Authors: Unknown
“You don’t think we can walk to Boylestown, do you?”
She stopped and turned to face him. “Right now, we’re head-
ing for the nearest stream. Have you noticed we’ve been walking
uphill?”
CHILLING EFFECT
“Yeah. So?”
“So, the safest drinking water we’re likely to fi nd will be a fast-running stream at a high elevation. I’m following these tracks—
probably an opossum—through this wet, marshy grass because it’s
going to lead us to a stream.” She peered more closely at the tracks.
“Maybe a skunk.”
Her tone was gentle, but he felt useless and stupid just the same.
Here he’d been trying to remember a GPS map, and she’d been
observing their environment—something actually helpful to them
in their circumstances.
“Oh.”
“We don’t have anything to carry water in, though. So we’re
going to drink up and then follow the stream as far as we can, keeping it nearby. Okay?”
“Okay. Sure, of course.”
She leaned in and kissed him, slightly off -center, her lips grazing the side of his mouth.
“Trust me on this part. We’ll be fi ne. It’s not going to be the
height of luxury or anything, but I won’t let you die of thirst, starva-tion, or exposure. Deal?”
Her serious brown eyes painted him with a long look.
He nodded slowly. “Deal. Th is isn’t exactly what I meant when
I proposed a romantic getaway, but we can make the best of it.”
Her eyes danced with sudden humor. “I think you’ll fi nd the
not dying of exposure part kind of enjoyable.”
He raised a brow into a question mark. “Really?”
“We’ll have to think of a way to conserve body heat while we
sleep.”
She scrunched her face up and winked. He laughed harder than
he thought he was capable of under the circumstances. She waited
until his smile had faded and then cracked the whip.
“Come on, we’re getting close.”
97
MELISSA F. MILLER
Spurred on by the promise of fresh, cold drinking water he
started forward beside her.
He heard the stream before it came into view.
He’d always thought “babbling brook” was just a saying. After
all, the creek behind their place back home sounded like tinkling
water, if that. But as they walked on, he heard something that
sounded like the high-pitched chatter of a couple children.
“What’s the noise?”
“Rushing water.” Aroostine pushed ahead, excited, and he raced
to keep up. Th ey followed a bend in the earth, and there it was: a ribbon of white water, streaming and foaming over the rocks.
“Th is is perfect. Fast moving means it’s probably clean.”
“Probably?”
She shrugged. “I can’t make any guarantees. But high eleva-
tion, quick-moving water, animal tracks that show the local wildlife drinks from it—it’s pretty much the best we can do, unless we boil
it, but we don’t have a pan or anything.”
She knelt and cupped her hands, scooping the water into her
mouth. He hesitated. As he stood there focusing on how thirsty he
was, his throat seemed to constrict and fi ll with dust. Th e more he thought about it, the drier it felt.
He sent a quick prayer heavenward and crouched beside his
wife. Th e cool water fl owed over his hands for a few seconds, then he formed his palms into a bowl and slurped the water. It tasted like a crisp fall day, fresh and clear. He dipped his hands into the stream again and again, and drank greedily.
She laughed at his transformation and plopped down on the
bank, legs outstretched, supporting herself with her elbows. He
joined her in the grass.
“What if you hadn’t found this stream? Or if it had been pol-
luted? What would we have done?” He asked mainly to satisfy his
98
CHILLING EFFECT
curiosity. She was such a diff erent person out in the woods—calm,
decisive, completely sure of herself.
“Th ere’s lots of ways to get water. If we hadn’t found a clean
source, we could get water from plants or rocks. Or even by waiting until morning and gathering the dew.”
She said it in a casual tone, as if harvesting dew drops for hydra-
tion was the most natural activity in the world.
He smiled down at her, taking in her upturned face, high,
slanted cheekbones, the curved hollow of her neck. Memorizing
her in this moment.
“What?”
“I was thinking it might be time to conserve some body heat.”
She laughed and smacked his arm.
“Oh, please. First we fi nd something to eat and then push on
until it gets closer to sunset. We need to cover as much ground as
we can before dark if we want to get to Boylestown by tomorrow
evening.”
“
Tomorr
T
o
omorr w
o
evening?” His light-hearted innuendo dissipated as
reality set in.
“Yeah, tomorrow. It’s not like there’s a straight path between
here and there. Not to mention, I’m not exactly sure where
there
ther
is.
e
ther
I have a general sense, but we should plan on twenty miles a day,
minimum. And we have to stay off the main roads.”
Her eyes clouded, and he knew she was thinking about the car
bomb. Someone was willing to kill them to keep them from uncov-
ering whatever was going on at White Springs. And they both knew
that whoever wanted them dead wasn’t going to give up after the
fi rst attempt failed. Someone—or maybe a team—was probably out
there, somewhere between the shadow of the distant mountain and
the dusty roads of the reservation coming through the fi elds, stopping at every gas station and roadside stand, searching for them. By 99
MELISSA F. MILLER
now, they’d probably set up a sentry at their hotel to attack them if they ever made it back to their suite.
His heart thumped in his chest. “Th is is insane. Suicidal even.”
“We’re going to be okay, Joe. I promise. No one’s going to fi nd
us out here. I just hope tomorrow night isn’t too late for Lily and Ruby.”
Th e drummer in his chest sped up, double time. Cut off from
everyone, with no way to contact Ruby or Sid, they had no way to
know what was happening on the reservation.
“Boom will take care of them.”
“I hope so.”
Th ey sat in mutual, brooding silence for several long seconds.
He stared out at the water as it tumbled past them down the hill,
mesmerized for the moment by its rolling motion over the rocks.
Th en he shook himself back to action and rose to his feet.
“Come on. I believe I was promised a gourmet meal of ber-
ries and weeds.” He bent and extended a hand. She grabbed it and
pulled herself up.
“Chef Aroostine’s special of the day, coming right up.”
Aroostine cradled the mound of fat, gem-like currants and the two
large fi stfuls of salsify leaves in the bottom of her shirt and hiked back to the spot where she’d left Joe. He looked up at the sound of her footsteps.
“Lunch is served.” She plopped down next to him and displayed
the fruit and weeds, like a shopgirl showing her wares.
“Um. What is it?”
She plucked a currant from the pile and held it between her
thumb and forefi nger, turning it so the sun fi lled its translucent shape with light.
100
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“Th is baby is a golden currant, like the jam. Even though some
are yellow and the rest are red and black, they’re all ripe golden
currants. Th e plants are meadow salsify. I just brought the leaves because the stalks are kind of tough and bitter. Th is is enough to make a decent salad.”
He still looked uncertain, so she popped the globe of fruit in
her mouth and bit into an explosion of sweet, honey-like fruit. It
was much less tart than she’d expected, which was good—Joe liked
sugary fruits.
“Mmm, try it.”
She off ered him a berry. He eyed it suspiciously but took it. As
he chewed it, his face relaxed.
“Not bad,” he admitted.
“Good. You might want to wrap the leaves around some ber-
ries and eat them together, because—I’m not gonna lie—the leaves
aren’t quite as tasty. But they’re fi lling, so eat them, okay? Fill your belly and then we’ll get another drink of water and push on.” She
squinted at the sky. “We have maybe fi ve more hours before we have to stop and make camp for the night.”
“Th en what? What’s our ultimate goal?”
He reached for a leaf and the fattest remaining berry. She
dropped a currant into a leaf of her own and ate it as she consid-
ered his question.
“I’m hoping Boylestown will have a semiprofessional police
presence. We’ll report the car bombing and ask the police to call
Sid so we can get an update on what’s going on at the reservation.
Th en we’ll call the hotel, get the driver to come fetch us and enjoy some indoor plumbing and soft beds while we fi gure out what to
do. How’s that sound for a plan?”
His eyes crinkled as he grinned. “It sounds great, except for one
little snag.”
She furrowed her brow.
What had she missed?
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MELISSA F. MILLER
“I give up. What’s the snag?”
He shoveled another berry/leaf bite into his mouth and shook
his head. “I love that you’re still so trusting, but really? Th ink about it. If Lee Buckmount did kill Isaac Palmer to cover up the embezzlement and tried to kill us, what do you think he’s doing now?”
“Swimming in a bathtub of gold ducats like Scrooge McDuck?”
“Uh, no. If he’s smart, he’s concocted a story that paints us as
mixed up with Isaac and drug dealers. If I were him, it would go
something like this: We met with Isaac to sell him drugs, and it
went bad. We killed him and you called it in, pretending to be some prosecutor from back East. Th e drug lords are angry that we brought attention to them, so they tried to kill us with the car bomb. He’s probably working the phones as we speak, putting the word out to
every small town between here and Eugene. I’m sure there’s someone
sitting outside our hotel room right now.”
He sat back, obviously pleased with the narrative he’d spun. She
stared at him wordlessly.
“What?” he demanded.
“What? Really? Th at’s demented. It makes no sense. He’d have
to be—”
“Evil? Arrogant? Powerful enough to believe he could get away
with it?”
She faltered. “Well . . . yeah.”
“And which of those descriptions doesn’t apply to him? Let’s at
least be realistic. Th ere’s no honor among thieves, Roo. You of all people should know that, you’re a freaking
prosecutor.
”
Her stomach cramped, and a sour metallic tang fi lled her mouth.
He was right, of course. And yet it hadn’t crossed her mind—the
notion that Buckmount might have painted an even bigger target
on their backs. A sort of “shoot fi rst, ask questions later” kind of target aimed at law enforcement personnel.
102
CHILLING EFFECT
“Well, I would hope that when Sid can’t get in touch with me
today, he’ll put out some feelers of his own.”
Her words rang weak and hollow even to her. But Joe gave a
brisk nod of his head, as if it sounded convincing to him. Th en,
in an obvious eff ort to change the subject, he leaned forward and
snaked the last berry out of the hem of her shirt.
“Open up!” he ordered and dropped it in her mouth.
She shook off the worry that had dropped over her like a cloud
and ate the currant.
“Th anks.”
“Any time.”
She leaned into him and gave him a long, tight hug. Refl ex-
ively, she glanced up, scanning the bright blue sky for drones. She didn’t real y think that anyone would unleash a drone attack against unarmed civilians in Central Oregon.
Did she?
Over Joe’s shoulder, up on the ridge line, she spotted the silhouette of a tall, sleek animal with silver eyes. She blinked, and when she reopened her eyes, the
beaver was gone.
103
Th e clock on Boom’s mantel chimed four o’clock. He walked to
the front window and stood, shaded by the fl uttering curtain, and
watched the tribal police walking around the chalk marks that they’d placed around what was left of the rental Jeep while he waited for
Ruby and Lily to appear at the corner. Offi cer Hunt scratched his chin and scribbled something on his notepad before pulling a tape
measure from his pocket and hunching over the debris.
Boom was suffi ciently curious that he almost stepped out the
front door and asked the man what he was doing, but then two thin
fi gures rounding the corner caught his eyes. One small, one tall. He snagged his keys from the table and hurried outside, pausing to lock the house up tight even though he was only going to be two doors
away. As a rule, Boom left his front door unlocked—an open invita-
tion to his people to visit any time they felt moved to do so. But in light of Isaac’s murder and Aroostine and Joe’s exploding car, no one CHILLING EFFECT
could fault a man for taking all reasonable precautions—especially a man who lived in this particular corner of the reservation.
“Offi cers.” He nodded toward Hunt and his colleagues as he
trotted past them on a diagonal, beelining toward the girl and her
mother.
As he crossed the road, his shoes fell heavily in the dry dirt,
drawing Ruby’s attention. She met his eyes over her daughter’s head.
Her cocktail waitress warpaint was in place—bright red lips, fl ushed cheeks, and blue eyelids—but all that makeup couldn’t hide her