Barnstorming (Gail Mccarthy Mysteries)

by Laura Crum

  “Keep me posted,” I told her, and watched her drive away.

  I took my time unsaddling Sunny and brushing him. It was almost two o’clock and Mac would be home soon. I filled the water troughs and watered my potted plants and in another ten minutes Blue’s pickup came driving in, with Mac in the passenger seat. My son bounced out of the truck, as eager to be home as he was to arrive at the next destination.

  “Want to exercise Henry?” I asked. “He needs it.”

  “Sure,” Mac said.

  “I think you can ride him bareback if you want,” I said. “The vets at the equine hospital okayed that.”

  “Great,” Mac said.

  Since Henry had been operated on three months ago, we had hand-walked him daily. But now, at the three-month marker, we’d been given permission to ride him bareback at the walk. Mac was grinning from ear to ear as he caught his horse.

  I was grinning, too, as I helped him slip the bridle on Henry. Henry had that effect on you. Something about his bright copper red color and cheerful white-striped face made everybody smile. I said a small silent prayer of gratitude as I legged Mac up on Henry’s shiny sorrel back. Our good old horse was still with us. Still sound, too. Rehabbing Henry from major surgery had been a long road, and an expensive one, but worth the time and money. I watched Mac ride away on his steady, reliable gelding and knew I’d make the same choice again. Henry was part of the family.

  Mac rode Henry for twenty minutes at the walk and then put him back in his corral. I fed the horses and headed up the hill for some much needed porch time. I could hear Blue playing his bagpipes in the little house, so I aimed for the front porch of the main house. In another five minutes I had a cup of tea and was settled in my chair. But I wasn’t peaceful.

  My mind was full of endless chatter. If I rested my eyes on the landmark tree the first thing I thought of was Buddy’s camper. Buddy could see the landmark tree, too. From Buddy my thoughts went to Brandon Carter, hiking through the woods with his rifle in his hand. Jeri seemed sure that this was not the gun that killed Jane; still, it was an oddly ominous image. And then there were Doug and Sheryl, wrapped in what was obviously a taut dialogue—about what? And Ross Hart, busted because of Jane’s tip. The noisy, restless thoughts went on and on.

  I stared at the familiar ridgeline in consternation. Underlying the thoughts was something else. An edgy, uncomfortable feeling. It didn’t take me long to figure it out. I was afraid. I pictured myself riding the trails alone, seeing Brandon, perhaps Buddy—without Jeri at my side. And fear twisted in my gut.

  I didn’t like it. I had ridden the trails along the ridge for so long, in all seasons and weather; they were part of my life, part of my home. I took a sip of my steaming tea and felt anger rise up underneath the fear. As on the day Jane had been murdered, after the racing thoughts and the fear came resistance. This was my home. Those were our trails. I didn’t want all of it polluted by an ugly dangerous blight. I didn’t want to be afraid to go there. But what exactly could I do about it?

  The answer that came to me was simple and startling.

  Then go there.

  I took another sip of tea and wondered what that meant.

  Just go there.

  That was it. No explanation. But I thought I understood. If I didn’t want the woods to be forever haunted, I could not run. I had to stay and fight.

  Tomorrow, I promised myself, I’ll go for a ride on the ridge. Alone.

  Chapter 13

  I saddled Sunny around ten o’clock the next morning, determined to go for a ride. Blue had taken Mac to his karate class; I thought I had a couple of free hours in which no one would miss me. And I planned to spend them on the trails.

  I wasn’t sure if this was a wise course of action. In fact, I was damned nervous about it. But the very anxiety that tensed my jaw and clenched my stomach made me more stubborn. I wasn’t going to be run off my home range. In my cargo pockets I had a cell phone and a camera. I’d debated bringing my pistol, but rejected the idea as unworkable. I couldn’t see myself in some sort of western shootout. Besides, the only place I could carry the gun was in a saddlebag, and how was I supposed to get it out in time to be effective if someone actually shot at me? Let alone, how was Sunny going to feel about having a gun fired off his back?

  It ain’t gonna happen, I reassured myself as I pulled the cinch tight and climbed on. You’re just going for a ride on the familiar trails. You probably won’t see a soul.

  I didn’t plan to go anywhere near Buddy’s camper, that was for sure. But even riding Sunny down my own driveway, I felt unnaturally alert, as if I had eyes in the back of my head—eyes that were scanning for something hiding in the brush. Something or someone. The vision of some unknown person concealed in the shrubbery with a loaded gun pointed my way just wouldn’t leave me.

  We crossed the road without incident—for once there was very little traffic. Planning my route in my mind, I chose the little sidehill trail that skirted the big subdivision. I hadn’t taken Jeri that way, partly because I wasn’t keen to reveal the existence of this trail. But it was the way I most often went myself.

  I rode across the meadow where we had seen the coyote on Sunday, and headed up the hill through the oak trees. The sudden shift from brilliant light to deep shadow felt like stepping into a cave. But in a minute my eyes adjusted and the filtered light under the oaks was pleasantly dim.

  Moving through the trees on my steady yellow horse felt familiar and reassuring, and slowly the tight fear in my gut began to soften and melt. The woods did not seem ominous, as I had dreaded; they were their same old selves, green and friendly. As we topped the first hill, I peered through the screen of tree branches at the big houses along Storybook Road.

  Blank, well-tended, silent, the houses struck me as ominous. Repulsive, and yes, ominous. I shook my head at the thought. Did I suppose the shooter was crouched in one of these ugly modern mansions? Not likely. But the persistent image of the friendly woods and hostile houses stuck in my mind.

  We made our way along the ridge, winding between twisted tree trunks, tangled scrub, and twining vines. I ducked for the low overhanging branch. Sunny clambered up the hills and stepped carefully down into the gullies. Every now and then I glanced down through the leaves to see glimpses of the tidy lawns and patios that skirted the giant, featureless houses on the other side of the ridge. I was hidden behind a screen of manzanita and scrub oak, invisible to any but a discerning eye, yet I still felt vulnerable. As if some adversary might spot me.

  In another minute or two we topped the ridge and made our way down the slope, through the warm meadow, headed toward the spot where I’d found Jane’s body. The crime scene tape was still there, but no one was around. I heaved a sigh of relief. Maybe this was going to be just another pleasant walk in the woods. I averted my eyes from the spot where Jane’s corpse had rested.

  Sunny paced along; the air was warm and fresh. I took a deep breath. I was past the crime tape and my mind felt clear. I looked down to see brilliant white and gold light sparks reflected on the left side of Sunny’s shiny neck. His mane sprang in a snowy crest to sweep down the other side. In front of me his yellow ears were pricked sharply forward, almost touching at the tips. And suddenly I was happy.

  I rode down the warm meadow and into the cold valley. Across the streambed and up through the redwood grove. I let Sunny trot up the hill, which he clearly wished to do. Then back down to the walk through tangles of wild currant and berry vines. Up ahead was the three-way trail crossing. And then I heard voices.

  Immediately my cheerful mood vanished and my heart thumped hard in my chest. There was no rational reason. Someone who meant to shoot at me would probably not be chatting out loud. But I couldn’t help it. My nerves were strung as tight as a spooky horse.

  I peered ahead and checked Sunny, not sure I wanted to meet anyone out here in the woods. I could hear the voices but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. They were not loud; the tone sounde
d conversational, not confrontational.

  Sunny and I stood in a clump of greenery where the trail detoured around a toppled oak. The voices appeared to be coming from the clearing where the three trails met, right at the top of the slope, perhaps a hundred feet away. Male voices, it sounded like. Just chatting.

  I hesitated and then bumped Sunny with my heels. What danger could there be? Sunny walked calmly forward and up the hill; in another minute I could see the figures standing in the clearing, both on foot. They looked familiar, and in a moment I recognized them. The hiker with his yellow Lab, and Brandon, carrying his rifle. As before, the hiker carried a machete. Almost without thinking, I halted Sunny.

  It was just too creepy—two men with weapons up in the woods. They had spotted me, and both men were looking in my direction.

  “Um, hello,” I said, from fifty feet away.

  Brandon nodded his head in response; the hiker muttered something inaudible to me. And both turned and moved off, in different directions.

  The man and dog headed down the ridge trail; Brandon came towards me. My eyes were fixed on the rifle, which he held loosely in one hand, not pointing it at anything. It still made me nervous. I reined Sunny off to the side of the trail as Brandon approached.

  “Nice day for a hike,” I said.

  Brandon ignored this, except to jerk his chin in response, as before. As he came up to us, I tried again. “Didn’t I meet you yesterday?”

  At this he stopped and looked up, meeting my eyes. His were startlingly blue, the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. “You were with the sheriff lady,” he said.

  “Yep,” I agreed.

  “Seen any cougars lately?”

  “Nope,” I said.

  Laconic as Brandon had sounded, I did not get the sense he was unfriendly. Just reserved. His blue eyes looked up at me in a steady, curious way. He held the rifle pointed loosely at the ground. For a second I hesitated.

  “Are you looking for the shooter?” It just popped out of my mouth.

  Brandon studied me a minute. “Maybe,” he said at last.

  For some reason, I found this reassuring. It struck me that Brandon was being honest.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I don’t like people shooting women up in the woods.”

  I had the feeling that Brandon’s emotions were similar to mine. A deep-down anger at the evil that had polluted our ridge.

  “I don’t like it either,” I said. “I don’t want to be afraid to come here.”

  “I hear you,” he said.

  “What did the guy with the dog have to say?” I asked.

  “Nothing much. He walks up here with the dog every day. He said he hasn’t seen anything unusual. Have you?”

  “No,” I said. “Not today. Did you see that camper up on the logging road?”

  “It’s gone now,” Brandon said.

  “It is?”

  “That dude took off yesterday. I saw the camper driving down the road.”

  “Oh,” I said, and wondered if Jeri had managed to get back to Buddy before he departed.

  Brandon was still looking up at me, but I couldn’t think of anything else to add to this conversation. Still, somehow I felt sure that he and I were on the same side. After a moment he ducked his head, said, “Have a nice ride,” and walked on past. I watched him go, feeling confused and puzzled. There was something odd about this guy. And yet I kind of liked him.

  I bumped Sunny with my heels and sent him forward. The hiker and his dog had disappeared. I rode up to the three-way trail crossing, and took the trail that led to the Lookout. With any luck I was done encountering folks for the day.

  Sunny walked briskly through a tunnel of scrub oaks and vines that arched overhead and marched quickly up the steep hill beyond. He knew which way we were going, and that he would be allowed to have a rest at the Lookout. Best for him to get it over with and get there. Sunny broke into a trot and we moved steadily uphill between redwoods and then some old, tall madrones. I slowed the horse to the walk as the ground leveled out. We passed the poacher’s blind high in the oak tree and I glanced up automatically. Nothing to be seen. A moment later later we arrived in the little clearing at the top of the bluff, Sunny huffing slightly but composed. Only to find another horseman planted in front of the view.

  It took me all of a second to recognize Jonah Wakefield on his buckskin colt. Jonah was wearing his Stetson and long duster and leading a saddled sorrel horse by the bridle reins. He did not seem aware that I was there.

  Jonah might not have been aware of me and Sunny, but both of his horses spotted us quickly. Ears went up, heads raised; the buckskin nickered. Jonah looked over his shoulder and saw me.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Hi,” I returned. I was studying the horse he led, which looked familiar. “Is that Sheryl Silverman’s mare?” I asked.

  “Yeah, it is,” he said. “Have you seen her?”

  “Me?” I was surprised by his question. “No, I haven’t seen her. Why?”

  “I found this mare grazing in the field outside our back gate. She was dragging her bridle reins and from the look of them she’d been there awhile. I’m afraid she might have dumped Sheryl out here somewhere. So I went looking for her.”

  I shook my head. “I haven’t seen her. I haven’t seen any horse people this morning. Just a couple of hikers.”

  “I guess I’ll ride back down the logging road and the swingset trail. That’s the way she usually went, I think.” Jonah tugged on the sorrel mare and rode off, looking worried.

  I sighed. Somehow contemplating the view didn’t seem as appealing now. I glanced over my shoulder; I had no wish to ride the same way as Jonah. And then I remembered it. The new trail.

  Mac had spotted it on Google Earth one day. The faint mark of a trail leading from the Lookout back towards our place—a trail we’d never ridden.

  I walked Sunny across the clearing and sure enough, there it was. A faint, dusty track leading off down the hill, well marked with horse hoofprints. In the sunlight it appeared entirely benign, a gentle slope of dried grass the only apparent terrain.

  Still, I hesitated. I knew where this trail ended up, more or less—it went the right way to take me home. But I didn’t know what it traversed exactly. Would I end up in some steep, tricky spot where I didn’t at all want to be? I had no wish to hurt my horse or myself. And I had done enough trail riding to be wary of unknown trails.

  Still, other horses went this way—that was plain. If they could do it, surely we could do it, too. Mentally I rebutted this easily. Other horses could be ridden by wild teenagers who had no idea of danger, or savvy endurance riders mounted on handy Arabs that could handle any amount of adversity. I, on the other hand, was a relatively sedate middle-aged woman on an equally sedate middle-aged horse. Neither one of us wanted to pick our way down a cliff.

  Somehow, though, I found myself letting Sunny take the new trail. The allure of seeing something different was overwhelming my natural caution. I’ll turn back, I told myself, if it gets tricky.

  We walked down the dusty hillside and into a pretty grove of redwood trees. The trail wound between their giant trunks, presenting no problems, easy to follow, obviously well traveled. I began to relax.

  Down and down we went, traversing the opposite side of the ridge from the one we’d come up. Here we ducked under the overhanging branches of an oak tree, there we detoured around a clump of brambles. The trail was plain. And then it came to a steep dropoff.

  Horses went down here. The tracks were well marked in the soft ground, dug deep by many scrambling hooves. I reined Sunny to a stop. Did I really want to go down this? It looked as though we might have to slide all the way to the bottom, and that was quite a ways—maybe fifty feet.

  On the other hand, did I really want to retrace my steps and go back? Not so much. If I could just get down this bit, maybe the rest would be easy. Sunny was the master of a cautious descent. I clucked to him and felt him step forward.
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  Slowly, very slowly, Sunny shuffled his way down the hill, one careful baby step at a time. Occasionally his back feet slid a bit, but he remained calm, stayed up, and kept shuffling down the steep chute. I didn’t hurry him, just tried to sit balanced and quiet on his nearly vertical-seeming back as he made his way down the bank.

  Once at the bottom I heaved a sigh of relief. The sun spangled the trail, blue jays squawked in the trees. For the past minute, I had not thought once about the shooter in the woods. I almost laughed. Nothing like a little real and present danger to drive away the “what ifs.”

  The trail continued on through the forest. Sunny walked out, ears forward, looking around. I thought I knew about where we were—but I wasn’t sure. Somewhere on the west side of the ridge. Somewhere I’d never been before.

  The trail made a bend and started steadily upward. I looked ahead and checked Sunny abruptly. Now this I did not like. Not fifty feet ahead of me the route became very steep indeed, and in the middle of the most vertical bit, the path made a sharp right-angle turn to dodge a huge redwood stump, and in the midst of the turn was a two foot step up over the root. A slip and a scramble here could have dire results.

  Well, damn. I could see daylight shining through the trees above—it looked as though I would be out of the forest if I could get past the steep part. I was dying to know exactly where this trail was taking me. And turning back now would involve going up the equally steep place with the deep ground that Sunny had slithered down. I was not anxious to try scrambling up through the loose dirt. But I was not keen on what I saw ahead either.

  Sunny relaxed and cocked a hind leg as I stared at the trail, wondering what I ought to do. My steady mount was willing to sit here all day, while I pondered, for which I was profoundly grateful.

  Thick tangles of blackberry vines banked either side of the trail, but after a minute I noticed that the vegetation was trampled and beaten down to my left. I studied this for a moment. It looked as though some horses had gone this way. In another moment I was sure that other horsemen had elected an alternate route up the hill, which avoided the right-angle turn and the step up. There wasn’t much of a trail, just the battered streak through the foliage, but I was instantly sure that was the way to go.