Black Sheep (21 page)

Running, she was running through the trees, blood on her hands. So much blood. She
stopped. Stared at her hands. Started to scream.

“Caitlyn. Caitlyn, wake up.” A man’s voice silenced her screams.

She blinked away the blood. Saw Paul leaning over her. “You’re having one of your
dreams.” He crouched down beside her chair, pulled her close to him, his warmth easing
her shakes. “I thought I should wake you before—”

Before she began screaming in real life. Like she had so many times before.

She pushed him away, sucked in a breath to steady herself. Paul knew too many of her
vulnerabilities. She’d taken that—him—for granted. Started to depend on his strength
rather than her own. Fine when she was recovering from brain surgery and almost being
killed by a psychopath. After all, who could resist Paul’s easy smile and the way
he offered comfort so readily? She’d thought she wanted dependable, reliable—that
was Paul. Now she realized it was a mistake. Big mistake.

She needed to depend on herself, not someone else. Not even someone as nice as Paul.

“I’m fine.” The tremble in her voice said otherwise. “What time is it?”

“It’s around six.” He slid onto the other chair, his gaze never leaving her face.
She turned away from his scrutiny. “Don’t you think it’s time you told me about your
father?”

She breathed in and out again. The air in the room felt heavy—or maybe that was her
heart. Weighed down by memory. And the thought of leaving Paul. She felt like she
owed him this, the final answer, the reason why she could never be with him. Be with
anyone. “I never told you how he died, did I?”

“No. Just that you were the one who—that you found him.”

She nodded even though she still faced away from him. “I was nine. My dad worked long
hours. Four days or nights a week for the sheriff, then days off he’d work for my
best friend’s father, Eli Hale, help him build houses.”

“Hale. And now you’re searching for his daughter.”

“Lena. Eli’s youngest. Just a baby when I saw her last. Anyway, it was a beautiful
spring day and my father wasn’t working so I skipped school and stayed home, hid beneath
the porch—my favorite hiding place, warm in the winter, cool in the summer. Dry most
of the year. I thought my father would be fishing, such a beautiful day, and I wanted
to go with him.”

She remembered the sun slanting through the latticework, casting shadows on the packed
earth at her feet. So warm. Dad would be angry with her about missing school but he’d
also laugh at her boldness. He always told her never to be afraid to be brave or bold
if she knew it was the right thing. And with so much going wrong in Evergreen recently,
she knew taking her father fishing, making him laugh and forget his worries if only
for a day, was the right thing to do.

“The grown-ups were all so worried and frightened,” she continued. “Tommy Shadwick
had been killed on the reservation a few weeks before. Beaten to death with a hammer
and his house burned down. Folks whispered and locked their doors for the first time
ever. But us kids, to us it was all an adventure—something exciting had finally happened
in our tiny, dreary town.”

He scooted his chair closer to hers, wrapped his arms around her from behind. Sheer
reflex had her leaning into his embrace. She just couldn’t help herself. At least
that was her excuse. “Your dad, he was investigating this man’s death?”

“No. Tribal police were. And the FBI. The sheriff was working with them, of course.
But Tommy Shadwick’s death was more than a case to Dad. He wasn’t sleeping, was always
arguing with Mom and Mr. Hale. Mr. Hale was getting ready to do something Dad didn’t
want him to do, something Dad thought was wrong. We didn’t understand it at the time—all
we knew was every time we walked in a room with the grown-ups, they’d shush and send
us away. Then came the day Mr. Hale came and told my dad to arrest him. Said he’d
killed Tommy Shadwick. They found the hammer in his truck, blood still on it. My dad
came home that night, didn’t know I was awake, waiting for him. First time I ever
saw him cry.”

Paul stiffened and she realized he’d already figured out the ending of her sorry story.
“So that day you skipped school—”

“I fell asleep under the porch. The sound of the shots woke me up. I ran upstairs.
And there he was. Blood. Gun at his hand. Dead. All because of Eli Hale. I learned
later Dad had initially provided an alibi for Eli. Even after Eli confessed, Dad maintained
his innocence, said he couldn’t have done it. But obviously he was wrong. Eli killed
that man. Just like he killed my dad—or good as.”

“So that’s why you’re always running. You need to abandon everyone before they have
a chance to abandon you.” His hands tightened around her, and he lay his head on her
shoulder. “You can stop your running now. I’m here for the long haul, Caitlyn.”

Yes, but was she? She rubbed at the scar on her temple, drew in her breath, searched
for the courage to tell him the truth: she was broken, damaged beyond even his ability
to heal. But she couldn’t find the words. Knowing herself a coward, she pulled free
of his embrace. “What are you, a radiologist or a shrink?”

His smile was forced but he didn’t push the issue. “I’m whatever you need me to be.”

“Well, right now I sure could use a fresh pair of eyes and someone who knows their
way around a search engine.” She showed him the materials she’d listed from Lena’s
research and law review project. “Think you can help me fill in the blanks?”

“Sure, no problem. Are you going to get some sleep?”

She wished. “No. I need to visit an old friend. It won’t take long.”

“Your mom and uncle invited us to brunch at eleven. I think it’d be nice if we both
were there. On time.” Paul was ten minutes early for everything, just like her mom.
Drove her crazy that to them being on time—give or take a minute or two—was the same
as being late.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be there.”

*   *   *

Goose about shit himself when he got back to the VistaView and Tierney wasn’t in her
room. No way he was about to tell Poppy he screwed up.

He still had no idea where the law student fit into anything, but if Wilson did his
job, Tierney wouldn’t be a problem after today. Then all they’d need would be to find
the cash.

He found Tierney’s car in the garage and placed a GPS tracker on it. Then he went
to bed, his cell phone and laptop set to alert him of any activity. Surprisingly it
was the laptop that buzzed him awake at around six in the morning, the keystroke recorder
faithfully creating a copy of everything Tierney did.

Nice. Now that he had her password, once she logged off, he could gain access to her
computer. From the WiFi code, she had moved to room 313. He couldn’t see the result
of her Internet searches but he could see what she was searching for. What the hell
was she working? Some kind of antique fraud involving Indian artifacts? She was looking
at stuff from the eighteen hundreds but also checking out the Reapers and Poppy and
some Indian guy who got killed a quarter century ago.

Maybe she was sleep surfing. Because he sure as hell couldn’t fit it all together.

One thing for sure. This was about a lot more than some missing law student.

His curiosity nagged at him and he set about re-creating her searches on his machine.
No links that he could find between the tribal elder’s death and the Reapers, but
he did figure out what she was looking for in the Eastern Band’s history. The elder
dude was opposing some law that would allow the descendants of the Cherokee’s black
slaves to become tribe members. And his argument was based on something called the
Freedmen Pact that the tribe had negotiated way back after the Civil War. Mirroring
Caitlyn, he searched for a copy of the pact but came up empty.

That’s when his phone alarmed. Tierney was on the move. But how could she be? She
was still typing on her computer.

Shit. It was the boyfriend doing all the searches on the Indians. Probably the only
thing Tierney had checked out was the Reapers. Made sense, the guy looked like an
academic, had no clue how to handle himself in the real world. What did a woman like
Tierney see in a guy like that anyway?

He grabbed his laptop, shoved it into his bag, and ran down to his bike. He could
just leave her to Wilson and Karlee, but something about Tierney pulled at him. That
pixie haircut, the scars she didn’t hide, the way she faced the world head-on … he
had no idea but he couldn’t deny the temptation.

Wherever Tierney was going, he was going with her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

It never hurt to play nice with the locals—in fact, compared with her colleagues at
the Bureau, Caitlyn was usually pretty darn good at it. Blame it on her dad, but she
had a soft spot for small-town law enforcement, understood the pressures they were
under and the uphill battle they fought with limited resources.

Despite it being a Saturday morning, Sheriff Markle was in his office, sipping coffee
with one hand and hunting and pecking on a keyboard with the other. No sign of a secretary,
probably couldn’t afford the overtime, so Caitlyn knocked on his open door to announce
herself.

“I should’ve made an appointment,” she said. “You look busy.”

“It’s this damn poker run. Got all my men working traffic.” He looked up, nodded to
the chair in front of his desk. Leaned back in his own, both hands wrapped around
his mug of coffee. Didn’t offer Caitlyn any—not that she wanted any, from the looks
of the brown stains on the coffeemaker sitting on the credenza behind him. “So, what
can I do for the FBI?”

She tried a conciliatory smile. “Not the FBI. Just me.”

“Just you.” He took a sip of coffee and considered that. “Daughter of an old friend,
former colleague, guess I can spare you a few minutes. What can I do for you, Caitlyn
Tierney?”

“I’m still looking for Lena Hale.”

“Right.” He tapped his computer screen. “Durham PD issued an ATL, so my guys are all
looking for her or her vehicle.”

The attempt to locate would help—if any law enforcement officer spotted Lena’s Honda
and ran the plates through NCIC, it would show up.

“I was hoping you could tell me more about the research she was doing here,” Caitlyn
said. “Her roommate told me she was researching Cherokee tribal laws from the eighteen
hundreds, but you said she was asking about my dad’s death. I don’t get how the two
could possibly be related.”

“You know anything about the man Eli Hale killed?”

She decided to play dumb. Better to hear it firsthand from someone involved in the
investigation than old newspaper articles. “Just that he was an Eastern Band tribal
elder. That’s what bought Hale the federal time. And that my dad thought Hale was
innocent.”

“Elder’s name was Tommy Shadwick. Good guy but liked the limelight—always had to take
the opposing view on anything, just so he could have his say. Know the type?”

“I’ve worked with a few.”

“Pain in the butt. The council would approve something, say, new street signs so emergency
crews could get where they needed to be faster. Then at the last minute, Tommy’d insist
they be printed in both English and Cherokee. You got any idea how expensive and time
consuming it is to hand-letter a few hundred street signs? In reflective paint, no
less? But that was Tommy. Said he just wanted to keep the tribe connected to their
roots.”

“Isn’t that out of your jurisdiction?”

“Sure. But around here there’s a lot of miles to patrol and not so many lawmen to
do it. So me and the tribal police chief, we keep in touch. Try to have lunch together
every week or so. Sometimes the Bryson City chief or the chief ranger from the park
stops in as well. Kind of a mutual-aid, intelligence-sharing thing.”

“So this Tommy Shadwick was a bit of a rabble-rouser. What was Hale’s beef with him?”

“Now, that’s where the ancient history comes in. You’ve heard of the freedmen?”

“Yes.”

“Hale wanted his family reinstated on the tribal rolls, and Shadwick was blocking
it.”

Didn’t seem like much of a motive for murder. “And that’s why Hale bludgeoned Shadwick
with a hammer and burned his house down to try to cover it up?”

“Yep. That’s what Eli Hale confessed to. It was his hammer. Because of the damage
to the body done by the fire, the time of death was only approximate, so your dad’s
alibi for Hale wasn’t enough to clear him. Plus the fire destroyed any other evidence.
And did I mention the man confessed?” He shook his head. “Never did understand why
your dad stood by him. Refused to let it go. Stubborn.” He raised his mug in a salute.
“Guess you inherited that from him.”

Caitlyn couldn’t deny it. Her stubbornness had gotten her into—and out of—more trouble
than she cared to admit. “Still, sounds like a pretty circumstantial case. Why didn’t
Hale just shut his mouth? Any decent lawyer could’ve gotten him off.”

“Guess the guilt got to him. Once he confessed he never wavered on any of the details.
Man was like a broken record. He drove to Tommy’s house, they argued, he got his hammer
from his truck and went back, killed Tommy, doused the body in gasoline, lit a match,
and left. The end.” A phone rang in the outer office. The sheriff looked past her
for a moment, but otherwise ignored it. “Twenty-six years no one ever questioned Hale’s
guilt or tried to prove him innocent. Except your father and Hale’s girl.”

“Do you think he was guilty?”

He shrugged. “Not my case, not my call. But why would a guy confess and serve life
for something he didn’t do?”

Good point. “And my dad’s death? Why was Lena asking about him?”

Funny how she shied away from the term
suicide
now. In the past she’d always forced herself to face it head-on—bolstering her armor
by refusing to deny it. But now … now it didn’t feel quite right.

“I’m not sure. There was never any question who killed Sean—you know that better than
anyone. It was just you and him at the house, you found him minutes after the shot
was fired. Nothing to question.”