by Maggie Pill
“Can’t the humane society people do it?” he asked. “You’ve got a lot going right now with Retta and Barb out in the woods and all.”
“It’s the weekend,” I reminded him. “I’ll call them on Monday, but those horses shouldn’t have to wait.”
“Faye.” Dale’s tone made me turn. “You think I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m not deaf.”
“I’ll be careful,” I promised. “If there’s one sign someone’s at Win’s house, I’ll drive on by.”
He didn’t like it. Just then Buddy limped past as if Dale didn’t exist and rubbed against my leg, almost upsetting me as I pulled on my second boot.
“I’ll take the dog,” I said. “He’s pretty protective.”
“True,” Dale agreed. “He’d as soon bite a guy as look at him.” Buddy was still ignoring his friendly overtures.
Maybe I could get him his own dog, I thought. That was followed by, Right—Barb will be thrilled to have two in the house.
“Here.” Dale handed me gloves, a hat, and a scarf. When he turned to speak to the dog, I replaced the scruffy yellow scarf with a purple one Barb had given me for Christmas.
“Go with your mom,” Dale said to Buddy. “If there’s anyone at that house, I expect you to chase him off.” The dog made no sign he’d heard but followed me to the car and waited expectantly to be lifted onto the front seat. Once there, he made a little huff of contentment and settled down for a nap.
As I backed out the driveway, my phone sounded. Pulling over to the curb, I checked the caller ID: MEADOWS.
Great.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Mrs. Burner, it’s Delia. It’s Harriet’s day to take a bath, but she says she won’t.”
I suppressed a sigh. “Put her on.” After some muted pleading and strong objection I heard, “What?”
“It’s bath day, Harriet.”
“I just had a bath.”
That wasn’t true, though it might have seemed so to her. Or she was simply feeling cantankerous. I kept my voice light. “That’s okay. Hilda Fordham wants your spot, and I told them to let her have it.”
Hilda was one of the few other women in the nursing home who still had “it,” meaning, I guess, that she could still flirt with male residents and remember where her room was.
“She can’t have my spot!” Harriet shouted. “Why in the world would you tell them that?”
I didn’t have to say more. She was still ranting about my interference when Delia took the phone back. “Thanks,” she said softly. “You always seem to be able to handle her.”
“Decades of experience, dear.”
“But now she’s angry at—”
“I don’t mind if she’s mad at me as long as it makes your job easier.”
It really was okay, because Harriet forgot old complaints quickly. Mostly because she so easily thought up new ones.
On the drive out to the Darrow place, we added something to the list of things Buddy didn’t like: cigarette smoke. He snuffed, he sneezed, and he let me know in no uncertain terms that he didn’t like that smell. With a sigh, I put out my cig. I didn’t smoke in the house, since it was Barb’s. I couldn’t smoke in most public places. Now I couldn’t even smoke in my own vehicle. Maybe it was time to give it up. The only person who might possibly be sorry to see me quit was Gabe Wills, and really, did I need more of Gabe in my life?
There was no car in the driveway at Darrow’s house. Winston’s car had been pulled from the ditch, leaving a gouge that was almost filled in by recent additional snowfall. I pulled into the drive and waited. Nothing moved. I got out, carrying Buddy to keep his cast dry, and peered into the garage windows. Both the Darrow vehicles were parked inside.
I went to the door, noting fresh footprints. Several people had come onto the deck, turned, and gone away. Reporters, no doubt, hoping for a scrap of information no one else had.
There was no sign that anyone was inside. To be sure, I rang the doorbell. No answer. I knocked sharply then tried the door. Locked, as I’d expected. Taking a last glance at the yard, the deck, and the empty road at the other side of the frozen lake, I followed the walk around the side of the house and headed for the barn.
Set back from the house and off to the south a little, the barn was a neat structure just large enough for a couple of animals, some tack, and grain and hay storage. Un-shoveled for days, the way was as difficult as Dale had predicted. Carrying Buddy threw my balance off, so I took small steps, testing the snow to be sure of my footing. I was huffing and puffing by the time I got close, and my boots were full of snow already melting to icy water. Plaintive nickers from the horses told me my mission was necessary, and I slogged on. Buddy growled at the sound, but I gave him a pat. “Quiet,” I ordered. “It’s their house, so you have to be nice.”
Kicking the snow away from the door, I slid it open and stepped inside. The barn was dark, its windows shuttered against the weather. Feeling along the door frame, I found a switch and flipped it on. A single fluorescent light flickered, flickered again, and came on, showing me the interior in two tones: glaring white and dim gray.
The place smelled like barns everywhere, a mixture of hay, manure, and sweat. On my right was a large stall where a pretty little buckskin eyed me warily. I wasn’t the person she expected, but I might be someone who could help. Farther down, a chestnut with a white blaze stepped to the front of her stall, nodding a greeting. She didn’t appear to care who I was as long as I was there to feed her.
I set Buddy down and waited to see what he’d do. I attached a leash to his collar but let it lie slack, giving him room to explore a little. He made a cautious circle around my feet, barked twice, his way of announcing our presence, and set his rear down as if to say he was okay with the place. I looped his leash over a convenient nail on the center post, limiting him to a three-foot circle that kept him from reaching the horses.
Ahead of me, square hay bales three rows deep took up the whole back wall. The stack at the rear reached all the way up to the rafters. The middle row was almost as high, but in front there were single bales, left as steps so Stacy could reach those higher up. A square bale weighs over fifty pounds, so it’s not something most women toss around easily. I pictured her pulling one off the stack and sending it tumbling to the floor, where she’d cut the ties and break it in half for the two beasts.
There was hay, but I thought horses needed more, so I kept looking. The wall to my left was taken up with shelving and cupboards for tack and supplies. Bits and bridles hung from pegboard hooks. Near me was a large bin with a hinged cover. It was almost full of grain and topped by a handy scoop. Moving back and forth, I filled the feed boxes with what I estimated was the right amount for a hungry horse.
Next I gave them water from a spigot fitted with a hose. Taking it to the chestnut’s stall, I filled her trough. She started drinking right away, and the buckskin complained about having to wait her turn. When the first horse had enough water, I transferred the hose to the other trough, giving the buckskin her drink.
There was loose hay in a pile, so I tossed some of that into the stalls. They needed mucking out, but I wasn’t dressed for that, nor was I sure enough of the horses’ gratitude to climb into their bedrooms with them. The Humane Society people would be better suited for that.
When I tossed the grain scoop back into the bin, it made a hollow thump that didn’t sound like grain. Though I dreaded finding a dead mouse or even a rat, I gingerly scraped through the oats with the scoop. An object buried in there was harder than a critter and much bigger. Brushing the grain away with a gloved hand, I uncovered a large plastic tub. I found the lid’s lock-on mechanism, unhooked it, and pulled it off.
Money. The bin was half full of mixed denominations in used condition: a twenty missing a corner, fives that had been crumpled then flattened again, and hundreds bunched with rubber bands. I’d found the money Stacy stole from her former boyfriend, the source of the cash she’d deposited at BB&T each mont
h until she died.
Being a horse lover myself, I should have suspected Stacy would keep her secrets not in the house she shared with Winston, but in the barn, where only she spent time.
That meant the book might be out here, too. If I found it and turned it over to the authorities, Santiago and his men would have no more reason to harass us. In fact, they’d have every reason to leave Michigan.
I began with the shelves and cupboards, where I found bridles, saddles, leather conditioner, black salve, ropes, reins, and blankets, but no books. Next I returned to the grain bin, thinking she might have buried it at the bottom. Pulling the tub of money out, I climbed into the bin and sifted through the grain along the bottom and sides. I got nothing except a coating of dust on my pant legs and sleeves and a fine, dry cloud that made me sneeze.
Crawling out of the bin with no dignity whatsoever, I began searching the room. The pile of loose hay yielded nothing. The rafters, the door frame, the corners—nothing. Moving along the back wall, I kicked the hay bales, listening for something that didn’t sound like hay. About a third of the way down, I heard it: plastic hitting the barn’s plank wall. Pulling two bales from the front stack out of the way, I exposed the second stack, its bales alternated like bricks to steady the pile. Carefully I pulled one bale halfway out. Behind it was a second tub. I kicked the next bale and heard the same thud of plastic hitting wood. There were more tubs back there.
Working up a sweat and a dust that dimmed the light to a pale glow, I maneuvered the hay bales away from the tubs. I let gravity do most of the work, pulling bottom bales out and stepping back to let the stacks fall helter-skelter. Once they were on the floor, I pushed a pathway through the mess to the tubs.
There were four of them. The first had money stacked all the way to the top. I dug around. No book. It was the same with the next tub. And the next.
By the time I reached the fourth one, I was winded. Setting the last lid aside, I sat down on a bale and stared. On the side was a label: 18 GALLONS. How much money did a tub that size hold? My unscientific answer was “A lot.” Retta’s DEA man was sure to be happy.
That reminded me that Barb and Retta might be home by now, or at least somewhere their phones worked. As I reached into my pocket to get mine out, Buddy, who’d watched my activity with casual interest, growled angrily.
“Just a minute,” I said.
He growled again, straining against the leash, and I realized he wasn’t looking at me.
A voice said, “You don’t need to call anyone, Mrs. Burner. I’ll handle things from here.”
Max Basca stood in the doorway. He looked much the same as the day he’d come to our office, still underdressed for the weather. The difference was that he held a gun now, and it was pointed at me.
If you’ve never had the experience, let me tell you, it’s like nothing else. A video ran through my head, some Internet tutorial that showed how a person could disarm an attacker with a handgun. You were supposed to lean to one side, push his gun hand in the opposite direction, and do this thing to his wrist so the gun fell to the ground.
There are several problems with that. First, if your opponent is experienced, he stands back so you can’t reach his arm. Second, if you haven’t practiced the moves over and over, they don’t come naturally when a threat appears. And finally, if you’re so scared you can’t move, it’s impossible to follow three simple steps, even if you do remember them. Instead of plotting my opponent’s defeat, I found myself wishing I could have one more cigarette before he shot me. Even half would be okay.
Buddy’s growl dropped to a deeper tone, and he took a leap at the newcomer. He had more courage in one of his fifteen pounds than I had in all of my…more than fifteen, but the leash stopped him. The growl cut off abruptly as his collar choked him to silence.
“Santiago,” I croaked, my throat dry from dust and fear.
He smiled thinly. “You’ve been talking to Johannsen.”
“He’s going to arrest you.”
He shook his head, but his hand remained steady. “He and I will not meet again, I think.”
An image rose in my mind of Oversized Brows and the Neanderthal Man shooting my sisters, the agent, and Winston as they crouched in a corner of Rory’s cabin. They’d probably ambush Rory and Gabe, too. My hope that a police chief and a DEA agent would make things turn out right suddenly seemed unlikely. These men were killers, and we were all in their way.
“It was good of you to find my money,” Santiago said in a conversational tone. “I didn’t think of the barn, though I should have. Mari was always loco for horses.”
Blocking out another wave of pity for Stacy/Mari, I focused on my own peril. “I didn’t see a car.” Basca understood that thought fragment to mean I was surprised at his presence.
“George brought me out here. He’d heard Darrow tell your sister where the spare key was hidden, and I thought I might make Mr. Darrow’s help unnecessary.”
“But he and the others are on the way to the cabin.”
He bowed at my correct guess. “I have no interest in learning to ride one of your snow machines.” He sounded as if he couldn’t comprehend such things.
He glanced out the door. “When I saw you come out here, I said to myself, ‘She knows something.’”
“I didn’t,” I said. “I was concerned about the horses.”
His left eyebrow rose. “Ah. A Good Samaritan.”
Our discussion was underscored by Buddy’s sounds of disapproval. Straining against the leash he growled, yipped, and grunted. Frowning in irritation, Santiago turned the gun toward him. As his hand tightened on the grip I said sharply, “Buddy! Lie down and be quiet!”
The dog obeyed, lapsing into aggrieved silence. I’d hurt his feelings, but Santiago returned his attention and the gun to me. I’d known from the moment Santiago entered the stable that I was going to die, but Buddy didn’t have to. He deserved a better life than he’d had so far. He’d get used to Dale in time.
Buddy didn’t get that death was an option. He growled once deep in his throat, signaling willingness to rip this guy’s throat out if I said the word.
Santiago glanced at the tubs. “Is the book in there?”
I tried twice before my voice worked. “No.”
“Too bad. Still, it must be here somewhere.” He peered into corners of the room. Almost to himself he said, “She’d have kept it somewhere nearby.”
I watched warily as he walked in a circle, bending to look at possible hiding places. Curiosity overcame fear and I asked, “Why kill Stacy before she gave up the book?”
Without looking at me he answered, “I was not present, and you know the cliché about how hard it is to get good help. Stacy gave up a book, and my man believed it was the book. Then she tried to run, and—Well, you know what happened.” Again to himself he added, “Such a simple thing I asked of him.”
Losing patience, Santiago kicked the remaining bales at the back wall. The resulting sounds indicated only wood behind them. Next he checked the cupboards I’d already looked in. Then all that was left were the horses’ stalls.
His expression revealed the same worry I’d had. One doesn’t just climb into a horse’s territory and have a look around. Santiago’s hand twitched on the gun butt, and I bit my lip. Like my dog, the horses were expendable if they stood in the way of what he wanted.
He stepped tentatively toward the chestnut, who moved her feet and nodded a warning. Glaring at her, he stepped back and raised the gun. Though she couldn’t have understood the danger, the horse sensed it and tossed her head wildly, eyes white with agitation. His hand twitched again, and I begged, “Don’t hurt her!”
He turned to me, his eyes hard, and pointed the gun at my chest. “Then go in there and search the stall.”
Forcing my legs to obey, I stepped woodenly toward the buckskin. She moved nervously around her space, huffing a warning. Great, I thought. I can be shot or stomped to death by an angry horse.
Recal
ling my long-ago experiences with horses at summer camp, I spoke in a low voice to calm her before I moved closer. “Whoa, girl. It’s okay.”
“Get in there!” he repeated, louder this time. Behind him the chestnut reacted with a whinny of fear, bumping her chest against the gate to her stall. Santiago turned, momentarily distracted. Taking advantage, I slipped Buddy’s leash off the nail I’d hooked it on. I was hoping he’d escape, but instead he launched himself at Santiago, spanning the space between them like a bird taking flight. His front paws caught Santiago’s arm, and Buddy skittered wildly to steady himself. His hard claws raked the hand that held the gun, and the pistol discharged. The shot went wild, hitting the barn wall. Twisting his body, Buddy closed his jaws on Santiago’s wrist. With a howl of pain, the man lost his grip, and the gun fell to the floor.
Clutching his hand, Santiago fell backward against the gate of the chestnut’s stall. The topmost cross-board cracked loudly when his shoulder hit it, and he broke through, landing hard against the second board. He rolled onto his chest, trying to pull free, but his movement allowed the splintered board above to sag downward. Its jagged edges dug into his back and he hung there, pinned by the broken ends of the upper board to the unbroken one below him.
As Santiago fell, Buddy dropped to the floor in a heap. Rolling over quickly, he scrambled to his feet and ran at the man, biting at his ankles. Santiago kicked ineffectively at the dog while he smashed at the boards with his hands and elbows. His movements only drove the board’s raw edges deeper into his fine leather jacket, slicing it—and his back too, I hoped.
That wasn’t enough for Karma. The chestnut mare, seeing the chance to punish the interloper in her stall, stretched out her neck and nipped Santiago smartly on the exposed skin between his hairline and collar. Again he roared in pain, but by that time I was no longer paying much attention. I was on the floor, avoiding his flailing feet as I picked up the gun he’d dropped.