Chapter 22

 

Panic welled in my chest and squeezed a fist around my heart. An image of Shane flooded my mind, and I realized I no longer heard his cry over the roar of the fire.

There had to be a way out, but if there was, I couldn't see it. Oily smoke curled down from the ceiling and seared my throat with each breath. Tears streamed from my eyes, and the overhead lights had been reduced to dim yellow smudges. I could barely see my feet as I stumbled toward the junk pile in the middle of the barn. You were supposed to crawl, get down low where the air was cleaner, but I couldn't crawl and carry Deirdre at the same time. When I bumped into something metallic, her arms knocked against the backs of my thighs. A dented water trough stood in my way. As I skirted around the hulk of rusted metal, I thought of the cistern beyond the west wall.

The west wall . . .

Stalls lined the west wall, and they'd each been fitted with a hay drop. I broke into a stumbling run. The fire hadn't spread that far.

A dim square of light filtered upward through a narrow layer of clear air that undulated over the plank flooring. Deirdre moaned when I knelt and eased her forward off my shoulder. She slid down my thigh and sagged onto the floor like a rag doll. Despite my best efforts, her head tipped back and knocked against the wood. Her eyes fluttered opened.

"Deirdre."

Her lids drifted shut.

I unceremoniously flipped her onto her stomach and shoved her over to the opening so that her feet dangled in space above the stall floor. I latched onto her overalls and shoved her farther, until her legs pointed straight toward the straw bedding. I didn't trust my left shoulder to hold up under strain, so I gripped her wrist with my right hand and let her weight pull her deeper into the hay drop. Her pelvis scraped over the edge, then her stomach. Her breasts caught momentarily, then gravity did its job, and she plummeted through the opening. Deirdre's face bumped against the wooden lip, and her weight pitched me over.

I swung my right leg forward and almost fell headfirst through the hay drop, but my boot caught the far side of the frame.

She swung like a pendulum beneath me, her head resting on her shoulder, her feet dangling above the straw. She jerked her head up, and the sudden movement threatened to break my hold.

"Deirdre!" I yelled. "Try to land on your feet!"

She tilted her head and looked up at me as her wrist slipped between my fingers. "Look at the ground!" I screamed.

Deirdre scissor kicked, and the sudden movement broke my grip. She knocked against the stall front before collapsing in the straw with her right leg doubled beneath her. I swung my feet into the opening as she flopped onto her stomach and tried to draw her knees under her. When I scooted my butt closer to the edge, wood splintered behind my back. I looked over my shoulder as a section of roof caved in above the haymow. The sudden inrush of air blasted a solid wall of heat and smoke and flames toward me.

I glanced between my feet and pushed off the edge like a diver slipping into water.

I hit the ground and rolled as a shower of sparks tapped against the hay drop's wooden frame, sounding like sleet hitting glass. The burning embers sifted through the opening and drifted down to the straw.

Deirdre moaned softly as she swayed on her hands and knees. I scrambled to my feet, slipped my arm around her waist, and yanked her upright. She sagged against me.

"Come on, Deirdre. Help me out, here."

When the straw bedding directly beneath the hay drop ignited, I thanked God that someone had left the stall door open. We lurched through the doorway and paused. If there was hell on earth, this was it. Sparks rained into the stalls along the north wall as heavy black smoke oozed downward through the hay drops and coiled back up to the ceiling like tentacles. Flames rose from the straw bedding, and the roar above our heads shook the walls.

I spun Deirdre around. Her right leg buckled beneath her as I propelled her toward the little door that cut through the west wall's foundation. My foot kicked something metallic, and when it slid across the floor and clunked into the tack trunk, a piece of the puzzle fell into place. For whatever reason, they must have stored the coke there. When Elaine had overheard Hadley complaining about a broken lock on a trunk, she'd naturally assumed he was talking about his car.

We reached the door, and I jiggled the antique latch. It wouldn't open. I swallowed my panic and forced myself to slow down, carefully pressed the lever, and the outside bar flipped out of its slot. The door swung outward. We staggered into the tall grass and collapsed. The coarse blades felt blessedly cold against my face. I closed my eyes and gulped a lungful of air. A spasm squeezed my chest. I coughed and wheezed and retched, and when the heaving subsided, I rocked to my knees and wiped my eyes.

Deirdre was kneeling in the grass beside me. "Where's Vic?" Her voice was a whisper on the night air.

I turned my head and watched a tear track through the soot that coated her face. "He's dead."

She hung her head and cried.

After a moment or two, she pressed her sleeve under her nose. "You said Vic killed Lloyd. How do you know?"

"I was hired to look for Bruce and learned of the fires that followed your fiancé's death and your parents'." I looked past her, and my gaze fell upon the old cistern's roughened concrete. "And Bruce's disappearance."

"Is he really dead?"

"Yes. He's in the cistern."

Deirdre scooted away from the curved wall like it would reach out and suck her into the ground. "Vic said he ran away after he stole some of Shane's drugs." She rested her hands on her thighs. "And I believed him."

"He didn't run far."

A beam creaked high above our heads. "We'd better move." I stood and pulled Deirdre to her feet.

"Oh, God." She raised her hands to her mouth. "Jenny." She started to sprint toward the house, but her right knee buckled, and she went down.

I helped her up, and we hustled past the garage and cut through the lot. Deirdre limped up the steps to the back porch, and as we passed through the mudroom and stepped into the kitchen, I was stunned to find the room so peaceful and quiet. And normal.

"I have to check on her," Deirdre whispered.

She hobbled into the hallway and climbed the steps.

I was wondering if I'd been wise to let her go when I heard her soft tread on the stairs. When she rounded the corner, she was crying.

She slumped into a chair. "What am I going to do?" Her voice was thin and high and sounded like a child's. "They'll take her away from me."

I thought of my own miserable childhood. I knew firsthand what it was like not to be wanted. For years, I'd believed with all my heart that the man I knew to be my father hated me. I'd kept to myself, hid my pain away until I was no longer certain I could love or be loved in return. Not in any way that truly mattered.

Not being loved, or wanted. That's what I feared more than anything in this world.

Who would give Jenny the love she needed to grow up whole and healthy if not her own mother?

"Maybe," I said and hesitated. "Maybe you can convince the police that you weren't involved."

She slowly lifted her eyes.

"Is there anything in the house that might link you to the drugs?"

Deirdre shook her head.

"Convince them you had no knowledge of your husband's dealings with Shane, and you might be okay." I paused. "Jenny might be okay."

She rose shakily to her feet. "You won't tell?"

"Promise never to do anything like this again," I said, and the words sounded childish.

"I promise," she breathed. "You've got to believe me."

"I do." I stepped toward the table. The adrenaline rush was wearing off. "How did Shane know you were using AI?"

"He heard Vic . . ." She swallowed and gulped as a spasm constricted her throat. "We were arguing about it, and he heard. No one else knows. I swear to God."

"Except Frank."

She nodded. "He won't tell."

"You'll have to sell Irish Dancer."

She nodded vigorously, then her eyes widened, and she covered her mouth with a trembling hand. "Oh, no."

"What?"

"They'll interview the drivers. They'll find out I was at the barn at night."

"Tell them you started checking shipments after that one mare offloaded sick. The one you had to put down. Tell them Victor tried to talk you out of it, but you insisted."

She nodded. "What about the quarantine story?"

"It's plausible, isn't it?"

"Well, not really."

"Maybe they won't suspect anything, and if they do, tell them Victor convinced you that precautions were prudent, or you were just placating him because he was obsessive about it. And the bruising on your face," I said, and she touched her temple, "tell them I alerted you to the fire, and when we ran into the barn to get the horses out, one of them swung her head around and smacked into you. And your knee. You stumbled and fell backward."

I considered every possible line of questioning that would come up and thought of one I couldn't prepare for. "Deirdre?" I said, and she lifted her head. Her eyes had gone glassy, and I figured she was probably going into shock. "Do the people at the other end know about you? Do they know a vet's taking the drugs out?"

"I don't know. I assume a vet's putting them in. That procedure's much more difficult than removing them. Anyone could do that."

"Okay. If they say a vet had to take them out, just tell them what you told me. Anyone could have done the procedure. Victor could have done it with ease."

She nodded and looked toward the kitchen window. An eerie orange glow tinted the glass. "How will we explain . . ."

"We don't know anything," I said. "We don't know where Victor is, although we fear for him because he's missing. We don't know how the fire started. We never heard gunshots. We didn't know a car was parked behind the barn, but when you see it, you'll recognize it as belonging to Shane Hadley. That is, if you do. It didn't sound like the Viper."

"He uses a plain car when he transports drugs because the cops are less likely to pull him over."

"Okay. You didn't know it was parked there in the middle of the night, and neither one of us knows where Shane is. I was working in barn one and saw the fire. I came over here and banged on the door."

"Why didn't you call the fire department?"

"I forgot to get the farm's cell phone from Maddie. And my first thought was to get the horses out before it was too late," I said, and Deirdre nodded. "When you got out of bed, Victor wasn't in the house. We ran into the barn and chased the horses out."

"What about your truck?" she said. "It should be over here."

"Damn. I'll go get it."

"Hurry."

As I pivoted toward the door, a small voice cried out.

"Mommy?"

Deirdre spun around and covered her mouth with her hands; then she scooped her daughter into her arms.

"What's happening?" Jenny whined. "Where's Daddy?"

Deirdre speechlessly pressed her daughter to her chest and rocked her. Jenny's tiny bare legs dangled from beneath her nightgown, and the sight of bunny slippers on her feet twisted a knot in my gut.

"Call 911," I said. The screen door creaked when I stepped onto the back porch. No sirens wailed in the distance, but I didn't have much time.

I raced across the fields and thought I'd throw up by the time I reached the Chevy. I sped back to the mansion and slammed the truck into park in the lot behind the house. As I walked toward the barn, feeling the heat on my face, the remaining portion of roof creaked and groaned as it caved into the shell of the building. Burning embers floated across the lawn and filtered through nearby trees, and the first siren sounded on the cold air.

I turned back as an emergency vehicle rounded the bend on Bear Wallow. As I crossed the lot, a vehicle slewed around the corner. The driver slammed on the brakes, and Paul Genoa unfolded himself from behind the wheel. He gawked at the fire as he stepped around the hood.

Oh, God. Not now. I bent forward and braced my hands on my knees. Tried to catch my breath. "What you want, Genoa?"

"Where are the Nashes? Is everybody okay?"

"Dr. Nash is in the house with Jenny. I don't know where Victor is." I leaned harder on my hands and dragged in a lungful of air. "Why are you here?"

"I came here to bash your teeth in . . ." he said, and I lifted my eyes and watched his gaze track back to the inferno. "But it looks like my timing's off. What do you need help with?"

"Get Frank. Tell him I sent you." A wet cough rattled my lungs. "Tell him about the fire and that we've got four mares and their babies running around here somewhere, and they need to be found."

"Gotcha."

"And Paul." I swallowed as he paused and faced me. "You deserve better than Maddie."

He stood still for a second, then got back in his car. I sank slowly to my knees and watched him drive off. I was still there when the first tanker pulled down the lane.

* * *

Some dates are embedded forever in my memory. Traditional events like birthdays and anniversaries and others because of the joy they signify. Like the day I met a man who means so much to me now. Still others will stay with me forever because of the sorrow they represent. The day I buried the man who'd raised me, for one. And the day they dug Bruce Claremont out of the well behind the Nashes' barn.

A month has gone by since that day.

* * *

I stood on the backside at Washington Park with my elbows resting on the rail and my ball cap pulled low on my forehead. Corey checked the buckle on her helmet's chinstrap as the bright chestnut colt she was riding strode eagerly through the gap in the fence. She bit her lower lip and furrowed her brow as she guided him to the left where he did not want to go. Going left meant walking, and maybe a brisk jog, when all he wanted to do was run. As they passed by, he swished his tail and threw in a cow hop for good measure, but she managed to coax him into a relaxed walk.

She didn't look my way as she eased the reins through her fingers because I hadn't told her I was coming. I'd seen her last at her brother's funeral and had no idea if she could stand the thought of seeing me. Her hips swayed in rhythm with his stride as the warm spring sunlight bathed them in a golden wash that reflected off her helmet and rippled across the colt's gleaming hindquarters like molten copper.

In Warrenton, both drug investigations had reached satisfying conclusions. Detective Tyler McPherson phoned me two days earlier to thank me for my testimony. He'd been exonerated and had returned to work almost immediately but didn't sound keen on pursuing undercover work in the near future.

The sheriff's department concluded that a drug smuggling operation conducted by Shane Hadley and Victor Nash had gone horribly wrong, and ballistics evidence conclusively linked Hadley to the murder of Bruce Claremont. As for Deirdre, it was clear that the detectives investigating the case wondered about her from the onset, but they never discovered evidence that implicated her in any wrongdoing. I smiled as I recalled the image of Sergeant Bodell climbing the steps to her back porch with a grocery bag in his arm. He'd been spotted hanging around the Nash household on numerous occasions thereafter.

Corey and her charge had reached the 7/8 pole, and as I watched, she guided him in a wide turn that took them to the center of the track. She rose in the stirrups as the chestnut automatically broke into a collected canter.

The investigation into the fire that killed Andrew J. Johnson had been reopened. The general consensus was that Bruce had gone to A.J. for help selling the stolen coke, and Hadley had caught up with him as he covered his bases. Whether the investigators would find evidence to support that theory remained to be seen.

Even though it was not quite seven in the morning, the temperature had already hit sixty degrees. Corey had long since exchanged her fleece vest for a lime green windbreaker, and I expected she'd shed that in the next hour.

It looked like we were in for another hot summer.

Besides Deirdre and Corey, I never did tell anyone about the arsons that followed Victor through his adolescent years to his death. As for the hit-and-run at barn seven my second night on the job, I was fairly certain that, buried beneath the layer of mud crusted over Victor's Toyota, the cops would find paint that matched the barn and farm truck. But no one had even considered Victor. In my mind, the fires signified a very sick psyche, and I had no doubt that he'd been responsible for Lloyd Strauss's death. Dredging that up would help no one.

It wouldn't bring Bruce back, but it would most certainly hurt Jenny. And she'd gone through enough.

The chestnut colt cantered toward me in a rolling, collected frame, fluid and strong, obedient even in his desire to go faster. Corey's weight sunk into her heels with each stride, and the leather fringe on her half-chaps flapped against her calves. She'd bridged the reins above the colt's arched neck and glided past as if she were water skiing. A slight smile tugged the corner of her mouth as she lost herself to the exhilarating centuries-old partnership of man and horse.

I watched them until her tiny form was reduced to a neon speck at the far end of the track. Directly in front of me, a trio breezed past, bunched together along the rail, their riders crouched low in the irons. The rhythmic sound of the horses' breathing combined with the thud of hooves on the ground as the impact forced the air from their lungs. A voice called out when someone whistled. Behind me, a horse whinnied. I thought of Kessler, gearing up for another long day on the backside with no break in sight.

Corey's charge looked content now that he'd expended some energy. His head nodded in rhythm with his steps, and his back swung freely, relaxed and supple. Corey had let the reins out so that her left hand gripped the buckle, but as she approached the gap, she gathered them together. When she lifted her head and caught sight of me as I stood by the opening in the fence, a smile lit up her face and sparkled in her blue eyes. But in the next second, her smile faltered, and I knew she'd thought of her brother.

She rode through the gap, and I followed alongside her until we'd moved far enough to the side to be out of the way.

I took off my ball cap and pushed my bangs off my forehead. "What barn's he from?" I said, knowing she wouldn't dismount until she'd reached the shedrow.

Corey gestured to the barn directly in front of us. "Right here." She dropped her stirrups and slid lightly to the ground. A groom approached as she slipped the reins over the horse's head and removed her saddle.

I gripped my hat in both hands and cleared my throat. "I hear you've started galloping for Kessler."

She nodded and smoothed her hand down the colt's muscled neck. "When I can. Is that why you're here, to see him?"

"Yes." I watched the groom lead the horse toward the barn. "Right." I cleared my throat. "And I wanted to see how you're doing."

She changed her hold on the saddle, rested it on her hip, and squinted toward the track. "Okay," she said softly. "As well as expected, I suppose."

I stood there quietly, not knowing what to say as her eyes filled with tears. She brushed them away with the back of her hand.

"It's so sad." Her voice broke. "But you know?" She turned to face me, took my hand in hers as the early morning sunlight glinted off the moisture that clung to her pale lashes. "As sad as it is, not knowing would have been unbearable."

She stretched up on tiptoe and kissed me; then she turned and headed for the barn.

####

 

Cold Burn is a ForeWord magazine Book-of-the-Year winner and an Independent Publishers' IPPY Award finalist.

 

TITLES IN THE SERIES:

At Risk

Dead Man's Touch

Cold Burn

Triple Cross

(titles are available in print, published by Poisoned Pen Press)

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

After discovering the works of Dick Francis, Kit Ehrman quit a lucrative government job and went to work in the horse industry as a groom, veterinary assistant, and barn manager at numerous horse facilities in Maryland and Pennsylvania. Twenty-five years later, Ehrman combined a love and horses and mysteries by penning the award-winning equine-oriented mystery series featuring barn manager and amateur sleuth Steve Cline. Originally published in hardcover and trade by Poisoned Pen Press, the series has received numerous awards and outstanding reviews in The New York Times, Publishers Weekly, Library Journal, Booklist, Kirkus, The Denver Post, and the Chicago Tribune among others. Ehrman is a member of the International Thriller Writers.org.

 

CONNECT WITH ME ONLINE

http://www.kitehrman.com

http://kitehrman.blogspot.com/

http://www.myspace.com/stephen_cline

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am extremely thankful for my first readers: my mother Kathy Graber, Susan Francoeur, and especially Phil Ehrman. Their impressions, feedback, and suggestions were invaluable in the development of this story. For their painstaking editorial input, I'd like to thank Connie Kiviniemi-Baylor and Beverle Graves Myers, a fellow Poisoned Pen Press "Posse" member and author of the Baroque Mystery Series featuring Tito Amato. For patiently answering my off-the-wall questions regarding equine reproduction, much thanks to Richard Linhart, DVM, Dipl ACT. I'd also like to thank Lt. Richard McLaughlin, Commander, Patrol Services Division, of the Laurel Police Department, for kindly answering my procedural questions. Any and all mistakes are mine. And I'd especially like to thank Clare Bauman for her endless enthusiasm and faith. Thanks, Clare! And to Peggy McMillian for putting up with Steve tagging along on our family vacations! As always, I am grateful to all the hardworking folks at Poisoned Pen Press, especially Barbara Peters and Robert Rosenwald, for their continued support. And finally, this book would not exist without my family, who good-naturedly put up with the writing process, especially my two wonderful sons, Phil and Ray.