Chapter 20

 

McPherson straightened in his seat as Yates's truck slid to a stop in front of us. He cracked open his door, hawked the wad of gum onto the pavement, then clicked the door shut. "Fuckers are early."

Yates had pulled across the Sebring's nose. I glanced at McPherson and wondered how I was going to drive off as soon as the deal went down. Yates and the Hispanic guy jumped out and raced across the narrow gap between vehicles.

Cold, moisture-laden air and the sound of the rain pounding the asphalt funneled into the car when they yanked the back doors open. Yates slid onto the seat behind McPherson, and the sedan's frame rocked when the Hispanic guy thumped onto the seat behind mine and slammed the door. He'd had something tucked under his jacket, but I couldn't tell what.

Yates closed his door, and the sudden decrease in noise was unsettling. For a brief moment, no one spoke as the rain pummeled the roof over our heads. And in that moment, I realized I was out of breath. My heart pounded against my ribs, and my head buzzed.

As I recounted my instructions, I noted that McPherson had casually shifted in his seat so that he was facing the back. I glanced at Yates over my right shoulder. He'd leaned toward the gap between the bucket seats, and a water droplet slid off the tip of his nose and landed on the console. Miniature globes of rainwater clung to his buzz cut as another drop tracked down the side of his face.

Between their sodden clothes and our breathing, the windows were fogging up fast, and in another minute, backup wouldn't be able to see inside the car. I considered kicking up the blowers a notch as Yates clamped his right hand around McPherson's headrest.

"Let's see what you got," he said.

I glanced over my shoulder. "Let's see the cash first."

"What, you don't trust me?" When I said nothing, Yates smirked and straightened in his seat. "Show 'em the cash," he said to his partner.

I looked in the rearview mirror as the Hispanic guy shifted in his seat. His nylon jacket rustled, and in my peripheral vision, I saw Detective McPherson draw his gun.

"Police!" He lunged toward the gap between the bucket seats in the same instant that the Hispanic guy latched his fingers in my hair.

He yanked my head back as Yates's demand for the coke was cut short. McPherson slammed his left hand into Yates's chest and screamed at the Hispanic guy to drop his gun. The muzzle dug into my skull above my right ear. I felt around for the door handle as they screamed at each other, the Hispanic guy repeatedly yelling, "¡Lo mataré! ¡Lo mataré!" And if I remembered my Spanish correctly, I was in deep shit.

He increased his leverage to the point that breathing became difficult.

McPherson scrambled to his knees and jammed his right sneaker between the transmission hump and firewall, his voice growing hoarse with screaming.

I jerked my gaze back to the rearview mirror as my fingers slipped around the handle. McPherson's Glock was practically jammed in the guy's cheekbone, but as I watched, McPherson swung his gun toward Yates, instead.

I jerked on the handle and lunged to the left at the same time.

A spider web splintered across the windshield as my knees hit the asphalt. The side of my face bumped against the doorframe.

Glass shattered somewhere behind me as the Sebring's rear door swung open. My left foot had snagged between the seat's frame and running board, and the asshole still hadn't let go of my hair.

When a red-faced cop screamed instructions in Spanish, the Hispanic guy suddenly let go. I flopped to the ground.

As combat boots scrambled through a puddle in front of my face, I drew my arms toward my head. They dragged the Hispanic guy out of the car and slammed him to the ground, then cuffed him.

A cop helped me to my feet. When I turned and looked in the car, I wished I hadn't.

They wouldn't be cuffing David Alexander Yates.

He was just sitting there, legs spread, feet splayed in the narrow foot well, head lulled to the side with his chin resting on his right shoulder as if he were taking a nap or peering at the curtain of rain gusting through the open door. His left shoulder and arm twitched as the arc of blood that had been spraying from his throat dropped down in jolts like someone had just turned off the pressure in a hose. A glob of blood and tissue matter plastered the seat cushion behind his head, and the rest of the car's interior looked like several gallons of red paint had been flung into the vehicle as it spun on a turntable.

Apparently, a Glock 9mm is capable of significant damage at close range, and I'd just chalked up another horrific image that would no doubt haunt my dreams.

Yates's forearms dangled across his thighs, and as I backed up, I noticed a snub-nosed revolver still clutched in his left hand.

As I stared across the Sebring's roof, it dawned on me that the only sounds I heard were the raindrops pinging off the roof and splattering the film of water that clogged the lot and the distant flap of the Toyota's wipers. The shouting had stopped, and in fact, no one was speaking.

I focused on McPherson. He'd moved several paces away from the open passenger's door. As I watched, he bent forward and planted his palms on his knees. One of the other cops huddled over him and said something while he rested his hand on McPherson's back.

The sound of tires sluicing through water drew my attention to a sheriff's car and Warrenton PD car as they approached from the east. An unmarked car glided to a stop from the opposite direction, and Detectives Brandon and Sweeney climbed out and slammed their doors. Brandon took in the scene with an irritated glance before his gaze lingered on McPherson. He looked back at the Sebring and seemed to notice me for the first time. He snatched at his poncho's hood as he strode across the lot.

Detective Brandon paused alongside me and narrowed his eyes. "You hurt?"

When I shook my head, water flipped off the ends of my hair and the tip of my nose. The rain had plastered my bangs to my forehead, and rainwater streamed down the back of my neck and soaked into my sweatshirt. I realized I should have been freezing. Although I could feel the rain and the driving wind and hear the raindrops drumming on the Sebring's roof and the voices that had started up around me, I felt curiously disconnected, as if a current of energy buzzed around me and dampened my senses. Now that I was no longer in mortal danger, I felt rooted to the spot, unable to move or speak.

I slowly turned my head and realized that Brandon had been speaking.

" . . . get you out of the rain," he was saying. He signaled to one of the sheriff's deputies, then took hold of my arm.

I walked along with him, feeling as if I were dragging my feet through sludge.

Brandon asked the deputy for a blanket when we joined him at his car; then the two of them draped it over my shoulders and hustled me into the cruiser.

* * *

I'd been staring through the windshield for half an hour when I began to shake. It started innocently enough, a slight tremor that vibrated at the base of my spine and spasms that clenched my jaw, but before long, the vibrations traveled up my back and intensified until my arms and legs shook uncontrollably. My teeth began to chatter until I was certain I could no longer open my mouth. I clamped my arms around my waist and told myself I had the shakes because my clothes were soaking wet and it was fucking cold.

And I almost believed it.

Tightening the blanket around my neck, I leaned forward, closed my eyes, and tried to slow my breathing. I'd seen another man, once, who'd bled to death from a neck wound. Physically, the only difference lay in the fact that he'd been knifed, not shot. But unlike Yates, he'd been an innocent bystander. Someone who'd gotten in the way of evil.

For whatever reason, I thought of my father. The man who'd raised me. Maybe because he'd died a grizzly, horrible death in a car, alone and terrified. He'd drawn his last breath as a tractor-trailer crumpled his Mercedes into a heap of twisted scrap metal.

I drew in a ragged breath. He'd been dead eight months and two days, and there wasn't a day that went by that I didn't regret how I'd treated him. Our relationship had been strained to the point that he'd kicked me out of the house at the end of my sophomore year at college, and we'd rarely spoken afterwards. When he'd attempted to reconcile, I'd been too headstrong and stubborn . . . and hurt . . . to let him in. I swallowed. God, how I wished I'd handled things differently. Every time I thought of him dying, convinced that I hated him, a little part of me died, too.

God, I was such a fuck-up. Rachel was right. I was an immature, thrill-seeking, adrenaline junkie who couldn't mind my own business. She'd sworn that I was obsessed with proving myself when I had nothing to prove. And maybe I was obsessed, just a little. But I couldn't stand by and do nothing when I saw a need to act.

No one else was ever going to look into Bruce's disappearance unless I uncovered evidence strong enough to justify an investigation. Even the drug bust didn't guarantee extensive police involvement. And now that A.J. and Yates were dead, who knew what information had died with them.

I turned sideways in the seat, tightened the blanket, and rested the side of my face against the headrest. The shakes had subsided to a few spasmodic trembles that shot up my spine without warning. The pain medication was holding its own, but exhaustion had seeped into my limbs and weighted my eyelids. I thought of the prospect of returning to work in approximately twelve hours and flipped open the farm's cell phone.

"I'm not coming in," I told Frank when he picked up.

"I didn't think so. What about Saturday? Think you'll be up to doing rounds?"

Saturday was my long day. Midnight to seven, then six p.m. 'til midnight. Maddie would shit if I didn't come in. "I'll be there."

Frank exhaled, and his breath buffeted the phone's mouthpiece. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Next, I called Corey and told her to avoid the apartment.

"But why?"

"We busted the guys who thought they were buying drugs from your brother. Just in case . . ." Well, I couldn't say they, anymore. Could I? "Uh, anyway, there's always the chance someone will want to retaliate, so we have to stay away from the apartment for the time being."

"You sound strange," she said, and fear tightened her vocal chords. "Are you hurt?"

I didn't feel like explaining what had happened, so I said, "I'm just tired. Didn't sleep well last night." At least that was true.

"What happened with the drug thing? Did you learn anything about Bruce?"

"Not yet. There's a lot of work to be done at this point. The cops haven't even interviewed the guy yet." Like they were going to. I thought about the form I'd signed at the police department and said, "I'll fill you in this weekend, after I've had a chance to find out what I'm allowed to talk about."

"Are you sure you're okay? There's this edge to your voice . . ."

"Yeah. I'm fine," I lied.

"Where are you going to stay if you can't use the apartment?"

"In a motel. Probably the one across from the Frost Diner. I'll call when I know where. Just don't go to the apartment."

"I won't." She paused. "Listen, Steve. No one's ever helped me like this before, and I just want you to know . . . it means a lot to me."

"I know."

I thought about calling Rachel but decided, if Corey could tell something was wrong, Rachel definitely would. I glanced at my watch and realized she was most likely wrapping up her workday. And since she hadn't gone to Foxdale Tuesday, she would no doubt ride today. I decided to hold off calling her.

* * *

Since the drug sting had escalated to an officer-involved shooting, the state police took over the investigation. Eventually, they transferred me to a state cruiser and drove me to their facility on East Shirley Avenue where my ensuing interview and statement were videotaped. Afterwards, they gave me a ride back to my truck, and it was after nine before I cleared my gear out of Bruce's apartment and found a hotel room that wouldn't obliterate half a week's pay. I swallowed the maximum amount of painkiller allowed and spent all of Thursday night and most of the following day in bed.

When I eventually rolled onto my back and opened my eyes, it took me a second to remember where I was, and when I did, the memory of the drug bust and an image of David Yates jarred me fully awake.

I scrunched the wafer-thin pillow into some semblance of a shape, tucked it under my head, and stared at the ceiling. On the wall to my right, the smoke detector's red light winked into the darkened room. A brown stain had seeped into the plasterboard from a leak on the floor above, and a seam in the wallpaper had pulled away. The paper curled and caught the red light like a cupped hand.

The clock radio read five-thirty. I double-checked that the a.m. indicator was off; then I squinted at the heavy drapes that covered the window. A hairline thread of sunlight edged into the room where they met. Okay, it was definitely the afternoon--Friday--which gave me six-and-a-half hours before I had to clock in at Stone Manor.

My stomach growled as I kicked off the bedspread and lowered my feet to the dingy carpet. I rubbed my face. Thanks to the combination of rest and pain medication, the burning sting over my ribs had cooled to a dull ache and throbbed only when I moved wrong. Twisting was definitely out of the question. The knot on the back of my thigh no longer cramped my muscle like a vice, and my headache had disappeared without my noticing. My shoulder was the most troublesome injury, and though I didn't care for the sling's restriction, I decided that it would be best if I wore it to work.

I shaved, then bent over the sink and carefully washed my hair. Afterwards, I ran the hot water until the mirror fogged over, soaped up a washcloth, and bathed without the luxury of a shower. The bandage couldn't come off soon enough. I managed to pull on a pair of jeans and clean socks one-handed, jammed my feet into my workbooks but left the laces undone for the time being. I squatted and was rooting through my duffle bag when someone rapped on the door.

My hand flinched.

I straightened and stared at the door.

Another knock. Lighter this time.

I cut across the room diagonally, pressed the side of my face against the wall, and eased the edge of the curtain a fraction of an inch away from the window frame.

Rachel stood on the sidewalk, huddled in her coat. As I extended my hand toward the doorknob, I caught sight of the strapping around my chest. I snatched a T-shirt out of my bag and wriggled into it.

"Just a minute," I yelled as I latched onto a flannel shirt that had become entwined with the rest of the clothes jammed into the duffle. I slipped it on and felt my smile falter when I opened the door. "You okay?"

"No." Her voice was tight.

I moved aside and opened the door wider.

Rachel crossed the threshold and took in the dreary little room as she turned to face me. Her gaze lingered on the bruising on my face before she said, "Corey told me where you were, and she also told me you were involved in a drug sting yesterday."

"True." I took a step toward her and lightly gripped her arms, felt her muscles locked with tension. She'd squared her shoulders, and her neck was stretched taut, her head held high. I smoothed her bangs off her forehead and touched her cheek. "I've been trying to reach you. I should have called last night. I'm sorry."

She turned her back to me, glanced at the unmade bed and the only chair in the room with its grimy seat cushion and faded upholstery. She remained standing. "You've been saying that a lot, lately."

I moved closer but said nothing.

"I understand you were hanging around Foxdale Tuesday afternoon."

I cleared my throat. "I wanted to surprise you."

She nodded, and strands of her silky black hair caught in the tufts of fake fur that trimmed her hood. "I feel like I'm the only one in this relationship bending to the other, giving in to your wants and needs while ignoring my own. You know how I feel about these investigations you seem so compelled to involve yourself with. Potentially dangerous investigations. And even knowing how I feel, that I'll worry, you still go off and do what you want. Even when you know it hurts me. And I thought, how could you do that if you loved me?" She drew in a shaky breath. "How could you?"

She'd said is so softly, I almost didn't hear.

"Last Tuesday was so nice and normal. The way a relationship should be." Her voice wavered. She brushed her cheeks with her fingers. "But then, you're off again, on your crusade, just like I knew you'd be. And I'd reached a point where I needed to make a decision. To accept you as your are . . . or get out."

I swallowed and dragged in a ragged breath.

"I talked to Corey last night. I saw her come in when I was riding, but all through my ride and cooling out and putting my gear away, I didn't see her again. It was like she'd walked into the barn and stepped off the face of the earth. You know how she is. A quick groom, then she hits the trails or schools over fences. Well, I'd walked past her horse's stall a couple times and never saw her. I couldn't figure it out. So, before I left, I walked right up to the stall, thinking maybe she was doing up leg wraps or something like that." She paused for so long, I wondered if she was going to continue. "But you know what she was doing?"

I shook my head, but of course, she couldn't see since she'd yet to face me. "No," I whispered.

"Crying."

A television talk show switched on in the room next door.

"She was on the floor in her horse's stall, pulled into a tight little ball with her arms clamped around her legs, and she was crying."

Rachel cleared her throat. "We all go to the barn to get away from our troubles, to have fun. And there she was, in a place where she should have been happy, and she's sobbing so hard, she couldn't catch her breath. I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to embarrass her, but at the same time, doing nothing didn't feel right, either. I was trying to make up my mind when her horse shifted his weight and moved toward me, and she realized that I'd seen her."

Rachel turned to face me, and her dark eyes glistened with tears. "You see? That's the difference between you and me. I was tempted to sneak away and not get involved because doing so would have been . . . uncomfortable. As a matter of fact, I'd made up my mind. That's exactly what I was going to do before her horse drew attention to me. And that would have been the cowardly thing to do. The easy thing." She swallowed. "You never do that."

I placed my hands lightly on her shoulders.

"That's when she told me how you'd discovered that her brother was involved with drugs, and that you'd helped the police catch some guys who thought they were buying from him.

"Last night, I saw how important it is that she find out what's happened to him, because . . . until she does . . . her life will be a living hell."

She slipped her arms around my waist. "I still don't like it, but I think I understand why you do what you do, even if you don't."

I cleared my throat. "Meaning?" I nodded, swallowed. Cleared my throat again because I didn't trust my voice. "Oh, I get it. The 'proving myself to my father' thing that you're convinced is behind all this."

Her lips twitched. "Yeah, that 'thing.'"

I bent down and kissed her softly on the lips.

"But you have to promise me one thing," Rachel said, and her chin trembled.

"What's that?"

"That you'll do your best to stay safe."

"Always."

She laughed, a short nervous laugh that was more a release of tension than anything. "Well, that doesn't make me feel any better."

I kissed her again and barely noticed the abrasion on my side when she tightened her arms around my waist.

* * *

When I stepped into the clinic, Maddie glanced over her shoulder, and the tentative smile that had risen to her lips vanished when she focused on the sling and the bruises on my face. She looked down at the can of Diet Pepsi balanced in her lap. The little black-and-white television that typically sat wedged in the corner next to the autoclave was pulled out and switched on. Canned laughter from an old sit-com vibrated from the cheap speakers.

I punched my timecard, then crossed the room. "It's all quiet?"

Maddie nodded as she leaned forward and switched off the T.V. "Since yesterday, four of them have waxed up." She listed their names and barn assignments. "You know who they all are?"

"Yep."

She swiveled around and looked at me. "You have a good memory, Steve, and you catch on quick. Lots of people that I've trained couldn't tell one mare from the next."

I leaned against the counter. "When I worked at a show barn that housed, oh . . . about two-hundred horses, this reporter once asked me how come we didn't get them mixed up. Of course, new employees messed up sometimes, but most of us could identify them fairly well. To her, they were just horses. But, I can't imagine not being able to tell them apart. They have different expressions and personalities and mannerisms, and their conformations are vastly different. I guess it all boils down to familiarity."

"And being observant," Maddie said as she unfolded her legs and stood. "What was the reporter writing about?"

I shrugged. "Some Lifestyle's article on a summer kids' camp we did."

"Hmm." She stepped closer. "How'd you end up working here?"

"Fate, I suppose."

Maddie nodded and kept her gaze focused on my chest. "Look, Steve. I've been wanting to apologize for what Paul did."

I sighed. "It's not your place to apologize for him."

"I know, but now that he's gone, I feel so much better. I wanted to thank you for that."

Something about the tone of her voice, a casual callousness, caught my attention. "Maddie," I said slowly, "what did you tell him about us?"

She glanced up at me, then looked away. "What do you mean?"

"Come off it. You know perfectly well what I mean? You used me to set him up, didn't you?"

"I don't have any control over him," she said, and as I listened to her words, I realized she'd effectively manipulated both of us. Maddie flipped her hair off her shoulder. "And I certainly didn't make him attack you."

"But you led him to believe that there was more between us than there really was, didn't you?"

"No," she said, but a slight vibration in her vocal chords told me she was lying. "Besides, I know you're attracted to me."

"Maddie, look at me." I lifted her chin with my finger. "This is important. Did you do the same thing with the guy who worked my shift before I started here?"

"Huh?"

"Claremont. Did Paul believe you had a thing going with him, too?"

She jerked her head away from my hand and stepped backwards. "What the hell's wrong with you?"

"When you broke up with Paul on New Year's Eve, did he think you and Claremont were involved?"

"What's it to you?"

I grabbed her arms. "He's been missing since he left here, Maddie," I gritted my teeth, "and no one's seen or heard from him since."

She frowned. "He's missing? How do you know?"

"I'm a friend of his sister's, and she's worried about him."

"Paul wouldn't do that."

"Do what?"

"Well . . . you know? Kill someone because of me."

"Goddamnit. He didn't mind running me over with a horse. What makes you think he'd stop at that?" I gestured to her face. "Look what he did to you."

"He was just mad."

"You're a stupid girl, Maddie. He's not going to get out of your life just because he isn't working here anymore. If you really want him to leave you alone, you need to start acting like it, instead of stringing him along."

Maddie grabbed her coat off the back of a chair. "I'm going home."

"Were you having sex with Claremont?"

She paused on her way to the door and spun around. "You'd be hard pressed to find a woman Bruce didn't sleep with."

Maddie strode out of the room, and I guessed that was answer enough. The door rattled against the jamb when she pulled it closed. As I exited the building, she sped down the lot and gunned her little car onto Bear Wallow without slowing down. Her brake lights flashed once as she entered the curve in front of the stone mansion; then her taillights disappeared around the bend. I listened for the sound of an engine turning over or a vehicle accelerating from a standstill, but no traffic sounds disturbed the night. If Paul planned on intercepting her, as he had so many Saturday nights in the past, he hadn't hung around here to do it.

I frowned as I headed to my truck. She lived in Warrenton, which raised the question: why had she driven off in the opposite direction? I didn't know where Paul lived, but I wouldn't have been surprised to find that she'd headed to his place.

The girl didn't know what she wanted. And if she repeated what I'd just said, I'd find out soon enough.

I paused in the lot, beyond the reach of the dusk-to-dawn light. Thursday's driving rain had preceded a cold Canadian front, and its passing had scrubbed the grime from the air so that the stars glittered like Christmas lights above my head. I wondered if Bruce had ever looked at the stars on a night like this. I wondered if he was looking at them now.

None of the horses were doing anything more exciting than dozing. I couldn't muck stalls, so I returned to the clinic and filled two buckets with enemas and cotton rolls and Vetrap and a bottle of iodine, so I could replenish the foaling kits on my next round; then I sat in the chair Maddie had occupied earlier. There was something to be said for hard work and staying busy. I'd only been on for one hour and was already bored. I stared at the silent television screen and couldn't be bothered with switching it on.

Between Thursday night and Friday day, even with a follow-up interview at the police station, I'd slept more hours than I typically slept in three days. Yet I felt drained. As I propped my head in my hand, a light reflected on the window's smooth glass. Someone had switched on the lights in the bank barn's lower level.

Shit. Victor had told me a shipment was coming up from Florida, and I'd completely forgotten about it. If I had any hope of discovering what went on in the bank barn, I'd have to get over there, but that meant leaving the mares unattended. I decided to risk it. If my excursion took too long, I'd think of something.

I switched off the clinic light, drove to barn one, and switched on all the lights. If anyone wondered where I was, they'd think I was working or delivering a foal.

I left my Chevy parked by the barn door, so that the aisle light shone across the hood; then I cut across the field that stretched toward the clinic. When I reached the back fence line, I no longer had the luxury of slipping through a gate. I'd have to climb the fence, and doing it one-handed would not be easy. I grabbed the top board with my right hand, hitched myself over, and dropped clumsily to the ground. My left shoulder was holding up just fine, as long as I didn't use it, but the burn across my ribs began to ache. As I reached the outermost stallion paddock, the distant sound of a diesel engine broke the silence. I looked over my shoulder when headlights crested a small knoll. The engine's pitch changed as the driver slowed. He passed the clinic, then turned into the driveway that cut past the Nashes' house and ended at the bank barn.

I broke into a cautious jog through the coarse grass. An occasional depression or clod of earth tripped me up as I circled farther to the north so I could approach the barn from the back. I'd brought my flashlight, but using it was out of the question. The twang of springs and clank of metal against metal sounded in the still air as the driver lowered the trailer's ramp into position. I slowed to a walk as I neared the barn. The pasture fence loomed in front of me, strips of charcoal gray backlit by the barn lights. I paused and caught my breath. Sweat dampened my skin and tingled under the strapping around my chest. The abrasion across my ribs had stoked up to a burning sting, like raw skin beneath a blister exposed to air.

A man's voice carried across the darkness. Victor, giving instructions to the driver. I considered what I was about to do and decided there were two possible outcomes. Either I'd discover that the activities in the bank barn were inconsequential, more than likely mundane and totally unrelated to Bruce's disappearance.

Or they were the reason for it.

In either case, this time, I didn't have a ready excuse to explain away my presence.

I clamped my hand on the fence, planted my boot on the second board, and sprang off the ground.

The board cracked and sounded like a gunshot tearing a hole in the night.

I slipped back to the ground, crouched behind the fencepost, and stared at the corner of the barn. The light fixture that hung in the forebay bathed the ragged edge of the stone foundation in a soft yellow light. As I watched, no one hustled around the corner. No one shouted. No lights switched on to illuminate my hiding place.

I couldn't see the truck from my position, but the driver had done what they all do, he'd left the big engine idling. Maybe they hadn't heard the noise over the diesel's rumble.

I moved to another fence section and tested the board before putting my full weight on it. I hustled across the lawn and climbed the earthen ramp to the big wagon door. The yellow light that shot straight and true beyond the corner of the barn, had the dual effect of lighting the side yard while pitching the area behind the barn into a darkness deeper than the pervading night. I could barely discern my feet on the ground.

Smoothing my palm across the splintery, weather-roughened wood, I located the door handle, but as I slipped my fingers around the cold metal, the rust-pitted surface beneath my fingertips reminded me of my previous visit. The wheeled brackets that hung the heavy door from the tracks above my head were equally neglected, and they'd made a hell of a noise the last time I'd snuck into the barn. Victor and the driver would not miss the high-pitched sound of metal screeching against metal. Sweat prickled the back of my neck and itched under the strapping as I recounted what I knew of the barn's layout. I could recall only three entrances, the wide livestock entrance under the forebay, the small entry door by the cistern, and the huge wagon door directly in front of me.

No breath of air curled around the barn's western corner or creaked against the plank siding or rustled the tall grass that grew on the steep sides of the ramp. A strong breeze would have worked to my advantage. Now, every sound carried on the still air. I considered my options. The barn's second story was optimal as far as spying went. With the trap doors, I most certainly would find a good line of sight. So I'd have to wait. Wait until the semi's driver dropped the big old diesel into reverse.

A thin bead of light flashed in a gap between the barn's fieldstone foundation and the sill plate. A heavy thud, much like the sound of a stall door closing, vibrated through the wood siding, followed by an urgent whinny. I knelt and peered through the crack, but the only thing I could see was the thick header that formed part of the stall front. I rocked back to my feet as the diesel revved to life. It was now or never. I shoved the door open, and the wheels screeched in the track above my head. I squeezed through the opening and stepped to the side, pressed my back against the wall and listened.

I waited for a full minute, and in that minute, I doubted I would have heard an approaching herd of elephants for all the pounding and swooshing and racket my pulse made against my eardrums. I breathed through my mouth while a surge of blood slammed through my arteries and throbbed along my spine.

Apparently, they hadn't heard.

Stretched out before me, pencil-thin lines of light squeezed through gaps between the floorboards like a massive grid. Five trapdoors ran in a straight line, parallel to and approximately ten feet distant from the wall I had my back to. Off to the right, six more ran along the west wall. And from each square, a column of dust-laden light pointed toward the rafters. The light shining through the trapdoors to my right appeared weaker compared to the ones spread out in front of my current position, which indicated that most of the activity would take place directly beneath my feet. I stepped toward the square of light to my left, placing my foot on the wooden planks as if I were walking on eggs.

I was standing over a stall, and as I stepped closer, the chain link fence that formed the stall front came into view, framed by the trapdoor. Another step brought the stall floor into range. A chestnut mare circled below me, and a bay foal skittered alongside her as if an invisible band held them together. Looking down into a stall wasn't exactly what I'd had in mind. I carefully knelt on the floor, braced my right hand on the worn plank, and lay on my stomach.

The mare grunted and leapt forward, and her baby emitted a shrill whinny. Her elegant chestnut neck tensed, and her ears periscoped around, searching out danger. Although she couldn't see me, she knew someone was moving above her, and she didn't like it. Thousands of years of being preyed upon by saber-toothed tigers and leopards had ingrained a healthy fear of movement overhead that domestication had been unable to erase. I lowered my chin to the floor and peered over the stall header. The semi's airbrakes hissed when the driver reached the road.

I checked that my knife was in my pocket, and when I patted down my coat, I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth. Maddie hadn't given me the farm's cell phone before she left, and I'd forgotten all about it.

Damn.

Someone entered the barn. A man. From my vantage point, I could see a pair of scuffed cowboy boots and worn jeans. If I moved now, he might hear me.

I turned my head to the side and rested my cheek on the dusty floor. He fiddled with a cigarette in his left hand, a cord of blue smoke drifting toward the ceiling before he lifted it to his lips. His attention seemed focused on the mare below me. He strode across the open area, and I held my breath as he stepped into the space directly in front of the stall. Victor Nash.

He inhaled deeply on the cigarette clamped between his lips and squinted as he studied the mare. I guessed his wife's peace of mind didn't mean as much as he claimed, after all.

"Settle down, girl." He'd said it softly, but his voice scraped across my nerves like the edge of a knife.

Victor glanced at his watch, took another drag, then dropped the cigarette to the floor. He ground it out with the heel of his boot, and as he nudged it into the gap under the stall door, the sound of an approaching vehicle echoed under the forebay's roof and channeled through the doorway. Victor turned to watch the vehicle pass before it accelerated into the back lot and swept up the ramp.

Every muscle in my body seized when the headlights pierced the gap beside the wagon door.