Beneath Forbidden Ground (2 page)

The men stood roughly fifty yards behind the office; the grey conditions shrouded their appearance from her view. But her sharp eyes could tell whatever conversation they were having was becoming more animated. The larger man made a gesture with an arm, making a sweeping motion across the scene. The other responded with his own arm, pointing at something. She began to grow disheartened, knowing that the apparent argument outside would delay her return trip into the city even more. She looked back inside. “Did the man say when we’d start?” she asked, looking at Laura French.

“Not really. But I got the impression he was anxious to get started.”

The four women looked at each other, evidently all busy making individual decisions whether it was worth hanging around for what may or may not happen. For her part, Betty Lynn felt if any of the others bailed, there might be more work, and more money involved, for the ones remaining.

Tammy Crews interrupted her thoughts, the diva rising from the sofa. “Well, the heck with all this! I’m leaving. I didn’t need this lousy job anyway. I’m just glad I didn’t tell anyone I was coming on this wild goose chase.” She grabbed her Gucci purse from the sofa seat and started for the door.

Suppressing a satisfied grin, Betty Lynn peered once more through the window, hoping to see the meeting breaking up. Instead, what she saw made her eyes widen, then close to a squint as her mouth fell open. “Oh my God!” she gasped.

Tammy Crews came to a stop, then joined the others at the window to see what had caused such a reaction.

“I ain’t diggin’ another inch ‘til you pay me what I’m owed,” the smaller of the two men said defiantly. He was determined not to back down from the big jerk, but kept an eye trained closely on him none-the-less. The man had a reputation.

The other man yanked the cigarette from his mouth, tossing it in the carved out lake bottom. “What I owe you?! You owe me another acre of excavation!” He glared down at the earth-moving contractor with rage increasing by the second. “This lake is supposed to be four acres, and you know that. It’s gonna be the centerpiece of my property. You were aware of the size of the job before you started.”

“But it’s Friday. I’ve gotta pay my guys for what they done so far. They won’t show up Monday if I don’t. That’s the deal you and I had. You pay by the week.” The contractor rubbed his hands nervously on his dirty khaki jumpsuit, looking for confidence to stand his ground.

The big man surveyed the construction site. “Where the hell are your men anyway?” he asked.

“They’ve done left for the day. When I told them you ain’t come forward with any money, they took off, pissed. Promised ‘em I’d come find ‘em this weekend, after I collect from you.” He exchanged glares with the other man for a few seconds. “I need what you owe me or we won’t be back Monday.” It sounded like more of a threat than he had intended, but realized his mistake too late.

The large man’s eyes turned wide with rage. He moved closer to the dirt mover, who was trying to retreat by backing up. “Don’t you threaten me, you friggin’ sawed-off redneck!” He shoved the man with all his might, knocking him down the pitch of the edge of the lake. Most times he would’ve stopped at that point, but this was not one of those times. The man’s insults had pushed him over the cliff.

As the prone man propped himself up on his elbows, he fought desperately to crawl to safety on his back, but found traction hard to find on the damp surface. Looking up in horror, he saw the developer grab a shovel lying nearby. Doubting his own eyes, but unable to look away, he saw the metal part of the square point shovel swooping down toward him, striking his skull with a sickening thud. Stunned, he fell back, hanging on to the edge of consciousness.

The attacker didn’t let up, flailing away at the moaning, squirming victim with furious blows. On the final thrust, the metal scoop of the shovel turned on its side as it struck the man’s head, cutting deep into his skull. The helpless man’s body shook with a mighty shiver, then grew still.

Instantly, the man wielding the expedient weapon knew the man was dead, staring down in shock at the lifeless form. Dropping the shovel, he backed away, still shaking with fury, letting the reality of what he had done sink in. Often warned his temper would land him in trouble at some point, he knew that time had finally come—he had gone too far. Too late to worry about that now. Instinct told him to scan the area for witnesses. His eyes settled on the light beaming from a window in the trailer. He saw a woman’s eyes staring straight at him—then a second set—now a third.

“Shit!” he exclaimed, beginning a mad dash toward the trailer. His mind raced quickly as he ran; maybe he could convince them it had been an accident, or possibly self-defense. But his actions had likely been seen—that wouldn’t work.

His panicked mind conjured up another solution, the only one that
would
work.

Betty Lynn was too shocked to move at first, as the others made a rush toward the door, all ignoring the phone on the wooden desk. Still gaping through the window, she saw the man approaching. She managed to put her feet in motion, following the others. Freda was shouting unintelligible words in Spanish, while Laura and Tammy screamed and cried all at once.

Tammy was the first out the door, stumbling on the front steps in the gathering darkness. Falling to her knees, she became an obstacle for the ones behind. Losing valuable time, they fought their way around her, then began to scramble for their vehicles. Reaching her feet, Tammy made a desperate grab for her cell phone in her purse. Attempting to dial as she ran, her fear made it impossible to operate the bulky device. Throwing the phone to the ground in a panic, she concentrated on hurrying toward her Honda Civic.

The man reached his truck in front of the trailer, reaching quickly inside for his colt revolver he kept hidden under his seat. Leaving the door ajar, he needed only a few long strides to reach the nearest car – the Civic.

Tammy struggled to hit the right button on her keyless entry, her hands shaking in terror. Hearing the release engage, she put a hand on the door handle. Before she could pull on the handle, a large hand appeared from behind, clutching her wrist in a vice-like grasp.

Swinging her around, the hulking man screamed in her face, “Get away from the car!” He pointed the gun at her head, while glancing around hurriedly to locate the others. Paralyzed by fear, the girl didn’t respond. Angered, his face twisted with rage, he threw her hard to the ground.

Turning to face the others, all standing shivering near their vehicles, faces blanketed with fear, he waved the gun in their direction. “Step back from your cars!” He stood shaking violently for a few seconds, unsure of what to do next. Knowing he needed to move away from the view of any passers-by on the county highway, he now waved the gun toward the rear of the double-wide. “Move!” he commanded. When their terror prevented them from reacting right away, he screamed the command again, stepping toward them in a threatening manner.

Scraping the skin on her soft hands and knees on the dirt and gravel parking lot, Tammy was able to crawl, then stand upright. She joined the others, now starting to edge in the direction the monstrous man indicated. They were beginning to share the realization of their fate, sobbing, clutching their arms close to their bodies. Huddling together, they moved as a group, sobbing helplessly, each looking desperately in all directions for any possible form of rescue. There was no one. They were all hopelessly trapped, victims of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Please, mister. We won’t tell anybody,” Laura managed to whimper, chancing a glance back at the man.

His answer was, “Keep moving. And shut up.”

The man marched behind them, keeping them all in sight, bellowing from time to time for them to speed things up. Every few seconds he glanced back at the road—all clear so far. He was struck by an ominous, foreboding feeling, not due to what he was about to do, but rather the turn of events requiring him to take such drastic steps.
Their own
bad fortune that had brought these women here on this night made no dent in his thinking, but the inconvenience caused him by their presence did, and it left him no choice. He had fought and struggled for years to get to this point, and nothing would stand in his way of the fortune he was going to create from the ground up. It was now within reach—so close.

Nearly an hour later, he put the finishing touches on his night-time project by smoothing-out the surface of the damp lake bottom by scraping the underside of the bucket of the front-end loader across the soil. Back and forth he went, until the results were virtually indistinguishable from the surrounding soil. The natural illumination was non-existent; the headlights of the loader provided his only guidance. Years of sweating away on construction equipment made operating the NorTrac loader, one of several belonging to the man who had caused everything by his stupidity, a simple task.

Extinguishing the lights, he drove the loader up the gentle slope to ground level, parking it as close as he could to where it had been left for the day.

Climbing down from the seat, he noticed the man’s pickup nearby. It was a reminder that another job still remained. He would need help for this one.

“Carlos?”

“Sì, Senòr.” The man on the other end of the phone was hesitant, a sign the call was not welcome.             

“Carlos, I need you to come back out to the site. There’s something we need to take care of.”

There was a pause before the other man spoke. “But, Senòr, I am very tired. Is it important?”

The big man exhaled an exasperated sigh. “Yes. I need you right away.”

“Can it not wait until tomorrow?”

“No it can’t. It must be done tonight. I’ll expect you here in half an hour.”

“Sì. Senòr,” Carlos answered, his voice filled with humiliation and defeat.

The man slammed the phone down on the desk in the trailer. He fully expected the Mexican laborer to follow orders. The constant threat of alerting the immigration authorities always ensured the man’s cooperation, just as it would when told later in the night to never mention to anyone the nature of their activity. He scratched a sudden itch on the top of his head. His cap? Where had he left it? He couldn’t recall taking it off. Deciding it didn’t matter, he concentrated on the task in front of him. Returning to the makeshift office, he waited impatiently for the other man to arrive. It would be a long night, but one entirely necessary.

2

Spring, 2001

The Forbidden City, the walled-in fortress occupying the center of Beijing City, China—actually a splendid palace, is recognized as one of the five most important of its type in the world. Together with the Palace of Versailles, Buckingham Palace, the White House, and the Kremlin, it represents the magnificent combination of opulence and power. Construction of the incomparable compound, encompassing nearly 180 acres, began in 1406 during the Ming Dynasty, and was completed fourteen years later. The “Forbidden” half of the name was accurate for more than five centuries, since during that period the palace was for use exclusively by the Imperial family and those needed as a support group. Not until 1949 was the Forbidden City opened to the public as a national museum. Now, all can enter through the gates cut into the high red wall surrounding the palace to examine what was hidden from public view for 500 years.

Pete Scallion pictured himself a giant, his six-feet-two frame hovering over the hallways and interior buildings of the historic compound, joined on a tour by others, all leaning and stooping to get a close view of the mysterious passageways. The tour was of the Forbidden Gardens, an exact replica of the real thing on the opposite side of the world. This smaller version, modeled on a roughly one-to-twenty scale, was constructed to be accurate to the tiniest detail, although he had to accept that at face value, having never been anywhere near the real thing.

This amazing display occupied forty acres on the outskirts of Katy, Texas, a rapidly growing community some twenty miles west of Houston. The Gardens was an ambitious, enterprising brainchild of a man of obvious Asian descent, wanting to bring a touch of his ancestry’s culture to the Lone Star state. In addition to the miniature palace, there also existed a model of a tomb constructed over 2000 years earlier by Emperor Qin, the brutal ruler considered to be the father of China, who took the throne in the third century B. C.

Scallion, a former Harris County homicide detective, now assigned to the Cold Case Department, hadn’t actually journeyed to the far reaches of the county to get an ancient history lesson, but instead to interview someone about a case that had been dropped in his lap. Deciding to spend a few bucks and take the tour, he was surprised to find he was rather enjoying the diversion. Museums and exhibitions had never excited him, but the magnitude and detail of the layout was too impressive to ignore.

The man he had come to talk to was the tour guide, a thin, wiry-haired man with Ben Franklin-style glasses, who evidently enjoyed his work.

“Twenty-four emperors exercised their power from within the walls of the Forbidden City,” the man was explaining to the small group whose attention he held. “Throughout the Ming Dynasty and the Qing Dynasty, which ended in 1911, the emperors ruled from the throne with absolute control.” He paused to let that fact sink in, then continued. “As I said before we got started, the palace occupies an area of 720,000 square meters, which for you ranchers among us, is about 180 acres.” He stopped again, evidently expecting a few laughs. Receiving only a murmur or two, he pressed on.

Scallion’s mind wandered off on its own, tuning out the man’s statistics. He was willing to let the visuals speak for themselves. Plus, his mind was drifting to other concerns a little closer to home. Even homicide detectives have personal problems, some that can never be completely removed from their thoughts.