The Kill

by Jan Neuharth

  Manning forced his eyes open. No way in hell he was going to vomit in front of Abigale. He stared down at faded grass, a lone leaf that must have blown in from one of the sugar maples that lined the drive. He sucked in a breath, waiting for the world to stop whirling around him; he focused on the leaf, green at its very base, then flaming from mustard to blaze orange.

  He heard the sound of someone running, feet rustling behind him through the grass. “What happened?” Julia shouted.

  “He almost passed out,” Abigale called back. “Can you see if there’s ice in the freezer? If not, bring a cold towel.”

  “Sure thing.”

  A clammy sweat pricked Manning’s scalp and he felt oddly hot and cold at the same time. But the spinning had stopped. Slowly, he lifted his head and found himself looking into Abigale’s eyes.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” He blew out a sigh. “Just give me a minute.”

  Sweat trickled down his cheek and Abigale wiped it away with her fingertips. “Julia went to get some ice. She’ll be back in a sec.”

  She smoothed his hair off his forehead, irritating and pleasing him at the same time, and rested the back of her hand against his brow the way his mother had when he was a kid. “This is my fault. I never should have let you take Vicodin on an empty stomach. Or walk down to the pond.”

  “That’s bullshit,” he muttered.

  The house door slammed, and he looked over his shoulder to watch Julia race gracefully down the hill in her riding boots. “I found ice,” she yelled, waving a folded towel.

  Julia sank to her knees beside them and exchanged a worried glance with Abigale. “Hey, what happened to Superman?” she asked, handing him the ice.

  He managed a smile as he pressed the ice to the back of his neck. “Must have been kryptonite in that rock I landed on.”

  “There must have been. You look like hell.”

  “Thanks.”

  The growl of a motor drifted down the hill, and Manning turned to see Percy’s truck swerve off the drive and bounce across the grass toward them.

  CHAPTER

  55

  Abigale glanced out the window as she plugged her cell phone charger into an outlet above the kitchen counter. She guessed Manning wasn’t feeling as jolly as he was acting, but he was putting on a good show for Percy. “It was good timing, Percy showing up when he did.”

  “Yeah, no kidding,” Julia replied. “Percy annoys the hell out of me sometimes, but today he looked like a knight in shining armor, driving down the hill in that big old truck of his. I think Manning would have passed out if he’d tried to walk the rest of the way up to the house.”

  Julia crumpled the grocery bag she had just emptied and tossed it in the trash can. “God, did Manning have a party last night?”

  “Far from it. He emptied all the bottles into the sink.”

  Julia arched an eyebrow. “Oh? That’s interesting.”

  Abigale nodded. She grabbed a plate off the counter. “I’m going to take this out to Manning.”

  “Okay.” Julia popped the oven door open a crack and peered inside. “This looks like it’s almost done. I’ll be out in a couple minutes.”

  “Perfect timing,” Percy said when Abigale opened the back door. “Be a doll and bring us a couple of beers.”

  Abigale just smiled and set the plate down in front of Manning, along with a can of Coke. “I thought the Coke would help settle your stomach, but I can get you a bottle of water if you’d prefer.”

  “Coke’s fine,” Manning said.

  “What?” Percy’s eyebrows shot up. “You brought him a Coca-Cola? The man needs a cold brewsky.”

  “Manning’s taking pain medicine, Percy. He can’t have alcohol.”

  “That never stopped you before, did it, bud?” Percy said with a snort, punching Manning playfully on the shoulder.

  Manning smiled, flipping the tab on the soda can.

  Percy regarded Manning through half-closed eyes, a lazy smirk twisting his lips. “Good thing I don’t mind drinking alone.” He raised a palm toward Abigale as he lumbered to his feet. “No, no, stay right there. I’ll help myself.”

  Abigale ignored Percy and slipped into the chair next to Manning. “Are you feeling better?”

  “I’m fine.” As if to prove it, he tipped the can and took a sip.

  She nudged the plate closer to him. “I warmed up the croissant.”

  “I’m not hungry right now, but thanks.” Manning pushed the plate away.

  “You have to eat something. If the sandwich doesn’t appeal to you, I’ll get you something else.”

  His expression tightened, jaw muscles clenched. “The sandwich is fine, Abby. I’m just not hungry right now.”

  “I bought Jell-O. And chicken noodle soup. Would you rather have that?”

  He shook his head.

  “Or, you can wait for the egg-and-sausage casserole Julia brought. She’s heating it up now.”

  “God, Abby,” Manning said with a groan. “You just don’t let up, do you?” He picked up the croissant and shoved it in his mouth. Flakes of pastry floated to the table as he bit off a chunk.

  She pressed her lips together, holding back a smile, and resisted telling him to take small bites.

  The kitchen door flew open, Percy bellowed, “Hey, Manning—I mean, Master—what the fuck? You’re out of beer?”

  “I have a case in my car,” Julia said, slipping through the door behind him. “It’s not cold, though.” She set the casserole on the wrought-iron table, tossing the potholders beside it.

  “I don’t care,” Percy replied, handing her a stack of plates and utensils. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

  Julia scooped a heaping pile of casserole onto a plate and handed it to Manning. He eyed the steaming mound of eggs and chunks of sausage; the color drained from his face. “Thanks,” he said, plunking the plate on the table and leaning back in his chair.

  “Hey, your cell just dinged. I think you got a text message,” Julia said, handing Abigale her cell phone. “I brought it out in case it was someone important.”

  Abigale thumbed the message button.

  “Based on the look on your face, it must have been from someone good,” Julia said.

  “It’s from my friend Joe in Afghanistan. We work together at Reuters.” She opened the text message, smiling as she scrolled down. “He sent a picture.”

  “Let me see,” Julia said, scooting her chair over next to Abigale’s.

  Abigale tilted the screen so Julia could see the photo.

  “Oh, my, three hunky guys. Who are they?”

  “This is Joe, here on the left. The one in the center is Alex. He’s an AP photographer.”

  Julia tapped a long red fingernail against the screen. “Who’s the hot one with the bedroom eyes?”

  “That’s Emilio. He’s a reporter for Corriere della Sera.”

  “Aw, look at the way he has his hands clasped across his heart. Is he doing that for you?”

  “No.”

  Julia grinned. “He is. Look, the subject line says Heartbroken in Kabul. How cute!”

  Abigale pulled the phone away. “They’re just joking around. We were all friends. We watched each other’s backs.”

  “I don’t know if I believe you. You’re blushing. Isn’t she, Manning?”

  Manning lifted a shoulder indifferently and gave Abigale a faint smile.

  “I’m ba-ack,” Percy sang, slamming a case of beer on the table. He yanked the cardboard open, snatched a bottle, and twisted the top off with a pop. “Anyone else want a beer?”

  “I’ll take one,” Julia said. She wrinkled her nose. “I hate warm beer, but what the hell. I heard somewhere that warm beer gets you drunk faster.”

  Percy opened a bottle and handed it to Julia, then grabbed another and held it out to Abigale. She shook her head.

  He nodded at Manning, raised the bottle as if he was going to pitch it to him, then jerked back his arm. “Oh, I almost f
orgot. Nurse Ratched here won’t let you have one.”

  “Fuck you, Percy,” Manning said.

  Percy laughed and dropped down in his chair. “Ah, this looks good.” He eyed the plate in front of him, smacking his lips. “Cholesterol city, here I come.”

  He shoveled a forkful into his mouth and made a thumbs-up sign. “Fantastic.”

  “You’re going to have a heart attack by the time you’re forty,” Manning said.

  Percy laughed, speared another forkful and washed it down with a swig of beer. “Yeah, but I’ll die a happy man.”

  He stabbed his fork in the air at Manning, “Speaking of dying, sounds like you dodged a bullet today.”

  “That’s a bit of an exaggeration,” Manning said. “I broke my arm.” He glanced at Abigale, adding, “Barely.”

  Percy said, “Yeah, but the billet straps gave way over a jump, right?”

  Manning nodded.

  “Lucky you didn’t break more than your arm.” Percy chewed thoughtfully. “Why the hell were you riding in Richard’s saddle, anyway?”

  Abigale shot a look at Manning. “How do you know Manning was riding in Uncle Richard’s saddle?”

  Percy shrugged as he ran his fork through the eggs. “I don’t know. Heard it somewhere.”

  CHAPTER

  56

  Abigale half-listened to the banter, which grew louder and raunchier as Percy and Julia downed more beer. She couldn’t shake the thoughts that had eaten at her ever since Percy had made the comment about Uncle Richard’s saddle. First of all, how did Percy know Manning hadn’t been riding in his own saddle? Lieutenant Mallory had agreed with Margaret that they shouldn’t discuss any details about the saddle incident. So, how had Percy found out? And so quickly?

  She thought back to the conversation she’d had with Smitty about Charles Jenner wanting to buy Percy’s property, and about how they wanted Uncle Richard to speak out publicly in favor of the deal. Did they want it so badly that they’d have resorted to threats? Or intimidation? Or worse?

  Abigale studied Percy across the table: cutting up, poking fun at Manning, at himself. The class clown. Would he stoop to blackmail if he wanted something badly enough? She found it hard to believe him capable of it. But then, she really didn’t know Percy anymore. She really didn’t know any of them.

  Except Manning. She might not know what he’d been doing the last seventeen years, or all that he’d been through, but when he turned those blue eyes on her, the old bond burned so strong it hurt her chest. Like it or not, she felt as if he could still read her thoughts. And right now, she could tell he was wishing like hell Percy and Julia would go home.

  Percy caught her eye and thrust out his bottom lip. “Don’t look so worried, Nurse Ratched. Manning’s going to be okay.”

  Manning balled up a napkin and threw it at Percy. “Knock it off.”

  “It’s okay,” Abigale said to Manning. “Percy’s wit is lost on me. I have no idea who Nurse Ratched is.”

  “She was the nurse from hell in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,” Julia told her.

  “Sorry, never saw it. But—” Abigale smiled at Percy—“since you already think I’m the evil nurse, I’m going to break up this party and insist Manning get some rest.”

  Percy whooped. “Good luck with that. This party’s just getting started.” He waved his beer bottle at Manning. “Tell her how it is, my friend.”

  Manning shrugged. “You heard the lady.”

  “Oh, man, you are so fucked,” Percy said.

  Julia shoved her chair back, rolling her eyes at Abigale. “Come on, Percy. Time to hit the road.”

  Percy rose with a lot of moaning and groaning, then threw a few more good-natured jibes at Manning.

  “You going to help us flag the course tomorrow?” Manning asked.

  “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

  “Thanks.” Manning held his left hand up as Percy tucked the case of beer under his arm. They clasped hands as Percy walked away. “And thanks for stopping by.”

  Julia leaned down and gave Manning a hug, whispering, “Don’t worry, I’ll follow Percy and make sure he gets home all right.”

  Manning waited until they both disappeared around the corner, then heaved a noisy sigh. “Thanks for playing bad cop and making them go home.”

  “It went on a bit long.”

  “Yeah. And Percy’s a lot less funny when I’m sober.”

  She smiled, studying him for a minute. “It seems like the two of you are still good friends.”

  He stretched his shoulders and shrugged. “We hang out, but we’re not as close as we were back in the day.”

  “Did something happen?”

  “We were partners in a racing stable during college and it ended badly. In fact, we barely spoke for years.” He shrugged. “Since I’ve been back from Los Angeles we’ve pretty much patched things up.”

  Abigale bit the inside of her lip, measuring her words. “Did it strike you as odd that Percy knew you were riding in Uncle Richard’s saddle when you were injured?”

  He frowned. “Odd how?”

  “Odd that he knew. I mean, we all agreed that we wouldn’t mention it to anyone. So how did Percy find out?”

  “You’ve been away too long. You’ve forgotten how quickly news travels in this town. So-and-so tells so-and-so, eases his conscience by making them promise not to repeat it, and so on.”

  “Yeah, I get that. But so quickly? And who told? I sure didn’t. You didn’t. Both Margaret and Thompson agreed to keep quiet about it.”

  The look Manning gave her said so what? “Michael, Larry, Doc Paley, Kevin.”

  “Who is Kevin?”

  “The blacksmith. Look, Abby, does it really matter? Someone obviously said something to someone. Nothing we can do about it now.”

  Manning’s tone was clipped, as if it was an effort to get the words out. Abigale knew she should drop it, let him get some rest. Still, she had to ask. “What if someone didn’t tell Percy?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if he already knew.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What—you think Percy tampered with Richard’s saddle? No. No way.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. How did you come up with that, anyway? Just because Percy knows I was riding in Richard’s saddle, you think that means he cut the billet straps? That’s as far-fetched as Mother suggesting I’m a suspect in Richard’s murder because I can’t remember what I did that afternoon.” Manning scowled at her. “Jesus Christ, Abby.”

  “That’s not the only reason,” Abigale said, regretting that she’d ever brought it up. “It’s also something Smitty told me the other night.”

  She repeated what Smitty had told her about Percy’s land deal. Halfway through, Manning was already shaking his head. “Percy’s going to sell that property one way or the other, Abby. If Charles Jenner doesn’t get his equestrian subdivision approved, Percy will sell it to someone else. It’s a valuable piece of property. There are other buyers out there.”

  Abigale held her hands up in surrender. “Okay. I didn’t realize Percy had so many other options. Smitty made it sound like it was a make-or-break deal with Charles Jenner and they really needed Uncle Richard’s help.”

  “Maybe for Jenner, but not for Percy. Besides, even if it was, Percy would never do something like that.”

  “All right. I’m sorry I brought it up. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “You didn’t upset me. I’m just pissed off. I feel like shit.” He raised his arm in the air. “And I can’t stand this goddamned cast.”

  Abigale looked at her watch. “You still have two hours before you can take more Vicodin. Why don’t you lie down and elevate your arm for a little while?”

  “And what will you do, sit there and watch me sleep?”

  “Do you have Internet access?”

  He nodded.

  “Say no more.”

  CHAPTER

  57

&n
bsp; Abigale sank onto the couch, sighing as the deep cushions swallowed her with a soft caress. She pulled her MacBook onto her lap and watched firelight flicker off the screen as the computer booted up. She’d won the fight with Manning about who would sleep on the couch, but he’d insisted on starting a fire for her before he’d trod wearily off to bed.

  She hoped he’d be able to sleep for awhile. He’d been snoring softly when she’d last checked on him. And she’d been able to cajole him into swallowing half a bowl of chicken noodle soup when he’d taken his pain meds, so with any luck he wouldn’t get nauseated again.

  Abigale plugged the cable from her camera into the laptop and waited for the pictures to load. She’d caught up on her email earlier when Manning was resting, spent some time poking around the Internet. Googled Percy Fletcher, Charles and Tiffanie Jenner. Found a slew of articles about the proposed development. She’d discovered a group called Foxhunters Online and followed a long string of discussions about her uncle’s murder. She’d had no idea how well-known and well-loved her uncle was. And not just in Middleburg. There were posts from foxhunters in Tennessee and Nebraska. Even one from Ireland.

  Most of the online chatter seemed to take it as fact that he’d been murdered by a “Hispanic road worker,” but the discussion flared more than once into accusations of racial profiling. There was one particularly fiery post chastising people for convicting Dario Reyes before he’d even been located by the police and given the opportunity to speak out. It concluded by cautioning people to wait and see, that things are often not as they appear. Almost as if the writer knew something. The post was from a woman identified only as Michelle, with an email address of chiencheval112@aol.com. Could it be the same Michelle she’d met that morning, Michelle de Becque? Chiencheval. Dog and horse in French. It was certainly possible. Of course, it was just as likely the post was from France, given that the Internet group was international. Abigale sent an email message, identifying herself and asking if the woman would be willing to talk to her privately.

  One by one, the images from Abigale’s camera popped up on the screen and she saved them all to the hard drive. The shots of the soldier on the flight from Ramstein had turned out well. She spent a few minutes adjusting the brightness on the picture of the soldier holding his son’s photo, corrected a shadow on his face. She smiled as she noticed a soldier seated across the aisle saluting the injured soldier. Nice. She hadn’t noticed that when she’d snapped the shot. No surprise. When she focused on a subject in her lens, she blocked out everything happening around her. A skill she’d learned from a veteran photojournalist in Iraq. She wrote a short email to the soldier wishing him luck and attached the photographs.