Shallow Grave-J Collins 3 (19 page)

“Ain’t interestin’ to me.”

“Yeah? Might be interesting to the Bear Butte County Sheriff ’s Department, the FBI, the Native American Gaming Commission, and the BIA, don’t you think?”

Roland stormed through the garbage.

209

I stayed put. I wouldn’t show this piece of shit fear, even when I felt it. I’d look into his eyes and demand to know if he’d killed my brother.

And if he had? What then?

He stopped about three feet from me, close enough to hear my heart slamming.

“You fuckin’ cunt. Who you think you are, eh?

Comin’ here, askin’ me questions.”

“I’m someone who knows way more than you want me to, Roland.”

He laughed. “Like?”

“Like does Bonita know you were playing hide the sausage with Leticia Standing Elk when you were ‘working’ for the tribe?”

“Last chance to get outta here. I ain’t got nothin’

to say.”

Th

oughts of revenge made me reckless. “Th at’s

because you are nothing, Roland. Nothing but a big fuckin’ blowhard.” I angled my head in Bonita’s direction. “Gonna have her shoot me? Rumor has it she’s got you by the short hairs, but I didn’t realize she’d taken control of your balls too.”

I’d actually shocked him.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“No. You listen up. If I fi nd out you had anything to do with Ben’s murder I’ll kill you. I will chop off your 210

head, gut you like a deer, and wrap your innards around your dead body like a strand of Christmas lights. Th en

I’ll cut off your tiny dick and balls and feed them to your fucking dogs.”

A fl ash of movement and Roland jerked me by the hair and spun me around. A knife appeared by the corner of my eye; cold steel pressed into my throat. Th en he

slowly dragged the blade down my neck.

I bled.

He laughed. He dragged the knife through the cut again. “Big tough talk only gets you in big trouble.”

Jesus. It burned so badly I stopped breathing. But I wouldn’t give this vicious motherfucker the satisfaction of seeing a reaction. I didn’t utter a peep.

“Shouldn’t have come here, bitch.” He jockeyed himself so he stood in front of me, holding the knife close to my carotid, keeping a death grip on my hair.

Were Roland’s crazy eyes the last thing Ben had seen? If Roland planned to kill me, I had nothing to lose by asking the question that’d defi ned my pitiful life the last few years.

“Did you use that knife to kill my brother, you piece of shit?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know? You won’t either.

When I’m through cuttin’ and carvin’ you inside and out, you’ll wish I’d have slashed your fuckin’ throat.” He 211

waved the blade in front of my eye. “See this? Th e tip is

hooked. Really fuckin’ sharp too. Lemme show you.”

Roland pushed the tip above my right breast and turned it like a screwdriver. He backed up to watch me bleed.

Th

e immediate burst of pain spurred me into action.

I pulled out the stun gun, rammed it into his bare stomach and zapped him.

Roland fell back, his hold on my hair tightening, jerking me with him for a second before he let go. I queued up the gun and nailed him again.

He twitched and fl opped in the dirt and garbage.

Th

e Browning came out of my other pocket, I aimed at his head and screamed at Bonita, “Put down the goddamn shotgun. Now!”

She hesitated a beat too long.

I swung the gun and shot a series of bullets in the trailer, less than two feet from where she stood.

Th

e dogs went crazy.

My ears rang. I hollered, “Put the fucking shotgun on the ground NOW!”

She did.

“Get back in the trailer.”

Bonita backed up. Over the cacophony of howling dogs she shrieked, “Roland will kill you for this.”

I picked up his knife. Ignored the queasy sensation 212

that I might be holding the instrument of Ben’s death.

Bonita hovered in the doorway of the trailer. I pointed the gun at her as I inched sideways to my truck.

“Stay there until I’m gone.”

Th

e knife clunked as I whipped it in the truckbed.

I’d purposely left my keys in the ignition. I slammed the gearshift into reverse and hit the gas. Just about nailed the Durango with my backward arc. Driving up that steep hill in reverse wasn’t an option.

I threw the truck into drive, ducked, and stepped on it. I’d made it to the barn when I heard a loud clank. In the rearview mirror I saw Bonita holding the shotgun, taking aim.

Shit. I sped up and nearly caught air when I hit the crest of the hill and barreled down the other side.

I didn’t slow until I’d screeched up to the highway.

At the stop sign, I took a second to regain my bearings. My heart was pumping like mad. When I looked down, I saw blood. Lots of blood.

I backed up and parked in Roy’s Repair Shop lot between a semi-cab and a Chrysler mini-van. With any luck I could hide until my wounds quit oozing.

With the Browning on my lap, I let my head fall back to the headrest. Feeding my nicotine habit wasn’t as pressing as the need to close my eyes. Just for a minute.

I’d slowed my breathing when the
chink chink
on 213

the glass had my eyes fl ying open and my gun aiming at the window.

Denny’s hands went up. “Jesus! Don’t shoot! It’s me.

Denny. Remember?” Wide black eyes gaped at my bloody shirt. “Holy shit! You’re bleedin’. Did he cut you?”

“Just a fl esh wound. You’d better get out of here before someone sees you.”

He disappeared. Smart kid.

About two seconds later
chink chink
echoed from the passenger’s side.

Denny’s head popped up. “Let me in. I got some stuff that’ll stop the bleedin’.”

Persistent bugger. Why I trusted him was a mystery, but I did. I punched the door unlock button and he scrambled in.

He unzipped his backpack and unrolled a white Tshirt. “Here. Press down with it and try to stop the blood fl ow.”

“I’ll wreck your shirt.”

“So? Ain’t like it’s Armani.”

I held the shirt to my neck with both hands. “Th anks.”

“He cut ya?”

“Yeah.” Th

e impromptu piercing Roland delivered

to my chest hurt like a bitch too.

Denny rummaged in his backpack, unearthing a baby food jar fi lled with what resembled green gelati-214

nous snot. “An ointment my
unci
makes. Best stuff in the world for cuts, burns, and bruises.”

“You use it on the bruise on your jaw?”

He froze. “
Shee
. You noticed that?”

“Yep. How old is it?”

“Five, six days.”

“Really? Stuff must work. But you gotta tell me what’s in it before I smear it on my delicate white-girl skin.”

He snorted. “Sage and some other junk.” His gaze narrowed on the front of my body.

Embarrassed by his scrutiny, I shifted sideways.

“I ain’t lookin’ at your tits. I jus’ wanna see how deep he cut you.”

I lowered the T-shirt.

He sucked in a harsh breath. “I hate that fucker.”

I angled the mirror to see the gash. Not deep, but it was wide. I swirled my index fi nger inside the jar and dabbed on a thick layer of greenish goo that felt like Vaseline. It smelled like burnt sage, horse sweat, and oranges. A weird combination, but not unpleasant. I gave Denny my back, unbuttoned my shirt and checked out the puncture wound.

A line of blood ran down my belly. Th

e skin around

the entry point was red. Puff y. I buttoned up and snagged my smokes. Tossed the pack to Denny and rolled down the windows.

215

“Why’d you follow me? You work for Roland?”

“Hell, no.” He fl icked his cigarette ash out the window. “I felt guilty. Never shoulda tole ya where he lived.

Did he answer your questions?”

Th

e abrupt subject change didn’t surprise me. “No.”

“He never does. He don’t answer to nobody.”

“How do you know Roland so well if you don’t work for him?”

“His old lady, Bonita? She’s my mother.”

216

“Bonita is your mother?”

“If you can call her that.”

My stomach pitched at the idea of this kid being around Roland on a regular basis. Th

e hair on the back

of my neck stood up. What were the chances I’d run into Bonita’s kid? At the fi rst place I stopped?

Better than average, since White Plain Reservation is so small. But still . . . there was some
woo woo,
Indian shaman-magic-fate-destiny stuff about the situation.

Coincidence is fate in disguise.

Unexplainable things had happened to me too many times, for too many years, and in too many diff erent situations, for me not to believe meeting Denny was some kind of divine intervention. Too early to tell if it was a good or a bad cosmic sign.

217

“How long have Bonita and Roland been together?”

He twisted the black nylon backpack cord around his palm. Unwound it and repeated the process. “On and off for most of my life.”

“How old are you?”

“I’ll be eighteen next month.”

I exhaled slowly. “Got big plans?”

Denny’s gaze caught mine to see if I was teasing him. Deciding I wasn’t, he said, “I used to think I could get her away from him. Th

en just me’n her would move

in with my
unci
. Ain’t worked out that way. She’d rather be beat to shit by Roland than be without him. And my
unci
Dove washed her hands of both of us years ago.”

“Your grandma, Bonita’s mother, doesn’t take care of you?”

“No. She says Roland has infl uenced me. She thinks I’m violent just like him. I’ll
never
be like him. So screw her. Don’t need her shit anyway.”

What kind of woman would turn her back on her abused daughter and her grandson? I purposely looked at Denny’s bruise. “He beat you too?”

His face fl ushed and he snapped, “Th

is one ain’t

from him,” even when we both knew it was.

Christ. I’d cry if I didn’t suck it up and act the tough chick. My tears would make him bolt for sure.

Quietly, I off ered, “My dad used to smack me around. I 218

even found the guts to hit him back once. Always made it worse.”

Denny wouldn’t look at me. “I was ten the fi rst time I hit Roland back. He broke my arm. Second time was a coupla years later when I tried to get him to stop punchin’

my mom in the face. He hit me once. Said for every punch I landed on him, he’d hit her twice. She never did nothin’ to defend me or herself so I stopped interferin’.”

“At least you can go to your other grandmother and uncle’s house. Anyone else watching out for you?”

“Nope. Got a small family as far as Indians go. My mom’s sister, Maria, run off a few years back, which is part of the reason my
Unci
Dove don’t want nothin’ to do with us. She blames Roland. My uncle Phil got kilt durin’ Desert Storm. Uncle Leon ain’t married, and my mom didn’t have no more kids.”

Good thing. “Look, Denny, I hate to bail, but I need to drive back to Rapid City. Can I drop you off at your
unci’s
house?”

His thick eyebrows drew together. “Nah. Don’t worry ’bout it. I kin take care of myself.”

“I’m sure you can. But before I go, I want to know if there’s a safe place you can stay tonight.”

Th

e surly boy reared his proud head. “Why you bein’ so nice to me, huh? What’s in it for you?”

I could’ve told him to get his ungrateful self right 219

out of my truck. Instead, I brandished the bottle of ointment and mimicked, “Why you bein’ so nice to me, huh?

What’s in it for you?”

A boyish half-smile appeared. “You’re a smart ass.”

“So I’ve been told. I’ve also been told I’m a pain in the ass, so you’d better answer ’cause I ain’t leaving until we’re straight.”

Shame burned his cheeks again. “I got a place to go.”

“Good.” I dug out a business card. Scribbled my cell number on the back and pressed it in Denny’s palm.

“Th

anks for helping me out today. If you need anything, call me, day or night, okay,
kola
?”

He nodded and left.

M M M

My wounds stung. I didn’t want to go home.

I called Kim. I’d been so wrapped up in my own fucked up life I hadn’t been a very supportive friend.

After the shock of seeing me in a bloody shirt wore off , Kim lectured me on my risky behavior. Once I’d been suffi

ciently chastised, she let me shower and lent me some clothes. I dabbed on Denny’s grandma’s miracle goo. Th

e cuts weren’t bad enough to need stitches. Or so I told myself.

Wearing a pair of Kim’s yoga pants and an old T-220

shirt, I cozied into her fl uff y pink couch. Kim was wound tight as the balls of yarn in her craft basket. She fussed with pouring us each a cup of perfumy smelling herbal tea, rearranged the silver teaspoons, the frosted butter cookies, and embroidered napkins.

My gaze fastened on buttery yellow yarn, soft as down, peeking from a white wicker basket on the end table. Bet if I checked I’d see an itty-bitty pair of baby booties dangling from the knitting needles.

I looked at her. “Appears you’ve made your decision.”

She nodded.

“Does Murray know?”

“I’m going to tell him tomorrow night.”

“You scared?”

“Terrifi ed.” Her hands were shaking so hard the gold-rimmed teacup rattled in the saucer.

Gently, I removed the cup and placed it on the teak serving tray. I clasped her icy hand in mine, which startled her. “What can I do?”

“Tell me I’m not making a mistake.”

“You’re not making a mistake.”

“Tell me I’ll be a good mother.”

“Kim, you’ll be a great mother.”

“Tell me if he walks away I’m better off without him.”

“He’s an idiot if he walks away.”