Hallowed Ground (20 page)

“Bud didn’t know Harvey was Rondelle’s brother?”

“No. Bud, being the paranoid, controlling type, wouldn’t let the idea go. He saw Rondelle as his chance. Ain’t no secret Little Joe likes the ladies and Rondelle is a pretty girl. Bud figured that’d get her into the private places upstairs and give her access to private information. Rondelle still refused. Then it got nasty.

“Linderman ‘found’ meth in her employee locker. Enough to cause serious problems if he turned her in.”

Meth is a big problem around these parts. Every law enforcement agency in the area has banded together to make an example of even the smallest user to get to the big dealers, so I knew Linderman would’ve followed through with the threat, if for no other reason than to make himself look like the upstanding citizen. “Did she use it? Or was she selling it?”

He shrugged. “Don’t know. Didn’t matter whether Linderman had planted it because he had proof. Said he’d ‘overlook’ it if she went to work for the Carluccis. She had no choice.

“When she wasn’t getting him information as quickly as he wanted, Linderman switched tactics and threatened Chloe. Proved he could get to her any time he wanted by sendin’ her pictures of Chloe with strange men comin’ out of her daycare place. Rondelle lost it. She didn’t have no one to trust and had to keep her mouth shut and hope she’d find out something to get Linderman off her back.”

The pictures hadn’t been a lie. I’d wondered. Linderman was more dangerous than I’d expected if he’d gone to that much trouble to threaten Rondelle. Even Donovan had gotten a glimpse of those pictures as an extra insurance policy.

“But she didn’t. After workin’ the cage and some of those cocktail parties for a coupla weeks, Rondelle was frustrated ’cause she couldn’t find a single thing illegal ’bout the Carlucci’s operation. She also realized Bud was so obsessed with discrediting them that he wouldn’t believe her until she
did
find something.”

I braced myself.

“So she lied. She told Linderman she had a disk, showin’ several high-rankin’ members of the South Dakota Gaming Consortium in the meeting room upstairs with Little Joe, talkin’ about how much it’d cost the Carlucci’s to keep the Bear Butte Casino from opening.”

Luther looked me dead in the eye. “I’m sure you’re thinkin’ maybe the security disk, the one showin’ what horrid thing Little Joe done to her is jus’ another lie. But it ain’t a lie ’cause I’ve seen most of it. Made me mad. Made me want to help her in any way I could.”

I found my voice. “Linderman still thinks the imaginary ‘meeting’ disk is out there and Rondelle is playing games with him?”

“Yeah.”

“Holy shit. Does she have any idea how dangerous this is?”

“Yup. That’s why she’s stayin’ out of sight.”

A blood-curdling scream sliced through the lazy breeze.

We both froze.

A blond, pig-tailed girl of about four zipped past us, shrieking at the top of her lungs as an older tow-headed boy chased her with a rubber snake. At least I hoped it was rubber. I shuddered. I hated snakes.

Luther and I seemed to have lost our momentum.

“You’re wondering how I got mixed up with this,” he said.

“It did cross my mind. You don’t seem like Rondelle’s type.”

“Type?
Shee
. Love ain’t something you can categorize.”

At my bug-eyed expression, he chuckled.

“I’m not some dirty old man. I’m a spiritual leader for the Medicine Wheel Holy Society.”

“Oh.”

“Thanks for seein’ beyond the wrinkles, even if I am too damn old to be foolin’ with that kinda stuff.” He frowned. “Too old to be foolin’ with the other mess too.”

“There’s
another
mess?”

He stayed silent so long I didn’t think he’d answer.

“Nothin’ you should worry ’bout. Problems with the Medicine Wheel Society. Nothin’ to do with Rondelle. Just politics. Same as usual. Be nice to say it’d never been that way, but it’s always been like that. Even before the younger kids took over the operation and the meetings.”

“That’s where Rondelle met Frankie Ducheneaux.”

“Frankie. How do you know him?”

“Met him briefly when I was talking to Rondelle. Acted like a total jerk.”

“He is.” Luther seemed to have gone into some kind of trance. “Though Frankie would argue he’s full of ‘principles.’ Thinks old men like me are fools and oughta be put out to pasture.

Wants to solve every problem with aggression.”

I wondered how aggressive Frankie was.

He answered the question before I asked. “Frankie’s a blowhard. Big ideas, but no follow through. I’m jus’ sorry Rondelle got mixed up with him.”

Donovan had mentioned the group as potential saboteurs. Had Rondelle recognized Frankie’s voice in Trader Pete’s when she overheard the conversation about sabotage? Had she given Donovan Frankie’s name? Had Frankie shot Donovan to shut him up?

“Donovan used to be a member of the Medicine Wheel Society, right?”

“Yes. Helped us keep that shootin’ range from getting built coupla years back. Then he got that job with Brush Creek.” Luther shrugged. “Donovan had to choose a different direction.”

“Doesn’t sound like you approved of his choice.”

“Not my place to approve or disapprove, jus’ to accept. And to offer help to those who need it.

Like Rondelle.”

“Rondelle didn’t strike me as the spiritual type.”

“There you go with the ‘types’ again,” he teased.

My cheeks burned.

“No doubt Rondelle has had a tough life. A lousy excuse for what she’s been doin’ ’cause most of us got bad stuff in our past. She’s been driftin’ along, makin’ bad choices, lettin’ her past control her future. Since she don’t got nobody else, she looks to me for guidance. I’m jus’ an old fool tryin’ to set her on the right path.”

Old fool my butt. I found myself drawn into the kindness and wisdom of his eyes.

“Are you helping her?”

“Yes.” His gaze warmed. “And I can help you.”

My breath stalled. “What do you mean?”

“You try to hide it, but it’s there, the pain in your eyes.”

I blinked, as if the action would hide or erase what he saw.

Calloused fingertips briefly touched the left side of his chest, and I felt it on my skin. “In your heart. Part of life is loss. It’s time for you to let go of the past.”

Instead of skepticism, I blurted out, “Literally? Just let it go?”

He nodded.

Let go of everything? My mom’s death? Ben’s murder? My broken marriage? My undefined relationship with Kevin? The resentment toward my father? How? Release it like a balloon?

I studied his weathered face, astute eyes, and the willingness to start me on the journey, even when he sensed I wasn’t ready to take that first step.

Had this stranger seen so deeply inside me because of shaman magic? Or was this what normal people sought in their clergymen? A chance to find inner peace?

“Why are you hangin’ on to this sorrow, child?”

I wanted to pull back, mull it over. My mouth and brain weren’t on the same wavelength.

“Because pain is real. Sometimes I feel everything else in my life is an illusion but sorrow.”

He contemplated the sky. “Sorrow isn’t a place, nor should it be a destination, but an end of one.

My advice? Face your fear head on.” He smiled. “Literally. The answers to your questions will make sense when you’re not afraid to hear them.”

Little too
woo-woo
for my taste. I managed to say, “Thank you.”

Luther plucked a business card from his shirt pocket. Placed it in my palm. “Remember my door is always open.” He touched the top of my head. “Be at peace,
kola
.”

By the time I looked up, he’d vanished.

The corner of the business card jabbed my palm, proving this conversation wasn’t a figment of my imagination. The folded leaf drifted past my pump. I snagged it and saved it between the checks in my checkbook, like a Lakota shamrock.

I was unnaturally subdued for the rest of the night.

Kell whined that I’d left him alone for a few hours, which I’d expected. Instead of telling him to quit sniveling, I slapped on a happy face.

I rubbed his sore neck. Cleaned his wounds. Remade the couch with clean sheets. Cooked dinner and hand fed him. Sat beside him and watched
Rock Star
on VH-1. Tried to shove a couple of codeine down his throat.

He wasn’t too thrilled about the last one.

Mostly he dozed. When he wasn’t dozing he wasn’t talking. At least, not to me. T-Rex had called to check on him, ditto for his band mates. He wasn’t inclined to chat freely with me in the room, which made me paranoid he was talking about me, so I graciously granted him privacy without being asked.

Besides, it gave me an excuse to sneak outside and have a smoke. Apparently cigarettes aggravated his injuries, so he (cough cough hack hack wheeze wheeze) suggested he’d feel better if I smoked outside.

When he got that “hey, baby” look in his eye around ten o’clock, for the first time in my life I used the old “not-tonight-dear-I-have-a-headache” excuse, and fled to my room.

Just to prove I could, I decided to stay home one more day.

About 2:00, I’d finished rearranging my Tupperware cupboard when the phone rang. I let Mr.

Popularity answer it.

“Julie,” he shouted a beat later from the couch, “telephone.”

I took the handset from him. “Hello?”

“I might have a line on Chloe,” Martinez said.

“How?”

“Don’t worry about that now. Want to come along when I check it out?”

“Hell, yes, I want to come along.”

“Be at Dusty’s in fifteen minutes. Don’t be late. You’d better bring your gun.”

Click
.

I changed out of my sweats and into jeans and a T-shirt. Combed my hair. Applied some strawberry lip-gloss as make-up. Hid the gun in my purse. I thought about sneaking out the back door so I wouldn’t have to face Kell.

Screw that. I’d grown tired of walking on eggshells around him. I grabbed my Doc Marten boots and practically stomped into the living room.

I’d finished tying my laces when he asked quietly, “Where you going?”

None of your damn business. “
Following a lead for a case. Why? Do you need me to pick up something on the way back?”

“No.” He paused. “Will you be gone long?”

“I don’t know.”

Another pause. “Are you taking the gun?”

Not
your
gun. Amazing how he’d still refused to give me ownership of it.

“You really want hear the answer to that, Kell?”

His eyes clouded, making me feel like I’d punted a bunny.

“Sorry. Look, can I do anything else for you before I leave?”

He shook his head, hiding behind his fall of golden hair as he sent his attention back to the show on Ovation.

Martinez roared in on a beat-up Harley with “ape-hanger” handlebars, wearing his plain leather jacket without all the patches, ripped up, faded jeans, and thick-soled boots. No helmet. He’d fashioned a bandana around his head “do-rag” style. Dark sunglasses. He epitomized badass biker.

Be still my heart.

He cut the engine.

“Nice bike,” I said.

“It’ll do. You ready?”

“In a minute.” I leaned against my car. “Don’t you want an update on the case first?”