by Laura Crum
On we went. Some time later, Blue stopped again. "Look," he said. "The bike overtook the horses right here. See where it went by. And here," he walked ahead, "the horses came through after the bike. Here's a hoofprint on top of the bike's trail."
"So the bike rider saw Barbara and whoever was with her. At least, we assume it was Barbara."
"That's right. It doesn't look as if the cyclist stopped; there's no track of a foot on the ground, or any break in the line of the tire track. The horses moved over to let the bike by, and whoever the cyclist was, he certainly saw our horsemen."
"Onward," I said wearily. "Let's see where they went."
Blue marched on, pausing from time to time to examine the road. I trudged behind him. The sun climbed steadily through the sky and the air warmed. I took off my sweatshirt and tied it around my waist.
What seemed like miles and hours later, the fire road dipped down into a canyon. Mixed forest here, tanbark oaks and sycamores mingled their palmate leaves with the occasional redwood.
Straight overhead, sun poured down with considerable strength. Little puffs of dust rose with every footfall and the air smelled sweetly of tanbark and pollen.
Sweaty and sore as I was, I still gasped with delight as the creek came into view. "Oh, Blue, look," I said.
Surely no grand estate ever boasted a more beautiful and harmonious water garden. Our road descended in graceful loops to a delicately arched bridge spanning a boulder-strewn stream. The water chattered; pools and rills and little falls arranged themselves in perfect, balanced cadence; ferns and vines wreathed clear eddies of still water. Wild iris and trillium clung to the banks; maples fluttered leaves like waving hands in the cool air.
I stared in bemusement; had the architect of this bridge really planned that gentle arch and the slender railings to resemble Claude Monet's Japanese bridge at Giverny, or was it just a happy bureaucratic accident? I inclined to the latter view, given my experiences of governmental agencies, the state parks department included. But even if the design was orchestrated, no foresight could have predicted just this particular branch above the water, or the mysterious mossy stones that outlined the deep downstream pool. It was a fortuitous chance-Nature's choice-like virtually every happy incident in my own garden.
"Wow." I took a deep breath. "That is really beautiful. And I am really thirsty."
Blue and I hurried forward, both of us scrambling down the trail that led to the water. Blue paused to examine the bank and said, "Our two horses drank here."
"Me, too," I said. "This creek ought to be fine, as far into the woods as we are."
A voice replied, "It won't hurt you. I drink it all the time."
Not Blue's voice. A strange voice, coming from where? I stared wildly around but saw no one.
Blue smiled. I followed his gaze with my own eyes. Under the bridge. A man, sitting cross-legged in the deep shade under the bridge.
"Hi, Dave," Blue said.
SEVENTEEN
Do I know you?" The stranger got to his feet.
"Not really," Blue replied. "My name's Blue Winter. I used to ride bikes. I've seen you around."
Was this really the legendary Mountain Dave? I could see the shape of a bicycle resting near his feet.
The man who emerged from under the bridge looked like no human being I'd ever seen before. He wore only a pair of battered cut-off jeans; torso, legs, and arms were uniformly brown. Muscles bulged under taut skin; sinews and veins were prominent. Long, shiny brown hair was tied back in a ponytail; an equally long, shiny beard streamed down his chest. He was possibly the fittest-looking hermit on the planet.
"I recognize you," he said slowly to Blue. "Big, tall, redheaded guy on a bike."
"That was me," Blue agreed.
Dave smiled, a flash of white teeth framed in dark hair.
"This is Gail McCarthy," Blue added.
"Nice to meet you," I said.
Dave nodded. "What brings you so far into the park?"
"We're tracking some horses," I said.
Dave nodded again. "Uh-huh."
"Have you happened to run across them?" Blue asked.
"When?"
"Yesterday."
"I don't think so." Dave shook his head. "I don't keep much track of time, or days, but I don't think I saw any horses yesterday. You don't see many horses in this park. Against the rules." Again I saw the teeth, white in the dark brown beard.
"I think one of the riders was a woman," I offered, "with short, grayish-blond hair. I don't know about the other one. The woman, her name's Barbara, mentioned you. She knows who you are."
Dave nodded. "I know who she is, too. She rides in here once in a while. Comes from Rider Road."
"That's right. Did you happen to see her out riding last Friday?" I asked.
Dave shrugged. "I couldn't really say. I don't pay a whole lot of attention to what day it is. I've seen her in here not too long ago, but I don't know exactly when."
"Oh," I said.
"A cyclist passed these horses yesterday," Blue said. "Maybe a couple of miles back."
"That was probably John."
"John?" Blue asked.
"Yeah. His name's John. He's a cycle cross nut; he's always training. He rides across the park a lot. Starts down in Aptos and comes out near the summit. His wife picks him up. Not too many people get into this part of the park, but I see John's tracks a lot."
"Skinny, knobby tires?" Blue asked.
"Yep. Cycle cross bike."
"Do you know how to get hold of him?" I asked. "It would be great if we could find out what he saw."
Dave gave me a long, steady look. "Why are you so interested in these horses?"
"Barbara's disappeared," I said. "There's a possibility she's dead."
Dave regarded me for a while, then nodded imperceptibly. "I don't know John's last name, let alone his phone number. But I'll see him again; I always do. If you give me your phone number, I'll ask him to call you." And, to my surprise, he pulled a notepad and a stub of a pencil out of the pocket of his shorts.
Giving him my name and phone number, I asked, "Where are you headed?"
"East, on the fire road. I just came down the back trail from the top of Mount Rosalia." He waved his hand at what looked like a veritable deer track leading up the sidehill.
"Wow," I said. "You came down that on a bike?"
Dave and Blue laughed, almost in unison.
"Dave's a master," Blue said kindly. "I imagine he could come down that trail in his sleep."
I smiled. "If you're going east, would it be too much to ask you to see where these horses went? I have to admit I'm getting tired, and we've got three or four hours' hike ahead of us just to get back to where we started."
Dave considered this a moment. "I can do that," he said at last. "Don't have anything else I need to do. Just ride. I've got your phone number. I'll tell you where they went. Though I might not get around to calling for a day or two."
"That's fine," I said. I was weary to the bone and inexpressibly relieved to have discovered a graceful way of giving up the pursuit. Following Barbara suddenly seemed a lot less important than finding something to eat.
"Thank you." Blue and I got out the words at the same time. "No problem." Dave was already mounting his bike. "I'll be in touch."
And then he was off, his bike clambering up the steep trail to the fire road as if its tires were hooves, propelled by those sinewy, driving legs. In two seconds, he was gone.
"He's amazing," Blue said admiringly. "You should see him ride in a race sometime. There's no one like him. All he does is ride that bike."
"Nice work, if you can get it," I agreed. Bending down, I began scooping and slurping water. Between gulps, I said, "Blue, I'm beat. I know this was my idea and I'm sorry to give up on you, but I don't want to go any farther."
"Hey, Stormy." Blue knelt down beside me. "Not to worry. I'm tired, too. We'll go home."
And he raised cupped hands full of clear water to
my lips.
EIGHTEEN
I woke up Saturday morning aching all over. Holding perfectly still, I assessed the pain. Sore thighs, sore calves, sore muscles everywhere. Nothing else. Ankles, knees, joints ... all were fine. I wasn't injured; I was just severely out of shape.
Lying next to Blue in a warm cocoon of blankets, I remembered yesterday's long slog out in excruciating detail. Without the motivation of pursuit, the miles and hills had seemed endless. My pace had lagged until I was barely trudging along.
Patiently, Blue had waited, had encouraged, had playfully pushed me up the steepest hills. And then, later, the ordeal behind us, had taken me to a nice dinner at a restaurant perched on the cliffs overlooking the bay.
And now, here I was, safe and warm, albeit sore, in his arms. I have a good life, I thought, not for the first time.
I could hear a faint, rhythmic whisper; squinting out at the grayish light that filtered through my uncurtained window, I recognized a change in the weather. Rain, pattering gently on the tin roof, a delicate, silvery tracing of vertical lines in the misty air. Soft spring rain. Good for the garden, good for the earth.
Rolling over, I sighed with contentment. It was Saturday; with any luck at all, I could lie here awhile and listen to the rain and Blue's steady breathing.
Wrong. Not a minute later, like a voice from hell, came the shrill, insistent bleat of the phone. Grabbing the receiver, I answered quickly, so as not to wake Blue.
"Dr. McCarthy, I have a colicked horse in Watsonville."
Naturally, it was the answering service. I was, of course, on call. I took directions and a name and hung up. Blue blinked at me sleepily.
"I have to go," I said.
"Too bad."
"Yes, it sure is. I'll feed the horses on my way out. Sleep awhile."
"Thanks, I'll do that."
Rolling out of bed, I avoided Blue's long legs and the two sleeping dogs. Jeans and a sweatshirt and boots, a quick pot of coffee brewing, a perfunctory comb through the hair, a flake of hay to each of the four horses, and I was in the truck, coffee cup in hand, rain pattering softly on my windshield.
The pickup bumped and jolted over the numerous potholes and ruts in my imperfectly graveled drive, nearly spilling the coffee all over my lap. Not for the first time I reminded myself to hire a tractor and dump truck to scrape and add fresh base rock to my road. The long grass along the verge needed mowing, too, as soon as the daffodils died down.
If it wasn't one thing it was another-the constant lament of the gentleman (or in this case, gentlewoman) farmer. With a full-time job to occupy my time, I could never keep up on the garden and barnyard chores. And now, to top it off, I had been cast into the middle of a murder investigation.
Automatically my mind went back to yesterday. What had it meant? Two horses had ridden out from Barbara's direction on Thursday morning. Was Barbara even now lying dead in some gully?
You're losing it, Gail, the more pragmatic part of my mind admonished. For all you know, those two horses didn't even come from Barbara's place. Maybe Barbara's safely at home right now, snoozing away. Why do you have this bee in your bonnet, this obsessive fancy that she disappeared into Lorene Roberts Park, never to be seen again? What about the truck and trailer the neighbor saw?
And why repose so much confidence in Mountain Dave? You trusted him with the outcome of your search without a second thought.
I sighed out loud and sipped some coffee. Logical mind was right, in a way. I couldn't really defend my intuition. I had trusted Mountain Dave more or less instantly, and I did believe that Barbara had ridden one of the horses we tracked.
But that was as far as it went. I hadn't a clue what to do next, hadn't any ideas at all, really, except to wait.
Wait for what? I asked myself in annoyance.
You'll see; I could swear I heard the amused answer.
Good God, I really was losing it. Not only did I have an inexplicable, intuitive version of blind faith, I was now hearing voices in my head. Not good.
Driving south on Highway 1, I could see the big sweep of the Monterey Bay visible in front of me. Where exactly was I going, anyway? Time to get my mind back on the job. I glanced at the hastily scrawled directions on the seat beside me.
Exiting the freeway, I made my way down narrow farm roads, through fields of agricultural land. Several right and left turns later, I crossed a bridge over the Pajaro River, and took a bumpy dirt road that followed the levee. Two miles through fields of artichokes, empty except for wheeling seagulls, brought me to a small farmhouse with a barn behind it. I could see a sorrel horse in the corral next to the barn; no human beings were visible.
The gentle rain still splattered down; there was coffee in my cup. I took another sip and stared out my windshield. I'd never been here before, and the house and barnyard looked nearly derelict. Still, there was a horse in view, though he showed no obvious signs of being colicked. Where was the client?
I glanced at my note. Paul Thorne, it said. I hoped Paul Thorne would be reasonably punctual.
He was. I had just settled myself comfortably in the cab of the truck when I noticed the black car creeping down the road I'd arrived on. A black BMW, which was odd. Judging by the house and barn, I would have expected a battered pickup.
The BMW advanced towards me-slowly. The potholes in that road were probably making the driver curse. Eventually the car reached the barnyard and rolled to a stop a little way from my truck.
A man got out. Not someone I recognized, and yet he looked strangely familiar. A young man, with dark hair and olive skin, a handsome, high-cheek-boned face. The black turtleneck and gray slacks he wore looked as out of place in this barnyard as his shiny, lowered black car. He stared at my truck and waited.
Now what? I did not like the look of this man, of the whole situation. Still, this was my job. He was probably just some wealthy farmer who favored the big-city look on his day off. He'd called me about a colicked horse; I could hardly run away because I didn't care for his appearance.
Picking my cell phone up off the seat, I dialed my home phone number. With the phone in my hand, held close to my mouth, I got slowly out of my truck.
"Hello, Dr. McCarthy." The voice was lightly accented.
"Hello," I said. "Are you Paul Thorne?"
"I called you out, yes."
"For a colicked horse?"
"That is so."
I could hear the phone ringing in my ear, but Blue wasn't picking up. He must be outside. I hesitated, and in that second Paul Thorne moved towards me-fast.
Before I could react, the phone was jerked out of my grasp; a long, slim finger pushed the "end" button.
"What the hell?" I turned and leaped for my truck.
"Stop."
Something in the icy tone froze me. Slowly, I looked back over my shoulder. Yes, there was the gun. In his hand, pointing right at me. My heart jolted violently; I could feel it thudding-great, wrenching beats. Gasping, I reached out to lean on the pickup, almost physically sick from the rush of adrenaline into my blood.
Paul Thorne spoke quietly. "I need to talk to you, Dr. McCarthy. And I don't want you to call anyone on your little phone."
"It won't help," I said weakly. "I told my boyfriend where I was going; I was just talking to him before you drove in, telling him how odd this place looked. That was him calling me back. If I don't answer, he'll call the police."
Paul Thorne's dark eyes studied me impassively. Despite his youth, the impression of menace was convincingly real. "I think not," he said. And then, "Dr. McCarthy, I must speak with you. It would be best if you cooperated."
For a long moment we looked at each other. I don't know what he saw, but those brown eyes were as cold and implacable as glacier ice.
I lifted my chin. "What do you want to talk about?"
"My father."
"Your father?"
"That's right. Haven't you guessed? I am Carlos Castillo. I am said to look very like my father."
"It is necessary that you stay here and that you do not call anyone on the phone. I will explain. As I said, I need to talk to you."
"So talk. I'm getting wet." I put as much bravado into my tone as I could muster over my pounding heart.
"You were with my father before he died. He spoke to you."
"That's right."
"What did he say?"
"That he shot himself while cleaning his pistol. That it was an accident."
"He did not mention my name?"
"No, why?"
"I have my reasons for asking, but I would not expect you to believe them. Still, I need to know. My father has left me a great deal of money."
"So I hear." Little beads of water were coalescing in my hair and dripping down my forehead.
"I work with some people whose names you would not know. These people are, shall we say, at odds with me right now. They believe that I owe them some money. I do not agree. At one time I foolishly told them that when my father died I would inherit much. Now I find that my father has been murdered, and my former business partners are demanding their money. It makes me wonder." Carlos Castillo said it quietly; the words still resonated with some force.
"I am wondering if my father said anything, or perhaps there was something you noticed, anything at all. I am wondering if this murder can concern me."
"That I believe." I waited.
Carlos Castillo watched me with opaque eyes. The silence grew.
"Are you sure there is nothing else you remember?"
"I'm sure," I said.
"Do not think that I killed my father."
I flinched. This was exactly what I was thinking. It seemed to me that the story about his business partners might be just that-a story-told to cover up his real reason for calling me out here. Which was more likely to find out if Dominic had named Carlos as his killer.
"My father and I had not spoken in years. He would not help my mother when we needed his help. For some time now, my mother and I have not needed anything from him. I have taken care of it. I do not need my father's money. And then," he spread his hands, "comes this business. As I say, I am very curious."