Murder Take Two (36 page)

Sure enough, the air-conditioning on Ms. Edwards's trailer was humming away, only hers; the rest were silent.

“Is it often left on?” she asked.

“Tell you the truth, I don't know, but your cop didn't think so. He thought there was something fishy about it.” He related Yancy's actions.

Like Yancy, she wanted his boss. Unlike Yancy she was insistent, and more clout got the guard's employer chasing out a skinny, worried production assistant with keys to the trailers. Susan tried Ms. Edwards's first. It was cool inside, but otherwise uninteresting. No tables knocked aside or chairs tipped over. No blood spatters.

Much to the disapproval of the PA, she made him open all of them. While some were messier than others, none had been tossed, nothing indicated a struggle. She thanked him.

“Old Josiah's barn,” she told Osey when they got back in the squad. She picked up the mike and told dispatch to send a unit to the Sunflower to ask questions of guests, staff, movie people, hangers-around, ask if anyone had seen Yancy, when they had last seen him, if they knew or had any idea where he had gone. Ditto for Laura Edwards.

The barn stood tall and solid, a monument to the past. Empty, quiet, except for the whisper of ghosts of Josiah's ancestors. Neither Osey, nor she, could find evidence of blood.

“Where now?” Osey said, his face tight with anxiety.

“His apartment. Maybe we can
detect
something.”

Mrs. Blakeley refused to unlock the door for them. Osey, with country-boy charm, convinced her, without saying why, that they had a reason. Reluctantly, she agreed. Susan wanted to shake some speed into her as the woman slowly climbed the outside stairs and opened the door. She stood aside to let them in, and watched while they did a quick walk-through and then a closer look.

For all the good it did them. Nothing, not a hint, not a scrap, not a smell of where Yancy was, or the trouble he was in.

“Thank you,” Susan told Mrs. Blakeley who carefully locked up behind them.

As they were crossing the sidewalk toward the squad, Stephanie came rolling up on her bicycle.

“Is something wrong?” She propped the bike with one foot on the ground.

“We're looking for Officer Yancy,” Susan said.

“Is he hurt again?”

“We just need to talk to him.”

“You know where he is?” Osey asked.

“Have you tried the mansion?”

“Why there?”

“That's where he said he was going.”

*   *   *

To Susan's ears, she sounded like an elephant thrashing through the woods.

Osey had dropped her a mile away, and though she was hardly mountain climbing, the hill was thick with trees, the footing covered with fallen limbs and dead vegetation made slippery by recent rain. New growth covered whatever she might be stepping on. The air was damp and sticky.

From the crest of the hill, she had a partially obscured view of the back of the mansion about fifty yards straight below, and to her left an even more obstructed view of the front of the stables approximately a hundred yards west. She breathed heavily.

A gravel path about a half mile long led from the stables to the road. It was shortly past eight-thirty, and not quite dusk, but soon it would be. Mosquitoes hovered. She stumbled over a hidden root and the crushed plant sent up a pungent odor that cut through the earthy smell of rotting leaves.

Damn Yancy for going off without backup. With Justin's information, she'd finally worked out what was going on and before she could move on it, Yancy had walked right in.

Oh, Christ, don't let him be dead. Not Yancy with his sweet smile and soft voice. Not Yancy, young and idealistic. Smart and quick and sensitive. And inexperienced. If she'd been sharper and faster—what happened to all her experience?—Yancy wouldn't be in trouble.

She was afraid to use time working out a plan. She couldn't get hold of Parkhurst, and none of her officers were experienced in hostage situations. She didn't dare risk radio communication in case the suspect had Yancy's radio.

A stable door slid slowly back. Whoever had opened it was caught in interior shadows and she couldn't see who it was. She eased her gun up, eyes fixed on the door.

Nothing happened. Dusk was creeping in.

A jeans-clad figure with a denim shirt led a chestnut horse with white stockings from the stable. Saddle and halter, no bridle.

Susan squinted, straining to see.

The figure retreated into the stable and the light went on. The horse stood patiently, ears flicking, looking around as though trying to determine what he was supposed to do. The figure came out again, took the horse by the halter and started walking, then stepped aside and let the horse continued on his own.

Oh, for heaven's sake. Somebody was going through training sessions with the horse. She had come tearing out here, sneaked through a wilderness with lethal mosquitoes, gotten snags in her shirt, twigs in her hair, and mud on her shoes to creep up, gun drawn, on a horse trainer.

And they still didn't know where Yancy was.

In the act of reholstering her gun, she froze.

Oh, dear God.

The horse walked along the gravel path with the trainer walking beside it. A rope, tied to the saddle horn, stretched back to Laura Edwards's neck; a light shone on her face, set with terror. Hands cuffed in front of her, Laura had no choice but to walk along behind the animal.

This was so much a movie scene that Susan simply gaped in disbelief. With a sense of unreality, she watched.

The trainer yelled. Then reality hit. She didn't know what to do. The horse quickened to a trot. Laura, cuffed hands grabbing the rope, staggered after him.

If Susan did the wrong thing, made a wrong decision, Laura would be strangled. Almost anything Susan did would be wrong. Yell, “Freeze! Police!” and the trainer might have the horse tear down the path and hit the road in a flat-out run. How long would Laura survive?

Think. Think.

Shoot the trainer? Unless she hit the target smack on and killed with one bullet—not a sure thing—the trainer could still yell and make the horse move to a gallop.

Oh, Jesus. How long could Laura stay on her feet?

Shoot the horse? A guarantee to spook him unless one bullet dropped him. Where would she have to put a bullet so he would fall in his tracks?

The brain? Horses had large bony skulls, and with the head in constant motion, she wasn't sure she could hit the exact spot. Even a sharpshooter would have trouble and she wasn't a sharpshooter.

She didn't even consider what the gravel would do to Laura's vulnerable flesh. The pain would be agonizing. The horse trotted sedately. Laura kept on her feet. The trainer jogged alongside.

By going straight down, past the mansion, Susan might reach the road first.

She scrambled, hoping clopping hooves would camouflage any noise she made. She prayed nobody would come streaking up the road, sirens screaming, lights flashing. If the horse took off cross-country, he could bash Laura's head against a tree and split it like a watermelon.

Oh, Jesus.

When she reached the mansion grounds, the trees were thinner and there was no brush to snag her feet, but she had very little cover. If the trainer turned, she'd be seen.

On the path off to the left, the horse trotted along, its white stockings clear in the dusk. So far, Laura had managed to stay on her feet.

Thoughts and rebuttals zinged through Susan's mind. She had no plan. A movie hero would race out, grab the saddle horn, swing astride, and bring the horse to a stop.

The trainer ran up behind the horse, shouted, and clapped. He broke into a gallop. Laura took two or three staggering steps, then fell. The rope tightened around her neck. Her hands clung to it. The galloping horse dragged her.

NO!

Going downhill wasn't easier. Momentum carried Susan too fast to keep her balance. She slid on a pocket of wet leaves, caught herself, took a lurching step, and tripped.

She grabbed at a tree and scraped her hands, but got herself upright.

Oh, Jesus, Laura was being pulled over gravel with a rope around her neck. Hurry!

Susan scurried. The gathering dusk made it hard to see. She pounded along the side of the house, then plunged downhill.

Thick weeds waited to snag her ankles. She fought through them, fell, and tumbled down inside the ditch along the road. Scrambling for the other side, she grabbed at weeds to pull herself up.

On the road, the horse thundered past.

“Cut!” she yelled.

The horse—movie-trained animal that he was—slowed, stopped, looked around, then lowered his head to crop weeds at the edge of the road.

Thank God thank God thank God.

Moving easy, she approached him. He raised his head and eyed her, ears twitching.

“Okay, okay, let's be real careful. You're a good boy.”

The horse stepped away.

“Don't do this to me. You don't want to be a killer.”

He sidestepped. She stopped. He dropped his head and tore at the weeds. Moving up calmly, she grabbed his halter. He raised his head and chewed placidly.

The trainer had disappeared.

Osey, with White and Ellis right behind him, came running up the road.

“What were you waiting for?” she said. “The credits?”

With a pocketknife, Osey cut through the rope. Susan released the horse and knelt to tug at the section biting into Laura's throat. That famous beautiful face was cyanotic, the leather pants torn and bloody.

Susan pressed fingertips under the corner of Laura's jaw. The pulse was thready and fast, but it was there.

A motor roared. A black pickup with a roll bar jounced toward them, tires spinning in the gravel.

All hands grabbed Laura and dragged her out of the way.

The driver stomped the brakes. The truck fishtailed, the back end slid in the ditch on Susan's side of the road. She grabbed the side rail to keep from getting smashed. Her hands slipped, she struggled to hold on. As the truck bounced back on the road, it made a wide arc. Her legs swung out.

As the truck straightened, she hoisted herself over the rail and fell into the bed. She landed on an elbow; pain shot up her arm. Rolling toward the cab, she drew her gun, grabbed the roll bar with her injured arm.

“Police! Stop!”

The driver cut the steering wheel hard right, throwing Susan back. A left cut tossed her the other direction.

She hooked her arm around the roll bar. “Stop! You're under arrest!”

The driver twisted and fired. Susan crouched. The back window cracked into a weblike maze, a small round hole in the center. The truck swerved erratically back and forth.

Holding on to the roll bar, she smashed at the glass with the butt of her gun. “Stop the truck! Now!”

The truck roared off the road, hit the ditch, faltered, and then bucked and bounced up the other side. It slid sideways out of control down a rise. Susan hugged the roll bar. The truck slammed into a maple tree.

Susan was torn loose. Tree branches spun above as she tumbled over the tailgate. She landed hard on her left side, her gun went flying. Her vision wobbled, had black edges.

Scrambling to hands and knees, she scrabbled through leaves and vines for her gun. Just as she spotted it, two shots made her grab it and scuttle for a tree.

Breathing hard, she sat with her back against the tree trunk and rubbed an arm across her forehead. Jesus, what did she think she was doing? Making a movie?

Her left shoulder felt like sledgehammers had been at it. Served her right if something was broken. You're a cop, not a stuntwoman.

Crouching, she tried to catch a glimpse of movement through branches. Dusk had fallen, and it was too dark to see. Staying low, she eased from pine to ash moving toward the pickup. It sat in a small group of maples with open space all around and directly behind, fifty yards up a rise, the thick trees covered the hill.

She eyed the pickup.

“Get out of the truck!”

Silence. Rustle of tree leaves. Croak of frogs.

Pulling in air, she ran low for the passenger side and pressed her injured shoulder against the door. No sound but the hiss of the radiator and
ping-ping
of cooling metal. Slowly, she raised to look in.

Empty.

Through the driver's window she saw a dark shape streaking up the rise for the woods. Shit. Rounding the pickup, she charged uphill, running at an angle at her suspect, hoping like hell she wasn't going to be picked off like a rookie in a drug bust.

She plunged into the trees, stumbling through brush. A shadow of movement ahead on her right lured her that direction. A bullet bit into a tree at her shoulder. She dropped back, listened, heard thrashing through brush. She caught another glimpse, then the shadow disappeared.

Damn it.

She was making just as much noise, giving away her position. Her leg muscles screamed, her lungs felt on fire. A bullet nicked a tree a foot from her head. Ducking off at an angle, she strained to listen over her own heartbeat. She moved parallel with the shooter using trees to stay out of the way of bullets.

On the crest of the hill, trees stood black against the slate sky. Stars glittered. The moon was bright.

Movement slipped through moonlight. Susan ran, keeping her eyes on her suspect racing toward the mansion.

“Stop! Now!”

She put on a burst of speed. Lowering her shoulder, she rammed into the suspect with an explosive grunt. Her weight brought them both down hard, they skidded a few inches.

Lungs dragging at air that was too thin, she stuck her gun an inch from Clem Jones's throat. “It's a wrap,” she said.

32

“You're late again.” Susan, breathing hard, stood back and let Osey help a cuffed Clem Jones to her feet.

“Take her in.” Susan's leg muscles were beginning to spasm.

“Yes, ma'am.” He took Clem's elbow.

“Yancy?” Susan asked.