by Laura Crum
I sat up and stared at him. “How do you know I was here yesterday?”
“I saw your truck and tracked you up here. I knew you’d gone to this blind; that’s where your tracks went. I hid in the brush over there and watched you climb down after the camper dude rode off on his bicycle.”
“Oh you did.” I could think of nothing appropriate to say. There was no earthly reason for me to protest against Brandon’s presence here. I had no claim to the blind. I had seen him yesterday and had wondered if he was tracking me. Brandon’s woods skills were clearly a bit superior to mine. I had certainly not realized that he’d watched me climb down from the blind. Nor had I looked carefully at the ground before I’d climbed the ladder a minute ago. If I had, no doubt I would have noticed his bootprints on the dusty ground.
Should I leave? Would he let me?
Brandon watched the thoughts cross my mind.
“You can stay or go. It’s no matter to me,” he said.
“What are you going to do?”
“Watch. Just like you did. I thought you had a pretty good idea. What did you see?”
I stared at him. Was I going to throw in here? Did I have any reason to trust this guy?
Well, Jeri had said that his gun had not killed Jane, so presumably not Sheryl either. That was one thing. And for some reason I liked him. I wasn’t sure what that meant. But still, why would he hide in this blind to catch the murderer if he WAS the murderer?
Of course, he could be hiding in the blind in order to shoot someone. I could see his rifle resting on the floor. But in that case, why not shoot me as I strolled across the clearing, oblivious to his presence? No, I did not think Brandon was the murderer. Was he then an ally? I still wasn’t sure.
“I saw Buddy, the camper guy, and you,” I said dubiously, knowing he already knew that.
“And you saw that guy with the beard on his dirt bike,” Brandon remarked, his arms crossed over his chest, his very blue eyes meeting my gaze steadily. “I watched him ride away from here.”
“Yeah,” I said, still dubious. Brandon’s crossed arms and slightly cocked head looked defensive but not hostile. I still wasn’t sure where he was coming from.
“Did you see the guy with the yellow Lab?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said again. “And Ross and Tammi,” I added. “On horseback.”
There was a moment of silence while Brandon assimilated this. “That trainer and his girlfriend from the boarding stable,” he said at last. “The ones who got busted for growing pot.”
“That would be them.”
“I heard the sheriffs were looking for them.”
“They are.”
“And you’re friends with Sergeant Jeri Ward. Did you mention you’d seen those two?”
“Yep.”
Brandon was quiet a long moment. “Wonder if she picked them up.”
“That I don’t know. I think they’re hiding out at Lazy Valley.”
“The rich girl’s boarding stable.”
“You mean Juli?”
“Juli’s got a lot of money,” Brandon said quietly. “I know her from way back.”
I found this interesting. Brandon, the tough, twentyish poacher, knew Juli Barnes, the wealthy, fortyish owner of Lazy Valley Stable. I wondered exactly how he knew her, but didn’t want to ask.
Taking a deep breath, I realized I was starting to relax a little. I hadn’t exactly made a conscious decision, but somehow I was beginning to trust that Brandon and I were on the same side. I scooted back until my spine rested against the wall of the blind opposite the side where he sat. Maybe I wouldn’t leave immediately.
Brandon watched my shift; then looked from me to the outside world and back again at me.
“So who do you think did it?” I asked him.
“You mean shot those women?”
“Yes.”
“If I knew, do you think I’d be sitting here?”
“But do you have any thoughts?”
Brandon met my eyes and for the first time, I thought I could read his emotion. Confused.
“Not really,” he said at last. “I know it wasn’t me. And I damn sure plan to catch whoever it is and get them stopped. Permanently.”
“I feel more or less the same way,” I said. “Do you think this is about horses? Women on horses in particular.”
Now Brandon looked curious. “I dunno,” he said. “I’ve had the thought. Some kook who doesn’t like women on horses. Or obsesses on them. Or something like that.”
“So, anybody come to mind that fits that description?”
Brandon shook his head slowly. “Not really. But there wouldn’t be any way of telling, maybe. I once knew a guy who seemed really normal. And then he went home one night and shot his girlfriend because he thought she was cheating on him. He seemed like a nice guy. I never thought he’d do something like that.”
“Yeah,” I said, thinking of Doug Martin, who seemed like such a nice guy. Both women who had been shot had been involved with him. And yet I couldn’t believe Doug was a killer—he seemed like such a “nice guy.” Hmmm…
Suddenly Brandon stiffened and I saw his gaze go to the screen. I turned my head to follow his eyes and he raised a finger to his lips. In a moment I saw what he had seen. A big white dog was bounding up the trail that led to the reservoir.
I stared; Brandon stared. I knew that dog. It was the white standard poodle that lived in the blue house near the trail. The dog that routinely chased horses at the behest of his owner. What had Jeri said the guy’s name was? Bill Waters, I thought. Cocky-looking dark-haired guy. Riva from the Red Barn had said he was the one blocking the trails, and that he had threatened her. Jeri had said that he sounded willing to take out a “whole boatload of horse people.”
The dog ran on up the trail toward the Lookout clearing. I stiffened. Coming through the trees behind the white dog was a human figure. Stocky, dark-haired, moving fast. Small dayback on his back. Definitely Bill Waters. I’d only seen him a few times, but coupled with the fact that he accompanied the dog, which I did recognize, I was pretty sure it was him.
My eyes went to Brandon, who again raised his finger to his lips. And we both watched.
Man and dog approached the Lookout at a fast clip, looking as if they were going somewhere with a purpose. Bill Waters wore a dark T-shirt and black running shorts. He barely glanced over one shoulder at the view—a whited-out sky and ocean, mixed with grayish clouds—before turning to take the trail which led past the blind and on down the hill to the pretty trail. The dog circled around him once and then took the lead as they moved through the trees. In another minute they were out of sight.
“Do you know that guy?” I whispered, once they were gone.
“I know who he is,” Brandon said. “Lives in a blue house near that trail,” and he pointed at the trail the guy had come up. “That’s one guy who doesn’t like horses.”
“I know,” I said. “Do you see him out in the woods?”
“Every once in awhile,” Brandon said. “He doesn’t talk to me.”
We both pondered on that awhile. The wind rocked the oak tree; the sky seemed to be getting darker. I wondered if it was going to start spitting rain. I wasn’t sure I planned to stay up here in a storm. I felt pretty damn cold already.
A low rumble in the distance that sounded like thunder made me flinch. I pulled the hood up on my sweatshirt. And then I froze. Voices. Once again I stiffened and my eyes shot to the screen. Brandon was already looking where I was looking. Neither of us bothered to shush the other. We were both watching.
In another moment I was aware that the voices were male and coming from the direction of the trail that led to Lazy Valley. I strained to see through the cracks in the screen, and was rewarded by the sight of a buckskin horse emerging from the brush. The rider was immediately recognizable. Jonah Wakefield, wearing his trademark black duster and felt hat. It took me a minute, but I realized the guy behind him, riding what I was sure was Dolly, wa
s Doug Martin. The two men were talking, but as before, when Ross and Tammi had ridden up here yesterday, they parked themselves in front of the view, and though I could sometimes hear their voices over the noise of the wind, I could not make out the words.
Brandon and I looked at each other and kept quiet. I tried to decide by watching the men’s body language if they were allies or adversarial. It was hard to tell. But in a very short while they stopped talking. Jonah jerked his chin at Doug and rode off on the trail that led to the reservoir.
Doug took the trail that led down the hill, past the blind and on to the pretty trail—the same trail Bill Waters and his white dog had taken. I watched Doug’s face as he rode by the blind. Set and cold—a stern expression. I hadn’t a clue what lay beneath it. I was used to seeing Doug with a charming smile. The man riding Dolly was not a Doug that I was familiar with.
When Doug had disappeared Brandon glanced at me. “I know who the trainer guy is,” he said. “Who’s the other guy?”
“Doug Martin,” I said softly. “Guy who was the boyfriend of both the women who got shot?”
“Both?”
“Yeah, both. Sequentially, more or less.”
“Doesn’t that make him suspect number one?”
“Yeah, I think it does.”
“And here he is, up in the woods. I noticed he had saddlebags.”
“He did, didn’t he. And I think they were the same ones that belonged to the second woman who was shot. Sheryl. And by his own account, she always carried a twenty-two pistol in them. I wonder if it’s there now?”
“Is that right?” Brandon’s whole body looked intent, like a cat that has spotted a gopher in the grass. I could almost see his tail twitching. He stared off in the direction Doug had taken, every sense on the alert.
I shifted my gaze and combed the Lookout clearing. All quiet. And then my eyes bounced back to the logging road. The road passed through a grove of redwoods before it reached the open ground. Was that something moving in the shadows? Or just the tree branches waving in the wind?
The branches of the oak tree I was in rocked and rustled; I strained to see and hear over the gusts that were sweeping in from the ocean. The very air seemed to be turning gray. Dark redwoods swayed and shifted at the edge of the clearing, but surely that was something moving at ground level. Something dark. With a light spot at the top.
I blinked. A horse and rider were coming through the trees, about to emerge into the open. And I was pretty sure it was Trish and Coal. Dark horse, rider with bright sun-gold hair.
I took a deep breath and turned toward Brandon, meaning to motion to him so that he would notice Trish. But his focus on the trail that led down the hill was rigidly intent. I raised my hand to signal him, and suddenly things started happening so fast I could hardly follow them.
In a split second Brandon went from a silent statue to a full-on bellow of rage. Leaping to his feet, gun in hand, still looking down the trail, he shouted at the top of his lungs, “Drop it, you bastard!”
And pointing his rifle in the direction he’d been staring, he pulled the trigger.
Crack! And then another loud bang. The noise rang in my ears even as my eyes shot back to Trish. Coal was spinning, clearly spooked; Trish was on him and trying to regain control. And I got it.
I stood up and screamed as loud as I could. “Run, Trish! Run! Get out of here!”
Trish must have heard me because she quit fighting Coal and let him wheel around and bolt back down the road, as he clearly wanted to do. In another second she was out of sight. And Brandon was halfway down the ladder.
I didn’t stop to think if this was a good idea. I just followed him.
Chapter 21
By the time I had scrambled down the wildly swinging ladder, Brandon was a distant figure pelting down the hill. I headed after him as fast as I could, my pack thumping me hard on the back with every stride. Sticks snapped under my feet and I tried to keep my focus divided between Brandon and the trail as I ran downhill on the uneven ground.
I had no idea who Brandon was chasing, but I was pretty damn sure it was the author of that second shot. I was guessing, but I imagined that Brandon had seen or heard something, enough to make him shout and fire his gun. And I thought the something was someone. Someone who shot at Trish. But Trish was okay; I’d seen her galloping the frightened Coal down the hill. Between Brandon’s shot, Coal’s spook, and my warning, Trish had escaped becoming the next victim.
Running as hard as I could, trying to keep Brandon in sight, I tried to guess who we were after. Doug Martin? Certainly he had just disappeared down this trail on horseback. Were we chasing a mounted rider? Had Doug tried to shoot Trish?
Brandon had reached the juncture with the pretty trail, but he headed left, towards the ridge trail. I did not see Doug anywhere. I pushed myself harder, not wanting to lose sight of Brandon.
But Brandon was younger and more athletic than I was; he was drawing away from me. My heart was pounding and I was already gasping for air. I wasn’t going to be able to keep this up very long. At least we were going downhill.
In some corner of my mind I could feel the wind buffet me and the sting of small rain on my cheek. The storm was coming. I kept running.
Down, down, through a tangle of shrubbery, past the three-way trail crossing, still on the ridge trail. I huffed and puffed, my legs churning; I could see Brandon far ahead of me. He was running through the big Monterey pines. And I saw him take the branch trail that led to the landmark tree skeleton.
I charged after him. This trail led steeply downhill and dead-ended behind the big mansions on Storybook Lane. I never rode this way anymore, but I had hiked it a few times in the last few years to look at the landmark tree. If we were chasing Doug, I could not imagine what his plan might be. Gallop through someone’s backyard and down the suburban street?
Running and gasping, I struggled to stay upright on the steep slope. My feet wanted to slip forward; I ran faster and faster, letting gravity pull me downhill. The huge trunk of the landmark tree loomed on my right, towering into the dark gray clouds above. I could no longer see Brandon. I just ran.
Down and down, greenness blurred in my peripheral vision; I thought I had almost reached the seasonal pond, dry now, that lay behind the last big house at the end of the road. And a sudden memory popped into my mind. This was the way I had ridden, many years ago, when a wealthy suburbanite had banned me from the subdivision. I had come down this same trail on horseback and ridden up behind the big house at the end of the road, only to have a middle-aged man emerge from the house and scream at me in fury, threatening to call the sheriffs on me, should I ever come through here again. I could still remember his face, contorted with rage. His face…
I was still running, but the gears in my mind were turning faster than my legs could pump. His face was familiar. I knew that face. And suddenly I knew who we were chasing.
The recognition came crashing in as I spotted Brandon’s form ahead of me, on the other side of the pond, moving fast toward the grapestake fence that marked the backyard of the house. I didn’t have time to draw a breath, much less shout, before the shot rang out. And Brandon dropped to the ground.
Chapter 22
Shit. Oh shit. I dropped to the ground behind a clump of willows, wrestled my pack off my back, and pulled out the gun. The pistol felt reassuring in my hand, but I hadn’t a clue what to do. I could not see who had shot at Brandon. I could, however, see Brandon’s form, and he was moving.
He lunged to his feet, but staggered and fell again at the edge of the dried-up pond, about thirty feet from the scrub willow that shielded me. The open bowl of the empty pond lay between us. I could see bright red blood staining his chest.
My heart felt like it was going to leave my body. I stared hard in the direction from which the shot had come. From behind that fence I thought. From the yard of that house. What in the hell was I going to do here?
And a tiny voice said, remember your cel
l phone.
I dug it out of my pocket, already knowing it wouldn’t work. I was not a hundred yards, as the crow flies, from the spot where Jane had been shot. Once again I was at the bottom of this hollow in the hills. There was not going to be a signal. I stared at the screen. Nope. I was on my own.
Wind howled through the tree tops on the ridge, but the hollow where this pond lay was fairly sheltered. Rain spattered fitfully in the gloom. I shivered and then took a deep breath. Time to get centered.
I sighted my pistol in the direction of the fence and waited. With any luck the shooter did not know of my presence here. I had been screened by the brush as I descended the hill. The gunman was after Brandon, who had pursued him. I was unknown, invisible, here behind the willows. I might have a chance. I sighted down the barrel of the gun and waited.
And waited. Brandon wasn’t moving. He had fallen face down. I didn’t know if he was dead or alive. I felt sure the shooter would be wondering the same thing. I waited.
The wind gusted through the willow branches but other than that the woods were silent. Not a bird chirped, not a lizard rustled in the dry grass. The sudden shot had scared the brush into frozen quiet. I could feel blackberry thorns digging into my knee, but ignored them. I would stay frozen, too. Waiting.
It seemed to take forever, but eventually a head appeared above the fence. Heavy-featured, short light brown hair. The face of a thickset middle-aged man. An ordinary sort of face. The kind of man you might see out walking his dog.
My heart beat a rapid tattoo. This was the face I’d been expecting. The face that had looked oddly familiar. Just a middle-aged man out walking his friendly yellow Lab. But it was the same man who had run me out of here so many years ago. Who lived in this big house at the end of the road and hated horses.
I had never made the connection. Too many years had passed in between. I hadn’t known the hiker lived in this house. I’d recognized that his face looked familiar, but that was it.
Slowly the face turned from side to side, scanning the woods. I held absolutely still. And then a gate opened in the fence and the man stepped out, his eyes on Brandon’s form. He walked cautiously in that direction. There was a pistol in his hand.