Hallowed Ground (Julie Collins Series #2)

by Lori G. Armstrong

  Dead air.

  Had he hung up? I’d had enough run-ins with Rondelle’s “friends” for my trust issues to be completely justified.

  “Rondelle trusts you because her brother, Harvey, doesn’t.”

  Good enough for me.

  “I’m blond and wearing a pink silk tank top.” I punched the off button and clipped the phone to my waistband.

  After closing down the office, I drove up Main Street until just before I reached the National Guard camp and turned left on to Sheridan Lake Road.

  Storybook Island is exactly what the name implies; a kid’s wonderland filled with life size characters from children’s stories and rhymes. Kids can climb inside a giant concrete pumpkin like Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater, run through the crooked house built by the crooked man, see The Three Little Pigs’ houses made of straw, twigs, and bricks, complete with a big, bad wolf huffing and puffing down the chimney.

  My favorite display was Willie the Big Blue Whale, not for biblical similarities to Jonah, but because Willie had survived the 1972 flood.

  That night in June, Rapid City had received over ten inches of rain in a few short hours. Rapid Creek had swelled, sending a wall of water crashing through Dark Canyon, and then roaring through town, destroying houses, bridges, cars, businesses, and over 200 lives.

  I don’t remember much about that tragic night, but I do remember riding in the car with my mom several days later when we’d ventured out to witness the damage. Seeing that concrete whale upside down near the Baken Park Shopping Center drove home the seriousness of the situation.

  That broken image is the one that haunts me to this day.

  The parking lot overflowed with family cars and campers. It was an odd place for this meeting. Adults didn’t hang out here unless they had a kid or two in tow, so it’d make it easier to pick out a strange, single man.

  I snuffed my cigarette and locked the Browning in the glove compartment. Hot wind blew off the pavement and ruffled my hair. The concrete path curved around waterways dotted with bright green moss, swimming ducks and swans, gurgling fountains, crossing under the stone castle and around the moat until it reached the main entrance—a fiberglass replica of the shoe in the Old Woman Who Lived In The Shoe.

  Once I’d ducked inside, I tried to get my bearings. I took the left fork. The first concession booth was by the birthday house. “Custard’s Last Stand” boasted frozen treats and cold drinks. Bet the Native American kids and their parents who visited didn’t find humor in the pun.

  I passed the mini-maze, and finally saw the concession stand with a cracked egg on top.

  The bench behind it stood empty.

  No suspicious types lurked behind Barney. I felt totally out of place in my mauve business suit. I crouched in front of the glass partition and ordered a Diet Pepsi from a red-haired, freckled teenaged girl, appropriately costumed as Pippi Longstocking.

  The waxy cup nearly slipped from my hand as I dodged a gaggle of kids who’d cut me off. Parents pushing strollers apologized as they hurried after them.

  I watched the byplay with a pang of envy. Did these children realize how lucky they were? Did they understand that love, laughter, and fun were not a guaranteed part of everyone’s childhood?

  Probably not.

  Fortunately the bench was in the shade. Unfortunately, I couldn’t smoke. Avoiding a white splat of bird poop, I plunked on the other end and slurped my drink.

  Straight away a tall man slid into my peripheral vision.

  “Julie Collins?” he asked.

  I swiveled toward him. “Yes. Who are you?”

  “Luther Ghost Bear.” He offered me his hand. We shook.

  He wasn’t what I’d expected. I’d prepared myself for this mysterious friend of Rondelle’s to be a total dirtball since Rondelle’s life choices hadn’t impressed me so far.

  Not your job to judge her, a little voice reprimanded.

  This man was in his late sixties. His sepia-toned face was pockmarked and scarred, but his brown eyes were clear, sharply focused. A braid—black threaded with silver—looped over his shoulder, reaching the waistband of his crisp jeans.

  A group of kids trooped past, matching turquoise shirts proclaiming, “Camp Courageous!” One boy stumbled and scraped his knee. Luther rushed to help the youngster to his feet, patted him on his blond head and sent him on his merry way with an indulgent smile.

  “Seems years ago I went away to camp,” he mused as he reseated himself. “Do you have any children in your life?”

  I shook my head, thinking of Kiyah.

  Luther looked at me with unrestrained curiosity. Kevin looked at me like that—or at least he used to—as if my eyes were a conduit to my soul. I wasn’t comfortable with anyone probing that deeply so I looked away.

  My attention darted to a Skittles wrapper tumbling across the grass. “I suppose you wonder why I called you.”

  “Yes. If this is about Chloe—”

  “It isn’t. I mean it is.” I blew out a frustrated breath. “Let me start over. Have you heard from Rondelle?”

  “Have you?”

  “No.” I swished the soda around in the cup. “But I got a visit from Rondelle’s old boss Bud Linderman today.”

  “In person, eh? What did you think of him?”

  “Beneath that cornpone façade he’s mean and slippery as an eel.”

  Luther chuckled. “Shee. How long ’fore he told you what he really wanted?”

  “Oh, he took his time. Started out full of concern for Rondelle, which I didn’t buy. Got him to admit he wanted the disk.”

  He reached beside the bench and plucked up a cottonwood leaf wide as his palm. “What else he say?”

  “That it’d be in Rondelle’s best interest if I found Chloe before he did. I’m sure he’ll deny it, but there was no mistaking what he’d meant.” I paused, wondering how much this grandfatherly man knew about what’d been documented on that disk. “Have you seen the disk?”

  “Yes.”

  Before I could wrap my brain around that, he added, “I told Rondelle she oughta turn it in. And not to the Deadwood Gaming Commission either, but to the Lawrence County States Attorney’s Office.”

  I agreed.

  Deft fingers pleated the green leaf while he spoke. “Everyone wants to place blame. Linderman shouldn’t have sent Rondelle in there.” His hand stilled. “He knew Little Joe was bad news. What that poor girl suffered through for his greed makes me sick.”

  Whoa. A bad feeling whipped the soda in my belly into foam. “Wait a sec. Linderman sent Rondelle to work for the Carluccis?”

  “Yes.” The fan-shaped leaf floated to the ground.

  “News to you, eh?”

  I squeezed the cup until the plastic lid popped off. Rondelle’s tearful explanation about not knowing who’d hired her had been complete and total bullshit.

  Ah hell. I so didn’t want to share this information with Martinez and Harvey. Now I didn’t know what to believe.

  “Well, Luther, since it appears Rondelle has lied to me about everything, maybe you oughta tell me what is going on.”

  Alarm passed through his eyes. “That she lied to you ain’t the problem.”

  “Then what is the problem?”

  “Not what. Who.” He paused, considering his response. “She lied to Bud Linderman.”

  My bad feeling mushroomed.

  “Rondelle told me to tell you everything if you called. Don’t think you’re gonna like it much. But don’t judge her too harshly until you hear it all, okay?”

  I nodded.

  His gaze tracked a tiny gray finch pecking at crumbs on the concrete. “Couple months back, when she was still workin’ for him, Bud ‘asked’ Rondelle to apply for a job at Trader Pete’s. Wanted her to spy on the Carluccis and report back on anything she saw that might interest the state gaming consortium. Was obsessed with provin’ they were doin’ something illegal.

  “Rondelle refused. Said she wasn’t gonna get mixed up with t
hem for no amount of money. Linderman thought it was because of the Carluccis supposedly being one of them east coast crime families. But Rondelle wouldn’t do it because of her connection to the Hombres.”

  “Bud didn’t know Harvey was Rondelle’s brother?”

  “No. Bud, being the paranoid, controlling type, wouldn’t let the idea go. He saw Rondelle as his chance. Ain’t no secret Little Joe likes the ladies and Rondelle is a pretty girl. Bud figured that’d get her into the private places upstairs and give her access to private information. Rondelle still refused. Then it got nasty.

  “Linderman ‘found’ meth in her employee locker. Enough to cause serious problems if he turned her in.”

  Meth is a big problem around these parts. Every law enforcement agency in the area has banded together to make an example of even the smallest user to get to the big dealers, so I knew Linderman would’ve followed through with the threat, if for no other reason than to make himself look like the upstanding citizen. “Did she use it? Or was she selling it?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know. Didn’t matter whether Linderman had planted it because he had proof. Said he’d ‘overlook’ it if she went to work for the Carluccis. She had no choice.

  “When she wasn’t getting him information as quickly as he wanted, Linderman switched tactics and threatened Chloe. Proved he could get to her any time he wanted by sendin’ her pictures of Chloe with strange men comin’ out of her daycare place. Rondelle lost it. She didn’t have no one to trust and had to keep her mouth shut and hope she’d find out something to get Linderman off her back.”

  The pictures hadn’t been a lie. I’d wondered. Linderman was more dangerous than I’d expected if he’d gone to that much trouble to threaten Rondelle. Even Donovan had gotten a glimpse of those pictures as an extra insurance policy.

  “But she didn’t. After workin’ the cage and some of those cocktail parties for a coupla weeks, Rondelle was frustrated ’cause she couldn’t find a single thing illegal ’bout the Carlucci’s operation. She also realized Bud was so obsessed with discrediting them that he wouldn’t believe her until she did find something.”

  I braced myself.

  “So she lied. She told Linderman she had a disk, showin’ several high-rankin’ members of the South Dakota Gaming Consortium in the meeting room upstairs with Little Joe, talkin’ about how much it’d cost the Carlucci’s to keep the Bear Butte Casino from opening.”

  Luther looked me dead in the eye. “I’m sure you’re thinkin’ maybe the security disk, the one showin’ what horrid thing Little Joe done to her is jus’ another lie. But it ain’t a lie ’cause I’ve seen most of it. Made me mad. Made me want to help her in any way I could.”

  I found my voice. “Linderman still thinks the imaginary ‘meeting’ disk is out there and Rondelle is playing games with him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Holy shit. Does she have any idea how dangerous this is?”

  “Yup. That’s why she’s stayin’ out of sight.”

  A blood-curdling scream sliced through the lazy breeze.

  We both froze.

  A blond, pig-tailed girl of about four zipped past us, shrieking at the top of her lungs as an older tow-headed boy chased her with a rubber snake. At least I hoped it was rubber. I shuddered. I hated snakes.

  Luther and I seemed to have lost our momentum.

  “You’re wondering how I got mixed up with this,” he said.

  “It did cross my mind. You don’t seem like Rondelle’s type.”

  “Type? Shee. Love ain’t something you can categorize.”

  At my bug-eyed expression, he chuckled.

  “I’m not some dirty old man. I’m a spiritual leader for the Medicine Wheel Holy Society.”

  “Oh.”

  “Thanks for seein’ beyond the wrinkles, even if I am too damn old to be foolin’ with that kinda stuff.” He frowned. “Too old to be foolin’ with the other mess too.”

  “There’s another mess?”

  He stayed silent so long I didn’t think he’d answer.

  “Nothin’ you should worry ’bout. Problems with the Medicine Wheel Society. Nothin’ to do with Rondelle. Just politics. Same as usual. Be nice to say it’d never been that way, but it’s always been like that. Even before the younger kids took over the operation and the meetings.”

  “That’s where Rondelle met Frankie Ducheneaux.”

  “Frankie. How do you know him?”

  “Met him briefly when I was talking to Rondelle. Acted like a total jerk.”

  “He is.” Luther seemed to have gone into some kind of trance. “Though Frankie would argue he’s full of ‘principles.’ Thinks old men like me are fools and oughta be put out to pasture. Wants to solve every problem with aggression.”

  I wondered how aggressive Frankie was.

  He answered the question before I asked. “Frankie’s a blowhard. Big ideas, but no follow through. I’m jus’ sorry Rondelle got mixed up with him.”

  Donovan had mentioned the group as potential saboteurs. Had Rondelle recognized Frankie’s voice in Trader Pete’s when she overheard the conversation about sabotage? Had she given Donovan Frankie’s name? Had Frankie shot Donovan to shut him up?

  “Donovan used to be a member of the Medicine Wheel Society, right?”

  “Yes. Helped us keep that shootin’ range from getting built coupla years back. Then he got that job with Brush Creek.” Luther shrugged. “Donovan had to choose a different direction.”

  “Doesn’t sound like you approved of his choice.”

  “Not my place to approve or disapprove, jus’ to accept. And to offer help to those who need it. Like Rondelle.”

  “Rondelle didn’t strike me as the spiritual type.”

  “There you go with the ‘types’ again,” he teased.

  My cheeks burned.

  “No doubt Rondelle has had a tough life. A lousy excuse for what she’s been doin’ ’cause most of us got bad stuff in our past. She’s been driftin’ along, makin’ bad choices, lettin’ her past control her future. Since she don’t got nobody else, she looks to me for guidance. I’m jus’ an old fool tryin’ to set her on the right path.”

  Old fool my butt. I found myself drawn into the kindness and wisdom of his eyes.

  “Are you helping her?”

  “Yes.” His gaze warmed. “And I can help you.”

  My breath stalled. “What do you mean?”

  “You try to hide it, but it’s there, the pain in your eyes.”

  I blinked, as if the action would hide or erase what he saw.

  Calloused fingertips briefly touched the left side of his chest, and I felt it on my skin. “In your heart. Part of life is loss. It’s time for you to let go of the past.”

  Instead of skepticism, I blurted out, “Literally? Just let it go?”

  He nodded.

  Let go of everything? My mom’s death? Ben’s murder? My broken marriage? My undefined relationship with Kevin? The resentment toward my father? How? Release it like a balloon?

  I studied his weathered face, astute eyes, and the willingness to start me on the journey, even when he sensed I wasn’t ready to take that first step.

  Had this stranger seen so deeply inside me because of shaman magic? Or was this what normal people sought in their clergymen? A chance to find inner peace?

  “Why are you hangin’ on to this sorrow, child?”

  I wanted to pull back, mull it over. My mouth and brain weren’t on the same wavelength.

  “Because pain is real. Sometimes I feel everything else in my life is an illusion but sorrow.”

  He contemplated the sky. “Sorrow isn’t a place, nor should it be a destination, but an end of one. My advice? Face your fear head on.” He smiled. “Literally. The answers to your questions will make sense when you’re not afraid to hear them.”

  Little too woo-woo for my taste. I managed to say, “Thank you.”

  Luther plucked a business card from his shirt pocket. Placed it in
my palm. “Remember my door is always open.” He touched the top of my head. “Be at peace, kola.”

  By the time I looked up, he’d vanished.

  The corner of the business card jabbed my palm, proving this conversation wasn’t a figment of my imagination. The folded leaf drifted past my pump. I snagged it and saved it between the checks in my checkbook, like a Lakota shamrock.

  I was unnaturally subdued for the rest of the night.

  Kell whined that I’d left him alone for a few hours, which I’d expected. Instead of telling him to quit sniveling, I slapped on a happy face.

  I rubbed his sore neck. Cleaned his wounds. Remade the couch with clean sheets. Cooked dinner and hand fed him. Sat beside him and watched Rock Star on VH-1. Tried to shove a couple of codeine down his throat.

  He wasn’t too thrilled about the last one.

  Mostly he dozed. When he wasn’t dozing he wasn’t talking. At least, not to me. T-Rex had called to check on him, ditto for his band mates. He wasn’t inclined to chat freely with me in the room, which made me paranoid he was talking about me, so I graciously granted him privacy without being asked.

  Besides, it gave me an excuse to sneak outside and have a smoke. Apparently cigarettes aggravated his injuries, so he (cough cough hack hack wheeze wheeze) suggested he’d feel better if I smoked outside.

  When he got that “hey, baby” look in his eye around ten o’clock, for the first time in my life I used the old “not-tonight-dear-I-have-a-headache” excuse, and fled to my room.

  Just to prove I could, I decided to stay home one more day.

  About 2:00, I’d finished rearranging my Tupperware cupboard when the phone rang. I let Mr. Popularity answer it.

  “Julie,” he shouted a beat later from the couch, “telephone.”

  I took the handset from him. “Hello?”

  “I might have a line on Chloe,” Martinez said.

  “How?”

  “Don’t worry about that now. Want to come along when I check it out?”

  “Hell, yes, I want to come along.”

  “Be at Dusty’s in fifteen minutes. Don’t be late. You’d better bring your gun.”