Hallowed Ground (30 page)

“I’ve got my own theory on that.” She chivied the olive from her empty glass and chomped on it.

“How is Kevin?”

“Either efficiently robotic or a total scatterbrain. He’s dealing with the grief and the details all by himself, as usual.”

“And dare I ask about the case you’re working on all by yourself?”

“It just keeps getting more complicated. Martinez, he’s been . . . I don’t know,
there
every step of the way.”

“Hmm.”

I glanced up at her. “What?”

“Sugar, you really haven’t had enough to drink to hear my opinion on the powder keg situation between you and Martinez.”

I opened my mouth to regurgitate the automatic denial that Martinez was just a client, when our perky red-headed waitress brought another round. Big tip for her for her excellent timing.

Kim tapped her glass against mine in a toast. “To men. A necessary evil.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

She upended her martini.

Definitely a novelty that Kim was knocking drinks back faster than me. “Those must be some tasty martinis, girlfriend.”

“Not especially. Just getting ready to answer your question.”

“How do you know what I’m going to ask?”

“’Cause it’s as plain as the nose on my face.” She adjusted the satin straps of her lace camisole.

“Maybe I should say, it’s as plain as the glass eye on my face.”

Heat crept up my cheeks again.

Kim stirred her dirty martini. With her head tilted forward I couldn’t see anything behind her cloud of hair.

“My horse kicked me in the head when I was thirteen,” she said without preamble. “Freak accident. Besides losing my eye, I wasn’t even seriously injured.”

I reached for my cigarettes.

“When people ask, and trust me, they do feel perfectly entitled to ask, that’s what I tell them, because it is the truth. But it’s not the whole truth.”

My gut feeling? This was bad. “Kim, you don’t have to tell me this.”

She looked up at me, uneasily, then away to the rainbow fringed sombrero on the wall beside us.

“You’re the first person I’ve wanted to tell in a long time.”

For all her bold talk, Kim had just as many trust issues as I did.

Whatever I expected was blown to hell the minute she said, “My father sexually abused me.

“I didn’t grow up in the backwoods of Appalachia where incest is just accepted. My parents are pillars of the community. Very well off. But the one thing they couldn’t have in their perfect life was kids, which forced them to adopt. Lucky me, huh?”

Did she realize she’d referred to herself as a
thing
?

“For as long as I can remember my dad came into my room at night. I threw a screamin’ fit at bedtime. Eventually I understood it made him happier if I fought back.”

She paused, sucked down a tiny sip of courage. “I’m not gonna go into the sordid details, but I will say when I finally told Momma what’d been happenin’, she didn’t act all that shocked. And it didn’t stop after that, either.”

The air between us tightened into an invisible noose.

“I was twelve years old when I tried to kill myself.”

Tears snuck out the corners of my eyes and added extra salt to my margarita. I couldn’t breathe.

“When I was in the psych ward at the hospital, my Aunt Tillie, my mom’s aunt, managed to worm out of me what no one else could, even though I was so embarrassed I’d like to have died.

Thought it was all my fault. If I’d been a better daughter it wouldn’t have happened.”

Her voice had taken on that thick, hard-to-understand southern drawl. “She confronted them and said if he touched me again, she’d sue for custody of me. And wouldn’t that send the tongues waggin’ at the country club?

“Don’t know if it was her threat that worked or that I’d started my monthly. I jes’ know he never came into my room again.”

Kim sniffed and wiped her nose with a napkin. “Asshole must’ve felt some kind of guilt because he finally bought me the damn horse I’d been beggin’ for.”

A sharp sob escaped; I don’t think Kim noticed.

“So instead of buyin’ his own forgiveness and mine, every time he looks at me, and sees this ugly glass eye starin’ back at him, he’s reminded of the ugly things he did to me.”

I downed my margarita. Welcomed the brain freeze. Still, even the loud mariachi music couldn’t drown the void between us.

Perky waitress brought our food. I stared at the enchilada smothered in red sauce and the mound of cheese-covered refried beans. The spicy scent of salsa and guacamole only increased my desire to throw up.

“Come on, sugar, aren’t you gonna say something?”

Only a trace of the young victim she’d been was reflected back at me in her bright blue eye.

She’d survived. Telling her how sorry I was would’ve been the politically correct response.

I went with option B.

“Well, I guess we can cross ‘shopping for Father’s Day gifts’ off the list of activities we can do together.”

Her eye widened before she laughed until she cried.

I could breathe again.

She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For listening. For trusting me. For not thinking I’m a freak.”

“You’re taking your chances getting stuck with that label if you hang around with me for too long.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I am a conduit for cosmic negativity. Most people are drawn to the vivacious, fun, lucky people.

The type of person everyone adores.

“I, on the other hand, seem to attract people who’ve been chewed up by life and spit out. Who are more broken than whole.”

“Does that bother you?”

“Sometimes. I wonder if I’ll ever meet someone who doesn’t have baggage or trauma or permanent damage from life events they either wouldn’t or couldn’t control.”

Didn’t seem to bother Kim that I’d included her in that group.

“People are drawn to you, Jules, not because you’ve been beat up by life, but because you’ve survived it.” She added softly, “Not everyone does, sugar.”

“You did,” I pointed out.

“Accepting who I was then isn’t who I am now. That was survival. Some people can’t get past that part of my past.”

“People are stupid.”

“Amen to that, sister.”

She wrinkled her nose and shoved aside her plate of nachos. “I’m not really hungry.”

I wasn’t either.

The hug I gave her in the parking lot before we parted ways didn’t feel as clumsy as I’d feared.

Instead of mulling over the info I’d uncovered on the Black Dog case, or dwelling on the nasty secrets of Kim’s childhood, I popped in an Audioslave CD and let the distorted guitars and Chris Cornell’s haunting vocals numb my overactive brain cells.

Thankfully Mrs. Babbitt didn’t come scurrying out when I got home. Didn’t think I could handle more emotional distress today.

I stripped in the living room and walked buck-ass naked into the kitchen. My house. I could do whatever the hell I wanted. Diet Pepsi in hand, I cranked the window air conditioner on full blast, and plopped in front of the TV.

Usually I skipped the local news, but I was curious to see how much information the sheriff’s department had given the media on the murders. The story did get top billing on both stations but the details were vague.

It wasn’t the only death reported in Bear Butte County in the last twenty-four hours.

My jaw nearly hit my knee when the newscaster announced county commissioner Red Granger had been found dead in a field a mile from his house. No details on whether foul play was suspected, which led me to assume old Red had suffered a heart attack or stroke. Poor guy. I’d always liked him.

I watched
The Philadelphia Story
for the millionth time before I drifted off into dreamless sleep.

Next morning at the office, I typed a chain of events relating to the Black Dog case. Interesting reading, but it didn’t help me one bit on discovering Chloe’s whereabouts.

Frustrated, I scribbled a second list, one I’d intended to give to Martinez detailing my reasons on why the cops needed information on Chloe’s disappearance. Especially now that Rondelle was dead.

The outer door slammed. Damn. I’d forgotten to lock it again. I scooted back, expecting to see Kevin.

My office door banged open.

I gaped at the angry man careening toward me.

What the hell was my father doing here?

“I want to hire you,” he said.

“For what?” I said calmly, as if he burst in like an angry bull every day. Truth was, this was the first time he’d ever graced the offices of Wells/Collins Investigations.

“I want you to find the son of a bitch who killed Red Granger.”

“IS THIS SOME KIND OF JOKE?”

“No.” He pulled a creased leather checkbook from the back pocket of his faded Wranglers and clutched it in his right hand, stopping in front of my desk.

“How much?”

Just breathe
. “Dad, listen—”

“No, girly,
you
just listen for a change. Don’t know if you heard me, so let me repeat it. Red Granger is dead. Somebody shot him. Right through the heart. Right on his own damn land while he was mindin’ his own damn business and fixin’ his own damn fence. And I wanna know who did it.”

That news jarred me. Not a heart attack or a stroke but another murder?

“Sit down,” I said.

That belligerent look I knew so well settled on his weathered face and I prepared myself for the inevitable argument. Shocked the hell out of me when he clamped his teeth together and his butt dropped to the chair.

It wouldn’t last; it never did.

“First, I heard about Red on the news last night and I’m sorry. I know you guys were friends.” Or as close to it as my dad got.

He scowled.

“Second, put away your money.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t work on the case.”

Those mean, mean eyes focused on me. His whip-cord lean body remained still as a rattler ready to strike. For an instant I morphed back into my younger self and steeled myself against the blow.

“Can’t, or won’t?”

Hadn’t Martinez taunted me with the same response yesterday? Before I formulated my answer, he did for me.

“Oh, I see.” He tossed the checkbook on the desk. “My money ain’t good enough for ya?”

“It’s not that—”

“Then what? Why is it you’ll bend over for those Injuns, but when I ask you to do one thing for me—and I even offer to pay you—not only won’t you do it, you won’t listen to me?

“As if it ain’t bad enough you’re runnin’ all over the damn county, tellin’ people, men, good men, that’ve lived their whole lives on that land, that they’re idiots for not just acceptin’ the changes we got no say in? But now I gotta tell them you ignore your own kin? What? I gotta dye my skin red to get you to help me?”

“Shut the fuck up.” Anger burned in me so hotly I suspected my eyes were bleeding.

“Watch your mouth,” he snapped.

“Then stop interrupting me, goddamn it, and let me explain, instead of spouting your usual racist bullshit!”

The ensuing silence was more deafening than my outburst.

He’d made me lose my temper, which pissed me off, but not as much as his self-satisfied expression that I’d behaved exactly as he’d wanted.

Fuck.

I reached for my cigarettes. Wished I could drag out a bottle of tequila. I told myself his disapproval against my favorite vices held no weight in my office or in my life. I lit up, and blew the smoke in his face.

Any second he’d tell me to put out my cigarette. Or, he’d try to prove he had more control than me by not rising to my bait. Little did he realize either one served my purpose. I got to tell him I could do whatever the hell I wanted in here, or I got to smoke without him bitching about it.

Oh yeah. The Collins clan redefined
dysfunctional.

“Here’s the deal, Dad. I cannot, I repeat, cannot work on an ongoing police investigation. Nor can I run a parallel investigation that interferes in any way with any agency, including the Sheriff’s Department, the FBI, the CIA, the BIA or the Mickey Mouse Club.” I smiled—all teeth. “So see, legally, my hands are tied and it has nothing to do with you personally.”