Black Sheep (10 page)

Finally Jessalyn asked, “What’s the emergency? Paul said something about you going
back to Evergreen. Why on earth would you do that? There’s nothing for you there except
bad memories.”

She was wrong. Evergreen would always be home to Caitlyn’s happiest memories. But
she couldn’t say that to her mom; it would hurt her feelings. Jessalyn had done the
best she could, a single mom, raising a child under traumatic circumstances, dealing
with her own grief. But nothing could take the place of Caitlyn’s dad or heal the
gaping wound his death had torn in her heart.

“It’s Vonnie’s little sister, Lena. She’s gone missing.”

“The Hale girl? What’s that to you?” Acid dripped from Jessalyn’s words. Caitlyn wasn’t
the only one who blamed Eli Hale for Sean Tierney’s death.

“I promised I’d look for her. She’s in trouble.”

“Promised who?” Jessalyn pressed. She was merciless that way.

Caitlyn knew better than to resist. “Her dad. Right before he was killed.”

“Eli Hale is dead?” Her exhalation rattled through the airwaves, and Caitlyn could
almost see Jessalyn’s hand pressed against her throat. “What happened?”

Caitlyn told her about Eli’s murder.

“You saw it? It happened right in front of you? You never should have gone there.
How many times have I told you to leave well enough alone? You’re so darn stubborn.
My God. A prison riot. And you in the middle—”

“It’s my job.” A little white lie. Occasionally necessary when dealing with Jessalyn.
The FBI may have fine-honed Caitlyn’s skills, but it was living with her mother that
had prepared her for undercover work with decades of practical experience in lying
and hiding her emotions.

Sometimes it felt like Jessalyn had more than enough emotions for the both of them.
Anxiety as she fought to protect her daughter from anything bad in the world. Depression
and withdrawal as she struggled to create a new life for them both alone in a strange
town. Forced happiness celebrating even the most minor of milestones as she tried
her best to provide the love of two parents.

“I’m fine, Mom. Calm down.”

“Calm down? I’ll do no such thing. And you, young lady, aren’t going to Evergreen.
The Hales have caused enough pain and suffering in this family, thank you very much.
You call Paul back right this instant and tell him you’re going to the beach.”

“I can’t.” The phone grew hot in Caitlyn’s palm—channeling Jessalyn’s overwrought
emotions, no doubt. “I have to go now.” She’d wanted to ask for Uncle Jimmy’s number,
but hell with it, she could Google it. “Bye, Mom, love you.”

She hung up just as Jessalyn was gulping in air for another ultimatum. Turned the
phone on mute before it could ring again.

The remnants of her pie had congealed into a scarlet mess the shade of freshly shed
blood. Still, she couldn’t resist swiping a finger through the sticky goo and licking
it clean. Just like she and Dad used to do behind Mom’s back.

Her sigh was a strange combination of anxiety, anticipation, and apprehension. Looked
like for the first time in twenty-six years she was going home.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Caitlyn called the roommate back—she’d already forgotten her name—and got directions
to Lena’s apartment in Durham. If she was going to do this, might as well do it right.
Which meant learning as much about Lena as possible.

The apartment was typical grad student housing: tiny galley kitchen, living room–dining
room combo with a single window facing into the next building, two bedrooms with a
bath between them in the back. Maximum spatial efficiency, minimum fuss. But it was
clean, the acrid smell of a fresh vacuuming still filling the air.

The decor mirrored Caitlyn’s own place in Manassas: a combination of Ikea and Goodwill.
The box-like lines of the sofa were softened by a collection of mismatched pillows
and a colorful pashmina thrown over its back.

“So you really think something happened to her?” the roommate asked as she waved Caitlyn
to the couch. “Should I call the police? Report her missing?”

Eli Hale had warned against it, but if someone in Evergreen had Lena then there was
no way Caitlyn could avoid them knowing she was looking for the girl, so she didn’t
see a downside to alerting the authorities. Plus, an official report would let her
use the NCIC database if any law enforcement officer reported a sighting of Lena or
her vehicle.

“That’s probably a good idea. You said she’s been gone five days now without word?”
Caitlyn sat on the sofa—it was more comfortable than it looked—but the roommate kept
pacing.

“Yes. Is that long enough? It’s more than forty-eight hours, right? Gosh, I can’t
believe anything could have happened to her.”

“Actually that’s only in the movies. You can report someone missing at any time if
you have reason to fear for their well-being. They’ll need a recent photo and information
about her car: license plate, color, make, and model.”

“That’s easy, I can do that.” She finally slumped into one of the dining room chairs
gathered around a glass tabletop on a chrome pedestal. “What if she comes back? Will
I get in trouble for reporting her? Will she get in trouble? We’re both applying for
jobs right now—”

“Don’t worry, neither of you will get in trouble.” If a law student had second thoughts
about talking to the police when her friend might be in trouble, what did that say
about the average person?

Caitlyn shook the thoughts aside; local law enforcement PR was not her problem. She
stood. “How about if I look at her room while you collect that information?”

The roommate led her to the second bedroom door then hesitated. “Okay, but don’t move
anything. She has a system.” She opened the door. “You know, she’s fine, I’m sure.
Probably just found some interesting research—Lena is nuts about research, especially
historical stuff. The rarer, the better.”

Caitlyn didn’t burst the roommate’s bubble of denial. She stepped inside the bedroom.
Obviously Lena wasn’t the neat freak of the two. The room was strewn with books and
papers and photos and maps and notebooks, as if a tornado had torn through a library
and deposited the debris here. Whiteboards with scribbled notes in a rainbow of colors
perched on the windowsills and dresser. The only clear space was the twin-sized bed.
It had a sage-green duvet trimmed with lace and a lace accent pillow. No personal
mementos other than a Bible with a worn leather cover sitting on the nightstand and
a few photos in cheap frames lined up on the dresser.

Caitlyn sucked in her breath as she saw the first photo: the one of her and Vonnie
as kids, bundled in snowsuits, covered in mud, laughing. Another of Lena in diapers,
Eli Hale bouncing her in the air as Vonnie looked up, clapping in delight. One of
Lena’s mom curled up on the porch swing of their house in Evergreen, smiling as she
shucked peas.

All ancient history. Taken before Lena could possibly remember. There were two newer
photos: Lena, Vonnie, and their mom at Lena’s high school graduation, and one of Vonnie
and Lena taken at a restaurant, the girls giddy, arms wrapped around each other’s
shoulders, leaning toward the camera.

The entire history of one family gathered on a dresser top. And now Lena was the only
one left. Caitlyn’s smile at seeing Vonnie’s happiness faded, her lips tightening
at the thought of telling Lena how her father died.

Sighing, Catilyn turned to the papers. The maps were of the Qualla Boundary, home
to the Eastern Band of Cherokee. One was dated 2010; the other was a reproduction
of a map from 1883. There was a stack of bound books: copies of the
Duke Law Review,
along with Cherokee Supreme Court, Oklahoma U.S. District Court, and North Carolina
State rulings. Beside the books were printed copies of individual federal and state
cases. From the abstracts, it looked like they all dealt with the Cherokees’ assimilation
of the blacks who’d once been their slaves but then became freedmen.

She snapped photos with her phone. Article title pages as well as the whiteboards
and the calendar scribbled with names and incomprehensible notes. Homework for tonight.

“She was researching an article for the law review,” the roommate explained when she
returned and handed Caitlyn a piece of paper with a photo of Lena and all her pertinent
info printed at the bottom. “That’s one she posted on Facebook a few weeks ago. And
a copy of her student ID, driver’s license, and car registration.”

“She’s not carrying them with her?”

“No, she is. But when she gets into a project, she gets a bit obsessed.” The roommate
gestured to the research materials covering every surface of the room. “More than
once she’s lost her purse, so she keeps copies of everything here. Easier to get new
ones that way.”

“I don’t suppose you have her credit card info as well?”

“Sure. She only has her debit card, her mom didn’t believe in them.” She blew out
her breath, straightening the photos Caitlyn had moved out of place on the dresser.
“I hope she’s okay.”

Caitlyn found a pile of papers that were stacked alone in the far corner as if they
were an offshoot of the main research. They were copies from the State Archives in
Raleigh, all dealing with Qualla Boundary land grants and census information.

“Do you know what all this is about?” She raised the first photocopy, a title page
with old-fashioned print labeled
DEED BOOK R, 1880–1882: RECORDS OF EASTERN BAND OF
CHEROKEES,
and showed it to the roommate.

“That’s what I was telling you about on the phone. After she realized she couldn’t
prove her dad innocent”—she stumbled while putting the sentence together, too polite
to flat-out proclaim Eli Hale guilty—“Lena began working on her law review paper.
It’s really about the Cherokee Nation in Oklahoma, but she wanted to see if there
were any precedents set with the Eastern Band Cherokee who remained in North Carolina.
I guess since her family lived there, right on the edge of the reservation, she was
interested. I’m not sure what she found, but her family was mentioned in some old
record, and she got obsessed with ‘vindicating the family name.’ Whatever that means.”
She finished with a shrug.

“So she went to Evergreen to research her family roots?” Caitlyn looked at the dates
on the archives. “Like back to the eighteen hundreds?”

“Yeah. She wanted to look at as many original documents as possible. And they weren’t
all at the archives in Raleigh. She thought some of them might be in Cherokee in the
tribal records.”

Even if they were, it wouldn’t take a crackerjack researcher like Lena five days to
find them—not to mention five days of not contacting her roommate. The roommate must
have thought the same thing because her hand went to her mouth.

“Oh my God. Something really did happen to her, didn’t it?”

Caitlyn wished she had an answer.

*   *   *

Goose tilted his chair back and ducked his chin into his favorite thinking position.
Something was going on with Bernie. The kid was never what you’d call normal—too lost
in his own fantasies, half here and half inside his head all the time—but last few
days he’d been acting downright weird.

Skipping out early from club parties, coming late to Church, disappearing in the middle
of the day and coming back smelling of dead meat and urine.

If it was anyone but Bernie, Goose would think he’d gone all serial-killer psycho.
Funny, if he had to bet on any of the Reapers pulling a Manson or Dahmer he’d have
tagged Poppy. Even though the dude was in his early sixties, he had eyes dead as steel
that could look daggers through you. Thought nothing of beating the crap out of anyone,
Reaper or not, who got in his way—or better yet, watching as he ordered one of the
other MC members to do his dirty work.

As the new club enforcer, now it was Goose’s turn. It was an honorary title more than
anything. At least Goose hoped so. Poppy’s first order was for him to find the animals
the MC had taken from that schmuck over in Pigeon Forge. Not exactly Tony Soprano
work. Of course, Poppy had added: And find the bastard who stole them from us so I
can kill him. Slowly.

Hard to tell if Poppy was kidding or not. But in his almost year and a half with the
Reapers, Goose had never seen them come close to actually killing anyone. Beating
the crap out of them, sure—just like they spent most weekends beating the crap out
of each other. Pent-up frustrations of being a one-percenter, living on the outer
fringes of society’s bell-shaped curve, outside the law, beyond conforming, true free
spirits.

At least that’s how the MC liked to think of themselves. Really they were a bunch
of guys—mostly out of work like Goose, who used to be a software engineer in Asheville—who
liked to ride, drink, and screw around without anyone telling them what to do.

The ultimate Peter Pan fantasy. Especially when you added in the women who practically
threw themselves at the Reapers and the excitement of low-level illegal activities
like the deal that had gotten them those damn animals in the first place.

Goose had his suspicions about who stole them. Especially as that was right around
the time Bernie started acting all hinky.

The trick was getting the animals back, making Poppy happy, without Poppy knowing
the kid was behind it—not easy given that every time Bernie tried to lie his ears
turned red—and then convincing Poppy there was no need to keep looking for the thief.

Given Poppy’s psychopathic tendencies, a real balancing act.

“Hey, Goose!” Poppy’s roar thundered through the empty bar from his office in the
back. “I got a job for you. Bring that computer of yours. And your gun.”

Gun? Goose scrambled to his feet. He liked the Reapers, the way they’d accepted him
without question, always generous with a drink or a loan or a place to crash after
he lost his job. But sometimes he worried they carried this idea of living on the
fringes of society to extremes.