Sacred Burial Grounds (An FBI Romance Thriller (book 2)) (2 page)

~Chapter One~

Wednesday pre-dawn

The dawn broke on a new morning, and Callen Whitefox
pulled his exhausted body unwillingly from his bed. The previous night’s debauchery had been a bad idea from the start. The late night out with his officers at the local tavern was going to be the downfall of his day. Now he would pay for his choices with a pounding headache, and the overwhelming need to crawl under a rock and die. Camaraderie had seemed like such a good idea at the time, and now it just seemed like a disaster he should’ve avoided at all costs. It took every ounce of energy to shower and shave, and he was barely able to stare into the mirror at the mess staring back. As he pulled his brown hair back into a ponytail and washed the residue of shaving cream from his face, he prayed for divine intervention even when he knew he deserved the punishment. Today was going to be a challenge to survive.

Being chief of the reservation police had its good days, and
its bad ones. It wasn’t like it would be exciting and fun, there was a desk full of paperwork waiting for him at work, and just the thought of it made his head pound more.

Lately, he felt misplaced in life and had found himself slipping into the shady side of
existence. There seemed to be more excuses for drinking, more one night stands he could suddenly rationalize, and more mistakes he wasn’t learning a lesson from. The drinking eased the feelings that he was lost, and although he knew the choice was a dangerous path, the allure still called to him. It was one his own father had chosen in life, and had allowed himself to succumb to with a disastrous end.

Callen Whitefox closed his eyes, and prayed for divine intervention, because today he was going to pay dearly. It wasn’t like he could call in sick to his boss, shirk his duties off on a co-worker, and pretend that it didn’t matter. Days like today
, he wished he wasn’t the boss.

Deep down
, he wasn’t sure if the job mattered, or if he was just stubborn, refusing to let his obligations fall to the wayside. Growing up, his father had dodged his duties and that lacked all appeal. Drinking and sex were one thing, but blowing off responsibilities was something entirely different. Being a victim of that himself, he swore he wouldn’t be anything like his father when he grew up. Yeah, maybe it was an insignificant job being chief of police on the reservation, but it was his life. Whitefox made the choice to come back, and now he had to follow through and finish the job. He’d make himself accept and enjoy it.

One way or another.

As he made a pot of coffee and popped three aspirin, the view from his kitchen window offered him some comfort. He’d done his time off the reserv
ation as a local deputy sheriff and in the end. He missed home so much he came back. That was ironic, because growing up all he wanted to do was get away from the place and people that made him. Watching his older brother take off and run away from it all, he’d been jealous and envious. The nerve it took to step off the Rez, spreading your wings and never return took guts and bravery. There was nothing more that he wanted than to do the same thing. Only it didn’t work for him, at all. Escaping the reservation was easier said than done. Now, as he stared out into his little patch of land, there was pride that his little cabin was all his. It was part of who he was, and who he would always be. Yeah, he took the easy way out, and promised himself one day it would be different, but at thirty five, one day still seemed out of reach. The Indian blood in him made him, defined him, and it took years, but he eventually learned to be proud of his heritage. Now he wore it like a badge of honor. If only he could feel that way about the job.

Whitefox took his coffee and stood out on his deck, just enjoying the peace of the day. Soon it’d be warm and stagna
nt, and he’d have to be at work. But for just now he could take in the cool crispness and enjoy. First things first, he needed to get over the hangover that was beating in his brain. It was reminding him that he wasn’t a young kid anymore, and to be slamming beers with his friends was always a bad idea.

The only miracle was
that he had the common sense to not bring a woman home. The awkward morning of him not remembering her name, and why she was there would just exacerbate the pounding of his head. As much as he liked the pleasure he found in the opposite sex, lately that too was wearing thin. Because he was full Native, his grandfather was insistent that he marry to keep the bloodlines pure. That meant limited selection on the reservation and truthfully, he’d already ‘been there and done most of that’. Nothing clicked and hope was wearing out. Sitting back on the chair, he propped his feet up on the railing and closed his eyes, taking in the silence and praying the medicine would work sooner rather than later. As usual, he made the promise he wouldn’t do it again, and this time meant it…

He promised.

Growing up on the reservation had been a tough existence. One of the hardest things he would ever have to do in his life. The abject poverty, poor living conditions, and the stigmata of who his father was didn’t help much. Callen Whitefox was a bastard. Thanks to his sperm donor father, who had an affair with his mom. She was young, naive and believed in love at first sight. Let that be a lesson to any idiot that used that phrase. ‘Love at first sight’ had consequences, and he was living, breathing proof of that. Had she known that the man was a cheating bastard, maybe she would have thought twice about the one night stand that resulted in a child. Then again with his mother, it probably wouldn’t have mattered one bit.

While he didn’t believe in the conveniences of love, he did believe in the actuality of fate, and that it was going to happen despite the participant’s willingness. He couldn’t help but wish she had found a man that was not going to knock her up and walk away. It would have been nice to actually have a
dad growing up as a child. Callen Whitefox couldn’t help but dislike his father. He was a drunk and a piss poor role model on fatherhood. The only good thing was it gave him things he might not have had otherwise.

His grandfather was head of the reservation
, and at eighty-eight years old he was as sharp as a whip and very much centered in their beliefs and lifestyle. Timothy raised him and for that he would be eternally grateful. The old man tried to step in and take care of his other grandson, but he was too wild and out of control. A short stint in foster care ended his brother’s wildness. Whitefox knew that just seeing him packed up and shipped away had helped keep him in line. As a scared kid he didn’t want to be taken away from his grandfather. He truly missed his brother. The years that they shared were nothing but good times, and it was nice knowing that he wasn’t the only one in the world betrayed by their father. As a teenager it gave him solace to know that with both their mothers gone, they still had each other.  It was an unbreakable blood bond.

Yeah, he wished.

Whitefox laughed at the idea of camaraderie with his brother. That bridge was burned when they were teenage boys and the hopes of reconnecting lay in the ash and rubble. Growing up, the raven and the fox were inseparable. They did everything that they could to raise hell, and make their mark on the reservation. His brother was smart, saw trouble coming, and would make sure he kept his brother out of jail and the grasps of the law. He was the older brother, and he did his job well. Growing up he wanted nothing more than to be just like him, because he was a bad ass brother to have. He couldn’t help but smile at the memories of the hell they raised and the fun they had just being a team.

Then like the smile
on his face it was all gone. The pain of that loss, at losing that bond with his brother still haunted him. Stupid events on his behalf made them break apart, and no matter what he did after to rectify, explain, and try to heal the wound, it wasn’t forgiven. Callen Whitefox was dead to his brother, and that in itself hurt more viciously than anything else in life would. It was all over a woman. She didn’t matter to either of them. What a stupid momentary lapse of judgment on his behalf.  She was trying to trap them both, unbeknownst to them, and in the process tore the brothers in half. It left scars that would never heal.

It had been a good ten years since he seen his brother, and the only reason
that their paths crossed was an assignment while he worked for a sheriff’s department. Happenstance and nothing more brought them back together, briefly. That day had been brutal, just like the day they ended their brotherhood. Eyes met across a table in cold disdain. His brother stood, dialing his boss, and informing him that he had a conflict of interest and needed a reassignment. Ten years had passed since he looked into the face of the man that he missed and loved. Every day he wondered how he could fix what he broke in order to heal the rift.

Whitefox shook his head, some
things just couldn’t be put back together, and this was one of those things. They parted with acrimonious words, violence and the promise of never being family again. What he would give to turn back time.

The crunch of gravel alerted him to a visitor. Looking at his watch, he was pretty sure it wasn’t going to be good ne
ws. Nothing good came before eight a.m. on the reservation. In fact, pretty much everything was dead at eight a.m. thanks to the tavern. The tribe was still sleeping off the night before, and only those who worked off the reservation milled about heading off to make a living in the outside world.

He opened one eye as his
co-worker bounded up the steps with a grim look on his face. All he could hope was it wasn’t a booze related accident. They turned his stomach, and he hated to be the one that had to tell the families. It was a day killer, and he found he didn’t have the stomach for it as of late. Pushing down the feelings he was having regarding the job, he forced himself to keep thinking of the obligation he had taken on as chief of police. Hopefully it would get him through the day.

“Callen, you
’ve gotta come with me. We have a big problem, and I don’t know what to do about it.”

Whitefox looked at his officer, and hoped he wasn’t yanking his chain
. It was too early to be stressed out with something that was just going to be paperwork and hours of tedium.

“Define big problem, Chet. I’m in no mood today to be run around the lands like a maniac chasing imagined issues. I have a hangover, and I need the next hour in absolute silence to start my day. If no one’s dead
then come back later.”

Chester Briggs stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “I’m serious Callen. We have a huge problem, and you have to come now!” His boss as of late was starting to act bored with the job,
as if it lacked luster in his eyes anymore. The tell-tale signs were there in the drinking and the lackadaisical attitude towards the people he was sworn to protect.

Whitefox stood and stretched
, basically glaring at the man. “Chet, again just tell me what the problem is and stop making me think. I’m not on shift for another hour, and today I could really use it. I’m hung over and cranky.”

“While I was out patrolling this morning, I found something that just creeped me out. You have to come with me, and tell me what to do about it
.”

Whitefox laughed, mildly entertained that his officer, a grow man was using the phrase ‘creeped out’. Nothing ever happened on the reservation that wasn’t domestic, or alcohol related. “What creeped you out, Chet?” he asked, as he moved back into his cabin, his officer following closely.

“I found bones.”

“Probably an animal,” he grinned now, amused by the serious look on the man’s face. “We do have them out here in the woods.” Yeah, he was being sarcastic; it was the mighty hangover speaking
, and his growing boredom with the reservation police job. It was the same thing over and over…

Chester Briggs was a good cop, or at least he thought he was anyway. Granted
, the police force on the reservation was all of four men, but he still took every incident serious. When he was a boy all he ever wanted to be was a cop, and to this day he would do it right or not at all. His boss’s attitude was pissing him off.

“Oh
well then, I guess you don’t give a shit that there’s red symbols drawn all over them in what looks to be blood. I’ll just head into the station and forget that I found them all together, because you have a hangover. I’ll let someone from the tribe come across them and take them to your grandfather.” That should get his attention and drive the point home.

“Wait, are you shitting me? There
’s blood and symbols drawn on the bones?”

Chester Briggs stopped. “I didn’t just drive like a maniac all the way out to your house to screw with you Cal. I know what I saw, and you better get your ass moving and fast.”

Callen Whitefox was caught a little off guard. “Where are these bones?”

“They’re out by Little Rock Road at the outsider site. I was patrolling the camp ground out there, and saw something smoking. I thought we
might have had a camper using the grounds, and possibly they lit a fire off the allowed site. I was going over to put it out before it caught the whole forest ablaze.”