Shallow Grave-J Collins 3 (2 page)

His employer, Larson Timber Products, hadn’t disputed the claim. Like any responsible company, they’d fi led the appropriate paperwork with Rushmore West Insurance, their private workman’s comp carrier, and with the proper state agencies.

An occupational therapist started Lang on an intensive physical therapy regimen. At the end of the eight weeks, Lang claimed there’d been no change in his range of mobility. He’d also asserted that because of the injury, he’d begun to suff er from constant, debilitating pain.

His absence put Larson Timber in a bind. Legally they couldn’t fi ll Lang’s position as long as he was collect-ing worker’s comp due to an injury. No one was happy with the situation, except Lang, who (according to his employer) was enjoying an extended vacation on their dime.

After twenty weeks, Rushmore West Insurance had demanded a second medical opinion.

Th

e second occupational therapist’s diagnosis con-curred with the fi rst. Often, the most innocuous injury proved the most diffi

cult to heal. Th

e new expert swore

Lang needed an additional six
months
of intensive therapy to gauge the severity and permanence of the damage.

4

I called bullshit on it, but I was hardly an authority or held an unbiased opinion. An identical situation had occurred in the Bear Butte County Sheriff ’s Department the fi rst year I’d worked there. Th

e night dispatcher,

a woman named Rhea, injured her knee and elbow hauling out garbage. Poor baby suff ered through four months of rehab.

When the insurance company received the all clear from Rhea’s physician, she demanded a second opinion, which was in direct opposition to the fi rst doctor’s diagnosis. She couldn’t return to duty because the injury had caused her to suff er from “chronic pain.” Rhea expected the county to pay for permanent disability.

She’d been a whopping twenty-four at the time.

Th

e county refused to pay. Th

e case had gone to court.

In response to their extra workload, two fellow employees had called Rhea one night after too many Budweiser’s.

Questioning the validity of her injuries supposedly infl icted additional trauma on Rhea, spurring her lawyer to seek extra compensation for her “mental anguish.”

Th

e county had lost face, money, and the employees involved in what’d been a drunken prank had gotten shit-canned. Rhea collected a pile of cash and was lazing around Florida with her winnings. Probably paid her cabana boy to take out the trash.

At times the perversity of the legal system stunned me.

5

In Lang’s case, two weeks earlier, someone had called the employer with an anonymous tip, claiming Lang Everett was faking his injury. Larson Timber reported the incident to their insurance company and to the state insurance fraud division.

Most insurance companies, especially out-of-state conglomerates, maintain specialized fraud teams. But often it’s cheaper for them to hire a private local investigative fi rm to validate or invalidate the claim.

Kevin had previously worked for Rushmore West on a similar situation. All we needed were two separate documented instances of Lang Everett’s questionable behavior.

And what were Lang’s supposed infractions? Th e

unidentifi ed caller had seen Lang ripping around on his ATV. Driving was a defi nite no-no on the list of activities that aggravated his injury. But that wasn’t all.

Supposedly Lang had been under the hood of his Chevy Blazer, wrenching on the engine block. And the source swore Lang raced his horse down the driveway every day to pick up his mail.

Sour grapes? Or was Lang Everett a big, fat faker?

In staking out the Everett abode, not only hadn’t we seen Lang zipping past on a four-wheeler, a mud buggy, or a horse; we hadn’t seen Lang Everett, period.

Rushmore West Insurance retained our services for fi fteen hours of surveillance. If we didn’t deliver the 6

goods in the allotted time, we’d be off the case, unless they ponied up more cash. I was hoping for a quick end to this ho-hum assignment.

Bored, I fi ddled with the screen on the video camera.

“Hey, be careful with that,” Kevin said.

“I am. When was the last time you used this?”

“Couple of months ago on that employee theft case.

Why?”

“Just curious. Don’t remember seeing it in the supply closet at the offi

ce.”

“Th

at’s because I had it at home.”

“For?”

Kevin looked at me strangely.

With guilt? “Ooh. Didn’t know you were into making porn, Kev.”

“Jesus, Julie. Get your mind out of the gutter.”

I grinned. “But it’s so happy there.”

“Not everything has to do with sex.”

“All the good stuff does.”

He directed his scowl out the window. “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’ll actually be
glad
when Martinez gets back in town.”

“You and me both.”

Kevin didn’t understand what I saw in Tony Martinez, my latest paramour, president of the Hombres—a motorcycle “club”— and an all-around, scary, badass dude.

7

Martinez had been in Colorado for two weeks on business. Pained me to admit I missed him, especially when I didn’t know if the feeling was mutual. Th e stupid jerk hadn’t bothered to call me. Yeah, yeah, I knew phone lines ran both ways, and it might be juvenile, but I sure as hell wasn’t about to call El Presidente fi rst.

“You up for doing anything tonight?” Kevin asked.

Since his girlfriend Lilly’s death from cancer, I suspected Kevin spent most nights alone, staring at the ugly-ass walls in his condo. After being together eight hours a day, he didn’t push for us to hang out after the 5:00 whistle blew.

“I guess. Wanna get a pizza and watch a movie?”

“Sure. As long as it’s not a Clooney fl ick.”

“Th

en no Cameron Diaz stinkers either.”

“Maybe we should stick to TV.”

“Great. I think
Queer Eye
is on at eight.”

Kevin groaned.

I smiled, readjusting my position. “How many hours are left on today’s allotment?”

“Two.”

My butt would never recover. And my stomach rumbled like an empty cattle truck. “Got any Twinkies?”

“For the last time,
no
. God. Eat a protein bar. Th ere’s

a whole box in the back seat.”

“Nice try. But I don’t see you eating those nasty 8

things. Why didn’t you pack Snickers bars?”

Kevin faced me. “What is up with you? You never care about food when we’re on stakeout.” His brows lifted. “Christ. You’re not pregnant, are you?”

Th

e look of horror on my face matched his. “Omigod,
no
, I’m not pregnant.”

Sounds of an engine revving cut his retaliation short and brought our attention back to the Everett household.

Our suspect was fi nally out in the open.

Kevin swore, picked up the binoculars and rolled down the window as I fumbled with the video camera.

Zooming in on the action, I poked the record button.

Lang’s wife—June, according to our records—still wore a grubby pink bathrobe and bunny slippers at 2:00 in the afternoon. Even from our secret vantage point I could tell she was screeching at her husband like a barn owl.

Lang shouted back at her.

She stormed down the steps. Snapped off a mean comment, by the sneering set of her mouth. Th e bunny

head on one slipper fl opped as she tapped her foot, waiting for his reaction.

Lang’s shoulders tensed. His hand shot out and connected with her face.

Not the reaction she’d expected.

She staggered, bringing her palm to her cheek.

“You fucking bastard,” I said.

9

Kevin’s hand gripped my thigh, an attempt to keep me from jumping out and kicking Lang’s ass.

“Easy, Julie.”

“He hit her. You saw it.”

“I know.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Nothing.”

“But—”

“Focus on why we’re here.”

I hated that he was right. I directed my anger on nail-ing this wife-beating asshole. Maybe I could convince his wife to charge him with assault, since we had proof.

“Come on,” Kevin taunted him softly. “Turn around.”

Almost as if he’d heard Kevin’s directive, Lang spun.

Bonus: he’d whirled around fast enough the movement should’ve caused excruciating pain to his “injury.”

“Gotcha,” Kevin said, as I clicked a still shot.

Lang climbed onto the dirt-covered four-wheeler, whipped a U-turn, spewing gravel at his wife’s feet.

She ran back inside the house.

Without a backward glance, he sped through an open gate and across the fi eld by a decrepit barn.

Kevin started the Jeep. “Whatever happens, keep that camera on him.”

“How are we going to avoid him seeing us?”

“We can’t.” Th

e Jeep lurched forward, hit a low spot

10

in the pasture and bounced us like ping-pong balls. “I’ll try to hang back only far enough he stays in sight.”

We followed him along a rutted old wagon trail most likely last used by pioneers. Th

e house and barn were no

longer visible. But we were out in the open so clearly we should’ve been quacking.

Lang made a hard left.

“Hey, slow down. Th

e camera is jumping all over

the place.”

“You’ve still got sight of him?”

Lang disappeared down a slope.

“Shit. I lost him.” A fl ash of red. “Wait, there he is.

I need to get up higher.”

In a moment of brilliance, I said, “Can you open the sun roof?” just as Kevin unsnapped the latch with his right hand and slid back the glass partition.

He mumbled something about great minds thinking alike as I wiggled up through the opening and anchored my feet, one on each bucket seat.

Cold wind lashed my face. My ponytail became a thousand little whips. I ignored the sting and kept the video lens pointed at the red jacket bouncing across the bumpy prairie.

“Still see him?” Kevin shouted.

“Yeah. Th

ink we’ve got enough tape?”

“Not yet.”

11

Easy for him to decide. He wasn’t up here freezing his nose and ears off .

We zigzagged behind Lang for so long I was sure we’d crossed the state line into Wyoming.

Th

e distance between us had increased. With Lang familiar with the terrain, and us trying to stay discreet, he could easily lose us. I was kinda hoping he would.

“Hang on, I’m speeding up,” Kevin said. He didn’t wait for my reply before stepping on the gas.

Th

e Jeep struck a pothole the size of a meteor crater. I managed not to let the camera sail from my hands, which were getting colder by the second.

Tears streamed down my cheeks from the bitter wind. I couldn’t feel my nose. My ears burned. I braced myself as the Jeep angled down yet another steep slope.

Yet, I kept taping.

Lang kept moving.

I didn’t know how much time had passed, an ice age possibly, judging by the frozen state of my fi ngers.

During that time, Lang hadn’t turned and glanced over his shoulder. Not once. Weird. How did he
not
know we were tailing him?

When he cut to the right I realized why: his hot-rod four-wheeler wasn’t equipped with a rear view mirror.

Or any mirrors at all.

Kevin narrowed the gap.

12

I fi gured we had adequate footage. Plus, I suspected I might have hypothermia.

“Back off ,” I yelled down at Kevin. Didn’t care if he thought I was a whiner. I’d had plenty of fresh arctic air today and the wind burned cheeks to prove it.

“You got enough?”

“No. I’ve been fi lming the goddamn scenery,” I snapped, remembering too late the camera was recording everything, including my colorful observations.

Crap.

Kevin slowed down.

I don’t know why I kept the tape running, even after we’d jerked to a complete stop.

But later, I was glad I had.

One second Lang was directly in front of us. Th e next, I

watched on the viewing screen as the ATV hit a hole, pitched sideways, caught air, and sailed off an embankment.

Lang Everett popped in the air like a cork.

Everything in front of me switched to slow motion.

Th

e tires on the four-wheeler spun madly mid-air, and Lang was windmilling his arms in the same manner.

Th

en both man and machine vanished with a loud crash.

13

“What the fuck just happened?”

“I don’t know,” Kevin shouted back and again jammed the Jeep in gear. “Th

at thing still on?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t shut it off now. Hang tight.”

Th

e top of my ribcage smacked into the metal housing of the sunroof as we jounced across the fi eld.

Once we skidded to a stop, Kevin took the camera.

I climbed down from the sunroof and got out. When my feet hit the ground, he slapped the camera back in my palm and we raced to see why the four-wheeler had become airborne.

Although we couldn’t see the machine, a high-pitched ghostly whine of the engine echoed from below.

A thin trail of black smoke snaked up, carrying scents of 14

motor oil and burning rubber.

At the vanishing point, I almost stumbled into the hole that’d caused Lang to plunge over the embankment.

Kevin righted me. We looked at each other and then over the ledge.

Th

e ATV was tipped upside down. One of the back tires spun. Th

e engine coughed, smoked, and sputtered

before it died.

Was Lang Everett trapped underneath?

Images from my last encounter with dead bodies swam to the surface and I choked on the sour taste of fear.

“Julie,” Kevin prompted. “Th

e camera.”

“Right.” I swept the area until a red jacket came into view.

Lang had landed on his back twenty feet from the four-wheeler.

I watched for movement. None. “You think he’s okay? Had the wind knocked out of him or something?”