“I’ll have it for breakfast.”
That’s when I knew he was tired.
Dawson kissed the top of my head.
“Anything exciting happen on shift?” I asked.
“Nope.” His breathing slowed.
“Wanna hear about a day in the life of an FBI agent?”
He made a noise in the back of his throat that I took as affirmative. “I can give you very explicit information on the federal government’s procedures and policy on riots.”
Dawson made the noise again. A noise I now recognized as a snore.
Funny. That was the same reaction I’d had.
Since Dawson was still sleeping, I decided to stop at the Q-Mart for a cup of joe rather than waking him with the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee.
My cell buzzed right after I’d made the turn onto the main road leading to the rez. “Gunderson.”
“Where are you?” Turnbull asked.
I glanced at the dashboard clock. I wasn’t running late. “About ten miles outside of Eagle River. Why?”
“Because we just got word that Arlette Shooting Star has been found.”
Found. Which equaled dead. “Where?”
“I’m not sure. Evidently, hunters found her at first light. The tribal police are on the scene.”
“Where are you?”
“At the tribal police station. Officer Spotted Bear is catching a ride to the scene with me. Hang on a sec.” The line went quiet. Then, “He said you’re supposed to turn south on the Junction Eighteen cut across. Know where that is?”
“About four miles ahead of my current location.”
“Entrance to the scene is marked at the first cattle guard. We’ll meet you there.”
Dammit. As much as I’d whined about wanting fieldwork, finding a young girl’s body in a field wasn’t what I’d had in mind.
At the turnoff, I slowed and hung a right over the cattle guard, where I saw the flashing beacon perched on the fence post. I wouldn’t have needed the marker since I’d been to this make-out spot many times during my high school days.
Two older-model pickups were parked, the front ends pointed toward the tree line fifty yards ahead. Three guys wearing neon-orange hunting caps and camo clothes sat on the tailgates.
As soon as I exited my truck, I heard the muffled sounds of barking. I squinted and saw a flash of golden fur inside the cab of the closest truck. At least they’d had the sense to lock up the dog.
I didn’t recognize the guys, so color me surprised when the oldest man spoke. “Hey. Aren’t you Mercy Gunderson?”
“Yeah,” I said to him. “Who are you?”
“Craig Barbour.” He pointed to the younger version of himself; the guy sitting next to him was about fifteen. “My son. Craig Junior goes by Junior.” Then he gestured to the smallish guy in the other pickup, who appeared to be the same age as Craig Junior. “That’s Junior’s friend. Erik Erickson.”