Chilling Effect (An Aroostine Higgins Novel Book 2)

by Melissa F. Miller

  They sat in silence some more, but this time the power of the night sky was lost on Aroostine. Judging by the way he was fidgeting, Joe was also focusing on something other than the constellations overhead.

  He cleared his throat and pulled her closer to him. “I think we may be mixed up in something bad.”

  The way he said “we” made her catch her breath. She hadn’t expected quite so much support. But his point was, unfortunately, valid. “There’s no maybe about it.”

  They lapsed back into silence—not a companionable, awed silence. A tired, overwhelmed, “what now?” silence.

  They crossed the shadowy road and headed for the guest cottage.

  Aroostine didn’t need to check her watch to know that it had to be close to midnight. Her fatigue outweighed the horror of the day and the puzzling scraps of information floating in her mind. She ached to crawl into bed, pile the covers over her, and snuggle into the warmth of Joe’s body. She’d worry about murderers, and dirty CFOs, and missing drones in the morning. From the silent way Joe trudged along beside her, she sensed he felt the same way.

  As they neared the Jeep, a rustling sound startled her out of her tired musings. She reached out a hand to stop Joe, but he’d already frozen in place.

  “Did you hear that?” he whispered.

  “It’s probably an animal.”

  Of course, out here, it was as likely to be a coyote or a wolf as it was a rabbit or a mouse. Still, she’d take her chances against a wolf over, say, Isaac’s killer, any day.

  Her dry mouth and racing pulse were making it hard to breathe.

  “Who’s there?” Joe called. His hand vibrated in hers, pulsing with anxiety and adrenaline, but his voice rang out clear, loud, and true in the darkness.

  After a moment, a shape emerged from behind the vehicle. A flashlight clicked on in the figure’s hand. He aimed the circle of light at the ground rather than their faces.

  “Mr. Jackman? Ms. Higgins? Is that you? I didn’t mean to frighten you folks. I’m Lee Buckmount. I’m one of the tribal leaders.”

  Lee Buckmount, alleged drug addict and potential mastermind behind Isaac’s death and the possible disappearance of military drones, was skulking around their car in the dark. Great.

  “Can we help you?” Joe said in a hard, cold voice that suggested his internal monologue was about the same as hers.

  “Oh, I don’t need any help. I’m just glad you don’t. Boom mentioned you folks might be spending the night at our guest house, so I stopped by to make sure you found everything okay. When no one answered the door, I got a little worried, so I was checking your car to see if you were in there.”

  In the weak light, Aroostine could make out a distinguished faced, silver hair, and little else. He was neither tall nor short, thin nor fat.

  “We didn’t hear a car pull up.” She scanned the road for a new vehicle but saw none.

  “I walked.”

  “We were stargazing, so we haven’t been inside yet,” Joe explained.

  “While our night sky does put on quite a display, I’m not sure that this is the safest time to go wandering around the reservation in the dark.”

  “You mean because you’ve got a murderer on the loose? So you think Isaac was killed by someone from the community?” Aroostine asked. She wanted to push Buckmount a little—just enough to see if she could raise a reaction.

  “I’m not saying that at all, actually. Let’s get you folks inside, huh? We can talk in there.”

  Joe gave her a look as if to say “what next?” before he followed Buckmount through the unlocked front door and into the empty house.

  She trailed behind them, pausing to peer at the Jeep to confirm that the doors were still locked. Buckmount’s sudden appearance put her on edge. She wondered why Joe’s new friend Boom, who seemed to think Buckmount was involved in the murder, would have told him they were spending the night

  She stepped across the threshold into the small front room. Buckmount was leading Joe from room to room, switching on lights and pointing out where they could find towels, soaps, and extra blankets.

  She blinked while her eyes adjusted then looked around. The interior was about the size of Isaac’s place but it had been carefully decorated. Native pottery, quilts, and feathered decorations were arranged throughout the clean, freshly painted home. The wood floors gleamed, and the faint, lemony scent of cleaning supplies lingered in the air.

  Joe and Buckmount returned from the tour of the small space. The older man made a sweeping gesture toward the seating arrangement near the front window. Aroostine took a seat on the small love seat, covered in fabric the color of red clay. Joe sat beside her, close enough that their thighs touched, and leaned forward slightly, as if he were trying to shield her from something—or someone.

  Buckmount wavered between two chocolate brown armchairs and chose the one closer to the door. “I hope you find the accommodations comfortable. I know they’re a far cry from the resort where you’re staying.”

  How’d he know where they were staying? she wondered. Probably from the police report, she answered herself. A point that only raised the further question of why the casino’s chief financial officer had access to the tribal police’s internal records. Her uneasy feeling about the man ratcheted up several notches.

  “It’s lovely,” she finally said, aware that he was waiting for her to respond.

  “Yes, it’s great—nice and cozy. It’s frankly more our style than the luxury resort,” Joe agreed.

  A proud smile played across Buckmount’s face as he waved off the compliments.

  “Very good.” His face grew serious, and he leaned forward to stare intently at Aroostine. “Now, Aroostine—may I call you Aroostine?”

  “Sure, Lee.”

  He continued, “You asked outside whether I thought Mr. Palmer’s murder was an inside job for lack of a better way to characterize it.”

  “Right.”

  “I don’t. I won’t pretend that our people don’t have brushes with the law—it would be a lie. We have a high poverty rate and the typical attendant high alcoholism and domestic violence rates—both of which we’re working to address internally, with programs aimed specifically at our population, programs that aren’t necessarily accepted by the outside. But that’s why our self-determination is so important. We know our people and our culture. And I know Isaac wasn’t killed by one of our own. Couldn’t have been.” He nodded firmly as if saying it would make it so.

  “How can you be so sure?” she pressed.

  A small frown knit across his lips. An instant later it was gone, wiped away by a neutral, open expression, but she saw the anger that sparked for a moment in his eyes. And it scared her.

  “That’s a fair question. And I’m not going to try to cloud the issue with cultural mumbo jumbo or political doublespeak. I’ll answer it fairly—even though doing so will require me to speak ill of the dead.”

  He paused and dropped his eyes to the gleaming floorboards for a beat before continuing.

  “I was Isaac’s boss. Not his direct supervisor, of course, but as the CFO of the casino, all of the accounting personnel reported up to me.” He pursed his lips for a moment. “I have reason to believe Isaac had a drug problem.”

  “A drug problem?” Boom had told Joe that he thought Lee was doing drugs. What was going on at that casino?

  “Yes, sadly. His behavior had become erratic, paranoid. I noticed it not long ago. I had planned to have our casino security staff look into it, but I never had the chance. I’m afraid he may have gotten mixed up with a nasty gang of dealers out of Eugene. I believe his murder was a deal gone bad.”

  He delivered his theory with absolute confidence and finality. He hadn’t shared a shred of evidence to support his story, but he looked at them as though it was an open-and-shut case, as if—through the sheer force of his personality—they would agree.

  She had a sinking suspicion that tomorrow’s news would lead with Buckmount’s unsub
stantiated belief, and in another day or two, the tribal police would close the case, chalking it up to a murder committed in the course of a drug transaction and that would be that. Isaac Palmer’s legacy would be to serve as a caution, a morality tale trotted out for the reservation’s teenagers as what could happen if they dabbled in the white man’s drugs.

  Buckmount was watching her face closely. She smoothed her expression from skepticism to sadness, or so she hoped.

  “That’s tragic,” she said.

  “It is. But it’s also, sadly, the reality that some of our people, once they come into a little bit of money—whether through a stable, prosperous job like Isaac or through a winning slot machine payout—are ill-equipped to handle that lifestyle change. To combat this, we’re going to be piloting a fiscal responsibility program sponsored jointly by the casino and the cultural board. I’m going to propose we name it the Palmer Program as a way to remember our unfortunate friend.”

  Aroostine found herself nodding along as he spoke, more in response to the cadence of his voice than out of any real agreement with his words.

  “That seems like a good program to run, regardless of whether Mr. Palmer’s death ultimately proves to be tied to a drug deal,” Joe said in a voice that hinted at the conversation being over. Then as if to drive home the point, he stood and yawned widely. “If you’ll excuse us, Mr. Buckmount, we’ve had a long day, to put it mildly, and my wife’s asleep on her feet. We’re going to turn in, if you don’t mind.”

  Buckmount sprung to his feet. “Of course, of course. You sleep well and, please, call me if you need anything, anything at all.”

  He pressed a business card into Joe’s hands and then strode forward to shake Aroostine’s hand with a vigorous pump. She stood and gripped his firm hand with a wan smile on her face.

  Joe showed him out and deadbolted the door behind him. He stood, back against the wood-hewn door for a moment and looked at her wide-eyed. Finally he said, “What a creep.”

  She arched her stiff back, and heard the bones crack in protest. She needed to do some yoga, or stretching, or something. Tomorrow.

  Whether Joe knew it or not, he hadn’t been exaggerating. She was ready to fall asleep standing up.

  “Yeah, he’s definitely a creep. Let’s go to bed.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Aroostine sat on the fallen log. The orange sun overhead warmed her bare shoulders. The wildflowers danced in the soft breeze, and birds chattered and called from the trees.

  Lily was running and twirling, dancing through the meadow with her beribboned fairy wand floating on the breeze. She laughed and jumped and sang a tuneless song.

  Aroostine felt herself smiling. It looked like the girl was playing with her shadow. But as she looked more closely through the long, wavy grass that swished with the girl’s every leap, she realized that Lily was playing with a large beaver.

  She squinted. No, not a beaver. Her beaver. Her spirit guide. As if it sensed her looking, the beaver turned to face her, and the sun glinted off its sleek fur. Yes, it was definitely her beaver with the wise, silver eyes that saw into her soul.

  What was her spirit guide doing here? What do you want? she asked it silently.

  The beaver didn’t answer. It turned and resumed its frolicking with the girl. Aroostine settled back on the log.

  Then something blotted out the sun. A dark cloud?

  She turned her face upward, as the birds shrieked and fled the trees with a furious flapping and calling. Rabbits thumped by at top speed.

  The dark silent shape hovered above, exactly over Lily and the beaver. Then the bottom opened soundlessly and an object streaked toward the earth.

  Aroostine’s brain processed what was happening just seconds before the blast hit.

  “Run!” she shouted, but the sound of her voice was drowned out by the tremendous noise that accompanied the blast. Intense heat baked her face.

  A bright white flash filled her field of vision, and when it cleared, the meadow was engulfed in flames, and the spot where Lily and the beaver had danced was a just crater in the charred and broken ground.

  Joe bolted upright in the dark, unfamiliar room. His heart hammered in his chest. The metal taste of fear filled his mouth.

  Aroostine was screaming. An anguished, high-pitched wordless scream.

  He fumbled for the bedside light, terrified of what he’d find once he managed to force his trembling fingers to switch it on.

  A soft yellow circle of light illuminated the bed, and he steeled himself.

  Beside him, his wife continued to scream, open mouthed and drenched in sweat. She thrashed from side to side.

  She was sound asleep.

  He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her up from the pillow, pressing her shaking body into his chest.

  “Wake up! Roo, you’re having a nightmare. Baby, wake up!”

  He held her struggling shape as tightly as he could and just kept repeating the words in her ear, over and over. Still, she screamed.

  He leaned back and held her at arm’s length. He shook her firmly.

  “Aroostine! Snap out of it.”

  Should he slap her? Throw cold water on her face? His brain raced as fast as his pulse.

  Then, all of a sudden, she stopped screaming and slumped forward and began to sob softly.

  “Roo?”

  She opened her eyes and looked up at him, hot tears streaming down her face.

  “I . . . I had a vision . . .”

  She was panting, struggling to bring herself under control.

  He stroked her hair.

  “Shhh, it’s okay.”

  He felt her heartbeat begin to slow.

  And then a fist began to pound on the door outside. Urgent and loud.

  Her eyes widened with fear, and she grabbed his T-shirt with both hands, fisting the material tightly.

  “You stay here,” he said, as he gently extricated his shirt from her clammy grip. His kissed the top of her head then eased the covers off and rose from the bed.

  He padded through the dark, unfamiliar halls and flicked on the dim light over the stove as he passed the galley kitchen. The urgent knocking resumed. The sound echoed, hollow and loud, in the still night. He grabbed a knife out of the chef’s block on the counter and gripped it near his thigh.

  When he reached the door, he hesitated with one hand on the deadbolt, wishing for a peephole.

  He wet his lips and called, “Who’s there?”

  “It’s Boom Cowslip.”

  The sound was muffled through the thick wood door, but Joe recognized the voice as belonging to the man he’d met on the trail. He inhaled deeply and then exhaled slowly before pushing back the deadbolt and flinging open the door.

  Boom regarded him with concern, then his eyes dropped to the eight-inch knife in his hand, and the concern morphed into real worry.

  “What’s going on in here? I heard a woman screaming.”

  Joe followed his eyes to the knife. “Oh, Aroostine had a night terror. The knife was just . . . a precaution. You heard her screaming?”

  Boom nodded gravely. “Yes. May I?” He gestured toward the living room.

  “Oh, jeez, sorry. Of course, come in.”

  He ushered the older man into the house, closed the door, and rebolted it. Boom lowered himself into a chair while Joe returned the knife to its slot in the wooden block.

  “Night terrors, eh?” Boom called from his seat.

  Joe was turning around to answer when he saw Aroostine in the doorway leading from the bedroom, with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

  “It was a vision, actually,” she said in a hoarse, shaky voice.

  Boom peered at her from the chair for a moment. Then he rose and walked over to the doorway.

  “A vision?”

  She nodded mutely.

  “Did your spirit guide make an appearance?” Boom asked in a knowing tone.

  “Yes.”

  Joe stood awkwardly in the kitchen, feeling
very white.

  “Aroostine, this is Boom Cowslip, the man I told you about. Why don’t you go sit down with him and I’ll put on the kettle for tea? I’m pretty sure Lee said there’s tea around here somewhere.”

  She gave him a shaky smile as she trailed the older man to the seating arrangement. “Tea would be great if you can find some.”

  He busied himself at the stove and listened with half an ear as Aroostine recounted her vision, which sounded like a fairly standard horrible and terrifying nightmare with the addition of one large beaver. By the time he’d brewed a pot of chamomile tea, she’d finished and was cocooned in the sage green blanket, staring blankly at the wall. He placed saucers and cups down in front of both Aroostine and Boom then put down a third for himself.

  As he poured the steaming hot liquid into each cup, Boom broke the silence.

  “It’s interesting that your beaver would alert you to the drones that fly overhead. Or did you already know about the testing facility?”

  Joe watched as Aroostine opened her mouth and then clamped it shut, remembering her promise not to tell anyone that Ruby had told her.

  “I already knew,” she said simply. Her tone didn’t invite any further questions on the topic.

  Boom narrowed his eyes and regarded her for a long moment.

  “I think your guide believes there’s something amiss with the drones. Do you think it’s tied to Isaac’s death? Or perhaps this young girl you described?”

  She lifted her shoulders in a shrug but Boom shook his head, rejecting the gesture.

  “It’s your vision. What do you think the message is?”

  His words hung, solemn and searching, in the air while Aroostine sipped her tea. At last she balanced the saucer in her lap and said, “I don’t know. I . . . I’m pretty removed from the culture, Boom. My visions usually aren’t crystal clear; they’re more like watching a staticky TV program without cable. The only ones that are vivid are portends of danger. I know that much.”

  “You need to sit with it, daughter. The message will reveal itself.”