“I’ve got a fair amount of flexibility with my expense account. I could buy you some new clothes, give you an allowance, maybe lease you a car.…”
“No way!”
“Then you’ll just have to be convincing enough to make people think you’re seeing me for love, not money.” Something about his expression made Molly suspect he was teasing her a little. If a man as humorless as he appeared to be ever did tease, which upon reflection she tended to doubt.
“Anyway, I haven’t said I’ll do it yet,” she reminded him, subsiding. Her head was buzzing, and she had a terrible feeling that she wasn’t thinking as clearly as she might be. When she considered doing what he asked, a vague sense of unease warned her that in agreeing she might be making a mistake. He would be gone in a few weeks at most, while she would still be living and working at Wyland Farm, among people she had betrayed. People who, given a reason, might even be dangerous. Everyone who had ever worked in the horse business knew the rumors: horses drugged by their own or rival stables to enhance or inhibit performance, horses killed for insurance, barns burnt to the ground just in time to save their owners from bankruptcy, public officials bribed to look the other way. Witnesses to the mayhem who expressed a willingness to talk tended to meet unfortunate ends. The surface glamor of the industry had an ugly underside, and she wanted no part of it.
“But you will,” he said with calm certainty.
“You’re pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?” The car was headed for Woodford County, and as it dipped and rose over the hills and bends in the road Molly felt increasingly queasy.
“Like you said, you don’t really have a choice.”
“You could be bluffing, about having me arrested.”
“Try me.”
Molly glanced sideways at him. He looked cool, composed—and about as merciful as an executioner. She didn’t want to “try him.”
“Okay. I’ll do it.” Her capitulation was ungracious. A thousand bees swarmed in her head, and her stomach roiled. It occurred to her that downing two whiskey sours without any food to mute their effect might have been a mistake. She was not used to drinking alcohol.
“Good girl.” He smiled at her. Molly realized it was the first time she had seen him smile. Really smile, that is. Not the false, humorless grins that she had been treated to before. It made him look younger.
She rested her head back against the seat as the car whooshed through the night. The moon was up, a pale crescent floating over the undulating countryside. In the fields beside the road horses and cattle grazed peacefully.
“If anyone asks, I’m a Chicago businessman down here on vacation,” he told her. “We met at Keeneland when I came by early this morning to watch the horses exercise. You were standing at the rail. I asked you out, we hit it off. We see a lot of each other for the next few weeks, and then, regrettably, I have to return to Chicago. End of romance. Sound okay to you?”
“Fine,” Molly said, eyes closing.
“Repeat what I just said.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll remember. Could you slow down?”
“It’s important that we both tell the same story.…”
The car sailed over a rise. Molly’s stomach sailed with it. She gritted her teeth, pressed her palms hard into the soft velour upholstery, and tried to will the rising nausea back. Beside her, her companion kept talking. She didn’t register a word.
“Mr. FBI man, I think you’d better pull over,” she said at last, opening her eyes.
“What?” He glanced at her.
“Pull over,” she said through her teeth, because the matter was now extremely urgent and there was no time to be lost.
He did. The car had no sooner stopped than Molly half rolled, half stumbled out the door and away. She fell to her knees in a dark patch of weeds by the side of the road, and was thoroughly, humiliatingly sick.
When Molly could summon the strength, she got to her feet and walked back toward the car, which was parked some twelve feet behind her. Without surprise she discovered that the FBI man was out of the car, too, leaning against the trunk, watching her. Of course he wouldn’t have the decency to let her be sick in private.
“Want some water?” he asked as she approached, and held something out to her. “I keep some in the car. Beats pop.”
“Thanks.” She took the object, which turned out to be a green plastic bottle of Evian, with a rush of gratitude. Retreating a few steps, she turned her back to him and rinsed the horrible yucky taste out of her mouth. The water was warm, but it did the job. She sluiced her face with it, and rinsed her hands.
“Need a towel?” He was behind her. She nodded, and accepted the soft wad of cloth he passed her. As she dried her face and hands, she discovered that her towel was in reality a man’s T-shirt. His, she assumed.
“Are you always this prepared?” she asked, swinging her hair back from her face and straightening her shoulders as she turned to face him. She was embarrassed, horribly, burningly embarrassed, but she wasn’t going to let him know that. Whatever else she might lack, she had her pride.
“I used to be a Boy Scout.” He took the T-shirt from her, retrieved the empty water bottle from the roadside where she had dropped it, and returned them both to the trunk. Closing the lid softly, he leaned back against it again, his arms folding over his chest. There was the merest quirk of a smile on his face as he looked her over. Like the serene beauty of the meadowlands around them, he was washed in silver moonlight. Unfortunately, that made his aggravating smile all too easy to see.
“Not much of a drinker, are you?” he observed.
“I’m just getting over the flu,” Molly lied, bristling. Admitting to a weakness left one vulnerable, she had learned long ago. “My stomach’s been upset off and on for a week.”
“Oh,” he said, and his smile broadened.
“Can we go?” Molly asked, turning a cold shoulder on him to walk to the passenger-side door.
“Sure you’re up to it?” He was behind her, reaching around her for the door handle before she could open it herself.
“Yes.” Molly sank into the passenger seat with relief. She was still a little weak, but she did feel better. Emptying her stomach and breathing fresh air had helped.
“Put your seat belt on.” He closed the passenger door. While he walked around the car, Molly complied.
“We can sit here a minute if you want to,” he offered, getting in beside her.
“I’m fine,” Molly said with a hint of a snap. He shrugged and started the car. As they resumed their journey Molly was both relieved and chagrined to realize that the car’s pace was considerably slower.
“Did you catch anything that I was saying to you earlier?” Remnants of a smile still curved his mouth as he glanced at her.
Molly hesitated, tempted by that superior smirk to lie, then shook her head. “Not much.”
“I didn’t think so.” Patiently he repeated the story he had concocted to explain their relationship. It sounded lame to Molly, but she wasn’t going to argue about it.
“Anything you say, Mr. FBI man,” she said with a hint of insolence when he had finished. She was feeling pretty limp, but she didn’t think he could tell.
He glanced at her again. Molly was pleased to note that his smile was gone.
“Molly, listen to me: If you call me that, even once, where anyone can hear you, my cover’s blown. Our cover’s blown. The operation is wrecked, and it is very possible that one or both of us might be endangered. I’m your new boyfriend, remember? My name is Will. You call me Will. You think of me as Will. Got it?”
“Anything you say, Will,” Molly amended with a superior smirk of her own. Privately, she found it hard to imagine herself calling him by his given name, and as for thinking of him as Will—he would always be the FBI man to her.
They turned off Old Frankfort Pike and headed down the narrow road that led to Molly’s house. The moon was in front of them, its soft light glowing through the windshield.
“Wha
t time is it?” Molly asked.
“A few minutes after ten,” the FBI man—no, Will, she must remember to think of him as Will—answered. Molly was surprised to learn that they had been gone so long. Over three hours—the twins would be in bed. Mike and Ashley would be watching TV and doing homework, respectively. If Mike had not gone out. He had a nine-thirty curfew on school nights, but half the time it was ten or after before he got home.
Mike was going through a difficult phase. It was hard to know what to do for the best.
Rounding a bend brought the farmhouse into view. The first thing Molly noticed was that the house was lit up like a Christmas tree.
The second was that a police car with flashing blue lights was parked in the drive.
“Oh, my God!” she gasped, a thousand and one hideous possibilities running through her mind.
With a quick glance at her, Will sped up. Within seconds they were pulling in behind the police car. A uniformed officer was just stepping onto the lighted porch, having exited the house through the kitchen door. Pork Chop, at his heels, looked up to see the newly arrived vehicle, and bounded toward it barking.
“Molly!”
Ashley, Susan, and Sam scrambled off the porch, heading for Molly as she jumped out of the car. A lightning once-over for the three of them, and she concluded that they were unhurt. Pork Chop, having sniffed her in passing, moved on. She spared no more than a glance for his friendly overtures to Will as she rushed toward her sisters and brother.
She reached them, or they reached her—actually it was a kind of mutual coming-together. Susan and Sam hugged her waist, and Molly wrapped an arm around each of their narrow shoulders as she searched Ashley’s face. Ashley, she was alarmed to see, looked wide-eyed and pale even in the yellowish glow of the porch light. It took a lot to discompose Ashley.
“What’s happened?” Molly croaked.
“Mike …” Ashley said at the same time.
“Miz Ballard?” The cop from the porch came toward them. A second cop got out of the squad car. Molly hadn’t even realized it was occupied.
“Has something happened to Mike?” Molly asked Ashley urgently.
“He’s in trouble.”
“Where is he?”
“He went out, and he hasn’t come home yet,” Ashley breathed as the policemen converged on them. One was stocky, with heavy jowls and a beer gut that rode proudly above his low-slung belt. The other was taller, lanky and bald. Both wore the brown uniforms of the Woodford County Sheriff’s Department, with silver deputy badges gleaming on their breast pockets.
“What’s the problem, Officers?” Molly did not recognize either man, though she was familiar with many of the law enforcement personnel in the area. Thanks largely to her mother, and the kids.
“We need to talk to your brother Mike. When do you expect him back?” The deputy was courteous, if not friendly.
“Why do you want to talk to him?” Hostility edged Molly’s reply. Releasing the twins, she squared her shoulders and faced the men with her chin up. She had dealt with cops before, and in her experience they were inevitably bad news.
The deputies glanced at each other. The stockier one spoke: “About an hour ago, we got a report that some teenagers were trespassing in a barn over at Sweet Meadow Stud. When we got there, half a dozen kids ran out the back of the barn. We looked around, found beer cans and the remains of a couple of marijuana cigarettes. We think your brother was one of those kids.”
“What makes you think that?” The hostility in Molly’s voice was pronounced now. It was her way of dealing with her own fear. If Mike was involved with drugs—what would she do?
“One of the boys was wearing a Woodford County High jacket. We showed some yearbook pictures to a witness. The witness identified one of the boys as your brother.”
“I don’t believe it!” Molly said stoutly, though she harbored a terrible fear that it might be true.
“Are you your brother’s legal guardian, Miz Ballard?” the taller cop asked.
“Yes!” She wasn’t, though. Their living arrangements were strictly unofficial. For years she had cared for her siblings like a parent, but she had never even tried to make the arrangement legal. She was afraid to. Now another, second fear for her family joined her fear for Mike. If they found out that the younger ones were not legally under her care, what would they do?
“If all this happened just an hour ago, like you said, it would have been dark. How could the witness have seen anyone clearly enough to identify him in the dark?” Ashley questioned with admirable levelheadedness. Molly spared her sister a grateful glance. At seventeen, Ashley was as mature as a thirty-year-old. Molly sometimes wondered how she would manage when Ashley went off to college.
“The witness was driving home, and the boys were running down the side of the road. Her headlights illuminated them. She got a good look at your brother’s face.” The deputy glanced from Molly to Ashley and back.
“She says,” Molly countered, girding up for a fight.
“She says,” Ashley echoed, and the twins nodded vigorously.
The taller cop looked the four of them over for a moment in silence. “Does your brother smoke pot, Miz Ballard?” he asked.
“No, of course he doesn’t!”
“To get caught now might be the best thing for him, you know. Straighten him out before he slides into more dangerous drugs. You don’t want that to happen, do you?”
“I don’t believe Mike was in that barn,” Molly said, though to her own ears her voice sounded strained. She did believe it, or at least she was hideously afraid it might be true. The idea of Mike being involved with drugs terrified her.
The lanky deputy’s lips tightened. “We need to talk to your brother, Miz Ballard. When do you expect him home?”
Molly had a dreadful flash of imagination picturing Mike choosing that moment to stagger up the driveway drunk or stoned, or both, and being hauled off to jail there and then.
“I’m not sure.” Her voice was cold.
“In any case, I don’t imagine Miss Ballard will allow you to talk to her brother without an attorney being present.” Will spoke from behind Molly. Molly was so upset she hadn’t even realized he was still standing there. She glanced around at him. His gaze held hers for the briefest of moments. “Will you, Molly?”
“No.” She looked back at the deputies. The idea of getting a lawyer before permitting Mike to talk to the cops would never have occurred to her. Hiring a lawyer was not something the Ballards ordinarily did. For one thing, it cost too much. For another, she didn’t know any lawyers. But she would worry about that later. For right now, she would grab at any straw that floated her way. With some surprise, she realized she felt better knowing Will, for whatever unlikely reason, was on her—and Mike’s—side. A whole lot better.
“If you don’t mind my asking, sir, who are you?” the shorter deputy asked, looking past Molly at Will.
“A friend of Miss Ballard’s.” The lie came out smooth as instant pudding. He was good at telling lies, Molly noted, and vowed to remember that.
“I see.” The deputy glanced back at Molly. “Miz Ballard, you don’t really want to drag a lawyer into this, do you? Wouldn’t it be easier if we could just talk with Mike, find out what he has to say for himself, and take it from there? You know, keep this whole thing kind of informal, if we can?”
Yeah, right. Molly wasn’t buying that. “If you want to talk to my brother, we want to have a lawyer present.”
The mere threat seemed to annoy the cops, and that was good enough for her. The cops were the enemy, always had been.
“I see.” The deputies exchanged looks. The taller one spoke: “Then there’s no point in us waiting around, is there? Will you give us a call tomorrow, and arrange a time to bring Mike in to talk to us? With his lawyer, of course.” He pulled a card from his pocket, scribbled something on the back of it, and handed it to Molly. She took it without even glancing at it, and tucked it in the pocket of her
jeans.
“You will call us, won’t you?” The stocky cop made it sound more like an order than a question.
“Of course,” Molly said, feeling curiously hollow. By tomorrow, she was going to have to come up with a lawyer. And the money to pay him.
“Until we get this resolved, we suggest you keep a close eye on your brother, Miz Ballard. We will be,” the taller cop said. With a nod for Molly and the others, he turned and headed for the patrol car, followed by his fellow deputy. In just a few minutes they were gone, their car backing down the driveway with a noisy burst of gravel. Molly watched in silence as the taillights shrank to tiny points of red in the darkness before disappearing.
Then she turned back to the others. Ashley and the twins stood close by Will. Even Pork Chop panted trustingly at his feet.
Molly’s lip curled as she realized how foolish they were, all of them, herself included, to count as an ally a man none of them had laid eyes on before today. He was only there by accident, and only helping them because she had something he wanted. That help could be withdrawn at any time. And would be, as soon as he no longer needed her assistance.
Molly met Will’s gaze through the haze of yellow light thrown off from the house.
“We don’t have the money to pay for a lawyer,” she told him abruptly, rubbing her upper arms to ward off the chill.
He shrugged, and stuck his hands in his trouser pockets. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Don’t worry—” Molly began, her voice rising, then broke off as something moved in the shadows near the back of the house. A dark form sidled into view, then hesitated. Following her arrested gaze, Will and the children turned to watch as the figure began walking toward them.
“What did they want?” Mike asked when he was close enough.
10
“Just your hide,” Molly said too pleasantly. She eyed her errant brother up and down. A hooded, quilted black vest had been added to his jeans/T-shirt/ flannel shirt ensemble. A stray lock of dark brown hair had escaped from his ponytail to straggle down one side of his face. His lone earring gleamed in the light. He looked like a street punk, Molly had to admit. She took an unobtrusive step closer, inhaling to see if she could smell alcohol, or marijuana, on him. Nothing except crisp night air carrying a hint of leaf mold reached her nostrils. “Like we all do. First of all, you’re almost an hour late. Where have you been?”
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