Beneath Forbidden Ground

  Beneath

  Forbidden

  Ground

  Doug McCall

  Black Rose Writing

  www.blackrosewriting.com

  © 2011 by Doug McCall

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.

  First printing

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-61296-002-9

  PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING

  www.blackrosewriting.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  Beneath Forbidden Ground is printed in Times New Roman

  Author's Notes

  The Forbidden Gardens does exist, just outside the town of Katy, Texas. At the time of publication of this story, it remains open from Fridays through Sundays, assuming agreeable weather conditions, given the fact it is primarily an outdoor attraction.

  The I-45 murders, unfortunately, also occurred, as anyone living in the vicinity of Houston during those tragic years can attest. Other than these two exceptions, this is a work of fiction, based on no particular events or characters. For an I-45 murder non-fiction read, please consider another Black Rose title, The Sheriff's Son by Wayne Skarka and “Butch” Campsey.

  I would like to express my appreciation to Sandra Goff, for the exceptional depiction of the tone of my story, illustrated by her cover design. In addition, my thanks to Reagan Rothe and Black Rose Writing for shepherding the publication of my story from start to finish.

  Beneath Forbidden Ground

  1

  Spring – 1991

  The sun was reduced to a glint, diffused through the gathering grey clouds of the somber February afternoon. In spite of the gloom, there was only a slight chance of rain—finally. Or so the weather drones had promised. She hated rain, so hopefully they were accurate for a change. The elements had a profound effect on her mood, matching the conditions surrounding her. Crappy weather brought on a crappy disposition, sometimes bordering on depression. Sunny skies buoyed her attitude, which she used to brighten the day for all who came in contact with her. She had no control over these drastic shifts —it was simply the way she was.

  Betty Lynn Thomas eased her 1988 Toyota Corolla to a stop at yet another intersection, squinting to read once again the instructions she had scratched on a piece of paper the day before, instructions given her by the lady at the meeting, also the day before. Her confusion existed due to the fact her destination had no street number. Matter of fact, it wasn’t really a street she was seeking, but one of the flat, narrow country roadways that seemed to lead to nowhere in western Harris County, Texas. It was all nondescript, scraggly farmland, soon to be former farmland. Only a few head of cattle roamed here and there, having what remained of the brown grass all to themselves, a lazy, meandering smorgasborg.

  The territory Betty Lynn found herself in was near the edge of the county, butting-up against Waller County. For all she knew she could be in the neighboring county, since it all looked the same to her. She had been driving for over thirty minutes, now so far out she was well beyond the last of the housing developments, sprouting up westerly from the city of Houston, as if dropped in place over-night. The growth in this direction was frenetic—nonstop.

  Without street numbers, her only guide was a count of the turns she had made after exiting Highway 290, the expressway leading northwest from the city, along with mileage measurements between turns. Taking a reading of the odometer, she made what she hoped would be the last turn, then began watching the odometer turn over until she had progressed six tenths of a mile. Just after 5:00 p m; she knew dusk was no more than an hour away, all the more reason to get an accurate reading. However long this particular meeting would last, she was already dreading the long drive back into town surrounded by the darkness of night.

  There was a queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach when finally spotting the double-wide trailer she sought, a reaction she felt was due to how important this trip was to her, rather than the remote location. The lady who had sent her on this assignment assured her the job was hers, it was a done deal. But Betty Lynn had been burned before on “sure things”. The fact that she had met the others who would be here did lift her spirits some, but not enough to keep the dampness from her armpits. She couldn’t recall the names of the other girls—not that it mattered.

  No one in her small circle of friends and family knew about this appointment, least of all her mother in Conroe. No sense in disappointing her with premature news until the job was definitely hers. There had been let-downs before, and she didn’t want it to happen again. Ejecting the Reba McEntyre cassette from the slot, she turned into the dirt and gravel driveway leading back to the trailer. The rumbling in her stomach grew stronger. She tried to quiet the feeling, telling herself it would all be over within the hour—one way or the other.

  The double-wide, appearing to be a makeshift office of sorts, sat back from the county road a hundred feet or so, surrounded by a few pieces of earth-moving equipment and stacked drainage pipe, evidently waiting to be installed. A large billboard, propped-up by two-by-fours serving as bracing, stood roughly halfway between the road and the trailer, clearly within sight of the road. It read:

  COMING SOON: CYPRESS BRIDGE ACRES

  DESTINED TO BE THE PREMIER ADDRESS IN HARRIS COUNTY

  CHOOSE YOUR PRIME LOT EARLY

  Pulling to a stop near the front of the office, she saw three other vehicles similar to hers: a Chevrolet Camarro; an ancient Nissan Sentra that seemed to be hanging by a thread; and a Honda Civic, appearing to be the newest of the four small cars. The only other vehicle was an enormous Ford F150 extended cab pickup, spattered with mud, parked at the far end of the trailer.

  Before exiting the Corolla, she fluffed up her blond curls, then ran a finger around her lips while peering into the rearview mirror. “Well, here goes nuthin,” she muttered to herself. Stepping from the car, she tugged on her beige knee-length skirt, then walked on unsteady legs up the wooden steps to the door.

  Inside, she was glad to see the other three girls from the day before, all welcoming her with silent smiles of recognition. Two sat on a vinyl sofa across from the entry door, and the third occupied a metal office chair well away from the other two, her dark legs crossed. A wooden desk sat at one end of the room. Behind it, and off to one side, was a hallway, leading most likely to another room or two, one probably a restroom. The lingering stench of tobacco hung in the room, leaving Betty Lynn with the strong impression that if she visited the restroom she would find discarded butts swimming in the toilet bowl.

  Since no one spoke right away, Betty Lynn decided to break the ice. Shyness was not one of her traits.

  “Hi. Didn’t get your names yesterday. I’m Betty Lynn Thomas.” Seeing the sofa held no more room, she found a folding chair leaning against the wall inside the door, opened it, then took her seat near the dark-skinned girl while the earlier arrivals responded.

  One of the women on the sofa, an auburn-haired beauty wearing all navy blue replied, “I’m Laura—Laura French.” Exposing her last name seemed to be an afterthought. She added a warm smile. Possessing a fresh look, she was the All-American girl-next-door.

  When the girl next to her didn’t ring-in right away, the one in the chair did. “Freda Juarez,” she said, speaking very clearly, an obvious attempt to hide the fact
her English was okay, but not perfect.

  Betty Lynn sized her up. Her bronzed skin was flawless, contrasting nicely with a light-colored blouse and denim skirt. She was Hispanic, but her country of origin could only be a guess. Every Central American country, plus some from South America, were well represented in south Texas, particularly in the Houston area. She appeared nervous, as if she didn’t feel she belonged here; perhaps the reason the three sat so far apart. But similar to the first girl, she was gorgeous.

  The three looked at the remaining entrant, who appeared to be the only one showing a hint of attitude. She finally identified herself, with only a faint smile and a shake of her head. “Tammy Crews.” It was a pronouncement, as if the name alone should mean something to the others.

  Betty Lynn pegged her right away as a silver-spoon type, old Houston money. Maybe an oil man’s daughter, or granddaughter. Her pageboy blond do and designer clothes, along with her air of superiority made Betty Lynn wonder why the girl had bothered to show up along with riff-raff such as herself. She was also struck by the general appearance of the women assembled, herself included. She was vain enough to know she was better looking than average, and these other three were all knockouts; entries in this bizarre, informal beauty pageant.

  “So,” she said, “anybody got any idea exactly what we’re doing here? I wasn’t told much yesterday.”

  Auburn-haired Laura answered, “We’re going to be salesmen—or rather, salespeople. I was the first to show up, and the man in charge was here then, before the rest of you got here.” She paused to gaze at the others. “He said we were going to be selling lots for homes here. We’ll be paid a small salary at first, then go on commissions when things start to take off.”

  “How long will the job last?” Freda asked hopefully.

  “Well, he said he has plans to sell around 500 parcels, as he calls them. So it could last for awhile. Maybe a few years.”

  The Hispanic girl nodded. The answer seemed to encourage her.

  “Don’t we need real estate licenses for that?” Tammy Crews asked, a pouty frown showing.

  “He said he’d take care of all that,” Laura answered.

  The room was quiet for a second, then Betty Lynn glanced toward the hallway. She could make out no sounds of any one else in the trailer. The distinct smell of nicotine seemed to adhere to each piece of furniture. “Where is he now?” she asked.

  “He had to go out back, behind the office. Said he needed to straighten something out with somebody. Shouldn’t be too long, he said.” Laura looked at her thin watch, dangling loosely from her wrist. “But he’s been out there almost twenty minutes now.” Her voice sounded doubtful, but not necessarily worried.

  “And what’s this man’s name?” Tammy asked, starting to appear bored by the whole thing.

  “You know,” Laura replied, a frown indicating annoyance at the other girl’s arrogance, “he told me his name, but I didn’t catch it. Too nervous, I guess.”

  Betty Lynn was getting antsy too. She pushed herself from her chair, then approached a window facing behind the trailer. She pulled a draw string to raise the cheap plastic blinds covering the glass panes. Peering through the fading daylight, her eyes took a minute to develop the scene outside. Two figures gradually came into focus—a relatively large man standing near a smaller man, both with hands on hips. They seemed to be teetering on the edge of a pit of sorts, taking turns looking into the distance. Taking a closer look, she could now recognize what appeared to be a large, dredged-out area, perhaps a lake, a feature of the coming development. Many upscale neighborhoods had similar drawing cards to serve as an enticement.

  The men stood roughly fifty yards behind the office; the grey conditions shrouded their appearance from her view. But her sharp eyes could tell whatever conversation they were having was becoming more animated. The larger man made a gesture with an arm, making a sweeping motion across the scene. The other responded with his own arm, pointing at something. She began to grow disheartened, knowing that the apparent argument outside would delay her return trip into the city even more. She looked back inside. “Did the man say when we’d start?” she asked, looking at Laura French.

  “Not really. But I got the impression he was anxious to get started.”

  The four women looked at each other, evidently all busy making individual decisions whether it was worth hanging around for what may or may not happen. For her part, Betty Lynn felt if any of the others bailed, there might be more work, and more money involved, for the ones remaining.

  Tammy Crews interrupted her thoughts, the diva rising from the sofa. “Well, the heck with all this! I’m leaving. I didn’t need this lousy job anyway. I’m just glad I didn’t tell anyone I was coming on this wild goose chase.” She grabbed her Gucci purse from the sofa seat and started for the door.

  Suppressing a satisfied grin, Betty Lynn peered once more through the window, hoping to see the meeting breaking up. Instead, what she saw made her eyes widen, then close to a squint as her mouth fell open. “Oh my God!” she gasped.

  Tammy Crews came to a stop, then joined the others at the window to see what had caused such a reaction.

  “I ain’t diggin’ another inch ‘til you pay me what I’m owed,” the smaller of the two men said defiantly. He was determined not to back down from the big jerk, but kept an eye trained closely on him none-the-less. The man had a reputation.

  The other man yanked the cigarette from his mouth, tossing it in the carved out lake bottom. “What I owe you?! You owe me another acre of excavation!” He glared down at the earth-moving contractor with rage increasing by the second. “This lake is supposed to be four acres, and you know that. It’s gonna be the centerpiece of my property. You were aware of the size of the job before you started.”

  “But it’s Friday. I’ve gotta pay my guys for what they done so far. They won’t show up Monday if I don’t. That’s the deal you and I had. You pay by the week.” The contractor rubbed his hands nervously on his dirty khaki jumpsuit, looking for confidence to stand his ground.

  The big man surveyed the construction site. “Where the hell are your men anyway?” he asked.

  “They’ve done left for the day. When I told them you ain’t come forward with any money, they took off, pissed. Promised ‘em I’d come find ‘em this weekend, after I collect from you.” He exchanged glares with the other man for a few seconds. “I need what you owe me or we won’t be back Monday.” It sounded like more of a threat than he had intended, but realized his mistake too late.

  The large man’s eyes turned wide with rage. He moved closer to the dirt mover, who was trying to retreat by backing up. “Don’t you threaten me, you friggin’ sawed-off redneck!” He shoved the man with all his might, knocking him down the pitch of the edge of the lake. Most times he would’ve stopped at that point, but this was not one of those times. The man’s insults had pushed him over the cliff.

  As the prone man propped himself up on his elbows, he fought desperately to crawl to safety on his back, but found traction hard to find on the damp surface. Looking up in horror, he saw the developer grab a shovel lying nearby. Doubting his own eyes, but unable to look away, he saw the metal part of the square point shovel swooping down toward him, striking his skull with a sickening thud. Stunned, he fell back, hanging on to the edge of consciousness.

  The attacker didn’t let up, flailing away at the moaning, squirming victim with furious blows. On the final thrust, the metal scoop of the shovel turned on its side as it struck the man’s head, cutting deep into his skull. The helpless man’s body shook with a mighty shiver, then grew still.

  Instantly, the man wielding the expedient weapon knew the man was dead, staring down in shock at the lifeless form. Dropping the shovel, he backed away, still shaking with fury, letting the reality of what he had done sink in. Often warned his temper would land him in trouble at some point, he knew that time had finally come—he had gone too far. Too late to worry about that now. Instinct told h
im to scan the area for witnesses. His eyes settled on the light beaming from a window in the trailer. He saw a woman’s eyes staring straight at him—then a second set—now a third.

  “Shit!” he exclaimed, beginning a mad dash toward the trailer. His mind raced quickly as he ran; maybe he could convince them it had been an accident, or possibly self-defense. But his actions had likely been seen—that wouldn’t work.

  His panicked mind conjured up another solution, the only one that would work.

  Betty Lynn was too shocked to move at first, as the others made a rush toward the door, all ignoring the phone on the wooden desk. Still gaping through the window, she saw the man approaching. She managed to put her feet in motion, following the others. Freda was shouting unintelligible words in Spanish, while Laura and Tammy screamed and cried all at once.

  Tammy was the first out the door, stumbling on the front steps in the gathering darkness. Falling to her knees, she became an obstacle for the ones behind. Losing valuable time, they fought their way around her, then began to scramble for their vehicles. Reaching her feet, Tammy made a desperate grab for her cell phone in her purse. Attempting to dial as she ran, her fear made it impossible to operate the bulky device. Throwing the phone to the ground in a panic, she concentrated on hurrying toward her Honda Civic.

  The man reached his truck in front of the trailer, reaching quickly inside for his colt revolver he kept hidden under his seat. Leaving the door ajar, he needed only a few long strides to reach the nearest car – the Civic.

  Tammy struggled to hit the right button on her keyless entry, her hands shaking in terror. Hearing the release engage, she put a hand on the door handle. Before she could pull on the handle, a large hand appeared from behind, clutching her wrist in a vice-like grasp.