Hallowed Ground (6 page)

Chills raced down my spine at the silence, like the earth was holding its breath.

After another quick glance around, I crouched and ran the twenty feet to the table. Snatching up my cell phone, I flipped it open, and hit speed dial for the sheriff’s office.

I yanked off my frayed shirt as I scurried back toward Donovan. One hand held the phone. The other wadded up the cotton fabric and pressed against the gunshot wound in Donovan’s stomach in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood.

“Bear Butte County Sheriff’s Office.”

I recognized the voice on the line. Missy. Thank God. She might be a royal pain in the ass in person, but in a crisis she was top notch.

“Missy. This is Julie Collins. I need an ambulance at Bear Butte ASAP. I’ve got a victim with multiple gunshot wounds and a possible brain hemorrhage.”

“Julie, what exactly is your location at Bear Butte?”

“Picnic area on the south side, about a mile from the main entrance next to the creek.”

“Are shots still being fired?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you injured?”

“No.”

“Did you get the victim’s name?”

“Yes. Donovan Black Dog.”

“Good work, honey. Stay put. Stay calm. An ambulance is on its way.”

I hung up, and dropped the phone, hoping that two hands would apply enough pressure to keep Donovan alive until the ambulance arrived. I did another visual sweep of his body.

When had the wound in his leg started gushing like Old Faithful? If the bullet had nicked the femoral artery he’d bleed out before help arrived and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

I tugged the bloody sleeve of my shirt loose from where I’d pressed it into his stomach, stretching it across his pelvis, placing one hand firmly on his leg and keeping the other in position on his belly.

Please, please, hurry.

Hot, dry wind slapped my face, momentarily breaking my concentration. A lonely hawk’s cry echoed in the canyon, a ricochet of desperation I felt to the marrow of my bones.

Where the hell was everybody? Had they all packed up their sage bundles and gone home?

Time passed slowly, a bark beetle inching its way up a diseased pine tree.

My arms ached. The muscles across my shoulders screamed.

Why
kept echoing in my head. Why hadn’t the shooter picked me off?

Sweat dripped into my eyes. Unable to use my hands, I whipped my head like a wet dog, flinging away the salty droplets. When I looked down, Ben’s face swam into view.

My breath caught.

Ben. Oh God. It was Ben. This was my chance to save him.

Tears filled my eyes. My vision blurred.

Reality shattered the illusion:
This is not Ben, Ben is dead. Donovan isn’t. Focus
.

I felt nauseous, which triggered my gag reflex and I swallowed until the bile burned back down where it belonged. Squeezed my eyes shut to stop the tears.

Goddamn it. He wasn’t Ben, but Donovan wasn’t going to die. Not here. Not like this. Not if I could help it.

Talk to him
, a voice whispered in my head.

“Hang on,” I pleaded. “You’re doing fine. Just hold out a little bit longer until the cavalry arrives.”

The chittery caw of a crow answered, chastising me.

A hysterical giggle escaped.

“Although, being Native American and all, you might not appreciate the term
cavalry
.”

Donovan didn’t laugh.

“The emergency crew in this county makes those guys on
Third Watch
and
ER
look like slackers,” I added.

Off in the distance I heard the wails of sirens: ambulance, patrol car, and fire truck.

“See? I told you they’d come, o ye of little faith. They’ll have you fixed up in no time.” I sniffed, wiping my running nose on my bare shoulder. “But I hope you weren’t fond of this T-shirt, my friend, ’cause the sucker is toast.”

I knew I was babbling; yet I couldn’t seem to stop.

The sirens got closer, loud enough I couldn’t hear myself think. Loud enough to drown out the grateful sobs bursting from my mouth.

Gentle hands pulled me away from Donovan’s body. I stumbled backward, brushing the grill. I yelped and staggered into the picnic table. Someone shoved my head between my knees before everything went black.

“Collins, wake up.”

I opened my eyes to the cloudless sapphire sky spread out above me. Then Sheriff Richards’

ugly face moved over mine, destroying the beautiful view.

“Hey,” he said. “Lost you there for a minute. You okay?”

A sharp stick poked my back. I turned my head, got a mouthful of dust for my trouble. Great. I was lying on the dirt, among the pinecones, rocks, and weeds.

But not in a pool of my own blood.

Coughing, I sat up, accepting a paw-sized hand from the sheriff. “What happened to me?”

“Damndest thing. You stood, then toppled to the ground like a ragdoll. Afraid you’d gone into shock.” When I wobbled, he firmed his grip. “Easy, girl. Come on. Sit over here.”

My butt connected with the wooden bench of the picnic table hard enough my teeth clacked together.

“I’m assuming the blood on you isn’t yours?”

I looked down. My jeans had dark, sticky splotches in odd places. My once-white tank top was now a mix of red splatters and smears. Blood and dirt were caked on my hands. “No. It’s not mine.”

“Had me worried there for a second. Thought I might have to call another ambulance.” He hunkered in front of me, his single black eyebrow scrunched above his eyes in a manner I took for worry. “You sure you’re okay?”

I didn’t answer. Minor aches, pains, scrapes, and bruises aside, I’d fared far better than Donovan.

My gaze swept the area.

The sheriff noticed my panicked look. “I’ve got three guys trying to track the shooter.”

Glancing over the sheriff’s shoulder at the ambulance, I watched as the EMT shut the back door.

He raced to the passenger’s side of the cab, jumped in, and they sped off, sirens blaring.

“Donovan?” I asked.

“Alive. Just barely.”

“Where they taking him?”

“Sturgis. They’ve already called the medivac chopper from Rapid City. It’ll meet them there with a trauma unit.”

At least they hadn’t spent time arguing about getting him to the Indian Health Service hospital at Sioux San in Rapid City, standard operating procedure when dealing with most Native American injury situations in our county.

“Need anything? Water?”

I nodded. “And my cigarettes.”

He snorted a bull-like sound of disgust, but grabbed the pack and my lighter anyway, dropping them in my lap.

Someone shouted his name and he ambled off.

I lit up. My gut pitched at the blood crusted on my palms and under my nails. Eyes closed, I inhaled and let the nicotine work its magic.

Deputy John brought me a blanket. And a cylinder of handi-wipes. After convincing him I wasn’t about to go into shock, he told me to stay put and assured me Sheriff Richards would return soon.

Right. I knew a stock response. Heck, I’d even used it. I might be here for hours.

I smoked, one right after another. My brain was determined to torture me by re-living the shooting, in super slow-mo.

Last spring, Kevin and I had been used for target practice. Fortunately for us, the man responsible had only been trying to scare us. Didn’t seem to be the case this time.

More than an hour later, the sheriff plopped down beside me. The poor bench groaned. He’s a big man—6’8”, 300 odd pounds—who looks like an escapee from WWE “Smackdown!” His girth blocked the fading sunlight, throwing me in shadow. I shivered.

“You up to making a statement now?”

I nodded.

“You knew the victim?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“He’s connected to a case I’m working on.” Most people over-explained things when interviewed by law enforcement. I knew better. I smoked and waited for the inevitable question.

“How long had you been at this location before the shots were fired?”

“Thirty minutes, give or take.”

“Did the victim,” he flipped through his notebook, “this Donovan Black Dog, have a gun?”

“Not that I know of.”

“You have a gun with you?”

I exhaled before I faced him. “Why? You gonna dust me for gunpowder residue? You think I shot him and then tried to save his ass in an effort to cover my own?”

“Knock off the indignant act, Collins. You know procedure. Just answer the question.”

“No. My gun is at the office.” I turned away, mentally kicking myself for forgetting it, or for believing I wouldn’t need it, but mostly for giving into Kell’s paranoia.

The reason the handgun wasn’t in my possession was because Kell had asked me to leave it at the office. Said it freaked him out to have a weapon around.

Normally, I couldn’t have given a shit what he wanted, but lately I’d begun to wonder if my belligerent stance was a roadblock to a decent relationship, not the quirky, charming enhancement I’d imagined.

Right now, I’d rather have the damn gun.

Sheriff Richards sighed. “I don’t suppose you’re gonna tell me what this case is about?”

“I can’t.”

“Then maybe you’ll tell me what the hell you’re doing up at Bear Butte, when I know you avoid this place like Sunday dinner at your father’s house.”

Took him longer to get to the point than I’d predicted. Damn, I’d forgotten how dead-on his instincts were. Scared me how much better he’d known me than he’d ever let on.

“Trust me, Sheriff. This place was not my first choice.”

“Is this case connected to your brother’s?”

I snuffed my smoke on the concrete slab. “No. Just a coincidence Donovan’s Native.” I stared him in the eye. “Sheriff, we both know it’s a pipe dream any new information will turn up on Ben’s murder. Donovan was too paranoid to talk to me where he works. He suggested here, since it was close by. I stupidly agreed.”

What had possessed me to say yes? Now I had another event surrounding Bear Butte to add to my nightmares.

“This wasn’t a predetermined meeting place?”

I shook my head.

His eyes narrowed. “Nobody knew you two were coming here?”

“Someone might have followed us, but I wouldn’t have noticed a presidential motorcade through that much dust.”

“Donovan work around here then?”

He’d find out sooner or later. I’d earn cooperation points if that information came from me. “Sort of. He’s the foreman for Brush Creek Construction. They’re general contractors on the Bear Butte Casino.” I pointed to the parking lot across the road where the white Dodge had been blocked in by emergency vehicles. My ugly-ass Ford sat alone, like it’d developed chronic wasting disease.

“Great,” he muttered.

“What?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t remember what a pain in the ass it is to deal with the Feds.”

“Why drag them into this? This section of Bear Butte isn’t their jurisdiction.”

His look read: Like that matters.

“Any sign of the shooter?” My abrupt topic switch didn’t erase his grumpy expression.

“No comment.”

Touché.

“I will say, I doubt this was a random shooting.” He paused, watching my face intently to see if I’d crack.

I blinked, wide-eyed, an unfortunate bystander.

The sheriff knew me better and called me on it. “You piss off anyone lately?”

“Gee, there’ve been so many I lost count.”

He slapped the notebook against his thigh. “Goddamn it, this is serious.”

I bristled, but cut the smart comments.

“Do you think the shots could have been meant for you?”

“No.” I hadn’t even considered that crazy idea.

“You have any idea why someone would be shooting at
him
?”

“No.”

Deputy John loped over, garnering the sheriff’s attention. After a brief, intense discussion, the sheriff came back and said, “You’re free to go for now. I’ll be in touch.”

And he was gone.

Gathering my stuff without enthusiasm, I trudged to my pickup and climbed inside. The windows stayed rolled up, not due to dust, but because a bone-chilling cold had burrowed deep inside me. An iciness that owed nothing to the air temperature outside the cab.

I peeled out of the parking lot and gunned it up the steep incline, glaring at the scenery, the creek, the herd of grazing buffalo, all the beautiful, horrible things about this sacred place.

The sheriff’s last question kept popping up like a wayward bobber:
“You have any idea why
someone would be shooting at him?”

I had a really great idea who to ask.

As the rage simmered inside me, I began to get warm.

THE SUN HAD SET, SWIRLING ORANGE, PINK, AND PURPLE together in the sky like rainbow sherbet. It wouldn’t last; once the sun dropped behind the jagged hills, daylight disappeared like someone had flipped a switch.

I turned on my headlights and pulled onto I-90 going east toward Rapid City. My truck protested when I punched the accelerator to seventy. It wasn’t used to highway miles; mostly I used it to creep along Forest Service roads. Or the occasional trip up County Road 7 to the landfill where the speed limit topped out at a whopping thirty-five.