by Lisa Jackson
Still.
After all these years.
“Okay, okay, I get the hint . . .” He walked her backward, never breaking the embrace, bits of hay fluttering in their path until she fell onto the very stack of bagged oats upon which she’d recently perched.
“What?” she giggled, her eyes bright. Her voice was breathy, her eyebrows arched coyly. “Right here? With everyone watching?”
“Everyone?” he asked, noticing the cleft between her breasts, visible in the open collar of her blouse.
“Nova, for one.” Trudie was teasing him, but he looked over his shoulder at the row of stalls and noticed the buckskin had stopped eating. His ears were flat against his head, and he was backing up, snorting and shaking his big head.
Ned started to laugh, was going to chide the horse for being a prude, but its change of demeanor registered. Something was wrong. Was it a full moon? First the dog, and now Diego—
Frida, too, had turned her head, ignoring her feed, and Nova let out a nervous nicker, her coat quivering, her nostrils flared.
Ned froze.
Trudie was still giggling, nibbling on his neck while, closer now, Copper was still barking. Sounding an alarm.
Ned had a quick premonition of danger. The hairs on his nape stood at attention. “Shhh.”
“Why?” she said and laughed. That glorious sound he usually loved. He placed his finger over her lips, and she started to nibble on them.
“No,” he whispered, and she stopped just as he heard the creak of old hinges. The slider door at the rear of the stables.
Shit. A damned intruder? Thief? What?
“The horses don’t—”
He placed the flat of his hand over her mouth and stared at her hard. Every muscle in his body tensed.
She got the message. Beneath him, her eyes rounded.
Was that a footstep? Was someone actually in the stable? He strained to hear or see anything out of the ordinary, as he moved all but one finger from her lips. He told himself he was overreacting. That he’d been tense lately. Jumpy. But he’d been around animals all his life, and the horses were spooked. By something. Maybe something as insignificant as a rat slipping through the straw, but he didn’t think so. They’d all stopped chewing, and three pairs of equine eyes were studying the back of the building, all looking deep into the umbra where, behind a half wall, equipment, including the old John Deere, was stored.
He saw nothing but the shadowy images of the machinery.
Half lying over the stack of feed sacks, Trudie was staring up at him.
Slowly, he removed his finger from her lips.
Her eyes rounded in newfound fear, she mouthed, You’re scaring me.
Nodding sternly to indicate she should be alarmed, Ned whispered, “Phone,” and hooked his hand to his ear, thumb and pinkie extended, middle fingers curled to indicate the silent “call me” message. In this case, he wanted to phone the police.
She shook her head and mouthed, in the house.
With his. Charging on the desk, side by side. He remembered.
He heard it distinctly then. Definitely the pad of a footstep on concrete. Inside the stable. But the intruder hadn’t yet come into the light, was still hidden in the back, as Ned had only hit one switch when entering the building.
Who the hell would be trespassing?
No one with any good intentions.
Maybe it was just a kid, but he didn’t think so. Should he yell at the person? Demand for him to show himself?
Something told him that would be a grave mistake.
The stable was open air, no glass in the windows. There was nothing worthwhile to steal except maybe the horses, but then a person would need a truck and a trailer and . . .
Another footstep.
He couldn’t take a chance. Not with Trudie’s safety.
Silently he motioned for her to get up.
“Ned—”
A quick shake of his head cut her off. Ned could flip the switch, turn on the lights at the back of the building, but if the intruder had a weapon . . . no, better to even the playing field.
He took Trudie’s fingers in his and pulled her to her feet. With his free hand, he slipped the pitchfork from its hook, and with one eye focused on the darkened back of the stable, he pulled Trudie to the door and hit the light switch.
Immediately, the stable went dark.
The horses snorted, hooves stomping, and the damned dog was barking continuously, still sounding the alarm. He pulled Trudie tight for a minute, then whispered in her ear, “Run,” he said as he edged her to the door. “To the house. Lock it. Get to a phone. Call 9-1-1.”
“But what about you?” she whispered back.
“I’m right behind you. Leave the slider open ’til I get there. And get the gun.”
“What?”
“The pistol, out of the box. Ammo is in the case next to it in the closet.”
“I know where it is!”
“Call the cops first.”
“No—”
“Just do it!” he hissed. “Run! Don’t stop!”
She did, took off through the door, the rush of night air sweeping into the stable as she flew out. She was running full bore, long strides eating up the yard separating the stable from the house, staying on the straight path.
No, no, no. If the intruder were a hunter and determined to do harm . . .
Ned yanked the door closed behind him, hoping to stop whoever was inside the stable, then sped up after Trudie, taking off at a dead sprint, holding the pitchfork like a medieval lance. All the while he told himself he was being foolish, that he hadn’t heard anything, that he had no reason for overreacting like this and scaring Trudie half to death.
But something was off. Something was definitely not right.
The damned dog was still howling.
Jesus–
Crack!
Trudie, halfway to the open back door, stumbled in front of him.
No! Oh, God. No!
She went down. Crumpled onto the grass.
No, no, no! This couldn’t be happening. Not to Trudie. Not his Trudie!
Crack!
Bam! His legs buckled, and he fell to his knees before he felt the pain of the first bullet. On the ground, he propelled himself forward, still scrambling on pained knees to his fallen wife.
The back of her white blouse was blooming with a dark, horrifying stain as she lay prone, her face turned, blood in one corner of her perfect lips. No, no, damn it, nooo!
Blam!
The gun went off again. So much closer.
His body jerked, and his ears rang from the sound. He felt a rush of air escape his lungs and was aware of the smell of fresh blood tinging the cool night air. The dog, Copper, was still barking, but hiding in the bushes near the house, or somewhere, and Ned could barely hear him as his ears felt as if the drums had shattered. It seemed like he was swimming upside down and . . . and . . . he was starting to fade. Was that a car? Did he hear a car’s engine over the echo of the blast that was still reverberating through his brain?
Oh, Lord, his ears and his legs . . . Everything hurt . . . His wife—beautiful, sensual Trudie—wasn’t moving, just lying on the grass in front of him, not thirty yards from the breezeway and back door of the house. On his knees, he reached out to her. “Trudie,” he whispered, his voice cracking, “Don’t . . . don’t leave.” But, in his heart, he knew she was already gone.
Footsteps.
He sensed the heavy tread and twisted his head to look over his shoulder. He was vaguely aware of grass tickling his nostrils and the scent of damp earth and the menthol smell of the eucalyptus tree Trudie had refused to let him cut down, but those were fleeting thoughts that came in and out of his head.
He thought he noticed a movement in the shadows.
Ned squinted, his heart pumping wildly, his fingers gripping the slick pitchfork as if it were a lifeline.
As he focused, lying still, he saw the monster, a hulking, faceless sh
adow that swam before his eyes as it approached.
To find out if you’re dead.
Now the assailant was close enough that Ned saw the rounded toes of the killer’s leather boots, then the barrel of a rifle, so close, so damned close and smelling burnt, of gunpowder, pointed straight at his heart. He played dead and hoped the night veiled the movement of his left hand, half tucked behind his body as he slid the wire cutters out of his pocket. They slipped and fell to the ground beside him.
“Let it shine, Crenshaw,” the killer said cryptically as he aimed, “Let it shine.”
Ned was never one to give up without a fight.
Give me strength; this SOB killed Trudie!
Throwing his weight forward, he grabbed the barrel with his left hand, yanking the killer off balance. With his right, using all his strength, he swung the pitchfork in an arc that sliced through the air and landed hard on the stunned killer’s face.
“What the—”
Whack! Whack-whack!
“Oooawwa, shit! You stupid cocksuck—” His words were cut off by a howl of pain as Ned swung again, the sharp tines cutting through clothing and scraping across raw skin.
Whack! Whack!
Sharp metal spikes hit hard again, bounced a bit, then sliced across the attacker’s chest, ripping through clothing and slicing skin to the bones of his ribs.
“Aarrrgh! You stupid fucker! You’re gonna pay for that,” the attacker yelled, jumping back, jerking hard, the barrel of the rifle sliding from Ned’s sweaty, bloody fingers.
Ned, fading, swung again, and the killer caught the weapon on the neck, where the metal was attached to the handle. Gloved hands gripped hard. With a sharp pull and twist, he yanked the pitchfork from Ned.
Furious, the attacker flung the pitchfork toward the house.
Ned rolled to one side, agony searing through his body, his fingers grappling through the grass as the killer took aim again. The tip of his index finger touched metal, and he swept up the wire clippers. With the barrel of the gun pointed at his chest, Ned flung himself forward and lunged at his attacker, the sharp point of the clipper jabbing jeans and flesh to bury deep in thigh muscle. Ned hoped to heaven he might somehow sever the bastard’s femoral artery.
The assailant screamed, another satisfying, primeval howl. “Arrrggghweee!”
Ned clung to the clippers, using his weight, and twisted the grips as blood poured through the ripped fabric.
“You stupid ass-wipe!” Kicking forward, the killer connected with Ned’s chest, and he heard a rib crack with the blow. He lost his grasp of his makeshift weapon and went down, no longer on his knees, but flattened to the cool ground.
The killer fired.
Craaack!
So loud! So damned loud!
The shot went wild.
Another blast.
Blam!
Ned’s body jerked again.
Agony spiraled through his body.
The ooze of blood was warm against his skin.
His strength gave way, and the world spun.
He seemed to be floating from a body full of pain, and he saw himself on the grass, his body at a grotesque angle, blood blooming through his shirt, his arm outstretched and only inches from Trudie’s still form. He wanted to reach out and touch her just one last time, and he tried to stretch out his hand, but nothing moved, not even a finger.
Thud! The hard toe of a boot landed hard against his ribs and forced him onto his back. Pain screamed through every inch of him, radiating from the point of impact. Bringing him back. Sharply. No longer floating above, he was back in his broken, bloody body. In agony, he tried to focus. His vision blurred as he stared at the night sky. Tried to focus.
Stars. He saw the stars.
He blinked and recognized a slice of moon like the pale smile of the Cheshire Cat.
And in the foreground, bending over him to see if he was dead or alive, was the killer. His face was bleeding, bruised, and scraped raw from the attack of the pitchfork, but he was still recognizable. “You prick,” he said, before hocking blood and spittle onto Ned’s upturned face. “Die! And do it slowly. Feel it. Know that Trudie’s dead.”
Ned felt the warmth of ooze running down his face and knew, in that moment, the mind-numbing wrench of heartache.
Trudie. Sweet Trudie. What did we do?
In the next instant, Ned Crenshaw’s entire world went black.
CHAPTER 24
“It’s just up here. Right there. Right there. On the left,” Noah said, pointing through the windshield of the Subaru to a break in the split-rail fence.
Remmi slowed to turn into the lane, the Subaru’s headlights washing over the row of oak trees flanking the drive.
Her fingers were tight on the wheel, knuckles showing white, as she’d driven with an urgency she couldn’t name. If she could talk to Ned, to Trudie, to find out what they knew about Didi, maybe some of the questions about her past could be answered.
The rain that had poured in San Francisco subsided once they were off the peninsula. They’d crawled through Oakland, but traffic had finally become lighter, and Remmi was able to push the speed limit. The sky had cleared, clouds no longer blocking the moon or the thousands of winking stars.
During the drive, she and Noah had discussed the mystery surrounding Didi, caught up on their own lives, and speculated about how Gertrude Melborn, Didi’s one-time best friend, had ended up becoming the second Mrs. Ned Crenshaw before assuming the alias of Maryanne Osgoode.
Remmi planned to find out.
The drive sloped steadily upward and opened to a wide parking area with several outbuildings huddled near the gravel skirt. A low-slung ranch-style house dominated the rise, and two vehicles, a battered pickup without a tail gate and a red sedan, were parked in front of a garage connected to the house by an open breezeway.
Her heart was pounding at the thought of seeing Ned again, the one positive, if short-lived, father figure in her life. And Trudie? Didi’s once-upon-a-time best friend? The woman who was supposedly taking care of Ariel that night, though Didi had obviously lied. Still, Trudie knew about the twins, she’d even mentioned them in the book, though only that Remmi had insisted to the police that she had a half brother and sister.
Remmi had a million questions for both Ned and Trudie. Finally, she hoped, she’d get some answers.
Whether she liked what she heard or not.
“Go time,” she said, parking behind the red car and cutting the engine. She took one deep breath, then was out of the Subaru and heading up a gravel walkway to the front porch. A dog was barking wildly, and in the distance toward the back of the property and farther away, she thought she heard a car’s engine turn over.
She was near a wide front porch when a caramel-colored dog, part lab mixed with something shaggier, bounded through the breezeway, leaped onto the porch and started barking wildly at them.
“Hey, boy,” Noah said, but the dog just backed up, racing to the breezeway and back again. Finally, he didn’t return. Just kept up his ruckus.
Remmi pressed the doorbell as Noah stared after the dog. They’d agreed that she would take the lead on this. It was her show.
No one answered.
She pushed on the doorbell again.
She listened for sounds of life but could hear no footsteps, especially over the excited, frantic barking now coming from the back of the house.
Nothing from within.
“They gotta hear us,” Noah said. “Their dog’s loud enough to wake the dead in the next three counties . . .”
Remmi rang again, but a cold premonition had crept over her. Noah stepped closer, reaching around her to pound on the door.
Again, nothing but the sounds of the night: the sough of the wind, rustling the dry leaves still hanging onto the branches of the surrounding trees, and, farther away, the hum of traffic. The dog was baying now.
“They have to be home, their cars are here . . . ,” she said, half expecting someone to start yellin
g at the lab to pipe down. It didn’t happen. Even though she told herself that Ned and Trudie could have other vehicles, or that they could have caught a ride from friends and gone out, she was starting to get a bad feeling about this. A very bad feeling.
Noah tried the knob, and the door swung open. “Hello?” he called loudly into the interior, but no one answered. Remmi felt the hairs on the back of her neck raise. “Hello?” Even louder.
Nothing.
No sounds of life from within.
She peered inside, where the lights glowed against the honey-colored wood floors of the living room. Remmi saw the flicker of a television, muted and tuned to a football game, mounted over a fireplace cut into a wall of brick that rose to a soaring, beamed ceiling. Furniture was clustered around a rug, positioned to view the TV or fire, but all of the chairs were empty, and the house felt as if there was no life within its walls.
There was no point in standing on the porch. “I’m going in.”
“Wait! No,” he said. Then after a beat. “Hear that?”
“The dog. Yeah. I know—” But there was more. Beyond the barking dog and the sough of the wind, she heard a low moan, barely audible, seeming to emanate from the same spot as the dog’s constant noise.
“It’s outside.” Suddenly Noah was grim, all business.
Turning toward the breezeway, he withdrew a pistol from his pocket. “Stay here.”
“You have a gun?” she whispered, surprised.
He nodded. “Yeah. It was in my truck.” He had stopped by his Silverado, “to grab a dry jacket,” before they took off. “Just wait here.” He was already walking, skirting around the corner of the house, bending to keep his body low as he kept close to the shrubbery that edged the grass.
No way was Remmi staying put. Inching her flashlight out of her pocket, she was only one step behind Noah as he slipped through the dark breezeway. Then, as the backyard opened to him, he sucked in a breath and whispered, “What the hell?” Then, over his shoulder: “Call 9-1-1!”
“What?”
But he was already sprinting forward. Clicking on her phone, Remmi saw the bodies stretched out in the grassy area that stretched from the house to a barn of some sort. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God.”
