Roped (Gail McCarthy Mysteries) (24 page)

Impatience gathered in my muscles. Where was Glen? More important, where was Joyce? If I cut through the band of trees behind the barnyard, I would emerge onto the driveway that led up the hill to Glen's. I studied Chester. He looked content, his head down, nibbling. Chances were he'd be OK, for a little while. And I simply didn't dare risk an approach to that barn. I started off through the trees.

This was easier said than done. Once I moved away from the barn lights, the blackness seemed impenetrable. It was one thing to ride Chester through the dark, operating on blind trust; it was quite another to try and find my own way through it.

I stumbled over roots and walked into branches; I found myself pushing through tangles of brush I couldn't see, like invisible hands, pulling at me. It was creepy, at times downright terrifying. It had never occurred to me before how much I depended on my vision.

Glen's driveway couldn't be too far away. Or so I believed. Panic swept over me in a rush. I couldn't see anything; maybe I was going the wrong way. I was lost; I would never find my way out of this godforsaken forest.

Stop it, Gail. This is not the enchanted forest. It's just dark. Darkness is not evil; it is not full of bogeymen. It's just the absence of light. So you can't see. You're safe in the dark. No one can see you.

I stood still and took a deep breath. Concentrated on my relative safety. Then I began again to walk through the darkness toward Glen's driveway. Toward where I supposed Glen's driveway to be. I held my hands out in front of me to avoid running into branches and felt cautiously for each footfall. Even so, I tripped and ran into things on a fairly regular basis.

I cussed and swore softly as I crashed along and my shins got sorer, but I felt pretty sure the noise was unimportant. No one was likely to be hiding out here looking for me. As long as I avoided buildings and roads I was doubtless perfectly safe.

The thought reassured me, resigned me somewhat to the blackness. I pressed on, stumbling through the night for what seemed like miles. By my reckoning, it was a quarter-mile at most to Glen's driveway, but it sure seemed longer. My jeans and boots were soaked from stumbling into a little creek. I had bruises and scratches all over, and a wide assortment of brambles clung to me. I was out of breath when, in two crashing strides, the heavy blackness of the forest lifted into the soft darkness of a night sky sprinkled with stars. I was out in the open. Half a dozen more steps and I was on the road.

As my eyes were well accustomed to the darkness, I could see the pavement clearly. I had emerged onto it at the bottom of the hill; it ran up between rail fences; I could just make out the spiky silhouettes of red-hot poker plants. The road seemed empty and quiet. It also looked like wonderfully easy walking. I headed up it, keeping a sharp eye out for other vehicles, for movement of any kind.

I saw nothing, heard nothing. I pushed my aching muscles into a jog and pounded my way up the hill, gasping for breath. I almost tripped and fell on the cattle guard; my eyes were riveted to the lit windows of the big house.

Recovering myself, I stood stock-still. Glen's house was as bright as the barn had been. Floodlights illuminated the driveway and the patio. Most of the windows seemed to be glowing with light. Tim's truck, Lisa's truck, and Joyce's Cadillac were all parked conspicuously in the driveway.

I negotiated the cattle guard and crept out on the lawn. Staying in the cover of the oaks, I maneuvered my way around the house, peering in the windows as I went. No one in the living room or kitchen, though they were well lit. I moved on. No one in the den. Now I was opposite Glen's bedroom. And there they were.

I could see Glen, lying in the big brass bed, propped up by pillows. Joyce was sitting in an armchair by the door, wearing, it appeared, a blouse that was as white and frilly as the bedspread. Lisa and Tim were faced off in the middle of the room, both standing, apparently arguing. I heaved a deep sigh of relief. Glen was still alive. The Bennetts were behaving normally. I had a chance to save us all before somebody died.

What to do? Find out what they were saying, I decided. Fortunately, the lawn was narrow back here and the band of oak trees curved around it to brush up against the eaves of the house at the very back. The glaring floodlights that lit the patio didn't penetrate this far, either. I started to sneak around the lawn, trying to get closer to the French doors that appeared to be standing open with the filmy curtains drawn behind them. I could see through the curtains easily, but I was sure those inside could not see out.

Just walk across the lawn, Gail; they can't see you. That was the rational part of my mind. But the intuitive part wasn't about to leave cover. Nobody could see me to shoot me here in the trees. Out on the lawn, illuminated by the patio lights, I was a sitting duck.

I moved as noiselessly as I could; the oak grove border of the lawn was a great deal simpler to walk through than the wild forest. For one thing I could see, and for another it was neatly groomed, the only bush an occasional rhododendron or azalea-nice and tidy and easy to avoid. I crept up next to the French doors successfully. No one noticed me; no one shot at me.

I could hear Lisa, haranguing Tim in no uncertain terms. "We
have
to go look for Gail-something's happened to her; I know it has."

I couldn't see his face; his back was to the French doors. I could only guess at his motivation. I made a snap decision, one I was to wonder about a great deal, later. I walked into the room.

TWENTY-FOUR

Hi," I said. "I'm here." My eyes went rapidly from face to face. Joyce looked surprised, Lisa looked relieved and delighted, and neither Tim nor Glen registered any emotion that I could discern.

Glen was sitting up in the bed, propped with several white ruffled cushions. In contrast, his face appeared gray. He looked at least ten years older than when I'd seen him last.

Tim stood with his back to the French doors, his eyes watchful and noncommittal. He said nothing. Joyce, on the other hand, rapidly shifted from surprise to displeasure. "What is going on here?" she demanded.

Lisa drowned her out. "Gail, where have you been? What happened to you? Tim and I just now brought Dad home from the hospital; I couldn't believe you weren't back. Where have you been?" she said again.

"Out getting shot at," I said.

For the first time, I looked directly at Glen, meeting his eyes. His face was wooden; he stared at me numbly, wearing an expression of frozen weariness. I could imagine the turmoil that had to be buried somewhere under that blank surface.

"I'm sorry, Glen," I said quietly. "I wish I could spare you all this, but I can't."

Joyce cut in. "What are you talking about, Gail?" It came out in a short of shrill squeak, very unlike her usual cool detachment.

I turned to face her, and she went on angrily. "Glen is very tired; he was just released from the hospital. He's not to be disturbed. Now I want all of you to leave right now, so he can get some rest."

"What is it?" From Lisa. I could see in Glen's look of sick recognition that he knew what it was. He just stared at Joyce, not saying a word.

"It's a solid copper bar, the same size as an electrical fuse," I told Lisa. "Electricians use them instead of fuses to connect something they don't want to short out under any circumstances, like a ground wire. They call them dummy fuses. I found this one in Joyce's purse when I searched her room this morning."

Nobody said a word. Glen was staring at Joyce, and Joyce was staring at me. Lisa's eyes were sharp, moving from one to another. Tim still stood near the French doors, his face smooth as a stone. You could have cut the tension in the room with a knife.

I looked right at Joyce. "I think that someone took all the spare fuses out of the fuse box and left this copper bar on the fuse shelf. Then this someone made a point of turning on the heater in the timer's shack in order to blow out the systern. Glen goes in, flips the master switch to turn the power off, and walks to the fuse box to put in a fuse. He can't find a fuse, only this copper bar. I don't know if he knew what it was and decided to use it anyway, just to get the lights on, or whether in the dark he thought it was a fuse. Either way, he plugged it in. And someone had turned the power back on. When Glen plugged that solid copper bar into the system with the power on, it was certain to electrocute him. And it did."

Everyone was staring at me now. "I suspected it was you, Joyce. You had the opportunity; you were in and around the timer's shack; it would have been easy for you to do. But you got too clever. If you'd have left everything alone, it would have passed as an accident, probably. A suspicious one, maybe, but possible-just. But you were worried. So you turned the power back off again and you retrieved the dummy fuse. That was stupid. Because it was obvious that the accident simply could not have happened with the main switch off. It took me a while, but eventually I figured out how it could have happened. I searched your room because I thought you might have used something like this." I flipped the copper bar in my hand.

Joyce looked like a cornered coyote. She'd taken a couple of steps backward until she was up against the door to the room, and the look in her eyes was desperate. Desperate and something else. Savagely angry. She appeared torn between fight and flight.

I had already decided that the frilly white blouse and tight black jeans she was wearing could not possibly conceal a gun. She carried no purse; she stood near no drawers. I pressed her.

"Running won't help, Joyce. The cops will catch up in the end. Why'd you do it?" I asked softly.

The flat blue eyes looked right at me. Anger struggled with fear and anger won. "Because I hate the son of a bitch." Her face seemed to contort, the rage that had been penned up so long rushing out in a tide of ugly, corrosive venom. "Yeah, I hated him," she spit out. "The great Glen Bennett." Her eyes flashed at the quiet figure on the bed. "With his ranch and his family and his horses. I wasn't important to him at all. I was just a convenience, a token wife. He didn't give a damn about me." She stared at Glen as if she could make him disappear with the pure force of her hatred.

Lisa was watching Joyce with an expression of horror on her face. I felt pretty horrified myself. It was hard to reconcile the calm, cold exterior I was used to with the raging Joyce in front of me. This woman had been terribly angry for a long time and couldn't or wouldn't express it. Unbidden, a vignette from my youth flashed into my mind-Joyce, in one of her rare good moods, playing a cute, kittenish little girl to Glen's strong, silent man routine. Joyce, I thought, had never been able to deal with the frustration she felt at being forced into that role.

She was expressing a lot more than frustration now. "I did things just to make his life miserable. I left the gates open; I even tried to poison his stupid horses. I left the tractor in gear. I dug a hole in the arena; I thought maybe it would kill him."

I shot a glance at Glen. His eyes were closed and he leaned back on the pillows. He hadn't said a word since I'd walked into the room.

"Well, someone did. I can prove it," I said firmly, not sure if I could or not. "And I
will
press charges."

"Yes, you do. You told someone that I found the dummy fuse; you told them where I was. And that someone shot at me with a deer rifle this afternoon. Who was it?"

Joyce shook her head. "I don't know."

"Yes, you do, Joyce. The same person who cut the colt's throat and gave Smoke a shot. And if you don't want to go to jail, you'll tell me who that person is."

She stared at me and licked her lips. I didn't take my eyes off her. I didn't know anymore what Lisa was doing, how Glen or Tim was reacting. I just watched Joyce.

"Tell me who it is," I prompted.

"I can't," she said softly.

"You have to. I'll turn you in to the police right now if you don't tell me." I glanced meaningfully at the phone by the bed. "Now, Joyce."