Night of Shadows

by Marilyn Haddrill

  "Of course I did!" Mac retorted between gritted teeth.

  Melinda reached over to grab Mac's hand and squeeze, trying to calm him.

  "You don't like hearing this, do you?" Finch sounded amused.

  Then Finch turned abruptly toward Melinda, reached out, and grabbed her chin. He squeezed until she felt aching pain. She could tell by his soulless eyes that he wanted to hurt her much worse, but it didn't suit his current plans.

  "Then you — and your sister — ruined everything!"

  Finch released his grip, then slapped Melinda hard across the cheek and almost knocked her to the ground. One of Finch's gunmen jabbed his weapon hard against Mac's back to keep him from jumping to her defense.

  Finch, shaking his hand as though it hurt from the blow, stepped back from them both as though to put a safe distance between him and Mac. His hate-filled eyes stayed fixed on Melinda.

  "Even Preston didn't know where I had those horses hidden until you went snooping around on my property. And then I was afraid you would go around blabbing about what you saw. So you forced my hand. We had to kill all those animals and bury them. Did you know that?"

  Melinda grew nauseous at the thought of those magnificent, lively young horses being slaughtered along with what she had deduced were their surrogate mothers.

  "Well," Finch continued. "I suppose it doesn't matter now. Joan had turned Preston against me anyway. And once he runs this one last errand for me, it'll all be over. I'll take over the McClure ranch. And then I'll be legitimate. Respectable. And a very, very rich man."

  At that moment, the door was flung open. And Melinda saw a sight that made her cry out with joy. A man walked in, half-dragging a bedraggled and very confused looking young woman. Melinda ran over and wrapped her sister in a hug that she wanted to last forever.

  "Oh, Joannie," she sobbed. "You're alive."

  "Melinda?" Joan, too, was crying.

  "Isn't this touching?" Finch asked sarcastically.

  "There's one thing I can't figure out," Mac said stoically, as the sisters stepped apart. "Sammy. Why did you kill him?"

  Joan turned defiantly toward Finch. "You killed Sammy?"

  "My dear young lady, you left us no choice. You drove out to the ranch that day, full of all those threats. And you were stupid enough to tell us that you shared your suspicions with your lover."

  "Sammy wasn't my lover! He was my friend!"

  "So you say."

  "You're an idiot!" Joan spat. "I told you I didn't know anything. Not really. I just wanted you to leave Preston alone. That's all. All I saw were some papers — just some papers about bloodlines you'd given to Preston. They seemed important, but I didn't know what they meant. I made copies, and I gave a set to Sammy for safekeeping. That's all he had, all he knew."

  "But that was enough," Finch said. "Maybe you thought you were only bluffing. But the truth is, those papers were faked. And I didn't need anyone taking a closer look. My animals are — and were — much, much better than the records say. You saw that, didn't you, Melinda?"

  "Ringers," Mac mumbled.

  "Figured it out, did you, McClure?" Finch looked enormously self-satisfied. "I thought it was brilliant, myself. I had to lay the groundwork first. That took some time."

  "So you pretended to be a horse buyer," Mac said.

  "Well, sometimes I actually did buy a horse or two." Finch's shadow continued to trail him as he walked slowly around the storage room, hands behind his back. "As you know, I entertained a lot of wealthy people who owned some of the best quarter horse stock in the nation. I visited their ranches, too. Eventually I made a lot of personal connections — including well paid insiders."

  "Like Preston?" Melinda asked.

  "Oh, Preston was much more than an insider. He was crucial to the entire operation. I had a good idea from my connections of the kind of horses I wanted in my inventory. So then I would send Preston to fly out alone to some of the area's major breeding ranches. He would usually land during the night at a private air strip nearby. And someone well placed would meet him to help him do his work — taking sperm from the best sires, and embryos from the best mares. Horse thievery without even having to take the horse. And without the owner ever knowing something priceless had been stolen."

  "That's despicable," Mac growled.

  "You think so? But it's all so civilized. We even had a colt out there from your cherished Black Gold, McClure. I insisted Preston do it. After all, Black Gold is the best."

  Mac looked visibly upset, but he managed to hold his tongue. Finch glanced uneasily at his watch.

  "So there you have it," he said. "It was easy enough to get the surrogates. The Bureau of Land Management adopts out wild horses from rangelands that are being overgrazed in the West. You can pick up a spirited mare for less than two hundred dollars, implant her with a fertilized embryo — and she produces a winner, a real blueblood."

  "What about the papers?" Melinda asked.

  Finch shrugged. "It's easy enough to get the papers faked for ordinary racing stock. After all, why would there be any questions? You instruct your jockey to hold back in the early races. And then, when the big money is there, you place your bets and have your ringer run like the wind. You have yourself a long shot — only, it's a long shot that's almost a sure thing. And then you also have a winning horse, which adds value when it comes time to sell or breed. Win, win, win. That's what this business is all about, isn’t it?"

  Finch glanced down at his watch then, and nodded toward one of his men.

  "Bring them to the airstrip," he said. "I'd feel safer having them there, where I can keep an eye on them. It's going to be a while before Preston gets back, so tie their hands first."

  Finch left the building. A short, balding man walked over to Mac, took the candle from him, and switched on a flashlight. "You won't be needing this."

  Melinda could see Mac's eyes roving around the room, assessing the three men assigned as their keepers. The two in the back of the room kept guns trained on them. The balding man spotted some old, frayed rope on the floor and picked it up. He took out his pocket knife and began to section it out.

  A few minutes later, the three prisoners were marching along, each with their hands tied behind their backs. Flashlights illuminated their way up a well-worn trail, no doubt leading to the airstrip where soon they would take a plane ride.

  Melinda noticed that Mac's head kept shifting back and forth, as though he were looking for something — or someone. She opened her mouth to question him, but he gave her a stern look, indicating she must keep quiet.

  At that moment, Melinda heard a soft "whump" behind her. Then, another. Then a stifled exclamation, and a thud. She whirled in time to see the balding man fall to his knees and topple onto the ground to join two other bodies.

  Scott Bradford, ever the reserved one, stood behind him — looking very pleased with himself. He was carefully taking off a pair of gloves as he switched what appeared to be a padded nightstick from one hand to the other. In the limited view afforded by the now-grounded flashlights, Melinda also was aware of other dark figures in the background.

  Several of the unidentified shadows stepped forward, flicked on their own lights, and began untying the prisoners while Scott's eyes coolly appraised them.

  "What happened, McClure?" he asked. "You were supposed to see to it that the woman stayed in the house and out of the way. For that matter, you were both supposed to stay out of the way."

  Bradford walked up to Joan and eyed her as though she were a piece of cargo being inspected for damage.

  "Joan McClure," he said. "How nice to see you. We were preparing a full-scale search of Eagle Ranch, hoping to find you there."

  "Who are you?" Joan blurted out the words uppermost on Melinda's mind.

  "Scott Bradford, FBI." He flashed a badge to prove his point.

  "Really?" Melinda found herself glaring openly at Mac. "You could have told me."

  "Now, now, Miss Bailey," Scott inter
rupted. "It was strictly my decision. I wanted as few people as possible to know what we had planned. It was for your own safety."

  "How very chauvinistic of you," Melinda said sarcastically.

  "Thank you." Scott, as obtuse as ever, didn't catch her meaning.

  Mac reached over and gave Melinda an affectionate hug. Then he turned to Joan, reached out, and took her under his other arm.

  "I'm glad to see you again, Joannie," he said. "We've got a lot to talk about."

  "What about Preston?" Joan asked worriedly. "I want to see Preston."

  Mac squinted up at the sky. "The FBI wanted more evidence. So that's why we had to find out where Finch kept the horses hidden. It was Preston's idea to go on this one, last trip to a Tucson horse ranch and wear a wire. He told Finch Melinda was sedated, and hadn't been able to talk to anyone except me — and that I wasn't asking any questions."

  "That's why you wanted me out of the way yesterday," Melinda guessed. "You were bringing in all the agents, hiding them, getting ready for this."

  "That's right," Mac said.

  At that moment, another man emerged from the darkness.

  "Everything's secure," he informed Scott.

  Scott nodded, and turned to the three former prisoners. "Let's get back to the air strip and wait for Preston. I'm going to let you folks be there on one condition — Stay out of the way. Can I make that any clearer?"

  With all their thoughts focused on the clear night sky and the plane that would soon appear, they followed the beam of a flashlight down the trail toward the landing strip. Melinda hooked her arm through Joan's and beamed at her as they walked. They didn't need words, at least not at the moment.

  "I sure feel better knowing you fellows have Roy Finch in custody," Mac said finally.

  There was a pause as Scott, who was leading the way, suddenly stopped and turned.

  "What are you talking about, McClure?"

  "Your men said everything was secure. That means everyone has been taken prisoner — accounted for. Doesn't it?" Worry crept into Mac's voice.

  "No," Bradford said. "We thought Finch was supposed to get on the plane — to keep an eye on Preston. That was the plan. So you're telling me Finch changed his mind?"

  Melinda no longer looked at the darkness surrounding them as a friend. Now it was a cloak hiding their worst enemy.

  "You mean Finch got away?" she asked.

  "You hear that, Wilson? O'Rourke?" Bradford snapped at some of the men bringing up the rear. "Get to the air strip. Organize a search."

  As the men ran ahead of the group, Bradford smiled tersely. "I'm sure Finch saw us, so he's probably long gone."

  "Do you think you'll ever find him again?" Joan asked.

  "Don't know. Maybe. If I were him, though, I'd leave the country."

  Bradford's tone sounded far too fatalistic, as though he had known too much disappointment in past endeavors to offer any false hope.

  "Well, at least no one's been hurt — or killed — tonight," Mac said, as he gazed up at the sky. "We've had a lot of luck so far. Let's just hope for Preston's sake we haven't used it all up."

  9

  Mac, Melinda, and Joan sat on the ground, quietly waiting for what seemed an intolerable length of time as the moon dropped lower on the horizon. Tonight, even the crickets were mute as though sensing the tension surrounding them.

  The efficient movements of about a dozen of Scott's men in the dim light comforted the three onlookers on the sidelines. The agents were all armed, patrolling the area with an attitude of readiness.

  Scott stopped by to reassure them.

  "Preston's about an hour behind schedule, but don't let that bother you. Our spotters tell us he's already taken off from Tucson. We'll move in now to make some arrests there, but we wanted him out of harm's way first."

  Melinda and Joan exchanged relieved smiles. Soon after receiving the news, they heard the faint drone of an airplane in the distance. They leaped to their feet in unison, all straining to catch sight of movement in the sky.

  "Everybody get out of sight!" Scott shouted. "We don't want the guy Finch sent to guard Preston to get any ideas that something might be wrong here."

  They obediently ducked down behind some rocks, while the other agents melted into the darkness. The only lights around them were from the Eagle Ranch van and a lone figure standing on the runway, from where he signaled the plane with a flashlight.

  Preston had briefed the agents on the routine, including the guide light used to direct him to the strip. Of course, the agents had all replaced Finch's men — who had been carted away in federal vehicles. The plane was flying without lights, and the dark hulk that now approached was only barely visible against the bright stars.

  The rest was easy — almost too easy. The plane drifted downward and coasted to a stop. Two dark figures stepped down onto the runway. Immediately, about a half dozen federal agents surrounded them.

  Spotlights from nearby vehicles were flicked on. One of the men was handcuffed. Preston detached himself from the group, and stood alone in full view. Joan could no longer contain herself. She jumped to her feet from behind the rock and began shouting his name. He grinned widely, as his face brightened.

  "Joannie!" he called out.

  He began running toward them.

  And that's when a single shot rang out, as ominous and final as death itself.

  Preston crumpled. A crashing sound in the timber sounded like someone running in frantic escape. Joan screamed. Despite warnings that were shouted at her from various agents to stay down, she ran to Preston's still body and kneeled beside him. Mac and Melinda were right behind Joannie. They, too, ignored Scott's shouts ordering them to stay where they were and to remain out of sight.

  The scene exploded in confusion. Scott yelled out to his agents to douse the lights. Darkness enveloped the area. Men and women then surrounded them in a protective circle, holding up their guns. More agents went running off in the direction from where the shot originated.

  Scott pushed his way through the circle and stood beside Melinda briefly. Then he stooped and grabbed for Preston's wrist. He held it tightly for a minute, with his two fingers strategically placed while feeling for a pulse.

  Then he quickly stood up. "Nothing we can do here."

  He jumped up and began barking orders, organizing another search for Finch.

  Melinda just stood, paralyzed with disbelief, as she stared down at Joan's pathetic figure in the pale moonlight. She averted her eyes from the blood pooling under Preston's head. Mac, kneeling beside Joan, put an arm around her and squeezed. His face, too, was stricken.

  None of them protested when one of Scott's men led the three of them to a car and hustled them inside.

  It was eerie riding in that car, in the backseat between Joan and Mac. Neither shed a tear, though their faces were molded into expressions of anguish. Melinda could think of no words to comfort them. Instead, she reached out and put an arm around Joan, and one hand on Mac's shoulder.

  It was daybreak when they reached the ranchhouse.

  Harriet anxiously greeted them at the door. And when Mac told her what happened, she broke into unashamed wailing. Her reaction was just what was needed for release for all of them. Joan sank onto the sofa, where she sat trembling and sobbing. Melinda went to her, sat down beside her, and held her.

  Melinda then looked up to see tears trickling down Mac's face. But it was mostly his eyes that that betrayed his deep suffering. He put his arm around Harriet, who was inconsolable.

  "Joan needs a sedative," he told Melinda. "Take her on upstairs. I'll bring her something shortly that should help her sleep."

  Melinda obeyed, as though in a stupor. Joan didn't argue as Melinda tucked her into the bed her sister and Preston had shared. Minutes later, Mac appeared carrying a glass of water and two pills.

  "I gave one of these to Harriet. It seemed to calm her down some."

  Joan took the pills, stretched out in bed, and in only min
utes appeared to fall into a deep sleep.

  "Poor kid," Mac said softly. "She's been through a lot."

  "And what about you?" Melinda asked, searching his face.

  "I've got my own plans." He turned and walked away, without explaining.

  "Mac!"

  Something in the tone of his voice made Melinda run after him. She followed him down the stairs and to the gun cabinet, where he pulled out a rifle with a stock that looked well worn. He opened a drawer, and took out a box of ammunition. He started shoving bullets into the rifle chamber.

  "Did I ever tell you what a good hunter I am?" he asked bitterly. "I can shoot a turkey through the neck at 200 yards."

  At that moment, Scott appeared in the hallway.

  "What do you think you're doing, McClure?" he demanded.

  "Hunting."

  "No way," Scott said. "I'm not having two of you on my conscience. My men are out there looking for Finch right now."

  "Your men don't know this country. I do."

  Scott paused, thinking. "I can arrest you right now, you know — for obstructing justice."

  Mac reached into the cabinet and grabbed a holster with two six‑guns. "These were my great granddaddy's. They still work."

  He shoved bullets into the pistols, strapped the holster around his waist and finally met Scott's eyes.

  "Tell you what, fella," Mac said. "There's no way to cover this country without a horse. My men out there — they know how to ride. They know their way around. And they'll know what to do with Roy Finch if they find him. So don't be an idiot. You need our help. And besides — you owe me one. A big one."

  Scott looked down at the floor. "I do at that. All right, McClure. But I'm going to warn you about something. We want Finch alive. I'd hate to see you up on murder charges. Do you understand me?"

  "Listen to him!" Melinda burst out.

  Both men looked at her with open surprise. They had forgotten she was there, as usual. Mac's look softened.

  "For you, Melinda — I promise I won't do anything stupid."

  About thirty minutes later, she stood watching on the porch as about a dozen men saddled up horses for themselves and the agents. They then took off in bunches of twos and threes. Some of the agents looked a little awkward, hanging onto the saddlehorns of spirited mounts. But the search was on.