Roped (Gail McCarthy Mysteries) (21 page)

"I will."

I walked over to Glen's truck and got in. The keys were in the ignition. Glen always left them there. Nobody questioned my right to the truck. Al and Janey had vanished into their mobile home; virtually everyone else was gone, too.

I drove up the road to Lisa's house with my mind racing. I had ideas, but they wouldn't come together. A little doe jumped into the path of the headlights and out again. I barely noticed her.

When I drove down into the valley I was greeted by the angry racket of dogs barking. The headlights showed them plainly, jumping and snarling inside the picket fence. I stared through the windshield at the pointed faces with the big bat ears. They seemed to have an awful lot of teeth.

I sighed. Parked the truck and got out in one motion. Walked toward the yard like I owned it. Besides a brisk, "Shut up, you guys," I ignored the dogs. They were still barking and growling when I opened the gate and walked inside the fence. "Good dogs," I said casually and hoped that everything I'd heard about dogs being able to sense fear was a lie.

They sniffed my jeans, muttering suspiciously. I gave them a minute and then headed for the door. They followed me. I heard the snick of teeth on the air behind my heels, but they didn't bite me.

Lisa had left the door unlocked. I opened it and went in, shutting the dogs outside. At the sound of the latch the big orange cat came galloping out from the back of the house, meowing loudly.

"What's the matter with you?" I demanded.

He meowed louder and rubbed against my ankles, then stood on his back legs and put his front paws on my thigh. He looked at me steadily and reached out a paw to grab my hand. I jerked it back, startled. "Dammit, Zip," I snapped at him.

He flattened his ears for a second but held his ground, staring intently up into my face. He gave me a long, soulful meow.

"What do you want?" I asked him. "Are you hungry?"

I walked toward the kitchen and he ran along beside me, chirping excitedly. When I stepped into the room he jumped on the counter and gave a short, sharp,
Murrrt.
It sounded like an order.

Sure enough, there was a dish on the counter. It was empty. I looked in the cupboard under the counter, produced a paper bag full of dry cat food, and poured out a little dinner. Zip was ecstatic. He was also quiet. Relieved, I went to the refrigerator and got myself a glass of wine.

I walked back into the living room and sat down on the couch. Put my feet up on a battered coffee table and stared into space. The rough pine-planked walls were hung with a couple of framed Charles Russell prints. The one facing me was called
Broncos for Breakfast.
It showed a bucking horse tearing up a trail camp while the crew looked on. I'd seen it many times. I stared at it now for an hour, as if it held the answer. As if the face of Glen's killer could be found around that campfire.

The stalker had moved on to murder. Or attempted murder, anyway. God willing, Glen was still alive. I thought of calling the hospital and decided not to. Lisa would come home eventually. When she did, I'd hear the news, whether good or bad.

I got up and went into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. Poured myself a cup and sat down to stare some more. Two more cups of coffee later, I had the ghost of an idea.

The house seemed empty and quiet. I built a fire in the woodstove; the air was cold enough for the warmth to be inviting. I left the stove door open and watched the flames flicker. It gave me something to stare at.

It was well past midnight when I heard the sound of a truck coming down the hill. The dogs heard it, too. They began to bark in short, high, excited tones. Welcoming barks. Lisa was home.

I felt anxiety knot itself in my stomach. Let him be alive, I thought fiercely. Death was too final. Let him be alive.

There was Lisa's step on the porch and the door opened and Lisa and the dogs came in together. The dogs bustled around, sniffing happily and wagging their bobbed tails. Lisa looked exhausted. She didn't seem surprised to see me; she barely seemed to notice me. There were smudged shadows under her eyes, and her expression was vacant. I took a step toward her and held out my arms slightly, looked a careful question in her direction.

She met my eyes. "He's alive," she said simply. She slumped down on the couch, and I sat down next to her and put an arm around her shoulders. "He's off the machines, but he's still unconscious," she said. "They say he'll live. They don't know if there's any brain damage."

I sighed in relief. At least Glen was alive. "Where's Tim?" I asked.

"He's still at the hospital. He said he was going to stay with Dad." Lisa stared straight ahead. "I just couldn't sit there in that waiting room anymore, not knowing. Tim said he'd call if anything happened."

"I'm sorry, Lisa," I said. It sounded inadequate. "I don't know what to say. I'm sorry this happened to Glen. That I didn't stop it."

I wondered if she, like me, had suspicions that were almost too much to bear. I started to open my mouth, but she put a hand on my arm.

"Please. I can't talk about it. Not now. It's just been too much. Tell me tomorrow. Right now I just want to go to sleep. Will you stay here?"

"Sure."

"Sleep in my spare room. There's clean sheets on the bed." Lisa waved a hand at a door. "Thanks, Gail. Again. For everything." And she got up and left the room.

I walked through the door into a room like a large cupboard; the single bed filled most of it. It appeared to be a section of porch enclosed as an extra room for a child. The roof sloped at a steep angle to the one small window; no adult could have stood upright where it was lowest. Walls and ceiling were all paneled in rough, knotty wood. The little room was curiously reassuring and cozy, like a boat or the loft of a cabin. The narrow bed had a soft, brown patchwork quilt over it and clean-smelling sheets.

I stood on a scrap of woven rug that covered the tiny bit of open floor space and stripped off my shirt and jeans, dropping them where they happened to fall. Then I turned off the light, crawled into the bed, and fell unexpectedly and instantly asleep.

TWENTY-ONE

The phone woke me at dawn. Its shrill, persistent ring lifted my mind to consciousness, and I stared at the wall of Lisa's spare bedroom in momentary disorientation. The sight of Zip lying by my feet and purring loudly brought me back to where I was.

I got up and put my clothes on and walked into the kitchen. There was coffee in the pot on the stove, and Lisa was getting ready to leave. She handed me a cup and said, "They think he's waking up. Tim just called. I'm going to the hospital."

"OK," I said, taking my coffee. She'd showered and changed her clothes, I noticed, but the dark shadows under her eyes were even more pronounced than they'd been the night before. She clearly wanted to be out the door, and I decided that discussion of any type would have to wait until she'd seen how Glen was doing.

She gave me a thin smile, set her coffee cup down on the table, and was out the door. I walked to the window and watched her get in the truck and drive off, her movements as definite and competent as always. She took the red dog with her. I could see Rita's head through the truck window, the sharp ears flattened out wide, mouth parted in a riding-on-the-seat grin.

I called the clinic and told them I had a family emergency and wouldn't be in today. Then I called Lonny and told him what was happening, reassured him I was fine. Then I opened the door. Joey gave me his usual don't-bother-me look, but he got up and walked over to me when I called him. "Good dog," I said. "You want to come in?"

I held the door open for him. He wouldn't look at me, but he walked into the house and lay down by the couch. I smiled. Got myself another cup of coffee and sat down on the couch, stretching my legs out next to the dog. A few minutes later, I could feel him imperceptibly leaning against my ankles-a gentle, warm pressure.

Staring out Lisa's east-facing window at another brilliant morning, I wondered what to do. Or what to do first. The sunlight made cheerful golden patches on the wooden floor, and I was tempted just to sit here. But it wouldn't work.

When I left the house an hour later, I shut the dog in the yard again. He gave me a hopeful look as I walked out the gate. "You stay here," I told him. "I'll be back."

I drove down to the barn slowly. Glen's house looked deserted-no vehicles in evidence. Al's truck was parked squarely in front of his mobile home; Janey's red sports car was gone. I parked Glen's truck in front of the barn, where Glen usually left it, and got out.

The air was bright and chilly and sharp with the spicy smell of bay leaves. All the horses were fed; everybody's head was down, eating. No people in sight anywhere. I shot a glance across Lone Oak Road to the parking lot of the Saddlerack. No cars or trucks that I could see. I shrugged. Started walking back up the hill to Glen's.

The driveway and the garage were still empty at the big house. I went in through the back door. It was unlocked; it always was.

The house seemed very quiet. I walked as silently as I could, but even on the carpet I could hear the soft sounds of my footsteps. I walked down a long hall lined with glass-fronted cases full of china plates to the door at the end. I hesitated a moment, then opened the door and went in.

Glen and Joyce's bedroom was big, with a high ceiling, and like the living room gave an impression of emptiness. The carpet was a smooth, deep peach. There were items of furniture here and there-a dresser with a large mirror and a row of lights, a couple of chairs. There was a walk-in closet in the corner. But for all practical purposes, there was only one thing in the room; it caught and held all the attention.

In the center of the carpet stood a huge brass bed. Bright and shiny, its gaudy lines loud against the peach carpet, it was swathed in yards and yards of snow-white fabric worked out in eyelet lace. It had skirts and flounces and ruffles and cushions and bows, all neatly fluffed up and unwrinkled.

I stood and stared around the empty room for quite a while. There was a row of French doors that led out onto the patio, all shut down tight, draped in the same white lacy fabric as the bed. Some soft daylight filtered in. I took a couple of steps forward. Went into the closet.

Racks of brightly colored women's clothes, rows of high-heeled shoes and dressy boots. And Glen's scuffed work boots and his beat-up slippers. Some plain long-sleeved men's shirts, a neat stack of Wrangler jeans on a dresser.

I stood in the middle of the closet, still unable to bring myself to do what I had come here to do. I couldn't really believe I was actually standing here. What I was about to attempt was so foreign to me that I had a hard time even contemplating it.

Only the memory of Glen's still, gray face made it seem possible, even necessary. Come on, I told myself. Just do it, Gail. But I still stood like a statue.

I wasn't a cop or a private eye; I was a veterinarian. I didn't feel I had any right to be here. In fact, I felt ridiculously, stupidly, out of line. Do you want him to die? my mind demanded. If you don't, then do something.

I started opening the drawers of the dresser. Found the dirty clothes and looked through them, keeping one ear cautiously alert for any noise outside the bedroom. I didn't hear anything. Didn't find anything, either.

On the floor beside the dresser was a dusty black pair of women's boots. Behind them, against the wall, was a black purse and a black leather jacket. I picked up the jacket and felt in the pockets-nothing. I picked up the purse and looked through it. Lipstick, sunglasses, a comb, a little mirror. And a smooth, hard, cylindrical object. I brought it up and out of the purse. Held it in my hand and looked at it closely. It was plain enough in the pale light that came through the curtained windows. I just stood there looking at it.

I heard a tiny creak and started, dropping the purse back on the floor and shoving the thing I held into my jeans pocket. Maybe a guilty conscience sharpened my nerves, but as I stepped out of the closet and looked toward the doorway of the bedroom, I half-expected what I saw. Joyce walked quietly from the hallway into the room, moving with unnerving silence. In her hand she held a gun.

Whoever she expected, it wasn't me. When her eyes met mine, she almost jumped. "Gail," she said sharply, "what are you doing here?"

I hadn't heard her coming, I thought unhelpfully. I looked down and saw that she was barefoot, her feet pale and white against the peach carpet. No wonder, I thought, and, What am I going to say?

We stared at each other almost blankly, and various things went whirling through my mind and out again. It was time for a snap decision, and I wasn't sure which way to jump.

Joyce made up my mind for me. She lowered the gun. "What are you doing in my bedroom?" she said again, but the alarm in her voice was reduced to annoyance.

"Lisa sent me to get some clothes for Glen," I said, trying to cover my confusion. "I didn't think you were at home or I never would have come in here."

"I see." Her eyes were still flat and cold, but I thought she looked relieved. I glanced pointedly at the gun that was still in her hand.

She looked down at it, too, and then her oddly opaque-looking blue eyes moved back to my face. "I just got home. I heard someone moving around in here and thought it was a burglar," she said. "I took my shoes off and got out the gun." She smiled faintly. "I know how to use it."