Down the road, I got a room at the Thunderbird Motel. When I asked for a midnight wakeup call, the clerk looked at me funny. I parked the Ghost directly outside my first-floor room and changed into the shorts, T-shirt, and cheap tennies. Madame and I ran to the campus of Central Washington University where the leafy elms drooped in the late August heat. I made eight laps around the college track while Madame rested under the bleachers in the shade. And I prayed for protection. Both for tonight and for tomorrow morning when I would be sitting in the SAC’s office.
Back at the motel, I called for an extra-large pizza and jumped into the shower. I washed the Rodeo Girl T-shirt in the sink with a bar of soap and laid it over the air-conditioning unit, hoping it would dry by midnight. When the pizza arrived, Madame and I sat on the double bed. She wagged her tail through my extended grace, where I added another request: wisdom. Tomorrow at 11:00 a.m. Wisdom.
We ate pizza topped with everything but the kitchen sink and watched old cable crime shows. I explained to Madame that none of it resembled real life. But the joke was on me when an actor walked onscreen wearing a seersucker blazer. His Southern accent was soft. I watched his every move. A calm actor. Nothing superfluous. Sensible and kind.
When my cell phone started doo-dahing, I knew it wasn’t him. That stuff only happened on television.
“Where are you?” Jack asked.
I gazed around the room. Pizza, shared with a dog. Bad crime TV. Staring at an actor like a jilted teenager.
“Nowhere,” I said. “I’m nowhere.”
“I can always ping that phone’s GPS.”
“Go ahead. It’ll come up nowhere.”
“What were you doing at the crime lab?”
I gave him the background again on the selenium and trace radioactive elements, the mud poultices that were actually poisoning the horses. “That mud comes from Handler’s land. Eleanor’s trainer, Bill Cooper, brings it in.”
“You’re sure?”
“Sure enough. And Cooper has refused to tell anyone where the mud comes from.” The facts were lining up like dominoes. But I couldn’t find the first tile, the original that set the others falling. “Anything on the background checks?”
“I haven’t had a chance.”
“What if I told you I found the same clay in the room of Sal Gag’s groom? On shoes way too big for her?”
“I’d want you to explain it for me,” he said.
“All roads keep leading back to Handler and his Dark Horse Ranch. All that’s missing is why. If the suits haul me in tomorrow, we might never know.”
“You must have some theories,” Jack said.
The TV show had ended. I was trying to catch the credits, to find the name of the actor who resembled DeMott. But I missed it. And the next show was some reality TV spectacle. Emaciated women with pneumatic breasts and too much makeup yelling at each other. They were probably supposed to be beautiful, but they reminded me of crazy men in raincoats, flashing their privates—exhibitionists without conscience or shame. Madame rolled over on her back.
“I can come up with a bunch of theories. Handler knows that soil’s poisonous, and he’s getting paid to sabotage a barn that competes with Abbondanza. But why would he steal their horse? The horse he sold to Sal Gag. See what I mean?”
He said nothing. I clicked through the channels, pausing on a cooking show with some large cleavers and angry chefs.
“Harmon?”
I kept clicking. What TV needed was more shows with real guns. And people who knew how to fire them. “I’m here.”
“Can I make a suggestion?”
“Just one.”
“You only need one,” he said. “Don’t do anything impulsive.”
I glanced at the black shirt hanging over the air conditioner. “What do you mean by ‘impulsive’?”
“Sudden, rash. The stuff Raleigh Harmon does when she’s backed into a corner. You want evidence, but—”
“But nothing. OPR will have me sitting at a desk for five years if I can’t prove anything.”
“There’s an open desk by me.”
“Ever wonder why?”
“Once. But then I realized the problem.”
“Really.”
“Yes. Most people can’t handle being that close to somebody this awesome.”
“I hear Freud is taking patients.”
“Listen to me, Harmon. Don’t do anything that’ll get you in more trouble.”
I stared at the shirt. “I just need to check one thing.”
“Harmon . . .”
“The kidnapper’s note said forty-eight hours. That was about thirty hours ago. So instead of lecturing me, Jack, how about running a deeper check on Handler? Or Ashley Trenner?”
The phone crackled with what sounded like a sigh.
“One last thing,” he said. “And if you repeat it during the meeting, I’ll deny it. But don’t ever change. No matter what they say.”
He hung up, and I stared at the TV screen for several minutes. But my eyes were blind to the images, and when I clicked it off, Madame rolled over again, groaning softly. Satiated with pizza. I turned out the light and pulled the covers up close.
My wake-up call was in three hours.
Chapter Forty-Six
We pulled out of the Thunderbird Motel twenty minutes past midnight. The sky held a bright half-moon and a symphony of shimmering stars. I drove south on Interstate 82 and drank coffee while Madame continued sleeping. When the Ghost floated into the small town of Selah, Madame woke up and nudged her nose under my right elbow, climbing into my lap.
I followed the same curving road beside the Yakima River. But this time I turned on Clover Road. A gravel lane, it ran alongside the river opposite Handler’s property. When I cut my headlights, the moon flashed on the river, silver as liquid mercury. The car bumped over thirsty tree roots under a stand of elms. When I got out, Madame jumped out too, sniffing the ground and leaving her mark on the gnarled tree roots.
I pulled my hair into a ponytail and tugged on the black baseball cap. My cell phone was on silent ring, but I clicked to the camera feature, then clipped it to the black running shorts. The spade’s concave blade fit against the small of my back. I pulled on the gardening gloves and picked up the pruning shears and flashlight. Madame looked like a gray fox in the moonlight. Her ears were pricked for threats.
“Psst.” I clicked the flashlight.
She looked at me.
I pointed at the open car door. “Get in.”
She jumped over the tree roots and disappeared into the dark.
“I’m serious,” I hissed. “Get over here.”
Each time I found her she darted away. I tried to keep the flashlight down, sweeping the beam back and forth, trying to track her. The hair on my neck was prickling. I imagined every threat, from rattlesnakes to night-hunting rednecks. Walking back to the car, I stood by the open door. From the dog’s perspective, she had a point. Long drives, hot weather. Confined to a car and a motel room. Now the air had finally cooled, and I was making her stay in the car.
I shut the long white door.
The dog trotted out of the trees.
“Fine.” I pointed the flashlight. Her black eyes were shining with victory. “Don’t run off again. I mean it.”
I hid the car key under the bumper and then we jogged down the gravel road. She stayed six inches off my left ankle and I hoped we looked legit: a woman and her dog taking an early-morning run. Very early. But so what. I faced forward and listened to the river murmuring beside us. When we reached the barbed wire fence that the juvenile delinquents had slipped through, I paused, pretending to stretch out my legs. The pooled river water was as gray as the mud on the sandbar. I kneeled by the fence post, waiting. Madame was close enough to touch but kept circling, sniffing the ground. There was a bold green scent like eucalyptus in the air, and the barbed wire’s knots reminded me of Handler’s piercings. Spikes that served a similar purpose: Keep out. No trespassing. The form
er foster kid didn’t want anyone coming through the window to his soul.
I pulled her close. Even with cotton gloves I could feel her fur raised stiff between her shoulders.
“Good girl.” I set her down on the other side of the barbed wire. “Stay.”
I managed to work my arms and torso through the middle space, but one of the spikes grabbed the back of my shirt. I reached behind, tugging. The cotton ripped.
“Rats.”
I jogged to Handler’s property. Madame stayed in front of me. In a half crouch I dragged the flashlight’s handle across the ground. Each time I hit something solid, I clicked on the light on. Mostly I found clumps of desert grass and sage. But at the base of the hill I found a dark spot. Wet. I pulled out the spade and dug through the gritty soil, feeling the cool, buried earth. The irrigation tube wasn’t difficult to reach. It looked like a fat snake under the flashlight.
Madame leaned over the hole I made, panting.
“Almost done.” I laid the spade against the small of my back, then opened the pruning shears. The jaws bit the tube but the first squeeze didn’t cut the plastic. It was durable, strong enough to withstand the temperature fluctuations of the desert. I crimped down again, using both hands, and felt the upper side pop. Water leaked out. I snipped through the bottom half, then opened the jaws again and bit down three inches away from the first cut. Madame growled. I looked up.
The horse looked ethereal, lustrous in the moonlight. It walked around the base of the hill, followed by two more horses. I could hear their hooves striking the rocks. Like the sound of pool balls clicking against each other. Madame gave another growl.
“Hang on.” I squeezed the shears. “I’m almost done.”
The shears bit through the line’s top half. I squeezed again. And looked up. The world was painted with chiaroscuro light. All quartz-colored shadows and charcoal lines, the ashen hues of the horse in front. Madame took one step forward. The sheers bit the tube. I grabbed the section from the hole, stuffing it into my waist band. Then I lunged for the dog.
But she was gone. Running.
“No!”
I raced after her, but she was running at top speed. She went after the horses like a sheepdog, barking and nipping.
“Madame—no!”
The two horses in back ripped past the fence and ran around the base of the hill, disappearing. But the third horse tried to outmaneuver Madame. Changing direction, darting, twisting. But the small black dog refused to give up.
“Stop!”
I tripped, fell. Got up. They were running too fast, the ground vibrating with the heavy hooves. When the horse changed directions, its tail crested like a breaking wave. But it was headed toward the hill and I stopped, pleading silently. Run up the hill. Please. But Madame cut off that path, sending the horse galloping to the left. Down. To the water. Madame on its heels.
“No—”
I ran for the river.
“No—no!”
The horse splashed into the pond. Madame stood on the bank, giving one final bark. Victory.
But the next sound chilled my spine. Wet, slurping. The horse, caught in the clay.
I yanked off my cell phone and clicked off the camera. “Don’t move, Madame.”
The horse was rocking back and forth. I dialed 911 and started talking as soon as the operator answered.
“Dark Horse Ranch. It’s an emergency.”
“All right, ma’am, calm down. Are you alone?”
“I need help. The river, Yakima River, right off—” I struggled to remember the name. “Clover Road.”
Her voice was too calm. “Is there anyone nearby who could be of some assistance?”
“Lady, this is an emergency!” I grabbed a board from the stack on the bank and dragged it toward the horse. I threw it down. The horse’s flanks quivered.
“I’ll need a little more information.” Her voice was placid. “Tell me exactly what’s going on.”
“There’s a horse in danger.”
“A horse.”
“It’s not a joke. It’s an emergency. Please send help to the Dark Horse Ranch, across from Clover Road.”
She asked for more details. I gave a strangled cry, then cut off the call. A cheap shot, but the horse’s head was bouncing up and down. It was snorting, trying to move. And every effort only cemented its legs deeper into the soil.
“Okay,” I whispered. “It’s okay. Hold on, hold on.”
I laid the boards over the water. They wobbled under my feet. I could see the horse’s eyes. Too large, bulging, flashing white in the moonlight. I wanted to run for the car, fly the Ghost down the road, escape over the mountains. Toss the tube to the crime lab and pretend this part of the night never happened. But I knew—I knew. If I left, this horse would snap its legs. And die.
I took the spade from the small of my back. The water was over the horse’s ankles and it was making a keening sound. Like bagpipes. I tried to remember what Handler had done. The soil was heavy as lead and every spadeful landed on the bank with a sodden plop, wet as death’s rattle. Hopelessly, I leaned against the horse’s chest, watching the thick vein bulge beside its knee. Pulsing with fear and adrenaline. I wrapped my hands around the right ankle. The water cold, seeping through my cotton gloves. I pulled. And prayed. Leaning into the horse, trying to get it to shift its weight. Suddenly I heard a suctioning sound. Words tumbled from my mouth. Thanking, pleading, begging.
I rushed for the left ankle, but I could see the problem. The horse was leaning on this one leg. I stabbed the spade into the clay, throwing the soil. I heard a high-pitched wail. But it wasn’t the horse.
In the distance two cones of light bounced through the dark. Chrome glinted in the moonlight. The sound of the engines grew more distinct. ATVs.
I glanced at the riverbank.
Madame was facing them, her tail stiff. I worked the last of the soil from around the left leg, threw the spade on the board, and yanked up on the ankle. The horse didn’t budge. I threw my weight into its shoulder, hard. Enough to throw the animal off balance. When I grabbed the ankle, it lifted and I guided it onto the board.
But now the horse leaned forward, like the horse this morning. Trying to yank out its back legs. And I could hear their voices. Close. Yelling.
I placed my hand on the horse. “Please don’t move. Please wait for them.”
The eyes were black. Obsidian marbles. And I could see dots of white light. The headlights, coming near. I wanted to bolt. But I moved slowly across the board, hoping not to spook the animal.
I jumped for the riverbank.
“Madame, run!”
We were at the barbed wire fence in under a minute. Scooping up the dog, wanting to smack her rear end, I tossed her on the other side and scrambled through the wires. I glanced back, once. The machines had stopped on the bank, headlights aimed at the horse.
We sprinted down the road. I’d lost the flashlight and when we reached the trees, I was tripping over the roots.
“You’re in trouble,” I panted at Madame. “Big, big trouble.”
My heart was pounding so hard it hurt. I flung my gloves into the trees, grabbed the key I’d hidden under the bumper, and pulled the tubing from my waistband. Inside the car, I keyed open the glove box, threw the tube inside, and locked the panel.
The car growled forward in first, bumping over the roots. I didn’t turn on my headlights.
I didn’t need to.
Coming through the trees, the blue lights flashed like strobes. Swirling. Cutting through the darkness.
Police lights.
“No more funny business,” I told the dog. “You hear me?”
Chapter Forty-Seven
I remained hopeful even as the police cruiser came bumping down the road. Even as the officer stepped out of his vehicle with his right hand on the butt of his revolver. Even as he shined a Maglite beam directly through the windshield into my eyes. Even as Madame crawled down to the floor, suspecting trouble.
<
br /> I still hoped for a getaway.
Rolling down my window, I offered him Raleigh David’s driver’s license before he had to ask. He pointed the Maglite at my fake identity.
“I called 911,” I confessed. “I was walking my dog, we’ve been driving all day, helping a friend move to Spokane, and then I saw the horse.”
He shifted the light, shining the beam on Madame. She cowered on the floor.
“You called?”
“Yes, sir. On my cell phone. I was so worried. But it looks like you got here in time. I’m so relieved.”
He handed me back the license and lifted the beam, raking it through the trees. The light was powerful enough to catch bits of the ATVs across the river. “Yeah, they got it covered. Thanks for calling.”
“No problem, Officer.” I smiled, slid the gearshift into first, and was releasing the clutch just as another set of lights came toward us. The beams seemed more elevated than normal. A truck. And it stopped on a diagonal, blocking my way down the narrow road. The driver’s door opened. Paul Handler stepped out. He called to the officer. By name. And when he walked past the Ghost, he didn’t bother acknowledging me.
I looked over at Madame. “We are toast.”
The two men stood behind the Ghost, talking. I grabbed my cell phone, keeping it in my lap as I dialed Jack’s number. In the side mirror I saw Handler pointing at the Ghost. Jack’s voice mail picked up. The officer began walking toward my car.
“Jack,” I said. “I need some help. Serious help.”
I was measuring the women’s holding pen in the Selah Police Department at twenty minutes before 4:00 a.m. My method consisted of walking from one concrete wall to the other, then subtracting the number of steps needed to bypass two Hispanic women who sat in the middle of the floor, buried under a saffron-colored blanket. They seemed to want to sleep, blocking the overhead lights with the blanket. The lights burned with a sickly green fluorescence that made the blanket look blue in places. The women refused to lean their backs against the wall, and I decided they knew more about holding cells than FBI agents did.
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