CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Bernard, Starr thought, recalling in a flash the tribal meeting at which he’d presented, and her brief meeting with him in city hall. And afterward, when she’d seen him at the library.

Bernard was responsible for Chenoa being held captive in this cave? Starr tried to notch all the pieces into place. Bernard had taken Chenoa. If he hadn’t, Holder would have.

The men began talking again, but Starr didn’t care. Chenoa. Starr could make out the shape of her now, huddled along the same stone wall of the cave. I’m here. She wanted to comfort Chenoa, to let her know she would take her out of here, take her away from this place, these men, this terrifying moment. The most important thing—the only thing—was that Chenoa was alive. Not twice gone, like the other rez girls. Like Quinn.

Starr shifted her back against the stone and inched closer to Chenoa, counting on the argument that was building between Holder and Bernard to distract them. Chenoa was subdued, her body listing away from Starr. She’d carry her out of here if she needed to, but first she had to get her bearings. Make a plan.

Starr looked around. On the opposite wall was a weak semicircle of light from a lantern that hung on a hook jutting from the rock. The ceiling was low, she thought, and she felt the panic of tight spaces. Antlers were strewn here and there, casting strange shadows. Wooden crates were stacked in a tower near the lantern, a silk scarf spilling out of one, and on the floor of the cave below it there was a woman’s boot.

“You in this with the mayor?” Holder said. “I know you helped her present the drilling agreement, that you were—how did she put it?—the logistics guy, the finance guy.”

“True, so true,” Bernard said. “But I’m in this for myself. What I had, see, was access. To budget information. Information that could come in handy to, for example, stop a project like this. Problem was that it came together faster than I expected, and what I needed was time. Time to reveal the mayor’s financial crimes so I could continue with my hobbies. I’m quite a mineralogist.”

Starr watched Bernard’s hands reach into the light, where he grabbed a metal coffee can, peeled back its plastic lid and pushed his fingers into it. He let a handful of white chalky soil fall from his hand into the can, a puff of dust churning above it.

“How well do you know the mayor?” Bernard said, and when Holder didn’t answer, he shrugged and kept going. “I see. Not as well as you probably think. Hired you to smooth the way, did she? Keep this girl from sharing news of these endangered whatever they are. No matter now. I’ve just made public the proof that she’s been embezzling funds from the city. Can’t have her digging up my past. You can see my history for yourself, there in the crate. The one on top.”

Holder reached into the box, then held up a stack of Polaroids. He shuffled through them, winced and dropped them. “Well, how ’bout that?” he said. “These pictures. They your doin’?”

“Well, a man can have more than one hobby. And now”—he motioned toward Chenoa—“you and I have a secret.”

Starr shuddered, knowing too well what the images must be. She turned her attention to Chenoa. Whatever had happened before Starr arrived, at least Chenoa was alive. She could see Chenoa’s tears sparkle in the lantern light.

Starr wanted to sprout antlers, feel them tear through her scalp, rise out of her tangled hair. She wanted to turn her feet into hooves, turn her life into one final strike of vengeance. But there she stayed. Able to do nothing.

In the end, it was her fault, wasn’t it? Her failings, her daughter dead and gone. And the one thing she’d never told anyone about that night.

Starr had told Quinn to go. Screamed it at her, in fact.

They’d fought that night, in the hours before Quinn’s murder, cabinets slamming in the kitchen, Quinn relentless with her pushing. Starr had hung tight for so long, such an exhaustingly long time, but it was just her alone to withstand the constant buffeting of rules and wants and requests and demands and slights and sass. It had been an achingly arduous day; she’d come off a seventy-two-hour investigation that hadn’t amounted to much, despite all her efforts. And still she had to go back to the station. The victim’s family was coming in…the family…anxious for answers and she had none. She knew she wouldn’t have any, no matter how well she followed every thread.

And here was Quinn, a volley of demands. In the end Starr had told her to go, when what Quinn needed was the demand that she stay. Instantly Starr regretted it, but she’d been so vigilant for the girl’s entire life. The bicycle helmets, the seat belts, the stranger warnings; every little thing she’d watched and managed; everything she’d cajoled and commanded the girl to do for her own safety; the endless calls and texts to other parents to confirm plans.

In the end, just that one time, she’d told her: Go.

Starr’s shoulders wracked with sudden pain, a seizure of sobs without sound, her face frozen in horror at her own shortcomings. Who did she think she was, that she could come out here and save this girl? She was angry. She wanted justice for fucking once. But she wasn’t Deer Woman. As much as she had wanted to be, it was something out of reach.

She knew the grief had turned her mean. There was a snake inside her, its lean, taut muscles curling around her organs, gripping her heart and squeezing her lungs. She could feel fangs erupting through her gums, knew that if she opened her mouth wide her jaw would unhinge and she could sink her teeth into flesh and swallow someone whole. What was she without a child, without her child? She was carrying a betrayal heavy as a life she couldn’t lay down.

“Knew I’d never stop,” Starr heard Bernard say. “Knew it would get the best of me someday, even though I was careful. Buried the first one out here. I was still in high school. Did the next one in college. A few after that. And now her.”

Rage warmed Starr like a fire that had been lit a long time ago. The old frustration came back. A thousand interruptions. A hundred small cuts. A knife in the sternum. An arrow in the back. A scream in her mind. It built until she was the frustration itself, a whirling dervish with a maw like a cave at high tide, pulling in all the water and everything that came with it—boats, shells, sailors—and pummeling it all to fine grains of white sand, so violent the color changed into one sparkling hue.