Barnstorming (Gail Mccarthy Mysteries) (15 page)

“How’s your horse at bushwhacking?” I said over my shoulder to Jeri.

“He’s fine,” came the laconic answer.

“Okay then. Here we go.” And I aimed Sunny straight up the hill and clucked to him.

My little yellow horse knew how to push through brush, and steep didn’t bother him. With only a half a second’s hesitation, he put his head down and trudged up the hill through the shrubbery, following my cues as I chose a path around the crown of the oak tree. Branches snapped underfoot and vines tore and rustled as we crashed through. In another minute we ducked under the branches of the toppled oak and were picking our way back down the steep slope to the trail.

“Whew,” I said, once we were back on the path. “Glad that went okay.”

“No problem,” Jeri said. I could see she had a grin on her face. “We got a couple of damn good trail horses.”

I smiled back. “Yep, we do.” Despite the unsettling investigation we were embarked on, I found my spirits had risen and I once more felt as if I were on a pleasant walk in the woods.

We topped the ridge and rode past a water storage tank, with another big view out over the bay, and then dropped down a steep hill to a long flat trail that lay in an old roadbed. “Want to lope?” I asked Jeri.

“Sure.”

I kicked Sunny up to the lope and we rocked along for a while, enjoying the breeze and the rhythmic gait. Sunlight flashed and sparkled in my eyes, shadows were like cool pools, and the tangled green forest moved by in a streaking blur. Until I saw the bridge ahead of us.

I slowed Sunny to a walk, knowing he would check himself soon. “He doesn’t like this bridge,” I told Jeri.

“No?”

“I don’t know why exactly. He slipped on it once; maybe that’s it. He’s pretty good about most things, but he’s liable to balk here.”

The bridge was not a big one. Only three feet high, it spanned a ditch that had been washed out by erosion. There were no rails and the span was all of six feet. Not a big deal. But Sunny had been suspicious of it, and crossing it last winter he had slipped. He’d stayed up, but had approached the bridge with much caution on the return trip. I wasn’t sure how he was going to feel about it now.

As I’d predicted, Sunny came to a stop in front of the obstacle and snorted. I could read his thoughts. “I want no part of this slippery little bugger.”

I kicked him and clucked to him, but I could feel his resistance. He did not dance or skitter, but he took a step backward rather than forward.

I hesitated. I could “over and under” the horse with the reins and he’d go forward, but he might jump onto the bridge and perhaps slip again.

Jeri answered my unspoken question. “Why don’t you just let me give you a lead. It would be safer. This horse doesn’t mind bridges.”

“All right,” I said.

The trail was wide enough here to allow Jeri to pass me easily, and Gray Dog walked forward willingly, gave the bridge a good long look, and stepped up on it. The bridge made a hollow thunking sound under his hooves, which caused Sunny to snort again, but Gray Dog walked across it calmly and without mishaps.

I clucked to Sunny and bumped his sides with my heels. “Your turn,” I said out loud.

Sunny hesitated. Once again, I knew what he was thinking. “I don’t want to cross this, but the other horse did, and that’s the way home.” Sunny was not a stupid horse. He knew home lay across the little bridge. He snorted again, lowered his head for a better look, and then stepped cautiously forward, virtually tip-toeing onto the boards.

The bridge gave its hollow, wooden noise, but Sunny did not slip, and tip-toed safely off the other side, where Jeri was waiting.

“Why don’t you lead,” she said. “I don’t know where I’m going.”

So Sunny and I headed off down the trail again. Sunlight and shadow, tangled vines and hanging gray Spanish moss, live oaks and eucalyptus trees blended around us as we rode. We passed the high school, headed up a hill, and were once again on the ridge trail, dropping down towards the Red Barn boarding stable.

I explained to Jeri where we were. “In a minute,” I said, “we’ll see Ross Hart’s house.”

The horses picked their way carefully down the steep trail. We stepped out from behind a big manzanita bush to see the three-story A-frame below us on our left. With no less than a dozen cop cars parked around it.

“What the hell?” Jeri demanded as she rode up next to me.

I was too startled to say anything. I halted Sunny and gazed down at the busy scene in astonishment. There were men everywhere, some in uniform, some not, some, to my amazement, with drawn guns. The cars were green, which indicated the sheriff’s department.

“Are you busting him?” I asked.

“I’m not,” Jeri answered grimly. “I have no idea what this is about. But I’m going to find out. Let’s go.”

We trooped on down the ridge to the Red Barn and turned left, up the hill, to the house surrounded by cop cars. Quite a few spectators were gathered, including a couple, like us, mounted on horses. They’d clearly ridden up from the boarding stable to see what was going on.

Several uniformed officers were holding the spectators back from the driveway. A guy in plainclothes with a big and very obvious gun in his hand stood near them. Something about this thick-necked cop was familiar to me.

Jeri dismounted from her horse, handed me the reins, and walked up to the thick-necked cop. They looked at each other with what seemed to me to be mutual dislike, and though I couldn’t hear their conversation, I had the sense it was an argument.

I rode Sunny and led Gray Dog up to a woman mounted on a paint mare. “Hi,” I said. “Do you know what’s going on?”

“Not exactly.” The woman looked about my age and had hair that was equally blond and gray and many lines around sharp blue-gray eyes. Her mare stood in a relaxed slouch, unalarmed by all the excitement around her. The rider looked over at me and my horses and seemed to decide that as a fellow equestrian I must be all right. “That’s where the trainer and barn manager live,” she said quietly. “I think they’re getting busted. Judging by the plants I saw those cops carrying out of the house, it’s for growing pot.”

“Oh,” I said, thinking that Blue and I had been right about that light. “Have you seen Tammi or Ross?” I asked her.

“Nope. I heard somebody say that they took off when they saw the first cop car drive up to the house. Apparently they were down in the arena at the time.”

“So they just drove away?”

“Um, I heard they rode away.”

“On their horses?”

“That’s what I heard.”

I stared at the woman, somewhat disbelieving. Ross and Tammi had simply taken off on their horses and ridden up into the hills at the sight of cops pulling up to their house?

“Wow,” I said, “if that’s true, I wonder where they plan to go. It’s not like they can hide out up there forever with no gear or food.”

“I know.” The woman half smiled. “I thought it was pretty funny, actually. Do you suppose the sheriffs will bring in a mounted posse to chase them down?”

We grinned at each other; the notion clearly amused both of us.

Jeri seemed to be done with her conversation; she came walking my way with an annoyed look on her face. Once she was back on Gray Dog and we were headed down the road and well away from the house she said, “That damn Matt Johnson.”

“Is he the cop you were talking to?”

“Yep. He’s head of narcotics. He and I have never gotten along. Apparently he got a tip last week that these people were growing pot and decided on the big bust. Without informing any other department. Communication isn’t always real good around the sheriff’s office.” I could see Jeri shake her head. “He’s supposed to let everyone know in case there’s a conflict. And guess what?”

“What?” I said as we rode across the vacant lot between the boarding stable and the road.

“The person who called in the tip was Jane Kelly. Last Friday.”

“The day before she was shot. Oh my God.” I was adding two plus two and getting the inevitable four. “She told me she’d seen Ross Hart out riding and that he’d been up to some stuff he shouldn’t be up to. Then she said, ‘I told him so.’ And then she got shot. What if she called him on this pot growing thing and threatened to turn him in?”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Jeri said grimly. “If Matt had only told me what was going on, I could have had a nice little interview with Mr. Ross Hart. But now he’s disappeared.”

“Along with Tammi. I was told they took off into the hills on their horses.”

“Is that right?” Jeri laughed. “Matt didn’t mention that part to me. I wonder how he plans to handle that?”

By this time we’d reached the road and were halted, side by side on the shoulder, waiting for a traffic-free moment to cross. When no cars were in sight, I kicked Sunny up. Jeri was right beside me as we clip-clopped over the pavement and up the narrow strip of road that led to my front gate.

“What are you going to do now?” I asked her.

“Haul this horse back to his pasture. Then I’m gonna have a couple of the guys meet me and go check out Buddy and his camper. I want to see if he’s got a gun up there—I think he has, judging by the shells I found. They looked fresh. After that I want to talk to that guy with the white dog. And I’ll find out if Matt and his guys have managed to pick up Ross and Tammi.”

“Sounds like a busy day,” I said, thanking my lucky stars that I had no further plans besides watering the garden and exercising Henry.

“Oh for a quiet life,” Jeri said, as if she could read my mind. “Thanks for taking me on this ride; it really helped me get a feeling for the situation.”

We’d reached my barnyard and Jeri swung off her horse briskly. “I’ve got to get going,” she said as she slipped his bridle off and loaded him in the trailer.

“Keep me posted,” I told her, and watched her drive away.

I took my time unsaddling Sunny and brushing him. It was almost two o’clock and Mac would be home soon. I filled the water troughs and watered my potted plants and in another ten minutes Blue’s pickup came driving in, with Mac in the passenger seat. My son bounced out of the truck, as eager to be home as he was to arrive at the next destination.

“Want to exercise Henry?” I asked. “He needs it.”

“Sure,” Mac said.

“I think you can ride him bareback if you want,” I said. “The vets at the equine hospital okayed that.”

“Great,” Mac said.

Since Henry had been operated on three months ago, we had hand-walked him daily. But now, at the three-month marker, we’d been given permission to ride him bareback at the walk. Mac was grinning from ear to ear as he caught his horse.

I was grinning, too, as I helped him slip the bridle on Henry. Henry had that effect on you. Something about his bright copper red color and cheerful white-striped face made everybody smile. I said a small silent prayer of gratitude as I legged Mac up on Henry’s shiny sorrel back. Our good old horse was still with us. Still sound, too. Rehabbing Henry from major surgery had been a long road, and an expensive one, but worth the time and money. I watched Mac ride away on his steady, reliable gelding and knew I’d make the same choice again. Henry was part of the family.

Mac rode Henry for twenty minutes at the walk and then put him back in his corral. I fed the horses and headed up the hill for some much needed porch time. I could hear Blue playing his bagpipes in the little house, so I aimed for the front porch of the main house. In another five minutes I had a cup of tea and was settled in my chair. But I wasn’t peaceful.

My mind was full of endless chatter. If I rested my eyes on the landmark tree the first thing I thought of was Buddy’s camper. Buddy could see the landmark tree, too. From Buddy my thoughts went to Brandon Carter, hiking through the woods with his rifle in his hand. Jeri seemed sure that this was not the gun that killed Jane; still, it was an oddly ominous image. And then there were Doug and Sheryl, wrapped in what was obviously a taut dialogue—about what? And Ross Hart, busted because of Jane’s tip. The noisy, restless thoughts went on and on.

I stared at the familiar ridgeline in consternation. Underlying the thoughts was something else. An edgy, uncomfortable feeling. It didn’t take me long to figure it out. I was afraid. I pictured myself riding the trails alone, seeing Brandon, perhaps Buddy—without Jeri at my side. And fear twisted in my gut.

I didn’t like it. I had ridden the trails along the ridge for so long, in all seasons and weather; they were part of my life, part of my home. I took a sip of my steaming tea and felt anger rise up underneath the fear. As on the day Jane had been murdered, after the racing thoughts and the fear came resistance. This was my home. Those were our trails. I didn’t want all of it polluted by an ugly dangerous blight. I didn’t want to be afraid to go there. But what exactly could I do about it?

The answer that came to me was simple and startling.

Then go there.

I took another sip of tea and wondered what that meant.

Just go there.

That was it. No explanation. But I thought I understood. If I didn’t want the woods to be forever haunted, I could not run. I had to stay and fight.