Buried Truth. Dana MentinkЧитать онлайн книгу.
“Glad to see you.”
Richmond cleared his throat. “Yeah. Heard you were back. Thinking about signing on with Tribal Rangers again?”
Heather saw Bill’s gaze falter for a moment. “No.” Bill stood and rolled down his ruined sleeve. “I’m retired.”
Richmond nodded slowly. “So give us the rundown.”
Bill spoke, with a few interjected comments from Heather, while the officer scribbled in his battered notebook.
“Sounds like some kids,” Crow said. “They’re always looking for things to do. Doesn’t come across like a big deal to me.”
“I’ll take a better look in the morning,” Richmond said.
“I’ll come, too,” Crow put in.
“Not your jurisdiction, Ranger,” Bill said with a smile.
Crow held up his hands and laughed. “No problem to help out a badge brother.”
Richmond nodded. “Good night, Ms. Fernandes.” He turned to Bill and jerked his head toward the porch. Bill followed him and Crow outside.
Heather itched to know what they were talking about. As she casually walked by the window on her way to the kitchen, she could not see the expression on Bill’s face, but Richmond’s brows were drawn together, his face dead serious. Crow’s arms were folded across his barrel of a chest, his gaze fastened on his boots. Heather slid open the tiny window above the sink. No reason not to catch the cool night breeze. She washed her hands and put the kettle on to boil, straining to catch bits of the conversation. Still the two men talked, until Bill held up a hand and took a step away.
She caught Richmond’s parting words to Bill as the men walked into the darkness, the captain’s hand on Bill’s shoulder.
“Watch your back, Bill. We don’t want any more murders.”
Heather watched them go, the shrill cry of the kettle mingling with the strange worry deep in her gut.
Heather woke late the next morning to Choo Choo’s snoring. She padded to the kitchen, pondering all the while. Why was Bill Cloudman prowling properties at night? And why was she worried? Bill could take care of himself. Her instincts continued to prickle until she could stand it no longer. With toast in one hand, she picked up the phone with the other.
The clerical person at the Tribal Ranger office was coolly efficient.
“No, Bill Cloudman is not consulting with the Tribal Rangers.”
“Not even in an unofficial capacity?”
“No, ma’am.”
Heather disconnected and pulled up an archived article on her laptop about the Johnny Moon slaying.
Tribal Ranger John Moon was killed yesterday by a bomb reportedly rigged by suspected killer Oscar Birch, who was holed up in a cave just outside Badlands National Park. Upon entering the cave, Moon triggered an explosive attached to a trip wire and was killed instantly. Birch escaped, while Tribal Detective Bill Cloudman, who was also on scene, attempted to resuscitate Moon. Birch was later captured at a roadblock ten miles from the site of the incident and taken into custody.
The article went on with further details and a “no comment” from Bill Cloudman.
Heather sighed. Bill didn’t want to comment on anything as far as she was concerned. Whatever closeness she’d felt between them before her arrest was gone. Choo Choo finished his breakfast while Heather paced the small front room. Though Bill’s strange behavior continued to prey on her mind, she had more practical matters to attend to. Until she retrieved her car from Bill’s place and had it fixed, she was going to have to work from home.
It took only a moment to add a line to the “latest buzz” section of the Desert Blaze website about the vandalism at Bill’s place. Her editor wouldn’t be pleased that there was no accompanying photo, but hopefully it would appease Bill. She added another entry about the upcoming church pancake breakfast and signed off before focusing on the print articles that required her attention.
She needed to write a piece on a minor fossil find by week’s end. She’d put it off for a while because it was on Bill Cloudman’s adopted aunt Jean’s property. Heather had met the amazing woman before things fell apart, and deep down, she felt ashamed at having to face her. There was also the story about the abandoned uranium pit a resident had been complaining about for years. It had the smell of a real story about it. After a phone call to leave a message with the man who’d reported the uranium pit, Heather found her attention wandering again.
“A little fresh air couldn’t hurt.” Pocketing her phone, she grabbed the dog’s leash. “Let’s go for a walk, Choo.” They headed into the glare of morning sunlight. The summer heat still surprised her every day, even though she’d lived in South Dakota for a few years as a little girl. Maybe she’d been too preoccupied then, wondering if her mother, Margot, would embrace the new beginning her father had intended for them. She hadn’t, and Margot’s dissatisfaction with her life and her health had only worsened.
Heather wiped at her face. Not even noon, and the temperatures were scorching. Tattered clouds seemed to press the heat back down at her, taunting her with the promise of a cooling rain. As she passed her mailbox at the end of the drive, she saw a note wedged underneath the red flag.
From the cops? She didn’t think so. Maybe Dr. Egan had changed his mind about the lab article. Snatching it, she read the ink scrawl.
I’ll give you the real story on Bill Cloudman.
Her fingers turned to ice. The real story? She remembered the strange phone call from the day before.
Choo Choo pulled on the leash, so Heather stuffed the letter into her pocket and followed, but her mind was alive with questions. Who had written the message and what was his connection to Bill Cloudman?
It took a few minutes of walking before she worked her way to the other side of the issue. A stranger had been on her property again, someone not willing to sign the note and leave a contact number.
Her instincts prickled like exposed wires. She made up her mind to talk to the police, in spite of her reluctance to show her face at the station again.
She and Choo Choo stuck to the shaded perimeter of the trail that led from her house down toward the canyon where the ruckus had occurred the night before. There was no sign of movement now except for an eagle soaring in lazy circles above her. The rocks sloughed away in rivers of red and gold, dotted with clumps of needlegrass and the flicker of color from some late-blooming monkshood. Choo Choo nosed along as they walked and Heather found herself moving toward the old timber bridge that spanned a low spot in the canyon, connecting her property to Charlie Moon’s.
She stopped to pour some water from a bottle into her cupped palm for the dog, who slurped it up and gave her a lick on the cheek to boot before wagging his tail at a little girl who seemed to appear from nowhere. It took Heather a moment to identify the child as Tina Moon, Johnny Moon’s sister. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, several thick strands that had escaped the elastic hanging in her eyes.
“Hiya,” she said. “You used to be Uncle Bill’s girlfriend.” She bent to pat Choo Choo.
Heather felt her cheeks go hot. “Oh, I, um, know Bill, yes. He, er, used to be a friend of mine.”
Tina shoved her hands into the pockets of her jean shorts. “Not anymore?”
Heather found the girl’s dark stare unnerving. “Have you seen your uncle Bill since he got back?”
“Uncle Charlie said Uncle Bill’s not my uncle anymore.” She sighed, fiddling with a compact she pulled from her pocket. Heather hid her smile as the girl looked into the tiny mirror and puckered her lips. Tina put the compact away and eyed Choo Choo. “Your dog is real slow. Not like Tank. Anyway, I gotta go. I’m not supposed to be playing here.”
“Why