Hallowed Ground (5 page)

Heat shimmered from the hot pavement as I followed him across the road. At the scarred picnic table, I claimed the side without a creekside view. The warped bench seat gouged my butt. The forlorn cry of a mourning dove gouged my soul.

Donovan gulped a swig of water. “So’s his sister Leticia Standing Elk?”

“Yeah.”

“You know her?”

“Not really.” Petty to point out Leticia was also Ben’s
half
-sister, so I refrained.

“Count yourself lucky. My boss has to deal with her all the time, and accordin’ to him, she’s a bitch on wheels.”

Leticia Standing Elk worked for the South Dakota Gaming Consortium; she’d probably crossed paths with Brush Creek Construction dozens of times. Leticia and I didn’t travel in the same social circle. In fact, I hadn’t seen her since the day she’d slapped me after refusing to admit me to Ben’s memorial service, a Lakota mourning tradition that marked a year after a person’s passing.

I refocused on the task at hand but it didn’t help. My grief swamped me as I watched Donovan.

His mannerisms, speech patterns, and attitude reminded me so much of Ben, for a brief, crazy moment I believed I’d drifted into an alternate reality and he
was
Ben.

I dispensed a mental slap and moved on.

“Donovan. We’re here to talk about Chloe.”

“I know.”

He didn’t avoid the subject, but jumped right in.

“Here’s what happened that night I supposedly ‘snatched’ her and she ain’t been returned. Those Smart Start people kicked Chloe outta the program. Know why?”

He twisted the cap off the water bottle; his slender thumb tracked the grooves in the blue plastic lid. “Cindy showed me a copy of Chloe’s records. Rondelle had been more’n four hours late pickin’ Chloe up, twelve times in one month. Instead of makin’ a point of bein’ there, Rondelle authorized people I ain’t ever heard of to have access to my daughter.” His brittle tone matched the bitterness in his eyes. He reached for my cigarettes and lit up.

I followed suit. My hands shook almost as much as his did, although for different reasons.

We smoked in silence until he said, “No matter what shit she pulls, she gets to do whatever the hell she wants with Chloe. It ain’t right.” He tossed the half-smoked cigarette on the cement slab, grinding it beneath his steel-toed work boot.

A maroon minivan drove past and my eyes tracked it to the creek. Too late I remembered I wasn’t supposed to be gawking around until the leaves rustled a whisper of warning.

Donovan swatted a big, black carpenter ant, then flicked it off the table. “So, yeah, I sent Chloe someplace safe, away from her sorry-ass excuse of a mother. If Harvey wants to come after me, let him.”

“Right or wrong, Rondelle does have legal custody.”

He scooted forward, startling me.

“Let me ask you this: Does Harvey know who Rondelle’s workin’ for up’n Deadwood?”

Where had that come from? “Some casino.”

“He mention that casino is owned by the Carlucci family?”

My vacant look made him laugh.

“No, course Rondelle didn’t tell him. Which means Martinez don’t know either, or else
you
wouldn’t be here.”

I bristled. “Why should I give a damn about the Carlucci family?”

He folded his arms over his chest. His feet bumped mine beneath the table. “You wouldn’t, but I guarantee the Hombres care a whole bunch. Territorial pissing match going on there. Rumor has it the Carluccis are goin’ after other income sources which currently belong to the Hombres.”

A bad feeling emerged. Had Martinez lied to me? “The Carluccis a rival Italian bike gang or something?”

“No. Crime family from the east coast. They bought into a casino in Deadwood last year. Ain’t nobody happy ’bout that.”

“Crime family?” I repeated inanely. “Like in
The Sopranos
?”

“Yep.”

Ping
. He’d just pegged my bullshit meter. “Get real, that crap doesn’t happen in South Dakota.”

“Guess again. We got problems, same as big cities.” Donovan puffed up a bit. “In my position I hear stuff.”

“Yeah? Like what kind of stuff?”

“Building stuff mostly. Who’s funding what project. Who needs money, who’s got money.

Where it came from. What strings are attached. Little Joe Carlucci is jus’ another vulture, like that blowhard Bud Linderman who’d like to own every damn building and video gambling machine in Deadwood.”

“What does that have to do—”

“Don’t you get it? Ever since the White Plain Tribal Council signed the compact with the governor to wedge a casino on this strip of land, they’ve managed to piss off jus’ ’bout everyone.”

That was true. The controversy over building the casino had raged for the last year. The Sihasapa tribe controlled White Plain, the smallest South Dakota reservation. They were the only South Dakota tribe without a gaming facility or gambling revenues. Crying foul, they had petitioned the governor and the chairperson of the National Native American Gaming Commission to recognize a small parcel of land that had been held in trust, specifically for their tribe, by the U.S.

Government for more than a century. They had to have it designated as “Indian land” to be eligible to build a casino. The land in question just happened to be at the base of Bear Butte, a place Lakota tribes considered holy.

Ben’s sister Leticia had been revered and reviled for her involvement in getting the land successfully recognized. I hadn’t faulted her or the Sihasapa tribe for utilizing
their
land in a manner that benefits their people. Had I been naïve to think anyone else cared, when other, more serious Native American issues—poverty, alcoholism, violence, abuse—weren’t being addressed at all?

“Who else is this pissing off?” I asked.

“Ever’one.” He ticked off names on his slender fingers. “The tribal members and councils from Pine Ridge, Rosebud, and Standing Rock who don’t want no more Indian gaming ’cause it takes money away from their casinos. The Medicine Wheel Holy Society who wants to keep this site and everything surroundin’ it sacred ground. The local ranchers and the county government officials who are now dealin’ with the reservation as a sovereign nation. Even the casino owners in Deadwood. With this building right off I-90, it’ll suck tourists away from Deadwood.”

Donovan had built up quite a head of steam so I let him roll with it, even when questions bounced in my brain like a pinball.

“Crazy, e’en it? That’s not all. Someone’s been sabotagin’ the construction site since the moment we broke ground. Puttin’ sugar in the gas tanks of the heavy equipment. Breakin’ windows. Ax gouges in the trusses, delayed deliveries, missin’ deliveries. We’re runnin’ two months behind schedule and way over budget. No one wants the casino to open.”

“You have any idea who’s responsible?”

“
Shee
. Could be any of them people.” He sighed. “It ain’t right. We’re jus’ doin’ our job. We took on this project cause no one else wanted it. Slim profit margin and Brush Creek can’t afford round the clock security. I’ve had employees up’n quit a good payin’ job for no good reason.

Whoever is behind this has gone from vandalism to terrorism.”

This was too far out to believe. I figured it was a diversion to steer me away from the real issue.

“Interesting theory. But what the fuck does it have to do with Chloe?”

A look of fear crossed his face and despite the heat, I shivered. Something had spooked this man, a man I suspected wasn’t easily spooked.

“Never mind. You wouldn’t understand.” He swung his feet around as if to leave.

I placed my hand on his arm. “Then stay and talk to me. Let me help you. Help me understand.”

Donovan regarded me, gauging my sincerity. “Okay. After a sobriety meeting a coupla weeks back, two men approached me. Approach ain’t the right word. They beat the livin’ shit out of me. Dark parkin’ lot, late at night, I was alone, bleedin’, my face grindin’ the pavement, thought I was dead for sure.”

“What did they want?”

“To warn me to keep my mouth shut ’bout what was goin’ on at the construction site. They had pictures of Chloe. Close-ups. None of that long range shit.”

If Donovan was lying, then he was the most accomplished liar I’d ever met. His retelling made the fine hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Anger built in him; quickly, like a summer storm. His fist beat the table until the chipped paint flaked from the force of the blows.

“They had pictures of my daughter. Asked me if I knew how easy it’d be to make her cry. To make her disappear. Then they tole me they’d be in touch. Goddamn Rondelle. Between fuckin’

around with that wannabe Frankie Ducheneaux—”

“Wait a sec. Who is Frankie Ducheneaux?”

“Guy Rondelle used to date. Guy who used to be my friend.”

Was this whole custody issue a ruse to mask a bout of jealousy? “How’d you know him?”

“Through the Medicine Wheel Society a few years back.”

“
You
were a member?” Why hadn’t Martinez told me this?

“Yeah.” He shifted, almost with embarrassment. “Got it in my head I needed to save the world after I sobered up. Joined the Society. Was great for a while, felt like I was makin’ a difference.

We got that shootin’ range stopped, but I couldn’t stand the politics. Frankie was the worst, actin’ like he was ‘Heap Big Chief’ or something.” His smile was there and gone. “Then I got the job at Brush Creek and I hadta quit.”

“You helped them get the shooting range shot down, but you’re helping to build a casino that the Medicine Wheel Holy Group wants even
less
than that range?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Can’t eat or feed your kid on your principles.”

I had nothing to say to that one.

“Don’t matter what I think ’cause this is all Rondelle’s fault. Between workin’ for a hard-ass like Bud Linderman and now the Carluccis, she’s in a mess ’o trouble and it’s spreadin’ fast. I ain’t

’bout to let Chloe get caught in the shitstorm.”

God. Talk about a massive headache. Not only from the twist this case had taken, but also from the stress of pretending I was anywhere besides sitting in the shadow of Bear Butte.

A breath of sage-scented air wafted by. I inhaled but the calming properties were slow to kick in.

Donovan sighed. “Didja tell me about your brother ’cause I’m Lakota?”

I let his change of topic slide. “Yeah. You remind me of Ben.”

He sat up taller, as if I’d given him a compliment.

“Can I ask you somethin’?”

Never an easy way to deflect that request. “Sure.”

“Didja really used to work for the sheriff?”

“Yeah.”

“You really carryin’ a gun?”

A smile crept up. “No.”

“
Shee
. The girl can bluff.” He paused, mirth gone. “Can I ask you somethin’ else?”

I nodded, warily.

“Could you have done anything to prevent Ben’s murder?”

I’d have been less shocked if he’d have reached across the table and slapped me. “No.”

“Then that’s where we’re different. ’Cause I
can
keep Chloe safe, and I will, no matter what it takes. You won’t find her. Trust me.”

He unfolded his long legs, faded denim brushing the warped pine underbelly of the picnic table.

Kicking aside yucca seedpods, flat pieces of shale crunched beneath his booted feet. He wandered to the barbecue grill, his back straight as a section of rebar.

I fiddled with the plastic covering my cigarette package, processing everything. Had Donovan told me the truth? Or an elaborate lie to get back at Rondelle?

One thing was for certain, sharing this new information with Martinez wasn’t going to be a picnic.

Donovan turned, his silhouette perfectly aligned with the striking backdrop of Bear Butte. He started toward me, a funny sort of smirk on his face.

A distinctive pop cut the tranquility.

Donovan’s smile changed into a grimace. His body jerked once, twice, three times and he pitched backward.

Horror froze me to the spot. I might have screamed, a shriek might’ve actually forced itself from my shriveled lungs and out my open mouth. But all I heard was the ringing thud as his head clipped the corner of the steel barbecue grill before he crashed to the ground.

I HIT THE DIRT.

Listened for more gunshots.

Silence mocked me.

I couldn’t cower in the dirt waiting for bullets that might not come.

Donovan needed help.

On my elbows, I crawled across the uneven terrain, through pine needles, patches of dead grass and cactus until I reached Donovan.

His body was splayed like a broken mannequin.

I had the overwhelming urge to throw up at the sight of all that blood.

Think, Julie, just breathe through it. You can do this.

Gritting my teeth, I lifted myself onto my hands and knees to gauge the damage.

Without jostling Donovan from the weird position he’d landed in, I checked his vitals. The little self pep talk had kicked my emergency medical skills into gear.

Was he still breathing? Yep. Move down. My fingers pressed against the carotid artery in his neck; a thready pulse, but a pulse nonetheless. Good.

Despite my squeamishness, I examined his body, trying to figure out where the hell all the blood was coming from. I found one entrance point in his left shoulder. Another, on his left thigh. The worst injury was in the middle of his stomach. Blood darkened his T-shirt, spreading out like a dreamcatcher the size of a compact disc.

Shit. This was bad, and I couldn’t even see the back of his head, where he’d nailed the barbecue grill. I assumed he’d have a bump the size of a cantaloupe, or he’d cracked his skull open.

I peered at the dirt beneath his head. No puddles of liquid oozed out. Was that worse? Could he be hemorrhaging internally?

Automatically, I patted my hip for my cell phone. My fingers connected with air. Crap. I’d left it on the picnic table.

I hadn’t heard any additional shots. With my pulse booming in my ears and adrenaline crashing through my system, the damn shooter could’ve skipped up behind me whistling show tunes and I wouldn’t have noticed.