Called Home

by Melissa F. Miller

  “Why are you helping me? You don’t have to do this.”

  Live, Roo. You’re among the living, not the dead. Make your life mean something. Joe’s voice again.

  “Actually, yeah, I kind of do.”

  The girl shot her a puzzled look then shook her head. “Okay, I’m going to dry my hair. We’ll talk in the morning?”

  “Sounds good. Good night.”

  Aroostine drew back the covers on the bed closest to the window. Dahlia closed the bathroom door. Aroostine fell asleep to the soft, insistent hum of the hair dryer.

  27

  Sunday morning

  6:00 A.M.

  Dahlia woke up to the sound of the shower running. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes with her knuckles and turned to check the time. Rue wasn’t kidding about being a morning person.

  Dahlia slid out of bed and stretched her arms over her head. She felt awesome. A full night’s sleep in an actual bed was like heaven after spending one night sleeping in a plastic chair and two nights on a thin pad in a tent in the activists’ camp.

  Her mood was also hopeful for the first time in weeks. Rue Jackman was a competent adult with a friend who could help her. She could let the grownups handle this. Which meant she could go back home.

  Home. Just a few months ago she couldn’t wait to escape the reservation. To her, Pine Ridge had been nothing but a long, gray slog of poverty and despair. But now … she ached to see her mom, and Tommy, and, well, everyone. She was going home.

  A big, stupid grin spread across her face and she bounced to her feet. She’d get dressed while Rue showered so they could hit the road early. She sorted through her clothes, not sure what to wear.

  Early fall on the rez was a total crapshoot. It could be eighty degrees. Or it could be thirty. And it varied day by day. She found the remote and turned on the television to catch the weather forecast.

  Thunder Jones, her mom’s favorite meteorologist, was waving his arms in front of a map full of animated wind and clouds. She had to admit Thunder was pretty cute, even though she teased her mom about her crush every chance she got.

  “…Cool and cloudy but pleasant for all your college football games today. Go, teams!” he ended his forecast with a generic cheer and got a giggle out of the anchor.

  As the camera panned to the anchor desk, though, the anchor’s laughter faded and her big blue eyes turned serious. “Thanks, Thunder. We have an important update in the Mercy Locklear murder investigation. Authorities are seeking three women for questioning.”

  The picture she’d had taken on her first day of work for her employee ID filled the screen. “This woman, identified as Dahlia Truewind, may have been responsible for the murder. Bedrock Force spokeswoman Roxanne Markham informed our reporter that Truewind was spotted at the camp in Vermillion the day Mercy Locklear was killed. Activists confirm that Mercy was seen speaking to a woman matching Truewind’s description shortly before she died. Truewind is believed to be armed and dangerous. The public is asked to contact the Bedrock Force Pipeline Task Force and their local authorities if they see her.”

  Dahlia’s legs were so shaky, she barely made it to the bed. She sank down and pressed her feet against the floor to ground herself. Her heart was somewhere near her belly button, and her blood thrummed so loud in her ears that it sounded like bison hooves thundering across the plain.

  “Nooo …” she moaned. This was really, really bad.

  And then it got a whole lot worse.

  Her picture vanished, replaced by a split screen showing a picture of Rue Jackman that looked like it might be from her driver’s license and a colorized sketch of a Native American woman who had bright pink hair styled in a bob, a nose ring, and a lot of purple eye makeup.

  The water turned off. A few seconds later, the drone of the hair dryer started up. She stared at the screen as if she were in a trance.

  The anchor kept talking in a somber, measured tone. “Ms. Markham advises that Truewind may be traveling alone or with these two women, who are believed to be her co-conspirators. Rue Jackman, of Des Moines, Iowa, is driving a blue Ford F-150 pickup truck with Iowa plates. The unidentified woman in the sketch is her traveling companion. Citizens are asked not to approach the truck or Jackman as she may be armed and dangerous. Anyone with information about Jackman or the unnamed woman should also contact the task force.” A telephone number scrolled across the bottom of the screen and then the pictures faded to black as the station went to a commercial break.

  Dahlia switched off the TV and threw the remote on the bed. Now what? She’d dragged Rue into her living nightmare. And Markham had turned the whole thing around on her. She was going to go to jail for Mercy’s murder.

  The hair dryer was still going. She jumped to her feet and took off her pajamas with jittery hands. She dressed in one of her edgy new outfits. Olive green cargo pants and a black shirt. The long sleeves came down over her wrists and covered part of her hands. She pulled on a pair of socks and jammed her feet into the pink boots.

  Think. Okay, in her work picture, her hair had been loose, over her shoulders. She couldn’t wear the wig—too recognizable. Her fingers flew across her head, pulling her hair into two tight braids. She coiled them, one on each side of her head, and secured them to her head. Her fingers were still shaking but she clipped her nose ring onto her nose and swiped black lipstick across her mouth.

  She checked the end result in the mirror hanging on the closet door. She looked like a Native American Princess Leia going through a phase. But at least she didn’t look like herself or like the pink-haired girl in the sketch. She threw her dirty clothes into the duffel bag and scribbled a note on the hotel notepad by the phone. She took one last look around the room then picked up her beaver charm and dropped it in her pocket. She left the box, SIM card, and Mercy’s scarf where they sat. On her way out the door, she spotted an army green field jacket folded over the top of the bag that held Rue’s tent.

  She hesitated for a fraction of a second then grabbed the coat. Right before the door closed behind her, she went back and scooped up the tent, too. She shrugged her shoulders into the jacket and smoothed it over her hips. Then she balanced her load—holding the heavy duffel bag in her right hand and the slightly less heavy tent in her left—and waited for the elevator to take her down to the lobby.

  Sorry, Rue. Sorry for everything.

  Aroostine stared down at the hastily scrawled note in her hand and read it again.

  * * *

  Rue,

  I’m so sorry. We’re all over the TV. Ms. Markham is saying I murdered Mercy and you helped me. We have to split up, and I can’t go home. I’ve screwed up everything. So I’m leaving the box for you. Give it to your friend. Or to Markham. Or throw it in the Big Sioux River. I don’t know.

  Really sorry,

  Dahlia

  * * *

  Dahlia’s bag was gone. She’d tossed her pink wig on her unmade bed. True to her word, the cryptobox and the little SIM card were on the dresser with the scarf Mercy had given to Dahlia carefully folded beside them. She’d taken the beaver charm, though, Aroostine realized. Her lips curved into a small smile. Maybe it would lead her to safety.

  She found the remote and powered the television on. She clicked through the channels until she found a local news program. A craggy-faced reporter wearing a well-loved brown leather bomber jacket was broadcasting live from outside the Bedrock Force headquarters building.

  Roxanne Markham nodded gravely and leaned toward the microphone in the reporter’s outstretched hand. She seemed to be staring directly at Aroostine through the television screen.

  “Dahlia Truewind is presumed armed and dangerous. So are her traveling companions, Rue Jackman and the as-yet unknown woman with pink hair. If members of the public see them, they should not approach them. Instead please call the task force tip line.”

  “And the authorities believe these three women killed Mercy Locklear?”

  “Yes.”

&nbs
p; The image switched to a candid photograph of a young Native woman. Mercy Locklear had been captured mid-laugh, her head tipped back, her face painted with joy. The scarf currently sitting on the dresser encircled her neck and floated behind her, caught by a breeze.

  The camera returned to the live interview.

  “Do you have a motive?” the reporter asked.

  “We believe Truewind, Jackman, and the third woman were part of a Native American cell plotting to disrupt pipeline operations. Mercy Locklear may have learned of their plans and tried to stop them. These woman are domestic terrorists. They’re single-minded in their mission to harm our critical infrastructure and, clearly, will stop at nothing to strike against our governmental interests.” Markham spat the words like she believed them.

  She’d heard enough. She jabbed the power button and tossed the remote back on the bed.

  Think.

  Markham’s lackey had to know they’d come to the hotel last night. So why the big media push? Why not just call the police and have them arrested here? It made no sense.

  She pulled aside the vertical blinds and peeked out the window. No road block. No police cruisers. No black government sedans that somehow always managed to stand out by virtue of their extreme insistence on blending in unobtrusively.

  She dropped the blinds and paced across the room. What was Markham up to?

  She can’t have us arrested, she realized with a start.

  If the Sioux Falls police took her and Dahlia into custody, they’d get their hands on the box and any other evidence Dahlia might have gathered. Markham couldn’t risk that because she didn’t know how much Dahlia had managed to piece together. It might implicate her and Swanson.

  Markham needed to find them first—before the feds, before the local police. She just wanted them twisting in the wind, so they’d panic and make a mistake.

  Dahlia may have played right into Markham’s hand. If the green Jeep had been waiting for her when she left the lobby, there was nothing Aroostine could do to help her in the short term. She needed to play the long game.

  Her list of disadvantages was longer than her arm. What were her advantages? What did she know that Markham didn’t?

  She ticked them off on her fingers. That Dahlia was the pink-haired woman. That they weren’t together. That she had a contact at DHS.

  Not exactly a long list. Her eyes fell on the box then her gaze widened and she took in the scarf. She had one more surprise for Markham. An idea started to take shape.

  She let her brain go to work massaging and finessing her idea while she packed up her clothes and called down to the front desk to check out of the room. It might work. Maybe.

  She picked up the room phone again and punched in Janice Truewind’s phone number.

  “Dahlia?” Janice answered before the first ring had finished.

  “No, I’m sorry. It’s me.”

  “Oh … listen, I have to keep the line free in case Dahlia calls. She’s in a lot of trouble. Actually, so are you. I don’t know if you’ve seen—”

  “I saw. I’ll keep this quick. I did find her.”

  “She’s with you? Is she okay? Can I talk to her?”

  “She’s fine, but she’s scared. She took off this morning after she saw the news. I don’t think she’ll contact you, not until we get things straightened out. She does want to come home, though.”

  A raw wail tore free from Janice’s chest. Even through the phone line, Aroostine could hear the pain as plainly as if she were in the room with her.

  “She wants to come home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did … she have anything to do with that girl’s death?”

  “No.” She waited a beat for the news to sink in. “But she knows who killed her. And she’s in danger until the truth comes out.”

  “What are you going do? Can you help her?”

  “I think so. I need you to think. Did she have a favorite place? Not on the reservation, but somewhere else where she’d feel safe?”

  Janice didn’t need to think. She answered instantly, “The Badlands. She used to go up there all the time with Tommy. In fact, I talked to him like you asked. And he said she never said anything to him about going into the military or working for Bedrock Force or anything like that. She just talked about protecting the park’s natural resources and starting a nature program up there for the kids from the rez.”

  “The Badlands?” Aroostine confirmed.

  “Yeah. Poor Tommy. He showed me this itty bitty little diamond he had scraped up to buy. He was gonna take her up there and propose when she came home for Fall Break—” she stopped abruptly, overcome by another round of sobs.

  “Janice, listen to me. I’m going to bring her home to you. You can count on it.”

  Aroostine placed the handset back on the cradle and picked up her bag. She folded Mercy’s scarf gently and tucked it into her left pocket. She put the box and SIM card in the front zippered compartment of her bag. She was halfway out the door when she had another thought.

  She turned around and grabbed Dahlia’s wig. Then she dug a fifty-dollar bill out of her wallet and went in search of a housekeeper with a sense of adventure.

  28

  Roxanne waved off Swanson’s offer to man the Task Force phone line.

  “It’s Sunday, Marcus. Go home. Take your family to church. Watch the game.”

  He glanced down at the floor and kicked the toe of one shoe against the floor. Then he raised his head and pulled back his shoulders. “Ma’am, a question?”

  “Shoot.”

  He grimaced. “It’s about that—the shooting.”

  She cocked her head. They hadn’t discussed the incident since the initial debriefing. She wasn’t about to start now.

  “Swanson, this isn’t the time.”

  His Adam’s apple bulged. “Respectfully, Ms. Markham, I—”

  “No. I’ve set our course. And we’re going to execute it. You’re dismissed.”

  He pulled his mouth down into a frustrated frown but was smart enough not to argue with her. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Tell Brandy I said hello. Now, go.”

  He nodded his head, turned smartly on his heel, and walked away. She watched through her office window as he collected his messenger bag and coat then turned out his desk light. His shoulders slouched toward the floor as he walked out of the office suite and into the hallway.

  He could wrestle with his conscience on his own time. The day would come when he’d thank her. What he might never realize, though, was that she was protecting him mainly as a byproduct of protecting the larger mission. He’d made a mistake. But the mission was more important.

  Now she just needed the tip line to light up. Johnny Arnetto had spent the night sleeping in his Jeep in the hotel garage. He’d paid a bellman to let him know when Rue Jackman checked out. He’d follow her and the woman with pink hair. And either they’d lead him to Dahlia or some eagle-eyed, upstanding citizen would call in her location.

  Then she’d take back the sat-comm box and silence the girl for good. She unlocked her desk drawer and removed her Smith & Wesson. It would be unfortunate when she discharged her weapon on the job. But her self-defense argument was airtight. After all, the girl was a desperate criminal on the run.

  She loaded the gun, engaged the safety, and rested it on the surface of her desk. Ready to rock and roll. She leaned back in her ergonomic chair, rested her feet on the desk next to the handgun, laced her fingers together behind her head, and waited for the phone to ring.

  Johnny was slumped across the Jeep’s cramped back seat when the call came. He woke with a start, his mouth and mind both fuzzy, and wiped the drool from his mouth with his sleeve. Then he fumbled for the phone.

  Everything hurt. He was too old for this crap.

  “’Llo?” he mumbled.

  “She just checked out through the automated system on the phone.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  He ended the call and vault
ed into the front seat, wide awake now. He started the engine to warm it up, and cupped his hands around his mouth and breathed into them to warm them up.

  Man, he needed to take a leak. Now.

  He swore under his breath and popped the locks. He left the Jeep running and stepped in front of it. He glanced furtively around the deserted garage then unzipped his pants and drained the snake against the concrete wall for dang near a full minute.

  He was bouncing on his heels to shake it dry when he turned toward the exit and caught a glimpse of bright pink hair as a woman walked past, coming from the main lobby.

  What the hell?

  He yanked up his zipper and turned around. The pickup truck was still in the same spot, one row away and two spaces to the right of his vehicle.

  He rubbed his head. How many women with pink hair could possibly have stayed at the hotel last night?

  One, he decided. Maybe they hadn’t caught the morning news, and Jackman had sent her friend out for coffee or something while she packed up the room. Or they were going their separate ways. Maybe the pink-haired one was going to rendezvous with the Truewind girl. Maybe he was the King of Sweden. Like, anything was possible at this point.

  Roxanne had told him to wait for Jackman to leave. But she’d issued the directive under the operating assumption that the two women would leave together, not split up. It was like General Eisenhower said, in battle, plans were useless. A nimble soldier adapted on the fly.

  He ran back to the Jeep and tugged the door open. He had the 4x4 in reverse and was halfway down the exit ramp before his butt was firmly in the seat. He fumbled one-handed with the shoulder harness while he fed his parking ticket and a handful of bills into the pay station. The arm was still coming up when he jammed the gas and barreled under it and out onto the street.

  He looked to the right, scanning the sidewalk for the woman. He spotted her hot pink hair at the bus shelter at the end of the block. He gunned it then brought the Jeep to a sudden stop at the corner.