by Lisa Jackson
Stunned, pain throbbing from several points on her body, she silently cursed her clumsiness. But the scream? Had it been Trent? Something else? An animal, possibly wounded?
Heart thundering, she gingerly pulled herself to her feet. She winced as she tried the ankle, but despite a jab of pain, it supported her. Her shoulder ached and her face smarted. She’d have a few bruises come morning, but she’d live. “Klutz,” she muttered, grateful she hadn’t shot herself. She listened and heard nothing over the rush of the wind, but that was it. She wasn’t going to sit in the house while God knew what was going on.
Snapping on a light, she found her phone near the den and snapped it up. The screen was shattered but it still seemed to work. The pistol had slid across the hardwood to the front door and she gathered it as well, then she turned off the light and headed to the back door. She’d text Trent and—
Blam!
The crack of a rifle.
Instinctively, she hit the floor, every muscle tense, fear shooting through her blood.
Was it Trent’s weapon?
Or someone else’s?
Didn’t matter.
This was no good. No good. Whether he was shooting or being shot at, he was in trouble. Big trouble.
Over the rush of the wind she heard the frightened neighing of the horses.
Fingers trembling, heart drumming, a thousand questions darting through her mind, she dialed 9-1-1 and slid to the back door where she sat with her back against the wall.
Horrid thoughts gripped her.
Was Trent shot?
Even now bleeding out in the barn somewhere?
Oh, God, please, let him be all right! Please, please, please—
“9-1-1,” a female operator said over the wireless connection. “What is the nature of your emergency—”
“Help! Send help!” Cassie nearly screamed. “I heard gunshots and screams and . . . and my husband is in the barn, I think.” She was starting to panic and had to force herself to be coherent. “We were in bed, the dog got all weird and started barking and Trent went out to investigate and then I heard the scream and oh, God, just send someone. My husband’s outside!”
“Ma’am, if you’ll slow down,” the operator said calmly. “Is anyone injured?”
“I—I don’t know. But I heard a scream. First some kind of animal, horrible scream and then . . . a little bit later, a minute maybe, a gunshot.” She was frantic, her pulse ticking wildly. “I texted him, but he’s not responding! For the love of Christ, just send help!”
“What is your name and your address?”
“It’s Cassie, Cassie Kramer, and the address? Oh . . . crap, I don’t know . . . it’s on Benning Road . . . about, about a mile from . . . the Cougar Mountain turnoff. Trent Kittle’s farm. Please just send someone.” She was shaking all over, her fears congealed.
“Are you injured?”
“No! No! I’m fine, but my husband. He could be hurt! I don’t know!” She was panicking, but thought of Trent and how much she loved him and how, oh, God, he couldn’t be injured or worse. No, no, no! She wouldn’t go there. “The address . . . Oh, Jesus. Wait. Hold on.” She scrambled to her feet and ran through the dark hallway, phone to her ear, ankle twinging. Hadn’t she seen a stack of mail on the table, a bill with an address on the kitchen counter? She flipped a switch. Light flooded the kitchen and she picked up the top envelope. “Okay, okay. . . . Here it is.” She read the damn address to the operator and repeated it, all the while hearing the click of computer keys as the woman typed. “Please send someone now.”
“I’ve already dispatched officers,” the officer said calmly, as if the situation weren’t life and death. “They’re on their way. If you’ll just stay on the line.”
“No . . . no, I have to go. I have to find Trent.” Images of him, bleeding, in pain, battling for his life, flared behind her eyes. Didn’t this calm woman on the other end of the line realize that time was running out, that even now . . . She squeezed her eyes shut to fight the fear.
“No, ma’am,” the operator was saying. “Stay on the line. Officers will be there soon.”
“Soon’s not good enough. They need to be here now!” Cassie was having none of it. This operator didn’t understand. “This is an ongoing case. Call Detective Rhonda Nash of the Portland PD, her and her partner, whatever his name is. Detective Thomas, no, that’s not right.” She was starting to lose it. “Thompson. That’s it! Detective Thompson. Tell them to get out here now!” Before the operator could break in, Cassie added, “Just tell them Cassie Kramer called and it’s urgent, that there’s gunfire at the ranch.” She didn’t wait for a response, just clicked off, then flipped the light switch so that the kitchen was again blanketed in darkness.
Quickly she made her way to the back door. She only paused long enough to call her stepfather’s cell phone. She should have called Shane first. One ring. Two. “Hurry up,” she said, and then as the phone rang a third time, his groggy voice came over the connection.
“Cassie?”
“Yes! I need help. Trent’s in the barn and there’s been gunshots. Well, just one. But there was a scream and—”
“A scream?”
“Yeah. Maybe an animal. Maybe human, I don’t know. It was awful. Trent was already outside and then I heard a gunshot. I texted him and he hasn’t gotten back to me. Oh, God, I’m so worried. I called nine-one-one, but you’re closer.”
“On my way,” he replied. “I’ll be there in five.”
That could be too long.
Shane said, “Stay put.”
She clicked off, slid the phone in her pocket, held the pistol firmly. Her stepfather’s advice rang in her ears as she opened the door and stepped into the rainy night.
Stay put.
“Like hell.”
CHAPTER 36
Lying on the barn floor, breathing the scents of dust and horses and urine, Trent sucked in his breath and cursed himself a dozen times over. Pain screamed up his leg and he dragged himself to one of the empty stalls while the horses in boxes all around him neighed in terror. Blood stained his jeans and he hoped to God his femoral artery hadn’t been hit by the damned shot.
He’d entered the barn carefully and seen nothing. Still, cautious, he hadn’t snapped on a light.
Hud, however, had been agitated and the minute they’d stepped into the barn, had taken off like a streak, running down the corridor, toenails clicking, racing past the stalls where horses were shifting nervously in their stalls.
That was odd. The hackles on the back of Trent’s neck had raised and he’d lifted his rifle, though he’d been loath to fire it in the tight confines of the barn. He’d reached for the light switch.
“Aaaayeeeeooow!”
A shrill, blood-curdling scream rose to the rafters.
What the hell?
He’d started jogging. Toward the sound. Toward the silo. Ignoring the pain. Heading to the area the damned dog had disappeared. The interior was dark, what little light there was coming through the tiny windows, the security lamp providing the barest of illumination, but he knew every timber and rafter inside, had repaired all the walls and feed bins and stalls, remembered where each tool was hung.
Still he’d moved cautiously, squinting into the darkness, listening hard for any sounds over the rapid beating of his pulse drumming in his ears, and the nervous whinnies of the horses pacing and pawing in their boxes.
Nothing.
Not even a noise from the dog, or none that he could hear.
He’d had a flashlight on his phone, but turning it on would only draw attention to him, and someone or something was inside this barn. Whoever or whatever it was didn’t seem friendly.
He’d been about to duck into the tack room and text Cassie to call the police when he’d heard something . . . the soft tread of footsteps? And he’d felt a rustle in the air, movement behind him. He’d spun and lifted his rifle to his shoulder in one motion, but it had been too late. The would-be assassin had go
tten the drop on him, somehow silently dispensing with the dog, and fired the instant Trent had been in his sights.
Son of a bitch, Trent thought now. He’d been foolish, too comfortable in his own ranch, believing that some animal was causing the dog to go nuts.
He should have been more careful.
Christ, he’d been in the damned military. He knew better.
Shit.
Now, he was waiting in the dark, his back against the wall of the stall, his rifle ready, though firing in the building would be a disaster with bullets ricocheting against the walls and posts.
But here, he was a sitting duck. If the killer had night goggles, Trent was as good as dead.
Without making a sound, he fumbled in his jacket pocket for his phone and realized he was weakening, his brain not as clear.
Damn!
Did he hear the sound of footsteps outside the stall? Was the killer taking aim? Or were the noises just the sound of restless, nervous hooves in the straw or his own imagination running wild? Tensing, he focused on the open stall door. Waiting. Expecting to hear another blast from a gun.
Get a grip, Kittle.
You can’t lose it now. Think of Cassie. She has to get to safety. Somehow.
He blinked. Concentrated. Heard a banging and realized he’d left the damned door open and it was catching in the wind to pound against the siding.
Making sure the phone was still on silent, he saw that he already had two texts. Both from Cassie.
r u ok?
Hell, no.
And shortly thereafter:
What’s going on?
I wish I knew.
He typed his response quickly:
Leave now!
Call 911
Then he added:
I’m ok
That was a lie, but if she had any inkling that he was wounded, she might do something stupid and put herself in danger. God, he felt weak. Lightheaded. It took all of his effort to send the text, but he managed to click off and send another to Carter:
Under attack.
In the barn.
Cassie is in the house.
Save her.
Sweat ran down his face despite the fact that he was cold to the bone.
God, how could he have been so stupid? He clicked off his phone, couldn’t risk the attacker seeing its light.
Where are you, you fucker? He had to start moving, find the assailant before he went after Cassie, because that’s what this was all about. Trent knew it. Deep in his gut. Whoever was skulking in this barn was after his wife.
Not on my watch.
He knew this barn like the back of his hand, but with the blood he was losing, he was also fighting to stay awake. Shit, the artery probably had been nicked.
If only he could fashion a tourniquet . . . Oh, Jesus. He sagged against the back of the stall and realized he hadn’t heard a car’s engine starting, no crunch of tires on gravel. Either Cassie hadn’t gotten the message.
Or she chose to ignore it.
His jaw clenched and he swiped the sweat from his face. Not looking at the growing stain on his jeans, he aimed his rifle at the stall door.
Then he waited.
The phone rang.
At two-fifteen in the damned morning.
Nash recognized the number as belonging to Jenkins, the rookie gung-ho junior detective who was young and therefore never slept. Especially on a Saturday night. Make that Sunday morning.
“Nash,” she said automatically and hated the sound of sleep in her voice.
“Hey, sorry to wake you.” Jenkins sounded as chipper as if she’d had a triple-shot espresso. “But I thought you’d like to know.”
“What?” she asked, instantly awake.
“The name of Jenna Hughes’s love child.”
“You found it.”
“That I did. She was adopted by Gene and Beverly Beauchamp, as we knew. She has a sister, or had a sister as well, but the girl died. Single car crash. This one, Jenna’s daughter, was with her but survived. I’m still checking on that.”
“So who is she?” Nash demanded. She was annoyed at being played with.
“Well, the reason we couldn’t figure it out is that she’s been married a couple of times, so the names didn’t quite match up.” There was a smile in her voice. The little twit loved dragging out the suspense.
“And?”
“And that girl is someone we know,” Jenkins finally said, before reeling off a name that was all too familiar.
ACT VI
And now the moment leading up to the climax.
Odd that it should end here, in a rustic claptrap of a barn, she thought as she hid in the shadows of the musty building where horses shifted and neighed, their warmth and smell a little disturbing. So rural!
She’d imagined something more glorious, more glittery and far more Hollywood than this immense edifice in the middle of No-Damned-Where. No spotlight. No cameras. No stage.
Still, she had used the barn to her advantage, even if she’d blown it by screaming when the damned horse had snaked its head over the half-door of its enclosure and bitten her as she’d slunk by. The nerve of the animal. She probably should have shot it right then and there, but she hadn’t wanted to make any noise.
It hadn’t worked and of course Trent, hero rancher that he was, had shown up.
She passed by a pillar supporting the hay mow overhead and stiffled a sneeze. Squeezing the trigger and seeing Trent go down in a heap had been satisfying and long overdue. He really was a bastard.
On silent footsteps she passed by the tack room.
It was so cliché of Cassie to end up here, at the ranch of her lover, her hero. But it had worked, for it was easy enough to follow them, to deduce where she was hiding out, where she’d sought shelter.
After all the years of waiting, of the frustration, of being so close to stardom to taste it, after rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous and being a part of their bloodline, though they, of course, didn’t know it.
Fools.
Spoiled brats!
How she’d waited for this!
The original plan had been interrupted, of course. Cassie was supposed to die on the set of Dead Heat, but the bitch had changed the script. Almost as if she’d suspected that an “accident” was going to happen. The ironic part of it was that she’d twisted the script and Allie was to be the second runner, the woman shot.
Not perfect.
But good enough.
But then Allie had bailed and disappeared.
How frustrating.
But the movie wasn’t over.
There was still the final act.
And in it there would be blood and death and mournful, guilt-riddled cries from those who were lucky enough to survive.
If only for a few tortured seconds . . .
CHAPTER 37
Be calm.
You can do this.
Cassie held the pistol in a death grip. With the wind slapping her face in icy gusts and her ankle shooting pain with each step, she skirted the pooling light from the security lamps and kept to the darker shadows as she headed to the barn. She replayed the horrid sound of the gunshot over and over in her head, then sent up a prayer that Trent was alive. Not injured.
The barn door banged against the exterior wall, the doorway a gaping black maw. For a second she thought of running into it, but stopped herself. Yes, she wanted to get to Trent, the sooner the better, but the open doorway could be a mistake. Whoever was on the other side might be watching.
She clicked off the safety of the pistol and prayed to God she wouldn’t have to use it. But she had to find Trent. Was he alive? Injured? Or . . . Stop! Don’t even go there. He’s alive. Maybe hurt, but alive. So help him, Cassie. But be smart about it.
Fear chasing through her bloodstream, she slipped through a gate near one side of the barn. She edged around to the back of the massive building, where she hugged the exterior wall. The wind wasn’t as sharp here, as she was prote
cted by the barn but the ground was a sodden, trampled mess with deep pockets of mud, rainwater, and manure created by hundreds of hooves. Picking her way as carefully as possible, all the while worrying about the seconds ticking by, she passed through the wide doorway used by the cattle as they entered and her boots slid and caught in the uneven glop. Inside the enormous, cavernous room that, thankfully tonight, was empty of animals, she moved more easily through the darkness. Straw and sawdust had been spread over a concrete slab and the muck wasn’t as deep. Here, where the smell of animals lingered, the footing was a little firmer, thank God.
Hurry, hurry, hurry!
Where would he be within this massive, creaking building?
Focus, Cassie. Find Trent. That’s all you need to do. And try not to get shot while you’re doing it.
Rather than risk exposure by darting across the open space, she started easing around the edge of the wide enclosure. Her ankle was beginning to throb now, but she ignored it, couldn’t be bothered.
Where was he?
Where was whoever or whatever he’d encountered? She expected the attack had been human, she didn’t think Trent had fired his rifle, but she didn’t know.
God help me.
Her phone vibrated and she pulled it from her pocket.
She saw Trent’s text and nearly collapsed in relief.
He was alive! That was the good news. The bad? He was warning her, telling her to get to safety and he wasn’t calling or leaving the barn. He’d said he was okay, but she doubted it as he was still in the dark barn. Somewhere. Hiding? Hoping to get the jump on whatever enemy he faced? Or injured?
She looked at his message a last time and decided to ignore it, only typing in Where are you? before pocketing her phone and moving again. She ran the fingers of her left hand along the rough boards of the wall as she stepped steadily toward the main area of the barn, the space accessed by the door Trent had used on the opposite side of the building. At the inside corner of the room, she felt the edge of a manger butt up against the wall. Carefully, she followed the feed trough’s length, stopping at a spot where she could see a dim light filtering through one of the windows high overhead, just enough illumination that she could quietly find her way into the heart of the barn.