Walk. Trot. Die

by Kiernan-Lewis, Susan

  It was ludicrous, of course, that the boy and Tess Andersen....but why was the kid trying to implicate himself? He had no alibi for the time of Jilly's disappearance, his school was less than six miles from the barn, and he made it clear he did not grieve her. Why? Was he trying to protect someone else?

  The name "Tess" came maddeningly to mind and Burton thrust it away. Maybe the kid was just troubled. He certainly hadn't been able to shed any light on the case or Jilly's whereabouts. Justin said he hadn't seen his mother in well over a month.

  Burton set his mouth in a grim line and gripped the straps of his seat belt. It was the ex-husband they needed to be talking to, he thought. And soon. This kid was a total waste of time. In more ways than one.

  That's my read on it, Dave ol' buddy.

  The husband was always the first suspect in any investigating cop's mind--no matter of how unlikely, initially, that looked. In this case, there being no husband to point the finger at, the ex-husband, Mark Travers, would have to do.

  Feeling a little better, Burton glanced at his partner who looked like he was in the full form of an adult sulk. Deciding he felt even better, Burton was about to suggest they stop somewhere for lunch when his cell phone rang.

  "Burton, here," he said.

  Kazmaroff tapped his fingers impatiently against the steering wheel. "Well?" he said.

  Burton gave him an 'in a minute' wave with his free hand and spoke into the phone. "Okay, good, yeah, no kidding. Okay, thanks." He hung up.

  "That was the crime lab," he said. "The blood's definitely her blood-type. No way to make a definite match?"

  "Not without a body, tissue, something.”

  “I don’t suppose Jilly would have made things easy on us by having a supply of her blood stored at one of the local hospitals for some reason?”

  “I guess we could check. The Chief said we’re to treat it officially as a homicide. No way she could've lost all that blood and still be breathing somewhere."

  A red-tailed hawk circled deliberately in the sky as they drove back to the city. Burton felt his spirits lift at the sight, surprised at his own reaction. Spotting hawks this far out of town was certainly not uncommon, he admonished himself. He watched the bird swoop down on his prey like a dive bomber.

  But, oh, so satisfying.

  3

  Jilly tossed her long hair and smiled her most honest-looking smile. Her eyes blazed directly into his own. Her eyes said "eat me up." Her tongue, flicking the lips of her smile said: "Hurry."

  Robert Shue rubbed his forehead with a callused hand and pushed the image of Jilly from his mind. Whatever she'd been, whatever she may or may not have been saying at that motel in Santa Monica three months ago, was a moot point now. He stood up and walked from his desk to the floor-to-ceiling window in his office that overlooked Peachtree Road. It was after eight o'clock and the street was streaked with red and yellow streamers from car tail lights as people prepared for their weekend. With the exception of himself, the offices of Ryan, Davis & Shue were empty.

  Jilly.

  He allowed himself to remember her the last time he ever laid eyes on her. She had frowned in surprise to see him, hardly expecting him there of all places, on her turf. Her body and face said immediately and irrevocably what her lips had been telling him for weeks.

  It's over.

  He let himself feel the anger, the humiliation, wash over him once more, just as it had then. But only now did he recall that the contempt in her face had relaxed into a softer, less repulsed, expression. She had smiled the old smile at him. Just for a minute, she had summoned a different kind of feeling than the impatience and irritation the dying relationship had fostered. He'd felt it now, had seen it then but hadn't recognized it. By then, of course, if had been too late. Way, way too late.

  Shue fingered the square phone message slip in his pocket. His secretary had scribbled on it as mindlessly as if it had been just another reminder note from a creditor, a "job well done" from a client, or a "call-home" from his wife, Sandra, instead of the end of his world as surely as a bullet in the brain. The police had called. They had called and asked that he please return their call.

  "I love you, Jilly. Don't you know I do?"

  "So, is this, like, a proposal or something?"

  She'd worn nothing. As comfortable and confident in her nakedness as most people would have been in an Armani suit. She was lounging on the motel bed, lighting a cigarette. For a moment, Shue could imagine a tiny cinder from the end of her cigarette falling lightly on that smooth, hard abdomen. He had no doubt she wouldn't have flinched, possibly not even have felt it.

  He'd laughed nervously.

  "Jilly, I'm married. You know that."

  "So this I-love-you stuff is, what? Guilt? An addendum to dinner?"

  "Christ."

  "Because it certainly isn't necessary, Barry." She laughed and blew the smoke out of her nose in two thin streams. "Now, the dinner," she said. "That was necessary!"

  He'd made a mistake. A big mistake. Not in sleeping with her, although that had prompted its own complications in the long run. Not even in his becoming as attached to her as he had. She was right, of course. It wasn't love. It was something else. Something that assuaged a need in him that had been growing for a long time. Something beyond the abilities of his marriage, the love of his wife, or the love for his wife.

  No, the mistake had to do with secrets. Secrets told, secrets betrayed. He'd trusted her. That was his big mistake.

  5

  The little cedar-fronted ranch house was situated back from the street. Hickory and pine trees towered over it, casting shadows even on the sunniest days. Burton had made some effort to keep the bayberry hedges that lined the little drive to the carport neat or, at least, alive; they squatted in single file, in varying sizes and conditions of health.

  He stood on the small porch and took a long drag from a cigarette. It was old and stale and felt like it was clawing its way down his throat, but he still found himself pinching the filter to force more nicotine up into the draw.

  Inside, he could hear the laugh-track of the sit-com from the television set in the living room. He didn't hear his wife laugh or react in any way to the show. He knew she was sitting in front of the set, a Danielle Steele in her lap, a glass of Coca-Cola, no ice, on the arm of the couch. In his mind, he saw her concentrating on the commercials in between the shows with as much intensity as the shows themselves. He took a hard drag on the Salem. Maybe that wasn't fair, he thought. Probably wasn't.

  He looked out onto the quiet street. It was working class, nothing fancy. Tidy. The people here cared about their lawns, their shrubs, keeping their dogs and kids carefully fenced in. There were one or two houses a couple streets over with the required car up on cement blocks, a major construction job being plotted out in someone's side yard, a child's swing set--the use of which had stripped a once-green lawn of every blade of grass. But here, on Claremont Terrace, things were tidy.

  He thought of David Kazmaroff's face as he'd seen it this afternoon, twisting in disgust and affected weariness.

  "Is this, like, big breaking news or something?" Kazmaroff had said in response to the call from the lab. "We're supposed to treat this as a murder?"

  It didn't matter. Burton pinched off the lit end of the cigarette and ground it out on the porch. He flipped the butt into the Rose of Sharon bush that bordered the tiny porch. Dana had planted azaleas one year, even annuals--pansies or something--that lined the broken sidewalk that led to the front door. Must have been the year they moved in, over seven years ago now. There hadn't been much planting of any kind since then. It was enough, Burton thought as he listened to the screech of the laugh track, just to keep what they had alive.

  Kids might've helped. They seemed like a big pain in the ass, but who knows? They might've helped.

  His neighbor from across the street pulled into his driveway and waved. Burton returned the wave, trying to remember the guy's first name. Bill or Dale.
He'd long since stopped remembering people's first names. The guy was German or something. Spoke with an accent. A Carolina Wren sang out from somewhere in the porch eaves. He’d always loved their song. So distinctive, so cheerful. The rush of Burton’s next thought was forceful enough that he actually gasped, shocking himself by the sound in the still evening air. An image of Tess Andersen had come to mind. Her eyes, bold and suggestive, her nude body twisting on the ground in a sensuous stretch. The fragrance of fresh hay and feed seemed to hang gently but undeniably in the air where Jack stood on his porch.

  Jesus.

  He licked his lips and patted his shirt pocket for cigarettes he knew were not there. Was that bastard Kazmaroff right? Was he losing his objectivity about this woman? Why was she getting to him? There was a connection between them that he couldn't explain. A connection that had been there immediately, would have been there if they'd met each other for the first time at the local Kroger. It was powerful and immediate and he found himself trusting it. His eyes sought out the dark form of his German neighbor as the man knelt in his driveway to examine a tire of his Volvo.

  And, unfortunately, what he was feeling had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Tess Andersen was under suspicion for murder.

  6

  The night was unusually warm for this time of year. The pasture horses, as if sensing the lagniappe, were particularly playful. The pecking order of the small herd of twenty pasture-boarded horses had been painfully and completely established with the immediate introduction of each new horse to the group. Now they grazed and interacted with fluidity and certainty, each member knowing its place. The leader, a surly black horse that was gelded late, enjoyed the warm October evening by stampeding his herd up and down the hilly east side of the pasture, stopping abruptly each time they reached the woods which bordered the fenced end of the field. Occasionally, the black gelding would lean over and nip one of the other horses, often a mare, although mating was not an issue.

  Stallions were never boarded at Bon Chance. Too much trouble, Margo thought as she watched the horses thunder past her office window. Altogether too much trouble.

  The last of the Jeep Cherokees and Mercedes sports vehicles had loaded up their exhausted, dirty children with their hobbit-sized saddles an hour ago and departed in a noisy wagon train of kids, mothers and pedigreed dogs. Sometimes, Margo didn't know how she could stand another day of it.

  She turned her eyes away from the horses in the pasture and stood up. She felt every inch of her forty-five years tonight. It had been a hard day. A hard week. She opened her office door and went out into the darkened corridor of the stalls. The light from her office cut a single shaft of brightness into the hallway, illuminating the straw and dirt that made up the floor. A horse in the stall to her left nickered gently and poked his nose out over his stall door. Margo absently touched his velvety nose and murmured to him. Then, she went down the hall to the tenth stall and opened the door. In the corner stood a giant chestnut horse. He had a sweet face and kind eyes. He turned his head, to watch her approach.

  "Hello, boy," she said, gently, putting a slow hand up to touch his neck. "How you doing tonight, guy? Had a good dinner, I see."

  Margo picked up one of the dandy brushes from the window sill, silently filing away an admonishment for Jessie for leaving it there, and began to groom the animal. Jilly had had him bought him in Ireland two years ago and had him shipped over. He was trained as a hunter but Jilly never hunted him. A Clydesdale-Thoroughbred mix, he stood over 22 hands tall--his back easily level with Margo’s head--yet he moved with the grace and lightness of a Springbok. Margo knew what Jilly had paid for him and she personally believed he was worth every penny and probably more. He was not only an elegant mover, perfectly trained and always in balance, but he was sweet-tempered. A rare combination in a horse.

  She brushed his saddle area, although she could tell Jessie had already cleaned him thoroughly, then moved down to his flanks and finally, his legs, with more gentle strokes. He was, in fact, a horse of a lifetime. Eager when you needed enthusiasm, quiet when you needed a break. A damn near perfect horse. A horse to die for.

  Not for the first time, Margo was struck by the contrast between rider and mount. Of course, Jilly would demand the best, and Best Boy certainly was that. He didn't begrudge his rider as so many horses do--even beautifully trained, expensive horses--but genuinely seemed to enjoy being ridden. Remarkable. And he had been owned by one of the nastiest, unhappiest riders to ever lift a leg into a saddle. As she ran her fingers through his silky mane Margo surprised herself by the sudden knowledge that she would give anything to own him. She wondered what was to be done with him now.

  Finally, she gave him a plug of carrot which he took, crunching noisily. She patted him on the neck.

  "Sleep well, beauty," she said softly. "We'll get you some exercise tomorrow."

  After carefully securing his stall door and checking briefly on another horse that a boarder had had the vet up to see that afternoon, Margo went back to her office. She checked her watch. It was almost nine o'clock. As she approached her office, she could hear the phone ringing and she broke into a trot. She caught the phone receiver up, tripping over a tangle of leather training reins and a lunge line she'd dropped on the floor earlier.

  "Yes?" she said breathlessly into the phone.

  "Hey, Margo, it's me." The voice was tired, anemic, familiar.

  Margo turned and kicked the office door shut. She slumped onto the couch facing the desk and held the phone with both hands.

  "Jesus," she said, closing her eyes. "I prayed this would be you. Are you okay?"

  "I killed her, Margo," the voice said.

  Chapter Four

  1

  “Mark? What are you talking about?” Margo felt her hands grow cold.

  “I’m telling you...oh, Margo, what am I going to do?” The voice on the line became suddenly strident.

  “I can’t believe I killed the bitch...after so many years of dreaming about it and now I can’t believe she’s really dead and that I’m going to go to prison for doing her!

  I think I’m going mad, Jesus, Margo, do you think I could plead insanity? I mean, do you think if I explained all the shit she’s put me through, the judge would understand?”

  “You really killed her?” Margo gasped.

  “Yes...yes, I...what the hell have we been talking about here? Yes, I killed her. Jesus, Margo, are you just now getting the picture? I killed her! I killed the bitch!”

  “Settle down, Mark,” she said. She caught herself searching the wall to find the picture of him; happy, young, married to Jilly. “Let me just take all this in. Have you talked to the police?”

  “No! They want to, but I’ve been avoiding them.”

  “They won’t let you do that forever.”

  “I know, I know. You’ve talked to them, what do they sound like? Do they sound like they have a suspect? Do they talk like they know who did it?”

  “I can’t believe you killed her, Mark. I’m stunned.” A soft noise shifted somewhere in her swirl of thoughts and senses. Somewhere in the stable. “I mean, how? And why?”

  “You, of all people, can ask me why?”

  Margo tried to imagine him rubbing his face with his hand, gnawing at a bitten-down fingernail. She could imagine his handsome face puckered with annoyance, even guilt. She couldn’t picture the expression on his face that would accompany this conversation.

  “I thought it was just talk,” she said, tiredly. “It never occurred to me that you...I mean...that you could cold-bloodedly...”

  “I didn’t actually do it with my bare hands, Margo. Christ, you think I’m an animal or something?”

  Margo didn’t reply. She heard a muffled scraping noise coming from the other side of her office. It stopped almost as soon as she tried to listen for it.

  “...she was going to ruin me this time. I can’t even tell you what she wanted to do. But you know Jilly, right, Margo? You know what
she was into. Humiliation, torture...”

  “Mark, you need to talk to the police.” Margo felt her head begin to swim. She tried to remember if she’d eaten lunch.

  “Fuck the police! I killed her, Margo! I can’t talk to the police! Can you see me talking to the police? They’re going to nail me, man! My ass is dead-meat if I talk to the police! I got to find a place to--”

  The scream came from somewhere in the barn; erupting in a crescendo of pure terror. Margo dropped the phone and jerked open the door that divided her office from the rest of the barn. She could hear Mark continue to talk as if unaware that the phone had bounced down off the desk on her end and was now laying on the floor amid an opened box of worming paste samples. The screams continued. They were coming from the last stall just before the outer gate. Margo ran down the darkened aisle, her sneakers thudding softly in the straw and dust.

  It was Traveler’s stall. He was a gentle, elderly quarter-horse mix breed that belonged to a woman who rarely rode him. When Margo reached his stall, the horse was backing up against the rear slats of his stall, his eyes white and rolling with fear, as he screamed.

  “Whoa, Tray, boy...whoa, there, Traveler. What’s the matter, boy?”

  Margo opened the stall gate and held her hand out to the animal, trying to calm it. The horse seemed to recognize her. Worried that he might hurt himself in the close confines of his stall, Margo slowly reached inside the stall for the lead rope that was hanging on its hook. She quickly snapped it to the horse’s halter. Without entering the small stall, Margo gave the lead a firm tug and the horse sprang into the center aisle of the barn, nearly on top of her.

  Margo jumped back, away from the frantic animal, still holding onto the lead rope.