finally came over her. She increased the incline on the machine and kept pedaling. Sweat trickled down her back and drenched her shirt. She cycled faster, panting and losing herself in the rhythmic clack of the pedals.

  Then a snippet from the television mounted on the wall penetrated her endorphin-fogged brain. “Vermillion University authorities refused to comment on today’s activities …”

  She opened her eyes and grabbed the remote, turning up the volume. A reporter from the Sioux Falls affiliate stood in front of a college residence. She wore a bright orange jacket and her blonde hair glittered in the late day sun.

  “… asked campus police to confirm the presence of federal agents on university property and if it was related to the death of Mercy Locklear. Chief Bobby Trainer declined an on-camera interview, but his office issued a statement referring all questions to Sioux Falls-based military contractor Bedrock Force.”

  Son of a …

  Hearing the company’s name associated with the Locklear girl’s death jolted her. But seeing Johnny Arnetto’s highlight
er green Jeep parked behind the reporter was what made her left eye twitch.

  She switched off the television and slowed her pace so she could catch her breath. She grabbed the towel hanging from the handlebar and blotted her face and neck. Then she punched Arnetto’s telephone number into her personal mobile.

  He answered on the third ring. By then, her breathing was normal.

  “Yeah?”

  She stiffened reflexively at the disrespectful greeting then shook her head at herself. Focus on the important stuff.

  “I’m watching the news. Do you have a situation report you forgot to call in?”

  “No?”

  “Really. So that’s not your obnoxious vehicle I see on the news?”

  “Oh.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “I was looking for the girl. Your friends from D.C. crashed my party.”

  “They’re from Chicago. They’re ICE agents.”

  “ICE? What possible interest does Immigration and Customs have in a dead Indian?”

  “Native American. And I didn’t ask. It’s above my pay grade.”

  “Well, it explains why they came in so dramatically.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  “Your girl was there.”

  “What?” Her heart jackhammered in her chest.

  “I just missed her.”

  “She was at Mercy’s apartment?”

  “No. The school paper’s office.”

  “What?!”

  “I didn’t get a visual and the pencil-necked editor didn’t know her name. But a girl matching her description was spotted going into the office. Pal on the campus police let me know. When I got there, she slipped out through the back door.”

  “Then why are you so sure it was her?”

  “She told him she had evidence that Bedrock Force is responsible for the Locklear girl’s death.”

  She bit down on her lip so hard she tasted blood. “And this student journalist told you this? He just, what, burned a source?”

  “He was persuaded.”

  “Arnetto … how?” She couldn’t have him assaulting civilians, especially not college students.

  “Chill. I told him I wouldn’t tell my buds at the campus police about his bud.”

  “He had contraband drugs on him?”

  “Out on his desk, in plain view, ma’am.”

  She relaxed her shoulders and rolled her neck from side to side. “Does he have any way to reach Dahlia? Can we use him to lure her back in?”

  “No. And I doubt she’ll stick around town. She’s gotta be spooked.”

  “Where are you going next?”

  “Depends on where your friends in the suits decide to go. I’d like to stay out of their way, and vice versa.”

  “That only works if you go the right direction and they go the wrong direction.”

  “They’re going to get a tip from the campus police that she’s believed to be headed west. Someone saw her getting on a bus going to Rapid City. I just hope they bite.”

  “You need to be careful. Discreet.”

  “Discretion or effectiveness. Pick one.”

  “We’ll talk soon.” She laced the words with the barest of threats before ending the call.

  She wiped down the seat and bars of the exercise bike then turned out the lights. Her primary mission—her only mission—was to protect her client’s investment from the domestic terrorists who’d banded together under the loose affiliation of the water protesters, led by the Native American activists. Although the nation’s attention had turned elsewhere after the Standing Rock protests were shut down, the agitators had stuck around. Moving from camp to camp. Bringing petty crime and drug issues to towns throughout the Dakotas and surrounding states.

  They’d eventually established a quasi-legal camp in the park near Vermillion University. That made her client edgy. With a set location, the group was able to recruit, plan, solicit donations, and consolidate its operations. Then the rumors of a vandalism operation started to bubble up.

  Bedrock Force’s mandate was to protect the pipeline from sabotage and to coordinate the LEO response. Any effort by the protesters to vandalize or undermine the pipeline was her problem. So she’d set out to solve it.

  Mercy Locklear’s death was unfortunate. She’d been a well-intentioned young woman trying to live out her principles. Collateral damage was always regrettable, and it had to be minimized. But a good commander didn’t allow it to shift the operational focus. That was the price of security, the cost of a free society.

  And Dahlia Truewind could bring the entire operation to its knees if Roxanne didn’t find her … and find her fast.

  She massaged a dense, hot knot that blazed between her shoulder blades as she walked into the shower room. All she needed was a bracing shower and a smoothie, and she’d feel like a new woman.

  19

  Aroostine loitered outside the Bedrock Force office building, leaning against the clean brick wall near the lobby. The air chilled as the sun sank closer to the horizon. Another hour and it would be dark.

  Her legs were stiff. She’d been standing in the office park for an hour already. At approximately a quarter before six, a half-dozen tall, fit, clean-shaven men streamed through the exits, got into their SUVs and sedans, and pulled out of the parking lot almost as one unit.

  Since then, there’d been no activity. But one car remained in the parking lot. And she wasn’t leaving until she had a chance to talk to its driver. In all likelihood, the remaining employee was a security guard or a custodian. Those were people who were stuck working the Saturday night shift at most companies. But she thought the odds were good it was actually a manager type.

  To pass the time, she decided to make a second visual review of the vehicle—a black mid-sized SUV. The exterior glistened. It was spotless, and devoid of bumper stickers expressing political views or beliefs; window decals devoted to children’s honor roll or sports accomplishments, naming beloved pets, or stick figure family units. All the windows were clean, perfectly clear, with no smears, smudges, or dead bug splatters. The chrome wheels sparkled in the fading light.

  She cupped her hands around her eyes and peered inside. No children’s booster seats or other kid-related detritus. No makeup bag or library books piled on the passenger seat. No personal touches of any kind other than one tightly rolled, small white towel tucked into the center console—the kind gyms provided so their clientele could wipe the sweat from their necks.

  Her observation confirmed her initial impression. The driver was retired military, in his late thirties to mid-forties, a bachelor, and a fitness buff. And he had a prime parking spot, with a reserved sign. So maybe not a rent-a-cop or a janitor, after all.

  She backed away from the SUV and craned her neck to catch a glimpse of her own vehicle. She’d parked the pickup in the next lot over, reserved for employees of Allied Industrial Solutions, which was separated from Bedrock Force’s space by a tall hedge row and, critically, closed on weekends.

  The lax security at the business park was a surprise. She’d imagined a private military contractor like Bedrock Force would have a perimeter fence and a guardhouse with an armed guard—like a military installation. But this place was pure corporate America. All red brick and gleaming glass with the Bedrock Force name and corporate logo (two bold interlocking triangles) emblazoned over the front door.

  She turned back toward the entrance in time to see someone exit the building and stride toward the SUV. Tall, erect bearing and cropped hair—still damp from a post-workout shower. Check. Wearing the ubiquitous navy polo and khakis and carrying an expensive-looking briefcase in one hand and a bottled fruit smoothie in the other. Check. No wedding ring. Check.

  She’d nailed her Bedrock Force manager with the exception of one minor detail. He was a she. There was no time to analyze where her profile had gone astray. Not now. She had to intercept this woman before she climbed into her fastidious SUV and drove away.

  The woman to
ssed her bottle in a recycling bin and used her remote key fob to unlock her car door with a bloop. She maintained her brisk pace.

  Aroostine jogged toward the parking spot.

  “Ma’am! Excuse me, ma’am.”

  The woman had reached the vehicle now. She turned, one hand on the door handle.

  “Yes?”

  “May I have just a minute of your time? It’s urgent. It’s about one of your employees.”

  The woman’s cool eyes slid over Aroostine as she made a series of calculations of her own.

  Aroostine knew what she was seeing. A tall, long-legged woman. Dark skin, dark eyes, long dark hair pulled into a low ponytail. Easily pegged as Native American. No makeup. Empty hands. Wearing faded jeans, a pink and gray checked shirt, and soft moccasins. She looked unthreatening. Pleasant. Harmless. She gazed back at the woman placidly.

  The woman made a decision. She nodded. “Make it fast.”

  “Thanks. I’m looking for a girl named Dahlia Truewind.”

  The woman’s eyes flashed. “And you are?”

  “Oh sure, sorry.” Aroostine grinned and stuck out her hand. “Rue Jackman.”

  The woman shifted her briefcase into her left hand and gave Aroostine’s hand a firm, quick squeeze. “Roxanne Markham. What’s your interest in Dahlia, Ms. Jackman?”

  Aroostine was a lousy liar by nature. But this situation called for fabrication. Roxanne Markham was a woman governed by a code. And that code would no doubt include a feeling of kinship with other veterans.

  She exhaled slowly then spun her tale. “I served with her mother. Enduring Freedom back in 2003. I’m passing through town on my way home to Des Moines. I figured the kid might like a free dinner at a decent restaurant. You know how it is when you’re just starting out in the work world.”

  “Apparently Dahlia hasn’t called home in a while. She doesn’t work here anymore.”

  “Was she fired?”