Chapter 19

 

"Are you crazy?" Ronnie screamed.

I blocked out the sound of his voice and listened for the clatter of hooves on asphalt.

The mare was still, but I heard her drawing in shallow, rapid breaths. Or was that my own breathing?

I lifted my head.

She'd splayed her hind legs and had plastered herself against the far wall. Her head was raised against the tug of the lead, and white shone round her eyes. The flesh along her flank quivered beneath taut skin.

Paul dragged the mare around and led her into an empty stall.

Ronnie and Ben inched closer, and by the time Paul had exited the stall, I'd managed to make it to my knees. I cradled my left arm against my side as he strolled toward me. My ribs hurt like hell, and the inside of my arm burned.

I'd landed close to the end of the aisle, at the entrance to the storage area, where the asphalt gave way to dirt. I kept my gaze focused on the ground in front of me and tried to control my breathing. Paul's legs shifted into view.

"Sorry about that, Cline," he said. "I don't know what spooked her, but that's the thing with horses, isn't it?"

I clenched my left hand, then tried to flex the muscles in my arm.

Paul hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. "You can never predict what they'll do next. But speaking of predictions. Looks like you'll be the one needing that doctor's appointment."

He chuckled softly, then turned toward the storage area. As he took a step, I lunged forward and latched my right arm around his trailing leg. He went down and grunted as he hit the ground.

Dirt billowed off the floor around him.

When I tried to lift my left arm, the muscles seized, and a stab of pain radiated from my shoulder. I yanked my right arm free and gripped his waistband, then scrambled onto his back. He yelled when I latched my fingers in his hair and jerked his head.

I slammed his face against the ground and managed to drag my left arm into a position where it could be of use, but when I put weight on the elbow, my shoulder gave out.

Genoa heaved upward, and I lost my grip. I rolled off and landed on my back.

He rose to his knees. Powdery dirt coated his skin, transforming his face into a surreal mask as he raised his fist.

I slammed my legs into him, and as he toppled over, I flipped onto my stomach and planted my hands in the dirt. Before I could get to my feet, he crashed into my back. His wiry fingers latched onto my hair, and he shoved my face against the ground. A bony knee dug into the small of my back as he shifted his weight and drove my nose deeper into the loose soil.

Dirt clogged my nose and mouth, and I couldn't breathe. When I coughed, my next inhalation dragged another lungful of dirt into my throat, and Sergeant Bodell's opinion of drowning ran uninvited through my mind.

Lack of oxygen is a powerful motivator. I pushed with my right arm, but Genoa must have picked up on the fact that my left side was more or less out of action. He'd anticipated my move by bracing his leg.

Genoa suddenly rose off my back. He clawed at my shirt, then clamped his forearm around my neck.

As he moved back, I was lifted off the ground. I became aware of raised voices, then--Ben and Ronnie's--and realized that they'd been yelling all along. The two of them yanked Paul backwards.

His arm tightened around my throat.

I dragged my heel down his shin and stomped the top of his foot.

He cried out, and as he released his hold, I spun around, dropped my shoulder, and slammed my fist into his gut.

His breath wheezed past my ear.

"Jesus Christ!" Frank Wissel practically hopped into view alongside Ronnie and Ben. "Stop it! Let him go!"

Ronnie and Ben looked at each other over Paul's head. He'd doubled over and was sucking in a lungful of air. I pictured the scene Frank must have walked in on, both of them restraining Genoa while I laid into him.

As soon as they released their hold, Paul braced his hands on his thighs.

Frank moved next to me, and his voice shook when he spoke. "Cline, you're fired!"

I spun around, and as I opened my mouth to speak, movement flashed in the corner of my eye. I jerked my head back as Paul sucker-punched me. His knuckles grazed my cheek and specks of white light darted behind my eye.

"Cut it out!" Frank yelled as I caught my balance.

Ronnie and Ben latched onto Paul again, and he kicked out.

"Genoa!" Frank screamed. "You're fired, too! You make another move, I'll call the cops and have you arrested."

That caught him up, but I was still thankful that Ronnie and Ben were reluctant to turn him loose.

"Paul tried to make Lotsamagic run over Steve," Ben said.

Genoa yanked his arm free and glared at Ben. "What the fuck?"

Ronnie cautiously released his hold on Genoa and turned to Frank. "It's true. She trampled him, and Paul made her do it."

"I did not!" Paul screamed. "She just freaked."

Ronnie backed up a step and flailed his arms. "She freaked 'cause you made her." Ronnie waved his arm at Genoa as he turned back to Frank. "He spooked her on purpose so she'd knock into Steve, then he kept running her round in a circle so she'd step on him."

"I didn't!" Paul screamed. "She spooked."

Ronnie glared at Genoa. "Bullshit."

"Both of you weren't even looking when she started."

"Yeah," Ben said, "but you were chasing her."

"Was not! I was trying to get her under control."

They went back and forth for a minute or two while I cradled my left arm. My breathing had dropped down to something bordering normal, but a shitload of adrenaline still buzzed through my muscles. Despite its numbing effect, a deep ache had begun to build in my shoulder, and my skin felt damp where the mare's hoof had sliced over my ribs and the inside of my arm.

"It just looked like I was chasing her," Paul yelled.

Frank Wissel turned to me. "And what do you have to say for yourself, Cline?"

I straightened, looked Frank in the eye, and stated matter-of-factly, "Genoa attacked me because I threatened him in the clinic this morning."

Frank's eyebrows crept up his forehead, and the folds of puffy skin that normally hung below them, like a second pair of lids, flattened out. "You threatened him?"

"Yes, sir," I said.

Wissel waited for me to continue. But timing is everything, so I remained silent until he asked me why.

"I was angry, sir," I said flatly. I turned to face Paul. "I was angry because you beat Maddie."

"Did not!" Genoa searched our faces and saw that no one believed him. "I didn't," he repeated but the conviction had drained from his voice.

"She had a black eye this morning," I said, "because of you."

"Genoa, clear out," Frank said. "If I catch you on the property, I'll have you arrested for trespassing."

Genoa's face had turned red under the layer of powdery dirt. He waved his arm in my direction. "What about him?"

"Clear out, Paul. I'm not kidding."

Genoa started to back up, and as he shifted his gaze in my direction, his scowl dissolved into a smirk. "Watch your back, Cline," he said; then he turned and strode into the aisle. His gait looked choppy, a jumble of nerves and anger.

When he was out of hearing range, Ronnie said, "You oughta go to the police, Steve."

I shook my head as Frank said, "From what I saw, both of you have a case for assault."

"But he started it," Ben said.

I crossed over to the haymow, lifted a towel out of the foal kit, and wiped the dirt off my face. "Doesn't matter. I went after him when he was walking away, and what he did with the horse is way too open to interpretation for my liking. Plus, I did threaten him."

Frank shook his head. "How bad are you hurt?"

I shrugged.

"The mare was all over him," Ben was saying, but my attention was elsewhere, focused on the powder coating the towel in my hand.

The guy who'd dropped Bruce's car in the lot the weekend he disappeared, his coat front and sleeves had been covered with dirt. Fluffy's owner had thought the guy worked construction, but you didn't wear a coat when you hung drywall. But you sure as hell would wear one if you were outside in the middle of winter, restraining someone in the back of a dusty barn. Or mixing concrete.

Frank narrowed his eyes at me.

"What's going on?" a female voice demanded.

Ben and Ronnie flicked me alarmed glances as Dr. Nash stepped into the storage area.

"Where's Paul going?"

Frank cleared his throat, and if I wasn't mistaken, even our stud manager was a bit rattled at the prospect of relaying what had just transpired.

Feeling a bit conspicuous, I quit supporting my arm and hooked my left thumb on my jeans pocket, instead.

To give him his due, Frank explained the sequence of events clearly and fairly, and I was once again impressed with his intelligence. Outwardly, the guy looked haggard and shriveled, like a raisin that had been left baking in the sun, but he was sharp-witted and observant, and I couldn't help but like him.

For some reason, I was more nervous standing under Dr. Nash's scrutiny than I'd been facing down Genoa's rage. I consciously kept my shoulders back, head up, and focused on keeping my expression calm and confident, but when I glanced past her and noticed Ben and Ronnie drifting backwards toward the barn aisle, a smile twitched my lips.

Dr. Nash snapped at them, and they froze. "If I have any questions, I want you right here, understand?"

They nodded, and I thought Ben's head was going to shear off his neck.

Dr. Nash's gray eyes blazed with anger when Frank told her about Maddie. She peered at me. "You saw her this morning, with a black eye?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And she told you Paul did it?"

I hesitated, then sighed. "She said he didn't mean to."

That got Dr. Nash going. She threw up her arms and paced around me. "Why? Why do women put up with that kind of crap? 'He didn't mean to!' I can't believe it."

I thought about the load of shit Maddie put him through and wondered if she felt she'd deserved it.

Dr. Nash paused in front of me. "And what about you?" she demanded.

"I'd never hit--"

She waved her hand and cut me off. "Your injuries. How bad are they?"

"Oh." I exhaled. "I'm fine."

Ben started telling her how the mare had trampled me, and I shot him a look that shut him up.

"Okay, Steve. Frank can take you to the hospital so you can get checked out."

"But I'm--"

"Fine?" Dr. Nash raised her elegant eyebrows. "I don't think so."

"Really. I am."

"Prove it, then."

I opened my mouth.

She raised her hands and wiggled her fingers, impatiently indicating that I should get on with it. "Come on. Take off your jacket."

"I'm fine."

"Let's see. I have workman's comp and liabilities to consider."

I almost smiled. And here I'd thought she cared about me.

I managed to raise both hands and undid the buttons. Let the denim jacket slip down my arms. Dr. Nash caught it and handed it back to Ben. All three of the guys stood in a semicircle, waiting to see the damage. That was bad enough, but under Dr. Nash's cool eyes, heat crept up my neck and flushed my face. I undid the flannel shirt and shifted it off my shoulders.

"I need your T-shirt off to examine your shoulder properly."

I crossed my arms and hooked my fingers under the hem, but as I raised my arms, pain stabbed my shoulder like someone had driven a knife into the joint and twisted the hilt. I froze. So, maybe I wasn't okay.

Dr. Nash stepped closer. She reached behind me, and I felt her cool fingers on my skin. I looked down into her face as she lifted the shirt up my back. Some of her professionalism seemed to have drained from her features. Her movements grew awkward as the mechanics of removing my shirt drew her closer.

The fabric had stuck to my ribs and the inside of my arm, and when it peeled off the scrapes left behind from the mare's hoof, the cold air burned like acid. I flinched and pulled away from her as the T-shirt slipped over my head.

I sucked in a lungful of air and jerked my eyes open. Dr. Nash had become very still.

She slowly lifted her gaze to mine, and an emotion I couldn't identify clouded her gray eyes. "I can't believe you're standing there like nothing's wrong. You need to have that treated. An abrasion this severe is exactly like a burn. It needs to be dressed, and you'll need to be put on antibiotics, and if your tetanus isn't up to date, tell them."

Her gaze flicked over my chest before settling on my shoulder. She stepped to my side and lightly touched my upper arm, then smoothed her fingertips along my clavicle. She palpated the joint and muscles with an efficient but gentle touch. "You have a nasty hematoma and probably some crushing of the deltoid muscle and possibly axillary nerve damage. You need to be evaluated. Frank, drive him over to the hospital."

"I'll drive myself," I said. "I need to be somewhere at noon."

She frowned at me and pursed her lips. "Well, we certainly can't abduct you, now, can we?"

I grinned.

"Our insurance company will need you to address this right now and get the paperwork started." She turned to Frank. "Follow him," she looked back at me, "and make sure he doesn't get lost."

I slipped the flannel shirt and jacket back on and carried my T-shirt as I headed for the Chevy. I paused outside Lotsamagic's stall.

Frank stopped alongside me. "What're you doing?"

I nodded my head toward the big bay mare. "I want to check something."

She stared warily through the grillwork as I slid the door open. I stepped toward her. "That's okay, girl. Nobody wants to hurt you."

She was standing on the far side of her stall, and as I approached, she raised her head.

I murmured softly as I reached out and touched her shoulder. Her muscles flinched under my palm, but as I stroked her coat, she relaxed slightly, and after a moment, she curled her neck around and looked at me.

"Yeah, that's right. You're okay." I scratched her withers as I moved toward her barrel. "Hey, Frank," I said over my shoulder. "You got any idea why you'd have to smack a horse when you're trying to calm her down?"

"Don't reckon I do."

"Well, she's got a welt on her stifle. Looks like Paul smacked her a good one with the leather shank he was using."

Frank moved quietly to my side. "Well, I'll be damned."

The hospital was right off East Shirley Avenue, a short jog from the apartment. I parked and switched off the wipers and sat there, listening to the sleet clatter on the Chevy's roof. Just what I needed. Another hospital visit and a new set of bills. Despite Dr. Nash's assumption that workmen's comp would cover the expense, I suspected they'd contest it. They had at Foxdale. The only thing that had saved me there was the owner's generosity because he'd picked up my bills when they'd come to his attention.

I was thinking that there had to be something seriously wrong with me when Frank stepped up to the driver's side window and peered through the glass. I rousted myself, grabbed a ball cap off the dash, and climbed out.

I lowered the brim on my forehead. At least Frank had had the good sense to wear a rain poncho. "This is stupid," I said, "going to an emergency room for this."

"You got a doctor? We can go there."

"No, I don't." I stomped toward the double doors as an ambulance glided silently under the portico with lights flashing. Frank dutifully followed me into the lobby and hung around after I checked in with the intake nurse.

"You don't have to wait," I said after I'd completed the requisite paperwork.

"Ah, but I do. You skip out, and Dr. Nash'll have my hide."

I smiled as I carefully lowered my butt into an upholstered chair. The ache that radiated outward from my shoulder had somehow managed to converge with the throbbing sting on the other side of my body and the ache in my thigh until I had to concentrate to find a square inch that didn't ache or burn or throb. "How long have you worked for her?"

Frank perched on an armrest. "For Deirdre, about sixteen years, now. Soon as she graduated vet school, she and Victor started the farm. The ten years before that, I worked for her parents."

"Wow. I thought tuition bills did everyone in for at least a couple years," I said, hoping to keep him talking.

"Usually, but not Deirdre. Her parents owned the house and more than five hundred acres and did anything they could to help her succeed."

"I guess they were glad when she married someone who was in the business."

Frank snorted. "Not hardly. I got the impression Victor wasn't exactly who they'd envisioned for a son-in-law. As for him being in the business, if you'd told him a horse had thrush around its frog, he would've either been looking for a brown songbird or something green and slimy that goes ribbit."

I chuckled. "Well, it looks like he learned quick."

"Yeah, he's a fast learner, all right." Frank clamped his mouth shut like it occurred to him that he'd been talking too much, and when a nurse called my name, he shifted off the armrest. "Call me if you decide not to come in at three."

"Yes, sir."

"Of course you won't be doing stalls, and I'll have the day crew feed when they come in."

I nodded, then watched him stroll toward the exit. If only I could think of a way to get him talking. With his history, I was certain he knew a great deal. But he was obviously loyal to Deirdre and would only share information if convinced he was helping her. And if she'd been using artificial insemination to breed Irish Dancer, he knew about it because she could trust him to keep quiet.

The examining doctor's diagnosis proved that my boss knew her stuff, despite the fact that she specialized in another species. A nurse cleaned the abrasions, an experience I'd just as soon never repeat; then she applied thick dressings over the wounds. She finished by taping the bandages in place with athletic tape wound snuggly around my chest and upper arm. I was contemplating their removal when she told me that the get-up needed to be left in place for five days.

"Five days?" I said, incredulous.

She nodded and smiled just a shade too happily. She was a big woman, taller than me with broad shoulders and a thick neck.

"What about showers?"

"No showers. Sponge baths."

I made a face and thought I heard her chuckle as she bustled out of the room.

No showers presented a problem, and foaling out would be a pain in the ass. My clothes often got soaked with blood and who knew what, all of it raunchy and foul smelling. I left the building with my arm in a sling and two prescriptions in my pocket. The sleet had switched back to a cold, miserable rain. Traffic in Warrenton was light, all things considered. Ugly dark clouds hung low in the sky as rainwater channeled down the gutters and glistened on sidewalks, and the sound of the wipers grated on my nerves.

I felt strung up and exhausted all at once and didn't know if the tension that gripped my spine and knotted the muscles in my neck was an aftereffect of the attack or nervousness about the afternoon's agenda or a combination of both. I didn't like the notion that my fate and safety would be left in someone else's hands. But they knew what they were doing. They were professionals, and based on my track record, I'd probably be a lot safer under their control.

After I got the scripts filled, I went back to the apartment and changed clothes. I had time to eat, but my appetite had gone south with the weather. At twelve-fifty, I ditched the sling and headed out the door. On the drive to the police department, I considered ending my search for Bruce. I could go home and lounge around for the five days it would take until I got the damn bandages off. Then I thought of Corey and the fear that haunted her nights and shadowed her waking hours and knew I wouldn't quit until I found him.

The woman at Warrenton PD's front desk unlocked a side door and directed me down a narrow corridor to the last room on the right. As I reached it, the door swung inward on its hinges, and a cop stepped out of the room. He stared openly at me before he turned and headed in the opposite direction. Not hostile but not friendly, either. Cops are rather interesting in that they view civilians as outsiders, and for good reason, considering they're lied to most days of the week. A healthy dose of skepticism colors their worldview, and generally speaking, they trust no one.

Detective Tyler McPherson, a.k.a. Derek to the druggies, Detective Brandon, and another man I didn't know had gathered in a conference room. The walls were painted institutional gray to waist height, white above, and the carpet underfoot was an equally dismal blue/gray blend. An audiovisual stand occupied the center of the room and rows of cheap plastic chairs with fold-down desktops stretched to the back wall. Someone had sketched a crude diagram on the blackboard that covered the wall at the head of the room.

Brandon gestured to a black man with a wiry build. "My partner, Dan Sweeney."

I nodded. "Detective."

Sweeney grinned. "Call me Dan. Everybody else does."

Detective Sweeney was exceptionally dark-skinned. His lean musculature, closely cropped hair, and coloring were dramatically opposite McPherson's bulk and unkempt hair.

McPherson waved me to a chair. He'd been cracking a wad of gum between his molars, but as I walked into the room, his gaze locked on the bruise on my face. He narrowed his eyes as I eased onto one of the hard plastic seats. "What happened to you?"

"I had an accident at work this morning."

"You going to be okay going through with this?"

"If all I've gotta do is sit in a car, I'll be fine. Anything other than that would be dicey."

McPherson popped his gum. "You'll be all right, then."

"Yeah," Brandon said. "We got it all worked out." He stood and crossed over to the blackboard.

I glanced at McPherson, who'd settled his bulk on the edge of a conference table shoved against the side wall, and seriously doubted his ability to fit in one of the desk-chairs. He bounced his right leg on the edge of the table, and his nervous energy reminded me of the buzz I'd sensed after Yates had driven off the day before.

Brandon picked up a pointer and indicated a long rectangle drawn across the lower portion of the backboard. "This is the back of the Giant. There's a door right here," he tapped the board, "with a compactor here." Brandon pointed to a squiggly box. "We've parked our step van directly east of the compactor, and there's a trailer perpendicular to the compactor here. McPherson will back his car between the two."

Detective Brandon paused and turned toward McPherson, who'd been cracking his gum and was presently in the middle of blowing a huge bubble. The bubble froze. When McPherson sucked it back into his mouth and grinned, Brandon turned back to the board. "One of our reserve officers will be behind the door so none of the employees walk outside at an inopportune moment. Backup will be in the van and between the compactor and trailer, so when the deal goes down, they'll grab the guys before they can get to their car."

"Pickup, you mean," McPherson said and popped a bubble. He slipped off the table and crossed to the front of the room. "Fauquier County SO will have unmarked cars embedded in the general parking lot out front, at both ends of the complex, and they'll ease toward the back corners after they get word that Yates and his man have arrived."

The sheriff's office? Just wonderful. If Deputy Bodell was among them, my cover at Stone Manor would be blown.

"The Toyota's going nowhere once it enters the back lot," Brandon added.

"What happens if they try to rip us off?"

McPherson and Brandon glanced at each other, then Sweeney spoke up. "We'll move in and deal with it. We're trained to handle these things."

Well, that made me feel a whole lot better.

Brandon asked me to sign a cooperating citizen's agreement that informed me of my limitations while working with the police. I couldn't discuss my activities concerning my involvement with anyone. I couldn't break any laws while working with the police. I paused over that one. I had to follow the law in gaining evidence. Farther down the page, there was a brief paragraph about my holding the department harmless. I didn't bother reading beyond that point but figured the words injury and death were somewhere in the fine print.

Before we headed out, we detoured to a locker room, and McPherson and Brandon fitted me with a Kevlar vest, and the funny thing was, that didn't make me feel any better, either. The four of us left the building by a back door. The rain had slackened to a fine mist that drifted on the breeze and clung to our clothes and hair. After McPherson keyed the Sebring's lock, I slipped onto the bucket seat, and the movement jarred my shoulder. Pain shot across my clavicle and snatched the breath from my lungs.

Brandon bent forward between the open door and the sedan's frame. "You okay?"

I nodded as McPherson removed a packet wrapped in duct tape from a brown paper bag, slipped it into the console, then tossed the empty bag to Brandon. When McPherson caught me watching, he said, "The coke."

"The real thing?"

"Yep. They'll want to test it before they hand over the cash."

Ten minutes later, McPherson backed the Sebring into position between the compactor and step van, and even though I knew the cops were there, I didn't see them. Not the unmarked cars out front or anyone loitering behind the building. The metal door at the back of the Giant looked solidly locked.

"You sure backup's here?" I said, and McPherson grinned.

"Yep." He popped a bubble as he jerked his head to the right. "Two guys are in the van. Two are holed up between the compactor and trailer to your left, behind that stack of pallets and the refrigerator carton."

"You're kidding?"

"Nope."

"Uh-huh. And who said cop work was glamorous?"

"Somebody who's never done it." He cracked the gum between his teeth. "By the way, the only prints I got off the Firebird were yours and Claremont's."

I nodded.

"You up to driving?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Let's switch seats, then. I need to be able to move around, just in case."

I rolled my eyes, and McPherson grinned.

"Great," I said.

After we'd settled into our new positions, I clicked my door shut and frowned. Because of the injury to my shoulder, handling the door was a bit of a problem, and between the shoulder and ribs and the ache where the mare had stomped my thigh muscle, I'd stiffened up. And I felt claustrophobic. Trapped behind the wheel.

I wasn't going anywhere if something went wrong.

McPherson checked his watch. "One of our uniforms is positioned across the street. He's dealt with Yates before, so when he sees him pull into the lot, he'll signal backup."

"Hmm."

McPherson glanced at me. "You nervous?"

"A little."

"It'll go down smooth. Remember, we don't show them the dope until they flash the cash."

I nodded. "Does backup have any audio on us?"

McPherson nodded. "They've got visual on us, too, and they'll record everything that goes down. Don't worry. The guys in the van will be all over them when the time comes."

It began to rain, again. Big, fat drops that beaded up on the hood and splattered the windshield. The heavier ones rolled over and collided with smaller ones before joining together in channels that snaked across the glass like liquid tree branches. Even though the defrost was on, condensation inched up the inside of the glass, tinted green by a trick of light.

I tried to relax into my seat as the breeze kicked up. It buffeted the car and plastered sodden newspapers in the shrubs growing on the steep slope that rose from the edge of the lot. A paper cup from a fast food joint blasted past us, bouncing across the asphalt until it disappeared from sight. The rain suddenly increased to a downpour as cleanly as if someone had flipped a switch.

"Oh, this is just peachy." The words hadn't left McPherson's mouth before Yates's pickup glided around the corner.