The Kill (14 page)

“You’ve quit before? No, if you had quit before, you wouldn’t be drinking now. Let’s call a spade a spade: you went through a dry spell.”

He looked away.

“You’re an alcoholic, Manning,” Margaret said, her tone a tad softer. “You can’t just lay off the booze for a while. You need to own up to the problem and get help. This isn’t something you can tackle alone.”

“What, you want me to check myself into rehab?”

“That would be a good start.”

Jesus
. He threw his hands up in the air. “Hell, why not? What better way to avoid Mallory. And, let’s see, I could also wash my hands of the races. And Richard’s funeral. The timing couldn’t be better.”

“I’m not suggesting you do it this afternoon. I’m saying it’s the only way for you to lick the problem. Take your life back, Manning. Do what your father was never strong enough to do.”

A
bigale wrapped her arm around the narrow trunk of a young oak as she hiked down the horse trail that led from the back of Fox Run to the Little River. Fallen leaves carpeted the path, making it slick beneath her feet. The meeting about Uncle Richard’s funeral had seemed to drag on forever, bringing up so many questions—details—she never would have considered. Abigale had needed some time alone to clear her head after they’d finished. She’d told Margaret she’d meet her at the barn in an hour.

She scrambled over a log, cradling her camera against her chest. Late morning sunlight danced through the half-naked trees, creating a mosaic on the muddy hoof prints and brilliant leaves that defined the trail. She removed the lens cap and snapped several shots to take home to her mother.

The air was crisp and the woods held the musky aroma of damp earth and decaying leaves. Abigale closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, capturing the scent in her mind so she could describe it to her mother when she showed her the photos.

Leaves rustled nearby and she opened her eyes to see a gray squirrel scamper toward a poplar tree. It paused at the base of the trunk and eyed her, a nut of some kind clasped between its jaws. She slowly raised her camera, caught the image through the viewfinder, and zoomed in. The squirrel’s weight was on its haunches, its front paws curled mid-chest, and its nose quivered as it mouthed the nut, an acorn. She snapped the shot, and the click of the shutter sent the squirrel scurrying up the tree.

Abigale lowered the camera and caught the glint of water through the trees. The river wasn’t far off. She continued on the trail for a couple hundred feet until the canopy of trees parted at the edge of the river’s bank. The path that led to the water seemed broader, less steep than when she’d last ridden down it; worn away by erosion, perhaps, or distorted by the tricks the years had played with her memory.

She crept along the edge of the bank until she reached the rock outcropping she was seeking. Abigale perched at the top of the rock and hugged her knees to her chest, welcoming the warmth that radiated from the sun-kissed stone. Memories showered her like a soft spring rain and she smiled, remembering the time Manning had shown off by accepting Percy’s dare to cross the river walking backward over a fallen tree with his eyes closed. When Manning had been midway across, Percy had pegged a rock at him, doubling over with laughter as Manning lost his footing, dancing and flailing his arms as he struggled to avoid a backward plunge. The river was high, the water muddy from a recent storm, and Manning rose from the river with a roar, shaking the water from his hair as he leapt up the bank, his sneakers squeaking and sloshing brown water as he raced after Percy. They had all ended up in a water fight.

Abigale breathed a gentle sigh. Their lives had been so carefree that last summer. So innocent. Not yet scarred by war or terrorism. Or death.

She shook her head, trying to rid her mind of the angry exchange of words she’d overheard that morning between Margaret and Manning. She had managed to stay out of it, fighting the voice in her head that screamed at her to barge into the kitchen and stick up for Manning. What right did she have to intrude?

A red-tailed hawk swept down between the trees and Abigale reached for her camera. She spent the next thirty minutes ambling along the river’s edge, capturing shots of a pair of bald eagles performing a mating ritual as they soared overhead and a huge red fox that watched her curiously from atop a ridge above the opposite bank.

She knew it was time to head back to the farm, but instead of hiking up the trail she’d taken on her descent to the river, Abigale veered off on a narrower path that traversed the steep hill at a more gradual incline. Her heart raced as she began the climb and she felt goose bumps prick her arms beneath the fleece jacket she’d borrowed from Margaret.

Abigale told herself this might not be the right path. Dozens of deer trails just like it crisscrossed throughout the woods. And after seventeen years, new passages would have been created, old ones abandoned. But instinct carried her forward.

A couple of minutes into her climb the trail disappeared into a wide swath of trampled undergrowth, fallen limbs, and uprooted trees, as if strong winds—perhaps even a tornado—had carved a lane straight along the side of the hill. She wove her way through the wreckage, sidestepping a crater left by the root-ball of a fallen oak, and ducked under a hanging sycamore limb, snapped like a matchstick from atop the towering tree.

On the other side of the debris she picked up the trail again, grasping at saplings as she clambered up a gully that led to the crest of the ridge. The terrain leveled out and she stood for a moment, her pulse pounding in her ears.
This was it
. She crept forward, boots shuffling through the leaves, her hands clenched so tightly at her sides that her nails carved half-moons in her palms. She dropped down on a log at the edge of the trail.

The image of Scarlet going down flashed through Abigale’s mind, so vividly she could almost feel the ground rise to meet her, smell the warm, earthy dampness of that summer night. She squeezed her eyes shut. Still, the memory lingered, so intense she half-expected to hear Scarlet’s throaty whinny, deepening in pitch as the mare struggled to get up, and Manning’s voice, calm but stern, warning her to roll beyond the reach of Scarlet’s thrashing hooves.

Abigale forced herself to look across the trail. Nature had reclaimed the spot, blanketed the earth with leaves, burying any evidence of the horror that had played out there. Her eyes swept the woods, then widened as she spotted a wooden cross, a few yards away, planted at the foot of a dogwood tree.

She pawed her way through the thicket and sank to her knees beside the cross. It stood about two feet high and was made from two strips of wood that had been carved to fit together at the center of the cross. The wood was unpainted and had aged to a silver gray. She ran her hand along the top of the cross. The edges had been beveled and sanded. It was smooth beneath her fingers.

Abigale looked down and realized the ground near the cross was clear of leaves and debris. Someone was tending to it.

M
anning eyed the wood flooring on the top deck of the stewards’ stand. The bloodstain—Richard’s blood—stared stubbornly at him, still visible beneath the fresh coat of gray paint. “One coat’s not going to cover it,” he said to Smitty.

“I’m afraid you’re right,” Smitty agreed. “We’ll have to give it time to dry, then hit it again.” Smitty looked at his watch. “Problem is, I’ve got the vet coming to the kennels in about an hour to vaccinate the hounds. I’d best give him a call and see if I can push it back.”

“Don’t do that. You go on. I’ll put the second coat on by myself.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Smitty glanced around the stewards’ stand as if reluctant to leave, and Manning felt the lack of confidence in him as a slap in the face. Jesus, didn’t Smitty trust him to finish the painting?
Smitty, of all people? “You
think I can’t handle it?”

“Good God, it’s not that,” Smitty replied. “I was just thinking about Richard, what happened to him here. I wonder if it’s sensible for you—any of us—to be out here alone.”

Manning’s gaze swept across the rolling terrain. “You really think whoever shot Richard is still around? Looking for another victim?”

“Probably not, but it doesn’t hurt to be careful.”

“Careful, sure. But not afraid. There’s a difference.”

“I hear ya,” Smitty said.

Manning jerked a shoulder toward Smitty’s truck. “Go on.”

“All right. But keep your eyes open.”

Manning felt a pang of regret as he watched Smitty disappear down the stairs. Now what? The last thing he felt like doing was killing time sitting around watching paint dry. His eyes swept the racecourse. Yellow crime-scene tape still wound around the vicinity of the stewards’ stand, though half of it was torn loose, trampled into the ground. That definitely needed to be cleaned up before race day. He circled the stewards’ stand, ripping loose the slippery yellow tape and tossing it in a pile. When he was finished, he grabbed the armful and stuffed it in the trash receptacle in the parking area.

Manning turned back toward the stewards’ stand, then stopped and cocked his head to listen. He heard the far-off crunch of wheels on gravel, the faint whine of an engine. Despite his earlier resolve, he felt a twinge of unease. Shading his eyes with one hand, he fixed his gaze on the gravel drive. A sheriff’s car topped the rise and relief washed over him, tinged with a prick of shame. So much for not letting fear take over.

The sheriff’s car rolled to a stop beside him and two deputies got out. The radio on the driver’s belt squawked. He reached down and silenced it, then nodded at Manning. “Afternoon.”

“Hello.” Manning eyed the deputy’s name tag.
Mallory
.

Mallory cast a deliberate glance at Manning’s BMW. “That your car?”

Manning’s heart slammed against his chest. He sucked in a breath, nodded.

“So you must be Manning Southwell.”

Manning figured the deputy probably already knew who he was, had most likely pulled his driver’s license photo. “Yes.” He extended his hand. “My mother told me you dropped by her house this morning. That you wanted to talk to me.”

Mallory’s grip was firm. His expression remained neutral. Not hostile, but not friendly either. “Then you’re probably aware that your car was spotted in this area on Monday.”

“That’s what Mother said.”

“Were you here with Mr. Clarke that afternoon?”

Manning shoved his hands in his pockets. How the hell could he explain it? Tell Mallory he didn’t remember? If his mother was right, that might be digging a hole he wouldn’t be able to get out of. Still, it was the truth. “I don’t know.”

Mallory exchanged a look with the other deputy. “You don’t know?”

He shook his head. “I was supposed to meet Richard here to help work on the racecourse—and since someone saw my car, I guess that means I did—but I really don’t remember. I was drinking that afternoon. I guess I had a little too much.”

“Too much to drink.”

“Yes sir.”

“Let me see if I have this right, Mr. Southwell. Are you saying you can’t remember because you had an alcoholic blackout?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Mallory’s gray eyes turned steely, flickering over Manning as if trying to decide whether he was lying or just plain stupid. The other deputy took a step closer. The playing field flipped from neutral to hostile.

“You ever have a blackout before?” Mallory asked.

“Not this bad, but yeah.”

“All right. Why don’t you tell us what you do remember about Monday.”

Manning did so, and finished by saying, “Look, what I did was irresponsible. No question. I drank too much and got behind the wheel. Did things I can’t remember. But one thing I know for sure—blackout or not—I didn’t shoot Richard. I never would have harmed him, no matter how drunk I was. I’ll take a lie detector test, whatever you want. I have nothing to hide.”

Mallory went over the timeline Manning had given him a couple of times, probably trying to trip him up, to see if he’d waver about what he remembered and what he didn’t. He finally wrapped it up by telling Manning they’d most likely call him in for further questioning. Mallory also told him not to leave town without checking in with him first.