Hoofprints (Gail McCarthy series)

by Laura Crum

  I kept perfectly still. I wanted to wiggle farther back into my crack, but I didn't dare. The slightest noise, I was sure, and he would have me. He stopped when he came to the open stall door, the stall that held the bottles of bute, and stared inside.

  My God, what a scam. Phenlybutazone, ground up, is a white powder. What easier, safer way for a horse person to distribute another white powder. All those bottles in Cindy's tack room-those were Ed's stash. And I'd seen them. And Steve knew I'd seen them.

  Of course, I hadn't a clue what I'd seen. And I never would have guessed. But Steve panicked. That had to be it. He'd talked to me that night, after he'd discovered I'd found the bodies. He'd called me out to look at Amber's mare, when he knew she didn't have a bowed tendon. Called me out to find out if I'd seen the bute. And I had.

  But why did that matter? Because, I reasoned, he'd taken it with him when he picked up Plumber. Out of greed, or to conceal Ed's link with drugs, maybe. Either way, he must have taken it, and he didn't want me to mention that I'd seen it. Didn't want it brought up at all.

  It was Steve who'd tried to kill me in Bonny Doon; I was sure of it. Amber must have taken him up to her uncle's cabin at some point or other, probably for a romantic interlude, and Steve had remembered it as a good spot for an ambush. But still, what a stupid thing to do. I'd never have mentioned the bute; it never would have occurred to me.

  Paul Cassidy, I thought, staring at his dark form in the lit breezeway, would not have panicked like that. Paul Cassidy was a pro. That was why he was mad at Steve. Killing me was unnecessary.

  Had been unnecessary. Not anymore. Now it was vital. And Paul Cassidy wouldn't make a mistake. What could I do? What the hell could I do?

  I held still. Thought about the hay barn where I stood. I'd never been inside it before, only seen it from the outside.

  It looked like a typical hay barn-a pole barn-no walls, just a roof. Under the roof, the hay was stacked in separate twenty-foot-high stacks, set there by a hay squeeze, a kind of giant forklift. All big outfits handled hay this way-hand stacking was prohibitively time-consuming.

  At the moment I was standing wedged between two huge blocks of hay that towered over me, their tops vanishing somewhere near the roof. If I wiggled back through the crack, more toward the center of the barn, so to speak, I could get better hidden. But I would lose my ability to see what was going on, to choose the right moment to dash for the creek. I pictured myself curled in a little ball in a crevice in the haystack, waiting silently, like a child playing hide-and-seek, for discovery.

  No way. I'd stay here, take my chances on running, get shot down in action if need be.

  The strap of the leather bag dug into my shoulder, reminding me that I was carrying a gun. For a second a wave of hope washed over me, but it died instantly.

  I couldn't count on killing Paul Cassidy; I shot only moderately well, and I hadn't practiced since I moved back to Santa Cruz. Unless it was a point-blank situation, I'd be far more likely to miss and get myself killed. Still, it would be good to get the gun out, have it in my hand and ready.

  Trouble with that was I didn't dare move. Not at all. Paul Cassidy stood in the barn aisle, looking silently and reflectively around him, quiet and relaxed. Holding perfectly still was my only prayer.

  Steve's voice. He was half-running into the barn. "She's not in the house." I could see a silvery object in his hand that was probably a gun.

  "She must have seen my car." Paul Cassidy's voice was flat. "She's either hiding or she ran up to the road." He looked at Steve. "Where would she hide?"

  Oh shit.

  I could see Steve's shoulders move. "Anywhere. She could be in any of these stalls. She wouldn't be afraid of a horse."

  Cassidy's head turned slowly, scanning. Like a satellite dish finding the signal, it gradually turned in my direction and stopped. "Or in that hay barn."

  Breath stopped. My heart pounded in my ears.

  Cassidy again. "Turn the lights on in that barn."

  "Can't. There aren't any."

  Thank God.

  Paul Cassidy was quiet for a long moment. "I don't want her getting up to the road," he said at last. "You"-he looked at Steve-"stand out in the driveway, where you can cover her truck and watch this barn. I'll be right back."

  He turned fluidly and went out, moving with an effortless grace that belied his formal suit and bulky body. I could feel an immediate rush of relief at the removal of his physical presence.

  Steve went out the front and the barn was empty. Could I run?

  I didn't know. If Steve could see the side of the barn from where he watched, I didn't dare. Hastily I dug my gun out of the leather bag, took it out of its holster, and gripped the butt with a shaking hand. Then I wiggled farther back into the crack in the haystack.

  Sweet dusty alfalfa in my nose, prickles of hay against my cheek. The crack narrowed. I looked up.

  The crack was about two feet wide. I put my back against one stack and my feet against the other and began to chimney upward, scrabbling at small comers and holds and wishing I had a hay hook in my hand instead of a gun.

  The bales were scratchy and slippery. Normally I might have said I couldn't shimmy up a crack between two twenty-foot haystacks, but, driven by fear, I found it was more than possible. I scrambled and slipped once, near the top. Caught myself by jamming my foot out, almost dropping the gun. My breath was coming in gasps as I heaved myself on top.

  Lying flat on my stomach, I wiggled to the edge of the stack. I could see most of the horse barn from here, as well as a short section of the driveway that was just outside the hay barn. Because the partitions that divided the box stalls didn't reach to the roof of the big barn, I could look down into the stalls and see the horses inside: bays, browns, sorrels, an occasional palomino or gray----chomping hay, lying down, resting with one foot cocked. They looked glossy and relaxed under the lights, and I could smell their warm, familiar smell. They were everyday life, real life, the life I had somehow stepped out of. I was in a nightmare; I was prey, hunted by the predator.

  The hunters were still not in sight. I gripped my gun with my hands stretched out in front of me and wiggled sideways, trying to find a low spot where my silhouette would be less obvious. When I moved the haystack wobbled.

  I froze and waited for my heart to subside. If this stack tipped over, I was dead. The fall could kill me, let alone being smashed by a 140-plus-pound bale. And if that didn't happen, Paul Cassidy would take care of things.

  Cassidy. My heart beat harder and I fought desperately to stay calm. I had to think of a plan, some way to defeat Cassidy. He would come back; he would search the hay barn. What could I do?

  I could shoot him. From up above, I would have the advantage. He didn't know I was carrying a gun; he wouldn't be afraid of me. I would wait until he approached the haystack I was on top of, then shoot him.

  And if I missed him, he'd kill me. There was absolutely no doubt in my mind that he would shoot me and kill me. And if by some miracle I killed him with the first shot, Steve would shoot at me. I had no idea how well Steve shot; it could be very well. I simply could not see how I could shoot and not get shot myself.

  He would be back soon. I lay on my stomach, with the side of my face pressed into the scratchy, dusty hay and thought, I will not be killed like this; I will not. I will beat these bastards.

  I wiggled a little, very gingerly, trying to flatten myself still further, and felt the shudder go through the haystack. The bales I was lying on were balanced precariously. I held my breath. Thought about haystacks.

  The twenty-foot-high stacks were actually two blocks set on top of each other by a hay squeeze; each block was seven bales high and eight bales to a layer-fifty-six bales to a block. The way they were constructed, the third and sixth layers had a "tie" bale-that is, a bale turned lengthwise instead of laid side by side with the rest. This kept the stack joined together and made it stable. But occasionally the tie bales got forgotten.

&
nbsp; By the feel of things I was lying on a stack that was minus a tie bale, a dangerous situation. It was fully twenty feet to the ground, and each bale weighed about one hundred and forty pounds. Falling bales had killed more than one person, which was why ranchers and truckers got angry when the tie bales were forgotten. It would be an ironic twist of fate if I were killed by a haystack before Cassidy could get to me.

  Cassidy. Cassidy was coming. The hair seemed to rise on the back of my neck as I heard his voice.

  He was in the breezeway. My face was pressed flat against the hay, so I couldn't see him, but I could tell by the sound where he was.

  "Check these box stalls. Then the hay barn."

  The hay barn. I had a few minutes at most. I could hear the sound of bolts being slid back, the squeak of stall doors opening, then the slam of the bolts shot home. Praying that both men were occupied by their search, I wiggled gently, delicately backward on my haystack, away from the edge.

  One careful shift at a time, I moved my weight until I was lying on the half of the block that was closest to the interior of the barn. Stretching out a foot and hand together, I touched the two bales I had been lying on and felt them move away from me, ever so slightly. The whole other half of the haystack wobbled.

  I held my breath and lifted my head. I couldn't see much from my position, just a small section of the breezeway, which was empty at the moment. Slamming stall doors sounded from the other side of the barn.

  I waited. Dry mouth. Pounding heart. No voices. Suddenly Cassidy appeared, striding down the lit breezeway toward the hay barn. He had a gun in one hand and a flashlight in the other and he moved with sinewy confidence. The flashlight clicked on, pointed straight at me.

  My heart seemed to stop, but he kept walking. The flashlight beam moved erratically, pointed, I realized, merely in the general direction of the hay barn. He was coming to search it.

  He would be out of my sight in a minute, so close to the haystack that it would block my view. I could hear the soft scrape of his footsteps, see the top of his dark head moving slowly from side to side; then he vanished beneath me. The diffused light of the flashlight beam filtered upward to my hiding spot; he was pointing the beam itself lower, searching the cracks between the stacks. His footsteps paused. I imagined the flashlight pointed at the crevice where I had hidden. My leather bag was there, abandoned when I began to climb.

  Now. Now. My heart thudded in my ears. I took a breath, gripped the gun in my right hand, and shoved as hard as I could with my left hand and foot. The stack lurched and wobbled, and in a sudden tumble of falling bales the darkness dissolved into chaos.

  Whump. Whump. Whump. Clinging to my half of the stack as it shuddered, tipped, and leaned to rest on the stack next to it, I heard and felt the thuds of bales falling, tumbling, bouncing down twenty feet to the ground. I thought I heard a muffled shout, a sound of shock and reaction, but couldn't be sure. Too much noise and motion, choking clouds of hay dust in the darkness. Fully half the block had fallen-roughly two dozen bales.

  Over everything, Steve's shout: "What the hell!" From the horse barn, I thought. Nowhere near the avalanche of hay. Steve was out there still.

  My ears strained for any sound, any response from beneath me, but there was none. It was almost too much to hope for.

  Steve's voice: "Cassidy?"

  A horse neighed, hooves clattering against box-stall walls. Nothing else. "Cassidy!" Steve sounded half-panicked, and hope rose in me. Cassidy was dead or incapacitated and there was only Steve out there to deal with.

  Steve. Rage choked my throat, more powerful than fear. Cassidy, dead or alive, was inhuman, a frightening force of nature; I felt nothing about him other than the urge to survive.

  But Steve. Steve had smiled his blue-eyed smile at me and tried to kill me. I had liked Steve; I had never imagined such treachery from him.

  I tightened my grip on the .357. Steve had a gun. He would come after me. But he didn't know that I had a gun, too. I'll kill you, you bastard. I repeated the words like an incantation.

  Flattening myself on the haystack, I pointed my gun in the direction of the breezeway, at the spot where Cassidy had appeared. All my senses seemed to focus; the disorienting rush of events narrowed like a telescope on that one point. I waited.

  Nothing. Only silence. No Steve. A minute passed. I counted the seconds slowly. Where was he? What was he doing?

  His voice, when it came, was so unexpected I almost jumped.

  "I know you're up there, Gail."

  Light, pleasant, his everyday voice.

  "You might as well give up now. I've got a gun. If you come down, I'll let you go."

  Right you will. I held my own gun steadily in front of me. His voice came from the arena, very close to the haystack. I wiggled a little and peered over in that direction.

  He was walking toward the gate that led out of the arena into the breezeway, moving slowly, looking up at the haystack. He held a gun in one hand and a flashlight, unlit, in the other. There was nothing of Cassidy's confidence in his movements; despite his casual tone, he looked tense and worried.

  Could I shoot him now? Too far away for my limited abilities. I would probably miss him and succeed only in revealing my hiding place. Wait. Wait.

  He was in the breezeway now; I could see him clearly. Still too far away, but coming closer. He clicked the flashlight on and the beam sprang out in a white rush of light.

  Belatedly, I realized it was moving up, moving straight at me. Steve wouldn't waste time searching crevices; he would guess I was on top of the stack.

  No time. I sighted the gun as the light touched me, dazzling my eyes. Aiming at the blinding white spot, I pulled the trigger.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Deafening noise and what felt like a fist driven into my shoulder. Crashing volleys echoed off the tin roof. My shot and another, I thought disjointedly as I lurched backward. I didn't know if I was hit or merely thrown off balance by the recoil from my own gun.

  Horses neighed, clattering in their stalls, frightened by the gunshots. My ears rang. I had no idea if I'd hit Steve.

  Long moments before violent sound and motion were replaced by the thought that the flashlight beam was gone. Steve was no longer standing in the barn aisle. I raised my head cautiously. I couldn't see him.

  Gently, I twitched my shoulder, then moved my arm. It worked. I couldn't see any blood. Not hit, then. It was another second before I registered the moaning. Low, inarticulate animal sounds underneath the restless noise of upset horses. My first thought was that some stray bullet had injured a horse.

  My mind rejected that idea instantly, replacing it with Steve. I craned over the edge of the haystack and saw his feet sticking out in the breezeway.

  For a second I was filled with pure elation; I had hit him, then; he was down. Unadulterated relief washed over me in a wave, feeling like the sudden cessation of intolerable pain. I was alive. No one was hunting me anymore.

  Like a mouse which scampers free, having seen the cat struck dead by a vagrant bolt of lightning, I slithered down the unstable haystack without thinking, clutching my gun, wanting only away from that barn, when the moans escalated into a cry. "Gail."

  I pressed myself against the haystack. Steve lay flat on his back where the breezeway emptied its lit corridor into the darkness of the hay shed. In the spilled light, I could see his prostrate form but no details.

  Where was the gun? I knew he had one. He wasn't pointing it at me at the moment, but that didn't mean he wouldn't.

  "Gail." It sounded like a croak, so distorted I hardly recognized his voice. "Help me."

  I stood frozen, suddenly torn. A minute ago I had tried to kill this man, had wanted him dead with all my heart. Now I felt an inescapable need to help him, despite my fear. I'd been trained to save life, not to take it.

  No point in being a fool. "Throw the gun out where I can see it," I ordered, pointing my own gun at him.

  "I can't. I can't move my arm."
r />   I stared at him, fearing a trick, finally discerning the black puddle near his right shoulder, seeing the metallic gleam of the gun near his right hand but not in it. Moving carefully, keeping my own gun pointed squarely at his body, I approached him and kicked the gun away.

  Standing well back from him, I aimed my gun trained in his direction, and tried to decide what to do. He found my eyes with his. "Help me. Don't let me bleed to death."

  "Why did you kill Cindy?" I hadn't planned to say that; the words seemed to come of their own accord.

  "I didn't." It was a bleated protest. "He did. All I did was call my supplier and tell him we had to deal with Ed. Ed wanted to quit. He was threatening to turn me in if I wouldn't let him quit."

  "You knew they would kill him."

  "No, I didn't. They sent Cassidy and he just took over. He told me to call Ed and tell him I was coming by to talk about things, then arrange an alibi for myself. That's all I knew."

  "What else could it mean? You killed them." I stared down at him, helpless as he was, and felt the volcanic tide of rage bubbling up. "You killed Cindy and you tried to kill me. Because I saw the bute You can't shoot for shit, or I'd be dead."

  He said nothing. The eyes that fixed themselves on mine looked frightened. I pointed my gun directly between the eyes. "Admit it."

  "My God, Gail." He seemed to choke. "I didn't want to. I always liked you. I was afraid you'd find out."

  "About your dirty little coke racket." Abruptly I felt sick. It seemed to me I could smell Steve's blood over the familiar horsey smell of the barn, and I had a sudden vision of the hay bales behind me shifting and Cassidy emerging, gun in hand.

  "I'll call an ambulance," I muttered, and turned away from those pleading eyes, eyes that had had no mercy for anyone else.

  Stumbling in my efforts to hurry, I ran down the breezeway and across the stable yard to the house. The front door stood open and I found a phone on the hall counter. Dialing 911, I requested police and ambulance and hung up as quickly as I could.