Next, they drove to her house. Chelsea packed a few things, put a protesting Mr. Chips into his carrier, and locked up the house.
As they drove to Ben’s ranch, Chelsea was silent. Who would want to kill her? Jason, to inherit her money?
Or could it be Uncle Bob?
She remembered the other night. The way he came toward her, that mad light in his eyes. She’d never seen that side of him before. Chelsea knew how badly he wanted to win the election. Was he afraid she would expose him?
After all, he killed Kathy. The insidious voice seemed to come from somewhere else. It masqueraded as her own thought, but she knew it was foreign. Kathy’s voice, inside her own head.
But was there any doubt that Bob had killed Kathy?
“I’m glad you’re staying with me,” Ben said. “Frank’s always around, and there are all the stable hands. You won’t be alone for a minute.”
Bob McCord could barely contain his impatience. His hands fumbled with the newspaper. He looked through the main section, then Metro, even Sports and Accent. Nothing.
He couldn’t stand it anymore. Had she told anyone?
He didn’t know how well he could drive. He was so weak. If I take it easy, stop to rest a few times, I could be in Bisbee by noon.
Then he’d know.
Fifty-five
Bob knew the risk he was running. If he got caught driving drunk, if the Highway Patrol checked on him and discovered his link with Kathy, if Chelsea had talked before—
An old truck pulled out in front of him, coughing blue smoke. Bob hit the brakes. The old fool had to be going fifteen miles an hour! Bob slowed the Mercedes to the same speed. Should he pass? Or should he follow the truck all the way into Sierra Vista?
Better to pull over. Besides, he was shaking like a leaf.
Bob stumbled out of the car and tottered on the verge. The blue sky radiated thin winter warmth. Way too cold for October, he thought, jamming his hands into his pockets. The grass whipped and shimmered, the tops like gold coins. Everything was sharp, cutting. Gold land and blue mountains, nothing in between. It hurt his eyes. He could use a drink. Another drink, his mind corrected, and by the way, aren’t you trying to get to Bisbee in one piece?
Waves of grass blurred before him, the freezing wind wringing tears from his eyes. His nose was running. He could almost feel the bourbon trickle down the back of his throat, sending pleasant, hot fumes through his chest and back up into his brain.
The truck should be safely out of his way by now. Bob got in, started up the Mercedes, and drove a steady fifty-five, stopping at Long’s in Sierra Vista long enough to pick up that bottle of bourbon.
He stood in line behind a woman with a little boy holding an orange plastic pumpkin by a black handle. That’s right, he thought. It’s Halloween.
I can show you Halloween.
The mother pushed through the checkout line, keeping her body between Bob and the boy, her face a mask of distaste. I must look like hell, he thought.
He took a couple of furtive sips in the parking lot, then started on the last leg of his trip.
A few miles outside Sierra Vista, Bob saw a road sign walk across the highway. The sign’s legs ate up the blacktop in giant strides, for all the world looking like a green giraffe sans neck. But he kept driving. Had to. Had to find out . . .
The road sloped down toward the break in the cottonwood trees along the San Pedro River. To the right, the abandoned house huddled in a brown field. Bob tracked it with his eye until he realized he should be watching the road. Especially in his condition. His eyes returned to the black ribbon in front of him.
Kathy was standing in the middle of the road.
Hands clasped in front of her, wearing the Army-green skirt and blouse she’d worn the last night of her life, her blank eyes fixed on Bob.
She’s not real.
The creature’s hair floated like black cotton; wisps of it licked across her mouth. Bob could see her sharp, white teeth. He was almost upon her now.
She held up a hand, palm out.
Keep going! She’s not real! Uncle Bob bore down on the accelerator.
He could see the epaulets on her sleeves and the navy trim around her collar—Army style in the fashion of the day. He could see the terror in her eyes.
Stop, she mouthed. Please!
What was he doing? What if it wasn’t Kathy, but a living woman? How could he run her down in cold blood? What kind of person was he? His foot came off the accelerator, hesitated over the brake pedal. Finally he depressed the brake, giving himself time to think.
Just what the hell do you think she wants, Bob? To talk about the deficit? To shoot the shit?
His foot hovered over the accelerator.
Stop, please! Her mouth moving, eyes wide, terrified.
Not real!
Please!
It was a trick; Kathleen Barrie was dead. God knows what would happen to him if he stopped. Bob’s foot sank down on the accelerator, bearing down, bearing down—
He closed his eyes, expecting a sickening thud and—
Opened them in time to see his car dive into her. She ripped apart into dark fragments, like bits of an exploded balloon. The fragments sailed into the air.
Shuddering, he glanced in the rearview mirror. Only a few black smudges, like a swarm of wasps, already dissipating into the air.
Relief poured down his face in rivulets of sweat.
He looked up and saw that he was headed straight for the side of the bridge.
Mr. Chips, from his vantage point in the Kitty Karrier on the seat, took one look at Pinto and growled low in his throat. Pinto sauntered up to the open door of the Silverado and stood up on his hind legs, peering into the interior.
Mr. Chips’s voice rose to a grating howl.
Pinto dropped to all fours and inspected the front wheel of the truck, left his own scent with a high jiggle of his tail, and returned to the front steps.
Chelsea laughed. “Is that any way to treat your guest?” she asked Pinto, hefting the cat carrier and its growling contents off the seat.
“We can close off the den,” Ben said. “Mr. Chips can have it all to himself.”
“Pinto won’t like that.”
“It’s a tough ol’ world. It’s about time we bachelors learned to cope.”
After settling Mr. Chips in, Ben and Chelsea drove over to the police station. It was time to give her statement.
Bob managed to stay on the road. Barely. After the bridge, he pulled over, covering his eyes with his hands. He was sick. Seeing her like that, on the road . . . It made him physically ill.
She had looked real. Beautiful, as she had been that night.
Chelsea’s right. Kathy wants me. Kathy wants me to die. He had no doubt that if he’d stopped back there on the road, she would have killed him. As it was, she’d nearly caused him to run into the bridge. Well, he wouldn’t accommodate her. He was tough. The McCord blood ran thick in his veins, and the McCords could take care of themselves.
He steeled himself for the rest of the drive and tried not to picture Kathy shredding in front of him in an evil, black cloud. As he drove up into the blue ramparts of the Mule Mountains, Bob expected to see the spectre appear at every curve of the highway. He would drive right through her again. Again and again, if necessary.
At the Copper Queen Hotel in Bisbee, Bob bought the two local papers and scanned them quickly, satisfying himself that there was nothing there to incriminate him.
He drove to Chelsea’s house. Her car was gone, the house locked up. She might not have said anything, might not have had time. But Bob had to make sure. He would wait.
After a fruitless two hours at the police station, Ben and Chelsea returned to the ranch. Even though an attempt had been made on her life, Chelsea would not be receiving protection from the police.
“You’re going to wait until this maniac kills her?” Ben had asked. “Then you’ll do something?”
The officer looked uncom
fortable. “I’m sorry, sir, but what can I do? There are no suspects. And we don’t have enough officers to assign one to you.”
Chelsea darted a glance at Ben and was relieved when he didn’t mention Uncle Bob as a suspect.
They returned to the ranch and spent the afternoon carving the jack-o’-lantern. They didn’t talk about Uncle Bob, or Kathy, or the feeling that things between them were escalating. Ben told her about his wife. Perhaps he did it to keep Chelsea’s mind off the dreadful feeling that Kathy was not through with them. Perhaps he did because of his own need for catharsis. One thing was certain: They had never been closer than at that moment. Ben had never shared much about himself before. Chelsea realized she had been unconsciously waiting for this moment since she first admitted to herself that she loved him.
Ben explained that he’d met Carol at UCLA during his last year of pre-vet courses. Carol had discovered his riding talent and encouraged him to ride competitively. Ben had left school to devote himself full-time to his new career; they’d spent four and a half years riding the show-jumping circuit.
“Then I got homesick. I wanted to go back to Bisbee and be with my father—he was dying. I insisted we move back here. Carol didn’t like that.” He paused, scooping out the pumpkin.
When Ben had started his breeding farm, Carol had viewed it as a threat. Ben had wanted to stay in Bisbee, breed horses, and finish his degree at the University of Arizona. “She said I was selfish. I was smothering her. I didn’t give a damn about her desires, her goals. Maybe she was right.
“She had affairs. I knew about them, but by then, I didn’t care. Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore. I just wanted to get out of the mess I was in.” Ben’s mouth flattened into a grim line. Chelsea felt a chill walk up her back. When he continued, his voice was harsh. “I went down to the Copper Queen where she was drinking with her latest lover, and I told her I wanted a divorce. Anything to get her out of my life.”
His gaze locked on Chelsea’s. “She laughed. She told me I was doomed to fail.”
Doomed to fail. How often had Chelsea heard those words, or ones just like them?
“It was quite a scene. I guess it looked bad when she died . . .”
A week later, Carol had gone down to the paddock to bring in the horses. She’d never returned.
Ben pushed at one of the jack-o’-lantern’s eyeholes. It fell with a soft thud back into the pumpkin. “I hated myself for a long time. I hated myself because I hated her. Because I couldn’t feel remorse when she died.”
Chelsea thought of Jason again. Would she have felt remorse if Jason died? She wasn’t sure.
“People around here thought I wanted Carol’s money,” Ben said. “By the time she was finished with me, I hated her and her money. It’s still going on . . .”
“What do you mean?”
Ben explained that Carol had managed to hide a lot of her assets. “She really despised me. She sold off her ranch in Sacramento—for one dollar—to a friend who put it in his name.” The other eyehole hit the bottom of the pumpkin with a thump. “So even though she’s gone, she’s not done with me. She didn’t leave a will. Now I’m dealing with all the legal issues arising from that. He laughed harshly. Every time I think of that ranch, I see her face.” His gaze leveled on Chelsea. “Sometimes I think she’s looking down on me.” He motioned to the window. “Enjoying all this.”
Chelsea grinned. “If that’s the case, it’s getting pretty crowded out there.”
Ben put his knife down and kissed her. “I’ll make a deal with you. You keep my ghosts at bay, and I’ll do the same for you.”
He finished carving the pumpkin and lit it. The eyeholes glowed with fiery intensity, the jagged, devil-may-care grin lighting up the room. Outside, the sun slipped down below the mountains. This Halloween promised to be a cold one. But here, in Ben’s kitchen, everything glowed with special color.
Chelsea wasn’t home yet. Bob knew he would be conspicuous if he stayed here much longer. The first wave of trick-or-treaters were out—the little ones, holding tightly to their parents’ hands. Dragons, witches, fairies, ghosts, and more than a few skeletons—all flitting across the evening-dark lawns, holding their bags of treats. Two groups had stopped near Chelsea’s house, the parents halting at the gate, trying to focus in the dusk at the figure on the shadowy porch.
“Don’t go up there, Byron,” a tall man called to his tiny son, dressed like a Smurf. “Let’s go to the next house.”
A high voice piped, “But there’s a man there.”
“Do what your father says. Come on, hurry!” The mother’s muffled voice drifted up to Bob. “Did you see that man? He looked like a skeleton!”
“Probably just a costume,” the father replied.
“Maybe so, but he gave me the creeps!”
Bob chuckled. No one had ventured up here; no one wanted to get close.
He heard a distant doorbell and the high voices calling “Trick or treat!” He heard the rattle of bags. A feminine voice: “Say thank you.”
A pumpkin sat on the porch wall across the street and glared at him. A face from hell.
Dark shapes scudded down the street above, footsteps on grass and cement. More children, coming this way. The wind rose to a shriek. Leaves shuttled down the narrow corridor between the row of houses along O’Hara Street. It was goddamned cold out here tonight. Bob felt a sudden urgency to get back home.
Wind ripped at his shirt. He realized the cold came from his own core.
Would Kathy be roaming these same streets? A real spirit among fake ones?
Fear gnawed at his stomach. She was here. He could feel it.
Bob suddenly longed to be in his Mercedes, doors and windows closed against the night.
Against her.
As he walked out to the car, Bob almost ran into a group of children. He saw their horror-stricken faces, saw them almost fall over themselves to get out of his way. Heard their exclamations.
Oh yes, kids. There really are things that go bump in the night.
Bob decided to take the other route back to Tucson. He didn’t like going by the abandoned house—especially at night. Especially after this morning. No, he’d avoid it altogether and go through Tombstone and Benson.
He’d reach Chelsea tomorrow and explain everything. He’d tell her about the letter—the letter to be released after his death, admitting his role in Kathleen Barrie’s disappearance. Chelsea would understand. She had to. But this whole thing couldn’t break now, not with the election only four days away!
After I’m dead, after I’ve done the things I have to do for this state, after I’ve made my mark—then she can release the letter. By then it won’t matter, because everyone will know what Bob McCord really stood for.
Land rushed by in a black blur. The moon, many nights short of its full harvest ripeness, rose in the east. It rested on the mountains like a lopsided pumpkin.
It was an accident.
Just an accident. But a pretty bad one, you have to admit. A pretty bad accident, Bob. The voice in his head oozed sarcasm.
I was a kid.
Why were there so few cars on the road? The rats were back, nibbling at the knots in his stomach. The feeling that something bad would happen had been unshakable—all day yesterday and today it had been there.
Was Chelsea even now calling a press conference?
You’re paranoid. She wouldn’t do that.
A figure stood in the road. Bob’s stomach tightened. Kathy? Again?
Bob slowed the car, straining his eyes. Should he speed up, run through it as he had done this morning? But first he had to get close enough, had to make sure.
The figure stood motionless in the road, feet straddling the median, thumb out. He wore a khaki jacket, jeans, and tennis shoes.
Bob’s pulse slowed. It wasn’t Kathy after all. Just a hitchhiker. Dangerous enough by today’s standards, but not meant solely for him. But as Bob approached, the man made no move to step to the side of the
road. He remained dead center and waved his arms at Bob.
“Please!” he called. “There’s been an accident! Please stop!”
Bob thought about going around the man. He was tired, and there was a good chance that the Highway Patrol would be making an appearance soon . . . if it really was an accident and not a trick. The alcohol level in his blood might be enough to convict him. A DUI arrest certainly wouldn’t help his chances to become the next governor of the fair state of Arizona.
“Aren’t you Bob McCord?” the man shouted. “Aren’t you running for governor?” And Bob had to stop. He couldn’t very well drive on and ignore a motorist in distress, not when he’d been identified. He’d have to take his chances and hope that the Highway Patrol was too busy making sure the crosswalks were safe for the trick-or-treaters tonight. He couldn’t very well snub a future constituent, could he?
He scanned the sides of the road for wrecked cars or any signs of catastrophe. There were none. Suddenly uneasy. Bob locked his door.
The man ran up to Bob’s car. He made a winding motion, asking Bob to roll down the window. Bob hesitated, thinking that a lot of escaped criminals had used the accident ploy, and he might be letting himself in for trouble. The man’s distress seemed genuine, though, so Bob let the window down part way.
“Thanks! You don’t know how long I’ve waited for someone to come by!” The man motioned to a dirt track veering diagonally away from the highway. “We ran into a cow down on that road, just over the hill. The car won’t move. I was just going to call for help. My wife’s in the car—she’s freezing. Could you drive her into Tombstone?”
“I . . . guess so.”
The young man took off down the side road at a jog trot. “Follow me!” he called, glancing back over his shoulder.
Bob followed. Topping the rise, he saw a late-model car canted off the shoulder of the dirt road, the front smashed in. A cow lay on its side nearby.
It could still be a trick. He remembered how real Kathy had seemed this morning. But watching the young man now, scrambling across the clawing mass of brush and bushes to reach the car, seeing his anxiety in every limb, Bob was nearly convinced.
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