Horse of a Different Killer (30 page)

I looked at the dust-covered polo mallets and thought of the decals on Boomer's truck from Wellington. One had been from 2009.

Suddenly, I understood.

“You were in Wellington when . . .” I didn't have to explain; Boomer knew I was talking about the day over twenty polo ponies had suddenly, mysteriously died. It had turned out to have been an accident, a mistake with a vitamin dosage that ended in tragedy.

“That was one of the worst days of my life,” Boomer said, voice rough. “They died. One after the other, and none of us could do anything.”

My nose stung. My vision made hazy by the sudden tears. I couldn't imagine.

“I'm sorry.” My voice was low and so thick with emotion, I was surprised he could understand me.

He nodded, blinking hard as he looked away.

“Nothing to be done about it, now,” he said. “And trying to change that fact only leads to trouble. Believe me. Here I was, with a stolen horse and no idea what to do. I went over what I'd heard that night a hundred times but all I can figure is—these guys must have been smuggling something, so I looked him over.”

“And?”

“Couldn't find anything. Until you came poking around. I talked to Lily Earl. She said you were looking for a gelding, but I had a stallion.”

I felt my eyes widen. “Wait, you're saying . . .”

Boomer smiled. “Yep.”

It made a crazy sort of sense. I knew there were companies that made testicular implants.

“So he's . . . augmented?” I asked.

“Not anymore.”

“You took them out?” I asked, stunned. “How?”

“I've been working with horses longer than you've been alive and then some.”

I had nothing against giving credit where credit was due but, really? No way.

“And he didn't mind?”

“Nah. Scar tissue made it painless.”

I started to check with Heart to verify the story but remembered I'd already given him the psychic once-over and had detected no aches or pains. Besides, there was something I really wanted to know.

“What did you find?”

“I'll show you.” Boomer got up and motioned for me to follow as he slipped through the person-sized gap in the hay wall and walked along the path he'd left to serve as both a walkway and a buffer zone to keep Heart clear of the wall of garden implements.

Boomer stopped before we reached the workbench and pointed up. Like you find in many barns, there was a loft and now that I was looking, I could see that what I'd thought was just the side support for shelving was really a ladder.

Before I could protest, Boomer started to climb.

“Hey,” I said, “be careful.” The ladder was a structural part of the barn's shelves but that didn't keep me from grabbing the sides in a pointless attempt to hold it steady.

Boomer reached the top, pulled himself onto the loft, and disappeared from view. A few minutes and some scraping sounds later, he returned, holding up a pair of what looked like plastic Easter eggs.

I squinted at them. Felt my brows arch.

They were
blue
.

“Oh, come on.”

Boomer grinned and dropped one egg down to me. I twisted it open. Inside, a diamond necklace glinted, catching the light as only diamonds can. I lifted the necklace partly out of the egg. I was no expert but I was sure even one of the large stones would be worth a small fortune.

Mouth agape, I raised my eyes to Boomer. He shook the second egg, making it rattle like a maraca. Eyes twinkling, Boomer tossed it down, too. I'd started to open the second egg when I heard Moss let out a warning howl-bark.

Reaching out to connect with his mind, I became aware that someone had pulled in to park behind Bluebell.

I froze. The rain and distance may have masked the sound of the pickup truck, but it was obvious that the men who climbed out of the vehicle were trying to conceal their approach to Boomer's house.

Shhh, Moss.
I urged him to stay quiet and alert.

He did, and I edged a little more closely into his thoughts to listen and watch through my dog's eyes.

The night was brighter. Shadows less dense.

One of the men paused to look in at Moss. Thanks to Moss's wolf-eyes, the man's features were clear. I'd seen him before—in one of the photos from Morocco.

It was the security guard. The one standing off to the side in the photo of Jasmine wearing the real LaPointe jewels.

A faint, clinking ring came to me through Moss's ears.

Mr. Jingles.

There was a split second of disbelief, followed by a rapid-fire ping-ponging of thoughts.

Mr. Jingles and Cowboy were here. They must have followed me—but how?

I'd talked to Jake no more than an hour ago. They couldn't have gotten out of jail.

No time to worry about specifics. I wasn't sure how it was possible, or how everything fit together but I knew I didn't have time to worry about it now.

Thanks to Moss, I could track the men's movements. Mr. Jingles headed to the house; Cowboy was walking straight toward the barn.

I blinked the world around me back into focus. Boomer had turned and was moving to start down the ladder.

“Boomer, wait!” The fear in my hushed voice made him stop and glance over his shoulder at me.

There was no way to explain how I knew what I knew. There would barely be enough time for me to tell him to hide.

I touched my finger to my lips and sprinted down the pathway to the barn door. Opening it a crack, I peered out into the light rain.

Cowboy's figure was backlit by the wan light from the back porch. He was about fifty feet away.

No time to run—Boomer wouldn't even make it down the ladder.

I pulled the door closed and rushed back to the loft, gesturing frantically.

“Hide!” I hissed.

“What?”

I met Boomer's gaze and mouthed,
Hide
, with an urgent wave. For a moment, it looked like he would protest but Boomer was smart and wary enough to take my advice.

He eased back into the shadows and disappeared.

Cowboy had to be getting close to the barn. I thought about Boomer's heavy, double-sided ax but knew I could never hope to use it, or any of the other tools for that matter. How much good would a weed-whacker be against a gun?.

I needed to think.

Easier said than done in situations like this.

One thing was certain, I didn't want to draw attention to the loft's ladder, obscure as it was.

I grabbed a bucket of grooming tools from a shelf and rushed back to where Heart stood.

As I set the bucket beside him, I realized I was clutching the eggs to my chest. If I handed the gems over, I was a goner.

I scrambled to where the water bucket sat on the hay bale, opened each egg, and dumped the sparkling contents into the water.

A rustle of footsteps sounded from just outside the door. I tossed the empty plastic shells to the far end of the makeshift stall and grabbed a brush out of the bucket.

The footsteps paused. Cowboy was probably peering through one of the cracks.

As calmly as possible, I began brushing out Heart's glossy, black coat.

A cool head would win over blind panic. These men were murderers. I was no match for them in the skill or ruthlessness department, I had to
think
.

What did I know about these men? They'd killed Dr. Simon. That fact didn't help in the anti-panic department, so I shoved it away.

Think. Think. Think.

What else did I know?

I remembered something I'd overheard while hiding in the closet with Roscoe.

I don't do bad business
—that was what Cowboy had said. To him, murder was just business. Could I play on that? Find a way to appeal to that sensibility? Convince him I was just as ruthless and jaded?

If you'd asked me a couple of months ago to rate my lying prowess I would've put myself just north of the two-year-old-caught-with-a-forbidden-cookie level.

However, for better or worse, my skills at deception had improved. Not greatly, but I'd learned one important key to telling tall tales and getting away with it: commitment.

You had to
become
the lie.

A whisper of an idea formed in my mind. When the barn door creaked open, I was ready.

I kept up the brushing for a few strokes then glanced over my shoulder. Feigning mild surprise, I smiled and turned to face him.

“I thought you boys had already left town.”

Cowboy didn't respond; he just glared at me with cold, dark eyes.

I didn't flinch or look away. One of the benefits of coming eye-to-eye with some of the scariest creatures known to man was that I was not easily cowed with a glare.

The gun Cowboy held was another matter, but I managed to keep my expression cool.

Any show of weakness would be a mistake.

I held the brush tightly in one hand and rested the other on Heart's muscular flank. More to conceal my shaking fingers than anything else.

I didn't want to open my thoughts to the horse—sharing my terror with him wouldn't do me any good.

The poor thing might rear or try to bolt. I was just as likely to get trampled in the confined space as Cowboy, so I kept my mind carefully shielded as I held his gaze.

Time seemed to move at the speed of a herd of turtles marching through molasses. Mr. Jingles finally broke the stalemate when he appeared in the doorway. Cowboy looked at his partner, who shook his head, which I took to mean he'd searched the house and found it empty.

They turned their attention back to me.

“Howdy,” I said.

“Tony was right.” I wasn't sure if Cowboy was talking to me or Mr. Jingles.

“There's a first time for everything,” I said, letting my distaste show.

“You found the horse.” Mr. Jingles was eyeing me the way someone might look at an unusual bug.

“I did. But not for Tony. I found him for Jasmine and to get the reward she offered.”

“You won't be collecting,” Cowboy said.

“Come on.” I put my hands on my hips. “It's only ten grand. You got what you want, you can't be that greedy.”

The men stayed silent. I looked back and forth between them and let my smirk fade. “You
did
get what you wanted, right?”

“What might that be?” Cowboy asked.

“Uh . . .” I tried to look surprised and innocent as I pointed to the empty plastic eggs on the hay-sprinkled ground.

Predictably, Cowboy raised his gun to point at me and snarled, “Where are they?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. I . . .” I trailed off then shook my head and muttered, “Damn.”

“What?”

“Can't you guess?” I asked.

“I'm not in the mood to play games.”

“I'm not the one playing.”

He leveled the gun at my leg. “If I don't like the next three words out of your mouth, I'll blow your knee apart.”

Don't faint
, I told myself.
Don't throw up and don't crumple to the ground to beg for your life.

I had to have some moxie.

He wanted to hear three words. I only needed one.

“Logan.”

Cowboy's eyes narrowed.

I waited. Sometimes it was best to shut up and let people draw their own conclusions. I was hoping these two were going to come up with the same conclusion Boyle had, that I was in with Sartori's gang.

Ironic, given how much energy I'd spent trying to prove I wasn't connected to Sartori's criminal organization. Now my life depended on two very bad men believing the opposite.

“How do you know Logan?” Mr. Jingles asked.

“He works for my uncle.”

“Uncle?” Cowboy scoffed. “You're saying Sartori is your uncle.”

“Yep.”

“You're lying. You're dating a cop.”

“You mean Kai Duncan?” I tried to smile flirtatiously as I looked at each man in turn. “The sergeant's not my type. But don't tell him that.”

Mr. Jingles let his gaze flick over me, though whether it was in admiration or doubt, I couldn't be sure.

“Tell you what,” I said, “you can call Logan and—” I started to reach into my back pocket and almost lost my kneecap.

“Don't,” Cowboy growled.

“Whoa. It's just his number.” I held up Logan's card.

Cowboy plucked it out of my hand and frowned. “Did you drop it in a garbage disposal?”

“No, that's goat spit.”

He almost dropped the card, but I pretended not to notice. “Unlike Mrs. Simon, or whatever her name was, I'm an actual vet who works with real animals.”

Cowboy curled his lip in distaste.

“Hey.” I shrugged. “Spit happens.”

Neither man seemed to appreciate the joke.

“Call Logan. Tell him you have me and you want to trade. He'll do it.”

Cowboy held out the card to Mr. Jingles. He declined and pulled a phone out of his back pocket. “I have his number,” he said, and dialed.

I waited for him to curse and say there wasn't a signal. My plan was to then suggest we use the house phone and once we'd left the barn I'd make a run for the woods.

But Mr. Jingles didn't curse. In fact, it looked like he was waiting for someone to answer.

He must have a satellite phone.

Crap!

I heard him say, “We have Sartori's niece.” His eyes shifted to me and I barely had time to consider panicking before he handed the phone to me.

I took it. “Logan?”

“Grace.” He sounded resigned. “Where are you?”

I couldn't tell him. Doing so would let Mr. Jingles and Cowboy know Logan had never been here and therefore couldn't have taken the gems.

“Don't give me a hard time, Logan, you knew I was looking for the horse.”

“I'm going to need more to go on, sweetness,” Logan said.

I knew that, but aside from Boomer, only one person knew where I was—Kai.