Hallowed Ground Read Online Free PDF Page B

again I only had half the story. Hell, I didn’t know who to believe, which did not bode well for client relations. Despite my conflicting feelings, I asked, “Do you have any intention of returning Chloe to Rondelle?”

    Equally belligerent, he said, “Why should I tell you anything?”

    I considered reaching for my nonexistent gun, just to see if he’d flinch again, but with my luck, he’d probably call me on it. Screw client confidentiality. I used the only leverage I had left.

    “Because if you don’t, I’ll call Tony Martinez and you can explain it to him.”

    Stunned silence buzzed between us equal to the distant hum of traffic on I-90.

    “All right,” he said grudgingly. “I’ll talk to you. But not here.”

    The empty parking lot seemed the ideal place to hash through this mess. “Why not here?”

    Donovan’s nervous gaze swept the area. “Might look deserted, but there’s things goin’ on here you don’t want no part of.” He pointed to Bear Butte. “There’s a picnic area near the creek where the north trailhead starts. We’ll have some privacy there.”

    My insides squeezed like an orange in a juicer.

    I’d avoided Bear Butte since Ben’s murder. In fact, most days I pretended Bear Butte didn’t exist—quite an accomplishment since the 1000-foot volcanic rock formation cast its shadow over everything and everyone in our small county.

    “Absolutely not. No fucking way.”

    Donovan stared at me like I’d grown hooves. “What?”

    I blurted, “How about if we go to Dusty’s? It’s down the road. Happy hour. I’ll even buy.” I’d rather chance running into my former abusive boyfriend, Ray, than lounge around where my brother had been murdered and pretend I was on a fucking picnic.

    He shook his head. “Sorry. I’m part of the Sacred Buffalo sobriety movement and never go anywhere alcohol is served.”

    I freaked.

    Oh God. Was I really going to have to sit at a puke green picnic table and pretend I wasn’t hearing Ben’s last scream as someone slashed his throat and dumped his lifeless body into the creek?

    Heat rushed to my face. I had to grit my teeth to stop from throwing up the buffalo jerky churning into stew in my stomach.

    “Well?” he snapped. “Make up your mind.”

    Anger helped me regain my bearings, didn’t necessarily have to be mine.

    “Fine. I’ll follow you. Don’t try to skip out on me because I will call the sheriff.”

    “Yeah, I know.” He unlocked his door and swung it open. Clods of mud wrapped in long strings of ditch-weed plopped beneath the chrome running board. “But if I end up in jail, I guarantee Chloe’ll stay gone for a long, long time.”

    “That a threat?”

    “Nope. Jus’ a fact.” Donovan heaved himself into his truck.

    My mouth hung open like a broken cellar door; I literally ate his dust as he roared off.

    The amount of traffic on the gravel road between the new casino and Bear Butte had quadrupled.
    I hadn’t noticed since for the last few months I’d spent most of my time in Rapid City.

    I smoked with the windows up. Orangish-red dirt enfolded me in a void making it impossible to see. I wished the dust could seep into my brain and block my thoughts as easily.

    Through the pall, I spotted the turn-off and braked.

    The blacktop with its crater-sized potholes was smooth in comparison to the rutted county road. I concentrated on following the hand-carved signs, purposely not gawking at the scenery.
    Especially not at the creek.

    Sweat poured down my back, my muscles were tight, a hundred crisscrossing rubber bands stretched to the breaking point. An ominous warning droned in my head like a swarm of cicadas.

    And still I drove.

    Scowling at the cheerful two-story visitor center, I hung a sharp right. My gaze flicked over the squat, skeletal ceremonial sweat lodges, the fire pits ringed with chunks of vanilla-colored shale.
    Strips of red, yellow, black, and white fabric—symbolic of the four