Hallowed Ground (Julie Collins Series #2)

by Lori G. Armstrong

  I wended my way through the masses, and searched for familiar faces. Probably no one from my neighborhood was here.

  I’d about given up hope when I recognized the motley group of ranchers, including Maurice Ashcroft, Don Anderson, and Dale Pendergrast.

  Don’s eyes met mine but his gaze skittered away quickly.

  Great.

  Didn’t see Linderman skulking about. Didn’t mean he didn’t see me.

  I kept moving. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a black, shiny flash. I wheeled around, afraid I’d see Reggie glaring at me in his usual crappy suit, but he wasn’t there. My overactive imagination showing again.

  A cheer spread when the drums finished. Two people brandishing bullhorns stepped in front of the crowd.

  The group chanting began and grew stronger with each shouted, “Sacred Land! Sacred Land!” Drums joined the voices, clapping hands joined the drums and 500 people were united as one.

  It was as scary as it was exhilarating.

  Then the grayish black storm clouds drifted in from the west and spread across the sky, blocking the sun like a portent of doom. Electricity crackled in the air. Humidity hung like a wet sponge.

  And just like that, the mood of the multitudes shifted.

  The chanting died. An angry buzz started. A dirt clump flew toward the building. Followed by a rock. Soon everyone was whizzing chunks of earth at the building as if the concrete and steel girders were a living entity they could stone to death.

  I ducked right before a clod nailed me in the side of the head.

  Oh man. Sheriff Richards should’ve sent more deputies.

  Individuals pushed, trying to get closer to the action.

  The momentum of the mob would knock people to the ground. Then panic would ensue.

  But Deputy John had taken control, facing the crowd with a bullhorn he’d appropriated.

  “People. Listen to me. Stop throwing things or I’ll start issuing tickets to everyone for destruction of property. This protest is officially over. I repeat: the protest is over. Begin moving toward your vehicles in an orderly fashion.”

  Lightning spiked, thunder boomed, and everyone scattered.

  I hung around until most of the crowd dispersed. Maybe if I bugged Deputy John, he’d let something slip out about the murders. He wasn’t nearly as closed-mouthed as the sheriff.

  While I waited another black flash zipped past. Not the same one I’d noticed earlier, but definitely one I’d seen before.

  Harvey.

  What the hell was he doing lurking around?

  I tried to follow him but he darted through the masses like a ninja, solid one second, a vapor the next.

  Where was his bodyguard?

  I’d about given up hope of finding him when I spied Harvey again, standing at the back of the clearing where it sloped into a steep drop-off.

  This time he wasn’t alone: He had his arm looped around Bud Linderman’s neck and a pistol pointed at Bud’s temple.

  I unclipped my cell phone and scrolled down the contacts list until TM popped up. I hit dial.

  He answered on the second ring. “Yeah.”

  “Martinez, it’s Julie. I’m at the Bear Butte Casino protest. Harvey’s here and he’s got a gun to Linderman’s head.”

  “Fuck. Hold on.”

  Dead air burned my ear for so long I thought we’d gotten disconnected.

  Then, “Julie? Hang tight, I’m outside of Piedmont.”

  “Wait! What is going on?”

  The connection crackled. “Big Mike said Harvey got a call and he took off. We’ve been looking for him.”

  “Did Big Mike know what the call was about?”

  “We’re assuming information on Rondelle.”

  It appeared Harvey was following through with his threat to find out who’d killed his sister. “What should I do?”

  “Stay as far away from him as you can.”

  He hung up.

  “Easier said than done,” I grumbled to the dial tone.

  I held my palm over my stomach to quell the sick feeling bubbling up like lava. My whole body was leaden, my feet dragged, kicking up gravel as I targeted the small knot of people surrounding Harvey and his hostage.

  Linderman’s cowboy companions were off to the right side, guns lying in the dirt, useless.

  Deputy John was trying to persuade Harvey to put down his weapon.

  Harvey’s mouth stayed shut while the deputy rambled. He didn’t so much as twitch. His gaze constantly flickered between the crowd, the cop, and his hostage.

  Finally the deputy went silent.

  His radio squawked; he ignored it.

  Jesus, Martinez, hurry up

  “There are people who can help you. People who want to help you,” Deputy John tried again in his best negotiator’s voice.

  “Is that right?” Harvey said.

  “Yes. No one has to get hurt.”

  Harvey laughed.

  Someone needed to warn Deputy John before he got hurt. He didn’t know the last rational part of Harvey had died with Rondelle.

  “Let me help you.”

  “You know what would help me out a whole bunch?”

  Finally, Harvey was responding. “Anything. Just name it.”

  Harvey’s grip on Linderman’s throat increased. “If this motherfucker would just admit that he murdered my sister.”

  “I told you. I didn’t do it,” Linderman croaked.

  “See? You can’t give me anything I want, Deputy, so that makes you just as much of a liar as this cocksucker.”

  “Okay, okay, calm down. Maybe I can’t give you that.” He paused. “How do you know this man killed your sister?”

  “How do I know?” He blinked, frowned at the deputy like he was an idiot. “A little bird told me.”

  Harvey had gone totally bonkers.

  But Deputy John didn’t miss a beat. “What did the little bird say, Harvey?”

  “That this asshole,” he pressed the gun deeper into the skin above Bud’s ear, “was responsible.”

  “And you believe that?” Deputy John asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause everyone knows he’s a manipulative bastard.”

  While Deputy John had been talking, two other deputies—Al and Jerry—had arrived on the scene and positioned themselves within shooting range, guns drawn. But neither had a clear shot.

  Harvey had planned this pretty well for a crazy man.

  Sporadic raindrops bounced off the dirt, kicking up the scent of wet chalk. I didn’t look up at the sky. No one else paid attention to the weather.

  “Tell them,” Harvey demanded.

  Linderman repeated, “I didn’t do it.”

  “She worked for you, didn’t she? You sent her to Trader Pete’s to spy on them, didn’t you?” His voice had returned to a calm cadence. “What’d you threaten her with, Budhole, to get her to do your shit work?”

  Linderman’s wide-eyed gaze darted to Deputy John and he began to sweat profusely.

  Was the sweat from fear? Or guilt? Harvey’s level of agitation had jumped about 100 percent.

  “Tell them!”

  We held our collective breath for a lifetime, afraid of what would happen next.

  “You are chickenshit and a liar,” Harvey said at last. “Tell them how you threatened to hurt her daughter, an innocent little girl, if Rondelle didn’t do what you wanted.”

  No reply.

  “Were you there when the top of Rondelle’s head was shot off?” He shifted the gun to Linderman’s forehead. “Like this? Is this where you placed the barrel?”

  “Come on, Harvey,” Deputy John said. “This isn’t helping anyone. Put down the gun.”

  Harvey gave no indication he’d heard him.

  “Did you look into her eyes as you fucking killed her? Tell me or I’ll blow your fucking brains out right now.”

  Linderman blubbered: “I d-d-didn’t d-d-do it.”

  A disturb
ance broke out behind me. I didn’t have to turn around to know Martinez had arrived.

  He blew right past the armed deputies and stopped next to Deputy John.

  Big Mike wordlessly moved in on one side of me, No-neck the other, keeping Al and Jerry from having a clear shot at Martinez.

  “Hey, man,” Martinez said to Harvey, “what’s going on?”

  Harvey didn’t seem particularly surprised to see him. “Just taking care of some personal business.”

  “This isn’t the way to do it, hombre.”

  “It’s the way this fucker took care of Rondelle.”

  Martinez shook his head. “You don’t know that.”

  “Yes, I do. He killed her. He’s the reason she’s dead.”

  He carefully weighed Harvey’s response. “Killing Linderman will only cause problems for you, Harvey, not him. He’s not worth it.”

  “That’s funny. Don’t you always say, ‘What goes around comes around’?”

  “Yeah. But nothing is gonna bring Rondelle back around.”

  Harvey’s sad, broken smile leached the hope right out of me.

  “Wish it would. I shoulda told her …”

  “Doesn’t matter man, she knew.”

  Harvey’s face was wet. From tears? Or rain?

  “You know how this works, Martinez. Price needs to be paid.”

  “It will be.”

  Harvey and Martinez exchanged a long, silent look.

  “Not today,” Martinez said. “Let him go.”

  Just like that, Harvey unwrapped his arm from Linderman’s neck. Keeping the gun aimed at Bud’s head, he shoved him to the ground.

  Linderman scuttled away like a cockroach.

  The sky opened; rain poured down. The rich scent of wet dirt rose up as water sizzled on the hot earth.

  Despite the flashes of lightning and answering cracks of thunder, no one ran for cover. We hung in suspended animation, part of this, yet not.

  Harvey said something I couldn’t make out.

  “I can’t hear you,” Martinez shouted.

  “I’m sick of this,” Harvey shouted back.

  “Sick of what?”

  “Sick of nothing ending up the way it’s supposed to be!”

  Silence.

  “Then I’ll fix it.”

  Harvey shook his head.

  “I thought you trusted me.” Martinez said. “So let me help.”

  “You can’t,” he said. For a second Harvey wavered.

  “What’s different this time?”

  “You don’t know what it’s like!”

  Martinez threw up his hands. “Jesus! How can you say that? To me?”

  Harvey frowned.

  Everyone seemed equally baffled by the cryptic conversation. The usual hushed whispers to try and decipher it were conspicuously absent.

  “Come on, Harvey. Give me the goddamn gun.”

  The loud exchange made the scene even more illusory; normally neither Martinez nor Harvey raised their voices.

  “Man, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. We’ll work it out.”

  “Not this time.”

  Martinez took a step forward. “Just give me the gun, okay?”

  Harvey raised the gun at him.

  No-neck and Big Mike were by Tony’s side before Harvey had leveled the barrel.

  “Back off, Martinez.”

  “Give. Me. The. Gun.”

  “You can have it when I’m done, hombre.”

  By the time his meaning had sunk in, it was too late.

  Harvey jammed the barrel in his mouth, closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER 28

  MARTINEZ WOULDN’T LET ANYONE COME NEAR HIM. He hadn’t said boo since we’d left the sheriff’s office except to quietly insist I drive him to Fat Bob’s.

  I almost didn’t recognize the place. The neon motorcycle atop the bar wasn’t spinning. The flashing beer signs and floodlights were off, leaving the parking lot barren. Maybe the rain amplified the bleakness.

  Maybe the building grieved for Harvey.

  I parked in back by the fenced-in beer garden. Without a word, Martinez slipped from the car.

  Time dragged as I watched him through the rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers. He stood in front of the door, oblivious to the driving rain.

  My heavy exhalations fogged the windshield, partially obscuring him from view.

  What was he thinking? What was he feeling? What was he waiting for?

  What was I supposed to do? Help him? Ignore him? Drive away?

  He hadn’t asked me to stay.

  Then again, he hadn’t told me to go.

  I wrestled with indecision.

  He needs time alone, the rational part of my brain insisted.

  I never listened to logic.

  I switched off the ignition, and jumped from the safety of the car into the deluge.

  With my shoes already soaked, I slogged through the puddles. Martinez didn’t acknowledge me as I splashed up behind him. Rain pelted us, not a warm tropical shower, but cold, relentless, stinging drops that seemed to slice right through my skin.

  With the wind howling outside, and lost in the grief screaming inside him, he’d isolated himself completely.

  I had to get through to him.

  Shivering, I bumped him hard with my hip. “You forget the alarm code or something?”

  He faced me. Water clung to his long, dark lashes even after he blinked with confusion. “What?”

  “Are we going inside?”

  “Yeah.” An automaton, he unclipped his keys and started flipping the locks. Six in all. He jerked the steel door; it squeaked open and he disappeared inside the dark building.

  Fluorescent lights flashed, blinding me as I followed the wet leather jacket pulled taut across his back.

  He punched in the code to deactivate the alarm.

  The wind whipped the door shut with a deafening bang; I nearly leapt to the rafters.

  He didn’t notice.

  Methodically, he slid the deadbolts home and locked us in.

  Guess I was staying.

  His bootsteps echoed squish squish as he tracked slop across the concrete floor to his private office. Only one of the five locks was engaged and he’d entered the room before I could catch up to him.

  A phone rang. Once. Twice.

  Stopped abruptly mid-third ring.

  A telephone base and receiver sailed out the open door and crashed; plastic exploded like shrapnel.

  The plug-in end of the cord still had a piece of Sheetrock attached from where it’d been ripped from the wall.

  His grief hit me; my knees buckled from the force of it.

  Martinez reappeared and steadied the door with one hand, while he angrily wrote with the other.

  My feet finally moved. I inched closer, to see the angry black letters he’d scrawled over the door:

  STAY THE FUCK OUT

  Our gazes crossed. In his I saw unmitigated rage.

  I didn’t know if I could handle this situation, let alone handle him.

  Sensing my hesitation, he chucked the black Sharpie toward walk-in coolers, and cocked his hands on his hips.

  “You comin’ in or what?”

  Heart thundering, I nodded and crept past him.

  A series of locks tumbled behind me.

  Water dripped from my clothes. I stayed put, making nervous puddles on the carpet.

  Martinez bypassed me and headed straight for the bar cart. He wasn’t choosy about his anesthetic. He pressed the bottle to his lips. Drank quietly, but steadily. When he drained the last of his self-prescribed painkiller, would he throw the empty at the wall?

  I know I would have.

  I primed myself for the explosion of glass and fury that didn’t happen.

  All at once he remembered himself. He slowly turned toward me. The bottle of Jack Daniels dangled from his fingertips. His gaze raked me from stringy hair to soggy feet.

  “Sorry. You’d probabl
y like to get out of those wet clothes.”

  I shifted, not yet able to articulate the words he needed to hear.

  He pointed to the dark hallway. “There’s extra towels in the closet. Feel free to use whatever you need.” He lifted the bottle, drank. “I’m hitting the shower.”

  The Jack Daniels accompanied him to the bathroom and the door clicked shut.

  Inside the bedroom, I peeled the sodden clothes from my body as quickly as my numb fingers allowed. After I toweled off, I slipped into a white cotton robe I’d found on the back of the door.

  I didn’t snoop, although technically Martinez had given me free rein. Any other time I would’ve seized the opportunity to glean secrets about El Presidente, but I wasn’t in the mood. Wasn’t anything in the windowless room besides a king-sized bed and a small dresser.

  Gathering my sopping things, I returned to the main room and dropped them on the plastic carpet protector beneath the office chair. My restless gaze zeroed in on the bar cart.

  The round, wooden cap exclusive to Don Julio tequila rose up like a beacon.

  Tempting, but one of us needed to stay sober. I took a bottle of water from the mini-fridge and my eyes sought my purse, in dire need to feed my nicotine habit.

  Crap. I’d left my smokes, my keys, my cell, hell, everything in the car. With the Fort Knox security system in this place, I couldn’t sneak out to retrieve my cigarettes or “borrow” a pack from the bar. I was screwed.

  Couldn’t drink. Couldn’t smoke. No TV. What the hell was I supposed to do?

  Wait, which I don’t do well under the best circumstances.

  These were far, far from that.

  I tucked my clammy feet under me and secured the robe over my knees. Nestled my neck in the cushions and closed my eyes. Time on my hands gave me time to think. I didn’t want to think. The ghastly images of Harvey’s last moments flickered behind my lids.

  Big Mike, No-neck, and I had grabbed Martinez to try and stop him from going to where Harvey had fallen.

  He’d shaken us off like lint.

  No one had come near him as he stood over the body. He wouldn’t leave Harvey. He watched until they zipped the bag and loaded him into the back of an ambulance.

  Even then he hadn’t uttered a sound.