Page 52 of The Woman Who Couldn't Scream
Finally she checked in with Moen’s father, Ron. Moen hadn’t been at work and she was worried about the boy. She asked, “How is he doing today?”
“Thanks for calling about him. Thanks for sending him home and thanks for giving him a little time off. Rupert’s sleeping.” Ron’s voice got rough. “He, uh, he was pretty broken up.”
Which was code for:He’s been crying.
Kateri felt so inadequate. She knew how proud Ron was of his son and his career in law enforcement. She also knew about Rupert’s aspirations as an artist. So what was she supposed to say? Platitudes, she supposed. “He’s a good kid. He’s a good cop.”
“He is. I’m just not sure if he… Well!” Ron drew a breath. “He’ll toughen up.”
Now Kateri did know what to say. “I hope not. I like him like he is.”
“I’ll tell him you called.” Which was code for:Butt out.
“Thanks, Mr. Moen. Please do.” She hung up.
This had been a long day and it was just past noon. She had hours of work and heartbreak to go. She needed her dog. She parked at the curb, rapped on Mrs. Golobovitch’s door and when Mrs. Golobovitch opened, Kateri asked jokingly, “Can Lacey come out and play?”
“Dear, I don’t have her.”
“What?”
“When you didn’t bring her to me, I was a bit surprised, but I called Stag and he told me Lacey seemed anxious and assured me he would keep her today.” Mrs. Golobovitch patted Kateri’s hand and beamed. “He’s such a nice man. I’m so glad you have someone to take care of you.”
“Um, he doesn’t… that is, I don’t need someone to care for me. I can take care of myself.”
“Of course you can. But isn’t it lovely that he’s there to protect and cherish you anyway?”
Kateri shut up. Mrs. Golobovitch held Old World views of men and women and love and marriage and, well, hell, she was right. It was lovely that Stag Denali had her back.
Mrs. Golobovitch added helpfully, “I believe they’re at the construction site on the reservation.”
The casino construction site. “They’ve already started building?”
“Site preparation. Soil testing, then scrape it down a few feet and get ready for the foundation pour.”
Kateri cocked her head. “Mrs. Golobovitch, how do you know all that?”
“Dear, I haven’t always been an old lady. When I came from Yugoslavia, I was a structural engineer. Here they wouldn’t honor my degree and give me reciprocity”—Mrs. Golobovitch waggled her finger at Kateri—“but I haven’t forgotten everything I knew!”
“Of course not. Forgive me. I should have realized.” Sometimes, Kateri felt as if she didn’t really know anybody. Like Stag, who saw that her dog was anxious and took Lacey to work with him. “I guess I’ll head over to the rez.” Which was a tough show for her. She was related to half the tribe. Half were proud of their first Native American sheriff. Half thought she had betrayed them by succeeding in a mainstream world. There was a lot of overlap in those groups, but one thing was for sure: most despised law enforcement. Then there was the “chosen by the frog god” thing. To say feelings toward Kateri were mixed was putting it diplomatically.
Of course, Stag was building a casino, which would bring prosperity to Virtue Falls and the rez… also gambling addiction, alcoholism, prostitution and suicide… so Kateri’s feelings were equally mixed. Toward her tribe, toward Stag, toward being involved with him…
Mrs. Golobovitch patted Kateri’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, dear. It will all turn out for the best. It always does.”
Except for Carolyn Abner of Springfield, Missouri, who died last night.“Thank you. I’m sure you’re right. Now I have to go get my dog.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Kateri didn’t need the sign telling her she’d crossed onto the reservation. Here the air grew misty, shades of gray and gold tinted the sky, the tears of fifteen generations soaked the ground, the odors of evergreen, ocean and marsh combined to smell like home. And yet…
And yet.
Ten-year-old Kateri left the house where her mother was sleeping it off and went looking for Uncle Bluster, real name Willis Warner. She found him in the usual place, sitting cross-legged under the twisted cypress overlooking the ocean. He wore an orange game cap on his head, dirty jeans and a starched shirt with no buttons. He rested his elbow on the battered blue-and-white cooler beside him and stared at his bare toes. She could see his lips move; he was talking to himself.
She stood at a distance and eyed the frosty one-liter bottle of vodka in his hand. Conversation best occurred when the level of the clear liquid was between one-quarter and three-quarters full. Too early and Uncle Bluster was sharp, angry and sarcastic. Too late and he became a pitiful, tearful former mercenary plagued by the ghosts of the people he had killed.
Two more swallows and he would be in the golden zone.
