The Eagle and the Fox (A Snowy Range Mystery, #1) (21 page)

The ranch house was typical of others in the valley—single story rough cut lumber with a wraparound porch and steps leading up wherever an entryway was situated. It was snugged low into a stand of trees to block the ever-present wind. After she fed the horses, Becca usually left on an outdoor flood at the barn and the porch light at the front door. For some reason, the house and barn were dark, the pines cutting out all ambient light from a crystal clear but moonless sky.

Two figures sitting on the back steps, one lower than the other, were barely visible. Soundlessly Josh and Marcus slid off the bench seat and left the doors slightly ajar. Josh tucked the weapon in the crook of his back and paced slowly toward the strange tableau.

Petilune was on the lower step, her petite frame folded into a ball as she wrapped the skirt portion of her dress around her legs, forehead buried in her knees. She was keening a cry of despair, the likes of which made Josh’s blood run cold. Marcus placed a hand on his arm as if to steady himself.

The boy was speaking to the girl, the words indistinct. They moved closer, Josh wondering why Kit hadn’t acknowledged their presence. Not a twitch, not a glance in their direction. He ignored everything but the young girl trapped between his thighs. As they got closer, Josh made out fine movements—Kit fondling Petilune’s fine blonde hair, pulling it down in a combing motion, using his fingers to separate the strands into sections.

Kit murmured, “It’s okay,
Zahgidiwin
.” The sound became a croon, an echo of
okay okay okay
that lingered on the still air.

Josh debated joining the teens on the steps, but instead chose a spot where he could observe and listen, but not so close as to threaten. He leaned against the porch and beckoned Marcus to join him.

Though Kit’s voice and words were soothing, the set to his shoulders and the way he’d braced his feet on the lower step spoke to anxiety and tension. Josh had a hard time making out the boy’s features. His hair, usually pulled into a tight, long braid that fell nearly to his waist, instead swung loose, masking his features. It seemed wrong...

With quick, bird-like movements, Kit wound the fine strands of Petilune’s blonde hair into a tight braid, gathering strays as he worked the design into a skull-hugging, neat sculpture. Unlacing a few of the strands, he twisted and shaped them into a natural band.

Marcus hissed in Josh’s ear, “He’s the one who’s been doing her hair. Damnation.” Josh heard the irritation in Marcus’ voice, but had no idea where it came from or what it meant. He wasn’t even sure why Kit was playing hairdresser when the girl was clearly having a meltdown.

I want just one damn thing to make sense tonight. Is that too much to ask?

It was Marcus who put it together. He hissed, “Jesus Christ, they cut it off,” the words finally jogging the pieces into place.

Closing his eyes, Josh thought back to Kit bolting out the door and him following as fast as he could. He’d lost precious minutes trying to scan the parking area and the clusters of teenagers, the endless beat of the bass from inside and a trills of laughter distracting him until a scream armor-pierced his concentration.

When he’d finally rounded the corner and come onto the playing field, nothing had registered in his consciousness except the man on the ground and three figures converging on Kit.

Get rid of that one...

After that it was a blur until the wail of sirens on fast approach penetrated through the fog that threatened to engulf him.
Wake up, wake up
. He’d grabbed Kit and pulled him off the last one standing. There’d been a knife. A throaty grunt. Kit running. Boots thudding the hard ground, shouts, and someone helping him lift Marcus onto his shoulder. A
go, get him the fuck out of here
and then the eerie emptiness of gazing down the dark well.

The big one, the one who’d stood to the side, just watching as Josh had waded into the bastards beating the Barnes boy into a pulp... That one. He’d taunted, held something up to Kit’s retreating back—the back that was bare, the long braid gone. It’d been meant to emasculate. White men scalped red men in the ultimate act of humiliation, rendering the enemy dead in spirit and no longer in control of his own life.

Petilune sobbed, “It’s gone. It was so beautiful and now it’s gone. Why, Kit, why?”

Kit gently cupped the girl’s chin and turned her face toward his. “Yours is prettier,
Zahgidiwin
.” He brushed his lips against her forehead, then looked up at Josh and Marcus. “Isn’t she pretty?”

Josh moved to stand in front of the teens. Bending down, he whispered, “Petilune was the prettiest girl there,” and stroked the girl’s cheek, wiping away the tears. To Marcus he said, “Why don’t you take Petilune inside and give her something to drink. I’ll be along in a couple minutes.”

He and Kit watched Marcus gather the girl in his arms. He held her like Josh cradled Maudie, with exquisite gentleness and care. He maneuvered the kitchen door open, a light flickered, then steadied, bathing the Giniw teen in stark relief. Josh eased down next to him and stretched his long legs toward the ground.

Josh asked, “Does she understand what happened?”

Kit leaned forward, clasping his hands between his knees. “A little. Maybe. I dunno.” He shook his head in frustration. “She thinks it’s her fault, what happened tonight. That she did something wrong.”

“How the hell does she figure that?”

“Thank her fucking brothers. They had her wound up tighter ’n a drum by the time I got there.”

Josh asked, “You didn’t pick her up?”

Kit barked a laugh. It was rough and raw and filled with bitterness. “You’re joking, right? Me arrive on her doorstep like a goddam suitor?” Scrubbing his thighs with his palms, he swore softly under his breath, then said, “I’ve got history with those assholes. I stay as far away from them and that whore of a mother as I can.”

“So you came alone. On your bike?” Kit nodded yes.

Josh focused on being a cop. Ask questions, get information, even if the bits and pieces were disjointed, seemingly unrelated. Listen for a word, a phrase, something... hell, anything that might led to the next question, the one that would shine a light or crack open a door. A word like history, or whore. Somehow Kit Giniw had been hovering around the margins of Centurion long enough to insinuate himself into Petilune’s life. Josh had seen plenty of people blend in during his career as an MP, but nothing compared to how well the boy had managed to stay off everyone’s radar.

That opened up the question as to why. What had changed to bring him out of the shadows? What was it about the girl that so attracted Kit? Had Petilune been the reason or just an accident? He treated her like a fragile porcelain object. He was infinitely patient, unerringly kind... speaking slowly and carefully so the child could understand. Josh needed little else to convince him that Kit Giniw was head over heels.

Looking at him sitting on the steps, Josh sensed the teen was a coiled spring of hate and rage. The system had failed Kit Giniw on a fundamental level. Josh wanted to know more, but he was no fool. The boy would spin a pack of lies, say or do whatever Josh wanted, because that’s how it worked for boys like him. Tell the man what he wanted to hear. Give him enough rope to hang himself, then Kit would be in the wind, off to find another mark, another way to scratch out a living.

Josh suspected that history Kit alluded to with Petilune’s brothers had a lot to do with them running drugs up and down the valley. What his role had been was still up for speculation. Following up on that line of thought, Josh asked, “Do you know the white kids?”

That question turned Kit’s face to stone. He swiped the lank strands of black hair behind his ear and retreated behind a wall of grief and pain.

Josh said, “They nabbed two of them. And the Goggles kids. The one with the knife got away.” There was no reaction, not a whisper of movement. It was creepy enough that Josh had to restrain himself from moving away from the teen. He took a breath, held it, then exhaled slowly.

As if sensing Josh was about to ask more direct questions, Kit stood up. He glanced at the kitchen door and the rectangle of light on the wood porch. His features melted into an intense yearning that morphed to resignation as he jumped off the steps and walked quickly toward the bike.

Josh lunged to his feet and followed. By the time he got to the front of the house, Kit had wheeled the bike around and was securing a helmet to the back seat support. Josh noted the kid wasn’t wearing one. Motorcycle helmets weren’t required in the state, but the fact he had one suggested he’d bought it for Petilune. That it looked new confirmed Josh’s suspicion.

Even after a shortened version of twenty questions, Josh still knew too damn little about the boy—where he was from, why he was here, how long he intended to stay. Marcus had found out that “Giniw” meant Golden Eagle, and if his tribe of origin followed similar traditions to those in Wyoming, his current surname was conferred when he reached puberty. That factoid might be an entrée into the psyche of the teen. If he could get him to talk about it.

As Kit settled on the bike, Josh asked, “Why Golden Eagle?”

Kit glared at the ground, considering the question. Josh pressed him because this was as personal and intrusive as it could get. He was looking for insights into what made the kid tick, mostly because he and Marcus were going to need everything they could bring to bear to keep Petilune from being irretrievably harmed. The kid had triggers, they all did, those who’d come through hell and emerged on the other side, whole or in parts. Finding those would be key.

“Did you select it, your name?” He got a nod and asked, “Why? What’s it mean?”

Josh stared at the sudden play of emotions over Kit’s face. No one, certainly not a boy scratching at the door to the world of men, deserved to bear the burden of pain and disenfranchisement that haunted so many of the kids from the rez. No matter how others saw him, Kit knew in the darkest reaches of his heart that he was lost, that there was no lifeline waiting for him, no light at the end of a tunnel, nothing and no one to rely on but himself.

Josh knew and understood the consequences of the solitary confinement your brain imposed in order to protect what was left after all the others had helped themselves to pieces of your soul. He would change that if he could, if the boy would allow it, though Josh knew it would never happen. The best he and Marcus could do was keep the one thing the boy cared about safe.

Kit rolled the bike off the kickstand and reached for the ignition. Josh stayed his hand and said, “They’ll be coming after you, Giniw. Ted Sorenson was asking if I’d seen another Native American teen leaving the parking lot.” Kit could have countered with,
and what did you tell him
, but he didn’t.

The words...
I’ve got history...
niggled at Josh. Whether or not Kit had a part in whatever was happening between the Goggles brothers and the gang of white thugs, he was certain Jackie and Joey would be spinning a mountain of lies destined to bury Kit and anyone else in the fallout zone.

If Sorenson managed to find and take Kit in for questioning, it wouldn’t take the PD long to determine if they had a bona fide felon on their hands. Even if they couldn’t find a record, the kid was the stranger in town, the one not like the others. The lost were always expendable because they never had anyone to speak for them.

Josh said a prayer that, in this case, it wouldn’t go down that way.

The engine roared to life, but before peeling away, Kit shouted, “Freedom. It means freedom.”

Josh watched the taillights disappear behind a stand of pine, the roar of the engine gradually fading. There was no reason on God’s green earth for him to feel any affinity for the boy, but he couldn’t help the tug of empathy, the sense of responsibility to make right what someone else had tried to destroy. He had no idea how far gone the kid was, or if there was anything he could do to begin the process of recovery, but he damned well couldn’t not try.

Besides, he and Marcus had Petilune to show them the way.

****

M
arcus was sitting in the ancient recliner when Josh entered the house. To Josh’s question about the girl, Marcus said, “I put her in the spare bedroom. It took a while but she finally fell asleep. I think she’ll be fine for now.”

Josh noted, “You don’t look fine. Can I get you anything?”

“Nah, thanks. I found aspirin in the kitchen, took three.” He yawned and stretched. That prompted a groan and the admission he was nearly dead on his feet.

“Why don’t you go lay down in my room?”

Marcus objected, “But what about you?” and then mumbled, “I can go home...”

“No, you can’t and you won’t.” Josh pulled Marcus out of the chair and led him into the bedroom. He pushed the man onto the bed, removed his boots and helped him wiggle out of his pants and shirt, folding the clothing neatly and setting the items on the dresser. When he returned to the bed, he asked, “Who’s president?”

Marcus grinned. “Putin.”

“Close enough. Now sleep. I’ll check on you and Pet later.”

“Wait, what’re you gonna do?”

Josh removed the Glock from his waistband and said, “I’ll be on the porch for a bit.” At Marcus’ pained expression, he said, “Don’t worry, I don’t intend to leave you alone.”

Pausing at Marcus’ sharp intake of breath, Josh set his lips in a thin line and added in a whisper, “...ever.”

––––––––

M
arcus woke up in a blind panic, unsure of where he was and not exactly clear on
who
he was. It took Petilune’s sweet, “Uncle Marcus, are you okay,” then his nod, followed by, “because we have to open at the store this morning.”

He pulled the blanket higher, painfully aware he was naked from the waist up and too fuzzy-brained to know if there was anything from the waist down, because holy hell he’d been having the dream to end all dreams. And it wasn’t the kind that usually left him in a tizzy, with tears and regret and a flailing against fate because he’d lost the only person he’d ever loved.