Creeping like the dawn
A full moon casts over the quiet Minnesota prairie at midnight. The paved two-lane road from the reservation to the Twin Cities is lit with streetlamps every two thousand feet. The only thing heard is the flowing river hitting the rocks. That’s until an oncoming vehicle driving erratically disrupts Native American fifteen-year-old teens Johnny Skye, Tamryn Willow, Bethany Lufkins, and Wolfie DesJarlais. They’re huddled near the edge of the road trying to get in the last smokes of the night before crossing the pass to their reservation homes where they’ll sneak in past curfew.
The pickup truck slams on its brakes and then accelerates rapidly, only to stop again. Someone in the passenger seat is trying to escape from the swinging door. The driver and the passenger are fighting: arms swing, driver punches passenger, and tears at her hair. Bethany thinks she sees the driver rip off the tank top of the female passenger. Only when the truck stops short, the female screams sound off into the night. The truck’s cab light reveals swinging arms, and only after a few more starts and stops does the passenger break free and fall out onto the highway. The half-naked woman struggles to stand then disappears into the trees on the opposite side of the road. As the truck approaches the teens, they hear the rock band Indigenous booming from the speakers. The teens creep behind a roadside tree, which obscures their view of the driver as the truck does a U-turn, swerves, and speeds down the otherwise empty highway with only sounds of muffled music left in its wake.
Inside a newer trailer house, a bit further down the highway sits twenty-three-year-old, Native American Claudia Shepherd, a perky, dedicated, and ambitious new second-grade teacher. Behind her computer desk on the wall in the immaculately kept living room with brand new furniture are a high school and college diploma hung in distinctive frames. Two German shepherds laying by her feed raise their heads and growl at a noise outside. They pace into the tidy kitchen and return ears up and seething.
“What’s up, guys,” Claudia asks of her pups. She turns down the rock band Indigenous on her stereo, tipping over the graduation cap and tassel on her way to listen at the front door. Claudia pauses but hears nothing. She peeks out of the front blackout curtains slowly, but all she sees is the walkway lights down to the gravel road where her brand-new car is parked, and it reveals nothing. The dogs continue growling.
“Raccoons again, guys.”
Claudia pets the dogs, and they relax, so she returns to the keyboard and her Dakota language dictionary. She closes down the accounting software, which reveals a limited but well-spent income, and pulls up the classroom lesson planner on her screen.
The next morning in Claudia’s classroom, she pulls up the lesson planner to ready for the day. She types in some last-minute notes after pausing to look outside at the school buses releasing the children to scurry into the building. Back on her screen, a chat window pops up with an accompanying bell. A dating website picture reveals a white man in his thirties with a severe expression.
The chat pop-up screen reads:
AVIDHUNTER89
You’re pissing me off!
Back in the classroom, the door bursts open with loud sounds of children whom Claudia greets with hugs and an authentic smile.
At the same time, across the small reservation at the Community Center’s second-floor offices is Claudia’s young at heart, sixty-five-year-old grandmother, Agnes GreyEagle, the tribe's Volunteer Coordinator, hanging a poster on the large bulletin board in the waiting area, which reads:
SPRING LAUNCH Saturday, May 9th Drag the River & Ground Search for Missing & Murdered Indigenous Women & Girls
Approaching Agnes is thirty-two-year-old tribal Detective Sergeant Jessica Stone, whose attractive, gentle face allows her to pass for much younger. Coming up the stairs behind her is a young mom soothing a crying baby. Detective Sergeant Stone directs the mom to the receptionist and spins around when an office door opens, and a little Native American girl springs out and rushes to the young mom’s side. Following the little girl out of the office is fifty-something counselor Bernice O’Reilly.
“You made it.” Bernice greets the young mom.
“I had to walk, but Detective Sergeant Stone offered us a ride just down the road.”
Detective Sergeant Stone pours herself a cup of coffee and focuses on what Agnes is doing at the bulletin board.
“That’s okay. I just stopped into the preschool downstairs and picked your daughter up. We’ve been chatting for the better part of an hour. I’d like to see her again next week if that’s okay.” Bernice says as she leans down to hug the little girl.
“Definitely. And I’ll be on time.”
“Just schedule with the receptionist when you’re ready.”
“Thank you.”
Bernice joins Stone and Agnes at the poster board.
“Pre-registration shows a good turnout for us?” Bernice asks.
“Mostly returning regulars. A handful of geeks signed up for drone duty,” Agnes responds.
“It will be nice to have the new search boat out there with the kayaks,” Bernice adds.
“Yeah, the different depths,” Agnes says gloomily.
“I just heard back from the casino. They’ll provide food and beverages to all the volunteers that day.” Bernice offers, then leans into Agnes. “What's wrong?”
“Just the regulars.” Agnes shakes her head.
“What do we need to do to get the word out? The rest of the state doesn’t give a damn.” Agnes suddenly flickers with a recollection at Stone’s history.
“Jessica, I’m sorry. I know you’re invested in our cause wholeheartedly...” Agnes squeezes Stone’s arm gently. Stone tries hard to fight back a reaction. She scans the room for anyone that might have seen the escape of emotion. “...but the FBI is useless.” Agnes finishes.
The twenty-year-old, well-dressed Native American receptionist finishes scheduling and then joins the women by the bulletin board.
“A call came in earlier when it was busy but hung up before I could transfer it to one of you,” announces the receptionist.
“Therapy or employee assistance?” Bernice wonders.
“The woman wanted someone to talk to her daughter, who claims she was abducted but broke free last night. The daughter refuses to go to the police because she was drinking at the time,” the receptionist adds.
“Was she hurt?” Detective Sergeant Stone jumps in.
“Injuries from rolling out of a moving vehicle the mom said. But the victim refuses to be questioned, where she’s made to look like she was somewhat at fault, for what happened.”
Agnes shakes her head. “Hazards of passing judgment.”
“Self-preservation,” adds Bernice.
“Any caller ID?” Stone wonders.
“It was an anonymous caller,” the receptionist finishes.
Claudia’s desk phone rings as she assists a little girl struggling to get her backpack over her coat and back out to the busses at the end of the class day. Afterward, she waves down the lighted hallway at the girl. Failing to catch the phone in time, she checks the caller ID: ANONYMOUS. She wipes the Dakota Language lesson off the marker board, occasionally looking at the students climbing into the buses and them departing. Suddenly, a noise at the classroom door garners her attention.
“Hello,” Claudia yells out, only to be met with silence. She returns to typing, but another noise strike’s her curiosity.
“Is someone there?” She pulls the door open to find a ball rolling across the hall. She focuses both ways in the dimmed, silent hallway.
Upon picking it up, she turns and runs smack dab into the young male janitor standing right beside her.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t see you coming. Hello,” Claudia greets him, but he doesn’t speak. He simply stares at her and starts sweeping the floor. She smiles uncomfortably and returns to her classroom, where she keeps an eye on him through the glass as she packs a tote bag. She reaches to pick up her keys, and when she turns, he is gone, so she rushes outside.
Claudia waves at the last of the faculty members' five vehicles exiting the driveway. She rushes to her car at the back of the lot, fidgeting with her keys, which she drops right before reaching her car. Hurriedly she climbs in and speeds off down the highway to her home.
At the tribal police headquarters, a young female tribal office clerk releases Hunter Daniel’s things to him at the front desk. Hunter, 30’s, white, tall, backwoods demeanor, and all bruised up, locks eyes with Detective Sergeant Jessica Stone, whose scanning documents at the printer behind the counter.
“What the hell are you looking at?” Hunter spurts.
“Calm down, Hunter.” Detective Sergeant Stone responds.
“Is that how your momma was with your daddy? Calm down, honey.” Hunter chokes on his own laughter.
“Hey, watch your crap, Hunter,” orders the tribal police clerk.
Hunter Daniel turns to address Stone, “What’s it like to know the only reason you’re here is that your daddy raped your momma on the streets?”
Stone’s back faces Hunter. Her thoughts run a mile a minute as she tries to focus on the MISSING WOMEN POSTERS on the wall. She sighs deeply.
“Go to hell,” Stone says.
“Where I’ll say Hi to your momma.” Hunter spits out.
Stone barrels toward Hunter, shoving him into the wall. Tribal Detective Sergeants rush from the back office to pull Stone off Hunter.
At about the same time, Claudia pulls off the highway and around a line of trees and disorderly bushes, which shield her trailer from the highway noise. Her two German shepherds bark excitedly from the fenced in back yard. She unlocks the gates and pets the frisky canines.
Light rumbles of thunder overhead greet her home. She ascends the stoop and fumbles with the keys. The dogs bark excitedly from the fenced-in backyard. She unlocks the gate and pets the frisky German shepherds.
“Let’s get in before it rains, guys,” Claudia says in baby talk to her pups. The dogs’ ears perk up as they quiet down and look behind Claudia’s car and towards the tree line.
“What’s up? There’s nothing out there. Time to eat.” The pets are hesitant, but they obey.
Once inside, Claudia turns on the lights, opens her laptop, and scans the message inbox. Dogs are still perked up next to the door so she sets a couple of bowls of food and water out for them on the kitchen floor then returns to scan through the email message on her laptop screen:
Claudia, we regret to inform you that our publishing house will not be able to accept your manuscript submission on Murdered and Missing Indigenous Women and Girls due to plagiarism.
Claudia grabs her cell phone and a business card that reads:
MODERN DAY PUBLISHING
Nancy Walker, Acquisitions Editor
1-888-555-1212
Claudia dials the number and waits. Dogs pause eating and growl.
“Nancy Walker, Acquisitions Editor, speaking.”
“Ms. Walker, this is Claudia Shepherd.”
“I assume you got my message. We also mailed out a formal letter that we will not be able to accept any further submissions from you. We are extremely disappointed.”
“But I didn’t plagiarize. That is my manuscript. I’ve been researching it for years.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. The other writer that submitted the same manuscript did so a year earlier than yours, not to mention is an established writer and held in high regard with our publishing company.”
“Who is the other author? It has to be somebody with ties to this reservation because of all the details.”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss specifics of another author’s submission. Should you decide to pursue legal recourse, you have my contact information. Good evening!”
Claudia ends the call and plops back into her desk chair. She sits in astonishment, unaware of the dogs growling at the door.
Far off, in the city, twenty-seven-year-old thin, bottle-blonde, trophy wife Marsei Abernathy sits in her home office, typing away with a cat in her lap when the phone rings repeatedly.
“Hello.”
“Marsei, Nancy Walker here.”
“Oh, hello. I was expecting your call. Did you speak with the other writer?
“I did. And I don’t get the sense there will be a problem there, but as I said, we need to postpone further progress on your manuscript until the legal department deems it clear of any complications.”
“Okay.”
“There must have been some mix-up with the mail or something. I don’t know how the other writer got your manuscript. But the nerve of her to think she could submit it in her name. I let her know how disappointed we are and that we will not be accepting any other work she claims to have penned.”
“Was she upset?”
“I think she realized she was found out and embarrassed that she’d been called on it. I’m sorry that I can’t give you any more details on the other writer.”
Marsei clears her throat as if to say more, but Nancy Walker interjects, “Just rest assured she shouldn’t be interfering in your work anymore. I have to go now. I just wanted to update you on the legal technicalities we need to extinguish before we resume. Good evening, Marsei!”
Marsei sets the cell phone down on top of snapshots of Claudia, one of which is the graduation picture.
Marsei clenching the pic to her chest, utters, “Forgive me, baby sister.”
Marsei hears movement downstairs. She hurriedly gathers snapshots and shoves them into a folder labeled BIRTH FAMILY. She sets the folder underneath some books on her desk.
Michael Abernathy, a tall, athletic Caucasian man in his early thirties, enters and kisses his wife.
“You’re filthy. Playing in the dirt again?” Marsei jokes.
“Contracting can be a hard day's work,” Michael says, flexing muscles in his dirty t-shirt. Sometimes the boss needs to get dirty, too.”
Marsei lets out a smile while pretending to discount him. “You should jump in the shower.”
Michael hesitates, “I’m going. Say did you ever hear back from your editor? You said somebody submitted a similar story.”
Marsei chokes on some water then sets the bottle down. “Yes, actually, she just called. She doesn’t feel there is any more need to be concerned with that writer, but the legal department is going to investigate it in an attempt to clear my manuscript for publishing.”
“But you are? Worried?”
“It’s just a little unsettling.”
“It’s more than that. I know you.”
“I’m fine. Go take your shower.”
Marsei kisses Michael then descends stairs. He watches her leave.
Back on the rez, Claudia wakes up on the sofa with her German shepherds sleeping on the floor beneath her, all snoozing to the noise of the background TV on in the living room.
Claudia scans the map on the wall. It has photo printouts pinned to it. Above one picture is the word MURDERED in red marker. Another pic is labeled MISSING.
Claudia picks up the cell phone and swipes a number.
“Claudia, are you okay?”
“Yes, grandma.”
“It’s late. Shouldn’t you be asleep?”
“Shouldn’t you? But I know you, too,” Claudia says.
“Genetics. We suffer from the same worry,” Grandma sighs.
“Are you answering the crisis line again tonight?” Claudia asks.
“Yes. So, you know I have to hang up if I get a call.”
“I know. It’s good that people have you, grandma.”
“You know that I’m always here for you, too, Claudia.”
“I know. Anything happening at work?”
“An anonymous call came in today. She hung up before anyone could take it.”
“Something serious?”
Claudia scribbles notes.
“An abduction. But the girl was able to get away.”
“What do the police say?”
“They sent Detective Sergeant Stone out to our offices, but she can’t do anything without knowing who called.”
“Why remain anonymous?”
“The young lady had been drinking. She was worried about what people might think.”
“We need to talk to Stone. There are people she should be looking at more closely.”
“Claudia! Don’t you get involved in any of the cases!”
“Grandma. Why don’t other people care? The numbers are staggering.”
“I have a call coming in. Go back to bed. I love you.”
Claudia sets down the cell phone on the desk and turns on her computer. Messages pop up. She clicks them off one at a time until she gets to one that reads:
I know who you are!
Claudia frets as she ponders a response. Just then another pop-up on her laptop screen:
You’re the teacher who lives in the pretty little trailer on Hwy. 62 with the two dogs.
Claudia responds and it appears:
You’re being silly. Who are you?
ON CLAUDIA’S LAPTOP SCREEN:
I met a girl last night. She reminds me of you.
Claudia’s response appears:
What happened to her?
ON CLAUDIA’S LAPTOP SCREEN;
She got away. The good ones always do.
Claudia looks up at the pic of a missing girl on her wall. Claudia’s response appears:
So, you know who I am. Play fair and tell me who you are.
ON CLAUDIA’S LAPTOP SCREEN:
In due time, Claudia.
The dogs walk to the door and bolt upright. The message disappears.
Claudia walks to the front curtains and peeks out. Nothing there but the lighted walkway to her car.
Claudia grabs the cell phone from the desk and returns to the sofa where she covers up and tries to relax but twists and turns. The digital clock on the end table progresses.
TIME LAPSE
--11:49 PM Claudia dozes off.
--01:02 AM Dogs growl. Claudia turns over.
--01:56 AM Claudia’s restless with a nightmare. Claudia wakes to take a sip of water, peeks at sleeping dogs then returns to sleep.
--02:35 AM Someone is peeking through trees at lighted trailer house.
--03:41 AM Claudia wakes to gasp for air. Claudia digs in covers to find the cell phone and dials.
“Chet, I need to come over right now,” Claudia begs.
“It’s late. Besides, I’m still mad at you,” Chet O’Reilly responds.
“Chet, please. I’m scared,” Claudia paces the living room.
“I don’t care. You hurt my feelings.”
“Chet. I have to come over right now.”
“Good night, Claudia!”
Claudia rushes into the immaculate bedroom to gather clothes into an overnight bag. She rushes to the kitchen to feed the dogs, but first, she has to get their attention away from the front door. She kneels to distract them with hugs and kisses. Reluctantly, they back away from the door.
Claudia exits house, locks door, and rushes down the lighted walkway. She turns to listen to dogs barking and growling. Claudia stops and looks around the trees. She thinks she hears something and races around her car, gets in, and locks doors.
She starts the car and puts it in drive, noticing her dogs jumping at the curtains in the lighted living room. She thinks she sees something in the trees. She tears out onto the highway. Her car leaves a puddle of fluid under her exiting vehicle.
She notices lights behind rapidly approaching. She speeds up and honks her horn at approaching vehicles. She can see the silhouette of a truck driving erratically behind her.
