9

Amazing how heavy your boots get when they’re caked with mud.” Harry lifted up a foot, displaying the red clay embedded in the sole.

Fair lifted up his right foot, his work boot covered with wet red clay, too. “Could be worse.”

“Like what?”

“Oil sludge. Then we’d slip across the field.” He pushed his baseball cap down over his eyes, for the sun was fierce. “Your black-seed sunflowers are about ready.”

“Grey Stripe, too.” Harry, hands on hips, surveyed the seven-foot giants, their massive golden heads pointed straight up to the sun. “You know,” she grabbed his hand, “I love this. I wish I’d quit work at the post office years ago.” She paused. “Course, I don’t know if I’m going to make a dime, but I truly love it.”

“Well, you know you won’t make any money on the grapes. You have to let the fruit hang until it falls off this first year.”

“I know. Seems so wasteful, but if Patricia Kluge tells me what to do with my Petit Manseng, I’d better do it. The foxes will be happy.”

“Yes, they will. They’ll start eating the grapes even before they fall.”

“The one that makes me laugh is Simon.” Harry mentioned the opossum who lived in the hayloft along with Matilda, the blacksnake, and Flatface, the owl. “He’s got a sweet tooth.”

Matilda—no sweet tooth there—was actually on her hunting range. The large circle that she made around the barn and the house took up spring and summer. She’d return to her place in the hayloft in another three weeks. Right now she was hanging from a limb in the huge walnut tree in front of the house. It pleased her to frighten the humans and the animals when they finally caught sight of her. Nor was she above dropping onto someone’s shoulders, which always provoked a big scream. Then she’d shoot off.

Harry and Fair walked over to the pendulous, glistening grapes. Although the vines would produce better with each year, Harry was delighted with what her first year had brought.

Fair draped his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Abundance.”

“Lifts the heart. I was worried that yesterday’s hard rain would just pepper these guys right off the vine.”

“Tougher than you thought.”

They turned for the barn. The four mares and foals lazed in their pasture. The three hunt horses and Shortro, a gray three-year-old saddlebred, munched away, pointedly ignoring the youngsters born in March. Every now and then, a little head would reach over the fence to stare at one of the “big boys.”

Tomahawk, the most senior of the hunters, looked back at the bright chestnut filly begging him to play with her along the fence line.

“Worm,” he said, returning to the serious business of eating.

“Momma, do you know what he called me?” The little girl romped back to her mother, a patient soul.

“Oh, he gets all grand and airy. Pay him no mind.” She touched noses with her child.

Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker, who were walking ahead of the humans, heard the exchange.

Pewter called out, “He’s a meanie.”

“Shut up, fatso.” Tomahawk raised his head.

“When’s the last time you got on the scale?” Pewter noticed a big belly.

“Pewter, leave him alone,” Mrs. Murphy counseled. “If you irritate him he’ll start picking the locks on the gates. That’s the only horse I’ve ever known who can actually open a kiwi lock.”

A kiwi lock, shaped like a comma, slipped into a round ring secured on the post. A smaller ring then flipped up on the comma to securely hold it in place and to prevent horses from opening the lock, something for which the species evidenced a marked talent. Tomahawk would work the kiwi with his lips. Granted, it took him at least an hour—his determination remarkable—but he would finally release the little ring, then pluck the kiwi out of the big ring and push the gate open with his nose. Off he’d go, tail straight out, to rush around the pastures. After doing this enough times to become both tired and bored, he’d walk into the barn, go to his stall, flop down on his side, and sleep, complete with musical snoring.

It infuriated the other horses that they couldn’t pick the locks.

Just as Harry and Fair reached the barn, Coop drove up in an old beat-up pickup truck she’d bought so she could haul stuff. A deputy’s slender salary prevented her from purchasing a new truck, much as she lusted after one.

“Hey,” Harry greeted her.

“Didn’t get you on the phone, so I thought I’d come over.”

“Need a hand with anything?” Fair asked.

“No. I wanted to tell you we’ve heard from Will Wylde’s killer.” She paused, while the other two held their breath for a moment without realizing they were doing so. “No name. No anything except he—I assume it’s a he—says he has the list of all Will’s patients over the years and he is going to do to them what they did to the unborn.”

“What?”

“Dropped off an envelope sealed with Scotch tape—obviously he’s smart enough not to lick the envelope. Dropped it in Rick’s mailbox at his house. Smart there, too. Too big a risk to leave it at the station, even in the middle of the night.”

“Good God.” Fair was aghast.

“He could be bluffing.”

“Harry, he could, but I keep coming back to someone on the inside. It’s not that hard for a nurse or office manager to steal files. Everything is on a disc. How hard is it to copy it and give it to our killer?”

“True.” Fair was more computer literate than Harry, but she was pretty good at doing agricultural research on her computer.

“Thank heaven,” Harry whispered, “I’ve never had an abortion.”

“Me, either. But there are so many women who have and no one knows. Apart from the danger if he does make good on his threat, what about the mess in their personal lives?”

“Are you going to make this public?”

“Well, that’s not my decision, but I don’t see how Rick can keep it quiet. It’s important to the case, and people must take precautions.”

“This could destroy marriages, careers.” Harry wiped the sweat pouring down her brow. “There are an awful lot of women in this county keeping a secret.”

“Exactly.” Coop leaned against the truck’s grille. “We’ve got to catch this guy.”

“If he starts killing women, you will, but let’s pray he trips up before that.” Fair felt sick about the threat.

“Why now?” Harry asked.

“What do you mean?” Coop respected Harry’s mind.

“Why kill now? Will Wylde has been practicing medicine in our county for three decades. What’s set off this person?”

“Could be he’s found out his wife or girlfriend had an abortion and didn’t tell him,” Fair stated logically.

“Or it could be his mind is deteriorating in some fashion,” Harry thought out loud.

“Like drugs?” Coop had seen plenty of what booze and drugs can do to the human brain.

“That, but sometimes the mind goes when it’s diseased and the person doesn’t know. He thinks his thoughts and actions are normal. That’s the truly frightening thing about being crazy: so often the person doesn’t know. And sometimes a head injury can change a person’s personality,” Fair informed them.

Harry turned to Coop. “You might want to check the experts on this. I guess psychiatrists would be a good place to start.”

“I will. Either way, if this guy is a raving lunatic or a political fanatic, we’ve got major problems.”

“Coop, come on in. It’s sweltering out here.” Harry touched Fair’s hand.

As they walked into the house, Matilda, eyes glittering, swayed gently on her limb. Mrs. Murphy glanced up at her but said nothing.

They were grateful to come into the kitchen, the large overhead fan cooling the room. Harry refused to put in air-conditioning, because she thought going from cool air to the hot outside all the time made you sick. Fair knew in time he could wear her down. As it was, the fans in the house helped, but sometimes all they did was push around humid air.

“The statement?” Coop gratefully took a beer offered her by Fair as she queried Harry.

“We drove over this morning after church. Harry tried.” He shrugged.

“It’s the talk of the town: the murder and the face-off between Big Mim and Little Mim.” She swallowed straight from the bottle. “Perfect.”

“A cold beer on a hot day, one of life’s little pleasures.” Fair sipped his, too.

After Cooper left, Harry called Little Mim and gave her the news so she could be calm when she heard it from the sheriff.

“Mother is probably being briefed by Rick as we speak,” Little Mim replied, trying to push down the rising terror.

Rick had learned the hard way to keep Big Mim informed. Part of it was because she felt she ran the town along with the western part of the county; part of it was because she knew a great deal that a sheriff might not know and could be helpful. In this case, she was blissfully ignorant of her daughter’s dilemma.

“She’ll come out both guns blazing.”

“She will.” Little Mim reached down to touch Doodle’s glossy head. Touching the dog reassured her, calmed her. “Harry, I can’t thank you enough.”

“Don’t mention it, but, Little Mim, please, please be careful, and whatever you do, don’t lose your temper with your mother.”

Easier said than done.