Sandy Ground: A Novel

By T. Stelma

"What are all these dead people doing in our yard?"
This is the question facing Shores Detective Frank Davis when a quiet, affluent suburb of Detroit becomes the scene of a double shooting.
He has little to work with and his only witness isn't talking.
Frank believes there is much more to it than is on the surface. His suspicions are confirmed when the body count begins to rise and he embarks on a race against time to solve the mystery of the multiple murders. His search brings him to St. Martin where he uncovers a life-changing revelation in Sandy Ground.

Sandy Ground is the third novel by Happy Bay book series author T. Stelma

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483522579

Book preview

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1

A long and tortuous road had led Benny Bennett to this moment. Fleeing the scene of his botched abduction of the fashion designer known as Solange, he had barely escaped the grasp of police as they raced to the cottage where he had held her. He could hear the sirens in the distance as he headed south, and he drove a considerable distance before heading west on dirt roads, away from New York and back towards Michigan.

Having a knife wound in his belly and only one functioning eye made the journey difficult. Benny was lucky enough to spot a veterinary business contained within a home four hours into his zigzag trek. Despite a considerable loss of blood and the accompanying pain, he rapidly overpowered the friendly, plump woman that answered the door, and after dispensing of her with a knife, he found a rifle hanging on the wall. Benny trained it on the forehead of her bereaved and hysterical husband as he frantically stitched Benny’s stomach wound shut while watching his wife bleed to death outside the examination room. The sounds of barking dogs in an adjacent room did little to drown out the man’s mournful wailings.

After forcing the vet to give him a supply of antibiotics, Benny did away with him as well. The way the man was carrying on, it almost felt like a favor when Benny silenced his cries of despondence with a well-placed shot to the head. He dragged him over to the front door so he could die with his wife, then set the living room curtains on fire with the aid of some alcohol normally used to sterilize operative instruments. He released the animals out the back door, tossed down four of the pills the vet insisted would not help him, swigged down a beer purloined from the fridge, and donned a pair of sunglasses to hide the cotton-stuffed socket that once held an eye.

Benny was used to being on the lam. He could go for weeks, even months, without detection by the authorities. Robbing mom and pop convenience stores in the middle of the night, sleeping during the day in abandoned motels, buildings, and houses, stealing a car every two or three days…it was standard operating procedure for a man who was used to being pursued by either the cops or a bookie.

But this time was different. Eventually, he discovered the vet had been right about the pills. The crazily stitched wound in his stomach was not healing. The bandages and paper towels he’d taped to his belly were saturated with bodily fluids in a disgusting array of colors on a daily basis. Benny felt increasingly weak and frequently disoriented and dizzy. Blood mixed with spittle would spray the steering wheel when he coughed while driving.

Benny was dying, and he knew it.

No one had ever gotten the best of Benny. No one. And although it was surely the last thing he would do on this Earth, he would do away with the woman that brought him to the brink of death.

Solange, also known as Sandy Bennett, the daughter-in-law he never really knew, was to die by his hand.

As the sun rose every morning and Benny found his way into a hiding spot, he would sift through page after page of information on a pay-as-you-go smart phone, trying to guess where she would turn up next. When he saw the tabloid pictures of Sandy cavorting with another man on her own honeymoon, Benny’s first thought was that the unwanted exposure would send her straight home to momma. Momma was in Arkansas. He would be dead long before reaching that destination.

There was also the guy she was caught with and her best female friend, both living in Michigan. Benny ruled out the guy, as Sandy’s new husband was probably after him for a confrontation. Unless the guy was a complete idiot, he would be keeping his distance from Sandy for a while. That left the girlfriend. Luckily for Benny, she was also famous as the wife of a record producer. Her residence was easy to find on the web. Benny was confident his instincts were spot-on as headed towards the Ratke estate in the early morning light.

Too bad I didn’t have the sense to off her before I fell asleep, he lamented as he wheeled into an empty circular driveway near the estate and left the pavement for a nearby wooded area. Rolling to a stop in the thickets, he parked the car and looked over his shoulder to see if he had been noticed. The camouflage jumpsuit he had chosen for the occasion helped conceal the blood from his wound, and it made the rifle less noticeable as he carried it towards the iron gate. Disregarding the security camera above the call box, he ripped the speaker from its bracket and let it dangle near the ground, hoping the blatant vandalism would bring someone out of the house. It no longer mattered if he was later identified as the killer. Even if he survived, Benny would get medical care, food, and a roof over his head for the rest of his life in prison. But he knew in his heart this was likely his last day on Earth.

He found a vantage point and waited, hoping he could claim the girl’s life before death claimed him. It did not take long for his prey to arrive.

2

Former private detective George Alvarado pulled into the driveway and traveled down the cobblestone drive leading to the Ratke estate. It was the third time this week he had done so. He had no idea why he kept coming back. It made no sense at all in his waking hours. But the dreams about Sandy Bennett were starting to take over his life. He simply could not think straight anymore.

Why am I so obsessed with her again? Am I losing it completely?

He sped past the front gate and found his way to the back of the estate on a dirt road fashioned to accommodate caterers, delivery personal, and the pool maintenance company. He shuddered as he passed the pool house; it was there that Mrs. Ratke had put both barrels of a shotgun to the back of his neck. He had been lucky to get out of that one alive. Now he was in danger of being arrested as a crazed stalker.

A crazed, armed stalker. George would certainly be doing time for this stunt if he were to be caught. He no longer cared about that. The world of his dreams had collided with reality, and he could no longer readily distinguish between the two. He parked near the locked back gate and set out on foot, patrolling the woods surrounding the property and looking for any sign of Sandy’s return. He had to talk to her, find out what was wrong, tell her about the dreams. The aftermath of such a meeting was irrelevant. He was beyond reason at this point.

He wanted to circle around back on foot, but Lake Saint Clair made that impossible without climbing over the iron fence. So he walked back towards Lakeshore Drive and turned towards the left, heading across the mouth of the driveway and into an adjacent wooded area. George wasn’t certain if he was still on the Ratke’s property; there was not a constructed landmark in the acreage secluding these mansions. It was there that he spotted a black sedan crudely parked in between two mammoth oaks. He quickened his pace and drew his revolver. The car did not appear to be occupied.

When he heard another car pass behind him on the driveway he whirled around. This has got to be her, his hallucinating mind told himself. He reversed direction and ambled back to the driveway.

That’s when he saw him.

Dressed in camouflage garb from head to toe, the stranger was oddly bundled in clothing for spring in Michigan. He was dropped on one knee and the high-powered rifle in his hands was pointed towards the front gate. George didn’t have time to run over, yell, or even fire a warning shot. He dropped to one knee and fired his weapon. The man’s rifle fired almost simultaneously. George wasn’t sure if it was his own shot or the kickback from the rifle that jerked the man’s firearm skyward. George had aimed at the gunman’s shoulder, but the bullet had caught him in the neck. Blood gushed from the wound in timed spurts with his increasing heartbeat as the gunman dropped to the ground like an oversized garden gnome in a windstorm.

Shit! George exclaimed, breaking into a run. He hoped he could stop the bleeding long enough to get the guy to a hospital.

That’s when he heard a third shot.

He ducked, thinking the bullet was intended for him, and finally understood the crazed nature of his nocturnal visions. He ran towards the gate instead, shouting Sandy’s name as she wavered next to her car.

Sandy had found the speaker box and numeric keyboard that insured her private entry to the Ratke estate hanging from its wiring near the ground. She reasoned the winter weather had taken its toll on the fastening brackets and had gotten out of the car to lift it to the point where she could punch in the pass code. The sound of some firecrackers had made her jump.

A little early to be celebrating the fourth, she thought, suddenly feeling unsteady. She felt a cold breeze penetrate her clothing. The speaker box fell from her hand and landed in a dusting of snow that was quickly becoming spattered with cerise droplets. Just as she looked down at the front of her rapidly saturating coat, a pain in her gut akin to being impaled with a hot sparkler engulfed her. She dropped to one knee, got up, and fell again—this time on her stomach. The right side of her face landed on half-frozen ground. Sandy wanted to get back up, but was no longer able to move. She could see someone running towards her through her fluttering left eye. Her vision was partially obscured by brown-green blades of grass, which were struggling to return to life after months of dormancy. The footsteps were becoming closer and the voice louder…it was oddly familiar to her. She shuddered as another cold breeze crossed her entire body.

Then nothing.

3

George Alvarado was running faster than he had ever run in his life. He slipped halfway through his sprint on a patch of grass, slickened by morning frost. An elm tree trunk winged him in the left shoulder as a result, but it barely slowed him. The crumpled figure of Sandy Bennett lying next to her car and the growing dark stain on the back of her jacket fueled his progress.

It must have gone clean through her, he realized as he clamped his hand on the exit wound and turned her towards him. Indeed, the front of her jacket was far bloodier than the rear. Letting out a cry of despair, George lifted her from the ground and placed her in the passenger seat of her still-running car. Her body was limp, so positioning her in a way that he could operate the vehicle and simultaneously keep pressure on the wound was going to be difficult. There was a lot of blood…too much for George to think positively over the outcome.

Don’t let her die! Please don’t let her die! he shouted to a God he never had bothered to address in the past. Sandy was unresponsive to his voice or the sudden change in direction of her car or the bouncing over the dirt and gravel path that led to and exited the Ratke estate. She looked like she was sleeping, if not for the ghastly pallor of her face. He sped down Jefferson Avenue at freeway speeds, surprised no suburban police squad car appeared in the four-mile trip to the nearest emergency room.

Figures. George briefly regretted their lack of assistance as he squealed into the long and narrow parking lot that featured an emergency entrance at its apex. He was dismayed to see a long line of cars preventing access to the entrance doors. People were exiting the vehicles at the end of the line, clutching their stomachs and pausing to vomit on the driveway. George wasn’t sure if it was this sight or the image of the normally tanned and flawless face of his passenger now looking more like a corpse that triggered his own nausea. It felt like the after-effects of a sucker punch to the belly.

He released his right hand from the bullet hole in Sandy’s stomach just long enough to throw the car into park. He pulled her from the seat and into his arms and ran again. His shoulder throbbed and his legs were cramping from exertion, but George would not be slowed by nature or physical limitations.

The double doors were still open from a staggering older gentleman wiping vomit from his mouth. He inadvertently paused, and George knocked him aside, not expecting this obstacle. He ran directly to the admitting island full of scrub-garbed workers trying to handle the sudden influx from a no longer five-star eatery’s tainted Sunday brunch special.

She’s bleeding out! he bellowed.

An orderly took notice immediately and pulled a gurney towards him so he could set Sandy down. A nurse and a resident rushed over, and the nurse reapplied pressure to the wound as they rolled her away.

Dr. Larson! O.R. two stat! boomed over the PA system as more medical personnel followed the gurney through another set of double doors. George walked over towards the doors and watched her progress, putting a hand against the wall to help him keep steady as he gasped for breath. Suddenly he remembered the third shot. There was his, which took down Benny, Benny’s, which looked to have taken out Sandy, and then the third. Who fired the third shot? Benny was likely dead as a doornail by now, but whoever fired that third shot might still be there…and if he was the one who had shot Sandy, George needed to get a glimpse of him at the very least.

So again he ran, back to her car, sliding into a seat now greased with blood. The sight and smell of it sickened him. George stayed in reverse until he had enough room to turn around, then spun the wheel and peeled back out of the parking lot and back onto Jefferson. The sight of the beautiful young woman now nearly devoid of life was eating him up inside. The image of her blue lips, without a trace of a tremble, and chalk-colored skin was turning the ache in his belly into a burn.

By the time he returned to the driveway, the burn in his stomach had turned into a ball of fire. Intending to first confirm Benny was dead, George barely made it out of the car door before the smoldering ball of lava began to ascend. He wondered how his light breakfast of two donuts and coffee could create such a monstrous internal orb. The more he thought about Sandy’s lifeless face, the worse it became.

Stop thinking about it! Get it out of your mind! he commanded himself as he clung to the open door and looked over at Benny’s corpse in the distance. George tried to summon a memory from better days; his talks with his coworker Meadow in the bar before opening, a nice day off watching her swim in her pool under the Nevada sunshine.

The thought of sunshine brought him back to the first time he saw Sandy in person. She was standing on the shore of Orient Beach, regarding the ocean like a goddess observing her hallowed kingdom. Her graceful descent into the welcoming waves, her lazy turn once in the water so the sun could praise her remarkable and completely incomparable beauty filled his eyes. He felt as if he were back in the water watching her again, but this time without the lusty ill intent that had led him to her in the first place. This time his feelings were admiring and protective…almost paternal in their origins.

The searing pain had slowed midway up his esophagus and was beginning to fade.

George was fully immersed in this scene now. He looked down to see he was indeed in the ocean, waist deep and naked as the day he was born. Silver-colored fish the size and shape of pencils darted around him. He looked away from Sandy’s effortless movements through the water to admire them. The sun cast ever-changing waffle patterns of light on the ocean floor, giving the fish a tapestry of color to weave in and out of. One by one, they would leap from the water, pausing in mid-air to regard him before diving back down to renew the swirl around his waist. He could swear they were smiling at him. He plunged his head below the water’s surface to get a better look.

If delight could be seen in the actions of fish, this was it. They swarmed around him excitedly, eventually forming a living aquatic arrow, leading him out to sea. George joined them with enthusiasm, propelling himself easily through the water, not needing to surface for air or rest from his efforts. The pain in his shoulder and stomach had vanished, replaced with a joy and sense of peace he had never felt for a single moment in his mostly eventless life.

How can I feel so good at a time like this? he asked himself as he swam out to sea at speeds once thought impossible.

For the first time in your life, you thought of someone other than yourself, an inner voice answered him.

The sun was setting now, dipping its lower crescent into the sea. It cast a thousand tiny beams of light under the surface and towards him. They all led to a buttery, golden zenith, inviting George and the shimmering silver creatures that accompanied him to seek its source.

They swam together with abandon towards the brilliant, setting sun.

4

The newly married and instantly jilted Michel Moreau was bleary-eyed with grief and lack of sleep, but his energy was being refueled by anger. He knew how to find the Ratke residence from memory, but when he departed and reached for his phone in the rental car, he discovered he had left it on the plane. He subsequently drove some sixty miles in the wrong direction down Interstate 94. When the interstate turned into a four lane highway that led him to the downtown area of a small port town, Michel stopped at a gas station to ask how much farther to the airport. The man laughed and directed him to return from whence he came, offering to sell him a map as Michel stormed out the door.

The sun was getting high in the sky as he reentered the freeway. It was a crisp, clear day where the heat of the sun cuts faintly through the chill to remind us winter may be heaving its last gasp for a while. Michel was driving south according to the onboard compass embedded in the car radio LED display. The road signs, however, told him he was heading west.

Stupid Americans! he groused aloud.

He took an exit that seemed to lead south and looked up at a multi-story structure seemingly made of nothing but panes of blue glass.

A casino-hotel.

Michel crossed three lanes at once, eliciting a chorus of horn honks from angry drivers. His front tire jumped and skidded on gravel and grass as he barely made the egress.

Michel entrusted the car to a valet and went immediately to the hotel counter. He left explicit instructions for a change of clothes, toiletries, and a pay-as-you-go smart phone with a young man who looked barely eighteen. He insured a good memory for detail with a two-hundred dollar tip and went directly to his room.

Not bothering to draw the shades open or undress, he dropped down on the bed, covering his face with a pillow to shield the trace of sunshine that escaped between the drapes.

How could I even think of doing something like that? he grieved as exhaustion forced him into a fitful sleep.

5

As they returned from a trip to Toronto and drove up to their home, Maya and Leo were horrified to see Sandy’s car parked in front of their gate with what appeared to be a man’s body on the ground next to it. Maya was out of the car before it stopped, running over to the man to check his pulse.

Leo! There’s a lot of blood here! she called out to him as he rushed to her side. He rolled the man over to check for signs of life. Leo put a thumb to the man’s carotid artery.

I don’t see any blood coming from him, he said to his wife. Maya was eyeballing the distance between the man and the blood stain on the ground near her gate’s call box.

A wave of recognition overtook her. Leo! Look at his face! It’s that private detective!

Leo peered into the lifeless man’s eyes. It sure is. He’s dead, Maya. Been dead for a while from the look of it. He’s already cold.

Where is Sandy? Maya was panicking. He’s not bleeding anywhere, but there’s blood all over his hands. Where is Sandy?

Leo stood up and looked around. Call the police. It doesn’t look like she went inside. I’ll take a look around. Don’t worry, honey. I’m sure she’s fine.

Maya fumbled with her phone and tried to hide her hysteria as Leo set out about the grounds surrounding their estate. Tell them there’s another body over here, he called back to her. And this one has a rifle.

Maya ended the call and ran to her husband’s side, more out of fear than curiosity. What are all these dead people doing in our yard? Where’s Sandy? She was losing control, beginning to shake and sob.

Maya dialed Sandy’s number, only to hear it ring in the distance from the floor of her car. She ran back over and looked inside, seeing for the first time the front passenger seat was also soaked in blood.

Oh God no! Leo!

6

The surgical team worked on Sandy for hours. She arrested twice, and her blood pressure dropped dangerously low more times than they could count. There was a tremendous loss of blood, and they had to remove a portion of her liver that had been destroyed by the bullet. But the exit was clean; it did not strike bone or any other areas that would cause collateral damage. She was in a coma by the time she was wheeled into the recovery room, but miraculously, she was alive.

It didn’t take long to identify the Jane Doe brought in by the panic-stricken man they assumed was her father. Maya instinctively called the closest hospital and learned of her presence after reporting the double-deaths on her property. She stood by as the police questioned the physician assigned to her recovery and listened to her prognosis along with the likelihood of her ability to make a witness statement in the near future.

In the doctor’s words: It’s just not going to happen anytime soon.

The police then returned their attention to Maya in an attempt to piece together what exactly had happened on their property without the benefit of a witness. Maya told them that Benny had previously plotted to kill Sandy after kidnapping her, and revenge for his wounds was the likely motive. A preliminary examination of the dead man revealed he would have died of those wounds within a day or two if he had not been shot in the neck by the now-deceased private detective.

A cursory examination of Benny’s rifle also revealed a new curiosity; it was loaded with hollow point bullets. The chief surgeon maintained such a bullet would have caused massive internal damage to Sandy’s organs, rib cage, and spine. She would have died within seconds, given the entry point.

The officers thanked Sandy’s surgeon for his time and asked Maya and Leo to visit the police station to talk to a detective, once one was assigned to the case. They were allowed a few moments in ICU with Sandy, where Leo watched solemnly as his wife held her friend’s hand and tearfully expressed her regret for not arriving home sooner. Otherwise, the room was silent, save for the noises created by monitoring devices and medicinal pumps. Sandy’s mouth was covered with a respirator, and her skin was pallid with a hint of yellow…a far cry from the way she looked a few days ago at her wedding in France.

Maya pulled a cell phone from her purse and inspected it as they left for home.

That’s not your phone, Leo observed. Is that Sandy’s? You know darn well that is evidence, and you shouldn’t have taken it!

Relax Kojak, she replied. I’ll hand it in when we go to the police station. I need to find out if she talked to Michel after those pictures of her and Jimmy hit the tabloids.

She scrolled through the sent and received calls. Nope. Nothing. The last call she made was to me.

She located a contact and hit send, holding the phone to her ear expectantly.

Are you calling someone? Leo asked.

Michel, she answered him. I want to know where he is. Lord knows he’s going to be heartbroken when he hears about this. Unless of course he already knows about it.

How in the world would he know about this? Leo was confused.

Only one way, Maya replied. She looked up at him with a grave expression before giving up on the call.

No answer.

7

Detective Frank Davis stood just outside the area where the shooter’s body had been found and tried to visualize the trajectory of a bullet from a crouched position. His men were working beyond the gate, using metal detectors and brushing the ground with gloved hands in a group effort to find the bullet that had passed through Sandy Bennett-Moreau. The bullet fired from the recently identified George Alvarado was still in the neck of Benny Bennett, and Alvarado’s pistol was found easily, halfway from victim A to victim B.

Alvarado was victim C, but by all appearances he had died of natural causes after bringing Mrs. Moreau to the hospital. He called out to his men.

Don’t widen your search yet! Keep it narrow. All the way up to the front door if you need to.

They had been at it for two hours without finding a trace of the bullet. Frank had inspected the iron gate meticulously in the event the bullet may have ricocheted after striking it. He could find no evidence to indicate that had happened. The bullet had made a clean exit. He could see no reason why it would be farther away than the fifteen foot swath he had established for search.

His cell phone chirped and he pulled it from the clip on his belt.

Davis, he said after pushing the two way communication button.

I got the couple that lives there here at the station. He recognized the voice of his office assistant Kelly as it crackled from the speaker. You’re on TV too. He pressed the button to answer her.

"How did the media get in here? We have a car at the entrance. The news trucks can’t get in and their choppers can’t see