Shallow Grave-J Collins 3 (37 page)

e dinosaur roared vic-

toriously as I died.

I shot straight up in bed. Jesus Christ. Like I needed that fucking nightmare. I eased back the covers and shuffl

ed to the living room. I fi red up a Marlboro and aimed my unfocused gaze out the front window into the moonless night and tried to piece it together. Or dissect what the hell it meant. Another exercise in futility.

When I crawled back in bed, Martinez didn’t stir. I envied him and his dreamless sleep. I wrapped myself around him and willed his body heat to warm me from the outside in.

427

Somebody was beating on the front door. The alarm system began a series of annoying beeps.

Martinez groaned.

Whoa. 7:30 and he was still in my bed? I slipped away and grabbed my robe.

Yawning, I remembered to check the peephole before I disengaged the alarm. Probably Big Mike wondering where the hell Martinez was.

Brittney waited on the porch.
Brittney?

I decoded the alarm and swung open the door.

She jumped back and bumped the porch railing.

“Brittney? Did something happen at home?”

“Umm. No.”

“Oh. Well, it’s a little early for a social call, isn’t it?”

Her freckles stood out on her face like mud spots on 428

a palomino. “Probably. I-I just wanted to talk to you.”

Her panicked gaze started at my wild hair. I was pretty sure she realized I was totally naked under my robe. As her wide eyes followed the curve of my neck, I wondered if Martinez had gifted me with hickeys. Her perusal stopped where the robe gapped between my breasts and she blushed. I glanced down and saw red streaks across my chest, courtesy of the razor stubble that covered Tony’s face. Last night before the nightmare had overtaken me, Martinez reminded me of his place in my life. Numerous times.

She stammered, “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“Th

at’s okay. Come in.” I peered over her shoulder to the empty street. “How did you get here?”

Her pink fl ip-fl ops shuffl

ed. “Got on the bus early

and told my driver I left my backpack here. He dropped me off . I can ride to school from this bus stop.”

Enterprising kid. “Does this have to do with the career day thing?”

“No. It has to do with Dad.” Brittney raised her troubled eyes to mine. “I deserve to know the truth about why you hate him so much.”

My stomach fl uttered. Too goddamn early in the morning for this conversation, especially without caf-feine. Or nicotine.

429

“You gonna send me away without talking to me?”

“No. But you need to give me a minute, all right?”

I puff ed on a cigarette while the coff ee beans whirred in the grinder, then I methodically readied the coff ee pot for the brewing process. Nothing could’ve readied me for this discussion.

“You didn’t deny you hate him,” she said from the doorway.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Why? What did he do?”

Her innocent face had such a stubborn look of determination I would’ve laughed if it were any other subject matter. “You sure you want to hear this, Britt? Because it doesn’t have a pretty ending.”

She nodded.

“After my mom died . . . Dad went off the deep end.

He took out his grief and frustration over her death on me. With his fi sts.”

No response.

I could’ve left it there. I didn’t. “He hit me a lot.

Not spankings or the occasional slap on the face. He beat me.”

“What did you do?”

“Bled. Cried. Hid my bruises.”
And the shame.

She scowled. “Did he ever hit you before your mom died?”

430

Why had she asked that? For justifi cation that my mother’s tragic accident had somehow triggered a cruel side in him? “Yes, he did, but it’d never been that severe.”

“What did your mom do?”

“Nothing.”

“Why not?”

“Because I hid it from her. Early on I realized he
liked
hitting me.” I ground out my cigarette. “I took what he dished out and hated him. I didn’t try to hide it, then or now. I’ve never gotten over it. I don’t know if I can.”

“I’m sorry. He’s not like that now.” She sniffl ed. “I-I don’t understand how he . . . I’m just so . . . sorry.”

Th

e silence between us was brutal.

I tried for brevity. Levity. “Let’s talk about something else. You want breakfast or something? Pop Tarts or toast?”

“Do we have any eggs?” Martinez sauntered in the kitchen. He headed straight for the cupboard and grabbed a coff ee mug. He poured the thick brew, snagged the milk from the fridge, and dumped about a cup of sugar in as he stirred.

Brittney’s hazel eyes grew big as pie plates at the muscled, tattooed, shirtless man, completely at home in my kitchen.

Martinez smiled at her. Th

ank God he hadn’t done

431

the big-bad-wolf-growl-stare thing. Th

en again, that

sexy smile of his was nearly as dangerous.

“Brittney, this is Tony. Tony, this is . . . my sister.”

Her eyes cut to me and fi lled with shock before she dropped her gaze to the linoleum.

“You want me to cook you some eggs?” I asked Martinez.

“Actually, I’m not hungry after all. Coff ee’s fi ne.”

“I’ll go,” Brittney said.

“No. Stay. I need a quick shower anyway.” He pushed away from the counter. “Nice to meet you, Brittney.” On his way out, he stopped in front of me and traced my cheek with his warm, rough fi ngertips, slowly brushing his mouth across mine. Twice.

A public display in front of a family member? I could scarcely wrap my head around this side of him.

After he’d left the room, Brittney blurted, “I thought Kevin was your boyfriend.”

“Nope. Kevin is my business partner.”

“Oh. So, is Tony your boyfriend?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“ ’Cause he’s kinda scary.”

True.

“But he seems really nice,” she added politely. “Is he?”

“What?”

“Nice or scary?”

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“Both.”

She expelled a girlish sigh. “Wow. You’re so lucky.

You can tell he really likes you and he’s . . . a total hottie.”

My answering smile wasn’t faked. “Yes, he is.”

“Look, I hafta catch the bus. Th

anks, uh, sis,”

Brittney said and bolted out the door, leaving me staring after her.

No one had called me
sis
since Ben. Strange how it didn’t sound wrong coming from her.

She was a sweet girl. I cursed my stupidity for telling her the truth.

“You all right?”

I didn’t turn around. “You heard everything?”

“Yeah.”

“Did I do the right thing?”

“Yes, she needs to know what he did to you.” His arms engulfed me and he feathered kisses through my hair and on the back of my head. “I can’t stomach the thought of anyone hurting you, blondie. Th en or now.

Makes me crazy. Makes me want to do crazy bad things.”

He nuzzled the side of my neck. “I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later.” And he was gone.

I hadn’t made it into the shower when my phone rang.

Caller ID said
Kevin
. Probably wondering if planned on working today. I answered, “I’m running late.”

“Actually I hoped to catch you before you left.”

433

“What’s up?”

“Denny didn’t come back here last night.”

“What? Why? Did you talk to him?”

“Briefl y. He said something about Maria’s service and his grandmother. I think he headed back to White Plain.

I don’t even know what time.” Kevin sighed. “He’s almost an adult, and it might be stupid, but I’m worried.”

“Me too.” I had a bad, bad feeling.

“You know your way around the rez; maybe you could track him down.”

“Okay.”

“Call me and leave a message on my cell. I’ll be in meetings with clients most of the morning but I want to know what’s going on.”

“Will do.”

“And, Jules, be careful.”

M M M

I savored the scenic drive. Rising and falling stony hills yielded to fl at prairie. Th

is landscape was stark. Unfor-

giving. Distances were deceiving in the great wide open, when the horizon stretched for miles.

Th

e poison ivy and sumac had long ago burned scarlet and withered away. Tumbleweeds dotted the barbed wire fences. Chalky white patches of alkaline soil stood 434

out like pools of spilled milk against ground the color of melted caramel. It was stunningly beautiful to me.

As I drove I formulated a plan. I’d stop by the White Plain funeral home fi rst. As a last resort, I’d go to Roland and Bonita’s place.

Funeral homes gave me the creeps. Th

ere’s some-

thing inherently wrong with people making money off death. With having a showroom dedicated to glossy coated, satin-lined coffi

ns and fake-gilded urns. Th

e sickly

sweet scent of air freshener that never quite masked the antiseptic smell of embalming chemicals or the stench of death.

I didn’t remember my mother’s casket. Or the fl owers. Only the surrealism of sitting in the front pew between my father and my mother’s mother. I remembered my Grandmother Inga’s cold, dry hand holding mine. Her confusion. She’d fl own over alone from Norway and she hadn’t spoken much English.

Mostly I remembered her sadness beneath the stoicism. I’d only met her once before. And the day we buried my mother was the last time I ever saw her.

Strange, it was almost as if she’d washed her hands of me the same way Sharon Dove had with Denny.

Cool, rose-scented air assaulted me as I trudged into the entryway of the funeral home. I’d barely choked down the panic and nausea when Ichabod Crane skulked 435

around the corner with—dare I say—a hopeful gleam in his eye.

“May I help you?”

I couldn’t muster a smile. “Maybe. Have the services already been held for Maria Dove?”

His attitude cooled. He had no reason to be nice now; I wasn’t a potential customer. “Just fi nished an hour ago.”

“Was it held here or a church?” My gaze zoomed to the chapel area. Empty.

“Over at Saint Isaacs.”

I’d try to catch Denny at the church while he was eating fi nger sandwiches, frosted cake, and making small talk.

Took me two spins around the ostentatious building before I found the mettle to park. I’d nearly made it to the steps leading into the vestibule when I heard, “Hey, over here.”

I spun. Denny was hunched against a life-sized statue of the Virgin Mary. His hair was slicked back and he wore an ill-fi tting plaid sports coat that made him look like Herb Tarlek from
WKRP in Cincinnati.
He smoked the tail end of a cigarette.

“Everything okay?”

“Nah. It sucks, you know?”

“Is your mom with your grandma?”

Denny snorted. “Right. Roland beat her up bad 436

again. She swears this time she’s left him for good.”

Ah, hell. “Where is she?”

“My Grandma Sharon wouldn’t take her in, so she’s sleeping it off at my Grandma Bird’s house.”

What the hell was wrong with Sharon Dove? “Didn’t your mom come to the service?”

“No. Her face is swollen and she can’t see nothin’.

Don’t matter cause she can’t hardly walk anyway.”

Stupid question but I had to ask. “Did Roland show up for Maria’s service?”

Denny gaped at me as if I’d lost my mind.

“Sorry.”

“S’okay.” He fl icked the spent butt and it bounced off a concrete angel. “Weird fuckin’ day.”

“You staying with your
unci
again?”

“Nah. I jus’ wanna get outta here, know what I mean? You headin’ back to Rapid City?”

“Yeah. You need a ride?”

“If it ain’t too much trouble.” He glanced at his grimy tennis shoes.

“No trouble. I gotta swing by Kevin’s anyway.”

“Cool. Let me run in and tell ’em I’m leavin’.”

He trotted off . I considered the statue of Mary, beaming at the baby cradled in her arms. It amazed me, the serenity and contentment attributed to her.

Would Kim have that awe and air of accomplishment 437

when she held her child? Would I once again become an outsider?

Denny trundled back, frown creasing his face. “My
unci
wants me to pick up some stuff at Mom’s place before I leave.”

“From Roland’s?”

“Yeah. And I ain’t got no choice. But if you gotta get goin’ that’s okay. I’ll catch a ride with someone else later.”

“Th

at’s fi ne. I’m in no rush. Just hope you don’t mind if I hide in the truck.”

“
Shee
. Maybe we both oughta hide in the truck, eh?”

My insides tumbled as we coasted down the steep hill to Roland and Bonita’s trailer.

Roland’s Durango was parked kitty-corner to the steps. I didn’t see the dogs, or hear them.

I parked but left the ignition on.

Denny said, “Be right back.” He rounded the front end of Roland’s car and stopped abruptly. I could only see the back of Denny’s head as he bent down. Th en he

straightened up; his face resembled a wax carving.

My gun was in my hand and I jumped out of the cab. “Denny? What’s going on?”

He stepped aside.

And I saw it.

A body splayed in the dirt just below the steps.

438

Face up.

Roland.

His throat had been sliced from ear to ear. His eyes were wide open. Filmy. Milky white like he’d developed cataracts overnight.

I shuddered. Jesus. Just like in my dream.

But in my dream he’d been whole. His calves hadn’t been gnawed to the bone, except for a few sinewy strips, dangling in the dirt. His feet still had skin and muscles and tendons.

In my dream starving dogs hadn’t found him.

439

I made myself look at Denny, hoping he still wore the same shocked expression.

He did. When he started to gag I knew he wasn’t responsible for Roland’s near beheading. My thoughts fl ashed to the gruesome crime scene Martinez and I had stumbled on last summer. Martinez literally had to clamp his hand over my mouth to keep me from throwing up. With Roland’s body between us, I couldn’t get to Denny in time.