Killerground

Acknowledgments

To all my wonderful readers who love Rhetta and her adventures, you are the reason I write.

To Donna Essner, who made many squiggly lines all over this manuscript. Thank you for your insight and sharp pencil!

To Leslie Shultz-Suhonen, who had the perfect picture for the cover!

To Chief Paul White Eagle, whose friendship I treasure.

Most of all, to the love of my life, my husband and best friend , amazing author,  and first editor, Bill Hopkins: Your love and support made this completed manuscript possible. You are my rock. I love you.

Dedication

To every writer: Keep on writing. Do it for the love, for the agony and for the joy of the stories you create. It is so worth it.

Chapter 1

Monday morning, June 3, 8:06 am

The old man clambered down from the cab even before the earthmover shuddered to a complete stop amidst a swirling dust cloud that enveloped him as he dropped to one knee. He reached for the tattered ball cap that shielded his head from the blistering sun, removed it, and clutched it in his hand. A dusty, gray braid skimmed his thin shoulders. Head bowed, he began a low chant.

What’s the problem, old man? said the observer, hurrying to the machine, kicking at clumps of red clay along the way. Why did you stop? The visitor, panting from the exertion in the already sweltering heat, used a free hand as a fan, while the other was braced against the side of the machine.

The old one shook his head, then murmured unintelligibly a few more seconds before answering. I can’t continue. See, here? He pointed a weathered finger to the freshly scraped dirt where something protruded from the ground, dull white against the red clay dirt. That’s no rock. He shook his head, chanted some more, and then continued. It’s a human skull. This ground is an ancient burial place, just as my father told me many years ago. Now, I believe him. He fixed his stare at the grim discovery.

You can’t be serious. Probably an old cow’s head the coyotes dragged over. The visitor patted the old man’s arm. Get back up there and keep on working. We’re already behind schedule.

The old man stood, shook off the unwanted touch. He slapped his hat against his thigh. Dust flew from the hat. I must tell the People. We have to stop. We can’t dig here. My father always told me—

The visitor seized the old man’s arm and interrupted him. You can’t tell anyone. The whole project would have to stop while they investigate. And maybe stop for good. Is that what you want?

What I want isn’t important. He pointed again to the white protrusion. You know what it is, too, don’t you? It isn’t a cow skull. Spittle flew from the old man’s mouth as he jerked his arm from the visitor’s grip and turned toward his truck parked twenty yards away. The visitor fell in behind the man, hurrying to keep up.

Let’s talk about this, old man. Don’t you realize what’s at stake here?

The man paused, but did not look back. I know what’s at stake. He nodded slowly. This is sacred ground and we must not violate it. Then he resumed his trek. The ground was rough, but his steps were sure.

The visitor shouted at the man’s departing back. Stop, Washington, you can’t report this. The project is too important.

The old man ignored the command and continued marching to his truck, his back to the visitor.

As he departed, the visitor bent and retrieved a heavy rock, jogged to the old man, and bashed in his skull.

Chapter 2

Monday evening June 3

Another death at Righteous Rewards? Rhetta McCarter leapt from her stool to turn up the volume on the kitchen TV as Kelly Davenport, Cape Girardeau, Missouri’s First News evening anchor detailed the grisly discovery.

Jimmy White Cloud, who found the first victim back on April 27, was shaken as he spoke to our reporter, Cole Marchand, earlier today about the newest accident. Kelly the Reporterette continued as a video feed of a burly reporter holding a microphone in front of an anorexic-looking young man replaced her image.

Rhetta grabbed the remote and turned up the volume. First there was the accidental, here Rhetta made air quotation marks, death of that bulldozer driver this past spring, when we were out at Billy Dan’s, and now, another bulldozer operator is dead. What does that mean? That they are lousy operators? How coincidental is that? Not! She tossed her head. Her spiky do didn’t move, thanks to styling gel.

Her husband, Randolph, a retired circuit judge, set a bowl of salad on the table before joining his wife in front of the screen. He ran his hands through his silver-streaked hair and edged closer to the television, joining her on the adjacent stool. 

On the screen, Jimmy White Cloud brushed aside his stringy brown hair from his narrow face. His voice trembled when he spoke. I don’t know who’s killing our people here, he said, staring into the camera But I can tell you one thing. If the law don’t find the killer, we will. He shook his head, causing his hair to tumble back across his face. Cole Marchand—who normally covered sports—blinked and stammered as he glanced between the thin man and the camera. Before he could ask a follow-up question, Jimmy White Cloud pivoted and walked away from the interview area. The microphone picked up a low chant as Jimmy strode away.

As Marchand swiped at a bead of sweat that trickled down his nose, a logo comprised of red, black, and gold triangles within a circle appeared with the words Righteous Rewards Retreat in script across it filled the screen, replacing the image of Marchand’s sweaty face. "We have a troubled community here in western Bollinger County as the news of a second accidental death in less than six weeks at the site of the proposed Righteous Rewards Retreat camp shakes the area residents, he said, as the camera then panned out revealing that Marchand was standing near a huge earth moving machine. Our requests to interview Oklahoma developer, Avery Fielding, Retreat Master and CEO of the Righteous Rewards Retreat have been turned down, he intoned, looking intensely into the camera, his brow furrowed. New sweat glistened on the tip of his nose. However, a spokesperson for Fielding Enterprises issued the following statement: ‘We are terribly saddened to hear of another death at our project site. Our sympathy and condolences go out to the families. We will cooperate fully with law enforcement in their investigation.’ After a dramatic pause, the reporter folded his note, looked back over his shoulder and turned slowly forward as the camera again zooned in for a close-up. This is Cole Marchand near the Righteous Rewards Retreat development at Grassy, Missouri, reporting for First News."

In other news, the anchor, Kelly Davenport began from back in the studio, but Rhetta pointed the remote at the TV and reduced Kelly to a silent image.

The news didn’t say how this new death occurred, Rhetta said. Only that it was a tragic accident. Was it ever determined what exactly happened to the first man? Rhetta slid down from the stool and donned oven mitts before removing a steamy bowl of pasta from the oven and carrying it to the table. Randolph set the places with plates and utensils. He reached into the refrigerator and produced a bottle of sparkling water, Rhetta’s second favorite drink next to coffee.

Randolph reached into the pantry and withdrew a new package of paper napkins. I know the night they found the man, the sheriff’s office thought he’d been murdered. Later, I read the county coroner decided he had fallen when he got down from the bulldozer and hit his head. Ruled it an accident.

Rhetta poured them each a glass of bubbly water over ice. I should call Kelly and ask her about this second death. She’s been doing I-News investigative reports on that whole compound out there. I bet she’s all over this.

Even though Randolph was no longer on the bench, he had not lost his ability to shoot those penetrating stares. Randolph blessed her now with his judge look. The one that said, Mind your own business, loud and clear.

Reading his expression, Rhetta held both hands up, palms out. "I’m not going to get involved, Randolph, if that’s what you’re thinking. Even though I’m supposed to meet with Chief Edward Silver Fox next week. I want to help with the museum he is trying to establish on tribal land. I’d like to know what’s going on out at Righteous Rewards before I offer any money to the museum project. The retreat is right next to the tribal land, according to Kelly."

Rhetta’s day job managing Missouri Community Bank Mortgage and Insurance was taking precious time away from the Caring Edge Foundation she had established with an impressive sum of money she had inherited from her father. She rose early in the mornings to work on all the necessary paperwork and was thrilled that, after months of filling out forms and applications and registrations, it was ready. Luckily, Randolph knew how to navigate all those legal waters. He took control of all of it, and all she had to do was sign where he told her to.

Now that all those headaches were over with, she was anxious to launch a project. The name Caring Edge was in recognition that some issues need a caring person to give them an edge. She hoped to help local folks, especially those with causes she felt passionately about, like the Police Auxiliary. Several police widows were struggling to make ends meet, and Rhetta wanted to help. She was thinking of establishing scholarships for the children’s college expenses.

Another was the PTSD Support group that her assistant, Woody, was heavily involved with. He volunteered regularly and reported frequently that the group needed much more medical help and guidance in overcoming the after-effects of war than what was available to them through the Veterans’ Administration.

Although Rhetta wanted to help existing organizations, she wanted to help launch something new. She’d learned of a small band of Native Americans who lived in Bollinger County who had never sought federal registration for their tribe. They abhorred all the restrictions of federal registration. Yet, because they weren’t registered, many people refused to accept they were real Native Americans. They were struggling to get enough funds to build a small museum. Their goal was to educate visitors and to preserve their history and art.

She had first met the Chief a few years ago through Randolph’s mutual friends at the gallery. Chief Silver Fox was an accomplished artist and storyteller, and was a sought-after presenter at the National Storytelling Meet that took place every year on the Mississippi riverfront, not far from Randolph’s art gallery collective.

Randolph sighed. I know you’d like the tribal museum to be your first grant recipient, but you should avoid asking about the deaths. That’s got everyone stirred up enough as it is. Plus, it’s really none of your business.

Rhetta shot him a look, but kept silent.

He continued, It has nothing to do with the tribe. You know as well as I do that unlicensed heavy machinery operators aren’t always as careful as they should be. According to Kelly’s last I-News investigative report, she said local people were working at the compound as electricians, plumbers, mechanics and the like, and few of them are certified.

Rhetta reached for a piece of garlic bread and broke it in half. She offered half to Randolph. He shook his head, so she laid it near her plate. She hoped she wouldn’t cave in and eat the other half. I suppose that’s true. Rural Bollinger County doesn’t have any building codes, so it’s very likely none of the work is being overseen. I guess it means none of the work is well supervised either. You could be right. Accidents are bound to happen if they aren’t maintaining the equipment or the operators aren’t as experienced as they should be. She munched the first piece. It tasted like more.

She picked up a forkful of pasta and pointed it at Randolph. Or. . . if someone doesn’t want them there.

Hearing a persistent scratching sound on the door from the kitchen to the deck, she spotted four feline faces lined up and staring at her through the glass. Can you feed the babies? she asked Randolph, who was already heading toward the pantry.

Way ahead of you, he said, grinning as he held up the cans of food. Four sad cat faces looked upward in unison at his motion. Pirate, Graystone, Jiggles, and Smith had their humans well trained.

The feeding ritual completed, Randolph washed his hands. Rhetta was loading the dishwasher.

I’ll be back later, Randolph said. I have a commissioned painting I want to finish up. He slid open the patio door, but paused. I can’t tell you how much I don’t want you sticking your cute little nose in that mess out there. Maybe you should put the museum on hold as a project for now. He didn’t wait for her answer. The cats, having quickly devoured their supper, trailed him as he strode toward the converted barn that served as his studio.

Rhetta grumbled as she listened to Kelly Davenport deliver the rest of the day’s newsworthy events. I just want to make sure the museum is a viable project for the foundation.

Although she was enthused, she hated to admit that Randolph may be right and that maybe now wouldn’t be a good time to move forward with the museum. I need to know how Chief Ed feels about it, she thought. It doesn’t have anything to do with the deaths. Why does Randolph think I’m going to get involved with anything at Righteous Rewards?

A little voice inside answered her. Because he knows you, that’s why. Rhetta ignored Randolph’s nagging voice echoing in her head. She hated that little voice.

The weatherman pointed to a map promising high eighties and a sunshine-filled week. Not bad for June, she thought. She looked forward to driving Cami to work tomorrow with the sunroof open. And her satellite radio blasting the Oldies. She turned off the TV and began humming Help Me, Rhonda.

Oldies music. It truly is the music that soothes my soul. Rhetta’s mind wandered back to her mom’s sweet clear voice singing along when Rhetta was little, and the two of them tooled around in her mom’s ’76 Camaro.

After losing her mother to cancer, nostalgia had sent Rhetta on a quest for a car like hers. She searched the Midwest over to locate her current ride—Cami. While not a ’76, it was close enough—a 1979 Camaro Rally Sport. Her best friend and ace mechanic, Victoria (better known as Ricky) Lane, owner and chief mechanic at Fast Lane Muscle Cars performed most of the restoration miracle, calling it a Resto Mod. Unlike her mother’s car, Cami boasted some of the newer amenities like air conditioning and a powerhouse engine. Rhetta drove it every day possible because she loved the feel and sound of the muscle car. The outstanding handling was unique to that era of second generation Camaros, which was why most of them wound up at race tracks across the nation. With the beefed-up Corvette engine powering her Cami, the energy flowed through the wheels to her hands, providing a rush unlike any other. It always reminded her of her mother, who loved to drive on single lane, curvy roads, get the Camaro deep into the curves and squeal in delight.

Rhetta smiled as she fingered her mother’s locket, which hung around her neck on a gold chain. She called moments like this her comfort flashes.

Grabbing the phone off the counter, she punched Ricky’s code into the speed dial. While waiting for Ricky to answer, she thought about her bestie’s love interest, one of Randolph’s best friends, Billy Dan Kercheval. He had recently retired from Midland Electric, the local electric cooperative. He also owned a secluded property near Grassy, about forty miles west of Cape Girardeau in Bollinger County, adjacent to the land owned by the small local Native American tribe. The tribal land happened to be next to the Righteous Rewards land currently under development by Fielding Enterprises. And, since Billy Dan picked up all the local gossip by spending every morning in town at Merc’s Diner holding office hours at the big round table, and drinking at least a gallon of coffee per day, she wanted to hear what Billy Dan knew about the deaths, in spite of Randolph’s admonition to stay out of it.

Ricky answered on the fourth ring.

Hi, girlfriend. What are you doing for lunch tomorrow? Rhetta could imagine Ricky in her ball cap and green coveralls, and probably wearing a grease mark across her cheek. Although Ricky was a licensed real estate agent, she had put her license on inactive in order to pursue her auto restoration business.

I hadn’t thought about tomorrow since I’m working my butt off to finish yesterday’s work today. What’s up? Rhetta heard Ricky swallow, probably from the thirty-two ounce bottle of Gatorade, which was a fixture on her workbench.

I have a great idea I want to run past you, and we’re overdue for lunch at Dockside. My treat, Rhetta answered. She reached down and started the dishwasher.

Great, I can already taste the hamburger. Yummy. See you at noon tomorrow?

Rhetta smiled as she disconnected.

She replaced the phone and spotted the new coffee maker Randolph had given her for her birthday. She loved that it made one cup at a time, for moments like this when she needed a quick fix. As she slid the magic cartridge into the machine, she reminded herself to call the Chief again. Her call last Friday had gone unreturned. On a good day, the cell phone service out in Grassy was horrible, so he may not have received her voice mail.

When I meet with the Chief, how am I going to bring up the killings—murders? Okay, deaths.

Chapter 3

Tuesday morning, June 4

It’s raining? It wasn’t supposed to rain, Rhetta grumbled, remembering the sunshine-filled map from the weather news last night. She twisted in the seat to feel along the floor in the back of Cami for her umbrella. No umbrella.

She’d left home under clear skies, but within fifteen minutes, thunderheads marched across the sky and rain clouds skittered in behind them. The sudden storm caught her unprepared. That’s what I get for not listening to the morning news, she mumbled as she felt around again for the umbrella. Last December she’d worn flip-flops in seventy degrees one day and three days later, she was shoveling a foot of snow off her walk. She patted the floor behind her seat, and once more, she groaned. Her quest was futile.

Before heading to the office, Rhetta had already spent two hours on the family-room-cum-office computer before noticing the time. Randolph had showered and was sitting at the kitchen counter, sipping coffee. She spotted him and detoured into the kitchen on her way. Good morning, Sweets, she said, plopping onto a stool alongside him.

He’d kissed her, then held up the coffee carafe. More coffee?

I’d love to, since I need about a gallon to get me going. Unfortunately, it’s getting late, and I have to run. She glanced at her watch again and groaned. You know, this foundation work is taking up a lot of my time. I never realized how much time and energy it takes to spend money.

So … what are you going to do about it? he asked, arching an eyebrow. Are you going to take my advice?

She sighed. I am. I’m going to turn in my notice this week.

Sure you are. Randolph peered at her over his cup. She couldn’t tell if that was a smile he was trying to hide.

I’ve made up my mind. In fact, I may do it today. That was another reason she wanted to meet with Ricky. Her plan included not just her foundation, but muscle cars, too. Ricky would be the heart of that part of it.

Randolph stood and wrapped her in his arms and kissed her again. Call me when you do. I’ll pick up some of your favorite Zinfandel from Primo Vino! We can celebrate.

If Woody will leave and come with me, I’ll definitely have something to celebrate.

She hummed as she made her way to the garage, her plan swirling in her head.

Hummingbirds chased the butterflies in her stomach. The closer she got to the office, the more she realized her foundation was a reality, especially now, with all the operating details finally coming together. Her excitement was on a tether until she knew she would have her ace assistants. She couldn’t do this