Authors: Unknown
embezzlement.”
She wanted to pretend she hadn’t heard him and just keep bask-
ing in the majesty of the night sky, but another person who had
information about the funds being siphoned was exactly the sort
of thing she needed to chase down. So, with no small measure of
reluctance, she shifted her weight and tore her eyes away from the
sky to look at her husband.
“He did?”
“Yeah. He said it wasn’t public knowledge, but I don’t know,
Roo. He thinks this thing goes all the way to the top. He made a
lot of noise about some Lee Buckmount guy, who’s the CFO of the
casino, being involved. Th is could be a real hornet’s nest.”
She digested that news then weighed telling him about the
drones. Her deliberation lasted all of about twenty seconds. She
had to tell someone, and she sure couldn’t call Sid, not at this hour, and not until she got the full story from Ruby.
“You’re telling me. Do you know anything about a military
drone testing facility around here?”
He’d been the one to pick Central Oregon as a destination
and appeared to have digested whole travel guides, which he’d been
55
MELISSA F. MILLER
regurgitating in bits at seemingly random intervals through the trip.
She wasn’t convinced a drone testing facility was likely to appear on any lists of can’t-miss local attractions, but judging by the way he leaned forward eagerly, he’d heard something about them.
“Sure. It’s actually right here on the reservation.”
“Shouldn’t it be on a military base?” Ever since Ruby had men-
tioned the testing facility, she’d been puzzling over what possible connection it could have to the White Springs Reservation or any
of the tribes living there. Weren’t military drones the sort of top-secret weaponry that the Defense Department would eagerly clas-
sify as a national security secret? Why would they plop a testing
facility onto a residential area that also served as a major tourist destination?
Joe answered quickly, as if he were pleased to know the answer
to the question. “Well the original plan was to use the facility for civilian drones.”
“Civilian drones? Why do civilians need drones?”
Joe gave her a blank look. “Where’ve you been? Civilians need
drones to take aerial photographs of their vacation homes and to
follow their kids to the bus stop and to spy on their ex-wives—and
someday to drop their packages of socks and dog toys on their front porches.”
She arched a brow. “What in the—never mind. Okay but civil-
ian drones are presumably unarmed, right?”
He shrugged and thought a moment before answering. “I guess,
unless you count cameras and surveillance equipment.”
“But no weapons, not like the ones that operators in Omaha
or wherever control to drop bombs on targets in the Middle East?”
“Right.”
“So there’s a big diff erence between testing a fl ying camera in
a populated area and testing unmanned weapons. How’d they get
from the fi rst one to the second?”
56
CHILLING EFFECT
Back on surer ground, Joe sped up again. “Conservation of
resources. Th e military bases out in Pendleton and Redmond can
test the weaponry—make sure the bombs work when they’re sup-
posed to—but the politicians decided it was wasteful and redundant
to have to continue to maintain its own fl ight testing capabilities when there was a shiny new civilian one right here. So they entered into a contract with the White Springs Reservation to use the testing facility when the Federal Aviation Administration and the corporate manufacturers weren’t using it.”
“Th is was all in a travel guidebook?”
“No, but it was news back when I was researching the area last
spring. All of the offi cial Central Oregon websites were making a big deal of the partnership. An innovative partnership between a
Native American tribe and the military that would create jobs on
the reservation and save the federal government loads of money—
what’s not to love?”
“Maybe the fact that the military drones have gone missing?”
In the dark, Joe’s face was shadowy, illuminated only by star-
light, but she could see the shock roll across his expression like a wave—starting at his eyes and moving down until he opened and
closed his mouth, gaping like a fi sh.
“Are you serious?” he asked.
“Maybe. We’ll fi nd out more in the morning.”
“Why wait?”
“Because Sid’s not going to be happy if I wake him to run it
down and it turns out to be a baseless rumor,” she said.
Th ey sat in silence some more, but this time the power of the
night sky was lost on Aroostine. Judging by the way he was fi dget-
ing, Joe was also focusing on something other than the constella-
tions overhead.
He cleared his throat and pulled her closer to him. “I think we
may be mixed up in something bad.”
57
MELISSA F. MILLER
Th e way he said “we” made her catch her breath. She hadn’t
expected quite so much support. But his point was, unfortunately,
valid. “Th ere’s no maybe about it.”
Th ey lapsed back into silence—not a companionable, awed
silence. A tired, overwhelmed, “what now?” silence.
Th ey 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 fl oating 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
fl ashlight clicked on in the fi gure’s hand. He aimed the circle of light at the ground rather than their faces.
58
CHILLING EFFECT
“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 kil ed 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.
59
MELISSA F. MILLER
She trailed behind them, pausing to peer at the Jeep to confi rm
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 fi nd towels, soaps, and extra
blankets.
She blinked while her eyes adjusted then looked around. Th e
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. Th e wood
fl oors gleamed, and the faint, lemony scent of cleaning supplies
lingered in the air.
Joe and Buckmount returned from the tour of the small space.
Th e older man made a sweeping gesture toward the seating arrange-
ment 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 fi nd the accom-
modations 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 fi nancial offi cer had access to the tribal police’s internal records. Her uneasy feeling about the man ratcheted up several notches.
“It’s lovely,” she fi nally said, aware that he was waiting for her to respond.
60
CHILLING EFFECT
“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 specifi cally 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
fi rmly 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.
“Th at’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 fl oorboards
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.”
61
MELISSA F. MILLER
“A drug problem?” Boom had told Joe that he thought
Lee
was
Lee
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 confi dence and fi nality.
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 unsubstantiated 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