Shallow Grave-J Collins 3 (4 page)

She didn’t answer right away; she stared in disbelief at the shallow pit. “Who dug that up again?” she said, almost to herself.

But I’d heard it. “Again? You
knew
about this?”

June’s outburst with Deputy Al hadn’t been an irra-tional expression of grief. Her observation had been dead 26

on. Th

is wasn’t a sinkhole; the red soil at the bottom and around the sides was chunky and moist, unlike the dry dirt surrounding it. Th

is hole had been dug recently.

If June knew the hole had been there, why hadn’t Lang?

Her dull blue eyes met mine. Guilt. Fear. Pain. I recognized it and could do nothing to alleviate it in her or in myself.

I refocused. “June, what was in that hole?”

She shook her head.

Somber male voices carried on the wind. At least they weren’t laughing and joking like some crime scenes.

Crime scene. Not the situation I’d prepared for when I’d rolled out of bed this morning. And I realized it was no longer my job.

I shouted, “Hey, sheriff !”

June grabbed my arm. “Don’t say nothin’ to him.”

“If there was another reason why Lang—”

“Th

ere ain’t no other reason. He hit that hole and died. He ain’t gonna be any less dead if the sheriff goes pokin’ around.”

My mouth opened.

“Please.”

Without waiting for my response, she peeked over the edge. Took a step and her fl ip-fl ops slipped, sending her sliding sideways toward the gaping maw that’d claimed Lang’s life.

27

I lunged for her, grabbed the jersey and jerked her back. “Watch out.”

June lost it. She threw her arms around my neck.

“Get me away from here. I can’t believe the son of a bitch went and died on me! What am I gonna do? Oh, God.

Oh, Lang.”

Her grief kicked me in the gut. With her clinging to me and bawling her head off like a lost calf, I slowly navigated my way down to the sheriff .

“What’s going on?”

I attempted to shake her off ; she’d become a buck brush burr, refusing to let go.

“I wanna go home,” June wailed.

“I understand, Mrs. Everett. We’ll get you there as soon as possible, but we need to ask you some questions.”

Th

e sheriff ’s gaze raked her from bare head to bare feet.

“Maybe you’d better warm up in the car fi rst.”

She released me.

I squirmed away. I didn’t get far.

She grabbed my hand. “Don’t go.”

My initial response didn’t make it out of my mouth, fortunately for her.

Did she want me around because I was the only woman present? Or because she thought I’d talk to the sheriff about the mysterious hole while she was warming her tootsies?

28

I needed a shot of tequila. Better yet, a whole bottle.

Th

e sheriff drifted closer. I had to tilt my head back to look in his eyes.

“Julie, will you stay with her while we fi nish up?”

He frowned. “Wouldn’t hurt you to warm up.”

Like I could say
no
now. When I attempted a smile, I realized my teeth were chattering.

June scooted into the back seat of the patrol car.

I followed. Th

e sheriff slammed the door behind us.

Great. We were locked in. When I noticed his smirk through the window I understood that’d been his plan all along.

Bastard.

Th

e police radio in the front seat squawked. June watched the ambulance drive away and sobbed softly.

It’d be less painful to beat my head into the metal partition until my ears rang rather than listen to her desperate, raw cries.

My head fell back and I closed my eyes.

Finally June stopped weeping and asked, “Are you a cop?”

“No, I’m a private investigator.”

In the heavy silence, I knew I’d made a mistake.

“You said you saw Lang’s accident. Th

at means you

were here before the cops. Why?”

Too late to feign sleep.

29

“Were you investigating Lang?”

Ethical dilemma. Lie? Pad the truth? Avoid? I was all pro at avoidance.

“Were you?” she persisted.

“Yes.”

“What for?”

I turned and looked at her. “Insurance fraud.”

And she appeared . . . relieved. Th

at was strange.

“I’m not surprised. No one believed he’d gotten hurt at that stupid job. Th

ey all thought he was fakin’ it.”

“Was he?”

June thrust out her chin toward the window and stubbornly refused to answer.

Since she’d brought the subject up, I goaded her.

“What did you two fi ght about before he took off ?”

Her troubled gaze whipped back to me. “You saw that?”

“Yep.”

“Shit.”

After a time she laughed, a bitter grunt. “Ain’t it just a kick in the ass that we was fi ghtin’ about that—”

My door opened. Kevin stuck his head in. “Everything all right?”

Great timing, Kev
.

“Fine. June, this is my partner, Kevin Wells.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Everett.”

She waved him off .

30

“Sheriff wants to talk to you.”

June and I looked at him. “Which one of us?” I asked.

“Both of you.” He stepped aside and we left the warmth of the car.

Sheriff Richards motioned me over fi rst.

“Did Mrs. Everett say anything I should know about while you were in there with her?”

“No.”

His eyes fl ashed skepticism. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told your partner; you’re damn lucky you’ve got the tape to prove you weren’t chasing Mr. Everett and didn’t inadvertently cause his death. If not for that, I’d be carting both your butts to jail.”

I blinked slowly. Th

ink I might’ve pulled off contrite.

“Th

at said, thank you for your cooperation today.”

Ooh. So heartfelt.

“We’ve taken the tape as evidence. After we review it we’ll get it back to you.”

“What are we supposed to tell our client?”

“Not my problem.” His lips twisted in what almost resembled a smile. “Have a nice day, Collins.”

31

Kevin drove. I smoked. Witnessing Langston Everett break his neck had taken on a dreamlike state, which neither of us wanted to talk about. Without the tape, contacting the client could wait. Th eir case was

moot now anyway.

Th

e disturbing events led me to thoughts of my half-brother, Ben Standing Elk. Th

ree and a half years

had crept by since his body had been discovered in Bear Butte Creek. And for those years I’d been obsessed with fi nding out who’d slashed his throat and left him fl oating like discarded garbage.

So far, I hadn’t found answers. Th

e shame of that

failure ate at me every damn day. Th

e hole Ben’s death

left inside me hadn’t diminished with time. Instead, it’d spread, slowly, like an acid leak that gradually corrodes 32

even the toughest steel.

On a day like today I felt about as resilient as a gum wrapper.

Mired in dark thoughts, I brooded. Smoked some more.

Th

e second Kevin killed the ignition he sprinted into my house. I’d warned him not to drink that last Diet Mt. Dew. But had he listened to me? No. Not my fault his back teeth were fl oating.

I bestowed an admiring glance on my gleaming new Ford F-150. Okay, it was a couple of years old, but it was new to me.

My crappy Sentra had become scrap metal during a case a few months back. Instead of replacing it with a practical, fuel-effi

cient car, I’d opted for a big, badass,

black pick-up. Chrome running boards, gun rack, towing package, leather interior, sliding “beer window” and a killer stereo; this baby had it all. Minus the naked lady mud fl aps. I’d removed those and the “Rodeo Naked”

sticker straight away.

I’d embraced my inner cowgirl. Seems fi tting to crank up my Gretchen Wilson CDs.

Yee-haw.

I wandered to the mailbox. As I fl ipped through bills

—no cocktail party invitations for me—a car parked on the road between my house and the Babbitt’s.

33

A burgundy Ford Taurus with Arizona license plates.

Maybe one of the Babbitt’s kids had actually deigned to visit their parents. Maybe they could convince their asshole father to quit beating up their mother.

Not my business, at any rate. I’d nearly made it to my steps when a young female voice called out behind me.

“Please. Wait. I’d like to talk to you.”

I turned. Not visiting my neighbors after all. What could she want? Th

e last thing I needed today was a

door-to-door salesperson selling junky wildlife art. It boggled my mind why my low-income neighborhood was a magnet for these types of cold call sales. Th ey’d

have had better luck selling gift certifi cates for the local bail bondsman’s services.

Instead of pulling out a stack of framed pictures from the back seat, she’d unbuckled a small boy from a car seat and settled him on her hip. He pushed aside her thick black braid, which practically dragged on the ground, and buried his face in her neck as she hustled toward me.

A brightly colored gauze skirt swished around her ankles. Sensible taupe shoes were silent on the gravel driveway. My gaze roamed over the vibrant turquoise and magenta jacket she wore, obviously hand-woven and handmade. Striking, but not practical attire for a harsh South Dakota winter.

34

Th

e intense hues brought attention to her black eyes, shiny as buttons. She was very young, twenty or so. Native American. I knew she wasn’t Sioux, not because of the Arizona plates, but by the roundness of her face and the darker brown of her skin. Not a reddish hue like the Plains tribes, but closer to Mexican. It made me think of Martinez.

A friend of his? My feeling of unease increased.

Th

e plump woman smiled nervously. “Are you Julie Collins?”

“Yes. Do I know you?”

“Umm. No, ma’am.”

Ma’am
? Made me feel like a geezer. “What can I do for you?”

“We have a mutual . . . umm, acquaintance.”

“Yeah? Who?”

She murmured in the boy’s ear, set him down on the sidewalk and handed him a toy metal car.

I waited for her to answer.

Apparently she was in no hurry to do so.

With my extremely crappy afternoon, I’d longed to snuggle into my couch with a thermos of Irish coff ee—

minus the coff ee. I suspected I’d be standing here until
Letterman
came on if I didn’t force her to get to the point.

“Before you tell me the name of our mutual acquaintance, why don’t you start with your name?”

35

Her words tumbled out in a tangle of consonants.

“Run that by me one more time?”

With her accent, I heard gibberish and made her repeat it slowly a third time.

“Abita Kahlen.” She’d pronounced her fi rst name,
A-beet-a
, last name,
Kay-lin
. “Th at’s my son. Jericho.”

Th

e little boy, around three, wasn’t dressed for playing on the cold, dirty ground. Didn’t bother him; he hadn’t looked up from racing the Matchbox car back and forth.

“So, Abita. Who’s our mutual acquaintance? Or is that a tactic you’re using to try and soften me up to sell me something I don’t need?”

Her brown eyes clouded. “No. I really am here to talk to you.”

“I’m listening.”

“Th

ank goodness. You’re the only one who can help me.”

My fake smile faltered.

Occasionally clients showed up on my doorstep, hoping if I met them face to face, heard their tale of woe straight from the horse’s mouth, it’d compel me to take their case—for free—out of the goodness of my heart.

Hadn’t worked so far and it immediately put me on the defensive. “I prefer to conduct business at my offi ce.”

She frowned. “I’m not here for that. I’m here because—”

Th

e boy shrieked as his car performed a loop-de-36

loop over the toe of my boot.

Made me think of Langston Everett and I shuddered. I shoved the image aside and leaned down to pick up the purple mini-hotrod. As I handed it to him, the kid fi nally looked at me.

And I felt like he’d kicked me right in the stomach.

Holy shit.

Th

is little boy had Ben’s eyes.

My breath stalled. When my gaze wandered over his face I noticed he also had a hint of Ben’s crooked smile.

Blood slammed into my head. Jesus. Th

is was im-

possible. It had to be an illusion, or projection, or wishful thinking on my part, at the very least.

Didn’t it?

My gaze fl ew to hers. But with my jaw hanging to my kneecaps, and no air left in my lungs, I couldn’t speak.

Abita stared back at me. “Uncanny, isn’t it? How much he looks like Ben?”

37

A choking sound escaped from me, and Jericho glanced up at me with alarm.

Looked at me with Ben’s eyes.

Th

ere was that potent punch in my gut again.

“Is he?” I managed to squeak out.

Abita didn’t play coy. “Yes.”

Jericho rolled to his feet and wrapped his arms around his mother’s leg. “Mama, I’m cold. We go now?”

Th

ey couldn’t leave.

Somehow I made my knees bend and I hunkered down beside him. “I’d like it if you stayed.”

He hid his sweet face in his mother’s skirt.

I tried again. “Would you and your mom like to come inside? Have a cup of hot chocolate and some cookies?”

He peeked out, clearly interested. Th

en his dark

38

head disappeared again.

Abita said, “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” I forced my greedy gaze away from her son. My brother’s son. “We’ve got things to talk about, don’t you think, or you wouldn’t have come here.”

She nodded.

Before I stood, Jericho bravely inched closer to me.

I didn’t dare move.