by Gwen Hunter
"Thanks."
I didn’t meet his eyes, concentrating on my hands moving in the dark. Ice clattered into a glass. There was a faint brightness as I opened the fridge, and then the brighter light of the overhead which Alan switched on. The sound of tea as I poured; our footsteps as we walked back to the porch, my bare feet almost soundless, Alan’s boots hollow on the wood floors.
And then he settled into the upholstered deck chair across from the swing, the thin hiss of the cushion’s air escaping. I had company, yet I felt more alone than ever. I pushed off with my toe, setting the swing in motion again. Waiting. The scent of whiskey fumes crossed the distance between us, vague as the light, yet just as sharp. I was disappointed, somehow, that he had come to me after drinking.
"I’ve left messages. And then the phone rang all day. You didn’t call me back."
It was an accusation, however politely phrased. I hoped this didn’t get ugly. "I haven’t been back long," I lied, sipping my tea. And then, because I lied, I felt the need to justify myself. "The phone’s out, according to Elwyn. And I haven’t checked the machine."
Alan said nothing, his eyes dark in the night. My guilt grew, though I hadn’t led him on, had I? I hadn’t played the tease. And I really didn’t want to deal with this tonight. "I needed a break from driving before I went back out to the car for the cell. I haven’t even called Jas to tell her I got back safely," I added truthfully, assuaging my conscience.
Night birds called again. The far-off dog barked. A sliver of the moon moved from behind a tree, lighting the porch. "Were you going to call?" he asked softly. "Ever?" The moonlight lit his face, lighting one side, throwing the other into darkest shadow. He looked sad. And something else. Determined? A determined suitor was something I didn’t need. I sighed again and sipped my tea, playing for time. Because I didn’t know the answer. Not really.
"We’ve been playing games long enough. Like the kids dancing at your Nana’s house. Hokey Pokey, remember? One foot in, one foot out."
I nodded, mute in the darkness, feeling the moonlight exposing half of my soul to him.
"I want you, Ash, and I think you want me. It’s time to quit playing games."
That was an odd way to describe our not-quite-relationship, but I knew what he meant. We had been to Miccah’s several times, been together at events. We had embarked on a tentative friendship, questing, exploring one another, curious, half-hearted attempts to move forward. And there was that one kiss. Yet, I had held back, refused to reach for him, keeping secret that most private part of myself, giving him only morsels, exposing only bits and pieces, like the moonlight on our faces bared one half, cloaked the other. I had kept part of myself hidden. I sipped my tea. Alan drained his; set aside his empty glass. The clink of crystal against the concrete was a hollow sound. "Alan?"
"Yes," he finally answered.
"I like you. I do. But . . ." I sipped the last of my tea, lubricating my suddenly dry throat. Took a deep breath. "But I’m not ready. Jack’s death is too new. Too fresh."
Abruptly I remembered the sound of earth as clumps thudded down onto Jack’s coffin the day I buried him. Barren sounds, dull and vacant, as if the coffin was empty. As if Jack had somehow escaped after they closed the lid and was waiting somewhere close. Watching.
I remembered Alan’s kiss, his lips moving on mine, warm. Too soon. It was too soon.
"I’m sorry," I said softly. "I’m not ready. I can’t make any promises, Alan. I’m . . . sorry." I put my tea glass down gently in the shadows. The moon was higher, lifting to the edge of the porch roof. It wasn’t quite as bright now. The bright half of Alan’s face wasn’t quite as sharp. Wasn’t quite so easy to read. And strangely, he laughed. It was a low sound. Mocking.
I blinked into the dark, frozen, not knowing how to respond to the tone.
He stretched in the chair across from me, his arms over his head, his knuckles cracking. Stretching his arms out to either side, along the chair back and down the sides, he relaxed and laughed again. And the sound of his laughter raised the hair on the back of my neck.
"Well, that’s too bad Ash. It would have been easier if you’d fallen for me. Less painful."
"Painful?"
"Ash, you’re a bright woman. Quick. Sharp. Intelligent." The tone of his voice was like the tone of his laughter, amused, but with a lilt. Artificial. False. Almost . . . jeering? I was confused, as much by the words as by the shadows that transfigured his face. Light/dark. Silver/black. Good/evil.
"Where is it, Ashlee?" he asked. "You disconnected the listening devices, but before you did, I got enough information to deduce that you had found the evidence. I must have it back. Tonight."
The owl called again. Plaintive. "Who? Whoo? Whooo?" I felt dizzy, as if I had drunk wine, not tea. Alan tilted his head, throwing his face entirely into shadow. His voice dropped. Slow. Menacing. "Where is the original report, Ashlee? And the file, the one you supposedly don’t have?" His hands moved up, one in shadow, one in light. Slowly. Toward me. "Where is it? Give it to me or—"
I was up and running before the threat could penetrate, before the words consciously made sense. With my first step, I knocked over my tea, the glass breaking, shattering the night.
"Ash!" His voice. For all these weeks. Disguised, but his. I could hear it now. Where is it? His was the threat. Alan was Dixon’s boss. But Alan wasn’t an investor. I made the doorway and turned right, for the study and Jack’s gun cabinet. Remembering the sight of my dogs, cold and stiff, covered with black blood. The attacks by Dixon in the emergency room and the gazebo. Alan. Alan was Stinky Dixon’s boss. Alan had done it all.
Behind me, I heard him trip, stumble, and curse, and a fresh tinkle of broken glass. His leg, I remembered. The muscles were still weak from the accident. I could use that. Odd thought. Not really real. I spun into the study, fell against the gun cabinet. Empty. "Oh, God." My heart thumped painfully against my chest.
The robbery. They had taken all the guns. Alan. Alan had taken all the guns.
All but the holstered 9mm locked in the car’s glove box. And the shotgun in the barn.
Alan crashed into the study, sucking on his hand. Blood, black in the moonlight that filtered through the windows, stained his white shirt, smeared his jeans. So neat and starched, the creases precise and black with blood.
My keys. They were still in the back door, dangling from my key ring in the lock where I had left them when I invited Alan in. Without them, I couldn’t get to the gun in the car. Our eyes met in the blackness before I turned and ran. Pulled open the outer door and escaped from the office into moonlit brightness that hid nothing. Panting, slipping on wet grass, I ran for the barn.
Shadows and silver light, harsh and deadly. Shadows that should have enchanted and turned the world into a magical place, instead were evil, hiding vicious secrets. Savage and ruthless. Exposing everything.
Hot sweat broke out down my torso. Wet and sticky. The night was silent, now. No owls, no crickets, no whippoorwill, no dogs barking. Mine were dead or at the vet’s. I should have left Big Dog here, Elwyn be damned. The grass was wet with dew, slick beneath my bare feet. A stone bruised my heel as I ran. A small branch, hidden by the shadows pricked, scratching tender skin. I hadn’t gone barefoot in years. Irrelevant thought.
I ran for the path, my steps slower than the pounding of my heart. My breath was short, gasping, rough and burning. I found the path from the house to the barn. It was slick with mold and wet. Weeds had grown up between the cracks. Spindly things with colorless flowers that beat against my jeans. Jack always kept them clipped flat. Too long. Jack had been dead too long.
I rounded the curve, dashing into the shadows of the poplars Jack had left as a shield between the house and the barn. Dark, murky bands of blackness. The door to the house banged shut behind me. "Ash!" he bellowed.
I went down. Sliding in the damp. My feet, accustomed to the support of work boots, slid on the sheen of moss lining the slates. My legs went sharply
out to the side. I fell. Hard. I heard the bone break, even as I landed. Quick and clean snap. My little toe. Fifth metatarsal, high up in the foot. I rolled through the too-tall grass, biting my lip. Screaming inside. But silent. My breath, so rough and tight, was the only evidence of the break. That was going to hurt.
Extraordinary concerns. Alan was going to kill me. And I was worried about a broken toe. The sound that finally escaped me was half-laughter, half-sob, silent in the night. I pushed to my knees, regained my feet, and limped on.
The door of the barn was secured with a simple block of wood and rope. The lock left undone now that Elwyn was here. The dogs had always been enough warning when a stranger was on the premises. We had never needed to secure the horses. Now I had no dogs. Limping, I pushed the block counterclockwise and shoved on the door. Safety.
The shot took me through the upper thigh. High on the outside. I felt the burning before I heard the report. A single crack, remarkably like the sound of my toe breaking.
The shock of pain drove me forward, into the barn and total blackness. I slammed shut the door. Turned the wooden block. Jamming home the sliver of wood that would hold it in place. For a few minutes. If I was lucky. I leaned my back against the rough wood of the barn wall. My leg was weak. Both numb and aching at once. Burning and icy. The denim of my jeans was wet with blood and dew. At least it was the same leg as the broken toe. I almost laughed again at the spurious thoughts. But the sound that vibrated past my lips was more groan.
I pushed away from the barn wall and took a step toward the tack room. The pain was like lightning. Quivering up my leg. Taking my whole left side in paralyzing heat. Dragging the leg, I reached the tack room door and grabbed at the catch. Felt the lock Wicked had applied only days past. Elwyn had locked this one. "Keys," I whispered. "The keys." I could picture them in the lock, dangling. Hear again the jingle as I closed the door before opening the fridge for tea.
A horse stamped in the darkness. A soft scrape at the door. Alan. There was another way in to the tack room and the shotgun hanging on the wall—from the hayloft and the hole in the upstairs floor through which hay and feed could be dropped to the feed troughs below. If I could make it up the ladder. If I could reach the shotgun from above. Or survive the drop into the room.
Horses snorted and moved in the confines of their stalls. Uneasy. Restless. Agitated by the unexpected late night visit. And the scent of gunpowder and blood. My blood. I clung to the latch and lock on the tack room, hoping it would somehow just open. Open sesame. I sobbed. Tasted salt and the metallic flavor of fresh blood. I had bitten my lip. The metal lock grew slick and hot in my hand. Behind me, the barn door rattled. "Ashlee?" It rattled again. Then silence.
And then a thunderous sound as he threw himself at the door. Bands of moonlight widened and vanished and appeared again as the door rattled. "Ash? Damn it, Ash, open this door!" The door rattled again as the bands of light did a little cha-cha. The horses shifted, anxious. "Damn it Ash, I don’t want to hurt you."
Liar. The mares snorted. One stamped. Stamped again, signaling displeasure.
I could run. Or take a horse and slip out the back. If I could find a bridle in the blackness, get it over the head of a horse, get it on and get out. Fat chance. For the only time in my life, I regretted my refusal to take riding lessons.
Limping in the blackness, I touched the ladder. Pulled myself up one rung. Another.
Something dripped in the darkness of the barn. A steady drip-drip-drip sound. Distinct above the uneven sound of my breathing and the thudding of my heart and the increasingly frustrated sounds of the man at the door. Dripdripdrip. My blood, I realized. Running down my leg. Trickling to the floor of the barn. Taking with it my strength. I pulled up another rung. And another. Only five more left. Or was it six? I had never counted. Jas would have known—and thank God she wasn’t here. Not tonight. I sobbed again. Remembered the last sight I had of her, standing on the grassy lawn by the beach house, watching me drive away.
My right leg pushed at the rungs, but the upward motion was all on my arms. A burning in my triceps and deltoids. A weakness, a running pain all over. As if my body were melting like wax. An acid pain. Another rung. Another.
"Ash!" The door banged open behind me. Dull light washed over the dark confines of the barn. The horses called out. Frightened sounds. Wood splintered as one kicked. Mabel. Protective of her foal. Snorting her threats.
I reached the loft. Pulled myself over in the darkness. Using my elbows and my good leg, I pulled myself through loose hay, easing my way behind stacked bales to the illusion of safety. Trying to be quiet. Trying not to scream with pain each time I scraped across the floor.
My fingers found the opening above the tack room. The tools Jimmy Ray used to feed the horses and clean the loft clinked, bumped by my elbow. The barn flooded with light. He had found the switch. But then, he had been here before. When he slaughtered my dogs. Alan and Dixon. "Ash. I know you’re up there. I see the blood all over the floor and up the ladder. I guess I hit you, huh?" His voice was soft. Consoling. The soothing tones he had used when we talked about our dead spouses. Liar.
"Come on, Ash. You’re bleeding. Come on down, sweetheart."
The tack room was faintly lit by filtered light. Saddle supports and softly gleaming leather were directly below the opening. The shotgun hung just above them. I stretched down. Not even close. I pulled my body out over the hole and stretched down again. Too low. Too low to reach. A cat, wary and distrustful, slunk beneath the saddles, tail twitching.
I needed to buy myself some time. "I’m not your sweetheart," I gasped. "And yes. Macon found the evidence. But it’s too late. Too many people know about it now. About Charles Whitmore’s death." I hooked my right foot around a roof support and lowered my body down, scratching on the wall. Straining for the shotgun. Gasping. Trying to ignore the stabbing of one of Jimmy Ray’s tools beneath my ribs. Sweat dripped off the end of my nose. Blood pooled beneath me. Feverishly, I weighed my options.
If I lowered myself any further, I would loose my grip, feeble as it was. And if I lowered myself into the tack room feet first, then how would I get back up again? That is, if I survived the drop in the first place. Seconds had passed. Long seconds. What was he doing downstairs?
There was no way out of the tack room. I would have to use the shotgun to blow a hole in the hinges or the latch. Meanwhile, I would be a sitting duck. A good hunter’s term. Much easier to hit than a flying duck. I had to keep moving. I pulled myself to the floor of the loft. Pushed at something stabbing my chest. Recognized the baling hook. The wooden handle was still warm from the heat of the loft. Warm and smooth. I levered myself up to a sitting position. Felt the ridge of a box at my back. The box holding the corrective hooves we had used on Annie Oakley.
"Come on, Ashlee. It’s never too late. If there’s no evidence, there’s no crime. So, all I have to do is get the evidence and I’m home free. I’d rather have had it and Davenport Hills, but you wouldn’t fall in love with me," he said sadly. "It’s your fault, Ash. I’ll just have to take the evidence and live without you." I struggled to remember what he was talking about. Oh, yes . . . The canisters. The reports. Charles Whitmore’s murder.
His feet landed on the bottom rung. Bump bump. A soft impact, both feet landing on the same step before continuing to the next. Favoring his bad leg. "You interrupted our search by leaving that message, coming home from work that night. Your fault we were driving too fast. Your fault we crashed and Margie died. And you found my briefcase during the accident. You must have taken it to the hospital. It’s the only thing that makes sense. After you had it, the few files I discovered when Margie and I searched Jack’s office were missing."
Briefcase? What briefcase? I tried to follow his words, to make sense of them. All I could understand was the bump bump, bump bump, bump bump. Like the slow beating of a heart as he climbed the ladder. His head was just visible, rising above the opening to the loft. And beside his head, the
dark shape of a gun barrel held in one hand.
I located the light without really looking at it. Protecting my eyes and the night vision I would need. And I slung the baling hook. It whirred and the barn went dark; tinkling glass and the soft thump of the hook as it landed. A thrill of exhilaration shot through me, twinned with the pain. He cursed into the darkness, his tone as foul as his words.
"Son of a bitch," he growled as he moved in the black barn. "Ash, you’ve had warnings. If I don’t get the evidence back, then I have to be sure no one else has access to it either."
And then I understood what he had said earlier, about the accident being my fault. About my call interrupting his and Margie’s search of Jack’s office. Alan had been in Jack’s office the night of the accident, searching for the evidence in the safe. Evidence he couldn’t get at. And I had never put the accident together with the search. I had never let it make sense.
Silence stretched between us. I reached down the wall, using the time I had bought, stretching lower. Lower. Levered my body out over the hole above the tack room and stretched down again, clawing splinters from the wall. Searching for the smooth wood stock or the cool metal of barrel. Nothing. Nothing. I couldn’t find it. I couldn’t reach it.
"I have no choice, Ash!" His voice was low, coarse. "If you don’t give it back, then I have to make sure you can’t use it. Do you understand, Ash?"
You’ll kill me. I’m not stupid, I thought, as I clawed further down the wall, gasping with the pain of my weight against the gunshot wound. Just lonely. The thought came out of nowhere. It was loneliness that had driven me here, to die in a hayloft over Mabel’s stall. I sobbed aloud.
"Ah, Ash." The gentleness was back in his voice. "Let me help you. You’re bleeding. I can feel it all over the ladder."
A splinter jabbed deep, thrusting up under my nail. I couldn’t reach the shotgun. I couldn’t. Carefully I pulled myself back up to the floor of the loft. I couldn’t risk dropping down into the tack room. The pain in my thigh was spreading now, a damp, moist pain that moved from down my leg and up into my torso. A liquefied agony, burning with each heartbeat.