Shallow Grave-J Collins 3 (3 page)

“Maybe. Do you have your cell?”

I pulled it out of my left jacket pocket and handed it over.

“What’s the number for the Bear Butte Sheriff ’s Department?”

“Hit speed dial number seven.”

Beep beep beep
. Kevin explained the situation to dispatch. Th

e microphone on the video recorder picked up 15

every word.

“Missy said the emergency crew would be at least twenty minutes. Can you see anything?”

I don’t want to see anything.

Even as every instinct inside me rebelled, I focused on the prone form at the bottom of the draw.

My stomach pitched. Lang’s eyes were wide open in sightless terror. Blood ran from his gaping mouth, disappearing into his scraggly beard. Part of his bloodied tongue hung out. His right ear touched his right shoulder, making his neck bulge out like an over-stuff ed sausage.

No doubt about it. Lang Everett was dead.

Kevin crowded behind me. “Looks like he might’ve broken his neck.” His fi nger traced the body on the LED; silver ripples further distorted Lang’s image. “His left arm is at a weird angle too.” He tilted the camera up.

“Th

ere’s only about six minutes left on this tape. Put it on pause until the sheriff gets here.”

“Good plan.” I let the camera dangle by my thigh.

Taping Langston Everett’s fi nal indignity seemed wrong.

TV news ghoulish somehow.

Kevin sidestepped me to stare over the bluff . No psychic powers were necessary to hear the thoughts whirring in his head. When he said, “I want to go down and take a closer look,” I wasn’t particularly surprised.

I wasn’t particularly pleased either.

16

“You don’t have to go,” he said.

“I can’t. Not after . . .” I ripped my eyes from his and gazed across the undulating prairie, the once lush green and gold grasses now dead and dulled to brown.

Ducks paddled across a half-full stock dam, oblivious to the opening of hunting season. Th

e sun’s warmth was

hidden behind blue-gray clouds.

I shivered.

In the craziness of the last few minutes, I’d forgotten the cold. I began to shake and pulled my wool coat tightly around my hips, chilled to the bone by the late October afternoon and another up close brush with death.

Kevin, being Kevin, wrapped his arms around me.

I leaned into him and absorbed what he off ered.

In the past few months we’d slipped back into our old groove, the rock solid friendship that’d sustained us before we’d become full-time business partners, before Lilly’s death. Before I’d hooked up with Martinez.

Contrary to what I’d feared, our bond hadn’t weak-ened in the months we’d separately dealt with our personal traumas and demons. Th

e time apart had strengthened it,

and strengthened us in the process.

“You okay?”

No.
“Yeah. I think so.”

He released me. With the toe of his boot, he kicked an orange dirt clod into the abyss. “Something about 17

this doesn’t fi t, but I don’t know what.”

“I know what you mean.” I pointed the direction of the farmhouse. “You want me to let Lang’s wife know what’s going on?”

“No. Stay here. Th

e sheriff can handle being the bearer

of bad news. I’ll be right back.” He turned sideways and inched his way down the steep dropoff , one booted foot at a time. Within seconds his head disappeared from view.

Good thing I wasn’t expected to traipse back to that depressing farmhouse and inform the woman her husband was dead. Off ering consolation wasn’t my bag.

Th

en again, he had smacked her around. Maybe she wouldn’t weep and wail about his sudden demise.

Not your business to judge, Julie.

I dug my cigarettes and lighter out of my right coat pocket and lit up. Th

e landscape provided the perfect

distraction; a vista of beautiful, rugged, open country, with endless acres of rolling prairie, clusters of cedar and pine trees, a realm unmarred by civilization. I imagined it hadn’t changed a whole lot in the last 100 years.

Maybe even 200 years.

Th

at thought calmed me somewhat.

Low hanging, colorless clouds obscured the view of the buttes twenty miles to the north. A crooked barbed wire fenceline dipped and wavered with the rocky terrain until it disappeared into the horizon. I squinted at the 18

black specks in the distance. Cattle.

Cows had always outnumbered people in Bear Butte County, but this lonely stretch of land reminded me of how sparsely populated our state is. Not another neighboring ranch or house for miles.

Brought another question to mind: If we hadn’t been following Lang, how long before someone would have found his body?

I wandered a few feet, to where our tire tracks intersected Lang’s in the dirt. Odd. I didn’t see animal tracks of any kind on the bone-dry earth. Just cuts, swirls and gouges of an ATV ripping up every possible square inch of ground.

An icy blast of wind whirled the powdery red dust around me, a sobering reminder of the severe drought we’d suff ered for the last few years. No wonder there weren’t tracks. Most wildlife had migrated to greener pastures.

I smoked. Crouched, snuff ed my cigarette with my bootheel, and set the camera next to my feet.

Th

e ground was cold, but hadn’t yet yielded to a hard frost. Small clumps of pale gray-green buck brush had survived without regular precipitation. Th e plants

dropped prickly, oval-shaped brown seeds this time of year. Th

ose irritating burrs would attach to anything: clothes, hair, rubber, even plastic. I leaned back to see if any had stuck on the cuff s of my favorite jeans and lost 19

my balance. Instead of pulverizing the camera, I twisted to the left and fell on my ass.

I wished my butt had still been numb. As I swung around and pushed myself up on my hands and knees, I spied a long, black strand half-hidden beneath a skeletal sage plant.

My fi ngers tugged at the frayed end until the string untangled from the branches. I held it up for a better view.

Weird. It looked like some kind of braided rope, weighted at the end with unusually colorful beads; the top was a small piece of leather. Although covered in dust, it wasn’t faded, which told me it hadn’t been out in this harsh environment very long.

Sirens blared. Tires crunched. Reality encroached.

I glanced up at the approaching emergency vehicles.

Two sheriff ’s department cars followed the ambulance. Th

e swirling red lights gave the bleak day an illusion of color.

I pocketed the spent butt and wound the object into a ball before picking up the camera.

Kevin waited patiently at the edge of the bluff , his shoulders hunched against the bitter wind, his hands toasty inside his sub-zero Northface ski jacket pockets.

Th

e ambulance crew climbed out, assessed the situation and dragged out a stretcher from the back end of the van.

20

As the crew picked their way down the incline, Sheriff Tom Richards emerged from his car, slapped on his hat and motioned for Deputy Al to stay behind and deal with the Chevy Cavalier barreling across the fi eld.

June Everett I assumed. Probably curious about the commotion, angry with her husband, and clueless her life had changed forever.

Th

e other deputy, one I didn’t know, trailed after the stretcher and EMTs.

I swung the camera in position and followed the sheriff .

Th

e sheriff demanded, “What happened here?”

I melted into the background to get Kevin’s explanation and the sheriff ’s reaction on tape.

Kevin provided a summary of our objective and a detailed description of what we’d seen.

One of the ambulance guys shouted. I aimed the camera at him, avoiding shots of Lang.

Th

e blue fringe ball on the man’s ski hat bobbed as he shook his head. He touched his watch, signaling he’d call the time of death.

Th

e young deputy snapped pictures, the excitement of the situation an unexpected bonus. He had to be a rookie; his whiskers were little more than dandelion tufts, his eyes clear and hopeful. Even his crisp uniform looked fresh out of the plastic packaging. Th

at youthful optimism

21

would be replaced with cynicism by year’s end.

Sheriff Richards sighed. “You sure the man you were following was Langston Everett?”

“Fairly sure,” Kevin said.

He removed his radio and told Al to detain Mrs. Everett for positive identifi cation.

My stomach rolled the remnants of my lunch into a hard lump.

“Did it appear he lost control of the machine?”

“Yes, sir. One minute he was in front of us, then airborne, and gone the next.”

“So you weren’t chasing him?”

“No, sir,” Kevin said. “We stayed far enough behind he didn’t notice we were following him. In fact, he never even turned around.” He pointed to me. “Verify it with the tape.”

Th

e sheriff glowered at the camera, then at me.

“Collins, what are you doing?”

“Recording the events for our client, sir.”

His hackles rose at my
sir
comment. “Shut that thing off .”

I complied, only because I had a minute worth of tape remaining.

“You wanna explain why once again you’re around when a body turns up?”

Would it be petty to mention I hadn’t been around 22

when my
brother’s
body had been found? Probably. I shrugged and clamped my teeth together.

“In the last six months this county has become a regular Cabot’s Cove,” the sheriff grumbled. “I see more of you now than when you worked for me.”

His diatribe was interrupted by a shrill demand.

“Move!”

Sheriff Al struggled to contain June Everett by blocking her with his doughy body without physically touching her.

Her clumps of black hair hadn’t seen a comb, but she’d replaced the robe and bunny slippers with stained white stirrup pants and an oversized #7 Denver Broncos football jersey. Orange fl ip-fl ops with big yellow fl owers decorated her bare feet.

My toes curled in my boots. God. Her little piggies had to feel like frozen sausages.

“You can’t keep me here. I got rights!” she yelled.

“Lemme talk to my husband.”

Sheriff Richards doff ed his hat and ambled toward her.

I didn’t envy his task, though I knew he’d done the duty many times. Despite his intimidating size at 6’8”, he was a compassionate man.

“Mrs. Everett? I’m sorry—”

“Damn right you’d better be sorry, Sheriff . You’re trespassin’ on private property.”

23

“Mrs. Everett. Please listen carefully. I need to ask you to come with me.”

“What for?”

“Th

ere’s been an accident.”

“Where?” She fi dgeted, shifting from one fl ip-fl op to the other. “What’s that hafta do with me? I don’t know nothin’ ’bout it. I just got here.”

“I need you to identify the body the ambulance crew is bringing up.”

“Whose body?” She peered around the sheriff .

Th

e low murmurs and grunts of the ambulance

guys, the clatter of metal on rocks broke the silence as they hauled up the body strapped to the stretcher.

A body wearing a red windbreaker.

Comprehension dawned in June Everett’s eyes. Her face went pallid beneath the cheek that still bore the imprint of her husband’s hand. “Lang?”

Sheriff Richards nodded.

“How?”

“Appears Mr. Everett hit a sinkhole, lost control of the four-wheeler and went over that embankment. I’m sorry.”

Her knees buckled. Th

e sheriff caught her.

I wanted to turn away. Hell, I was tempted to crawl in the sinkhole and dig my way to China so I didn’t have to witness this.

Th

e emergency team called the sheriff . He spoke to 24

June; she nodded and shuffl

ed behind him reluctant as a

death row inmate.

Hushed silence followed. I knew what was coming, but you’re never truly prepared for that initial outburst of grief as June Everett’s shrieks rent the air.

Th

e day that’d started like any other became cold, dark, and harsh.

Kevin came up behind me. Set his hands on my shoulders and squeezed. “Warm up in the Jeep. I can handle the rest.”

“I’m fi ne.”

“Jules . . .”

I shrugged until his hands dropped. “I said I’m fi ne.”

He didn’t push the issue.

I hiked to the ledge where the earth fell away.

Across the distance mule deer grazed, their velvety ears swiveled to the sound of danger. Sensing none, they returned to foraging.

While the sheriff conferred with the EMTs, June stumbled around the front of the patrol car. She rushed Deputy Al, who’d been standing by as helpless and worthless as usual.

“Show me the goddamn sinkhole,” she demanded.

“W-what?”

“Show me the sinkhole that Lang supposedly hit.”

Al’s cheeks burned bright red and he blinked nervously.

25

She shoved him. “Got no answer, do ya? Th at’s

what I thought. No one knows this land better’n me and there ain’t no goddamn sinkholes around here! Been too fuckin’ dry! So what was it that got my husband kilt?”

Sheriff Richards would slap the cuff s on her regardless of her crazed state of grief. No one pushed around his deputies.

“Th

e hole is over here,” I said loudly.

June’s head snapped my direction. “Who the hell are you?”

“Does it matter?”

She gave me a wounded look so I gave her my name.

“Julie Collins.”

Mumbling, she headed uphill until she was close enough to burn me with the full wattage of her glare.

“How do
you
know where it is?”

“Because I was here when it happened.” I pointed to the hole fi fteen feet away. “Th

at’s it.”

She froze.

“What’s wrong?”