Death Rides Again (A Jocelyn Shore Mystery) (19 page)

“Hello?” Kyla was speaking into her phone. “Yes, I’d like to report a death.”

I walked back to the car, feeling sick to my stomach. I opened the door and sat down in the driver’s seat, trying to concentrate on the cool breeze on my face and not on Kyla in her pretty clothes standing beside a dead body as though it was just another mess that needed cleaning up. Still talking, she followed me.

“No, I don’t know where we are. In the middle of nowhere as far as I can tell. Hang on.” She lowered the phone and glared at me. “Don’t just sit there. Tell me where we are.”

I realized I had no idea either. I wasn’t sure the road even had a name, and I couldn’t remember having seen a street sign, which in general had a short life expectancy in a county with a sizable population of teenage males and no shortage of guns.

“Tell them it’s the road in front of Carl’s place. They’ll be able to figure it out.”

She did so, then frowned. “No, no, I don’t want to wait here. We’re on our way into town. Well, yes. Yes. Okay, fine. But please hurry.” She hung up looking annoyed.

“They want us to stay here until the police arrive. Like we don’t have anything better to do. I tell you, no good deed goes unpunished. This is just one of the many reasons why caller ID is not always a good idea. No prank calls, no anonymous tips to the police. Shit.”

I started laughing. Then I buried my face in my hands and stifled a sob.

She patted my shoulder a little awkwardly. “It’s not that big a deal. I don’t really mind waiting.”

I raised my head in exasperation and wiped away a couple of hot tears.

“Yes, my problem is that you’re inconvenienced!” I snapped. “He’s dead, Kyla. Really dead.”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess so. I mean, yes, I know he is. But it’s not like we can do anything for him now. It’s sad and all, but maybe it’s the best thing for him. Better than a trial and going to prison for the rest of his life.”

Maybe she was in shock, I thought. “He didn’t kill himself.”

“Of course he did. Maybe you didn’t notice the gun, but it was right there. And his truck is locked.”

“Yes, and no one could possibly lock a car door and then shut it. But let me rephrase this. Why would he kill himself?”

She rose, putting her hands on her hips, then walked around the car and got in, closing the door against the chilly breeze. Her cheeks were pink from the brisk air, and I caught a whiff of her perfume. A faint furrow appeared between her brows.

“You said you thought he might have been the one who shot the jockey. Now he shot himself, so I figure you were right.”

“But why? Say we’re right and he did shoot the jockey. Why kill himself? As far as I can tell, no one except us even suspects him. The sheriff is questioning Kel and Herman for goodness sakes. Why would Carl suddenly decide his only option is suicide?”

“Here’s a better question,” she countered. “Why would Carl suddenly decide to let someone else cram a rifle between his knees and pull the trigger? He was a big guy. You think he’d just sit there and let that happen?”

I had no answer for this. On the surface, she was absolutely right. It was ridiculous to think that anyone could have killed Carl in his own truck without a fight. But was it more ridiculous than thinking he’d committed suicide? I didn’t believe it. I knew Kyla was right, but I still didn’t believe it. Which didn’t mean it wasn’t true.

My own phone buzzed in my purse, and I jumped. Answering, I heard an unfamiliar voice on the other end.

“Yes, this is Sand Creek Medical Center calling for Jocelyn Shore.”

I felt my stomach clench. “I’m Jocelyn Shore.”

“Ma’am, I’ve been asked to notify you that a friend of yours has been admitted. His name is Colin Gallagher.”

*   *   *

My Civic spewed gravel and caliche dust from beneath its tires as I whipped a U-turn and peeled past Carl’s truck with the impressive high-pitched shriek of four underpowered cylinders. Still, it was enough to sling Kyla first against the window and then against my right shoulder as we fishtailed thirty yards before regaining traction.

She reached for her seatbelt and yelped a protest that I ignored. “What the hell? I thought we were supposed to stay with Carl!”

“Damn Carl Cress,” I answered. “Colin’s in the hospital. Find out where that is,” I added, realizing that I had no idea where I was going.

One thing about Kyla, she keeps a cool head in an emergency. The same calm reaction—or lack thereof—that made me question her humanity when viewing Carl’s corpse now served me very well as she looked up directions and read them to me. We arrived at the hospital in what must have been record time.

I pulled directly in front of the doors, left Kyla with the car, and raced inside. After I pounded on the counter for a few minutes, a wide-eyed young receptionist gave me Colin’s room number and pointed the way.

Not wanting to wait for the elevator, I raced up the stairs, took a wrong turn, then finally got my bearings. The hospital halls seemed deserted except for the faint smell of stale lunch overlaid with antiseptic. Just outside Room 201, I hesitated. The door was open about six inches, and I could hear voices in addition to the low sound of a television. Tapping gently, I pushed it open. Directly to the left, another open door revealed a tiny bathroom. Beyond that, the room widened, and I could see the foot of the bed and a doctor in a white coat making notes on an electronic tablet. She looked up as I entered, but I scarcely glanced at her.

Colin lay in the bed, mint-green blanket pulled up to his chest, IV connected to his bandaged hand. One arm was in a cast, a large white bandage covered one cheek and eye, and a second one crossed the bridge of his nose. His lips were bruised and torn. The eye I could see was surrounded by a purple bruise, but it crinkled into a smile that looked like it hurt when he saw me.

“There you are,” he said. His voice was hoarse.

I circled the bed to avoid the doctor and the machines, and took his hand in mine. It was cool to the touch, but he squeezed back hard.

“What happened to you?” I asked, then I turned to the doctor. “How is he?”

The doctor gave me an appraising look. “Are you a family member?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Colin instantly.

I nodded in agreement, although I could feel my cheeks turning pink at the lie. I’ve been told never to play poker.

The doctor looked from Colin to me and back again, then shook her head. “Fine. I’m not even going to ask the relationship. I’ll assume extremely distant cousins.”

Colin grinned, and I gave a gasp.

“Your tooth!”

“Yeah.”

His front tooth was broken almost in half. I swallowed hard, horrified.

“He’s very lucky,” said the doctor absently. “It could have been a lot worse. As it is, he’ll be out of here in a day or two.”

“I feel lucky,” said Colin solemnly.

She glanced at him sharply, and I suppressed the urge to laugh.

“How is he really?” I asked again.

“Broken ulna, two cracked ribs, moderate concussion, lacerated cheek, minor contusions,” she answered. “We’ll keep him for observation, but he’ll be fine. You can stay with him, but let him rest.” And with that, she left.

I looked him over, trying to see past the bandages and bruises, then bent down and kissed the one small place on his forehead that was neither bandaged nor bruised. His hand tightened on mine, and he brushed my lips with his own, then dropped his head back to the pillow. I could tell every movement hurt.

“So, should I ask about the other guy?”

He snorted. “You can ask. Unfortunately, I believe he is just fine. Sucker punched me.”

“What?” I squeaked, appalled. “Someone did this to you? On purpose? I thought you must have been in a wreck.”

“It was a wreck all right. One man, no car.” He sighed.

I pulled the mint leatherette visitor chair closer to the bed and sat down, taking his hand in both of mine.

“Who was it? I will hunt them down and make them sorry.”

“Great, I feel so much better. If only you had been there to protect me when it happened.” He released my hand long enough to squeeze my biceps.

“Well, fine. I’ll have Kyla hunt them down.”

“Now that might work,” he said.

As if on cue, the door opened, and Kyla poked her head in. She took one look at Colin, and said, “Whoa, what happened to you? You look like shit.”

Colin and I glanced at each other and started laughing.

“Colin was just about to tell.”

“Yeah, well, it’s embarrassing.” He stopped, then shrugged. “Guess you’ll have to know sooner or later. I’d been canvassing some of the ranches out near the racetrack asking after Ruby June when I saw a guy by the side of the road. Looked like he was changing a flat, so I stopped to help. I bent over to pick up the spare, and he hit me with the tire iron.” Colin tapped the blue cast on his forearm. “I saw him out of the corner of my eye and threw up an arm for the first blow, but he got in a few more after that. I don’t know what would have happened if another car hadn’t come along just then. The guy heard the engine and ran for it.”

I was horrified. “Why would he do that? What did he want?”

“Money. It was a straight-up mugging. He stole my wallet. I’m just glad he didn’t take my gun.”

“Out here where everyone knows everyone?” I asked, incredulous. “That was really risky. Do you know who it was?”

“No idea. Big guy in a white pickup, which I know hardly narrows it down. I’d recognize him again, but I’ve never seen him before. And it was bold, but maybe not that risky. There’s a lot of strangers in town for the races. I’ll bet he wasn’t from around here and thought it was an easy way to get some cash.”

“See?” asked Kyla. “What did I say? No good deed goes unpunished. You try to help someone, they try to kill you.”

I asked, “How about the second guy? The one who came along just in time. Did he recognize him?”

Colin shook his head, then winced. “No, the guy drove away before he could get a good look.”

“Did he recognize the truck?” I asked.

“No, but then he’s not from around here, either. He’s just in town because he’s riding in the race today.”

Kyla and I both stiffened.

“He’s a jockey?” I asked carefully.

“Yeah. Travis Arledge. Hope he won. You don’t know how the races went, do you? I can’t remember the name of his horse.”

Silence filled the room. If we’d been outside, crickets would have chirped. As it was, I could hear the ticking of the clock on the wall and the sound of soft-soled shoes moving through the hall. My mind was churning. Travis Arledge had stopped to help Colin on the way to the races, and then he’d been shot. Was there a connection? What if the shooter had wanted to stop him from identifying Colin’s attacker rather than from winning the race?

Colin looked from Kyla to me. “What am I missing?”

“Someone shot Travis Arledge during the race. I haven’t heard how he’s doing,” I answered.

“I think we can safely say not well,” said Kyla. “If the gunshot didn’t kill him, the fall from a galloping horse probably did.”

“What?” Colin struggled to sit up, and I hurriedly laid a hand on his shoulder.

Kyla went on before I could stop her. “While you were just lying around here, a lot’s been going on. Let’s see.” She held up a hand and began ticking items off on her fingers. “Jockey shot, Carl Cress killed himself, Uncle Herman and Uncle Kel both arrested. You’ve really missed out.”

“What is she talking about?”

“She’s exaggerating,” I said soothingly, shooting Kyla a glare that she ignored. “Herman and Kel haven’t been arrested. Sheriff Bob has just taken them in for questioning.”

“You don’t know that. They could be behind bars this minute,” she said, although she didn’t sound too concerned about it.

“Back up,” said Colin. “What do you mean Travis was shot?”

Kyla looked at him sharply. “Do you have a head injury? Because we can talk slower, but we really can’t say it any more simply. He was shot. They don’t know who did it.”

Normally Colin is fairly even tempered, even easygoing, but Kyla has a special way about her. His hand tightened on mine, and I watched him clench his jaws. So did Kyla.

“Hey, are you missing a tooth? You look like a hillbilly,” she said.

Colin’s one visible eye twitched. I quickly said, “Kyla, why don’t you see if you can find us a Coke or something. I’m dying of thirst.”

“You just want to get rid of me,” she protested.

“Exactly. But I’m also thirsty.”

“Fine. But get your own Coke. I’ll drive over to the jail and check on Kel and Herman. I’ll swing back by for you in a bit.” She glanced at us, made a point of staring at our clasped hands, and then gave me a smug little smile. “Feel better, Monkey Boy,” she said, and then left.

I turned back to Colin propped against the pillows, looking not only annoyed, but somewhat pale. He looked like he was hurting.

“When do you get your next pain meds?”

“I’m fine,” he said.

“That is not an answer. Are you refusing to take your pills?”

“They make me groggy.”

I gave an exasperated sigh. “That’s half the point. They’re supposed to help you sleep so you can heal and get out of here. Let me go find a nurse.”

His hand tightened on mine. “Leave it. Someone will be in soon anyway. I want to know what’s been going on.”

I sighed. “I wish I knew.”

I told what I knew about Travis, then described finding Carl Cress by the side of the road. “Kyla is positive he shot himself, and I admit it did look like it, but I’m just as positive he didn’t. I don’t know how to explain it, but Carl just wasn’t the type.”

“I don’t think there is a type. Not that I’m saying you’re wrong,” he added as I opened my mouth to argue. “But I’ve seen more suicides than I care to remember that took the victim’s family completely by surprise. And you didn’t really know Carl very well, right?”

“No,” I admitted.

“It’s important to keep an open mind until we have all the facts. Still, I grant you that the timing is suspect.” He grew quiet, thinking things over.

I took the opportunity to study his face. Now that I was over the initial shock, his injuries seemed both less horrific and more disturbing. The bruises would fade, the bandages would come off, the chipped tooth would be capped. But I knew from my own recent experience that the memory of the violence would linger, and I felt anger, deep and hot, flare in my stomach. I wanted to catch the bastard who did this. I envisioned a white pickup truck swerving off a cliff and bursting into flames on the way down. No, too quick. Better if the white pickup broke down in the desert, the driver staggering away into the wilderness, impaled on countless cactus spines. After endless days of burning sun and futile attempts to drink his own urine, he would drop to his knees, tongue black and swollen with thirst, blistered skin peeling from his face. Coyotes would begin eating him while he was still alive, but he would be too weak to do more than wheeze in fear and agony. At last, as buzzards began circling above, one of the coyotes would lift its leg on what was left of the pathetic torn remains.