Beneath Forbidden Ground Read online

  Swinging her around, the hulking man screamed in her face, “Get away from the car!” He pointed the gun at her head, while glancing around hurriedly to locate the others. Paralyzed by fear, the girl didn’t respond. Angered, his face twisted with rage, he threw her hard to the ground.

  Turning to face the others, all standing shivering near their vehicles, faces blanketed with fear, he waved the gun in their direction. “Step back from your cars!” He stood shaking violently for a few seconds, unsure of what to do next. Knowing he needed to move away from the view of any passers-by on the county highway, he now waved the gun toward the rear of the double-wide. “Move!” he commanded. When their terror prevented them from reacting right away, he screamed the command again, stepping toward them in a threatening manner.

  Scraping the skin on her soft hands and knees on the dirt and gravel parking lot, Tammy was able to crawl, then stand upright. She joined the others, now starting to edge in the direction the monstrous man indicated. They were beginning to share the realization of their fate, sobbing, clutching their arms close to their bodies. Huddling together, they moved as a group, sobbing helplessly, each looking desperately in all directions for any possible form of rescue. There was no one. They were all hopelessly trapped, victims of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “Please, mister. We won’t tell anybody,” Laura managed to whimper, chancing a glance back at the man.

  His answer was, “Keep moving. And shut up.”

  The man marched behind them, keeping them all in sight, bellowing from time to time for them to speed things up. Every few seconds he glanced back at the road—all clear so far. He was struck by an ominous, foreboding feeling, not due to what he was about to do, but rather the turn of events requiring him to take such drastic steps. Their own bad fortune that had brought these women here on this night made no dent in his thinking, but the inconvenience caused him by their presence did, and it left him no choice. He had fought and struggled for years to get to this point, and nothing would stand in his way of the fortune he was going to create from the ground up. It was now within reach—so close.

  Nearly an hour later, he put the finishing touches on his night-time project by smoothing-out the surface of the damp lake bottom by scraping the underside of the bucket of the front-end loader across the soil. Back and forth he went, until the results were virtually indistinguishable from the surrounding soil. The natural illumination was non-existent; the headlights of the loader provided his only guidance. Years of sweating away on construction equipment made operating the NorTrac loader, one of several belonging to the man who had caused everything by his stupidity, a simple task.

  Extinguishing the lights, he drove the loader up the gentle slope to ground level, parking it as close as he could to where it had been left for the day.

  Climbing down from the seat, he noticed the man’s pickup nearby. It was a reminder that another job still remained. He would need help for this one.

  “Carlos?”

  “Sì, Senòr.” The man on the other end of the phone was hesitant, a sign the call was not welcome.

  “Carlos, I need you to come back out to the site. There’s something we need to take care of.”

  There was a pause before the other man spoke. “But, Senòr, I am very tired. Is it important?”

  The big man exhaled an exasperated sigh. “Yes. I need you right away.”

  “Can it not wait until tomorrow?”

  “No it can’t. It must be done tonight. I’ll expect you here in half an hour.”

  “Sì. Senòr,” Carlos answered, his voice filled with humiliation and defeat.

  The man slammed the phone down on the desk in the trailer. He fully expected the Mexican laborer to follow orders. The constant threat of alerting the immigration authorities always ensured the man’s cooperation, just as it would when told later in the night to never mention to anyone the nature of their activity. He scratched a sudden itch on the top of his head. His cap? Where had he left it? He couldn’t recall taking it off. Deciding it didn’t matter, he concentrated on the task in front of him. Returning to the makeshift office, he waited impatiently for the other man to arrive. It would be a long night, but one entirely necessary.

  2

  Spring, 2001

  The Forbidden City, the walled-in fortress occupying the center of Beijing City, China—actually a splendid palace, is recognized as one of the five most important of its type in the world. Together with the Palace of Versailles, Buckingham Palace, the White House, and the Kremlin, it represents the magnificent combination of opulence and power. Construction of the incomparable compound, encompassing nearly 180 acres, began in 1406 during the Ming Dynasty, and was completed fourteen years later. The “Forbidden” half of the name was accurate for more than five centuries, since during that period the palace was for use exclusively by the Imperial family and those needed as a support group. Not until 1949 was the Forbidden City opened to the public as a national museum. Now, all can enter through the gates cut into the high red wall surrounding the palace to examine what was hidden from public view for 500 years.

  Pete Scallion pictured himself a giant, his six-feet-two frame hovering over the hallways and interior buildings of the historic compound, joined on a tour by others, all leaning and stooping to get a close view of the mysterious passageways. The tour was of the Forbidden Gardens, an exact replica of the real thing on the opposite side of the world. This smaller version, modeled on a roughly one-to-twenty scale, was constructed to be accurate to the tiniest detail, although he had to accept that at face value, having never been anywhere near the real thing.

  This amazing display occupied forty acres on the outskirts of Katy, Texas, a rapidly growing community some twenty miles west of Houston. The Gardens was an ambitious, enterprising brainchild of a man of obvious Asian descent, wanting to bring a touch of his ancestry’s culture to the Lone Star state. In addition to the miniature palace, there also existed a model of a tomb constructed over 2000 years earlier by Emperor Qin, the brutal ruler considered to be the father of China, who took the throne in the third century B. C.

  Scallion, a former Harris County homicide detective, now assigned to the Cold Case Department, hadn’t actually journeyed to the far reaches of the county to get an ancient history lesson, but instead to interview someone about a case that had been dropped in his lap. Deciding to spend a few bucks and take the tour, he was surprised to find he was rather enjoying the diversion. Museums and exhibitions had never excited him, but the magnitude and detail of the layout was too impressive to ignore.

  The man he had come to talk to was the tour guide, a thin, wiry-haired man with Ben Franklin-style glasses, who evidently enjoyed his work.

  “Twenty-four emperors exercised their power from within the walls of the Forbidden City,” the man was explaining to the small group whose attention he held. “Throughout the Ming Dynasty and the Qing Dynasty, which ended in 1911, the emperors ruled from the throne with absolute control.” He paused to let that fact sink in, then continued. “As I said before we got started, the palace occupies an area of 720,000 square meters, which for you ranchers among us, is about 180 acres.” He stopped again, evidently expecting a few laughs. Receiving only a murmur or two, he pressed on.

  Scallion’s mind wandered off on its own, tuning out the man’s statistics. He was willing to let the visuals speak for themselves. Plus, his mind was drifting to other concerns a little closer to home. Even homicide detectives have personal problems, some that can never be completely removed from their thoughts.

  He had come alone to the western edge of Harris County. His new partner – new only to the extent of their time spent together—Denny Murtaugh, having begged-off due to a dental appointment. It was just as well; this assignment could easily be handled by one person. Murtaugh was okay, as partners go, but he was just so different from his sarcastic, irreverent former sidekick, Wendell Ross. Leaving behind the homicide department of the Harris County
Sheriff’s office six months earlier also meant parting company with Ross. Thinking of the younger detective brought a wry smile to Scallions face, picturing his current situation, laying flat-out on his stomach in a hospital bed in the mammoth medical center southwest of downtown Houston, the victim of his own new partner’s wayward gunshot flush into his rear end. His plan was to drop by for a visit to check up on his old partner later, using the golden opportunity to pay him back for years of insults.

  “You can see there are four entry gates on each side of the palace,” the guide was saying, pointing with a long wooden pointer. “The four corners are each guarded by a splendidly designed watchtower, and the main gate is the larger one there.” He pointed again to the front of the model fortress. “You will also notice the spectacular halls within the compound are carefully arranged along a central axis, conforming to the axis of Beijing City itself.”

  The problem with Murtaugh, from Pete’s view, was although his mind was still sharp enough, he seemed to have lost most of his enthusiasm for the job. Six years Scallion’s senior, he had hinted at hanging it up for good within a year or so. Thirty-five years on the force had taken its toll.

  All in all though, Scallion was enjoying his new duties. Cold Case offered precisely what he, and especially his wife, wanted: a lower stress level, and reduced potential for danger. Cases which were separated due to time from the actual crime allowed a cooling-off of emotions and any initial hysteria. They could be re-opened quietly, without the constant clamor and criticism by the media and victims’ families. A few of the cases he had picked up were familiar to him; some he had worked while in homicide, but most he had either heard or read about.

  The tour-leader rambled on, motioning for the followers to move to the nearby tomb. “The actual tomb built by Emperor Qin wasn’t discovered until 1974, when farmers digging a well unearthed it accidentally. You can imagine their shock and wonder at what they had stumbled onto. Historians believe Qin had it constructed to protect him during death, which explains the terra-cotta soldiers lined in perfect formation. You can see them reproduced here, at one-third scale, just as the Emperor had them arranged.”

  He let the group take it in for a moment, then continued. “Over eight thousand warriors have been unearthed so far, along with hundreds of terra-cotta horses and chariots. Undoubtedly, one of the most exciting archeological finds of the twentieth century. Just imagine. They have been dated back to 210 B. C. That’s over two thousand years, folks.”

  Only half listening, Scallion wiped perspiration from his nearly bald head. Mid-March, but the humidity of southeast Texas was already present, making things uncomfortable. Loosening his tie and rolling up his sleeves, he continued to review in his mind the recent changes in his life as the man droned on.

  He had accepted his new role soon after wrapping up the most satisfying case of his career. It had been put to bed after a wild nighttime shoot-out on the streets of downtown Houston, when a corrupt politician who Scallion was convinced had committed murder two decades earlier, and again the year before, was gunned-down in a case of mistaken identity. Confusion over the roles the various parties involved in the gun battle played left the general public in the dark about what had actually happened. The only thing that mattered to homicide detective Pete Scallion was knowing the ambitious lieutenant governor responsible for two deaths was silenced forever. And the trio of people whose opinion meant the most to him: his ever-supportive wife, Marti; his former partner; and the Harris County Sheriff, knew the truth, labeling him as a hero of sorts.

  “In closing,” the guide was saying, “let me thank you all for visiting the Forbidden Gardens today. If there are no more questions, don’t forget to stop by our gift shop to pick up mementos of your experiences here.”

  Scallion waited until most of the tourists had drifted away, then positioned himself behind the guide, who stood patiently answering a straggler’s questions. Seeing an opening, he introduced himself. “Mr. Truluck? Detective Pete Scallion.” He pulled his badge from a pants pocket, where he had concealed it to avoid curious eyes.

  “Ah, yes. Detective Scallion. I didn’t know if you’d be here today or not.”

  The trim little man displayed a satisfied grin, apparently pleased his call had not gone unheeded. Wearing a light-blue polo shirt, showing a Forbidden Gardens insignia over a pocket, and khakis, his fair skin showed none of the filmy perspiration covering Pete’s face and arms. He pumped the detective’s hand vigorously.

  “Thought I’d take in the exhibits first. Very impressive.” Scallion’s gaze scanned the model of the Forbidden City once more, then looked back at Truluck, standing several inches shorter than himself.

  “Yes. I certainly think so.” Truluck glanced at his watch. “I believe that was my last group today. Why don’t we find somewhere in the visitors’ center so we can have a seat and talk?”

  While they walked, Scallion eyed the other man closely as he gathered information from him. Experience and intuition had taught him through the years a lot could be learned about an informant’s validity just by observing mannerisms. The call the tour guide had placed hadn’t mentioned what his news consisted of, so judgement would be reserved until it was offered.

  “How long’ve you been out here, Mr. Truluck?” Scallion asked.

  “Oh, almost since the beginning. And please call me James. You see, I retired from teaching history and social studies at Katy High a couple of years ago. Got a little bored, and this seemed a natural for me.”

  “Well, I agree, it does appear to suit you. You seem to enjoy it.”

  “Yes I do. A great deal.” The guide beamed a satisfied smile.

  So far, James Truluck seemed lucid, and more importantly, credible.

  Reaching the visitors’ center near the parking lot, Truluck led them into a small room tucked away in a corner of the building. The room contained a small conference table and a few chairs. They sat across from each other.

  Leaning his elbows on the table, Scallion started the interview. “Mr. Truluck... I’m sorry, James, you said you have information on the Freddy Becker case?”

  Truluck’s face lit up. “Oh, it’s better than information. I have evidence, or at least I’m pretty sure I do.”

  Scallion tilted his head back slightly. “And what might that be?”

  Now Truluck leaned in, adjusting his glasses. “Well, let me start at the beginning, if you don’t mind.”

  “The beginning? You mean when the murder happened?”

  “Yes. You’ll understand in a second.”

  Seeing the man wanted to tell his story, Scallion nodded. “Okay. Shoot.”

  Truluck shifted excitedly in his chair, ready to take the detective on another tour, this one through more recent time. “As I recall, the killing took place in 1994. I remember hearing about it, but didn’t pay much attention to it at the time, just knew it occurred at a bar over in Hockley. They called it ... something...I can’t recall what now.”

  Scallion nodded, agreeing with what he’d heard so far. He hadn’t worked the case when it first was opened, but had recently become educated on the file. It wasn’t a high profile case, given the lifestyle of the victim. But the media liked to put names on murders, so it became known as, “The icehouse murder,” he reminded the other man.

  “Right. That’s it. Well, a couple of times over the past few years, there have been stories covering it on TV, one of ‘em on that cable channel that shows cold cases around the country. The other was on one of the stations in Houston—don’t recall which one.” Truluck paused for a second, cocking his head to one side. “You know, there seem to be a lot of cases involving Houston on those shows.”

  Scallion was all too aware. “Tell me about it,” he wanted to say, but thought better of it. He simply nodded his agreement.

  “Anyway, each time it’s shown, one thing that keeps coming up is that people inside the bar reported hearing a harmonica being played outside, you know, in the vicinity of where
the stabbing took place.”

  “Yes, there are references to that.”

  “Right. Well, they went on to say that the harmonica sounds stopped, or at least they didn’t recall hearing them anymore. When they went outside later, they found poor Mr. Becker with his throat cut, but there was no one else around, harmonica-playing or otherwise.”

  It all rang true, based on what he’d read in the file. There had been a couple of suspects, one of whom was known to carry a mouth organ. But he hadn’t been seen by any witnesses at the scene that night, only possibly heard through his plaintive music notes. According to one of the club regulars, the man owed Becker money, and he expected the man to show up that night to pay up. This same suspect had a history of violence. He was currently residing in an Oklahoma City jail cell, awaiting trial on another knifing—this one not fatal. All of this, of course, he couldn’t relate to Truluck. “That all sounds about right,” Scallion admitted. “And this evidence you mentioned?”

  Truluck suddenly pushed back from the table and rose from his chair. “Be right back, detective. Won’t take but a minute.”

  Scallion waited impatiently as the little man hurried out the door, only to return quickly as promised. He was carrying a plastic bag, the type with a zipper to make it airtight. A wad of rolled-up paper could be seen inside, evidently wrapped around something.

  Truluck un-zipped the bag, gently pulling out the paper, which proved to be a paper towel. Taking equal care to straighten out the crumpled paper, he exposed the mysterious contents—a dirty harmonica, covered by what appeared to be soot.

  The detective leaned in for a closer look, intrigued, but not letting himself become too excited, realizing it could’ve come from anywhere. “I see,” he said, letting his eyes roll up to the beaming man. “Mind telling me where you found this?”