CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Outside in the cut that ran through the reservation’s wilderness area, snow fell and a gibbous moon began to cast a strange light over the landscape. Inside the cave, Chenoa had been trying to get a better look at the woman hunched next to her.

“Bet this is strange, huh?” said Bernard as he sat down beside Chenoa. After a few seconds, he reached over and put his hand under her chin to make her look at him. She gagged at the feel of his hand, clammy in the frigid cave, and shrank away from him. He was so close she could smell his sour breath.

Holder pointed to Bernard and addressed Starr, who was slipping in and out of lucidity. “Hell, Marshal, you’ve been here a whole week. Think you would have found him out eventually? Enough girls go missing, even you could piece this together, I’ll bet.”

Bernard leaned into Chenoa, peering around her at the marshal, then at Holder.

“Don’t say anything,” said Holder before Bernard had a chance to speak. “Let me think.”

“You bet, big guy,” Bernard said, and then he whispered in Chenoa’s ear, “Give us a chance to get to know each other.”

Maybe Holder would be her way out, Chenoa thought. Maybe he was the better of the two men. Maybe greedy was better than psychotic. Maybe the marshal would have helped, but it sure didn’t look like she could now. Chenoa scooted along the stone wall, away from Bernard and closer to the marshal, whose head had dropped onto her chest.

“So…college, huh?” said Bernard. “I did that. College, I mean. Everything that made me weird here was interesting there. This girl down the hall from me, she thought I was so fascinating.” Bernard closed the distance between himself and Chenoa and leaned on her shoulder, his musty hair tickling her nose. “I was a spider calling to a fly, Come in, come in. She knew what she was doing, egged me on until I wrapped my hands around her neck. I still think of her dark hair dangling over the side of the mattress. Do you know what it’s like to watch a soul leave a body?”

Chenoa didn’t move, though the weight of his head on her shoulder made her want to vomit. She thought of the story her grandmother had told about how to survive the brutality of men: It feels wrong to accept your circumstances, but you must. Otherwise you’ll be paralyzed with shock. Your survival will depend on your ability to fight or flee, or both. You do whatever it takes. Her grandmother had watched the mask of the Deer Woman as she spoke, curling her fingers under until her hands looked remarkably like hooves.

“It’s not sad,” Bernard continued, “not at all. It’s beautiful, better than a drug. The only way I could get some relief was to do it again. So I did. There have been so many now. One just last week, in fact, not too far from here. There is nothing like being able to relax after the girls have gone quiet. That’s the best part, the after. I didn’t know that with Loxie; I was too scared of what I’d done.”

Bernard took his head off her shoulder and turned his mouth toward her, close enough to brush his lips across her cheek. She wanted to bash his skull, gore his belly, kick his teeth in. She steadied her breathing over the thumping of her heart. She’d find a way out.

Holder, who had been steadily pacing and muttering, stopped to stare at Bernard, mouth agape.

“Get outta town,” Holder said, training his eyes on Bernard. “That dead girl by the creek was you? Damn, boy. You get around.”

Starr, who had come to, listened intently. She could feel Chenoa beside her, practically vibrating with fear or anger or white-hot hatred. Good. Whatever the girl felt, it was fuel.

Beside the crates, the dull gleam of a bent golf club caught Starr’s eye. Holder reached for it, as if her thoughts had sent him to it. He regarded the club for a moment, then held it in a putting stance.

“You golf?” Holder took a few strokes with the club.

“Stole that from the mayor. Thought I might use it to make her look guilty, sabotage the road construction before Blackstream started to drill out here.” Bernard stood and walked to Holder. “Had it the night I presented the city’s offer to the tribal council. Didn’t think I would use it yet, but when I left the community building the parking lot was still crowded with people watching the fight, so I drove around the rez. A little celebration, if you will. Somehow, I found myself alone at Junior’s—like I’d gotten there on autopilot—and I suddenly knew exactly what I needed. I had to go into the house. Surely it was still there, that necklace Loxie had woven and hung on the gun rack, but the dog would not shut up. And I was running out of time. I didn’t want to be caught out there when Junior came back. The racket that dog made, so ridiculous. Surely by now you know how I like things quiet.”

Bernard shrugged and bent over one of the wooden crates, looking for something.

“Used it on the girl next, by the creek. That was twofold. It scratched that itch for me, and then I thought I’d plant the murder weapon later. You know, return it to the mayor, where it belonged. It might not stick, sure, but it could be enough to halt the project while I waited for word of her embezzlement to get around.”

Starr considered the slender wounds made on Sherry Ann’s skull. Junior’s Yella dog, beaten to death. Loxie. Now Chenoa. All the others Bernard had harmed or would harm.

Holder held the club at arm’s length, disgusted.

“Hell’s bells. Seeing as how you don’t want the Blackstream Oil deal to come together, I think we’re gonna have a problem.” Holder shook his head and laughed. “You don’t know what I’ve done to get this far. And I gotta tell you, son, you ain’t stopping this roadway.” He stood behind Bernard, holding the golf club. Bernard was pulling something from a crate. “And I’m about to be the hero.”

Holder didn’t look like he played golf, but the swing he leveled at Bernard’s head would have sent a ball two hundred yards—if it had made contact. Instead, Bernard turned as Holder put the golf club in motion, and it hit the crate instead. The gun Bernard had been reaching for in the crate went skittering across stone and slid out of the mouth of the cave.

Chenoa felt an ancient power course like static across her skin, like when the quality of air suddenly changed, grew heavy or light, or when the clouds, whisked away by wind, were replaced by a too-bright sky. It was electric. She’d been built for this moment all along.