Hallowed Ground by Lori G. Armstrong

for hours.

    I smoked, one right after another. My brain was determined to torture me by re-living the shooting, in super slow-mo.

    Last spring, Kevin and I had been used for target practice. Fortunately for us, the man responsible had only been trying to scare us. Didn’t seem to be the case this time.

    More than an hour later, the sheriff plopped down beside me. The poor bench groaned. He’s a big man—6’8”, 300 odd pounds—who looks like an escapee from WWE “Smackdown!” His girth blocked the fading sunlight, throwing me in shadow. I shivered.

    “You up to making a statement now?”

    I nodded.

    “You knew the victim?”

    “Yes.”

    “How?”

    “He’s connected to a case I’m working on.” Most people over-explained things when interviewed by law enforcement. I knew better. I smoked and waited for the inevitable question.

    “How long had you been at this location before the shots were fired?”

    “Thirty minutes, give or take.”

    “Did the victim,” he flipped through his notebook, “this Donovan Black Dog, have a gun?”

    “Not that I know of.”

    “You have a gun with you?”

    I exhaled before I faced him. “Why? You gonna dust me for gunpowder residue? You think I shot him and then tried to save his ass in an effort to cover my own?”

    “Knock off the indignant act, Collins. You know procedure. Just answer the question.”

    “No. My gun is at the office.” I turned away, mentally kicking myself for forgetting it, or for believing I wouldn’t need it, but mostly for giving into Kell’s paranoia.

    The reason the handgun wasn’t in my possession was because Kell had asked me to leave it at the office. Said it freaked him out to have a weapon around.

    Normally, I couldn’t have given a shit what he wanted, but lately I’d begun to wonder if my belligerent stance was a roadblock to a decent relationship, not the quirky, charming enhancement I’d imagined.

    Right now, I’d rather have the damn gun.

    Sheriff Richards sighed. “I don’t suppose you’re gonna tell me what this case is about?”

    “I can’t.”

    “Then maybe you’ll tell me what the hell you’re doing up at Bear Butte, when I know you avoid this place like Sunday dinner at your father’s house.”

    Took him longer to get to the point than I’d predicted. Damn, I’d forgotten how dead-on his instincts were. Scared me how much better he’d known me than he’d ever let on.

    “Trust me, Sheriff. This place was not my first choice.”

    “Is this case connected to your brother’s?”

    I snuffed my smoke on the concrete slab. “No. Just a coincidence Donovan’s Native.” I stared him in the eye. “Sheriff, we both know it’s a pipe dream any new information will turn up on Ben’s murder. Donovan was too paranoid to talk to me where he works. He suggested here, since it was close by. I stupidly agreed.”

    What had possessed me to say yes? Now I had another event surrounding Bear Butte to add to my nightmares.

    “This wasn’t a predetermined meeting place?”

    I shook my head.

    His eyes narrowed. “Nobody knew you two were coming here?”

    “Someone might have followed us, but I wouldn’t have noticed a presidential motorcade through that much dust.”

    “Donovan work around here then?”

    He’d find out sooner or later. I’d earn cooperation points if that information came from me. “Sort of. He’s the foreman for Brush Creek Construction. They’re general contractors on the Bear Butte Casino.” I pointed to the parking lot across the road where the white Dodge had been blocked in by emergency vehicles. My ugly-ass Ford sat alone, like it’d developed chronic wasting disease.

    “Great,” he muttered.

    “What?”

    “Don’t pretend you don’t remember what a pain in the ass it is to deal with the Feds.”

    “Why drag them into this? This section of Bear Butte isn’t their jurisdiction.”

    His look read: Like that matters.

    “Any sign of the shooter?”