The Kill (8 page)

M
anning sat in his darkening kitchen, eyeing a bottle of Maker’s Mark whisky that he’d plunked on the table beside an empty glass. He’d been there since Julia’s call, playing cat-and-mouse with the itch to pour a drink. He’d gone so far as to remove the wax seal and screw cap, and now, even from across the table, the smoky vanilla aroma danced in his nostrils. Still, he resisted.

Last night’s blackout had really scared him, and all afternoon he’d sworn to himself he’d lay off the booze for a while. Not that he hadn’t had memory lapses before from drinking too much. Who hadn’t? But he’d always been able to remember snippets of events. This time, he couldn’t remember anything that happened from the time he’d left the barn after hunting until he’d awakened in Julia’s bed.

According to Julia, he’d sailed into the pub at the Blackthorne Inn a little after three o’clock, obviously feeling no pain. He’d sat at the bar and downed a beer or two. Shot the breeze with the bartender. Then, Julia said, he’d received a call on his cell, had mumbled something about forgetting he had to be someplace, and dashed out, promising to be back later.

Julia had no idea where he’d gone and couldn’t remember exactly what time he’d returned, just that it was after dark, and that his tweed jacket was wet, so she assumed he’d spent some time outside.

A low ray of fading sunlight slanted across the table, trapping Manning’s cell in a dust-filled golden beam. His long fingers reached out and tapped the phone, twirling it back and forth on the pine tabletop. He’d viewed the recent call history so many times since speaking with Julia that he’d lost count, yet he picked it up again and thumbed down the list—as if the data might have changed.

“Shit.” The word hissed through his lips as he stared at the highlighted display: an incoming call from Richard’s cell at 3:42 yesterday afternoon.

Sweat beaded on Manning’s forehead and he folded the phone, then tossed it on the table. Shoved it out of reach. He sank back in the chair and pounded his palms against his skull.
Think, dammit!
What the hell had happened? Could he really have driven from the Blackthorne to Longmeadow and back, and remembered nothing of it? It was hard to believe, but not entirely out of the question.

He knew the road to Longmeadow like the back of his hand, so making the trip when he was feeling a nice buzz wouldn’t have been difficult. And helping Richard replace rails on the timber fences wasn’t exactly rocket science. A couple of drinks wouldn’t have impeded his ability to do that. He narrowed his eyes, trying to picture Richard and himself mending jumps. The scenario fit like a well-worn glove, but it didn’t trigger the slightest recollection about the previous afternoon.

Of course, just because he couldn’t remember, didn’t mean he hadn’t been there. And if he had been, the obvious question was whether he could have—
should have
—done anything to protect Richard. Or whether he’d seen anything that could provide a lead as to what had happened. A clue that was locked away in the deep recesses of his drunken haze.

Fear crashed over Manning in waves, biting at his gut. What if he hadn’t made it to Longmeadow? The alternative scenario was no better. That meant he’d stood Richard up. Caused Richard to hang around waiting for him. Alone. A sitting duck.

Not that it would ever have entered his mind that Richard, or anyone else for that matter, might be in danger alone at Longmeadow. That was almost laughable. The kind of thing people who lived other places worried about. Not people in Middleburg. People out here worried about lame horses, droughts, storms, preserving open space.

Sure, the community had its fair share of scandal, even murder. Domestic disputes, revenge killings, crimes of passion. And there was the occasional tack theft, or, rarer still, horse theft. There had even been a time, years back, when a nutcase had slipped into barns in the still of night and sodomized horses. But city crimes—random robbery and the like—just didn’t happen in Middleburg.

And yet it had happened.

Manning blew out a loud sigh. “To hell with it.” He reached out and tilted the bottle, watching the golden liquid glug to the rim of the glass. He raised it to his lips and knocked back a mouthful, closing his eyes as the burn slid down his throat.

A
bigale clutched the wool blanket tighter across her chest as she scooted lower in the hammock seat of the C-17 and leaned her head against the backrest. During her stint in the Middle East she’d become adept at catching shut-eye whenever—wherever—she could. But sleep eluded her. The drone of the plane’s engines, normally hypnotic, did nothing to drown out the questions racing through her mind.

She knew only the headlines from a brief phone conversation she’d had with Margaret from Kabul: Margaret had found Uncle Richard at Longmeadow racecourse, shot dead with his own hunting rifle. His wallet and watch were missing, and the authorities were treating it like a botched robbery. Period. That’s all she knew. She didn’t know whether her uncle had died instantly or if he’d suffered. Had no idea if there was evidence of a struggle, or whether the sheriff had identified a suspect. When Abigale had pressed for more details, Margaret had told her she’d fill her in on everything when she arrived.

Abigale had called her mother during the stopover in Germany, and had thought she’d done a good job of playacting when she’d told her mother she would be okay returning to Virginia. But her mother had seen through it. She, better than anyone, knew why Abigale hadn’t been back in seventeen years. The last thing her mother had said to her was, “Just remember, Manning’s not the boy you once knew. He’s a grown man now. He has made his own choices with his life. None of it is your fault.”
What the hell did that mean?

She opened her eyes and caught a glance from one of the soldiers strapped to a gurney in the aisle of the military transport, his face no more than a few feet from hers. He smiled tentatively, then shot his eyes toward the camera that hung against Abigale’s chest. “Think I could ask you to take a photograph of me?” His drawl was Deep South, the clear voice of a boy, not yet weathered by age. She pegged him at around eighteen or nineteen years old.

“Of course,” Abigale said, unsnapping her lens cap.

“I want it for my baby boy,” the soldier said. “So when he grows up he’ll be proud of his papa.”

His arm snaked out from beneath the military-green blanket and Abigale peered at the photo clutched in his hand. “He’s beautiful. What’s his name?”

“Caden.”

“Why don’t you hold Caden’s picture so I get it in the shot? Yes, just like that. Perfect.”

“Make sure you get the flag in the background, okay?”

“You bet.” Abigale angled the camera so it captured the American flag that hung from the plane’s ceiling. She snapped several shots and wrote down the soldier’s email address, promising to send the photos to him. “Good luck with your recovery. Are you going to Walter Reed?”

He nodded. “Wish I was going home straight away, but my wife and boy will be up to see me, so that’s the next best thing. Home is where the heart is, right?”

Abigale sank back against the narrow seat, struck by the irony of the soldier’s parting words. She’d lost her heart—maybe her soul—in Virginia seventeen years ago, so where did that leave her?

M
argaret tugged on her work gloves when she spotted the dark-green sports car speeding toward them along the perimeter of the racecourse. Manning was late, as usual, and he was driving far too fast across the soggy turf. But he’d arrived.

She turned to the small group that had gathered to work on the racecourse. “Okay, Manning’s here, so let’s divide up chores and get to work. As you can see, the snow fence is in my truck, so whoever wants to tackle that job should come with me. The rest of you can start with the timber fence repairs. Smitty knows which obstacles need work. Just remember, I gave Lieutenant Mallory my word we’d confine our activities to the perimeter of the course and not stray up the hill to the parking lot or the stewards’ stand.”

“Any idea when we’ll be allowed up there?” Wendy asked, sheltering her eyes from the sun with her hand as she nodded in the direction of the hill.

Margaret glanced at the yellow crime-scene tape that surrounded the stewards’ stand. “The sheriff is pushing to have the investigation wrapped up today. I hope we’ll be able to get in tomorrow.”

“The deck will need to be repainted,” Thompson said. “We’d better be able to get that finished by tomorrow or it won’t be dry by Sunday for the races. Especially if we get more wet weather.”

“I thought you and Richard had finished all the painting,” Wendy said to Margaret.

Margaret exchanged a look with Thompson.

“There’s quite a bit of blood,” Thompson said. “We’ll need to repaint the planks on the top deck. A portion of the deck below as well.”

Wendy’s eyes widened and she clamped her palm over her mouth. “Oh, God.”

Margaret put an arm around her. They watched in silence as Manning jogged toward them, his long stride gobbling up the distance with ease.

“Sorry I’m late,” Manning said.

“You’re in time to help put the snow fence around the horse van area,” Margaret replied. She caught a whiff of cologne intermingled with a fresh, soapy smell, and noted that his hair was wet but neatly combed, his face cleanly shaved. “There’s a thermos of coffee on the tailgate.”

She turned away as Manning reached for the thermos. “Who else wants to help with the snow fence?”

“I will,” Wendy said.

“Okay. The three of us ought to be able to handle that. Thompson and Percy, why don’t you work with Smitty.” Margaret glanced at Wendy. “Are you expecting anyone else to show up to help?”

“Charles Jenner said he and Tiffanie would try to be here.”

Smitty groaned and rolled his eyes at Margaret. “Don’t tell me. You’re assigning them to my work group.”

Margaret flashed a brief smile. “How perceptive of you.”

“They’re just what I need today,” Smitty mumbled. “Charles will most likely show up hauling some brand-spanking-new chain saw that’s too powerful for him to handle, and Tiffanie will probably bring a pair of garden pruners and be dressed like she’s going to a hunt breakfast. I wouldn’t be surprised if she wants to clip the boxwood on the brush fences.”

A glint of sunlight caught the corner of Margaret’s eye and she turned to see a shiny black Hummer growl toward them. “Speak of the devil, looks like the Jenners have arrived. See you all later.”

“I’ll figure out a way to pay you back for this,” Smitty said, wagging his finger at her.

Margaret smiled. “Don’t count on it.” She scanned the racecourse. “Now if I can just find where Duchess has run off to, we can get on our way.”

“She’s probably in the pond,” Manning said, sipping his coffee.

“No doubt.” Margaret turned in the direction of the pond, calling, “Duchess! Come on, girl.” She stared at the embankment that hid the pond, expecting to see the Lab bound into view, wet ears flopping as she ran toward them. But the only movement on the knoll was a swirl of orange leaves tossed about by the breeze. She called louder, “Duchess!”

Still no dog.

A germ of fear wormed its way down Margaret’s spine and she cupped both hands around her mouth. “Duchess!”

“That’s not like her,” Manning said. “Let me try.”

He set his coffee cup on the tailgate, placed two fingers on his tongue, and trumpeted a shrill whistle.

Nothing.

Manning shrugged a shoulder. “Wonder where she went off to?”

Margaret tramped down the slope toward the pond. “Duchess! Come on, girl. Duchess!”

“Hey, hold on,” Manning said, following her. “What’s the rush?”

Margaret lengthened her stride. “I’m worried something might have happened to Duchess. She always comes when I call her.”

The toe of her boot caught on a clump of bottlebrush grass, and Manning grabbed her elbow as she pitched forward. “Whoa. Be careful you don’t fall and break something.”

She accepted Manning’s steadying grip on her arm as they navigated the grassy dips and bumps. When they reached the rise that offered a clear view of the pond, Margaret stopped. A pair of Canada geese took flight and she scanned the grassy undergrowth at the pond’s edge. There was no sign of Duchess. A few ripples radiated near the lily pads, but the rest of the pond’s surface was smooth as glass.