by Linda Howard
At least Mac hoped that was how it worked. If Yu was the only one following them, that was how it would go down. Yu was a professional; he would keep his head. If anyone else was with him, the unpredictability factor shot sky-high.
It was cold in the back of the truck. He had forgotten to get any blankets to cover himself, and the snow was still falling. Mac huddled deeper into his coat and tried to be thankful he was out of the wind. It wasn’t working.
The minutes dragged by, drawn out agonizingly by his tension as he waited. Dawn finally began to penetrate the cloud cover, the darkness fading to a deep gray, though true daylight was at least an hour away. Traffic would begin picking up soon, making it difficult for Dean to spot their tail. People would begin leaving the motel, complicating the traffic pattern even more. And better light would make it more difficult for Maris to hide in the woods.
“Come on, come on,” he muttered. Had he made the trail too difficult?
Right on cue, the radio clicked. Mac keyed it once in reply, then gave a single rap on the back of the cab to alert Maris, who had shifted into position behind the wheel.
The radio clicked again, twice this time. Quickly he rapped twice on the cab. Maris put the truck into gear and eased out of the parking slot. She was turning the corner behind the motel when headlights flashed across the cab as a vehicle pulled into the lot, and Mac knew the lure had been cast. In a few seconds they would know if the bait had been taken.
Maris kept the truck at an even pace. Her instinct was to hurry, but she didn’t want whoever was following them to know they’d been spotted. The car hadn’t turned the corner behind them by the time she pulled onto the secondary road, so if it was them, they were hanging back, not wanting her to spot them.
She stopped at the stop sign, then turned right onto the highway. Watching her rearview mirror as she turned, she saw the car easing out from behind the motel. Its lights were off now, and its gray color made it difficult to spot in the faint light; she wouldn’t have noticed it at all if she hadn’t been looking for it.
They were driving Ronald’s gray Cadillac. Maris had only seen it once or twice, because she usually dealt with Joan, who drove a white BMW. The driveway wasn’t visible from the stables, and she seldom paid attention to the comings and goings at the big house. All that interested her was at the stables.
Still, she wondered that they would drive one of their personal cars at all, until she realized that it didn’t matter. Sole Pleasure was their horse, and no crime had been committed. If she had called the police, it would have been their word against hers that a crime had even been attempted, and no one in the world would believe the Stonichers were willing to kill a horse worth over twenty million dollars.
Dean’s Oldsmobile was nowhere in sight. Maris hoped she was giving him the time he needed to drive the car deep enough into the woods that it couldn’t be seen and to work his way into position on foot.
Watching the mirror, she saw the Cadillac turn onto the highway behind her. Without its headlights on, and with the swirling snow cutting visibility, she could barely make out the gray bulk. They would be able to see her much better than she could see them, though, because her lights were on; that was why they were hanging back so far, because they were unable to judge how visible they themselves were.
Their caution was working for her and against them. The distance would give her a few extra seconds to get out of the truck and hide, a few seconds longer for Dean to get set, a few seconds longer that Mac was safe. She tried not to think of him lying on the cold metal bed, unprotected from any stray bullets except by a thin sheet of metal that wouldn’t even slow down a lead slug.
It was only a few miles to the place where she would leave the road and drive into the woods. A couple of times the snow became so heavy that she couldn’t see the Cadillac behind her. The white flakes were beginning to dust the ground, but it was a dry, fluffy snow that swirled up with every breath of wind, and the passage of the truck blew it off the highway.
She maintained a steady speed, assuming they could see her, even though she couldn’t see the Cadillac. She couldn’t do anything that would make them suspicious. Finally she passed the mile marker that told her she was close, and she began braking, looking for the tire ruts where they’d driven before. There. She steered the truck off the highway, bouncing across the ditch faster than, for the sake of her head, she wanted to, but she didn’t want to go any slower than she already was. Now that they had seen her leave the highway, she wanted to go as fast as she could, to gain a few more of those precious seconds.
Her headache, which had lessened but never disappeared, increased in severity with each bounce. She ignored it, gritting her teeth against the pain, concentrating on steering the truck on the narrow, winding path MacNeil had already blazed through the trees. She couldn’t begin to imagine how difficult it must have been to do this with the trailer in tow, but it was a testament to both his stubbornness and skill that he had.
The Cadillac wouldn’t be able to take the bumps and holes as fast as the truck did; it was too low to the ground. More seconds gained.
A bare limb scraped over the windshield, then her headlights caught the dark bulk of the trailer, almost concealed among the trees. Now. She parked the truck in the exact position MacNeil had decreed, killed the lights so the glare wouldn’t blind the camera hidden under the trailer, then slipped out the door and walked swiftly to the trailer and then beyond it. She cut sharply to the left, stepping in places where the snow hadn’t sifted down. She left no tracks as she removed herself from the scene so he could do his job without worrying about her.
She’d caught movement in her peripheral vision as she walked away, a big, dark shape silently rolling over the side of the truck bed to conceal himself behind one of the tires. At least he would have some protection, she thought, trying to console herself with that. His mind might be easier now, but hers certainly wasn’t. He needed the vest she was wearing; she would never forgive herself if he was killed because she’d agreed to take his vest. It would have been better to remove herself entirely, even if it meant they wouldn’t be able to get any solid evidence against the Stonichers. The FBI would get another crack at Randy Yu, but she would never find another MacNeil.
She’d gone far enough. She stopped, her back against a big oak. Snowflakes drifted silently down in the gray dawn, settling in a lacy cap on her unprotected head. She leaned her aching head against the tree and closed her eyes, listening, waiting, her breath almost halted, her heart barely beating, waiting.
Mac waited, his eyes never leaving the rutted trail. They might drive right up to the truck, but if Yu was in charge, they would probably get out of the car and come the rest of the way on foot. He and Dean were prepared for both circumstances. The underbrush was thick; if they tried to force their way through it, they would make a lot of noise. The best thing to do was to walk up the trail, staying close to the edges. Maris had parked the truck so that they could bypass it only on the driver’s side; the tailgate on the passenger side was right up against the bushes. Anyone coming along that trail would be funneled into the camera’s view and duly recorded on tape.
After what seemed an interminable length of time, he heard a twig snap. He didn’t move. His position, crouched by the right front tire, was secure; he couldn’t be seen until they walked in front of the truck, but by then they would have looked into the cab and seen it was empty, and wouldn’t pay any more attention to the truck. They would be looking instead at the trailer, and at Maris’s small footprints in the thin layer of snow, leading right up to it.
There were other sounds now, rustles from careless feet, more than one pair; the brushing sounds of clothing, the harshness of someone who was slightly winded trying to regulate their breathing. They were close, very close.
The footsteps stopped. “She isn’t in the truck.” The whisper was barely audible, sexless.
“Look! Her footprints go right up to the trailer.” It was another wh
isper, excitement making it louder than the first.
“Shut…up.” The two words were hissed between clenched teeth, as if they had already been said more than once.
“Don’t tell me to shut up. We have her cornered. What are you waiting for?”
Though still whispering, the speaker’s voice was so forceful that it was almost as audible as if he—or she—had spoken aloud. The mike might have caught it, Mac thought. With enhanced sound-extraction techniques, which the Bureau had, he was certain the words were now on tape. The only problem was, they hadn’t exactly been damning.
“You hired me to do a job. Now stay out of my way and let me do it.” There was fury evident now, in both words and tone.
“You’re the one who bungled it the first time, so don’t act as if you’re Mr. Infallible. If you’d been half as smart as you seem to think you are, the horse would already be dead and Maris Mackenzie wouldn’t suspect a thing. I didn’t bargain on murder when I hired you.”
That should do it, Mac thought with grim satisfaction. They had just talked themselves into a prison sentence.
He tightened the muscles in his legs, preparing to step out and identify himself, pistol trained and ready. A crashing, thudding noise behind him made him freeze in place. He looked over his shoulder and almost groaned aloud. A big, black, graceful horse was prancing through the trees toward them, proudly shaking his head as if wanting them to admire his cleverness in getting free.
“There he is! Shoot him!” It was a shout. Pleasure’s unexpected appearance had started them out of caution. Almost instantaneously there was the sharp crack of a shot, and bark exploded from the tree just behind the horse.
Damn amateurs! He silently cursed. Pleasure was behind him; if he stood up now, he would be looking straight down the barrel, caught between the shooter and the target. He couldn’t do anything but wait for the next shot to hit the beautiful, friendly stallion, who had evidently caught their scent and pulled free so he could join the party.
Dean realized Mac’s predicament and stepped from concealment, pistol braced in both hands. “FBI! Drop your weapons on the ground—now.”
Mac surged upward, bracing his arms across the hood of the truck. He saw Randy Yu, his hands already reaching upward as his pistol thudded to the ground. You could always trust a professional to know how to do things. But Joan Stonicher was startled by Mac’s sudden movement, and she wheeled toward him, her eyes wide with panic and rage. She froze, the pistol in her hand and her finger on the trigger.
“Ease off, lady,” Mac said softly. “Don’t do anything stupid. If I don’t get you, my partner will. Just take your finger off the trigger and let the gun drop. That’s all you have to do, and we’ll all be okay.”
She didn’t move. From the excellent viewpoint he had, Mac could see her finger trembling.
“Do as he says,” Randy Yu said wearily. The two agents had them caught in an excellent cross field. There was nothing they could do, and no sense in making things worse.
Pleasure had shied at the noise of the shot, neighing his alarm, but his life had been too secure for him to panic. He trotted closer, his scooped nostrils flaring as he examined their familiar scents, searching for the special one he could detect. He came straight for Mac.
Joan’s eyes left Mac and fastened on the horse. He saw the exact instant when her control shattered, saw her pupils contract and her hand jerk.
A shrill whistle shattered the air a split second before the shot.
A lot of things happened simultaneously. Dean shouted. Randy Yu dropped to the ground, his hands covering his head. Pleasure screamed in pain, rearing. Joan’s hand jerked again, back toward Mac.
And there was another whistle, this one earsplitting.
Maris stepped from behind a tree, her black eyes glittering with rage. The pistol was in her hand, trained on Joan. Joan wheeled back toward this new threat, and without hesitation Mac fired.
Chapter 9
He was mad enough to murder her, Maris thought.
She was still so enraged herself that it didn’t matter. Fury burned through her. It was all she could do to keep from dismantling Joan Stonicher on the spot, and only the knowledge that Pleasure needed her kept her even remotely under control.
The woods were swarming with people, with medics and deputies and highway patrol officers, with onlookers, even some reporters already there. Pleasure was accustomed to crowds, but he’d never before been shot, and pain and shock were making him unruly. He’d wheeled at Maris’s whistle, and his lightning reflexes had saved his life; Joan’s bullet had gouged a deep furrow in his chest, tearing the muscle at an angle but not penetrating any internal organs. Now it took all of Maris’s skill to keep him calm so she could stop the bleeding; he kept moving restlessly in circles, bumping her, trying to pay attention to her softly crooning voice but distracted by the pain.
Her head was throbbing, both from Pleasure’s skittishness and from her own desperate run through the woods. She’d heard him moving through the trees, and in a flash she’d known exactly what had happened, what he would do. How he’d gotten free didn’t matter; he had heard and smelled them, and pranced happily to greet them, sure of his welcome. She’d known he would catch her scent on MacNeil’s clothes and go straight to him. It had been a toss-up which of them would be shot first, MacNeil or Pleasure. All she could do was try to get there in time to draw the horse’s attention, as well as everyone else’s.
For one awful, hellish moment, when Pleasure screamed and she saw Joan swing back toward MacNeil, she’d thought she’d lost everything. She had stepped out from the trees, moving in what felt like slow motion. She couldn’t hear anything then, not even Pleasure; she hadn’t been able to see anything except Joan, her vision narrowing to a tunnel with her target as the focus. She hadn’t been aware of whistling again, or of taking the pistol from her pocket, but the weapon had been in her hand and her finger had been smoothly tightening on the trigger when Joan jerked yet again, panicked, this time aiming at Maris. That was when Mac had shot her. At such close range, just across the hood of the truck, his aim had been perfect. The bullet had shattered her upper arm.
Joan would probably never have use of that arm again, Maris thought dispassionately. She couldn’t bring herself to care.
The entire scene had been recorded, complete with audio. The camera had playback capability and Dean had obliged the sheriff by playing the tape for him. Both Yu and Joan were nailed, and Yu, being the professional he was, was currently bargaining for all he was worth. He was willing to carry others down with him if it would lighten his sentence.
It had stopped snowing, though the day hadn’t gotten any warmer. Her hands were icy, but she couldn’t leave Pleasure to warm them. Blood glistened on his black chest and down his legs, staining his white stocking, splattering on the snow-frosted leaves and on Maris. She whispered to him, controlling him mostly with her voice, crooning reassurance and love to him while she held his bridle in one hand and with the other held some gauze the medics had given her to the wound on his chest. She had asked a deputy to contact a vet, but as yet no one had shown up.
Yu could have seen to the horse, but he hadn’t offered, and Maris wouldn’t have trusted him, anyway. It was he who had hit her on the head. As soon as she saw him again she had remembered that much, remembered his upraised arm, the cold, remorseless expression in his dark eyes. Other memories were still vague, and there were still blank spots, but they were gradually filling in.
She must have gone to the big house to see Joan about something. She didn’t know why, but she remembered standing with her hand raised to knock, and freezing as Joan’s voice filtered through the door.
“Randy’s going to do it tonight. While everyone’s eating will be a good time. I told him we couldn’t wait any longer, the syndicates are pushing for a decision.”
“Damn, I hate this,” Ronald Stonicher had said. “Poor Pleasure’s been a good horse. Are you certain the drug won’t be detec
ted?”
“Randy says it won’t, and it’s his can on the line,” Joan had coolly replied.
Maris had backed away, so angry she could barely contain herself. Her first concern had been for Pleasure. It was the time when the stable hands would either be eating or have gone home for the night. She couldn’t delay a moment.
Her next memory was of running down the aisle to his stall. She must have surprised Randy Yu there, though she didn’t remember actually coming up on him. She remembered enough to testify, though, even if she never remembered anything else, and assuming her testimony was needed. The tape was solid evidence.
Another vehicle joined the tangle, and a roly-poly man in his late fifties, sporting a crew cut, got out of a battered pickup truck. He trudged wearily toward Maris, clutching a big black bag in his hand. Finally, the vet, she thought. Dark circles under his eyes told her that he’d probably been up late, possibly all night, with an ailing animal.
Tired or not, he knew horses. He stopped, taking in Pleasure’s magnificent lines, the star on his forehead, the bloodstained white stocking. “That’s Sole Pleasure,” he said in astonishment.
“Yes, and he’s been shot,” Maris said tersely. Her head was throbbing; even her eyeballs ached. If Pleasure didn’t settle down soon, her head would likely explode. “No internal organs affected, but some chest muscle torn. He won’t settle down and let the bleeding stop.”
“Let’s take care of that problem, first off. I’m George Norton, the vet hereabouts.” He was working as he spoke, setting down the bag and opening it. He prepared a hypodermic and stepped forward, smoothly injecting the sedative into one of the bulging veins in Pleasure’s neck. The stallion danced nervously, his shoulder shoving her once again. She clenched her teeth, enduring.