Woman in Shadow

by Carrie Stuart Parks

  After pacing around the dining room, I pulled up a chair and sat at one of the tables. I tried rubbing my leg and tried not to scratch my neck. I could feel Bram’s gaze on me. I need a distraction, something to focus on.

  I stood to pace when Bram walked over. “What’s wrong, Darby?”

  Resisting the urge to bite his head off, I said, “Nothing. I’m peachy. Life is grand. What could possibly be wrong—”

  “Okay, okay, you don’t have to bite my head off.”

  So much for resisting urges. “Sorry.”

  His shoulders drooped.

  A weight dropped into my stomach. “Look, I really am sorry.” I waved my hand as if to wipe away my nasty comments, then turned and strolled to the map. Vast tracks of wilderness surrounded Mule Shoe. Nobody knew we needed help. And one person or maybe two were bent on killing us.

  And Bram . . . well, I knew my life would be like this. Single, simple, sane.

  I spun and searched for something, anything, to break this chain of thinking. I finally slapped my hand. Hard. That hurt.

  Bram’s head jerked up. “Darby?”

  “Um . . . mosquito.” I flicked the imaginary bug’s carcass off my hand. That certainly broke my chain of thinking.

  Bram, still watching me with a puzzled expression, moved to another table and spread out the files from his messenger bag. He bent over the paperwork.

  There was something I could do.

  He glanced up as I approached him. “Do you need someone to bounce ideas off of?”

  He pointed to a chair. “I was just going over all the events, trying to figure out who was where, what someone’s motive might be for the murders, who has alibis, and so on.” He’d written the names of everyone at the Mule Shoe on Post-it notes—orange for staff, yellow for guests. Index cards had the events—the murders of the two staff members were on blue cards, and Cookie’s and Angie’s attacks on pink. He tugged the collar of his shirt. “Yeah, I know, on television the police place the clues on a wall, neatly color coded, and with a map and studio photographs. This is the best I could do.”

  “Looks pretty color coded to me. And you used two different pens—”

  “Ran out of ink.”

  “Oh.”

  “Whoever got off the second helicopter is likely our perpetrator. If Spuds—uh, Kevin, is involved, then the two of them are out there. It makes sense that someone who knows Mule Shoe would be involved—someone who knew where the guns and radio were, and probably with a grudge against Roy.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.” I spread out his notes.

  Bram reached out to straighten them, paused, and shuffled the index cards into a neat pile.

  “As soon as we can get out of here and call for help, we can identify the extra passenger on the helicopter.” He started to rearrange the notes into his original order.

  I touched his hand to stop him.

  He jerked it away as if burned.

  Flying solo. “Um . . . what if the plan is for no one to get out of here alive?”

  “That’s a pleasant thought. If that’s the case, we’re stuck with why? And the pilot could still ID the passenger.”

  I stared off into space. Holly’s barking brought me back. The earthquake rattled dishes and caused a few sleepers to grumble.

  A gem of an idea formed in the back of my brain. “Let me try a few what-ifs.”

  “Okay.”

  “First a question. Would the helicopter from Idaho Falls fly over Devil’s Pass?”

  “Maybe.”

  I nodded. A few puzzle parts dropped into place. “So now a non sequitur. We just had two earthquakes fairly close together.”

  “If you’re starting with the eruption of the Yellowstone caldera . . .”

  “No. I mean, it may blow, but I was thinking more about my two dogs barking every time an earthquake is about to start.”

  Bram placed his elbows on the table and raised his eyebrows.

  Cookie entered the dining room heading for the kitchen. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I need another aspirin and a drink of water.”

  “I’m sorry, Cookie. I should have thought of that. Do you need help?” I asked.

  “I’m fine. Ignore me.” She wiggled her fingers at us before leaving the room.

  “You were talking about barking dogs,” Bram prompted me.

  “Right. Once, though, the dogs barked after the ground shook. After the second helicopter left, the ground trembled.”

  “You’re going somewhere with all this?”

  “Now I come to the what-ifs. What if that ‘earthquake’”—I made quotation marks in the air—“was the slide at the Devil’s Keyhole?”

  Bram’s gaze became unfocused and he absently rubbed his chin. “The slide was large, possibly big enough to be felt here. And if it happened after the helicopter flew over that spot, no one would see we were cut off, but if the pilot saw the slide, he could send help. Can we take that chance that help is on the way?” He thought for a moment. “There’s still the issue of the identification of the unknown passenger.”

  Now it was my turn to stare off into space. “I can think of several prospects. One is that the person sitting in the copilot’s seat merely took another seat in the copter for the return trip. Or you were wrong—”

  “I know what I saw.”

  “I’d rather you were wrong. The other possibilities are that the helicopter didn’t make it to Idaho Falls, or whoever got off doesn’t care if they’re identified. He, or she, doesn’t plan on getting out of here alive.”

  Bram frowned. “Those are pretty grim thoughts.”

  “Four people were attacked. Two of them are dead, and a fifth person is missing. That’s grim.”

  We were silent for a few moments. Soft snoring came from the other room.

  “We haven’t explored the idea that the passenger could have a good reason for being here,” I said.

  “Who could that be? And why wouldn’t he make himself known? And why didn’t anyone see him—or her?”

  “Maybe they did,” I said slowly. “Do you have something I could write on?”

  “Full sheet, Post-it note, index card? Any particular color?”

  “Five-by-seven mint-green index card, unlined.”

  Bram pulled up his messenger bag, opened it, and began searching. “I’m not sure I have—”

  “Bram, I’m kidding.”

  “Oh.” He pulled a piece of blank paper from his bag and handed it to me.

  The window nearest the kitchen shattered as a barrage of gunfire erupted.

  Adrenaline shot through my body. I dove to the floor.

  Bram grabbed the table and flipped it on its side, creating a barrier, then yanked me behind it.

  Screams came from the lobby as everyone took cover.

  I curled up, covering my head with my arms. My brain became a pulsing strobe of thoughts: Run! No! Wrong! Help me! Blackness. I was moving, shaking. A sharp pain on my cheek.

  I opened my eyes. Bram was shaking me. “Darby, stop! Look at me.”

  He’d slapped me.

  I slapped him back.

  He let go, then grinned. “I guess you’re better. It’s over. The shooting stopped.”

  “Sorry,” I muttered. “PTSD trigger. Nobody’s ever slapped me before. Except me.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m sorry about that. I’ve never hit a woman before, either. You were screaming. I probably should have done this.” He kissed me.

  The burning on my cheek spread to my whole body.

  He let go and turned toward the lobby. “Everyone okay?”

  Wyatt answered. “No one was hit.”

  “Good. Stay low,” Bram said. “Roy, do you have a hammer and long nails here in the lodge? We can use a table to board up this window.” Roy, Bram, and Wyatt soon had the table hammered across the shattered window.

  I remembered Cookie had gone into the kitchen for water. The room at first appeared empty except for a broken glass and spilled water on the
floor. I soon found her in a corner crouched under a table. “It’s safe now. Come into the other room.”

  The two of us joined the three men gathered in the lobby. “Ladies.” Bram had to speak up to be heard over the panicked voices and crying. “Please, be calm. There is only one person out there.” He glanced at me quickly, clearly wanting to keep the possibility of two a secret for now. “The shooter doesn’t know how many armed people are in here, so he isn’t going to try to get in.”

  “We have team-building exercises,” Roy said, “to teach companies what to do in an active-shooter situation. We are implementing these steps to keep you safe.”

  “What we need you all to do,” Wyatt said, “is spread out even more and stay as far away from windows as possible. We want you to adopt the survival mindset. You will get out of this.”

  Bram indicated the fireplace. “We’ll only have Angie and Cookie by the fire with one of the staff members. Wyatt, you’ll need to cover the back of the lodge. Got it?” The men nodded.

  To stop shivering from the combination of a PTSD incident and Bram’s kiss, I returned to the dining room, then crawled across the floor picking up the notes we’d been working on. By the time I’d collected them all, everyone had settled down, or at least settled down as much as they could knowing a killer was outside. And knowing we had far fewer tables than windows.

  Chapter 18

  Bram went from window to window, checking locks and making sure drapes or blinds were closed. While he was doing the security check, I arranged the case notes on a table away from any windows. I found a blank piece of paper and drew a rough layout of the Mule Shoe. By the time he returned, my brain fog from the PTSD trigger had lifted enough to make intelligent conversation. Unfortunately, his nearness formed a different kind of muddled thinking.

  “Everybody settled?” I asked.

  “Not really. Stacy is really shook up and her husband is trying to calm her. One of the Polish ladies can’t stop crying. Grace helped herself to a stiff drink and seems to be less upset. Speaking of which, can I bring you a brandy or . . .”

  I didn’t think this would be a good time to bring up my drinking and pill-popping that landed me in jail after my injury. “No thanks. I cope best by changing my focus. I have an idea I’d like to run past you. Unless the missing staff member just shot up the lodge, it’s a pretty good confirmation that a stranger got off the helicopter . . .”

  “Agreed.”

  “Okay, now let’s look at everyone else. Mrs. Eason, her daughter, Mrs. Kendig, and Mr. Rinaldi boarded the copter. You’d gone into the art room because of the giardia incident. Also present there were Angie, Grace, Dee Dee, Peter, Stacy, and me.” I placed seven circles in the art room with names on them.

  “The copter left.” Bram sat down and took the pen from me. “I ran outside to try to keep it here but was too late. Then I went looking for Roy. I found Cookie and the three female staff members in different parts of the lodge, working.” He drew four circles inside the lodge. “We’ve accounted for eleven, twelve counting me, who were occupied when the stranger got here. Roy and Wyatt were here.” He drew two circles next to the pasture. “The horses had broken out. Wyatt, the assistant wrangler, and a maintenance worker were going out after them.”

  I tapped the paper. “You mentioned the assistant wrangler and maintenance worker—did you actually see them?”

  “No.”

  “And those were the two men we found dead.”

  “Riiight.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I asked to use Roy’s office to interview you and Angie about the contaminated water. Before I went there, I located Liam in the kitchen eating ice cream and told him I’d be going back with him and to slightly delay the departure of the supply wagon.”

  I nodded. “In other words, everyone who could have seen someone get off the copter wasn’t physically able to do so—except three people: the three male staff members, two of whom are dead and one missing.”

  The room seemed darker, the pools of light more isolated. The air had grown chilly from the broken window and smelled faintly of spilled beer. The heat from the fireplace barely penetrated the dining area.

  “You know,” Bram said, “it was critical that a copter bring someone here. Who could guarantee that would happen unless the pitchfork accident was actually a murder attempt?”

  “But how would someone know Riccardo—”

  “Exactly. Maybe the trap was for someone who actually should have been in the barn, someone who believed that trapdoor would be shut because it always is closed?”

  “Yet another complication.”

  Bram seemed deep in thought. “It was Roy who said that Wyatt was going out with the assistant wrangler and handyman to round up the rest of the horses.”

  “I know. I came in as he was saying that. But later, Wyatt said that he had caught the horses and that he was going after the missing few.”

  “Looks like we need to ask Wyatt about the last time he saw the two victims.”

  Pulling the small scraps of paper to me, I arranged the events Bram had been studying. “Got another piece of paper?”

  Bram grinned at me before handing me a sheet. I tore it into small pieces and wrote on each piece. Riccardo’s fall/pitchfork/orange fibers, giardia, bear/sardines, contaminated water, vandalism of art room, full refund, Angie paid per head, broken brake handle, busted pipe? mix-up in registration? I thought for a moment, then wrote, slide at Devil’s Keyhole?

  “What’s all this?” Bram asked.

  “It just occurred to me that Roy isn’t the only person affected by these events. Angie also suffered financially.”

  “And she was attacked. But who would want to injure or kill her? And why was Cookie attacked? And why did you write about the slide?”

  I let out a sigh of frustration. “I don’t know about Angie or Cookie. The slide just seemed to be awfully . . . convenient and coincidental.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense either. Someone causes the slide to . . . what? Isolate the people here? So the killer can pick them off, one at a time? To what end? Motive, Darby—there’s no motive!”

  The lodge wheezed and sighed around us as the logs shifted. Bram pushed away from the table, strolled into the lobby, and added a couple more logs to the waning fire. I turned Bram’s list toward me. Even if the killer was the person who got off the helicopter, other events happened before that arrival. Kevin, our missing staffer?

  Maybe.

  Bram returned and sat down. “Any further ideas?”

  I handed him the list of incidents. “I keep thinking we have to look at all this from a number of directions. We’ve been lumping all the events together. If we separate the murders and just look at the two conclusive events—”

  “The destruction of the art room and the contaminated water.”

  “Right. Both were clearly deliberate acts. I suppose, technically, Riccardo could have done both. He wanted very badly to leave. He had the most motive.”

  “Then we could just examine the motive for the murders and attacks.”

  Cookie walked in from the lobby. “I couldn’t sleep. Or maybe I’m afraid to sleep. What are you doing?”

  I waved my hand over the notes and torn pieces of paper. “At this point, we’re just trying to figure out what’s going on. Bram saw someone get off the helicopter—”

  “So that’s who’s out there. The killer!” Cookie said.

  “Possibly. Probably.” Bram looked at her. “Are you sure you didn’t see the person who attacked you?”

  Cookie closed her eyes for a few moments. “Mmm. I left Roy in his office . . . caught a glimpse of Gary, the assistant wrangler, leaving the staff housing . . . heard the horse on the road—”

  “That’s it!” I held up the map I’d drawn. “Are you sure it was Gary?”

  “I figured it was. I don’t know, now that you mention it. Why?”

  Bram’s face was tight. “We found Gary’s body shor
tly after we got back to the ranch. There’s no way he could have been at the staff quarters, then shown up dead out by the cabins. He probably was the first person killed. The body in the barn would have been next, and we now know why you were attacked. You saw the killer.”

  Cookie shook her head. “The irony is I didn’t recognize him. What’s the motive for killing, outside of preventing identification?”

  My missing limb twinged with more phantom pain. “The most common reasons for murder are financial gain or greed, some kind of sexual gratification, or the desire for power or control. And of course the ever-popular cuckoo-for-Cocoa-Puffs crazy.”

  “And we don’t have enough information to know which it could be,” Bram said.

  I stood and stalked to the map, traced the three routes out of Mule Shoe, then turned to Bram and Cookie. “Regardless of the motive or reason, this has been a systematic attack, deliberate and lethal. We’re going to have to outmaneuver the enemy.”

  “And how do you propose we do that?” Cookie asked.

  “We don’t send just one rider or even a small group in just one direction. We already know he’s out there and can pick them off at his leisure. We’ll send three parties.” I pointed to the three routes. “It’s the only chance that at least someone will make it to civilization and get help.”

  Bram held up his Glock. “We only have two weapons and three people that will need them.”

  “We need four. The three groups going out on horseback and the one staying here with Angie and Cookie. It’s the only chance we’ve got.”

  I could see Bram formulating our chance of survival. Returning to my seat, I said, “Think about it. Sending one rider to get us rescued could result in his or her death, and we’d be in the same situation. Staying put and hoping someone will eventually miss us would guarantee Angie’s death . . .” And possibly Cookie’s. The words formed in my brain. “Plus, the killer could flush us out by setting the lodge on fire, then pick us off at his leisure, or just keep shooting out the windows until we’re out of ways to block them. With this plan, we might have two chances out of three that a rider could get help.”