Night of Shadows

by Marilyn Haddrill

  Mac rode off alone.

  Scott followed along in his government jeep to explore back roadways. He planned to stay in radio contact with the searchers on the ground and the helicopter that had been sent to help in the air pursuit.

  Melinda herself felt depressed rather than comforted by the activity.

  She knew from her own recent experience that there were far too many places for Finch to hide out in that wilderness. But for Mac, it was the diversion he needed for now to help keep him from brooding over the loss of his brother.

  Melinda looked over to see Preston's assistant, Rod, standing near the corrals. He had volunteered to stay behind at the house and keep watch. She lifted a hand, feeling at least solace at his return wave.

  When Melinda walked inside, she was met by Harriet's sorrowful face. The housekeeper dropped the curtain from where she had been peeking out at the expedition through the window.

  "Harriet!" Melinda exclaimed. "That sedative you took should have you knocked out."

  "Not me. Don't tell Mac, but I wasn't about to take it. I don't believe in all them highfalutin drugs. I'll just keep real busy. That's my tonic. And when I get tired enough, I'll sleep. Don't you worry none about that."

  Harriet grabbed a feather duster and began taking absent-minded swipes at everything in sight. Melinda spotted her own reflection in the window, the dark circles under her eyes telling of the ordeal. But, like Harriet, she didn't feel in the least bit tired. Her heart was pounding, her nerves tangled into little knots. But she had her own version of therapy.

  "I'm going to get my drawing pad and take a walk," Melinda said.

  "I've got work — lots of work to do," Harriet said, not even hearing as Melinda walked upstairs to retrieve her drawing materials.

  A few minutes later, Melinda opened the door and walked outside. She reflected that each of them had their own form of grief, and their own way of dealing with it. Melinda still couldn't believe what had happened, and her sense of unreality numbed her feelings.

  She sat down on a bench in front of a corral, and began drawing the face of a friendly mare that had hung its head over the fence to stare curiously. Melinda sketched the ears and eyes, trying not to dwell on melancholy thoughts. She barely noticed as Rod walked up and stood beside her.

  "I don't think you should be out here alone," he said.

  Something in his tone disturbed Melinda. She looked up, a little dazed. "You don't understand. I need to do this."

  "It's you who don't understand. Get out of here. Now. I mean it. Get back in the house."

  This was far more than casual concern.

  In alarm, Melinda placed her drawing materials beside her on the bench. She saw Rod's eyes shifting, as though he were looking for someone. It was understandable. The events of the last day or so would make anyone tense.

  "It's all been so terrible," Melinda said. "Sammy really was murdered. Did you know that?"

  "So I heard."

  "I wonder how he did it."

  "Who?"

  "Finch. I wonder how he managed to do it, with all the witnesses around. It seems like someone would have seen him come or go. Even if he sent one of his men, someone would have seen. Unless…"

  Melinda paled as she examined Rod more closely. "Unless he had someone on the inside."

  "You're just too damned smart for your own good, aren't you?" Rod's hands tightened around the rifle he was carrying. "You should have taken the advice I left you in that note."

  Melinda's eyes suddenly rested on a rack of spiked elk horns hanging on a nail on the outside of a stable. For the first time, she saw a slight smear of blood there. And then she realized.

  Sammy was gored to death by a steer — or something like a steer. That's what Rod had said in his death pronouncement. Sammy's blood was conveniently found on the steer's horns. Sammy's body was examined by Rod, a veterinarian with medical experience.

  And no one thought to question him. Not even the coroner.

  She saw the expression on Rod's face, and then she knew for sure. He was the man she glimpsed moving behind the house when Sammy had made the fatal arrangement to see her that night. Rod was the one who lurked in the shadows, and made sure Preston saddled up and kept his appointments on the nights when the dark airplane swooped down from the sky.

  Then Melinda watched Rod's face grow chalky as he stared at a point directly behind her. She felt a hand close around her mouth, and a bone‑crunching strain on her neck. Her arm was twisted savagely behind her.

  She didn't have to look to know who it was.

  "The best place to hide is under the nose of your enemy, didn't you know that?" Finch gloated. "It was nice of you to come to me, Miss Bailey. Now. Who's left in the house? Answer me. But if you try to scream for help, I'll break your pretty neck right here."

  He slowly removed his hand while she gasped for breath. She tried to collect her wits. "There's a couple of guards inside — "

  "Is that true?" Finch turned to Rod.

  "I — I'm not sure," he stammered. "I think most of them rode off this morning, looking for you."

  Rod, the turncoat, glanced from Melinda back to Finch. "Look, Roy — don't you think this has gone far enough?"

  "Shut up, idiot. You've been paid well. Just do as I say, if you don't have the stomach for this part. Go get one of the trucks. Get it ready, and wait for me. I'll take her along with us — just in case I need some insurance."

  As Rod left, Melinda felt the pistol dig into her back. Then the pressure suddenly eased, while Finch wrapped a dirty handkerchief around her mouth and fastened it tightly.

  Then, her arms were yanked behind her and tied painfully with a piece of wire.

  "I can't tell you what a pleasure this is," Finch said. "You and your sister cost me plenty. She's in the house, isn't she? Sure she is. This time I'll finish her. But as for you — you're going to be keeping me company for a while. We're going for a ride, far away from here."

  Finch avoided the possibility of being seen from the house by forcing Melinda to crouch behind corrals as they cautiously made their roundabout trip to the back kitchen door. Soon they heard the sound of a vehicle starting up — and driving away.

  Finch stood still, listening. "That spineless, no good...He ran out on me. No matter. I'll find him. He'll pay. We'll just have to find where they keep the keys to the other trucks."

  Keeping Melinda's arm in a painful grip, Finch reached out, twisted the knob and slowly pushed the door open. Inside, Harriet was bent over the sink, her back to them as she washed dishes. Finch thrust the gun sharply into Melinda's back and mouthed a silent warning: "Stay here."

  Then, gripping the pistol, he began creeping up behind Harriet. Realizing that he might kill her, Melinda could stand it no longer. It was hard to shout with a handkerchief stuffed in her mouth, but somehow she managed a muffled sound.

  Harriet started to whirl around, just in time to see Finch bring the gun down with a vicious force. She didn't have time to cry out. It cracked against her head, knocking her instantly to the floor.

  Roy then quickly turned and trained the gun on Melinda, as though daring her to try anything else. He stood, and appeared to be listening for movement from elsewhere in the house. Melinda stared down at Harriet's still body, taking note of the rise and fall of her chest. She was alive.

  Finally, Roy quietly began moving around the kitchen, converting some towels into a gag and rope for Harriet. When he was through trussing her up, he gave Melinda crazed look. His eyes were so cold and devoid of emotion that they no longer seemed human.

  "Your sister is the only other person here."

  He seemed so confident in that statement that he spoke in a normal voice. Looking relaxed, he stood up from where he was kneeling by Harriet and grabbed Melinda's arm again.

  "Come on. Let's get this over with. Let's go find her."

  As he half dragged Melinda up the stairs, her mind groped for a solution — anything. They were almost at the top when sh
e deliberately stumbled, and forced herself to roll painfully almost a third of the way down the steps.

  Her entire body was throbbing with the fall. But at least it was enough of a noisy diversion that it might rouse Joan from her drug-induced deep sleep.

  Finch cursed, and followed after Melinda. He reached down to pull her back to her feet. And that's when Melinda had her revenge. She swiftly turned over on her back and — pulling both feet up — kicked him in the stomach with a force strengthened by hatred.

  Her attacker screamed, doubled over, and went hurdling backwards down the stairs. At the same time, the gun fired harmlessly into the air. He landed at the bottom with a thud.

  Melinda pulled herself upright in time to watch him fall. She viewed his outstretched body with trepidation. Even though he lay still, she expected Roy Finch to revive at any moment and come after her. Tied as she was, she could do nothing else to stop him.

  She sucked in her breath as she felt beads of sweat forming on her forehead. Was Finch temporarily stunned? Or pretending?

  Melinda needed to reach that gun where it fallen just within reach of Finch's outstretched hand. She struggled to her feet and, with hands tied behind her back, moved awkwardly down the stairs one step at a time.

  It seemed like an eternity before she finally reached the bottom, where she kicked the gun savagely across the room. But she should not have bothered. At close range, she could now see Roy Finch's head twisted at an odd angle on his shoulders.

  His neck was broken, his eyes fixed in a permanent, glinty stare. She and her sister would never have to worry about this monster again. Melinda slid into a sitting position on the stairs, leaned her head on her knees, and sobbed with both relief and horror.

  Just then she heard the sound of hoofbeats in full gallop and a skidding halt, followed by the rush of footsteps on the porch. The door burst open and Mac stood there, pistol in hand.

  He gazed in wonder at Melinda, as she sat leaning one shoulder against the wall. Then Mac slowly walked closer, to peer down at Roy Finch. He fingered the pistol in his hand, almost as a gesture of regret that there was no need for a bullet to finish the job.

  Mac stooped beside Melinda and began to untie her hands, carefully undoing the wire. Then he removed the gag.

  "I might have known you couldn't stay out of trouble."

  Melinda half sobbed and half laughed in response.

  He examined her shoulders and arms for any sign of injury. Then he leaned over to examine a large bump on the back of her skull.

  "Looks like you've got a goose egg there. Good thing you landed on that hard head of yours."

  She put her arms around him and leaned against his chest. She couldn't stop the free flowing tears. "I'm sorry. I really did want to stay out of the way this time."

  Mac stroked her hair. "Never you mind. It was all my fault. I went riding off into the sunset, expecting to catch the bad guy — and he was here all along. What fools we all were, not to suspect Rod."

  "How did you know to come back?" Melinda asked.

  "I saw the truck and stopped him. He looked guilty as hell. So the gutless wonder finally told me what was going on — after a little persuasion. I rode here as fast as I could. When I heard that shot — well, you can imagine what I thought."

  They held each other a long time.

  "I keep blaming myself for Preston, you know," Mac said at last. "I encouraged him to cooperate with the feds, put himself in danger. I guess I thought if he did something heroic, I could be proud of him again. Instead, I just got him killed — "

  Melinda glared up at him, then took his hand. "You didn't kill Preston. That man right there did. And Roy Finch got just what he deserved."

  Melinda's bitter tone, stripped of any remorse for her part in Finch's death, startled even her. They sat together, looking at Finch's body, as though drinking in a type of morbid satisfaction.

  Fortunately, a thumping sound originating from the kitchen broke the dark spell.

  "Harriet!" Melinda said. "She's tied up in there. And Joan — I wonder if she heard anything? She must be terrified, if she did."

  They went their separate ways, Mac to release Harriet and Melinda upstairs to console her sister. As it turned out, Joannie had slept through the whole thing.

  When Melinda walked back downstairs, she saw that some of Scott's men had arrived and were busily evaluating the death scene below.

  Through the kitchen doorway, she saw Harriet on the floor where she was outstretched and holding an ice pack against her head. Several agents knelt beside her, assessing her wounds. The housekeeper was clearly conscious and kept fussing at everyone, telling them she didn't need any help.

  Melinda indifferently stepped around Finch's body, almost bumping into Scott as he appeared from the kitchen. Mac followed close behind him.

  "Let's all go into the library," Scott suggested. "I need to debrief you."

  "We're all fine here, Mr. Bradford," Melinda said dryly. "Thanks for asking."

  Scott just gave her a puzzled look in answer.

  After they were all seated at a table, the agent asked endless questions to obtain the answers he needed in order to wrap up the investigation. In turn, he explained where everything now stood. He wasn't sure what would become of Rod — or Connie or Debbie, or others among Finch's many accomplices.

  Most associates, including Connie and Debbie, had been involved only on the fringes, unaware of the full extent of Finch's sinister activities. Many would likely see jail time, eventually. It would be a messy, complex case, probably spanning several years.

  In the days that followed, the agents drifted away to devote their attention to other cases in other locales. Joan spent most of the time isolated in her room. Melinda tried visiting her there numerous times, only to be politely turned away.

  Melinda understood. It was her sister's way of coping, and she had no right to insist that Joan allow her to share the grief. Being allowed to console her sister would have made Melinda feel less lonely, however — and at least useful.

  Melinda then valiantly attempted taking over Harriet's kitchen duties while the housekeeper remained in the hospital, where she recuperated from a concussion. Instead of being acknowledged for her efforts, however, Melinda remained unseen.

  At mealtimes, Mac and Joan discussed ranch business, now that Joannie had inherited part of Preston's interests. Melinda, in fact, noted a new maturity in her sister while she watched Joan and Mac intently pore over the finances.

  Of course, there was little that Melinda could contribute to such conversations. And when friends appeared at the ranch to offer their condolences to Mac and Joan, they were all strangers to Melinda.

  Preston's funeral had been delayed until Harriet's return from the hospital a week later.

  To avoid curiosity seekers and reporters, the services were conducted at the ranch, at the family cemetery on the lonely hillside overlooking a pastoral scene of horses and cattle grazing in the distance.

  A soft breeze rattled the leaves of nearby dry brush, adding a natural background chorus to the preacher's final words. Scott Bradford and several agents were there, situated a respectful distance away.

  Melinda stood with Mac and Joan, both who remained stoic, eyes free of tears. They each had experienced their own mourning in their own way. And in private.

  Again, Melinda felt very much the outsider during this quiet ceremony. She didn't belong here, in this unforgiving land where the sunset now cast its familiar long shadows.

  She remembered the foreboding she had felt looking down upon the harsh terrain from the view of the plane when she had first arrived. That felt like a lifetime ago, when she had felt such a strong sense of purpose.

  Now, at the funeral of someone whose life had been wasted, that feeling of being driven dissolved into vast, empty sadness.

  The story here had ended, both sadly and happily, as was often the case in life. The part she had played was over. It was time to recapture her own identi
ty.

  It was time to go home.

  When the memorial service was over, everyone drifted away from the quiet meadow except for Joan, Mac, and Melinda. They stood, staring at the gravesites. The fresh mound of dirt awaited its own headstone.

  "All my blood kin are buried there now," Mac said dully.

  "Not all of them."

  Mac and Melinda gaped at Joan for a moment before they grasped her meaning.

  "Joannie," Melinda said. "You don't mean — ?"

  "I'm going to be an uncle?" Mac finished.

  "Something of Preston will still be here," Joan said, smiling tightly. "This child and I are going to spend a lot of time at Sacramento Ranch. I'm sure Preston would want that."

  Melinda realized then that, for the rest of their lives, she and her sister would be living miles apart. Again, she felt an aching loneliness.

  She stole a look at Mac, but he stared straight ahead — seemingly lost in some inner, tortured world he had been occupying since Preston had been shot and killed.

  That evening, as Melinda brooded in her room, she wondered why Mac had given her no sign that he felt anything for her other than friendship. Sure, he was grieving. She understood that. But it was as though the emotional bond they had once shared was now permanently dissolved.

  Just as when she had first met him, Mac spent all his time outdoors with the horses — as always, with no room in his life for anything or anyone else.

  At that moment, there was a tap on her door. Melinda opened it and was surprised to see Joan standing there. By mutual unspoken consent, they hugged each other for a long time.

  "I'm sorry, Melinda — I'm sorry I've been such lousy company."

  They sat down together on the bed.

  "I haven't even thanked you for coming here, for all you went through for me," Joan said.

  Melinda swallowed back tears of affection. "Never mind that. Just tell me how you're doing."

  It was a sisterly talk like the ones they used to have. Joan cried — a lot. But between her tears, she discussed her plans of returning to school. She liked New Mexico, and she wanted to finish her college education at the state university in Albuquerque.