Roped (Gail McCarthy Mysteries)

by Laura Crum

  The light was fairly dim and the air was getting cooler when I tried to straighten out my legs. I almost screamed. My right leg shrieked and throbbed. Oh God. Oh, my God. I forgot about being shot as I shuddered and clenched my teeth.

  Nothing happened. No shot. Nothing at all. My leg cramped in spasms that made me gasp. Inch by inch I straightened it out; slowly the devastating slashes of pain became drilling tingles. I moved in minuscule increments-my arms, my hands, my neck, my feet A few mosquitoes whined in my ears. Crickets chirped. The light grew dimmer.

  Eventually the pain subsided to a dull ache. Slowly I sat up. Nothing. Even more slowly (and extremely painfully) I got to my feet. Nothing happened. Joey walked up to me and wagged his bobbed tail. The sun was behind the western ridge, but there was still enough light in the sky that I could make out the dark shapes of trees and rocks, brushy and indistinct. Accurate shooting would be impossible. Time to go.

  In reality, I thought, Joyce, or whoever, had probably been gone for hours. The thought shoved me forward, stumbling and hobbling, toward the gate. I needed to get to Glen.

  Limping in the direction of the corrals, I was infinitely relieved to see Chester, peacefully cropping grass near the water trough. He’d broken his reins, but that appeared to be all the damage he’d sustained.

  Knotting the reins hastily together, I led Chester to the corral fence to climb on him. I didn't think I could manage it from the ground.

  Chester regarded me with a calm eye as I edged him up to the rails, all fear from the shot long forgotten. He stood like a perfect gentleman as I heaved myself up on him, my right leg cursing me in no uncertain terms. Between being folded up under me and pressed against a rock for over six hours, it was almost too stiff and sore to be usable.

  “Come on." I clucked to the horse and dog indiscriminately as I opened the gate with one hand and let us out of the pasture. It was getting dark fast; the dirt road was a faintly lighter gray band running down the graying hillside.

  Despite my aches, I urged Chester to a jouncy downhill trot, my fear driving me harder every second. Was Glen still alive?

  The gully loomed up ahead, the shapes of the trees jet black against the charcoal sky. No sign of a moon. It had been a ening, I remembered, when the lights had gone out at the roping. Damn.

  Moonlight wouldn't have helped me in the canyon. It was claustrophobically dark under the redwoods; I couldn't see the road right in front of Chester's feet. Horses can see better in the dark than we can, I reminded myself. Chester can see the road. That's all that counts.

  He seemed to be able to. He slowed from a trot to a long walk, but he kept rolling on, seeming sure of his footing, sure that he was going home. I almost fell off when he suddenly spooked and came to a jarring halt.

  The bridge. Damn, damn, and damn. The frigging bridge. I couldn't see anything. I couldn't even see my hand if I held it up. The blackness was absolute. I had no idea if we stood on the edge of a precipitous drop. I couldn't see the bridge, but I knew it must be there.

  My heart thumped steadily. I might as well have been killed by the sniper as go rolling down a cliff. I could get off, but I didn't know where I was. If I climbed off Chester, I might go over the bank. Chester could see, at least.

  Gathering every atom of courage I possessed, I kicked the horse firmly. "Come on; let's go," I said out loud. "Let's go home."

  Chester got my message. As a horse will do, he seemed to feel the urgency of my need, and, like the good ones, he came through. I could feel him take one, two, three cautious steps forward. He stopped; I could feel his front legs trembling. I clucked to him gently, and he took another step. I heard the hollow wooden clunks of his hooves coming down on the planking of the bridge.

  Thunk, thunk, thunk. We were on it now, floating in the darkness above the gully. I tried not to picture the drop, tried not to remember how low the railing was. My right hand was locked tightly around the saddle horn; my left held the reins gently, trying to steady Chester and not disturb him. He kept walking, slowly and carefully. Thunk, thunk, thunk.

  Abruptly the thunks stopped and Chester sped up. We were off the bridge and clambering uphill. I resisted the urge to ask for a trot. It was too dark and the bank was too steep.

  We slid through the darkness, Chester moving effortlessly once we were up the hill. I clucked to him and he picked up the long trot, seeming confident. It was a strange feeling, trotting along when I couldn't see a thing. It required trust of an odd and unfamiliar sort, and I probably never would have tried it if I hadn't been driven by the need to hurry. Faster, my mind urged, faster.

  Suddenly I could see lights ahead. After the unrelenting darkness they were an immeasurable relief. Civilization, help, safety. I could see that we were emerging from the canyon; the lights were on Glen's barn, which was lit up like a Christmas tree. I pulled Chester to a sudden halt.

  My automatic reaction to those lights might not be smart. I was safe out here in the darkness. No one could see me; no one could shoot me. I was safely dead, in the mind of my assassin. Emerging into the light was another story.

  Chester tossed his head and stamped his front feet anxiously. He could see the barn, too, and he wasn't pleased at being detained. "Come on," I could almost hear him saying. "You wanted to hurry; now we're here. Let's go home."

  I patted his neck, which he ignored, flipping his nose up and down restlessly. What he wanted was to be turned loose in his pen with a flake of hay; being petted was of no interest. His agitation made it hard for me to think.

  After a minute I got off of him, slowly and painfully, and unclipped his reins so he wouldn't step on them. Then I turned him loose. He trotted off, breaking immediately into a lope and heading for home.

  I followed, limping, keeping to the verge of the road, staying behind convenient bushes. My eyes were glued to Chester. If someone was at the barn, waiting for me, they would surely come out to catch the horse. At the very least, their attention would be drawn to his obvious, noisy presence. No one would be looking for me out here in the shadows.

  Something brushed against my leg, and I jumped and almost shrieked. A second later the thought registered: It's just the dog. I reached down to pat his furry head, reassuring myself, and felt the warm, damp swipe of his tongue. "Good dog," I whispered.

  I took a few more steps forward. Joey looked up at me with puzzled eyes. I could almost see him shrug. Then he turned away and trotted toward the barn, where Chester was traveling from corral to corral, greeting his friends. Joey was aiming for civilization. If I wanted to spend the rest of my life hiding out here in the brush, that was my business. He'd had enough.

  I stopped behind a bay tree-the last useful cover before I reached the brilliantly lit square of bare ground around the big barn. I could see Chester; he'd come to rest at the hitching rail where he would normally be unsaddled and was nibbling on the alfalfa hay that had been spilled there. I could see no human beings.

  Chester's arrival-all clattering hooves and shrill nickers, complete with loud answering neighs from the other horses-had produced no human activity of any sort. The barn was lit up and apparently deserted.

  I pondered this. The barn must have been lit for my sake. It wasn't usually left like this. Why, then, was there no welcoming party; why, in fact, had there been no search party? It wasn't normal behavior to set out on what should have been a several-hour, at most, gather and not return till after dark. Lisa, at least, should have been worried about me. So where was she?

  Not at the barn, as far as I could tell. I stood behind the bay tree for another few minutes, considering. Was this all some elaborate trap? Was the sniper waiting in the loft of the barn, rifle sighted on the road where it emerged into the light? The thought gave me chills.

  I scanned the barn carefully but could see nothing out of place. No dead bodies in the barnyard, no rifle barrels emerging from windows or cracks in the wall. Of course, the odds that I could pick such a detail out from this distance were slim.
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  I could see Glen's truck, parked where I had left it. It didn't look as if it had been disturbed. As I watched, Joey marched up and lay down next to it, putting his chin on his front paws. He would wait there, I supposed, knowing that people eventually showed up to collect trucks.

  Al's mobile home was illuminated by the front porch light, and the brown pickup and red Trans Am were parked in front of it. So why the hell wasn't Al out looking for me, or at least here at the barn waiting for me?

  Impatience gathered in my muscles. Where was Glen? More important, where was Joyce? If I cut through the band of trees behind the barnyard, I would emerge onto the driveway that led up the hill to Glen's. I studied Chester. He looked content, his head down, nibbling. Chances were he'd be OK, for a little while. And I simply didn't dare risk an approach to that barn. I started off through the trees.

  This was easier said than done. Once I moved away from the barn lights, the blackness seemed impenetrable. It was one thing to ride Chester through the dark, operating on blind trust; it was quite another to try and find my own way through it.

  I stumbled over roots and walked into branches; I found myself pushing through tangles of brush I couldn't see, like invisible hands, pulling at me. It was creepy, at times downright terrifying. It had never occurred to me before how much I depended on my vision.

  Glen's driveway couldn't be too far away. Or so I believed. Panic swept over me in a rush. I couldn't see anything; maybe I was going the wrong way. I was lost; I would never find my way out of this godforsaken forest.

  Stop it, Gail. This is not the enchanted forest. It's just dark. Darkness is not evil; it is not full of bogeymen. It's just the absence of light. So you can't see. You're safe in the dark. No one can see you.

  I stood still and took a deep breath. Concentrated on my relative safety. Then I began again to walk through the darkness toward Glen's driveway. Toward where I supposed Glen's driveway to be. I held my hands out in front of me to avoid running into branches and felt cautiously for each footfall. Even so, I tripped and ran into things on a fairly regular basis.

  I cussed and swore softly as I crashed along and my shins got sorer, but I felt pretty sure the noise was unimportant. No one was likely to be hiding out here looking for me. As long as I avoided buildings and roads I was doubtless perfectly safe.

  The thought reassured me, resigned me somewhat to the blackness. I pressed on, stumbling through the night for what seemed like miles. By my reckoning, it was a quarter-mile at most to Glen's driveway, but it sure seemed longer. My jeans and boots were soaked from stumbling into a little creek. I had bruises and scratches all over, and a wide assortment of brambles clung to me. I was out of breath when, in two crashing strides, the heavy blackness of the forest lifted into the soft darkness of a night sky sprinkled with stars. I was out in the open. Half a dozen more steps and I was on the road.

  As my eyes were well accustomed to the darkness, I could see the pavement clearly. I had emerged onto it at the bottom of the hill; it ran up between rail fences; I could just make out the spiky silhouettes of red-hot poker plants. The road seemed empty and quiet. It also looked like wonderfully easy walking. I headed up it, keeping a sharp eye out for other vehicles, for movement of any kind.

  I saw nothing, heard nothing. I pushed my aching muscles into a jog and pounded my way up the hill, gasping for breath. I almost tripped and fell on the cattle guard; my eyes were riveted to the lit windows of the big house.

  Recovering myself, I stood stock-still. Glen's house was as bright as the barn had been. Floodlights illuminated the driveway and the patio. Most of the windows seemed to be glowing with light. Tim's truck, Lisa's truck, and Joyce's Cadillac were all parked conspicuously in the driveway.

  I negotiated the cattle guard and crept out on the lawn. Staying in the cover of the oaks, I maneuvered my way around the house, peering in the windows as I went. No one in the living room or kitchen, though they were well lit. I moved on. No one in the den. Now I was opposite Glen's bedroom. And there they were.

  I could see Glen, lying in the big brass bed, propped up by pillows. Joyce was sitting in an armchair by the door, wearing, it appeared, a blouse that was as white and frilly as the bedspread. Lisa and Tim were faced off in the middle of the room, both standing, apparently arguing. I heaved a deep sigh of relief. Glen was still alive. The Bennetts were behaving normally. I had a chance to save us all before somebody died.

  What to do? Find out what they were saying, I decided. Fortunately, the lawn was narrow back here and the band of oak trees curved around it to brush up against the eaves of the house at the very back. The glaring floodlights that lit the patio didn't penetrate this far, either. I started to sneak around the lawn, trying to get closer to the French doors that appeared to be standing open with the filmy curtains drawn behind them. I could see through the curtains easily, but I was sure those inside could not see out.

  Just walk across the lawn, Gail; they can't see you. That was the rational part of my mind. But the intuitive part wasn't about to leave cover. Nobody could see me to shoot me here in the trees. Out on the lawn, illuminated by the patio lights, I was a sitting duck.

  I moved as noiselessly as I could; the oak grove border of the lawn was a great deal simpler to walk through than the wild forest. For one thing I could see, and for another it was neatly groomed, the only bush an occasional rhododendron or azalea-nice and tidy and easy to avoid. I crept up next to the French doors successfully. No one noticed me; no one shot at me.

  I could hear Lisa, haranguing Tim in no uncertain terms. "We have to go look for Gail-something's happened to her; I know it has."

  "She's probably down at the barn right now, unsaddling Chester." Tim.

  "If she is, fine, but if she isn't, we need to go up there. Now. Come on, Tim."

  "You go."

  Lisa sounded truly astounded. "By myself, in the dark?"

  "Take Al with you."

  "For God's sake, Tim, what is the matter with you?"

  "I'm staying here," Tim said flatly.

  I couldn't see his face; his back was to the French doors. I could only guess at his motivation. I made a snap decision, one I was to wonder about a great deal, later. I walked into the room.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Hi," I said. "I'm here." My eyes went rapidly from face to face. Joyce looked surprised, Lisa looked relieved and delighted, and neither Tim nor Glen registered any emotion that I could discern.

  Glen was sitting up in the bed, propped with several white ruffled cushions. In contrast, his face appeared gray. He looked at least ten years older than when I'd seen him last.

  Tim stood with his back to the French doors, his eyes watchful and noncommittal. He said nothing. Joyce, on the other hand, rapidly shifted from surprise to displeasure. "What is going on here?" she demanded.

  Lisa drowned her out. "Gail, where have you been? What happened to you? Tim and I just now brought Dad home from the hospital; I couldn't believe you weren't back. Where have you been?" she said again.

  "Out getting shot at," I said.

  For the first time, I looked directly at Glen, meeting his eyes. His face was wooden; he stared at me numbly, wearing an expression of frozen weariness. I could imagine the turmoil that had to be buried somewhere under that blank surface.

  "I'm sorry, Glen," I said quietly. "I wish I could spare you all this, but I can't."

  Joyce cut in. "What are you talking about, Gail?" It came out in a short of shrill squeak, very unlike her usual cool detachment.

  I turned to face her, and she went on angrily. "Glen is very tired; he was just released from the hospital. He's not to be disturbed. Now I want all of you to leave right now, so he can get some rest."

  I got the copper bar out of my pocket and held it out on the flat of my hand. "This mean anything to you, Joyce?"

  It stopped her in mid tirade. She opened her mouth and shut it, and her eyes were suddenly frightened.

  "That's right," I said slowly. "I
found it in your purse."

  I held the bar out so the rest of the room could see it. Glen's eyes flicked to it quickly and then back to Joyce's face.

  "What is it?" From Lisa. I could see in Glen's look of sick recognition that he knew what it was. He just stared at Joyce, not saying a word.

  "It's a solid copper bar, the same size as an electrical fuse," I told Lisa. "Electricians use them instead of fuses to connect something they don't want to short out under any circumstances, like a ground wire. They call them dummy fuses. I found this one in Joyce's purse when I searched her room this morning."

  Nobody said a word. Glen was staring at Joyce, and Joyce was staring at me. Lisa's eyes were sharp, moving from one to another. Tim still stood near the French doors, his face smooth as a stone. You could have cut the tension in the room with a knife.

  I looked right at Joyce. "I think that someone took all the spare fuses out of the fuse box and left this copper bar on the fuse shelf. Then this someone made a point of turning on the heater in the timer's shack in order to blow out the systern. Glen goes in, flips the master switch to turn the power off, and walks to the fuse box to put in a fuse. He can't find a fuse, only this copper bar. I don't know if he knew what it was and decided to use it anyway, just to get the lights on, or whether in the dark he thought it was a fuse. Either way, he plugged it in. And someone had turned the power back on. When Glen plugged that solid copper bar into the system with the power on, it was certain to electrocute him. And it did."

  Everyone was staring at me now. "I suspected it was you, Joyce. You had the opportunity; you were in and around the timer's shack; it would have been easy for you to do. But you got too clever. If you'd have left everything alone, it would have passed as an accident, probably. A suspicious one, maybe, but possible-just. But you were worried. So you turned the power back off again and you retrieved the dummy fuse. That was stupid. Because it was obvious that the accident simply could not have happened with the main switch off. It took me a while, but eventually I figured out how it could have happened. I searched your room because I thought you might have used something like this." I flipped the copper bar in my hand.