The Winter Widow (28 page)

Bringing her knees up under her made a slithery sound across the straw. Buttermilk's heels shot out and crashed against the side of the stall, just missing Susan's head.

She drew a shaky breath. Buttermilk might be old but she could still do a lot of damage with those big hooves. Bracing herself against the wall, she worked herself upright.

“It's all right,” she said in a soothing murmur. The mare neighed and kicked. A heel caught Susan's shoulder and knocked her flat.

So much for soothing words; they only agitated the mare more. Better to say nothing. Keep quiet. She lay without moving for long seconds, then edged along the side of the stall, wanting to get out of reach of those rear hooves.

Buttermilk shifted with ungainly speed, and like pistons her back feet drove out and landed in Susan's stomach. She fell back against the wall and slid down it, unable to breathe.

Finally, breath whistled through her throat like wind in a tunnel. She huddled close enough against the wood to leave an imprint. This box was big enough for the mare but not much else, and no place to get out of the way. Buttermilk was frightened of this horrid, mewling creature crawling around in the straw.

If Susan didn't move, didn't make a sound, she might survive until someone found her. Someone would have to find her, someone—a neighbor—someone was taking care of the mare and feeding Sophie's cats; sooner or later that person would show up.

Gingerly, she touched the lump on the back of her head; pain buzzed through her mind. She must have made a noise because Buttermilk lashed out; a hoof struck just above Susan's knee. Warm blood trickled over her leg. She pressed the edge of her jacket against it.

Good thing the old mare wasn't shod, or the cut would have been much worse and those wicked feet would trample her to death. Might anyway. No telling when the neighbor would show up. Maybe too late.

She had no handkerchief or muffler to tie around the cut, and she was afraid to try anything like ripping the lining from her jacket for fear the noise would send Buttermilk into another frenzy.

Bleeding to death would probably suit her attacker just as well as being trampled. I'm too cold to bleed to death; freeze maybe. She shivered, clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering; even that might set the mare off.

Why had she been attacked? Obviously, to dump her here and let Buttermilk finish her, but she didn't know why anybody wanted her dead. Or who. She wished she had a cigarette. No, never smoke in a barn. Too dangerous. She felt perilously close to hysterical laughter.

Somebody thought she knew something, thought she was getting too near, had to get rid of her. Goddammit, what is it? What makes me dangerous, what do I know?

Nothing. I know nothing. I don't know who killed Daniel. I don't know who killed Lucille and Brenner. I don't know who is trying to kill me. That made her madder than anything; if she was going to die, she wanted to know who was doing the killing. He—she—whoever—had taken her weapon. Couldn't afford to leave it in case Buttermilk didn't do her in. Probably intended to return it after she was a corpse.

Her head ached with a dull throb that formed a shield and wouldn't let cohesive thoughts through; her shoulder hurt, her stomach hurt, her knee hurt, her eyes burned. She let her eyelids droop.

Helen had said something important. Standing outside the shed where Brenner's body was. Something about Mason jars.
Why
can't I remember? Concussion. Concussion can cause— Can! That was it, canning tomatoes. No, fruit. Canning fruit, canning cherries—

Buttermilk screamed and stomped. Susan's head jerked. Her eyes flew open. She was one gigantic ache from head to foot, cold and so stiff she wondered if she could even move her legs. The injured knee seemed permanently bent, and when she forced it to straighten, the movement caused the cut to start bleeding again.

Buttermilk snorted and clattered against the doors, now edged with a thin strip of gray light, angling her head to peer through the cracks.

Susan heard the large barn door rattle open. Her breath caught, a pulse hammered in her ears. A neighbor coming to feed the mare? Or the bastard who bashed her head coming to make sure she was dead?

Buttermilk waggled her rump and kicked out. Susan scrambled to the opposite corner, and the mare snaked her head around with a vicious clack of long teeth. She screamed and tossed her head, ears flattened, eyes showing rims of white.

The stall door latches slid back with a squeak of metal and the doors opened. Weak light filtered in. Buttermilk clomped out, snatching a bite as she went past at whoever had opened the door.

Susan, back against the wall, inched toward the doors and clasped her hands tightly together above her head. Someone in dark clothing leaned forward to shine a flashlight into the stall.

She brought her hands down hard, aiming for the back of the neck. The person dodged aside and Susan's hands landed on a shoulder. Numbing pain raced up her arms and the jar set off sparks in her head. A hand closed around one wrist.

She jerked free, tried to rush past and found herself caught with arms like a vise around her shoulders, pinning her wrists against her stomach. Breathing hard, she kicked back with a booted foot, banged her head against his nose.

“Jesus Christ. Take it easy.”

She pulled away and spun around to face him, planting her feet and pulling in air. “You.”

Parkhurst pressed exploring fingers against his nose. “You were expecting someone else?”

“Depends. Did you come to kill me?”

“No. I've been looking for you half the night. The sheriff tried to call and couldn't get you.” He bent to pick up the flashlight. “What happened? You all right?”

“Couldn't be better.” She raked hair away from her face.

“Your leg—”

She looked at the black stains of blood on her jeans. “Just a cut. What did Sheriff Holmes want?”

“To let you know Floyd Kimmell finally admitted Brenner hired him to slaughter cattle. Holmes picked up Vic Pollock and expects him to come through with Brenner's name as the man who set up the toxic-waste business. We'd better get you to a doctor. Can you walk?”

“Never mind that. I know who killed Daniel. Come on.”

Parkhurst tipped his head and eyed her suspiciously. “Who?”

“Come on.” She limped toward the barn door, dizzy and nauseated; her vision wasn't too clear. Smacking her head against Parkhurst's nose hadn't done her head any good. Buttermilk glared balefully from a corner of the barn.

“Susan—”

“An error, a little slip. Cherry pie. Should have caught it immediately. If I'd been alert, I wouldn't have spent the night in a barn.”

She paused in the doorway looking out at the weak predawn light; quiet; crisp fresh air; somewhere a rooster crowed, birds stirred in the eaves, and along the outline of the hills a thin line of pinkish hue was barely visible.

“Susan—”

“Like sleet,” she told him angrily. “Just like sleet. Why did it take so long to figure that one?” She stepped outside.

Parkhurst, beside her, said, “You're not making any sense.”

She shook her head to clear her vision and try to arrange thoughts in some coherent order. “Last night Helen talked about canning fruit, cherries, and then—”

A rifle shot shattered the stillness.

Parkhurst clutched his shoulder with a grunt of pain and a muttered curse, fell back against the barn door and began to slowly slide down it. She wedged her shoulder under his uninjured arm, and with her arms encircling his waist, half supported and half propelled him back inside.

Slumping under his weight, she subsided to her knees and he went down with her; then he leaned back, propping himself against the wall. Buttermilk snorted resentment at these aliens returning to invade her territory, and ambled into her stall.

Susan unsnapped the leather strip and yanked the .38 from the holster on his hip, then crouched by the open door. The flashlight he'd dropped lay in a fan of light. She blinked rapidly in an attempt to clear her vision and searched through the murky light for movement. Her eyes teared from the cold air; she had no idea where the shot had come from. Through the trees, she made out Parkhurst's Bronco parked near the kitchen door.

She looked at Parkhurst. He hadn't moved. The bullet had caught him on the right side of the chest, about four inches above the nipple; a small hole and not much bleeding, at least on the outside. No telling how much on the inside. A lung might have been nicked. He needed medical attention immediately.

“Knew you were the kind … only went to the best … places,” he said, his voice low and breathy, with a soft undercrackle that scared the shit out of her. It could mean blood pouring into his lung.

Her mind flashed back to that squalid apartment and the eleven-year-old kid with a gun, the sound of the shot, astonishment and then the awful awareness of drowning in her own blood.

“I hate to make you move, but I want a look at your back.”

Kneeling at his side, she pulled him forward and winced at his obvious pain. His breathing stopped, then rushed on laboriously and his forehead dropped heavily onto her shoulder. She suppressed a sigh of relief—no exit wound three times larger than the entrance wound pumping his blood out on the barn floor. The bullet must have ricocheted before it got to him. She eased him back against the wall.

“Who…?” The single word was only a soft overtone as he exhaled.

“Jack.” She edged nearer the doorway and squinted out, trying to judge the likelihood of reaching the Bronco with the radio inside: Still not much light, trees for cover, but she wouldn't put money on her chances. She had Parkhurst's .38, but that left him without a weapon. Was there a better chance of getting inside the house and reaching the telephone? Even if she could creep around to the side or reach the front, she'd have to break a window to get in. Jack would hear and that would be the end of her. And Parkhurst.

Where the hell
was
Jack? Waiting for her to do something idiotic like trying for the house? How long would he wait? Not forever, and what did he have in mind when he got tired of waiting? He must have a plan, he couldn't simply skulk around out there until they all died of old age.

Movement caught her eye, and she watched as the kitchen door opened and Jack came out carrying an armload of what looked like sheets or towels, cloth of some kind. Sheets?

Icy chills crawled along her nerves. Dry old wood, hay and straw; the barn would go up like a torch.

He still had the rifle, holding it level in one hand. A moment would be needed to get it in position to fire. She stretched out prone, .38 gripped in both hands. All she needed was one clear shot.

Goddammit, he'd been in the house. While she'd been dithering around she could have streaked for the Bronco and radioed for help. Did he yank the phone? Probably.

She shifted her position, trying to get a better angle, and raised the gun. Trees were in the way; she couldn't get a shot.

Jack zigzagged to the Bronco, opened the door and got in behind the wheel. In a moment or two he got out again. Just enough time to sabotage the radio. For some seconds he was out of sight; then she saw him. He was carrying a gas can. She had to get herself and Parkhurst out of here.

Jack, in the dim light, darted from a tree, to the Bronco, to the house, careful not to give her a clear shot at him. He sprinted toward the barn. She fired, missed wide as he slid around the side.

There was a long stillness broken only by the hammering of her heart and Parkhurst's harsh breathing. Then something splashed against the barn wall.

She squirmed backward away from the door and got to her feet. “Parkhurst,” she whispered. He grunted. Somehow he'd have to be carried out.

She spotted harness hanging in one stall and ran to investigate. Awkward hands fumbled through halters, lead straps, a complicated set of straps and buckles for hitching to wagons. The smell of gasoline floated in the air. Finally, she found a bridle with reins intact, grabbed it and slung it over her shoulder.

In the next stall, near stacked bales of hay, was a barrel of oats. She scooped several handfuls into a pan and forced herself to move slowly toward Buttermilk. The mare threw back her head and swung her rump back and forth. The odor of smoke was scaring her.

“Just calm down,” Susan murmured, half to herself, half to the horse. Fire sputtered faintly as it bit into dry wood. “Calm down. It's all right.” She shook the pan.

Buttermilk's ears pricked forward and she eyed Susan warily, huffing softly and stomping her forefeet, torn between greed and fear.

Greed won out. She made little whickers of anticipation, allowed Susan to enter the stall and pour oats in the manger. Velvety lips nibbled daintily. Susan eased the bridle up the bony nose. Buttermilk flattened her ears, tipped her head to bite. Susan squeezed her nose. “Behave yourself,” she crooned. “We'll all burn.”

Nostrils flared; the upper lip peeled back. Susan tightened her grip and forced the bit between long teeth, and at the same time slid the bridle over the ears, then buckled the cheek strap and knotted the reins over the muscular neck.

Burning wood crackled. Buttermilk started, tossed her head. Even in the dimness, Susan could see a haze of smoke. Tiny flames flickered along the edge where wall joined floor.

Her eyes stung. She coughed, darted into the adjacent stall. Tugging and shoving, she maneuvered a bale of hay toward Parkhurst. His breathing was more labored, his skin pallid and his facial muscles tight with pain.

With a whoosh, the stacked bales burst into flame. Roaring clouds of orange billowed up and licked at the hayloft. Smoke choked her. Her eyes watered. Buttermilk screamed. Parkhurst was seized by a racking cough.

She ran for the mare, clutched the bridle near the bit and yanked. Buttermilk, eyes white-rimmed with fear, planted her feet and refused to budge. Flames raced up the sides of the stall. Susan shouted at her, smacked her cheekbone with an open palm. The straw under her hooves smoldered, then flared. The mare lurched from the stall. Susan led her to Parkhurst and Buttermilk stood, mouthing the bit and dripping foam.