I threw my hand up and issued a firm signal for him to continue working. This time he didn’t balk but bounded ahead, deeper into the trees, with his nose down and tail held high. Rain fell. I kept my head down and forged ahead. Wilco, oblivious to the weather, was fully engrossed in the search now: back hunched, tail extended, nose to the ground. Doogan and I maintained an unobtrusive distance.
“What’s he doing?” Doogan whispered a few minutes later. Wilco had stopped to sniff at some scrubby brush and then lifted his nose toward the boughs of a pine tree. “Why’s he sniffing up high? If Sheila’s out here, she’d probably be buried, or at least on the ground.”
“Tree branches and dense foliage sometimes trap odors that travel in the breeze. Sort of like a filter.”
Doogan’s next question came at me almost as a whisper. “What will she look like? If we find her, I mean?”
I hesitated, trying to decide how much to tell him. Most peoples’ only experience with dead bodies is what they see on television. Reality couldn’t be further from the truth. It only takes a short time for gasses and pressure to render a body unrecognizable. I once saw the flesh slide off a soldier’s face as he was being hoisted onto a bag for transportation. It pooled on the ground like a puddle of overripe squash. The memory still haunts me. As do so many others.
Sheila had disappeared over three weeks ago. If we found her, it wouldn’t be a pretty sight. I glanced Doogan’s way, wondering how to explain or, more accurately, how to protect him from the brutality of what he might see. I was used to recovering bodies, even helping in the identification process, but someone else handled the death notifications. Dealing with grieving families was something I’d been spared in the past. Something I’d worked hard to avoid. I wasn’t even sure where to begin, so I told him, “You won’t recognize her.”
We continued on in silence for another thirty minutes or so. Rain fell steadily now. My clothes felt heavy, and my drenched scarf was chafing my skin. I wanted to take it off but couldn’t stand the idea of exposing my scar to Doogan, or to anyone. War had changed me. High-collared shirts, scarves—no matter how I tried to cover my damage, I’d never look the same again. Some people never seemed to change. I couldn’t envision that Doogan had ever looked any different. Or Colm. Especially Colm. I thought back to Colm, the way he looked, still so good after all this time. And his hands. Big and strong and gentle. I’d thought about his hands a lot over the years. The way they’d touched me, caressed me . . . but that was the old me. The pretty, young, innocent girl I used to be. I was none of those things now.
I stomped ahead, pushed a glob of wet hair off my face, and tried to swallow down the acid rising in my stomach. How did Colm see me now? As a used-up, disfigured drunk. A sinner.
Doogan grabbed my arm. “Hold up.”
I stopped. Over the drumming of the rain, I heard voices, low and masculine, coming from somewhere in the woods. I looked Doogan’s way. “Just hikers, probably. A branch of the AT runs west of here. Or hunters.” My eyes scanned the shadowy trees.
His grip on my arm tightened. “Let’s head back. The weather’s not all that great anyway.”
“It’s just a little rain. It won’t affect Wilco’s ability to sniff out—”
“Let’s go. Now, Brynn.”
His eyes bulged against the sharp angles of his cheekbones. He was scared. I remembered his prior warning about the woods. “What’s going on, Doogan?”
He pulled me back the way we’d come, then hesitated. The voices were getting louder, closer. The words seemed foreign. Doogan’s eyes darted about. “We need to get out of here. Now.”
“Okay. Let me get my dog, and we’ll—”
“Leave him,” Doogan hissed. “He’ll find his way home.”
I batted him away. “No. No way. I’m not leaving him.” I wasn’t sure what was up with Doogan, but something had him scared. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to leave my dog behind to face whatever it was that had Doogan freaked out.
I started for Wilco. But Doogan lunged forward and clamped one arm around my abdomen and his other hot and salty-tasting hand on my mouth. He pulled me backward, against his own body, and dragged me toward a nearby ravine.
I struggled against his grip, pushing his arms and kicking my legs back toward his shins. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the back of Wilco’s body as he hunched over, sniffing under a nearby log. He was in his zone, engrossed in his task and oblivious to all around him, with the added hindrance of being deaf. I needed to get to my dog, but Doogan’s arms felt like a vice grip around my body.
“I said leave the stupid dog!” His words felt hot against my neck as he strained to move me. “There’s no time to—”
I rammed my head backward, connecting to his face with a sickening thunk.
Doogan dropped me instantly and sank to his knees, clenching his nose. Muffled cries escaped from his twisted mouth. I ignored him and went for Wilco. In a flash, I reached him, clipped his lead, and pulled him toward the ravine.
Hide!
I slid behind a fallen tree and pressed my belly into the muddy ground. Instinct and training had kicked in simultaneously as danger ignited my brain. I could handle Doogan, but whatever had a man like him totally panicked had to spell severe danger.
Wilco lay prone beside me. The voices were moving closer now, and the words were undeniably foreign. I looked for Doogan. He was off a ways, hunkered behind a low outcrop of rocks and still holding his nose. I pulled my eyes from him and scanned my surroundings in search of a weapon, a good-sized stick or a heavy rock. Something to even up the odds, just in case there was a confrontation.
The noise and commotion grew louder, and I realized the men were crossing through the trees about fifty feet away. They seemed oblivious to our presence, talking among themselves and moving confidently through the woods. They knew where they were going. They’d taken this path before.
Wilco caught sight of them and growled. I reached over and squeezed the back of his neck, silencing him, but not before one of the men heard the sound. He turned and looked in our direction. He was short, stocky, and clad in tactical rain gear. He carried a heavy pack and a military-style rifle, which he waved across the breadth of the woods. I prayed that Wilco wouldn’t move. A few seconds passed. A wormy, sulfurous smell stung my nostrils. I fought the urge to shift position as gunk and mud oozed around the waistband of my pants and the legs of an insect prickled the skin behind my ear. Then another guy appeared. This one was taller, but dressed the same. The two men exchanged a couple of foreign words, glanced around, and continued through the woods.
The tenseness in my muscles drained. I dared a glance toward Doogan, who motioned for me to stay put. I did. It was another five minutes before we crawled out from our positions.
* * *
An hour later, Doogan and I were in his trailer, faced off across his kitchen counter. We’d walked the couple miles back in silence, Doogan casting furtive glances through the woods as we trekked, and me holding my tongue—and temper—until we got back to his place. My sweatshirt hung heavy with mud on my body, and thanks to Wilco, I smelled like a wet dog. “How did you know about those men?” I blurted out.
Doogan used a dish towel to wipe at a smear of dried blood under his nose. “I was at Mack’s a couple weeks ago. It’s a bar over in McCreary.”
“Yeah. I know it.”
“There were some guys there. Hispanics. I’d never seen them before, but I recognized their tats. Gang tats.” Doogan tore off his soaked shirt and ran the towel around the back of his neck and down his torso. He had a “tat” of his own. A darkly inked serpent head, wicked and dangerous-looking, was visible just above the edge of his waistband. I found myself staring at the image, wondering if the serpent’s tail coiled around his . . . I looked away. Despite the heat radiating through my lower body, I shivered.
Doogan was still talking. “I recognized the symbols. Surenos. They’re a gang tied in with Los Zetas.”
; I knew next to nothing about gangs. “Zetas?”
“Mexican drug cartel,” he explained. He poured what was left from this morning’s coffee into a mug and popped it into the microwave. He offered me some.
I waved it off. “No thanks. Cartel? Are you sure? In this area?”
“They’re everywhere.” He grasped the mug with both hands. “I grew up in a small village in South Carolina, just over the Georgia border, maybe twenty miles from Augusta. I hated it there. Went a little crazy during my teen years. You know. Looking for excitement and all that. I left home and ended up taking to the streets for a while.”
“And you got mixed up with a cartel?” Harris had said that Doogan had a criminal record. At the time, I didn’t think it was any of my business. My mistake. I should have made it my business.
“No. Not directly.”
Not directly. What does that mean?
Doogan fidgeted for a second, furling the dish towel through his hands a few times before tossing it aside. Then he opened one of the cabinets and pulled down a bottle of whiskey, adding a shot to his coffee. I stared at the cup and swallowed hard, swiping at the moist corners of my mouth. “Harris said you did jail time.” I tore my eyes from the cup and met his gaze, waiting for his response.
He took a long sip before answering. “Harris has a big mouth.” He put down his mug and threw up his hand. “Look. I did some stupid things. And I paid for it. It’s over. Done.”
“Okay. Fine. But I still don’t understand how you knew about these guys in the woods. You heard them speaking Spanish, and you just assumed they were the same guys you saw at Mack’s?”
“No. About a week ago, maybe a couple days before you got here, I was out in the woods.”
“Why?”
His jaw muscle twitched. “I’d been watching Costello. I’d seen him wander out into the woods a couple times.”
I remember seeing the binoculars on Doogan’s windowsill.
“I got to thinkin’ that maybe his trips into the woods had something to do with my sister.”
“So you followed him?”
“Just once. At a distance. I stuck with him for a mile or so, but then lost him around Settlers’ Gorge. I was on my way back when I heard something in the woods. Just like today.”
“The guys from the bar.”
“I don’t know. I didn’t actually see them. But I heard them talking. I recognized a name they mentioned—El Tio.”
“El Tio.” Uncle? Way back when, I took a semester of high school Spanish before dropping it midway through. No need for a Pavee girl to learn Spanish. That’s what Gramps had said anyway.
“It’s the name of a drug Lord. Out of Mexico. I think the thugs in the woods were drug runners.”
“And you think Costello’s mixed up with them?”
“I don’t think so. I can’t see the connection. What would a Pavee be doing with a Hispanic gang?” He raised his chin. “As much as I hate the guy, he’s no wetback’s flunky.”
No matter where a group of people stood in society, they could always find someone else they believed were beneath them. For some Pavees, Mexicans held that honor. For that reason, I had to agree—the idea of any Traveller working with a Mexican drug cartel made no sense. But I didn’t believe in making assumptions either. “How can you be sure?”
“Because I’ve spent some time with drug dealers.” He angled his body away from mine and lowered his eyes. “I did seven years on drug charges.”
CHAPTER 9
I found Zee behind the Sleep Easy’s front desk beside a bored young desk clerk, filling two foam cups with coffee from a metal thermos. She handed one to me. “You’re late,” she said.
I looked at the wall clock. “No. It’s just now noon.” I took a sip and cringed: bottom of the pot sludge. Took me right back to MRE (Meal, Ready to Eat) coffee. Tasted like crap, but when you’ve been on twenty-four-hour standby, waiting on reconnaissance, bagged black joe was the day’s salvation. I gagged down another swig. Hard telling how many toilets needed scrubbing today.
“Noon is when we start cleaning. Status meeting’s at 11:45.”
“What status? It’s just us.”
Zee glanced to the side. The young woman working the front desk slapped her magazine shut and came out from behind the counter. I looked her way and raised my brows. She was twenty something, with stringy blond hair pulled back into a low ponytail. She’d paired the requisite Sleep Easy polo with a skin-tight pair of leggings that left nothing to the imagination.
“Brynn, this is Maybelle.” Zee’s voice was tight. “She works the desk on weekends.”
Maybelle chomped down on her gum and gave me a nasty once-over, her gaze stalling on my scarf. “Do I know you from somewhere?”
“Brynn’s been away, in the Army,” Zee offered.
“Marines, actually.”
“Whatever.” Zee shrugged. “Anyways, you don’t know her, Maybelle.”
Maybelle was still staring at me, her penciled-on brows knitted together. Her eyes popped, then narrowed to tiny slits, hate radiating from her pores. But I had no idea why. I looked away, shuffled my feet, and took another sip of the coffee. Anything to distract me from Maybelle’s incessant glare. What was her problem?
Zee opened a cabinet behind the desk and lifted the laundry room key from the pegboard. She shoved it my way, casting a nervous glance at Maybelle. “Take this. I got the list already, so I’m goin’ to start on the rooms. I’ll be needin’ the sheets that are in the dryers. And if you could put a couple more loads in, but be quick about it. Saturday’s our busiest day. Then I’ll fill you in on what needs to be done.” She glanced out the office window. “Where’s that dog of yours?”
“Same place as yesterday. Under the tree.”
Zee smiled. “Good. Brought an extra treat for the fella today.”
Maybelle was still glaring at me. “You brought a dog with you?” Her voice hardened. “That’s against the rules.”
Zee stiffened. “So is cuttin’ out fifteen minutes early, or spending the whole day on social media. Doesn’t seem to stop you none.”
Maybelle’s nostrils flared, her eyes still on me. “Wait ’til Drake hears about this. He won’t like it.”
I clenched my coffee cup. “He already knows. And he’s fine with it.” We locked stares. I tried to keep my face expressionless, but anger swelled inside me like a tidal wave.
The corner of Maybelle’s mouth twitched. She liked getting to me. “We’ll see.”
Zee tugged at my arm, and I followed her outside.
“What the hell’s her problem?” I asked.
“You don’t know?”
“No. No, I don’t know. What?”
Zee had trouble meeting my gaze. “She hates your type.” She pulled aside her long dark braid and fingered the crystal hanging around her neck. “And my type. Most types, actually. Except her type.”
“Fat bitches, you mean?”
Zee cracked a smile at that.
I glanced back at the office and then down at myself. “How’d she know? About me, I mean?” It wasn’t like I was wearing a multi-layered crimson ankle-length skirt with a laced-up, off-the-shoulder peasant blouse—which I doubted any woman in Bone Gap even owned anyway. That was Hollywood’s vision of us, as if we hadn’t yet found shopping malls. I was wearing the usual: jeans, a bit worn, I guessed, but not trashy, the requisite polo work shirt with the collar turned up and a light scarf around my neck. My black hair hardly identified me with my red-haired Irish ancestors either.
Zee dipped her chin and raised her brows.
I sighed. “The news?”
“Uh-huh. They’ve been playin’ it over and over. It’s getting’ folks all stirred up. There’s been talk.”
“Talk? Of what?”
“Of running y’all off. Right now they’re lookin’ for legal ways to do it. Zoning and sanitation laws, that type of thing. Or maybe shutting down your access off the main highway.”
“Shuttin
g down our road?”
She tilted her head sympathetically. “It’s just talk, Brynn. That’s all. And not everybody feels the same way.”
“Maybelle sure does.”
“True. But I should warn ya, that new night manager that Mr. Drake hired is the same way. Maybe more hateful than Maybelle.”
“I haven’t met him yet.”
“You probably won’t. He doesn’t come on ’til seven.” She fingered her necklace some more. “You’d best stay clear of him. He won’t like it much that you’re one of them gypsies.”
I forced a smile. “Thanks for the warning.”
* * *
The laundry room was cramped, with no ventilation. I crammed a load into the washer and then opened the dryer to pull out the finished sheets. Less than a minute into folding them, I was half-buzzed on detergent fumes, and my temples throbbed from the whirring of the machines. The worst, though, was the sourness rising from my gut. Maybelle had caused that. Maybelle and Zee’s dire warning about the townsfolk.
I’m not sure why it bothered me. I should have been used to prejudice by now. Sly looks, name calling, exclusion . . . I’d grown up with it as a Pavee in public school, dealt with it as a woman navigating male territory in the Marines, and still faced it from both sides, settled folks and my own people. My own grandmother even. “You’re on their side,” she’d said. Their side. I’m so sick of sides.
But in this rural area, ignorance prevailed, and prejudice ran as thick as blood in the veins of those who had rooted themselves in the backwoods hollers of these Appalachian hills. I’d run up against it my whole life, especially now as I dealt with the local sheriff’s department. Like today, when I called to report what I’d seen out in the woods this morning. I was put through to Harris. As soon as I identified myself, he became abrupt and dismissive. Surely all I’d seen was some good ol’ boys hunting. Never mind that they spoke Spanish or carried military-grade weapons. What did I know? In his mind, I was just a stupid gypsy.
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