Hayburner (A Gail McCarthy Mystery) (18 page)

Just patching her up was going to be an expensive job in itself, but I didn't tell him that. Judging by the sagging shed and falling-down pen where he kept the horse, he was probably short of money. I resolved to do the stitching, which badly needed doing, and worry about the bill later.

It took a good long time. Almost half an hour after the phone call, I finished her up. Brushing aside the client's protests about the cost, I told him we'd send him a bill and to pay what he could each month. He was still talking as I got in my truck and left.

Twenty minutes later I was driving down Harkins Valley Road, with the light from Lucy Kaplan's barn fire visible through my windshield-an orangey glow on the dark horizon. In another minute, I pulled in her driveway and parked.

The scene was pure pandemonium. Once again, the leaping flames, the running horses, the struggling firefighters, and the frantic or enthralled crowd of owners, neighbors, and spectators. I spotted Tony Sanchez, clinging to a neighing horse; in another second I saw Bart Bishop dash out of the burning barn, two loose horses charging with him.

I scanned the crowd. Sure enough, there he was. Pudgy Larry, staring at the flames, rapt. There was something wrong with this guy; I knew it. Where the hell were Jeri and Walt?

Before I could begin to look, Clay Bishop grabbed my arm. "Gail, there's a horse with real bad burns, down in the ring."

"Coming," I said, and went.

Hans Schmidt and John Romero were already there. Both were staring at the horse. I knew by the expression on their faces what I would see. Slowly, I walked to join them.

The horse's whole body was a mass of burned flesh; I couldn't believe he was standing and appeared structurally intact. I looked at Hans and John in turn.

"What the heck do you do?" I asked softly.

Both shook their heads somberly.

Most of the horse's body appeared to be charred and flaking; he smelled of burned hair and meat. His face was undamaged, but I couldn't read the expression in his eyes. They seemed blank. He stood perfectly, rigidly still, as if frozen, his head down.

"I guess we could try hauling him to the equine hospital," I said slowly. "Whose horse is he?"

"Lucy's," Clay said. "That's what one of the boarders told me."

"Where is she?" I asked.

"She's not here," Clay said. "I guess she was gone when the fire started. She doesn't live here. Someone called her. She was in town, at a movie. She ought to be here any minute."

As if on cue, a white pickup pulled into the crowded driveway. Lucy Kaplan got out and ran toward the barn. For a moment she stood there, staring, and then turned and said something to the woman next to her. A minute later, I heard Lucy's scream from where I stood.

"Frank!"

I looked at the group around me. "Who's Frank?"

No one answered. Clay departed in Lucy's direction. Hans moved off after him. John and I stared at the horse's disfigured flesh.

"Better put him down," John said at last.

I nodded slowly. "I'll ask Lucy."

I started in the direction of the driveway and met Lucy coming toward me, guided by Clay. Lucy was in tears, sobbing so hard she was stumbling. Clay was trying to support her and pat her back at the same time.

"Oh, Frank, I'm so sorry," Lucy moaned.

"Who's Frank?" I asked Clay.

Clay looked at me. Even in the dark I could read the shock in his eyes. "A caretaker. An old man. He lives in the cottage behind the barn."

"Did the cottage burn?"

"No, it's fine. But no one's seen Frank. Lucy's sure he wouldn't have gone out. She thinks he must be in the barn."

"Oh no."

"She thinks he must have been trying to get the horses out and got trapped before anyone else got here. Tony Sanchez saw the fire and called 911," Clay said. "Then he called me and Bart and some other neighbors. No one's seen the old man. He's not in the cottage."

"Oh no," I said again.

"I'm sorry, Frank," Lucy said through her tears.

I put a hand on her arm, hating what I had to say next. "There's a horse in the ring that's very badly burned. I understand he's yours. Do you want me to put him down? Or do you want to consider having him hauled somewhere?"

"Oh my God." Lucy sounded as completely overwhelmed as I ever imagined this very tough, thirtyish woman could sound. "I better have a look, I guess," she said.

"I don't know," I said. "He looks pretty bad."

She gazed at me helplessly. "Can you save him?"

"It's possible," I said slowly, "that he could be saved. It would be expensive and it would take a lot of time and he'd always be disfigured. "

"It's Clancy," Lucy said, as if talking to herself. "He'll never be worth anything." Once again she looked at me. "Don't let him suffer," she said finally.

"You want me to put him down?"

Lucy nodded, tears still running down her cheeks.

"All right."

Going out to my truck, I got the shot and then headed back. John still stood there, holding the burned horse by the lead rope.

"She said to put him down," I said. "I think it's the right choice."

He nodded wordlessly and got out of my way, taking a firmer grip on the lead rope.

I stepped forward and found a spot on the underside of the animal's neck that wasn't burned. Carefully, I inserted the needle in the jugular vein and injected the shot. A minute later the horse lurched forward, staggering and falling at once. Expertly, John used the lead rope to steady the animal, easing the horse's fall and encouraging him to go down at the same time. In another minute, the horse was on the ground. His legs thrashed convulsively once and then he settled into stillness.

"Poor guy," I said slowly.

This was the worst part of being a vet. Facing these poor suffering animals that I couldn't save. John said nothing, but his eyes never left the horse's burned body. We stood, in silence, until the howl of the inferno behind us grabbed my attention. The roar and snarl of the fire carried over the hubbub of human voices; incandescent, surging tongues reached high into the night sky. Smoke billowed outward. The barn was engulfed. Seething and snapping, the flames held me riveted. Like some huge, powerful beast, the fire coiled and leaped and bellowed. I could feel my mouth dropping open in awe.

"It's really something, isn't it?" John's quiet voice.

"Yeah," I said. "It's something, all right, and it's horrible, too. I've got to find somebody. Come get me if you need me."

I headed back toward the barn, looking for Jeri. It didn't take me long. She and Walt Harvey were right out front.

"That Larry guy," I said without preamble. "He's here."

"I know," she said. "So's Marty Martin. So is half the Lushmeadows subdivision, or I miss my guess."

 
I looked at Walt Harvey. "Fire number three," I said.

 
"Oh yeah." Walt looked excited. "We've got a real pyro here. A serial arsonist. You don't see too many of these."

"Do pyros," I asked, saying the word a little gingerly, "like to watch their fires burn?"

"Some do," he said. "What we call vanity arsonists. The ones who get their jollies out of fires, so to speak."

"Is this what's going on here?" I asked.

"Don't know yet," he said.

"But you do have a pattern," I said. "Friday night barn fires in Harkins Valley. All in the same neighborhood."

"That's right," he said slowly. "Friday night barn fires ... that reminds me of something." He was quiet for a long moment and then he turned to Jeri. "I need to check my laptop. It's in the car. I'll be right back."

And he disappeared into the crowd of people in the drive.

I asked Jeri, "Have you checked Larry out yet?"

"We talked to him. He said his wife can give him an alibi for this evening. Same for the last two fires. He said he showed up when he heard the sirens-just like the rest of the crowd."

"Does an alibi from a wife count?"

Jeri shrugged. "It's better than nothing."

We both stared at the roaring flames in front of us. I could feel heat on my face. Small, struggling forms of firefighters looked trivial, silhouetted against the blaze.

"I hear there might be a man in there," I said slowly.

Jeri shook her head. "I sure hope not. Firefighters didn't see anyone. But then, they weren't really looking. By the time someone noticed the caretaker was missing, the fire had really taken off. No one can get in there now."

"If the caretaker is dead," I said, "is it murder?"

"That's right," Jeri said grimly. "Homicide for sure. Second degree murder, probably, since I doubt our arsonist meant to kill anyone. Doesn't seem to be his pattern. But it's still murder."

"Speaking of patterns," I said, "do you know what Walt went to check on? I said 'pattern' and he disappeared."

"Walt's got an encyclopedic memory for fires. Whatever you said probably triggered something in his brain. He's really thorough, so he'll want to check it out before he says anything to me."

"So, who are you working on?" I asked her. "Marty Martin?"

"He's still suspect number one at this point. He's saying his parents can give him an alibi for tonight. He was at home until he heard the fire trucks, so he tells us. And I'm sure his folks will back him up. But like a wife, his parents aren't worth much as an alibi."

As she finished speaking, Walt Harvey emerged from the crowd on the drive. If he'd looked excited before, he now appeared delirious. Eyes shining, mouth parted, he grabbed Jeri by one elbow.

"Barn fires of ' 85!" he shouted.

Jeri grabbed his arm in return. "What?

"We had a series of barn fires in '85." Jim's face was six inches from Jeri's. "On Tuesday nights. Four of them. When we caught the guy, it turned out there was some shoot-'em-up cops and robbers show on TV on Tuesday nights. Got him all riled up.

"These fires were in the Soquel Valley. All old barns, all within five miles of each other. Turned out to be a neighbor. Guy in his early twenties, lived with his parents. Get this: his name was Larry. Larry Rogers."

Jeri stared at Walt.

He nodded. "He's a registered arsonist."

SEVENTEEN

At ten o'clock the next morning I was down at my barn, waiting for Blue. The sky was brassy and overcast, the air heavy and humid, as it had been all week. I could feel the gathering charge in the atmosphere; when I brushed my hair, the strands crackled with static electricity.

As my body tingled with desire. It had been five days since I'd seen Blue and I wanted him.

Like electricity, like flames, the current surged along my nerves. Just the thought of Blue's touch set a pulse up the insides of my thighs.

How could it be so sudden, so complete? A month ago, Blue Winter was an interesting possibility on my horizon; today he was a presence deep in my core.

Nature's way. Even as I twirled a stem of oat hay between my fingers, Jack the rooster flapped his wings and jumped on Red's back in the ubiquitous act of passion. Red squatted to support him; in an instant, or so it seemed to me, Jack was done and off. Both chickens fluffed their feathers up and looked satisfied. Mates.

The sexual urge meant one thing in the natural world. Find a partner and procreate. I shivered suddenly as I watched the chickens peck happily in the dust, their peeping chicks spread around them. Was that what was happening here? The old biological clock catching up with me? Did I just want a mate?

Maybe I did. But, I reassured myself, this urge was particular. I didn't just want a mate. I wanted Blue.

Roey woofed softly by my feet. A green pickup driving in. My heart beat faster. My God, I thought. Just the sight of his truck is enough.

Blue parked and opened his door. Freckles jumped out before he did. In a moment the dogs were sniffing noses, tails wagging. Freckles wiggled all over.

I laughed. Blue met my eyes.

"There's something about that dog that makes me giggle," I told him.

 
"I know. World's funniest-looking dog."

"She is different." It was an understatement. Half Jack Russell terrier, half Australian shepherd, Freckles had stiff, wiry fur that was mostly white with assorted liver-colored blotches. Her eyes were light blue; her muzzle had terrier whiskers and her tail was long, white, and plumed. She was about the silliest-looking dog I'd ever seen.

"Here, Freckles," I called.

She ran up to me to be petted, wiggled once, ran back to Roey and frisked around her. In a moment both dogs were playing tag, Roey yapping happily as she ran.

"Well, they're having fun," I said.

"How about us?"

In another moment I was in Blue's arms, my mouth pressed to his, his hands running up and down my spine. Sensations overwhelmed me-the texture of his lips, the warmth of his tongue, the firmness of his body against mine.

We broke apart and Blue smiled. "I missed you," he said.