Forged (Gail McCarthy Mystery) (17 page)

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."

"Yes," I said. "I guess you do. Why are you pointing that gun at me?"

"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."

I said nothing. I could think of nothing whatsoever to say. My gut was clenched so tightly it was hard to get any words out, anyway.

"I am a man who has nothing to do with the police." The voice was soft and even. "I must ask you not to repeat this conversation to them, and not to mention my name. I am a truly dangerous man, Dr. McCarthy. You should heed this warning."

"I believe that, too. I won't talk to the police." I was having a hard time speaking; any attempt at bravado was over.

"Do not mention this place, either," Carlos went on. "It belongs to a friend of mine who also does not care for police."

"Not a problem," I said weakly.

"I have no wish to harm you," he said after a moment. "You may go." One hand tossed the cell phone in my direction.

I caught it. Without a backward glance, I climbed into the cab of my truck, not too slow but not too fast either. Carlos Castillo got back in his car. I started my truck and drove out, the black BMW a sedate distance behind me.

I watched him in my rearview mirror all the way back to the freeway entrance, where his car took the turnoff toward downtown Watsonville. Without thinking about it, I pointed the truck's nose for home, taking the freeway on-ramp, running, as a frightened animal will do, for my den.

I believed that Carlos Castillo was a truly dangerous man, just as he'd said. His veiled threat was far more intimidating than any amount of bombast. I recognized the professional criminal under the smooth veneer; he would shoot me if I threatened him, without mercy or much thought.

My guts twisted and rolled; I realized my hands were clenching the steering wheel so tightly they were getting numb. I loosened them, stretched my fingers, unlocked my jaw. Faced the fact. I was scared shitless.