Barnstorming (Gail Mccarthy Mysteries) (23 page)

“Do you know that guy?” I whispered, once they were gone.

“I know who he is,” Brandon said. “Lives in a blue house near that trail,” and he pointed at the trail the guy had come up. “That’s one guy who doesn’t like horses.”

“I know,” I said. “Do you see him out in the woods?”

“Every once in awhile,” Brandon said. “He doesn’t talk to me.”

We both pondered on that awhile. The wind rocked the oak tree; the sky seemed to be getting darker. I wondered if it was going to start spitting rain. I wasn’t sure I planned to stay up here in a storm. I felt pretty damn cold already.

A low rumble in the distance that sounded like thunder made me flinch. I pulled the hood up on my sweatshirt. And then I froze. Voices. Once again I stiffened and my eyes shot to the screen. Brandon was already looking where I was looking. Neither of us bothered to shush the other. We were both watching.

In another moment I was aware that the voices were male and coming from the direction of the trail that led to Lazy Valley. I strained to see through the cracks in the screen, and was rewarded by the sight of a buckskin horse emerging from the brush. The rider was immediately recognizable. Jonah Wakefield, wearing his trademark black duster and felt hat. It took me a minute, but I realized the guy behind him, riding what I was sure was Dolly, was Doug Martin. The two men were talking, but as before, when Ross and Tammi had ridden up here yesterday, they parked themselves in front of the view, and though I could sometimes hear their voices over the noise of the wind, I could not make out the words.

Brandon and I looked at each other and kept quiet. I tried to decide by watching the men’s body language if they were allies or adversarial. It was hard to tell. But in a very short while they stopped talking. Jonah jerked his chin at Doug and rode off on the trail that led to the reservoir.

Doug took the trail that led down the hill, past the blind and on to the pretty trail—the same trail Bill Waters and his white dog had taken. I watched Doug’s face as he rode by the blind. Set and cold—a stern expression. I hadn’t a clue what lay beneath it. I was used to seeing Doug with a charming smile. The man riding Dolly was not a Doug that I was familiar with.

When Doug had disappeared Brandon glanced at me. “I know who the trainer guy is,” he said. “Who’s the other guy?”

“Doug Martin,” I said softly. “Guy who was the boyfriend of both the women who got shot?”

“Both?”

“Yeah, both. Sequentially, more or less.”

“Doesn’t that make him suspect number one?”

“Yeah, I think it does.”

“And here he is, up in the woods. I noticed he had saddlebags.”

“He did, didn’t he. And I think they were the same ones that belonged to the second woman who was shot. Sheryl. And by his own account, she always carried a twenty-two pistol in them. I wonder if it’s there now?”

“Is that right?” Brandon’s whole body looked intent, like a cat that has spotted a gopher in the grass. I could almost see his tail twitching. He stared off in the direction Doug had taken, every sense on the alert.

I shifted my gaze and combed the Lookout clearing. All quiet. And then my eyes bounced back to the logging road. The road passed through a grove of redwoods before it reached the open ground. Was that something moving in the shadows? Or just the tree branches waving in the wind?

The branches of the oak tree I was in rocked and rustled; I strained to see and hear over the gusts that were sweeping in from the ocean. The very air seemed to be turning gray. Dark redwoods swayed and shifted at the edge of the clearing, but surely that was something moving at ground level. Something dark. With a light spot at the top.

I blinked. A horse and rider were coming through the trees, about to emerge into the open. And I was pretty sure it was Trish and Coal. Dark horse, rider with bright sun-gold hair.

I took a deep breath and turned toward Brandon, meaning to motion to him so that he would notice Trish. But his focus on the trail that led down the hill was rigidly intent. I raised my hand to signal him, and suddenly things started happening so fast I could hardly follow them.

In a split second Brandon went from a silent statue to a full-on bellow of rage. Leaping to his feet, gun in hand, still looking down the trail, he shouted at the top of his lungs, “Drop it, you bastard!”

And pointing his rifle in the direction he’d been staring, he pulled the trigger.

Crack! And then another loud bang. The noise rang in my ears even as my eyes shot back to Trish. Coal was spinning, clearly spooked; Trish was on him and trying to regain control. And I got it.

I stood up and screamed as loud as I could. “Run, Trish! Run! Get out of here!”

Trish must have heard me because she quit fighting Coal and let him wheel around and bolt back down the road, as he clearly wanted to do. In another second she was out of sight. And Brandon was halfway down the ladder.

I didn’t stop to think if this was a good idea. I just followed him.

By the time I had scrambled down the wildly swinging ladder, Brandon was a distant figure pelting down the hill. I headed after him as fast as I could, my pack thumping me hard on the back with every stride. Sticks snapped under my feet and I tried to keep my focus divided between Brandon and the trail as I ran downhill on the uneven ground.

I had no idea who Brandon was chasing, but I was pretty damn sure it was the author of that second shot. I was guessing, but I imagined that Brandon had seen or heard something, enough to make him shout and fire his gun. And I thought the something was someone. Someone who shot at Trish. But Trish was okay; I’d seen her galloping the frightened Coal down the hill. Between Brandon’s shot, Coal’s spook, and my warning, Trish had escaped becoming the next victim.

Running as hard as I could, trying to keep Brandon in sight, I tried to guess who we were after. Doug Martin? Certainly he had just disappeared down this trail on horseback. Were we chasing a mounted rider? Had Doug tried to shoot Trish?

Brandon had reached the juncture with the pretty trail, but he headed left, towards the ridge trail. I did not see Doug anywhere. I pushed myself harder, not wanting to lose sight of Brandon.

But Brandon was younger and more athletic than I was; he was drawing away from me. My heart was pounding and I was already gasping for air. I wasn’t going to be able to keep this up very long. At least we were going downhill.

In some corner of my mind I could feel the wind buffet me and the sting of small rain on my cheek. The storm was coming. I kept running.

Down, down, through a tangle of shrubbery, past the three-way trail crossing, still on the ridge trail. I huffed and puffed, my legs churning; I could see Brandon far ahead of me. He was running through the big Monterey pines. And I saw him take the branch trail that led to the landmark tree skeleton.

I charged after him. This trail led steeply downhill and dead-ended behind the big mansions on Storybook Lane. I never rode this way anymore, but I had hiked it a few times in the last few years to look at the landmark tree. If we were chasing Doug, I could not imagine what his plan might be. Gallop through someone’s backyard and down the suburban street?

Running and gasping, I struggled to stay upright on the steep slope. My feet wanted to slip forward; I ran faster and faster, letting gravity pull me downhill. The huge trunk of the landmark tree loomed on my right, towering into the dark gray clouds above. I could no longer see Brandon. I just ran.

Down and down, greenness blurred in my peripheral vision; I thought I had almost reached the seasonal pond, dry now, that lay behind the last big house at the end of the road. And a sudden memory popped into my mind. This was the way I had ridden, many years ago, when a wealthy suburbanite had banned me from the subdivision. I had come down this same trail on horseback and ridden up behind the big house at the end of the road, only to have a middle-aged man emerge from the house and scream at me in fury, threatening to call the sheriffs on me, should I ever come through here again. I could still remember his face, contorted with rage. His face…

I was still running, but the gears in my mind were turning faster than my legs could pump. His face was familiar. I knew that face. And suddenly I knew who we were chasing.

The recognition came crashing in as I spotted Brandon’s form ahead of me, on the other side of the pond, moving fast toward the grapestake fence that marked the backyard of the house. I didn’t have time to draw a breath, much less shout, before the shot rang out. And Brandon dropped to the ground.

Shit. Oh shit. I dropped to the ground behind a clump of willows, wrestled my pack off my back, and pulled out the gun. The pistol felt reassuring in my hand, but I hadn’t a clue what to do. I could not see who had shot at Brandon. I could, however, see Brandon’s form, and he was moving.

He lunged to his feet, but staggered and fell again at the edge of the dried-up pond, about thirty feet from the scrub willow that shielded me. The open bowl of the empty pond lay between us. I could see bright red blood staining his chest.

My heart felt like it was going to leave my body. I stared hard in the direction from which the shot had come. From behind that fence I thought. From the yard of that house. What in the hell was I going to do here?

And a tiny voice said, remember your cell phone.

I dug it out of my pocket, already knowing it wouldn’t work. I was not a hundred yards, as the crow flies, from the spot where Jane had been shot. Once again I was at the bottom of this hollow in the hills. There was not going to be a signal. I stared at the screen. Nope. I was on my own.

Wind howled through the tree tops on the ridge, but the hollow where this pond lay was fairly sheltered. Rain spattered fitfully in the gloom. I shivered and then took a deep breath. Time to get centered.

I sighted my pistol in the direction of the fence and waited. With any luck the shooter did not know of my presence here. I had been screened by the brush as I descended the hill. The gunman was after Brandon, who had pursued him. I was unknown, invisible, here behind the willows. I might have a chance. I sighted down the barrel of the gun and waited.

And waited. Brandon wasn’t moving. He had fallen face down. I didn’t know if he was dead or alive. I felt sure the shooter would be wondering the same thing. I waited.

The wind gusted through the willow branches but other than that the woods were silent. Not a bird chirped, not a lizard rustled in the dry grass. The sudden shot had scared the brush into frozen quiet. I could feel blackberry thorns digging into my knee, but ignored them. I would stay frozen, too. Waiting.

It seemed to take forever, but eventually a head appeared above the fence. Heavy-featured, short light brown hair. The face of a thickset middle-aged man. An ordinary sort of face. The kind of man you might see out walking his dog.

My heart beat a rapid tattoo. This was the face I’d been expecting. The face that had looked oddly familiar. Just a middle-aged man out walking his friendly yellow Lab. But it was the same man who had run me out of here so many years ago. Who lived in this big house at the end of the road and hated horses.

I had never made the connection. Too many years had passed in between. I hadn’t known the hiker lived in this house. I’d recognized that his face looked familiar, but that was it.

Slowly the face turned from side to side, scanning the woods. I held absolutely still. And then a gate opened in the fence and the man stepped out, his eyes on Brandon’s form. He walked cautiously in that direction. There was a pistol in his hand.

I had a few seconds. Jumbled thoughts raced through my mind. Mac and Blue, right and wrong. But I could see only one course. I sighted carefully down my gun as the heavyset man reached Brandon.

He was lifting his pistol towards Brandon’s head, but I was ready. Aiming for the center of that thick body, I held my breath and pulled the trigger.

The recoil knocked my arm back, the crack rang in my ears. He turned his head towards me; I shot again. Bringing the gun back to the center of his body, I shot a third time. Again I centered myself, ready to shoot. But the man collapsed next to Brandon.

I didn’t hesitate. Leaping to my feet, I ran toward the two of them. I could see the killer’s pistol on the ground near his hand and I kicked it away. Brandon was still breathing. There was blood welling up on both men in the chest area. I needed help now.

I turned and ran for the house, charging through the open gate, gun in hand. I didn’t stop to wonder if the man had a wife or the yellow Lab would attack. I needed a phone and I needed it now.

No one in the backyard; the Lab woofed in a token way from a dog run. The sliding glass door at the back of the big house was half-open. I dashed across the deck and into the room and looked wildly around.

The room seemed vast and dark. I could see a TV and a table. The walls were covered with what looked like bulletin boards that were plastered in newspaper clippings. There was a desk with a computer in the corner. And next to the computer was a phone. I lunged desperately in that direction.

Dialing 911, I waited for the crisp, professional voice.