Bart looked thoughtful. He didn’t argue. He followed her directions.
“You can see,” she said, as they moved slowly up Twelfth Avenue, “he could have been almost invisible along here. But still, he’d want to get off the avenue as soon as possible. And the first turn would be up there at 40th Street. So turn right when you get there, and drive slowly. I have something to show you.”
“You’re the boss,” he said, and drove to 40th and made the turn. “Where do you want me to stop?”
“Pull up here. We have to get out. And bring your flashlight.”
They picked their way through the construction debris until they came to the muddy patch that had stopped Annie earlier.
“There,” she said. He flashed his light where she pointed. “I was afraid this mist might have washed it out, but it’s still dry enough so you can see it.”
And he saw the hoofprint.
“That’s Lindy’s print!”
“Yes. And what other horse would be coming through here? A carriage horse? They’re all over at the park. And you’d see evidence of wheels—which couldn’t get through all this mess of concrete and stuff, anyway. And your police horses wouldn’t be ridden through this muck—your men wouldn’t ride a horse through this, you’d take him out on the street where the surface is smoother. No, he wants cover.” She pointed at the scaffolding above. “So he’s avoiding the street.”
“We should get a picture,” Bart said.
“I got pictures. On my cell phone. And there’s more.” She led him farther along. “Here are the next hoofprints. You can see Lindy’s pace. Moving slowly in the dark. No wonder no one spotted him, in all this construction mess and on a deserted street at night.” Bart was paying attention to her now. “But wait. There’s more.” She led him onward. “Lindy left a trail. Look here.”
He shined the flashlight’s beam where she pointed. He reached out and touched the strands of horsehair caught in the scaffolding. “That horse is a wonder,” he said. “Lindy knew we’d be looking for him. He managed to catch a bit of his tail here, in that exposed metal.”
“That’s just what I thought.” She smiled at him. “And I took pictures of this, too. And that’s what I wanted to tell Captain Simon. The people who took Lindy are horse people like I told you. They know how to hide a horse. And I couldn’t find any trail beyond here. I’m positive they loaded him into something and have him parked somewhere not so far away. What I’m thinking is, they’re foreigners. They probably don’t know their way around this city. They wouldn’t venture upstate or out to Long Island or Connecticut. I think they’re holed up somewhere around here, and they’re keeping Lindy nearby. Not in a horse trailer—that would be too obvious. And anyway, where would they get one? I can’t imagine there’s much call for livestock equipment in this city. I’d bet one of their group has some sort of ordinary-looking, unobtrusive, commercial box truck sort of thing that would hold a horse. I’m sure they plan to keep him fed and watered until they can negotiate a release of their leader. And I thought the police ought to know.”
Bart had taken a single strand of Lindy’s hair and was looking at it thoughtfully.
“I don’t know, Annie. We have some pretty smart people working on this—”
“I know. And if no one wants to hear me, I’ll let it go. Anyway, I’m supposed to be enjoying the prize I’ve won, the whole thing at Lady Fair and Galliard, and the clothes and the fuss and the attention—not doing police work for the NYPD. So let’s forget the whole thing and let’s go back to the hotel and have dinner.”
“Now you’re mad.”
“No. Yes. A little. Mostly I’m just frustrated. But I’ll get over it.”
He gave her a big smile.
“Maybe I can help you get over it.”
“Okay, then, driver. Take me home.”
They walked into a darkened suite.
“Liz?”
No answer.
“You said she was here when you left.”
“She was.”
Annie turned on the light.
“She left a note.” She took it off the coffee table and read it aloud.
There was a long silence. They didn’t move. Just looked at each other.
“She might go to a movie,” Bart said.
He took off his duty belt and laid it on the coffee table.
“She might not.”
They continued to stare at each other.
“Let’s order dinner,” she said.
“Are you sure?” He took a step toward her.
She turned away.
“Yes, Bart. I’m sure. For now.” She picked up the phone. There was a menu on the desk and she handed it to him. “Hamburger and fries okay?”
He glanced at the menu, not caring.
“Sure, that’s fine.”
She placed the order.
“Would you like a drink?” She pointed to the mini bar.
“I’m on duty.” His eyes never left her.
The silence was awkward.
“I’ll turn on some music.” She took a step toward the player. Only one step.
“No,” he said. He had his hand on her arm and turned her to face him.
“Annie, you’re going to be leaving in a couple of days.” His hands went to her face, cupping it gently, his fingertips buried in her hair, holding her as tenderly as one would hold a baby bird, as though he feared she might slip away. He was looking intently into her eyes. “I know I can’t ask you to stay, but maybe we can find some way to—I don’t know—maybe stay in touch, have something in the future for us.”
The depth of his feeling, the surprise of his suggestion startled her, left her confused.
“I feel as though I should say, ‘This is so sudden.’”
“No, not sudden. Not since last Sunday, when Lindy and I pulled you out of that mob. I didn’t know it then—but I know it now. Not sudden. It’s been four whole days. That’s not sudden.”
They both laughed.
Then he was serious again.
“Annie, I want us to be more than a chance encounter. A vacation fling for you, a quickie romance for me. I want it to be more than that.”
“Bart.” And she was serious, too. “We hardly know each other.”
“How can you say that?” A wisp of mischievousness slipped into his eyes. The beginnings of a smile softened his lips. “How can you say that? Didn’t I show you where I grew up? And the school I went to? For God’s sake, I took you to meet my mother! What else do you need to know?”
“Now you’re being ridiculous.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.” His smile broadened and his eyes were actually twinkling. “Listen,” he said. “Come over here.” He took her hand and drew her to the sofa. “Let’s sit down and talk about us. You tell me all about you, and I’ll tell you about me. I’ll answer any questions and we can get to know each other.” Over her head, he glanced toward her bedroom. “As for anything beyond that,” he said, almost to himself, “well, I’m a big boy. I can wait.” He sat into the corner of the sofa and pulled her down close to him, with his arm around her and her head fitting neatly against his chest. “There,” he said. “That’s perfect. Comfortable?”
“Mmmhmmm.”
“Good.” He squeezed her a little, companionably. “Now tell me about little Annika.”
She snuggled against him.
“Wouldn’t know where to begin.” She thought for a moment. “You know about ranch life—plenty of work, plenty of fresh air, plenty of chances for a kid to play and explore and learn things. Learn about life and death. Learn how to make things, learn how things work. You live around animals, you learn early how babies are made. You learn to ride, and to drive—I was driving the pickup around the ranch by the time I was twelve. Not out on the road, of course, but sometimes someone needs to get something to someone and they send you. And there’s no 911 around the corner when you’re up on the summer range, and you carry a rifle in your scabbard to prot
ect the herd from cougar and wolves, and maybe a sidearm on your hip because there can be other kinds of predators around. And that’s about it.”
“And what about your parents? I get the feeling Liz is more than a big sister—more like a watchdog.”
A moment or two passed before she answered.
“There’s seven years between us. She was thirteen when our mom died and I think it helped her handle the loss to become a sort of substitute mom for me.”
“I thought maybe your mom was gone, because you never said anything about her. Even when you met my mom. Is it okay to talk about it? About how she died?”
“Oh, yeah. I’m okay talking about it. I was awfully young, just six years old. I’d just started first grade.”
“How did it happen?”
“Very sudden. She was doing the wash, just carrying a basket of laundry out to the yard to hang it out to dry in the sun. My aunt Velma was with her and she said they were just talking and hanging the clothes and Mom just suddenly clutched real tight to a blouse she was holding, looked up the road like she heard someone calling her, and collapsed on the ground. Just sudden like that.” She was quiet for a moment. Then she smiled. “My memories of her are all good ones. She had the prettiest yellow hair—so pale it was almost white, and she wore it in a braid down her back.”
“Hair like yours?”
“Oh, much prettier. I loved watching her comb it out first thing every morning. It always made me think of fairy wings. And then she’d braid it up again, with a twist of a rubber band at the bottom and then she was ready for another busy day.” Annie smiled at the memory. “She was always on the go, not rushing or anything, just never stopping, always busy. But at night, when it was time for me to go to bed, she’d come in and sit with me, and we’d talk about the day I’d had, and what I was going to be doing the next day. And I’d pick out a book and she’d read to me till I fell asleep. I guess that was nice for her, too, to have a quiet time of the day. And a chance for her to read a little bit. She loved to read and she taught me to read long before I started school. Actually, I was in the school library the day she died. I remember I was at one of those little schoolroom tables, reading an Uncle Wiggly story, and Miss Prime, the librarian, came over to me and she said, ‘Annika, honey’—everyone at school called me Annika—‘I need you to come with me, dear. Miss Barth wants to see us.’ I remember that so clearly, like my life took a big turn in the road in that minute. I even remember what she was wearing—a long-sleeved white blouse with a green striped vest over it and a skirt with white and green flowers. And she said, ‘You can bring the book if you like.’ I guess that’s how I knew I wasn’t in trouble. Because she let me take the book. And she took my hand and she walked with me down the hall to Miss Barth’s office. Jacqueline Barth was our principal. And in the principal’s office, Liz was already there, with Aunt Velma, and I could see they’d both been crying, and I think I knew right away. And Miss Barth left me alone with them and they told me, and then they took me home. And after that, Aunt Velma became our ‘mom’ and Liz appointed herself my ‘also-Mom’ and that’s how I grew up. End of story.” She snuggled up against Bart’s chest. “Well, not really, of course. But enough for now.”
“And what about your dad?”
“My dad was killed in a plane crash. He and some friends were flying up to Montana to do some fishing and there was engine trouble. Up by Kalispell. That’s all I know. I was very young, just barely three. I remember him carrying me. I remember snuggling into his chest. His shirt was soft against my face and he smelled of soap and leather.” She ran her fingertips around the snaps on his uniform shirt. “And I remember his hands. They seemed so big to me when I put mine up against his. They were hard hands because ranch work is hard, but also soft, at the same time. Somehow.”
She took Bart’s hand in hers and matched her smaller one up against his much bigger one.
“Like yours,” she said. And she turned his hand over and examined it. “You have nice hands.”
His fingers closed around hers and she could feel an urgency in the gesture. And she looked up and saw that his eyes were closed.
“Annika. That’s such a pretty name,” he said. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her fingertips. “Annika. Sweet Annika.” He was breathing deeply. “You do know how I’m feeling, don’t you?”
“I do know, Bart. But we’re not really alone here.”
He opened his eyes and smiled at her.
“I know. Liz might walk in any time.”
“Right. So now it’s your turn. Tell me about your dad.”
Bart kind of puffed his chest, almost as though he were saluting, and he said, “My dad was my hero. He was an honest cop, brave, and he died doing his job. You’d have liked him, Annie. And he’d have liked you, too.”
“I read in the paper that he died in a gunfight. Five years ago, in a street demonstration like the one last Sunday.”
“Yes, it was in Times Square—maybe you read about it, even way off in Laramie. And the part about a demonstration, that part is true—a local political outfit was protesting a new civil ordinance. But what happened was, a couple of guys decided to use the demonstration as cover for a robbery and while everyone’s attention was on the protest, they broke into a jewelry store down the street. My dad and Captain Simon—he hadn’t made captain yet—were patrolling together, on crowd control. I was just out of the academy, and I was on duty there in Times Square, so I saw what happened. It was all over in just a couple of minutes. Lindy gave Dad the danger signal and they were on the scene immediately. My dad had his gun out, the robbers came out of the store, running and shooting, the owner had a gun and he was running after them, yelling and shooting, and people were dropping for cover all over the place. I was running toward them and I saw one of the men targeting my dad. Lindy wheeled around to protect my dad and a bullet caught his right flank, and right at the same time, my dad took a hit. I saw him slump forward and then slide off the saddle. As I ran toward him, I saw his gun fall out of his hand. By the time I got to him, he was on the ground. I called for a bus—an ambulance—and for backup. Then I saw one of the robbers head down a side street with everyone after him, but the one who shot my dad, Lindy had him up against the wall of one of the theaters there. That man wasn’t going anywhere with Lindy jamming him up, so I stayed with my dad till help came—but he was gone by then.”
He was still holding Annie’s hand, and he held it to his face, using the palm of her hand to rest his cheek on, as though he found comfort in it. He was speaking so softly now.
“Lindy tried to save my dad that day. So did I. But neither one of us could do it. I made my report, and later on I told my mom what I just told you. And that was the last time I talked about it—till now. They fixed Lindy up and then assigned him to me. And that’s what happened.” His hand was still holding hers against his face, and he turned it and kissed the palm and then moved her hand to his shoulder so she could reach around him, to hold him close, and he buried his head against her neck. His voice was muffled when he said, “And I’m glad you know about it.”
Annie knew that strong men do cry—but not if they can help it. And mostly, they do help it. She also understood that Bart had long ago buried the tears that went with this story. So she said nothing, and together they were close to each other and knew each other a little bit better.
A knock on the door startled both of them.
“Room service,” she said. “I forgot all about the hamburgers.”
He looked at her blankly, as though coming out of a dream. Then he stood up quickly.
Back to the present. His head was clear now. And he remembered he was on duty. And why.
His Glock was in its holster snapped to his duty belt. He removed the gun, and said to Annie, “Wait in the other room.”
“Oh, Bart. Don’t be silly. It’s just our hamburgers.”
He gave her a look—and she went quickly into the bedroom.
“R
oom service,” a voice said from the hallway.
Bart checked to be sure Annie was out of sight. But as soon as he turned away, she was peeking around the corner, and saw him open the door, wait while the waiter wheeled the cart to the table, and hand him a tip, all while keeping the gun concealed. When he closed the door and made sure it was locked, he said, “You can come out now.”
“I’d forgotten all about the food.”
“Just once,” he said as she began to turn on a couple of table lamps, “I’d like to be alone with you with no interruptions.”
“You might have to travel to Laramie. It’s real quiet out there, and there’s space enough to get away from everyone.”
“Do we need so much light?”
She smiled at him.
“Absolutely.”
She lifted the metal cover off one of the plates. The hamburgers looked gorgeous. There was a platter with an assortment of hamburger toppings. She sat down, ready to be the hostess.
“Raw onions?” she asked.
“Only if you have ’em, too.”
“Always, if no one minds.”
“I like my hamburgers traditional,” he said. “Medium rare. Raw onions. Ketchup. Plenty of black pepper. Nothing else.”
She looked at him with surprise and approval.
“Me, too. I thought I was the only one. No special dressing. No mayo. No pickles. No bacon or mushrooms or anything else. Sometimes maybe with cheese.”
“Exactly!” he said.
They both broke out laughing. They both were suddenly, together, very hungry.
They were slogging their fries through the ketchup when they heard the entry card in the slot and Liz came in. They looked at each other. Annie giggled. Bart smiled guiltily.
“Hey, you two,” Liz said. “Have you been here long?”
Her Winning Ways Page 19