After She's Gone (43 page)

“No . . . no, I have to go. I have to find Trent.” Images of him, bleeding, in pain, battling for his life, flared behind her eyes. Didn’t this calm woman on the other end of the line realize that time was running out, that even now . . . She squeezed her eyes shut to fight the fear.

“No, ma’am,” the operator was saying. “Stay on the line. Officers will be there soon.”

“Soon’s not good enough. They need to be here now!” Cassie was having none of it. This operator didn’t understand. “This is an ongoing case. Call Detective Rhonda Nash of the Portland PD, her and her partner, whatever his name is. Detective Thomas, no, that’s not right.” She was starting to lose it. “Thompson. That’s it! Detective Thompson. Tell them to get out here now!” Before the operator could break in, Cassie added, “Just tell them Cassie Kramer called and it’s urgent, that there’s gunfire at the ranch.” She didn’t wait for a response, just clicked off, then flipped the light switch so that the kitchen was again blanketed in darkness.

Quickly she made her way to the back door. She only paused long enough to call her stepfather’s cell phone. She should have called Shane first. One ring. Two. “Hurry up,” she said, and then as the phone rang a third time, his groggy voice came over the connection.

“Cassie?”

“Yes! I need help. Trent’s in the barn and there’s been gunshots. Well, just one. But there was a scream and—”

“A scream?”

“Yeah. Maybe an animal. Maybe human, I don’t know. It was awful. Trent was already outside and then I heard a gunshot. I texted him and he hasn’t gotten back to me. Oh, God, I’m so worried. I called nine-one-one, but you’re closer.”

“On my way,” he replied. “I’ll be there in five.”

Shane said, “Stay put.”

She clicked off, slid the phone in her pocket, held the pistol firmly. Her stepfather’s advice rang in her ears as she opened the door and stepped into the rainy night.

“Like hell.”

 

L
ying on the barn floor, breathing the scents of dust and horses and urine, Trent sucked in his breath and cursed himself a dozen times over. Pain screamed up his leg and he dragged himself to one of the empty stalls while the horses in boxes all around him neighed in terror. Blood stained his jeans and he hoped to God his femoral artery hadn’t been hit by the damned shot.

He’d entered the barn carefully and seen nothing. Still, cautious, he hadn’t snapped on a light.

Hud, however, had been agitated and the minute they’d stepped into the barn, had taken off like a streak, running down the corridor, toenails clicking, racing past the stalls where horses were shifting nervously in their stalls.

That was odd. The hackles on the back of Trent’s neck had raised and he’d lifted his rifle, though he’d been loath to fire it in the tight confines of the barn. He’d reached for the light switch.

“
Aaaayeeeeooow!”

A shrill, blood-curdling scream rose to the rafters.

What the hell?

He’d started jogging. Toward the sound. Toward the silo. Ignoring the pain. Heading to the area the damned dog had disappeared. The interior was dark, what little light there was coming through the tiny windows, the security lamp providing the barest of illumination, but he knew every timber and rafter inside, had repaired all the walls and feed bins and stalls, remembered where each tool was hung.

Still he’d moved cautiously, squinting into the darkness, listening hard for any sounds over the rapid beating of his pulse drumming in his ears, and the nervous whinnies of the horses pacing and pawing in their boxes.

Nothing.

Not even a noise from the dog, or none that he could hear.

He’d had a flashlight on his phone, but turning it on would only draw attention to him, and someone or some
thing
was inside this barn. Whoever or whatever it was didn’t seem friendly.

He’d been about to duck into the tack room and text Cassie to call the police when he’d heard something . . . the soft tread of footsteps? And he’d felt a rustle in the air, movement behind him. He’d spun and lifted his rifle to his shoulder in one motion, but it had been too late. The would-be assassin had gotten the drop on him, somehow silently dispensing with the dog, and fired the instant Trent had been in his sights.

Son of a bitch,
Trent thought now. He’d been foolish, too comfortable in his own ranch, believing that some animal was causing the dog to go nuts.

He should have been more careful.

Christ, he’d been in the damned military. He knew better.

Now, he was waiting in the dark, his back against the wall of the stall, his rifle ready, though firing in the building would be a disaster with bullets ricocheting against the walls and posts.

But here, he was a sitting duck. If the killer had night goggles, Trent was as good as dead.

Without making a sound, he fumbled in his jacket pocket for his phone and realized he was weakening, his brain not as clear.

Did he hear the sound of footsteps outside the stall? Was the killer taking aim? Or were the noises just the sound of restless, nervous hooves in the straw or his own imagination running wild? Tensing, he focused on the open stall door. Waiting. Expecting to hear another blast from a gun.

He blinked. Concentrated. Heard a banging and realized he’d left the damned door open and it was catching in the wind to pound against the siding.

Making sure the phone was still on silent, he saw that he already had two texts. Both from Cassie.

And shortly thereafter:

He typed his response quickly:

Then he added:

That was a lie, but if she had any inkling that he was wounded, she might do something stupid and put herself in danger. God, he felt weak. Lightheaded. It took all of his effort to send the text, but he managed to click off and send another to Carter:

Sweat ran down his face despite the fact that he was cold to the bone.

God, how could he have been so stupid? He clicked off his phone, couldn’t risk the attacker seeing its light.

Where are you, you fucker?
He had to start moving, find the assailant before he went after Cassie, because that’s what this was all about. Trent knew it. Deep in his gut. Whoever was skulking in this barn was after his wife.

He knew this barn like the back of his hand, but with the blood he was losing, he was also fighting to stay awake. Shit, the artery probably had been nicked.

If only he could fashion a tourniquet . . . Oh, Jesus. He sagged against the back of the stall and realized he hadn’t heard a car’s engine starting, no crunch of tires on gravel. Either Cassie hadn’t gotten the message.

Or she chose to ignore it.

His jaw clenched and he swiped the sweat from his face. Not looking at the growing stain on his jeans, he aimed his rifle at the stall door.

Then he waited.

 

The phone rang.

At two-fifteen in the damned morning.

Nash recognized the number as belonging to Jenkins, the rookie gung-ho junior detective who was young and therefore never slept. Especially on a Saturday night. Make that Sunday morning.

“Nash,” she said automatically and hated the sound of sleep in her voice.

“Hey, sorry to wake you.” Jenkins sounded as chipper as if she’d had a triple-shot espresso. “But I thought you’d like to know.”

“What?” she asked, instantly awake.

“The name of Jenna Hughes’s love child.”

“You found it.”

“That I did. She was adopted by Gene and Beverly Beauchamp, as we knew. She has a sister, or had a sister as well, but the girl died. Single car crash. This one, Jenna’s daughter, was with her but survived. I’m still checking on that.”

“So who is she?” Nash demanded. She was annoyed at being played with.

“Well, the reason we couldn’t figure it out is that she’s been married a couple of times, so the names didn’t quite match up.” There was a smile in her voice. The little twit loved dragging out the suspense.

“And?”

“And that girl is someone we know,” Jenkins finally said, before reeling off a name that was all too familiar.

 

Odd that it should end here, in a rustic claptrap of a barn, she thought as she hid in the shadows of the musty building where horses shifted and neighed, their warmth and smell a little disturbing. So rural!

She’d imagined something more glorious, more glittery and far more Hollywood than this immense edifice in the middle of No-Damned-Where. No spotlight. No cameras. No stage.

Still, she had used the barn to her advantage, even if she’d blown it by screaming when the damned horse had snaked its head over the half-door of its enclosure and bitten her as she’d slunk by. The nerve of the animal. She probably should have shot it right then and there, but she hadn’t wanted to make any noise.

It hadn’t worked and of course Trent, hero rancher that he was, had shown up.

She passed by a pillar supporting the hay mow overhead and stiffled a sneeze. Squeezing the trigger and seeing Trent go down in a heap had been satisfying and long overdue. He really was a bastard.

On silent footsteps she passed by the tack room.

It was so cliché of Cassie to end up here, at the ranch of her lover, her hero. But it had worked, for it was easy enough to follow them, to deduce where she was hiding out, where she’d sought shelter.

After all the years of waiting, of the frustration, of being so close to stardom to taste it, after rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous and being a part of their bloodline, though they, of course, didn’t know it.

Fools.

Spoiled brats!

How she’d waited for this!

The original plan had been interrupted, of course. Cassie was supposed to die on the set of
Dead Heat,
but the bitch had changed the script. Almost as if she’d suspected that an “accident” was going to happen. The ironic part of it was that she’d twisted the script and Allie was to be the second runner, the woman shot.

Not perfect.

But good enough.

But then Allie had bailed and disappeared.

How frustrating.

But the movie wasn’t over.

There was still the final act.

And in it there would be blood and death and mournful, guilt-riddled cries from those who were lucky enough to survive.

If only for a few tortured seconds . . .

 

Cassie held the pistol in a death grip. With the wind slapping her face in icy gusts and her ankle shooting pain with each step, she skirted the pooling light from the security lamps and kept to the darker shadows as she headed to the barn. She replayed the horrid sound of the gunshot over and over in her head, then sent up a prayer that Trent was alive. Not injured.

The barn door banged against the exterior wall, the doorway a gaping black maw. For a second she thought of running into it, but stopped herself. Yes, she wanted to get to Trent, the sooner the better, but the open doorway could be a mistake. Whoever was on the other side might be watching.

She clicked off the safety of the pistol and prayed to God she wouldn’t have to use it. But she had to find Trent. Was he alive? Injured? Or . . .
Stop! Don’t even go there. He’s alive. Maybe hurt, but alive. So help him, Cassie. But be smart about it.

Fear chasing through her bloodstream, she slipped through a gate near one side of the barn. She edged around to the back of the massive building, where she hugged the exterior wall. The wind wasn’t as sharp here, as she was protected by the barn but the ground was a sodden, trampled mess with deep pockets of mud, rainwater, and manure created by hundreds of hooves. Picking her way as carefully as possible, all the while worrying about the seconds ticking by, she passed through the wide doorway used by the cattle as they entered and her boots slid and caught in the uneven glop. Inside the enormous, cavernous room that, thankfully tonight, was empty of animals, she moved more easily through the darkness. Straw and sawdust had been spread over a concrete slab and the muck wasn’t as deep. Here, where the smell of animals lingered, the footing was a little firmer, thank God.

Where would he be within this massive, creaking building?

Rather than risk exposure by darting across the open space, she started easing around the edge of the wide enclosure. Her ankle was beginning to throb now, but she ignored it, couldn’t be bothered.

Where was he?

Where was whoever or whatever he’d encountered? She expected the attack had been human, she didn’t think Trent had fired his rifle, but she didn’t know.

Her phone vibrated and she pulled it from her pocket.

She saw Trent’s text and nearly collapsed in relief.

He was alive! That was the good news. The bad? He was warning her, telling her to get to safety and he wasn’t calling or leaving the barn. He’d said he was okay, but she doubted it as he was still in the dark barn. Somewhere. Hiding? Hoping to get the jump on whatever enemy he faced? Or injured?

She looked at his message a last time and decided to ignore it, only typing in
Where are you?
before pocketing her phone and moving again. She ran the fingers of her left hand along the rough boards of the wall as she stepped steadily toward the main area of the barn, the space accessed by the door Trent had used on the opposite side of the building. At the inside corner of the room, she felt the edge of a manger butt up against the wall. Carefully, she followed the feed trough’s length, stopping at a spot where she could see a dim light filtering through one of the windows high overhead, just enough illumination that she could quietly find her way into the heart of the barn.

Her mouth arid, her muscles tense, her damned ankle throbbing, she crawled up onto the trough and then through the supports to a spot where she finally swung her body over the half wall separating the area for the animals from the interior of the structure. She landed lightly, felt another splintering shot of pain, then froze to get her bearings.

The horses were boxed in a line of stalls that ran down a long corridor. On the far end was the silo, on the opposite wall another wide door on rollers to allow equipment to be driven inside. In between, opposite from the stalls, were a series of small rooms that housed grain, tack, and barnyard equipment. She’d seen tools hung on the bare walls, and in the very center a ladder that led up to the hayloft and down lower, to the same level as the area where the cattle entered and fed, the space she’d just passed through.

So where was her husband?

She checked her phone.

Nothing.

Damn.

She couldn’t risk calling out, and didn’t want to take a chance at being shot, either by Trent or whoever else was within the building. Fortunately there was a bit of light filtering in through the windows. As her eyes adjusted, she could make out shapes and shadows caught in the feeble illumination. Because there were few interior walls, Cassie was able to see. A little.

If she could just find Trent! Holding her breath, she listened hard and hoped she might hear the sound of a boot on the floorboards or a soft moan, but heard nothing but the sough of the wind and the shuffle of nervous hooves in straw.

She wished she had the nerve to turn on a light, the guts to whisper to Trent, but she knew instinctively to stay as quiet as she could and hope that the noise from the animals would cover her own footsteps and breathing.

Did she hear the distant wail of sirens?

She prayed the police were on their way.

She moved a little closer to the equipment area.

In the edge of her peripheral vision, she thought she saw movement. Her heart leapt to her throat. She spun, her gun leveled.
Don’t shoot. It could be Trent. Or some other innocent.

But the area was empty.

Maybe it was the dog? Or a barn cat?

Yet, her senses were on alert, her ears cocked and listening, her eyes scanning the shadowy interior, her nerves strung tight as bowstrings as she inched along the hallway. Horses snorted as she passed. One, startled, whinnied and the air snapped with an electricity.

Wouldn’t Hud be with Trent?

Crouching low, she inched along the wall, nearly called out Trent’s name in a whisper when she saw another movement from the corner of her eye.

Whirling, she expected the image to have disappeared, the phantom to have vanished, a figment of her wild imagination.

But she was wrong.

Dead wrong.

Crouching in the corner, glaring at her with hateful eyes that caught the weakest light was a woman.

Cassie nearly screamed.

Oh. Jesus.

“Who are you?” she whispered, her heart in her throat as the features, in the dark, came into view. Dark hair, wide eyes, arched cheeks, but all distorted in the gloom. Dear God, it was a shadowy image of herself, a twin.

She bit back a scream.

Realized the woman had a gun trained on her.

In a second she would pull the trigger and take off the mask and—no! Her eyes widened as she stared at the woman staring back at her. Her own gun was raised and shaking in her hands. And . . . and the assailant’s pistol was raised and shivering and . . . She blinked. And fired, just as she noticed the clothes and the expression on the terrified woman’s features were identical to her own before the woman shattered into a million pieces.

The roar of gunfire sent the horses screaming and kicking. Cassie’s own heart nearly stopped as she was sprayed with bits of glass, the mirror that had been propped into the corner decimated.

She hadn’t come upon a murderous assailant. No! She’d shot at her own damned, shuddering, gun-toting reflection. Oh, God, she was losing it! And not by inches, but miles. Her headache pounded, threatening to consume her, and her ankle wasn’t getting any better. She needed to find Trent, get the hell out of the barn and make tracks. Let the police sort out whatever it was that had gone on here. She let out a breath slowly. She had to find Trent and get the hell out of here. Now she was jumping at shadows and . . . and . . .

Over the sound of the horses, wind, and her own frantically thumping heart, she thought she heard a footstep.

Another one, this time on the shattered glass! And to her horror, in the jagged pieces of glass still clinging to the mirror’s frame, she saw that she, indeed, wasn’t alone. Behind her, caught in the reflection, was a partial image of a woman.

And she, too, was armed, a bit of a gun visible in one shard.

Their eyes met.

The gun was leveled.

 

From his position in the stall, Trent, woozy from the loss of blood, thought he heard footsteps . . . not one set, but two. Each pair coming from a different direction.

What did that mean?

Did the assassin have an accomplice?

Or did the second set of soft footprints belong to Cassie?

Oh, Jesus. Would she have come out here after she heard the report of the gun? Would she have been that stupid? Dear God, he hoped not. He silently prayed that she had the presence of mind to call the police and then get the hell out. Drive away.

But then he knew better.

With an effort he drew himself to his feet, steadied himself for a second, tried to get his bearings and nearly passed out. He waited until the wave of blackness receded and took several deep breaths. Dragging his bad leg, he made his way to the edge of his stall, the one farthest from the silo. He was dizzy as hell and used a post for support. He’d lost his phone when he’d been shot, it had skittered across the floor and was hidden somewhere, probably inoperable. Geez, he’d bungled this. All because he’d been ridiculously stupid thinking an animal and not a prowler had been on the farm. He’d thought the rifle and dog would be enough protection.

So where the hell was the dog?

A gun blasted, the roar echoing to the damned rafters, and the sound of glass shattering and spraying reached his ears.

Fear grabbed his throat and held on tight.

Horses neighed in terror, kicking at their stalls, and footsteps rang on the concrete floor, running footsteps, heading the opposite direction, toward the silo. And another sound, the loud rumble of a truck’s engine, came through the open door.

A second later light washed over the windows, headlights burning in the night. Thank God! He started for the door and heard the distant wail of sirens, never sounding sweeter as they shrieked through the night.

Help was on its way.

He only hoped it wasn’t too late.

Dragging his useless leg, propping his rifle on his shoulder, he pulled himself along the stalls with his free hand and nearly passed out. He leaned over the top rail and cleared his head, told himself to press on.

The police might be coming, but they were too far away.

He couldn’t wait.

 

Cassie didn’t look over her shoulder, just took off on her injured ankle, pain shooting up her calf.

A
gun fired again, a bullet miraculously missing her as it zinged past her head.

Fueled by adrenaline, ignoring the throb in her leg, she took off. She ran headlong into a post, her injured shoulder ramming into the rough timber, her feet slipping, the gun nearly falling from her hand.

Forcing her legs to work, she spun around the post, her arm throbbing, her heart in her throat.

“Cassie!” She thought she heard Trent call to her over the cacophony of sounds, the whistling neighs of horses, the rush of the wind battering the siding, the thudding of her heart, and the deadly tramp of footsteps following her, taking their time, knowing that she was running blind. She listened, didn’t hear his voice again, thought she probably imagined it. But the sound of approaching footsteps was unmistakable. And closer.

Onward she raced, her boots ringing as she stumbled through the maze that was this part of the barn. Where the open area for the animals had been easy to work through, the interior of this area was cut with rooms and bins.

Without hesitation, determined footsteps followed her. Getting closer. Echoing through her skull.

Desperate, she rounded a corner and came up short.

Ahead was a blank wall.

One side was a tack room, she thought, the other an empty area to store tools.

There was nowhere to run.

No exit.

No escape.

She had to face whoever it was, this woman who wanted to kill her.

Steadily the footsteps came.

Who was it?

Allie? Or Cherise? The sister she didn’t know? Ineesha? Laura? Little Bea . . . or someone she didn’t even know?