Hallowed Ground (Julie Collins Series #2)

by Lori G. Armstrong

  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?”

  “Why? Something else go wrong?”

  I told him everything I’d kept from him. About Little Joe raping Rondelle and her stealing the disk documenting it. How she’d asked me not to look for Chloe. Then the visit and the threats from Linderman. I finished up with Luther Ghost Bear telling me how Linderman had forced Rondelle’s cooperation in working for the Carluccis, and the other disk that didn’t exist.

  He stared at me for a full minute. Then he said, “Hop on.”

  “That’s it?” I threw my hands up in the air. “Jesus, Martinez, don’t you want to yell at me, fire me, tell me how badly I fucked up?”

  “Not especially.”

  “So I don’t get to see the wrath of El Presidente first hand?”

  Martinez slid his glasses down his nose. “Trust me. That’s something you don’t ever want to experience.”

  “But—”

  “Get your butt on the bike, blondie. Now.”

  I got on the bike.

  CHAPTER 15

  MARTINEZ AND I HAD BEEN CROUCHED IN A FOUL smelling drainage ditch for thirty minutes. Watching nothing through a shared pair of binoculars. Not talking. Waiting for anything to happen besides bug bites and sunstroke.

  The abandoned cabin was straight out of a teen horror flick: moldy pine siding, faded gray in spots, stained black in others, a sagging roof, shattered windows that had been boarded up. The whole structure listed to the right. A strong breeze would reduce it to ancient lumber.

  I studied the surrounding landscape. Dead trees served as sentinels, the bleached branches dissonantly reminiscent of gigantic bones.

  No cars. No sign of life. The tall grass in front of the door had been trampled, indicating there’d been activity of some kind recently.

  I expected Donovan would’ve picked a better place to hide Chloe.

  There was something seriously wrong here. What were we waiting for? I might be impatient, but Martinez was flat-out stalling.

  Why?

  Like he’d tell me. And it didn’t help my mood he didn’t trust my gut feeling the same way Kevin always did. He sure as hell wasn’t Kevin.

  Doesn’t mean that’s a bad thing.

  I sighed.

  “Will you stop with the heavy sighs?” Martinez hissed.

  I slapped a fat black fly on my forearm, wishing I could’ve smacked it off him.

  “Stop fidgeting.”

  I shifted forward on the balls of my feet. “I’m sick of hiding in this stinky goddamn ditch. We either go in or we leave.”

  He muttered something.

  “Who gave you the tip about this place, anyway?”

  “It was anonymous,” he replied tersely.

  I snorted. “And you trusted it? Shit, Martinez—”

  “Don’t see that you’ve turned up any new leads, blondie.”

  The half-empty water bottle clutched in my hand hit the ground. I leapt to my feet like a rattlesnake had crawled in my pants.

  “Kiss my ass. You can sit here for another hour, but I’m going in.”

  I’d stomped about fifteen feet before he spun me around.

  “Don’t get pissy with me. Just make sure you’re ready for whatever we find in there.”

  He palmed my shoulders and peered into my face.

  I hated that his eyes were obscured. Not that it mattered. Martinez was a master at hiding his emotions, even without mirrored sunglasses.

  “Ready for what? A room full of dead mice and birds? A goose, maybe, since this anonymous source of yours has sent us on a wild damn goose chase?”

  With forced patience, he turned me back toward the building. Stood behind me, circling his arms around me, and raised the binoculars to my eyes, pointing the lenses at the door.

  “What do you see?”

  “Besides a broken down shack?”

  “Look closer.”

  I trained the binoculars on the vegetation growing out of the roof, then down past the black splotches on the warped siding, to the dark stains on the door. I squinted, straining to see whatever Martinez had seen.

  The spots on the door wavered.

  I blinked several times. Had to be an illusion. I held perfectly still. Waited. The spots swirled, creating a different pattern. I bobbled the binoculars, but Martinez’s steady hand caught them.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “Flies. Hundreds of them, by my guess.”

  He didn’t have to explain what all those flies meant. I’d read Patricia Cornwell novels. Something had died in there.

  Or someone.

  “Oh shit,” I said.

  His breath grazed my cheek. “If you’re not ready, stay here and I’ll go check it out.”

  Now I knew why he’d been stalling. He didn’t want to go in there any more than I did.

  Sweat prickled my scalp, and then slowly slid down my hairline, past my ear to where my jaw rested against the stubble on his.

  Martinez backed up, removed the red bandana from his head and passed it over my shoulder.

  Wordlessly, I mopped my face and neck, my gaze glued to the shifting swarms of flies.

  “Julie?” he murmured.

  “I’m going with you.”

  Before I chickened out and crawled back into the culvert, I headed toward the cabin. I shoved the bandana in my back pocket and unclipped my gun from the holster.

  Martinez walked beside me. My boot crunched the dry grasses and parched soil; his heavy boots made no sound at all. I counted each plodding footfall, seventy-six, seventy-seven.

  Insistent buzzing broke my concentration. I looked up.

  Martinez had shoved his sunglasses on top of his head and had drawn his pistol. My heart rate increased with each inch we moved to the dilapidated building. The constant drone of the flies made the hair on my arms and neck stand at attention. Made my stomach lurch to imagine what we’d find.

  He ran up the steps.

  The stench hit me even as I scrambled to follow Martinez inside.

  Holy fuck. It was the worst thing I’d ever smelled. A thousand times worse than the trucks that picked up rotting animal carcasses off the roads, or a meat processing plant during hunting season.

  My eyes watered even as they adjusted to the dimness. I tried to breathe through my mouth. Didn’t help. The heat was unbearable. Revulsion le
aked from every pore in my body.

  Martinez stopped abruptly.

  I’d stuck so close to him upon entering this hellhole that I ran directly into his back. His leather vest brushed my forehead. For a second, I closed my eyes and buried my nose between his shoulder blades hoping to catch a whiff of his familiar scent to block out the fetid smells of death.

  “Oh no,” he said. “Oh shit. Oh fuck. No. For Christ’s sake, no.”

  His bootheels thumped across the planked floor as fast as my heart thudded in my chest.

  My protective barrier gone, the rank odor assaulted me again. Worse than ever. God. I didn’t want to see what atrocity had made Tony Martinez whimper. What had made him run.

  I made myself look.

  I saw the shoes first; bright pink with glittery silver bows. Then the compact body. Slender bare legs. Small torso. Long black hair tangled around slight shoulders and a slim neck. Nothing registered above that; her face had been blown off. She’d be difficult to ID.

  But I knew her.

  Rondelle.

  Black puddles had congealed beneath what was left of her head. Dark spatters dotted her clothing, her skin. Strangely enough, her pink velvet purse had stayed pristine. The wall behind her was sprayed with rusty blood spots and chunks of gray matter that had dried into hard strings.

  Hunched over Rondelle, Martinez whispered in Spanish. He formed the sign of the cross in the air above her body with the hand holding his gun. Picked up the bandana lying next to her and slipped it in his pocket.

  The flies buzzed around her, in her, oblivious to us.

  My gag reflex kicked in. Stomach, spleen, kidneys, lungs; everything inside me crawled up my throat and wanted out.

  I bent forward, holding my breath, fingers curled tight around the plastic grip of the gun. The muscles in my throat constricted against the rising bile even as my belly rippled to expel the roiling remnants of my lunch.

  Tears stung my eyes; my jaw ached from the effort of clamping my teeth together.

  Next thing I knew Martinez had clapped his hand over my mouth and hauled me tightly against his body.

  “Goddammit, Julie, get control of it. Now. You will not leave any sign we were ever here.” His ragged words wormed past the blood pounding in my ears. “Come on. Breathe through it. You’re stronger than this, I know you are.”

  I closed my eyes against the carnage. Focused on matching my breathing to the labored puffs of air coming from his lungs. Didn’t take long to realize that he was just as disturbed as I was. We even shook in tandem. When I felt like my innards might stay in place, I slumped against him.

  Briefly, he squeezed me tightly. “Can you deal with it?” he asked in a hushed tone.

  I nodded.

  He let go and sidestepped me.

  I opened my eyes. My gaze slid to Rondelle before my brain screamed no. Her arm was outstretched, reaching for something.

  Then I noticed what I’d missed before. Another body.

  My breath caught.

  Martinez whirled around. Glared at me to make sure I wasn’t going to hurl, then advanced to the second form sprawled on the floor.

  Wearing cowboy boots, jeans, and a T-shirt, the man could’ve been anybody.

  “What the hell happened here?”

  “Looks like an execution.”

  “When?”

  “I’m guessing yesterday.” He crouched over the man. With the barrel of his gun, he poked an object on the floor that resembled a piece of rope.

  Not a rope. A long, black braid shot through with silver.

  “Omigod.” I slapped my left hand over my mouth.

  He glanced up at me sharply. “You know him? Who is he?”

  I swallowed. Increased the grip on my gun before I lowered my trembling hand from my equally trembling lips.

  “Remember I told you about Luther Ghost Bear. Spiritual leader of the Medicine Wheel Society? That’s him. He’s the one who saw the security tape.”

  He’s the one who saw the sorrow in my soul and offered me solace.

  What if I’d led whoever was looking for Rondelle straight to him?

  Vertigo seized me again.

  Martinez stood. Wiped his forehead with the heel of his hand. Waved that same hand through the flies buzzing above the hole in Luther’s chest. Strangely enough, there were no flies buzzing where his head had been blown apart. “Jesus Christ. There’s another one.”

  “You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

  “Nope. Behind the door.”

  I stared straight ahead as he bypassed me. No doubt we’d both know the identity of the third victim, but I was scared shitless to find out who it was.

  “I don’t believe this,” he said.

  My heart jumped. Please, please don’t let it be Chloe. “Who is it?”

  “Tommy.”

  “Tommy who?”

  “Tommy, as in the Carlucci’s bodyguard, Tommy.”

  I tiptoed to where Martinez had squatted beside yet another corpse.

  It was Tommy all right. Someone had shot him a bunch of times. However, they’d shown him mercy they hadn’t shown Rondelle and Luther: Tommy’s head was still intact.

  If a Carlucci bodyguard was dead, then who the hell had done this?

  “I don’t get it,” I said.

  “Me either. And I’ve seen enough.”

  He pushed up off the dirty floor. Scanned the cabin one last time. Lingered sorrowfully on Rondelle before the look hardened and he slid his sunglasses back in place. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  A gust of wind blew inside, stirring the putrid smells of human waste, dried blood, and rotted flesh.

  My stomach heaved. This time I couldn’t hold it. I ran out the door, through the ditch and up the small, rocky hill. I ran until my lungs burned. When I finally stopped, I fell to my knees on the hard-packed ground and threw up through my tears.

  After I’d finished retching my guts out, I wiped my mouth with the soggy bandana. I grabbed my gun—how I’d managed not to barf on it was a mystery—and wobbled to my feet. A wave of dizziness struck. I rested my forearms on my thighs before I stood; fainting in my own sickness would completely send me over the edge.

  God. I’d never be able to block those images from my nightmares. Never.

  Grass crunched behind me. A water bottle materialized. I took it without comment. Swished a mouthful and spit it out. Watched the water disappear as the cracked, red earth sucked it up like a greedy sponge. I wiped another stream of sweat from my brow.

  Martinez said: “You okay to ride?”

  I eyed the motorcycle propped in the ditch and held a hand to my queasy stomach. We should probably stick around and call the sheriff, but for now I couldn’t wait to get away. “I guess.”

  He rolled the Harley uphill to the road. Swung a leg over the seat as I holstered my Browning. I climbed on behind him, wrapped my arms around his waist, and we roared off.

  I closed my eyes and pressed my cheek into the middle of his back. Didn’t matter where we were going as long as it was far, far, away from where we’d just been.

  We must’ve crisscrossed half a dozen country roads. Gravel spewed behind the fat back tire. Rock chips pelted my legs. Dust clogged my nose, layered on my hair and skin like talcum powder. The sun beat down on my head. I was dirty, bruised, sunburned, and I didn’t care.

  When Martinez slowed, I opened my eyes and scooted back in the seat. I had no idea where he’d taken us.

  We hung a sharp right between two crooked wooden fenceposts, bumped over a rusted cattleguard and motored through a field until we reached a cluster of half-dead elm trees.

  He cut the engine.

  I scrambled off while he steadied the bike.

  Kickstand in place, he rummaged in the left rear saddlebag.

  He turned toward me. His sunglasses were gone.

  At the look on his face I automatically took a step back.

  Without saying a word, he cracked the seal on a bottle of Bacar
di. Still watching me, he tipped his head back and drank. And drank until the bottle was half empty.

  Martinez wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then jiggled the elixir. “Want some?”

  Despite my nausea, I nodded and bridged the distance between us. My fingers brushed his as I latched onto the bottle. I brought it to my mouth and gulped the sweet liquid until my throat caught fire. Took a breath, took another long, long drink. Then another.

  Eyes watering, I passed it back.

  He killed the remainder.

  In less than two minutes we’d sucked down a bottle of rum. It should have bothered me. It didn’t. Yet, I’d never seen Martinez so close to losing control.

  He’d perched his backside on the motorcycle seat. He reached down, picked up a big dirt clod and chucked it at the closest tree trunk. It exploded, leaving fine red dust in its wake.

  His voice was nearly unrecognizable.

  “How am I supposed to tell Harvey about Rondelle?”

  I rounded the back end of the bike and wrapped my arms around his neck. Laid my cheek on the top of his head. Inhaled the sun-warmed scent of his shampoo. “I don’t know.”

  The air didn’t stir. Normal outdoor noises were curiously absent. Evidently the brutal heat had sent birds and other wildlife seeking shelter. No breeze, but I was grateful for the shade.

  Martinez sighed and angled his neck to rub his jaw over my knuckles.

  “He’ll go ballistic,” he said. “This will tip him right over the edge.”

  Was that Martinez’s way of admitting Harvey wasn’t stable under normal circumstances?

  “So what do we do now? You want me to call the sheriff?”

  “No. No cops.”

  I lifted my head. “What do you mean ‘no cops’?”

  “Just what I said. No cops.”

  I waited for him to explain. Of course, he didn’t.

  “We just saw three mutilated bodies. We can’t leave them lying there. The families need to know what happened. God. Whoever did this can’t get away with it.”

  “They won’t.”

  I’d crossed the line into gray areas a couple of times in my PI work. Yeah, I’d defended my actions because the end had always justified the means. But there wasn’t any justification for purposely concealing a crime of this magnitude. Those victims were dead, bloated, and worm food. That went beyond the gray area into pure black and I wouldn’t have any part of it.