Hallowed Ground (4 page)

Once the workers scattered into the parking area, I set aside my binoculars and flipped open
Entertainment Weekly
. No one paid attention to me. I was just someone’s old lady, idly passing the time until my man finished his shift.

About 5:15 a dually pickup bumped into view. I scooted down in my seat, but kept my gaze trained on the man behind the wheel of the white Dodge Ram. He drove through slowly and parked behind a dump truck, which completely obscured his vehicle from view.

Interesting.

A short, lean man, I assumed Donovan, headed straight for command central, the dilapidated 10

X 13 trailer, obviously salvaged after it’d been hit by a twister. Cap pulled down, sunglasses covered his eyes. He blended in with the rest of the workforce, except for the butt-length braid and the reddish-brown hue of his skin.

With the shades drawn inside the trailer, my binoculars were useless. I suspected my original plan of following Donovan, in hopes he’d lead me to Chloe, was overly optimistic. I’d have to make direct contact with him. An unsettling prospect, a woman, out here alone without backup.

But if there were any chance Donovan would talk to me, I’d risk it.

So I waited, feeling superior that I didn’t slack in my watchdog duties even to smoke one lousy cigarette.

Twenty minutes passed. My truck and one rusted-out Buick LeSabre were the only vehicles left in the lot. Eerie, how fast this place resembled a Black Hills ghost town.

It was the perfect time to make my move.

I scooted out the passenger’s side and situated myself in the shade of the dump truck, smack dab in a patch of skunkweed. Gnats buzzed around my head. Dust particles tickled my nose. Metal rivets dug into my back. What’s not to love about surveillance?

Donovan emerged from the trailer.

His keys jangled. He shifted his black backpack (no pansy-ass briefcases for construction guys), and his long strides ate the distance with enough speed to cause a race walker envy.

When he reached the truck I sidled from the shadows. “Donovan Black Dog?”

“Shit!” He leapt back like a startled cat. “Where did you come from? Who are you?”

Although my heart knocked in my chest, I offered a friendly smile and my hand. “I’m Julie Collins.”

He ignored my hand and harrumphed, “What do you want?”

“To talk to you about Chloe.”

“Not interested.” He attempted to maneuver around me.

Naturally, I propped myself against the driver’s side door, blocking his escape. “Too bad.”

“What makes you think I’ll talk to you?” A statement, not a threat.

“You know, that
is
a good question. I’ll even give you two options: You can talk to me,” I waggled my cell phone between us, “or you can talk to the Bear Butte County Sheriff and explain to
him
why you violated your custody agreement and snatched your daughter.”

My sunglasses slid down my nose; I peered at him over the pink plastic rims. “FYI: Sheriff Richards’ number is on my speed dial. It’d take him about three minutes to have a deputy here.”

Donovan didn’t say a word.

“What’s it gonna be?”

“You work for the county?” he demanded.

I said, “Suit yourself,” and pretended to dial.

He backtracked. “Okay, okay, put the phone away. I’ll talk.”

I clicked it shut. “Look. I’m here ...” Much easier to offer proof. I reached into my back pocket for a business card.

“Whoa.” His hands came up in surrender. Bet as a kid he killed at freeze tag, his immediate statue impression was superb. “No need to flash your piece.”

He thought I was packin’? Way cool. Instead of disabusing him of that notion, I shrugged. “Fine.

But I’ve got cuffs”—a complete lie, I’d forgotten them at home—“so don’t try anything.”

“Not a problem,” he assured me.

“Tell me where I can find Chloe and I’ll be on my way.”

A thin line of sweat tracked down Donovan’s temple and neck, adding to the damp stain below his yellowed T-shirt collar. A muscle jumped in his jaw. The man was as skittish as a calf at branding time. “Who sent you?”

Nervous usually meant unstable. An unarmed woman, alone in a field with a man I didn’t know, great plan, Julie. I’d have to win his trust pretty damn fast. “Someone who’s very concerned about Chloe’s well-being.”

Disparaging laughter boomed. “That narrows it down some, ’cause it sure as shit ain’t Chloe’s mother.”

“YOU SURE ABOUT THAT?” WITH A BORED SIGH, I REMOVED my sunglasses and tucked them in the pocket of my flannel shirt. “Rondelle won’t file charges against you if Chloe is returned to her immediately.”

Donovan studied me from behind mirrored shades, which was disconcerting as hell. I preferred fear to curiosity.

“Yeah? Maybe I oughta file charges against
her
.”

Color me surprised he’d finally called my bluff. “Why?
You’re
the one who snatched Chloe from her daycare in the first place.”

“Who tole you that buncha horseshit?”

At my blank look—which wasn’t entirely faked—he swore again.

“Let me tell you a little story ’bout how I happened to ‘snatch’ my daughter. More than two weeks ago, Rondelle dumped Chloe off at Smart Start, on a day Chloe wasn’t supposed to be there.”

Donovan paused, ripped off his sunglasses so I could see the aggravation in his eyes.

My breath stalled. I knew what he was about to say before the words huffed passed his lips.

“Rondelle never showed to pick her up. When they got a hold of me, as a
last resort
,” he stressed, “I was in Pine Ridge, three hours away.”

He glanced at a fluffy white cloud passing overhead, a temporary reprieve from the burning sun, but nothing shielded his heated words. “Had to talk fast to convince the supervisor, Cindy, not to call Social Services or the cops, which might’ve been the best choice, but at the time, I decided enough was enough.”

“Couldn’t you have called someone else to pick her up? Like another family member who lives close by?”

Donovan’s gaze snapped back to mine. Hardened like cement.

I blinked innocently, an offhand comment, but he saw right through it.

“Rondelle didn’t hire you.” Donovan’s impassioned denial sent his braid slithering over his shoulder like a fat, black snake. “No fuckin’ way am I lettin’ that psycho Harvey get his hands on my daughter, I don’t care how much he’s payin’ you.”

Clarifying who’d actually written the check wouldn’t set Donovan’s mind at ease.

And why in the hell did Donovan’s state of mind matter to me? He’d been thrust into the villain’s role in this melodrama, ripping the poor child away from her loving mother. But if what he’d told me was true, I didn’t blame him.

Once again I only had half the story. Hell, I didn’t know who to believe, which did not bode well for client relations. Despite my conflicting feelings, I asked, “Do you have any intention of returning Chloe to Rondelle?”

Equally belligerent, he said, “Why should I tell you anything?”

I considered reaching for my nonexistent gun, just to see if he’d flinch again, but with my luck, he’d probably call me on it. Screw client confidentiality. I used the only leverage I had left.

“Because if you don’t, I’ll call Tony Martinez and you can explain it to him.”

Stunned silence buzzed between us equal to the distant hum of traffic on I-90.

“All right,” he said grudgingly. “I’ll talk to you. But not here.”

The empty parking lot seemed the ideal place to hash through this mess. “Why not here?”

Donovan’s nervous gaze swept the area. “Might look deserted, but there’s things goin’ on here you don’t want no part of.” He pointed to Bear Butte. “There’s a picnic area near the creek where the north trailhead starts. We’ll have some privacy there.”

My insides squeezed like an orange in a juicer.

I’d avoided Bear Butte since Ben’s murder. In fact, most days I pretended Bear Butte didn’t exist—quite an accomplishment since the 1000-foot volcanic rock formation cast its shadow over everything and everyone in our small county.

“Absolutely not. No fucking way.”

Donovan stared at me like I’d grown hooves. “What?”

I blurted, “How about if we go to Dusty’s? It’s down the road. Happy hour. I’ll even buy.” I’d rather chance running into my former abusive boyfriend, Ray, than lounge around where my brother had been murdered and pretend I was on a fucking picnic.

He shook his head. “Sorry. I’m part of the Sacred Buffalo sobriety movement and never go anywhere alcohol is served.”

I freaked.

Oh God. Was I really going to have to sit at a puke green picnic table and pretend I wasn’t hearing Ben’s last scream as someone slashed his throat and dumped his lifeless body into the creek?

Heat rushed to my face. I had to grit my teeth to stop from throwing up the buffalo jerky churning into stew in my stomach.

“Well?” he snapped. “Make up your mind.”

Anger helped me regain my bearings, didn’t necessarily have to be mine.

“Fine. I’ll follow you. Don’t try to skip out on me because I
will
call the sheriff.”

“Yeah, I know.” He unlocked his door and swung it open. Clods of mud wrapped in long strings of ditch-weed plopped beneath the chrome running board. “But if I end up in jail, I guarantee Chloe’ll stay gone for a long, long time.”

“That a threat?”

“Nope. Jus’ a fact.” Donovan heaved himself into his truck.

My mouth hung open like a broken cellar door; I literally ate his dust as he roared off.

The amount of traffic on the gravel road between the new casino and Bear Butte had quadrupled.

I hadn’t noticed since for the last few months I’d spent most of my time in Rapid City.

I smoked with the windows up. Orangish-red dirt enfolded me in a void making it impossible to see. I wished the dust could seep into my brain and block my thoughts as easily.

Through the pall, I spotted the turn-off and braked.

The blacktop with its crater-sized potholes was smooth in comparison to the rutted county road. I concentrated on following the hand-carved signs, purposely not gawking at the scenery.

Especially not at the creek.

Sweat poured down my back, my muscles were tight, a hundred crisscrossing rubber bands stretched to the breaking point. An ominous warning droned in my head like a swarm of cicadas.

And still I drove.

Scowling at the cheerful two-story visitor center, I hung a sharp right. My gaze flicked over the squat, skeletal ceremonial sweat lodges, the fire pits ringed with chunks of vanilla-colored shale.

Strips of red, yellow, black, and white fabric—symbolic of the four directions—flapped in the breeze. Bulging prayer pouches filled with tobacco weighted the branches of bearberry bushes, trees, and tangled vines.

I popped the clutch into neutral and coasted downhill, around a cluster of chokecherry and scrubby pine trees to a plateau where rolling prairie met clear blue sky as far as the eye could see.

Donovan’s pickup stood out in the parking area like a white elephant.

I parked. Peeled my fingers from the death grip on the steering wheel. Took a deep breath.

My trembling hands gathered up cigarettes, lighter, two bottles of water, and my cell phone. As I exited my truck, I forced my stubborn feet to move across the chalky gray earth and silently willed myself not to wig out.

But questions bombarded me from all directions anyway. Why had my brother been here? Had he been dragged to
Mato Paha
, this Lakota holy place, for a specific reason? Would I ever find out why?

“Let me help ya,” Donovan said, reaching for the water bottles and scattering my thoughts like buckshot.

“Thanks.”

“You all right?” he asked.

I met his gaze. “No.”

He said nothing, just waited for me to explain, which I did.

“My brother was killed up here a few years back. Not my favorite place, so I’d like to get this over with, if you don’t mind.”

“Shit. I’m sorry. I ’member something ’bout that. Guy from White Plain.” His concern changed to doubt. “He was your brother?” Assessing black eyes raked my fair skin, blond hair, blue eyes, and utter lack of Native American attributes.

“Technically, he was my half-brother. We share the same white father.”

“You’re not Lakota?”

“Not a bit.”

“What was your brother’s name?”

“Ben Standing Elk.” I watched for any sign of recognition. Chances were slim they’d known each other, but hey, South Dakota
was
a small state.

Donovan whistled. “Man. Bet the Standing Elk family treated you like you’d pissed in their gene pool, eh?”

I laughed, a bit too quickly, a bit too loudly. “Got it on the first try. How’d you know?”

“
Shee
. They’ve got a rep for tryin’ to keep their bloodline pure. That why they didn’t raise a stink about him bein’ killed?”

His observation floored me. I’d often wondered if one of Ben’s full-blooded Lakota brothers had been murdered, if his family would’ve been more concerned about finding the killer.

“Beats me. I’m not exactly in their inner circle.” The few times Ben had dragged me to family functions on the reservation, I’d been as welcome as General Custer.