Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
Chapter One
Tim Means knew before he even got out of his police cruiser that he’d gained a guest overnight. The lights were on in the White Sandy police station, a small building that was better suited to a strip mall in nearby Rapid City, South Dakota, than it was in the middle of nowhere on the White Sandy reservation. Yesterday had been quiet—Mondays usually were. Tim had not so much as issued a ticket.
He sighed. He’d made damn sure to lock the station up tight when he’d gone home at seven last night. And since Jack Red Deer, Tim’s deputy, was currently on loan to the FBI for a missing persons case the next reservation over, no one else should have been in the building in the last ten hours.
This only meant one thing. The thorn in Tim’s side, Nobody Bodine, had been dispensing his own brand of justice again.
Damned vigilante. Tim had enough trouble keeping law and order on this rez without having to contend with some self-appointed guardian angel. Even if a guardian angel was usually on the right side of the law, he gave Tim nothing but headaches.
Vigilantes could not arrest people and, when Nobody broke into the station and threw someone into lockup, Tim rarely had a choice but to let them go. Unlike Nobody, Tim was familiar with the law. Miranda’s rights, protections against unreasonable search and seizure—Tim worked to uphold those things and Nobody undermined him every damned turn.
His teeth gritted in anger, Tim unlocked the police station. At least that damn vigilante had started locking up after himself. Tim had a high level of security at his station—there were more than a few people who’d like to burn his station to the ground. In fact, the only person who could get in without a key on a regular basis was Nobody. Tim had locks on the doors, bars on the windows, he’d even invested in a motion detector that would set off an alarm on his cell phone. Nobody always got around them. It drove Tim nuts.
He disarmed the sensor and called out, “Well, who do we have here?” And then he stopped.
The person in the cell was not a dead-drunk man or woman, and it was not someone who looked like they’d had the holy hell beaten out of them. Which was another one of Nobody’s inappropriate "techniques."
Instead, Tim found himself looking into the wide eyes of a seventeen-year-old boy. A boy he knew too well. “Georgey? What the hell?”
Georgey sat on the floor of his cell, his knees pulled up to his chest. He had dark circles under his eyes and Tim didn’t think he’d slept at all. But then, if Nobody had thrown Georgey in here in the middle of the night, well, Tim couldn’t blame the boy for looking terrified. A lot of people on this rez still thought Nobody was a sica, a ghost. He could blend in with the shadows and remain completely unseen until he popped up and beat the shit out of you. He scared a lot of people on this rez, but he didn’t scare Tim.
Georgey, however, was another matter entirely. He didn’t answer, but Tim swore the boy sighed in relief that it was Tim and not someone else. Georgey closed his eyes and turned his head away, refusing to acknowledge Tim.
In a normal police station, like in a sitcom, Tim would make some calls. He would call Nobody and ask why the hell he’d dragged the seventeen-year-old boy to jail. He would call Georgey’s parents and tell them to come get their kid. He would even call social services and set up a meeting. This was not the first time Georgey had been a guest of the White Sandy police.
But this was the rez. There wasn’t a whole hell of a lot that was normal here. “I’m only going to ask you one more time—why are you here?”
Georgey seemed to shrink into himself but he didn’t answer.
Tim shook his head. Georgey wasn’t a bad kid—Tim knew what a bad kid looked like and how they’d wind up. But Georgey was wild and he had no one to rein him in. His father had been a larger-than-life man himself, loud and wild in love with the world, even if the world didn’t always love him back. He’d been killed in a fight outside a bar about—well, it had to be coming up on ten years ago. And Georgey’s mom? She was too drunk most of the time to give a damn what her son was doing.
For better or for worse—and today, it was worse—Georgey was basically on his own. And he had a nasty habit of picking the wrong friends.
Tim did not move to his desk and he did not pick up his phone. Instead, he turned on his heel and walked right back out of the police station. “Well? Are you going to explain yourself?” he said in a louder than normal voice. He didn’t know where, exactly, but Nobody was close by. At least, he’d better be.
He didn’t have to wait long. Even though the sun was making its daily struggle over the Black Hills, deep shadows hid the side of the station. Tim had lost the ability to be surprised when Nobody Bodine seemed to materialize out of nothing less than five feet away from him.
The man was hard to look at, but Tim could not be intimidated. He’d arrested Nobody enough to know that the man was real and solid and human. Scary, but completely human.
“He was alone,” Nobody said.
Tim sighed heavily. All the other times he’d encountered Georgey, the boy had been part of a group. Which was a polite way of saying gang. The boy was so desperate for approval that he would look for it any place he could find it, and there were some men on this rez who were happy to exploit that.
Tim had cut Georgey slack before because he really was just a kid. But he was seventeen now, on the verge of becoming a man. “What was he doing?”
The light around Nobody seemed to bend, and Tim felt an electric charge raise the hairs on the back of his arms. God, if he could just get through a day without having to deal with Nobody Bodine, his life would be so much better.
“Breaking into the Clinic,” Nobody said.
Tim swore and scuffed his heel against the small wooden porch he’d built under the front of the station on his own time and his own dime. “Was he after drugs?”
Nobody shrugged. He didn’t say anything—which was par for the course.
That meant Nobody had grabbed the kid before he could do anything deeply incriminating. “I can’t hold him, you know. I can’t keep the people you bring in. If you’d called me instead, I could’ve arrested him properly.”
Nobody nodded. “He needs to be scared,” he added, stepping back into the shadows a little deeper.
Tim stared at the man as best he could. “Are you serious?”
He thought Nobody nodded again, but the man was almost not there so it was hard to tell. And then he was gone.
Well, hell. Nobody was not a big fan of being locked up. He was a convicted killer who had done time. He firmly believed that only bad people belonged in jail, and there were plenty of those to go around. Nobody had appointed himself something of a guardian angel for many of the kids on this rez—kids who needed help and weren’t going to get it anyplace else. Tim was one half of a two-man force and there were only so many hours in the day. Yeah, it was a pain in his ass when Nobody beat up a drunk who was beating up a kid. But even Tim had to admit sometimes, Nobody was the last line of defense for the people who needed it the most.
Like Georgey. Tim couldn’t believe Nobody was actually suggesting Georgey needed to be scared straight, but the kid needed something. For too long, Tim, Jack and Nobody h
ad been finding Georgey at the scenes of other crimes—vandalizing the Child Care Center or the school, or on the edge of a brawl at the basketball courts.
But he’d never actually done anything on his own. He was a follower, not a leader. The problem was that he was a follower without a leader.
Shit. This felt big—like Tim was standing on the edge of a cliff with Georgey beside him and staring down at the nothingness below. One wrong move by either of them and Georgey was going to step right into the void and Tim would never get him back. Instead, he’d spend the rest of his days busting Georgey for petty crimes that escalated into more serious crimes. Georgey would do time and with each conviction, the sentences would get longer.
He was going to lose this kid. Already the loss felt palpable. They had so few kids left. Tim had cleaned up more suicides and overdoses over the last twelve years he’d been the law on this rez than he’d ever thought he’d see. And those who got out—the ones who got into college and left the rez? They rarely came back and, more often than not, they married outside the tribe.
Tim was not one of those tribal members who was convinced that all they needed to do to make things right again was to get rid of the white man and declare the Lakota territory a country independent from the United States. He was a realist and he knew that was never going to happen.
But he worried about his people and he worried about his place among them. He worried about kids like Georgey—all the ones who had already slipped away and all the others who were edging up closer to the cliff.
As much as he hated to admit it, maybe Nobody was right. Maybe Georgey needed to feel the fear of God.
Tim turned around and went back into the police station. He saw now that Nobody had not just tossed the kid into the cell like he did with the violent drunks. A cup and plate that held what looked like Pop Tarts sat close to the bars. Georgey hadn’t touched them, but Tim was forced to admit it qualified as a thoughtful gesture. And there was a book on the bed next to Georgey—an old Western by Louis L’Amour. As crazy as it was, he knew that was Nobody trying to reach out to the kid.
Tim stood outside the cell and stared down at the ball of scared teenager on the floor. “Do you know where your mom is?”
Georgey didn’t look up, but he shook his head no.
Hell. Eileen Crow Dog wouldn’t come home until she was damned good and ready, and no one—not even Georgey—knew went that would be.
Tim worked hard to keep his frustration out of his voice. “What about your grandma?” Not that Darlene Crow Dog could keep Georgey under control. But she could at least come pick him up.
“She’s sick,” Georgey said in a voice more fitting for a ten-year-old than a teenager.
“Is there anyone else who can come get you?”
Georgey shrugged.
“We can’t keep doing this, Georgey. What am I supposed to do here? Keep you locked up and throw away the key?” He saw the kid shudder. “Why were you breaking into the Clinic? And don’t try to deny it. Nobody Bodine is many things but he never lies.” As far as Tim knew, anyway.
“I told you,” Georgey said in an accusing voice as his head snapped up. He glared at Tim. “Grandma is sick.”
Tim stared down at the young man. “Then why didn’t you call someone? Dr. Mitchell or even Rebel? They’d both have come, if she’s really sick. You don’t have to steal.” He exhaled. “Unless you’re lying.” Always a possibility. People would say anything—do anything—when their backs were against the wall. Tim knew that only too well.
When Georgey didn’t respond, Tim went on. “Who were you stealing the drugs for? Yourself? Or Dwayne LaRoche?” LaRoche—the self-styled leader of the Killerz gang— was still in jail, but that didn’t mean he was out of the game.
Georgey dropped his head back to his knees. The conversation was over.
Normally this was the point where Tim would have to let Georgey go. He should, really. But, in addition to being young, Georgey wasn’t exactly up-to-date on his legal rights. “Well, you can just sit there until you decide to tell me the truth,” Tim bluffed. “I’m going to make some calls.”
Georgey groaned but at least he had the decency to do it quietly.
Tim went to his phone and started dialing. It was early enough that Dr. Madeline Mitchell, the doctor of the White Sandy Clinic, and her husband, Rebel Runs Fast, the medicine man, were still both probably at home. He dialed the house.
“Good morning, Tim,” Rebel said with a yawn before Tim had even announced himself. “How’s your prisoner?”
That was the thing about Rebel Runs Fast. He knew things he shouldn't know and Tim could never figure if it was just because gossip on this rez ran through Rebel or if it was because Rebel was prone to visions. Tim wasn’t sure how much stock to put in Rebel’s visions. Those were the old ways, and times had changed.
Then again, Tim had a conversation with the moving shadow this morning, so he couldn’t discount anything.
“Someone caught him trying to break into the Clinic,” Tim said—although if Rebel knew Georgey was here, he probably also knew why. Rebel was one of the few people Nobody Bodine actually talked to. “He says he was trying to steal medicine for his grandma. You think you could go check on Darlene Crow Dog for me today?”
“Sure, not a problem.” There was a pause, but Tim just waited. If Rebel was thinking or having a vision, Tim didn’t want to interrupt. Finally, Rebel said, “This is different for Georgey, isn’t it?”
Tim glanced over at the boy in the cell. It hurt him to leave the kid in there but he didn’t have a choice right now. He was the law around here—not Nobody Bodine, not Rebel Runs Fast—him. And if he started making exceptions, people would plow him into the grass. “If you wouldn’t mind having your wife make sure there was no damage done to the building?” he asked without answering Rebel’s question.
There was a pause. “Are you still holding him?”
“Can you give me a good reason why I shouldn’t be?”
Rebel whistled. “I thought when Nobody played the bad cop, you played the good cop.”
Tim gritted his teeth. “You’re confusing me with Jack. He’s the good cop. I’m the asshole and I’ll hold this kid as long as I need to.”
He waited for Rebel to call him on it—he really didn’t have just cause to hold the boy and, at this point, he had nothing to charge him with either. He knew damned well Nobody would never testify in a court of law, so this whole situation boiled down to he said vs. he said, especially if Nobody had gotten to Georgey before he did any damage to the clinic.
But Rebel didn’t say anything. Instead, he said, “I’ll check on Darlene and let you know what I find out.”
“And Rebel?”
“Yeah?”
“If she can’t take him, I need to find someone who can.” Tim hated calling social services on kids—especially kids Georgey’s age. But the kid was still technically a minor and Tim couldn’t have him running wild on the rez.
“Got it.” Rebel hung up.
Tim turned his attention back to Georgey, who had heard every word, no doubt. “Anything you want to tell me? Because I’m going to find out, sooner or later.”
Georgey looked up and Tim could see the boy trying so hard to be tough. He didn’t make it, though. The fear in his eyes shone way too bright for that. “How long do I have to stay in here?”
Tim notched an eyebrow at him. “Until I decide to let you out. Welcome to doing time, kid. If you’re not careful, this is the rest of your life.” He tilted his chin at the plate. “Eat your breakfast. You’re not getting anything else until lunch.”
Something mean passed over Georgey’s face. “I hate you. You and that freak and Rebel—I hate you all.”
Tim stood slowly. He didn’t have the build of Nobody Bodine but that didn’t make him any less formidable. He went to stand in front of Georgey’s cell and stared down at him. Georgey’s bravado failed him and he shrank back, as if he thought Tim would hit him.
Then he went back to his desk and got started on the morning’s reports.
Chapter Two
Summer Collins was wincing her way through yet another terrible essay on Romeo and Juliet when her phone buzzed with an unfamiliar number. She didn’t recognize the area code—it wasn’t the Twin Cities. So she ignored the call and kept her attention focused on her students’ final papers. At this point in the school year, if she never read Shakespeare again, it’d be too soon. His entire works could all be dropped into a Dumpster and she would do a little jig of joy.
“Romeo and Juliet is the story of a boy and a girl,” Michael’s paper started out.
Summer dropped her head in her hands and groaned. Clearly her plan for peer-reviewing each essay hadn’t worked this year. After nine months of trying to beat literature and culture into his skull, that was the best he could come up with?
Was this what she’d signed up for? Was this how she was supposed to be “making a difference”? By trying to make the words of a long-dead white guy relevant to today’s inner-city kids?
Her phone buzzed again. Whoever called had left a message. That was odd. Who the heck called and left messages these days—besides her mother, that was?
Summer decided to take her chances with the random wrong number. The final papers weren’t going anywhere. She called up her voicemail, expecting to hear something in Spanish or a robo-call.
“Hello,” said a deep voice with a heavy accent that sounded like…home. That was the first thing Summer thought of. Home. “This is Sheriff Tim Means of the White Sandy police force. I’m trying to get ahold of Summer Collins or her mother, Linda. This is in regard to Georgey Crow Dog.”
Summer’s heart began to pound. She knew that accent—of course she did. That was the same accent her father had spoken with. Sure, she hadn’t talked with him in almost fifteen years, but it was the sort of thing a person never really forgot.
The Sheriff (Men of the White Sandy Book 5) Page 1