Authors: Unknown
“You thought right.”
“Figured it was worth taking a chance to get you to contact me.”
165
MELISSA F. MILLER
“You’ve got me. So . . .” she trailed off , leaving the rest unsaid.
“So. I work at the drone testing facility.”
A tingle of excitement ran up her spine.
“Oh?” She struggled to keep her voice casual.
“He thought you might be interested in some drones that dis-
appeared.”
“I might be,” she agreed.
“I’m going to need some assurances before I talk to you about
that.”
“What kind of assurances?”
“Th e kind where you promise me I’m not going to end up like
Isaac.” His voice hitched on the dead man’s name.
She bit the inside of her cheek and made a clicking noise with
her tongue.
“I can’t do that. I wish I could. But I’m not going to lie to you.
I’m not sure
I’m
not going to end up like Isaac.”
It was a true statement and not a revelation, but saying it aloud
chilled her. Joe’s face tightened, and his skin paled a shade.
Th e man breathed a heavy sigh as he digested her words.
“Fair enough. But I need to think about this some more.”
“I understand. Why don’t I give you a call tomorrow?”
“No. I’ll get in touch with you.” He ended the call without
further comment.
She stared down at the silent phone in frustration.
Joe zipped the duff el bag closed and came to stand beside her.
He massaged her shoulders with strong, warm fi ngers, working tight knots out of her upper back.
“Buckmount’s locked in a cell, babe. You’re not going to end up
like Isaac. He can’t hurt you.”
She suspected that even from behind bars, Lee Buckmount had
enough reach and power to make her life miserable, if not down-
right dangerous. He no doubt had associates through the gaming
166
CHILLING EFFECT
world whose motives and backgrounds ranged from slightly shady
to pure black. But voicing her fears served no purpose.
“I hope you’re right. Let’s go fi nd out.” She scooped up Isaac’s
car keys from the desk and tossed them at Joe. Th en she took one
last longing look at the inviting bed and headed for the door.
167
Pink and orange bands stretched across the sky as the sun set behind the mountains. Joe marveled at how diff erent the approaching twilight felt from inside the Tercel than it had when they were tromp-
ing through the foothills of the mountains racing to fi nd shelter and food before dark.
“It’s really beautiful country out here, isn’t it?” Aroostine said
beside him.
“It is.”
Th ey lapsed into silence. After several miles, Joe cleared his throat.
“Are you going to tell me what Boom asked you?”
He peeked over at her. Her brow was furrowed. She stared
straight ahead at the long ribbon of highway in front of them while she answered.
“Th e tribes at White Springs have asked the Department of
Justice to loan me out to help them with their investigation into
Lee Buckmount’s various crimes.”
CHILLING EFFECT
He tried to pinpoint the source of the anxiety he heard in her
voice but couldn’t.
“Well doesn’t that kind of make sense? You’re going to lead the
charge for the feds anyway—isn’t it really just a matter of effi ciency?”
“Maybe,” she allowed. “But it would mean spending more time
out here than we’d planned.”
He heard the unasked question and answered it slowly.
“We could make it work. I don’t have a ton of custom orders
pending. My parents would be happy to dog sit Rufus as long as
we want.”
“You’d stay out here with me?”
He glanced at her face again, but she maintained her laser-like
focus on the windshield.
“If you want me to—yeah, I would.”
If she was thinking about her ill-fated move to Washington,
DC, when he said he’d go with her and then hadn’t, she gave no
indication. But the memory stung him.
“So, leave aside the logistics—do you
want
to do it?” he con-want
tinued.
“I’m not sure.”
He waited.
She turned toward him. “On the one hand, yes, sure. It’d be
a feather in my cap. Justice and the Offi ce of Tribal Aff airs will be thrilled to be able to point to their inter-department cooperation
and sharing of resources. Boom and the Tribal Board will be happy
to have someone they kind of already trust running interference
with the feds. And it’s not like it’s totally outside my skill set.”
“What’s the issue, then? Why are you hesitating?”
She wrapped a strand of hair around her fi nger and answered in
a halting, unsure voice—so soft he had to strain to hear her.
“On the other hand, I’m not sure that career advancement is
really what’s motivating me. I think I’m drawn to the idea of spending 169
MELISSA F. MILLER
time on the reservation, surrounded by the people. I know they aren’t my people, but it feels . . . right.”
“So? How is that a bad thing?”
A hint of irritation snuck into her voice. “Come on, Joe. You
know, I’ve never been big on exploring my roots or embracing my
nativeness. Why would I start now—thousands of miles away from
home?”
No, you’ve spent your whole life distancing yourself from your history and pretending to have no roots
, he thought. He stopped himself from saying it and, instead, made a gentle suggestion. “Maybe
it feels safer for you to open up to that side of yourself here just because it is so far from home?”
“Hmm. Maybe.”
Encouraged, he braced himself and soldiered on. “Maybe Boom
reminds you of your grandfather a little bit, too.”
Too far.
Her face closed off , blank and expressionless, and she resumed her staring out the window.
After the dashboard clock showed fi ve solid minutes of uninter-
rupted silence, he reached for the radio button. But when he started to turn the knob in search of a station, she closed her hand over his.
“Wait.” He focused on the road but listened hard. “I think
you’re right . . . about all of it. White Springs is diff erent enough from where I lived before—before the Higginses came for me. It
doesn’t remind me of my parents. But it does feel vaguely familiar.
And, yes, Boom makes me think of Grandfather.”
Th e words poured from Aroostine in a rush, as if they were a
confession she had to make quickly, before she lost her nerve. Th en she removed her hand from his, settled back against the headrest,
and closed her eyes.
Joe started to speak, to suggest that working through her grief
over the loss of her grandfather was long overdue, thought better
of it, started again, then fi nally decided to leave Aroostine to her 170
CHILLING EFFECT
thoughts. He turned on the radio and settled on the fi rst station that was more music than static.
Aroostine closed her eyes mainly to forestall any further attempts
from Joe to probe her psyche. But as soon as she rested her head,
exhaustion overcame her in a wave. Rather than fi ght it, she let her body relax into the seat.
Just a catnap,
she thought.
Th e vast mountains shimmered, dissolved, and re-formed. Ore-
gon’s fi elds of wildfl owers morphed into woods she knew well—the
woods behind her grandfather’s house. Th e rows of tal oaks covered with red, orange, and yellow leaves, stretching toward the sun, the dirt path leading past the creek and through the fi eld of long, swishy grass. She watched from the path as a small girl with a long, dark
braid swinging against her back skipped through the grass.
She knew that girl and exactly where she was headed. She
was
that girl. She was watching fi ve-year-old Aroostine doing the thing she loved the most. She would make her way up the hillside to the
old horse barn where her grandfather was waiting with the archery
target he’d set up for her.
In the dream, Aroostine followed her girl-self at a distance. She
watched the child whoop with delight when her grandfather turned
and scooped her up, twirled her in a wild, high circle, and then
returned her to the ground. She collapsed in a heap of giggles. Her grandfather waited until she was calm and then helped her to her feet.
“Are you ready, granddaughter?” he asked with a gentle smile.
“Oh, yes!”
“Very good.”
He bent to the ground and lifted a small child-sized bow, which
he placed in her outstretched hands. He adjusted a quiver of arrows on her back then knelt beside her and turned her to face the barn’s 171
MELISSA F. MILLER
wide west wall, where he’d painstakingly painted a perfectly round, red target. Th en he knelt beside her.
Th e girl gripped her bow. She stared at the barn, concentrating.
Th e tip of her tongue poked out of her mouth. She squinted, all
business, and nocked an arrow. Her grandfather rested on one knee
beside her and watched as the arrow fl ew fast and straight, heading for the dead center of the target.
A gust of wind kicked it high and slightly left of the center
circle. It hit the barn and stuck in the wall. Th e girl’s face crumpled in disappointment but, at her elbow, her grandfather beamed.
“Very nice, child. Very close to the center.”
“But I missed.”
He nodded. “Th is is true. Do you know why?”
“Th e wind began to blow?”
“Th is is partially true, yes. What else happened, though?”
She wrinkled her nose and thought. “I didn’t test the wind
before I aimed.”
“Th at’s right.”
She set her mouth, determined, and readied another arrow.
Th en she licked a fi nger and held it in the air. After a moment, she nodded and repositioned herself slightly. Th en she let fl y another arrow. It wobbled in the wind but curved as it arced toward the barn and landed smack in the middle of the target.
“Yes!” the girl pumped her fi st excitedly.
On the path, Aroostine mirrored the movement. “Yes,” she
whispered.
Her grandfather smiled and ran a hand over the girl’s hair.
Aroostine suddenly felt like an outsider, spying on them from
the woods. She was about to walk away when her grandfather turned
and stared over his shoulder in her direction. For a moment, she
thought he’d spotted her, but he wasn’t looking at her. Instead he
seemed to be looking through her.
172
CHILLING EFFECT
She craned her neck and scanned the woods behind her. In
the spot where he had fi xed his gaze, the silver-eyed beaver had
appeared. Its nose twitched in the wind; and like her grandfather, it seemed to be looking past her, at him.
After a moment of silent communication, her grandfather
turned back to the girl Aroostine, took her hand, and led her to a
grassy hillside and sat beside her. Aroostine listened as he told her a traditional Lenape story about a pretty maiden who was too proud
for her own good—the girl rejected the beaver as a suitor because
she thought it was ugly. In the end, she drowned because the beaver refused to save her when she fell in the river.
Th e archery lesson had happened in real life. Th e morality tale
had not.
Aroostine started awake.
“You okay?”
She shook her head to clear it of the dream, or vision, or what-
ever it was.
“I’m fi ne. I just had a weird dream.”
He gave her a close look but didn’t press her.
“We’re almost there anyway. Do you want me to take you
straight to the police station or do you want to freshen up at the
guest house fi rst?”
She looked down at her athletic wear. Ordinarily, she’d want to
make herself look more presentable, but the dream was gnawing at
her, making her uneasy and unsettled. Boom had told her to look
for a message from her spirit guide. Instead, she’d had a dream about her grandfather warning her that she rejected her spirit guide at her peril. She had no idea what any of it meant, but she suddenly felt
that it was important to talk to Boom sooner rather than later and
formally agree to handle the prosecution for the tribe.
“Let’s go straight there. I promise I won’t be too long.”
173
Boom was making a cup of tea in the worn kitchenette behind the
chief’s offi ce when Aroostine breezed into the station. He breathed a sigh of sheer relief at the sight of her—her confi dent stride, the dark hair streaming behind her as she hurriedly explained to the desk offi -
cer who she was and why she was there. He mixed some milk and
honey into the mug and then rushed out to the lobby to meet her.
“Aroostine.”
She turned away from the desk at the sound of his voice. He
waved, noting that she seemed distracted, pale, maybe a bit jittery.
“Boom, hi.” She walked around the half-moon desk and came
to greet him. “How’s Ruby? And Lily?”
“Th ey’re fi ne, both fi ne. In fact, Ruby is roasting a chicken and some vegetables for you and Joe. She was planning to leave dinner
in the guest house for you as her thanks, modest though it is, for
your saving her life. We all owe you a great deal more than a chicken dinner.”
CHILLING EFFECT
Her cheeks burned red at the praise.
“Th at’s kind of her—unnecessary but appreciated. I’m so glad
you’re still here. I’d like to talk to Buckmount and his lawyer—if
Lee’s talking—or just the lawyer if he isn’t. But fi rst I wanted to offi cially accept the role of prosecutor in the Tribal Court proceeding, with the caveat that I know exactly zero about tribal law or