In the Arms of Stone Angels (4 page)

I owed him that much.

But as I was putting the last of my shopping bags into the trunk of the Subaru, a truck barreled up to my car and screeched its tires behind me. My heart jumped and so did I. When I turned, the chrome grill of the truck was only a couple of feet from my legs.

And a familiar face was smirking at me through the windshield—Derek Bast. He wasn't alone. Bullies like Derek traveled in herds. They dressed alike. And looked alike. No-neck bubbas in muscle shirts who wore sweats that reminded everyone they were jocks—like “duh,” anyone could forget. But Derek's brain-dead crew was meaner than most.

They were clones of Derek, a semihuman version of a junk-yard dog. And to make matters worse, Derek was the nephew of Sheriff Logan. That had always bought him special treatment in town, but his status as a football jock had apparently earned him even more star power. I'd read about him and some of the other kids in Shawano on Facebook after I'd left the state.

I knew they wouldn't “friend” me if they recognized my name and photo so I made up an online name, “Rolo Girl.” I was addicted to chocolate and had the zits to prove it, but the chewy caramel center in a Rolo had reminded me of the color of White Bird's skin, so I was hooked. And for my Facebook photo, I took a pic of my “screw you” toes and posted it. That worked for me, so I became one of the two thousand plus friends Jade DeLuca had on Facebook. And with her being
the apparent heir to Heather's vacant throne, Derek was always on her page, the idiot.

Whenever he got out of control, everyone in this town knew how to turn the other way and Derek had always known how to take advantage of that.

Mr. Teflon scared me plenty.

“Well, look who's back, guys.” Derek got out of his truck and his boys followed. Four of his buddies slipped beside him and blocked me in. I couldn't run, even if I wanted to. “Guess you didn't get it through your thick skull the first time. Your pal, Tonto, killed a white girl. And he's gonna pay for that. He can't hide forever, pretending to be a retard.”

Derek backed me against my car and I could barely breathe. And when I didn't say anything, he wouldn't let it go. From the corner of my eye, I saw shoppers coming out of Home Depot. Most of them rushed by and didn't make eye contact. No one was going to help me…until one woman grabbed her cell and made a call. I hoped she dialed 911, but I couldn't be sure.

“That damned Indian killed Heather. Ain't you got nothin' to say?” He stared down at me. “He's gonna pay when they stick a needle in his arm.” I felt his bully friends close in and the heat mixed with the stink of sweat and body odor. It was so bad that I had to hold my breath, but Derek's words were even more torture.

I imagined White Bird strapped to a table in an execution room and it scared the hell out of me—like I needed something else to keep me up nights.

“He hasn't been convicted. His case never went to court.” I swallowed hard and raised my chin, digging deep for a little defiance.

Being related to the sheriff, Derek wasn't stupid enough to
beat me up in broad daylight, not when there'd be witnesses. But what scared me was what I knew would come. This redneck was only getting started. I had to curb my inner smart-ass and keep my mouth shut or I'd pay later when the jerk could corner me without witnesses. If I pissed him off now, that's what would happen for sure. I had to play it right and let him think he'd won this round.

“Oh, but he's guilty. And we all know it.” Derek got in my face, close enough for me to smell his bad breath and get a zoom on his zits. One on his chin was ripe. The dude seriously needed to harvest.

“If you're so sure, why are you hassling me?” It was the only comeback I could think of.
Lame, I know.
I had no business arguing with a guy who could break me like a twig. And I didn't want to die in the parking lot of Home Depot, especially on an empty stomach.

“You were screwing him, weren't you?” he said.

With guys like Derek, it always came back to sex.
What a tool!
He couldn't see a guy being friends with a girl. Correct that, friendship between a white girl and a Native American boy was off-limits in his pea brain. Guys like Derek shouldn't be allowed to breed.

When I opened my mouth to speak—completely unsure what I'd say—I saw a police patrol car coming and I breathed a sigh of relief when Derek saw it, too. He backed off and leaned against his truck, crossing his beefy arms and acting all innocent.
The jerk!

“Is everything okay here? Derek, is that you?” A deputy I didn't recognize took in the scene. “What's going on?”

He was older than Will Tate, the cop who had found me at the cemetery. But this guy saw I had shopping bags in my trunk and that Derek and his buddies had blocked my car.

I glared at Derek and made him sweat more than he already was. I could have narked him out, but I knew it wouldn't end with me filing a complaint for the sheriff's office to deal with. Derek was the kind of guy who hated losing, especially to a girl.

“Nothing, Deputy. I was heading home. My mom had me running errands, but she's expecting me. I gotta bounce.” I avoided looking at Derek when I slammed my trunk. He was a guy who had worked hard on his body, but anything above his shoulders needed a serious “do over.” All I wanted to do was get out in one piece.

“Then you better back up your rig, son. Let the little lady out. You're in her way.”

The deputy stepped between us and got Derek to back off my bumper. And in my rearview mirror as I drove away, I saw that the deputy wasn't done with the beef boy squad. He kept Derek talking while I drove off the lot. Hell, they were even laughing like it was a damned frat party. Although the cop had given me a head start, I wasn't dumb enough to believe it was over between me and Derek and his no-neck buddies. Guys like him never let anything go, but I had better things to do.

And all I had on my mind now was seeing White Bird.

Red Cliffs Hospital

Wearing torn jeans and a striped tee with a long scarf, I slipped through the automatic double doors of the hospital and pulled my cap down. With large dark sunglasses, my face would be hidden. I had no idea if anyone would know me at this place, but keeping a low profile wouldn't hurt.

I pretended to know where I was going. And when it looked as if no one was watching me, I followed signs down a corridor
that led me to a reception area for visitors wanting to see patients held in detention. Picking an inconspicuous place to sit, I flipped through magazines and looked bored while I watched the guard and nurse at a desk located outside a locked door. I sat long enough to look like a permanent fixture. Even my butt had gone numb.

There was enough activity so that my loitering didn't stand out. I kept my head down and sunglasses on, even inside the hospital. Eventually, no one looked at me twice. People came and went, signing a register on the desk. And they showed ID. I got a feel for what was normal and listened to conversations. I even talked to a girl my age that I had followed into the bathroom. She told me what to expect inside after I said this was my first time visiting my old man. I told her it was his birthday and my mother made me come. She bought my story and helped me figure stuff out.

Eventually I got the guts to make a move when the security guard took a break and left the nurse alone at the desk. I signed in using my name because I knew they would ask for ID. I scribbled my name so bad, I knew they wouldn't be able to read it later. And on the register, under the column for patient name, I listed someone I had seen on the log from an earlier visitor. I kept my head down and acted like I'd done this a hundred times.

The nurse buzzed me through the locked door. Once I got inside, I followed the signs to a large room where visitors met with patients. I didn't see White Bird anywhere. I looked up and down the hallways beyond the visitor area, too. Nothing. Beyond the locked door, I had limited places to go that I wouldn't get noticed. I hadn't counted on that. I thought that once I got past the closed door, I could roam down
the halls looking for White Bird's room, but that wouldn't happen now.

My trip to the hospital had been a stupid idea.

I didn't know what I was doing. And if I got caught now, there'd be no explaining it. I'd get busted and Mom would know exactly what I'd been up to.
Shit!
I had almost given up until I saw a patient in blue pajamas and a matching robe being wheeled down the corridor by a nurse. I noticed they were heading toward a glass door that led outside. And I had nothing to lose, so I raced toward the door and opened it for the nurse.

“Thanks, honey. You visiting someone?” the black woman in uniform asked. She had a big friendly smile, so I grinned back.

“Yeah, they told me my dad was out here. I came to look.” Most days I barely got two words out of my mouth, but for some reason, lying came easy. It was an aptitude I didn't want to think about. And talking about my dad—the sperm donor I'd never met—felt strange, too. He was more of a concept than a real person to me.

“Well, if you don't find him, go back to reception and they'll help you.” She smiled again and wheeled her patient toward a patio. “Take care now.”

“Thanks.” I waved, even though the nurse had turned her back.

Outside the hospital was a fenced-in area that surrounded a garden with walkways and a series of covered patios for patients to sit. It was beautiful and peaceful. And if someone could forget they were locked up in a boot camp for loonies, surrounded by razor wire and security guards, the grounds weren't half-bad.

But I hadn't come for the scenery.

Looking for White Bird, I walked through the gardens, deathly afraid I wouldn't recognize him even if I found him. I hadn't seen him in two years. And two years was a lifetime, considering what I remembered of the last time I saw him at the creek on that horrible morning.

A flash of dark memories raced through my mind and made me sick with worry. I pictured him caught somewhere between the innocence of the boy I had first met at the creek—the one with the gentleness to heal a small bird—and the crazed killer capable of murdering a young girl nearly his own age.

Someone like…me.

I had walked the last of the patios and hadn't seen anyone as young as White Bird. My heart sank as a wave of nausea hit me. When I thought about turning around and heading home, giving up on all I had hoped would happen today, that's when I saw a guy in a wheelchair under some trees near the high fence. He was alone and his back was to me.

My heart crammed in my throat as I walked toward him. And I had trouble breathing. I desperately wanted it to be him. It
had
to be him. And when tears filled my eyes, I fought the lump in my throat and clenched my hands into fists.

“Please, God. Let it be White Bird,” I whispered as a tear slid down my cheek.

I wasn't sure God would listen to me. He never had before.

Red Cliffs Hospital

As I walked toward the guy in the wheelchair, my stomach twisted into knots. I couldn't catch my breath, but I kept walking anyway, unable to take my eyes off him. The sun, the trees and the people on the grounds of the mental hospital, they faded to nothing. All I saw was that boy slumped in the chair with his head too heavy to lift. He wore pale blue hospital scrubs and a white robe with slippers on his feet. And when I got close enough, I took off my sunglasses and knelt in front of him—crying.

It was White Bird.

He looked thinner, not like the strong boy I remembered. His golden skin that once looked like sweet caramel had turned pale. And someone had cut his long black hair to make him conform to what they thought he should be. If White Bird knew what they'd done, he would have fought them. And I would have given anything to see the fire in his eyes again.
But in his condition, he had no fight left. His keen, dark eyes were glazed over and empty.
Dead
. With his arms limp in his lap, he stared into a world only he could see.

And it broke my heart to see him so lost.

“Oh, my God. What have they done to you?” I whispered, not recognizing my own voice. “What have I done?”

I reached out a trembling hand and pulled it back. I wanted to touch him, but I didn't deserve to be comforted by that touch. I had played a part in putting him here. And if he could truly see, I knew he would glare in anger at my betrayal. Every time I looked in the mirror, I stared back at myself with the same blame.

“White Bird.” I said his name and lowered my head to meet his gaze. “It's me, Brenna. Brenna Nash. Remember me?”

The words stuck in my throat.
How the hell could he forget me? You're an idiot, Bren!
Tears stung my eyes. And I had no idea what to say.

Over the past two years, any suffering I had done wasn't enough, not compared to what had happened to him. The life had drained from him. His body was nothing but an empty shell where my friend used to be. I clutched my hands tight on the armrests to his wheelchair until my fingers ached. And bile rose hot in my belly.

None of this was right!

“Please…look at me. I have to—” I stopped.

What did I have to do? I wanted to know what had happened. Why had this gentle boy killed Heather? It made no sense. And yet I couldn't shake the images I saw that morning from my head. The reality of what I had seen blocked everything out.

“I have to know what happened. Why did you…?” I swallowed, hard. I couldn't bring myself to ask why he'd killed
Heather. Saying it aloud made it real. Saying it aloud meant I had accepted it.

But why did I have to know what happened? Did my reason have more to do with letting me off the guilt hook? I hated myself for even wondering that. If he were guilty of murder, that would justify what I had done by turning him in. But guilty or innocent, I should have stood by my friend. Why hadn't I done that? Why had I skulked out of town with my tail between my legs like a damned coward? He was my friend and I abandoned him to a town full of strangers. He had no parents or anyone who believed in him. Not even the tribe he loved had lifted a finger. All anyone saw was a cold-blooded killer, a half-breed Native boy who was different.

I choked on my sobs and wiped away tears, but when I looked at him again, White Bird had lifted his head and stared straight into my eyes.

“White Bird? Can you see me?”

I touched his hand to make a connection after the years we'd been apart. But when I did, something strange happened.

In the blink of an eye, everything turned black and I lost sight of him. I couldn't feel his hand in mine. Hell, I couldn't feel anything. Even the ground under me had dropped away and left me floating weightless in a murky void as if I had spiraled into a dark bottomless pit.

My stomach pitched and rolled. And with a haunting thunder rumbling in the distance, streaks of lightning flashed in violent fury, casting images in a glimmer of bright light. A large bear erupted out of the darkness and gnashed its teeth at me, barely missing my arm. I screamed and the fierce animal roared so loud that the sound blocked out the thunder. When I tried to run from it, I only grasped at air, unable to move in the thick, inky black.

Between the bolts of lightning, I couldn't see at all. And I had no way to stop it.

“Oh, my God. What is this?” I choked.

That's when a strange memory rushed into my mind. The wounded bird that White Bird had healed when we first met flew into my line of sight. It came at me fast and scared me when its wings hit my face. I gasped as the tiny bird thrashed through the void in sheer panic with its beak gaping open.

“White Bird? Where are you?” I called out to him, but he didn't answer.

At first, the memory of the wounded bird had been a comfort. It reminded me of White Bird, as if he'd sent a messenger to me so I wouldn't be afraid. But when I reached for the little thing, to clutch it to my chest, I tumbled forward and the terrified bird got swallowed in the darkness. And a sound from my imagination that I couldn't shake—from countless nightmares—smothered its frantic chirping.

A girl's screams gripped my heart.

I couldn't see her as I spun out of control, but I heard a torturous thud as she cried out in pain—the meaty sound of a knife striking her body. Warm blood splattered my face and I flinched. I could smell it. Taste it. And all I wanted to do was run. I careened through the blackness and toppled end over end, flailing my arms. Everything jumbled together—the bear, the knife, the blood and the gut-wrenching screams that usually invaded my own nightmares. Images and sounds pummeled me from every direction.

“Heather?” I called to her. I knew she was there. I felt her.

But when I yelled, White Bird finally cried out from far away. I heard him. I recognized his voice, but I didn't under
stand what he said. I only knew—with dead certainty—that he was afraid. Did he know I was with him? Did he care?

His cry was the last thing I heard.

I was sucked out of the waking nightmare and thrust into the bright sunlight. Still gripping White Bird's hand, I came to with a gasp. I shielded my eyes from the glare and squinted around me until I remembered where I was—the damned mental hospital.

“Shit! What the hell—” I muttered, panting out of control. “What's happening to me?”

My heart was like a battering ram slamming against my ribs. And I was shaking all over. When I looked at White Bird again, he was slumped back into his wheelchair the way I had found him. It was as if I had never come. Seeing him like that made me deathly afraid that I had imagined the whole thing. Touching him had triggered everything, but maybe that dark nightmarish world had been inside of me.
Me!

Maybe I was the one who deserved to be locked away in a straitjacket.

“I'm sorry. I gotta…get out of here.”

Like the coward that I was, I ran and didn't look back. If I had, I never would have left him alone.

Minutes Later

“Did you see that girl?” Winded, Dr. Sam Ridgeway grabbed the arm of a startled nurse as he rushed from the ward into the outside courtyard. “She was with that patient over there. Isaac Henry.” He pointed to the boy in a wheelchair sitting under trees near the fence.

The nurse turned to where he pointed and shook her head, “No, Doctor. I didn't see anyone with him. As far as I know,
that boy doesn't get visitors. The sheriff's office calls to get his condition from time to time, but that's it. Why?”

“Someone was with him, just now. I saw it from my office window upstairs. She left before I got down here.”

“I'll check with visitor's registration. If he had a visitor, they would have a name.”

“Yes, please do that. And let me know as soon as you can,” he called after the nurse as she headed inside.

Ridgeway raked a hand through his thinning blond hair and heaved a sigh as he stood on the main patio. He searched the faces of the visitors in the garden, but he didn't see the strange girl with long reddish hair dressed in a scarf and hat. In the heat of Oklahoma, the girl had stood out in the way she dressed, but something much more had grabbed his attention.

What forced him to race outside was that the girl had gotten a reaction from the catatonic boy—something electroshock treatments and high doses of benzodiazepines hadn't achieved since Isaac Henry had been admitted two years ago. Every line of treatment had been exhausted and every external stimulus had been tried, but nothing would bring the boy out of his constant, mute stupor. But with the girl in the courtyard, Isaac had raised his head and looked at her, a reaction the doctor had seen with his own eyes and found extraordinary, given the boy's circumstances.

Isaac Henry's case had been very puzzling from the start. And he'd begun to think that something more was at play—something he didn't understand about the Native boy.

But for the first time since he'd taken over the case, he had seen another human being touch Isaac deeply enough for him to lift his head and make real eye contact. Given his condition, that was amazing. Ridgeway kept his focus on the boy as he headed toward him. When he stood beside him, he looked
down and saw no change in Isaac, except something dark was on the ground next to his wheelchair.

A pair of sunglasses.

Ridgeway's conviction that he had seen the girl was confirmed; she'd left something behind. He bent down to pick up the glasses and stared into the vacant eyes of the Native boy.

“Who's your friend, Isaac?” he whispered, not expecting an answer. “You really looked at her, didn't you?”

When the boy didn't respond, the doctor pulled out his cell phone and made a call to the private number of Sheriff Matt Logan. When the call rolled into voice mail, he left a message.

“Hey, Matt, this is Sam. We had a break in the Isaac Henry case. I thought you'd want to know. Call me.”

Ridgeway had been a close family friend of the sheriff of Shawano since they were in high school together. And he had personally taken on the Native boy's case at the request of Matt Logan. As he saw it, his first duty was to his patient and he had to be careful walking the fine line between being a friend to the sheriff and being the doctor in charge of Isaac's case.

But, since the boy had been unfit to stand trial and had been sent to the hospital detention unit for allegedly killing a local girl, that line had blurred in his mind. What would be good for the patient could serve the needs of the town. That's how he reconciled his involvement in a case he would have assigned to another staff member.

Locating the girl who had visited Isaac might put an end to his interminable balancing act.

If he finally broke through the kid's catatonia, he'd do the right thing for his patient. And if that earned him favor with Sheriff Logan—so he could bring the kid's case to trial and
finally render justice for the grieving parents of the dead girl—then he'd reap those benefits, too. Some might even think he was a hero. Of course, the kid would have to pay the price for what he'd done, but at least he'd be fully cognizant of what was happening to him. It wasn't a merciful conclusion, but it was one the kid probably deserved.

Only one thing stood in the way of justice now. With the help of the sheriff, he'd find the girl and convince her to cooperate with him for the good of the town.

How difficult would that be?

 

I can't remember the first time I actually saw a dead person. I've thought about that tons of times, too. When I was a kid, they came to me as strangers, nothing more than faces crowding my sleep. At least, that's how I figured it out later when I accidently read the obituaries and saw a familiar face staring back. And after I went to the library, I found more faces in the newspaper archives. They'd been with me for as long as I could remember and I didn't even know it.

Hell, I thought I had imagined them, until I saw Frank Sullivan when I was ten. It was the first time I realized something wasn't right—
with me.

Mr. Sullivan used to work at the hardware store. He helped Mom whenever she needed to fix things at our house. She always said what a nice guy he was, but one day she quit saying that. Mr. Sullivan had died in a terrible car crash, she'd told me. Guess after he was drunk, he tried to beat a train to the railroad crossing and lost. After Mom told me all about how drinking can get anyone into trouble, even nice guys at hardware stores, we went to his church service.

But months after he'd died, I saw Mr. Sullivan again in broad daylight.

He was dressed only in blue boxer shorts and black socks and was using his severed arm to organize nuts and bolts at the hardware store. I'd thought it was his idea of casual Friday until I remembered hearing the town rumors about the scandal. Apparently Mr. Sullivan died without many clothes on. How he got that way, no one really knew, but plenty of folks had got off on the gossip.

Sure, I acted like seeing him didn't bother me much now, but back then, I nearly peed in my pants. It was scary enough to see an old guy in his underwear, but the whole arm thing really got to me. I pinched myself until I was blue, but I wasn't asleep. And when Mr. Sullivan saw me watching him from down the aisle, he followed me through the store, peeking at me between the shelves. The dead really get off on having an audience, especially when they get caught wearing nothing but underpants.

I stayed close to Mom and after we paid for our stuff, Mr. Sullivan followed us toward the exit. He kept his distance but stopped at the electronic doors and waved his bloody stump at me as we drove away.

I wanted to ask Mom if she'd seen him, but that seemed way too strange, even for me. And I might have to explain my fascination with the obituaries, something Mom had laughed about plenty of times. I quickly found out that nothing is too weird for the internet and the folks who posted stuff online didn't make fun of me.