by Laura Crum
I had a few seconds. Jumbled thoughts raced through my mind. Mac and Blue, right and wrong. But I could see only one course. I sighted carefully down my gun as the heavyset man reached Brandon.
He was lifting his pistol towards Brandon’s head, but I was ready. Aiming for the center of that thick body, I held my breath and pulled the trigger.
The recoil knocked my arm back, the crack rang in my ears. He turned his head towards me; I shot again. Bringing the gun back to the center of his body, I shot a third time. Again I centered myself, ready to shoot. But the man collapsed next to Brandon.
I didn’t hesitate. Leaping to my feet, I ran toward the two of them. I could see the killer’s pistol on the ground near his hand and I kicked it away. Brandon was still breathing. There was blood welling up on both men in the chest area. I needed help now.
I turned and ran for the house, charging through the open gate, gun in hand. I didn’t stop to wonder if the man had a wife or the yellow Lab would attack. I needed a phone and I needed it now.
No one in the backyard; the Lab woofed in a token way from a dog run. The sliding glass door at the back of the big house was half-open. I dashed across the deck and into the room and looked wildly around.
The room seemed vast and dark. I could see a TV and a table. The walls were covered with what looked like bulletin boards that were plastered in newspaper clippings. There was a desk with a computer in the corner. And next to the computer was a phone. I lunged desperately in that direction.
Dialing 911, I waited for the crisp, professional voice.
“Do you have an emergency?”
“I do. Two men have been shot. I need help,” I said. And was very pleased to find I could speak at all.
Chapter 23
A week later I was finally able to take a deep breath. Brandon Carter was alive and in the hospital. The doctors thought he would make it. The man who shot him, one Richard Brewster, was dead. By my hand. I still could not quite assimilate this.
Richard Brewster, who had run me off many years ago when I had ridden up to the back of his property on my horse, had apparently nurtured a hatred of equestrians along with a hugely territorial sense of his own space. He had also, apparently, been obsessed with various serial trailside killers—his walls were papered with newspaper and magazine accounts of these murders. His diary reflected what sounded like an insatiable urge to combine his vendetta against trail riders with his lust to become just such an infamous killer himself. For years he had practiced at the range with a long-barreled twenty-two pistol, working to become an expert sniper from a distance. His journals chronicled his goal of “picking off those damn women on their horses. They won’t know what hit them.”
By his own account, Richard Brewster hiked the trails with his dog in order to become an expert at where to lie in wait. He knew every hidden spot with a good line of sight. As he said, “I’m invisible with the stupid dog. Just another middle-aged dog walker. No one has any idea what I’m up to.” He had purchased the Lab from a duck hunter who had guaranteed the dog had no fear of gunfire and knew how to lie down and stay still and quiet on command.
Jeri Ward had been able to give me the other facts I desperately needed. Richard Brewster was single, had never been married or had children. His parents were dead. I had taken nobody’s husband or father or child. I had saved Brandon’s life (I hoped) and rid the trails of the killer who haunted them. Jeri herself had adopted the big yellow Lab. And Trish O’Hara and Coal were just fine.
Sometimes when I lay awake at night I could see Richard Brewster lying there on the ground, as I had waited beside him and Brandon for the paramedics. I had known he wasn’t breathing. But Brandon was. I was pretty sure I felt okay about this. I had not told Mac, however.
Since the day when I had called 911, it had rained almost nonstop. Great blasts of wind and rolls of thunder; a deluge pouring down. The streams all had running water in them. The ponds were filling. But after a week of blustery weather, the skies had cleared. Today was bright and warm and blue and smiling.
The storm was over, in more than one way. Sunshine poured over the ridge and filled my little hollow in the hills. Mac was playing with Star; Blue was working in the vegetable garden. As for me, I saddled Sunny. Brushing his woolly coat and combing his long mane, I glanced at the familiar ridgeline, seeing the landmark tree silhouetted against the sky. And I smiled.
“We’re okay,” I said softly, and with gratitude. “We’re all okay. Thank you.”
And I headed out to ride the trails along the ridge.
Epilogue
I think of death sometimes, when I lie awake at night. I know that I, too, will die. I imagine that I will die in this bed. I try to guess what this will be like. Perhaps I will be an old woman, with my grown son at my bedside. Even then, I suppose, my thoughts will turn to him, to be sure he is all right without me. I see myself smiling at him, in reassurance. In my mind, Mac smiles back and holds my hand.
Somehow, in this fantasy, Blue is already dead, gone before me, and as I ready myself to let go of my body, I see Blue coming toward me through a field of grass, awash in light. Coming with him is a troop of creatures large and small—my beloved horses, dogs, cats and others, from chickens to a broken-legged sparrow I tried and failed to save, and a blind kitten that I rescued from under the hooves of a horse and had to euthanize. My heart fills with joy as I see them all, coming to greet me.
I smile, this time at Blue and my animals. Mac sees the smile and squeezes my hand gently, understanding that it’s all okay.
“I love you,” I say. To Mac, to Blue, to my animals, to the sweet world, to everything.
And I let go.
Author’s Note
This book is the twelfth in my series featuring equine veterinarian Gail McCarthy. I began the series in 1994, with Cutter, and with the intent of completing a dozen books. Gail is thirty-one years of age in the first book—I was in my early thirties when I wrote it. She ages one year per book in the first ten books. In book number eleven, Going, Gone, she has aged five years since the previous book, Chasing Cans. And again, in this book, Barnstorming, another five years have passed since Going, Gone. Gail has just reached her fiftieth birthday.
There were several reasons behind my choice to jump five years in the last two books. I wanted to catch Gail up to my own age more or less—I’m in my early fifties now. And I wanted to write about a theme which fits better with one’s fifties than earlier in life. Also, I wanted to show the growth of Gail’s son in four very different stages. Moonblind deals with the challenges of pregnancy, Chasing Cans with the delights and dismays of a nursing baby, and Going, Gone with the wonder of a small child. In this book, Mac is eleven and moving forward toward adolescence.
Many people have asked if Gail is “me” (others just assume it). The answer is mixed. I was never a vet, I never placed the priority on career and work that Gail did, I did not spend a large part of my adult life as a single woman. Unlike Gail, I did spend a big part of my life training and showing cowhorses of various sorts. However, Gail and I share many similar opinions and I have given Gail my own horses for hers, as well as my dogs and cats and other animals. Her home is based on my home and her husband and son bear a great resemblance to my husband and son. In many ways these books are a lovesong to my own life and the things that have delighted me—my family, animals, home, garden, the land where I live…etc. If I have made any of it come alive and shown how lovely it all is, then I am grateful.
Since these stories are mysteries, there must be a central crime on which the plot turns. Unlike the background of the books, the crimes have sprung from my imagination, but every single one is based (often loosely) on some true story I have heard or known about, and I have tried to keep them all within the bounds of what might be possible. A friend once told me that for my books to become “successful,” I needed to write characters and stories that were “bigger than life.” I’m afraid that doesn’t interest me. Life interests
me, and I have tried to write stories that were/are faithful to life as I’ve known it.
Ever since Hayburner (my seventh book), I’ve received plenty of email asking if the current book is the last one. There’s a reason for this. The series seemed to me to be on shaky ground, as it has never been hugely successful, and I wrote the books such that if each one after Hayburner were the last, it would seem a fitting conclusion. However, I have been fortunate enough to continue to be published and I would like to thank both St. Martin’s Press, my first publisher, and Perseverance Press, my current publisher, for that privilege. And so, here I am, having reached my initial goal of a dozen books.
Will this book be the last? Probably. I know enough to know that I don’t know, if you see what I mean. I promise not to push Gail off any cliffs, if you’re just getting ready to read the book. But perhaps her future is best left to the imagination. We’ll see.
About the Author
Laura Crum (pictured with Sunny), a fourth-generation Santa Cruz County resident, has owned and trained horses for over thirty years. She lives and gardens in the hills near California’s Monterey Bay with her husband, son, and a large menagerie of horses, dogs, cats, and chickens. She may be e-mailed and visited at www.lauracrum.com and www.equestrianink.blogspot.com.
The Gail McCarthy Mystery Series
by Laura Crum
Cutter
Hoofprints
Roughstock
Roped
Slickrock
Breakaway
Hayburner
Forged
Moonblind
Chasing Cans
Going, Gone
Barnstorming