Breakaway (A Gail McCarthy Mystery)

by Laura Crum

  Did the horse rapist feel that toward mares?

  The thought startled me in its incongruity. I almost laughed out loud. For God's sake, Gail, I remonstrated mentally. This whole train of thought was getting a little too weird.

  Clay glanced at me curiously and I smiled. "It looks good," I said, indicating the simmering skillet. He smiled back. I resolved to concentrate on the present circumstances and forget the damned horse rapist.

  But I couldn't. Last night's alarming scenario was imprinted firmly on my mind, along with all the questions that arose from it. Looming larger, I found, was this strange curiosity about the mind and motivation of the pervert-for surely his behavior could or should be described as perverted?

  I made conversation with Clay and sipped my Merlot and wondered: What was it Jeri Ward had said? "This sort of thing can become compulsive; the perpetrator has to continue it."

  Shit. If that was the case, it was just a matter of time till the guy returned to Nico's or Kris's. And was it George? Try as I might, I had a hard time picturing that dark, handsome face above a body engaged in the literally bestial act.

  Clay was serving the food; I made yet another effort to detach from my train of thought and keep my mind on appropriate dinner-table conversation.

  The risotto was excellent; Clay had used red bell peppers and smoked chicken to enliven it. Remembering, not for the first time, that I'd barely eaten anything all day, I enjoyed as much of the elegant dish as I could. Sadly, the lack of regular meals seemed to have shrunk my stomach; I could only absorb small portions these days.

  Clay and I chatted desultorily but pleasantly; I was aware that my attention was wavering. Still, an idea that had been in the back of my mind jumped to the front and I asked him, "Would it be convenient for you to give me and my horse another ride home with the stock trailer tomorrow? Say in the late afternoon."

  "Sure. If you want, I'll even go on a ride with you," Clay offered.

  "That's okay," I said quickly, and then amended what sounded like rudeness with "I sometimes like just to cruise the horse around by myself. You know what I mean?"

  "Yeah, I do." Clay smiled quietly.

  What he didn't know was that I had a notion to explore the trails behind Kris's place on horseback-see if I could discover for myself how the horse rapist might have arrived.

  "That was a great dinner, Clay," I said. "And I hate to be a spoilsport, but I'm really tired. I was out late last night." No doubt he was, too, I thought, remembering Sue.

  Clay made no comment, merely offered to drive me home. Once back in my own driveway, I leaned toward him quickly for the obligatory good-night kiss, conscious of the impulse to get it over with.

  Clay, however, kissed me lingeringly and with warmth; I had to admit it felt good. As I unfolded myself out of the Porsche, I realized I was no closer to understanding my feelings toward this man. They were, in a word, mixed. I felt safe and comfortable with him; at the same time I was aware that I really had no idea what he felt toward me. Clay was in many ways an enigma; I didn't know whether I found that disconcerting or interesting.

  Clay smiled at me from the driver's seat.

  "Good night," I said.

  "See you tomorrow," he replied.

  With a brief, assenting wave, I turned and let myself in the house, conscious of more conflicting feelings. I wanted to be alone ... and I was curious about Clay. I wondered what it would feel like if I let the kisses escalate.

  Maybe some day.

  EIGHTEEN

  I awoke the next morning to the familiar despondency. Getting up required a major effort of will. I made the coffee and fed the animals, feeling as if I was dragging a large anchor every step of the way.

  Then I sat on the couch, sipping coffee and staring out through the big windows at the foggy landscape. I should call Kris; the thought was there but the energy wasn't. Still, I picked up the phone and dialed.

  Kris sounded as down as I felt. "I couldn't sleep last night, Gail. I kept thinking I heard someone out at the barn."

  "Are the cops still there?"

  "No, they're gone. That detective was apologetic, but she said they didn't have the 'resources' to mount a guard on us. I sent Jo to stay with her father. But I'm a basket case."

  "Jeez, Kris." My problems suddenly seemed insignificant. "Do you want to come and stay here?”

  "I don't know." Kris sounded a little perkier. "Thanks for offering."

  "Do you want me to come over?" I asked.

  "No, I'm leaving. First to go see Jo, and then I'm going over to the school to work on my grading. I just want to get out of here."

  "You'll be all right?"

  "Sure." Kris didn't sound entirely convinced. "I'll be fine."

  "Call me if you need me," I told her.

  "I'll do that."

  I hung up the phone. Stared out the windows some more. Now what?

  The solitary ride through the hills that I'd been planning seemed like too much work. But I'd told Clay I was coming; he'd be waiting for me.

  Why, I wondered, not for the first time, wasn't I cheered by Clay's obvious interest in me? Not to mention that Blue Winter had actually called and come over. This was the man I'd been thinking about since last summer. Surely I ought to be feeling good about that?

  Lethargy was like a lid; it wouldn't let any light in. I felt mildly pleased by the men's attention-a feeling that was barely skin-deep. Inside, where the sadness lived, an empty wind blew through me, leaving me desolate. I couldn't imagine where to go from here. A happy life seemed impossible.

  I put my coffee cup down, frightened by my thoughts. Summoning up the will power that had taken me through so many struggles, I forced myself up and away from the couch. I was not, I was damned well not, going to lie around all day thinking hopeless thoughts. Instead, I flogged my body out to the tool shed, got the weed whacker, and mowed the grass along the drive.

  When I was done, the place looked a lot neater, and to my surprise, my heart felt considerably lighter. The sun was breaking through the fog; I saddled Plumber and rode down the driveway to the sound of Gunner's plaintive neighs.

  Once again I took the trail through the hills, this time purposefully. I was going to ride to Kris's.

  Plumber plodded steadily along, his ears working forward and back, forward and back, his eyes bright. I ascended the first ridge and dropped down the other side, picked my way through the abandoned apple orchard.

  Then it was up again, through the dusty scrub. Quail scuttled for cover in the greasewood; a jay squawked noisily. I jumped when something rustled in the brush-all my senses on ultra-alert. I hadn't forgotten the cougar.

  I wasn't sure whether Plumber had either; he seemed calm, but unusually watchful.

  The creepy feeling along my nerves grew stronger as we descended into the steep redwood-filled canyon. The dark solitude seemed positively eerie. I thought of the cougar; I thought of the horse rapist. At the moment it seemed entirely plausible that both were hanging out here.

  Giving myself a mental shake, I clucked to my horse as we crossed the creek. This was just a redwood forest, it wasn't the haunted forest. I almost expected to see a sign: I'D TURN BACK IF I WERE YOU.

  Still, we made it up the other side intact, though puffing, at least on Plumber's part. I let him breathe for a minute, then sent him toward the trail that forked downhill, the trail I'd meant to take last time. By my reckoning, this trail led in the direction of Kris's place.

  Now we were passing the cougar's bush. The odds of him being there again were absolutely zero, I told myself. I looked steadily into the bush; Plumber looked, too. Nothing happened. The cougar was long gone.

  On we went, pursuing what looked to me to be an easterly direction. We were in scrub country now; a mix of greasewood, manzanita, ceanothus, and Scotch broom lined the trail. We topped another rise, descended into a swale, and were in the redwoods again. The trail climbed a ridge, winding up in gentle switchbacks.

  When we reach
ed the top I stopped to let Plumber breathe and to reconnoiter. Plumber was tired. He stood still; the only sound I could hear was his breathing and the note of an unknown bird. And then, suddenly, another sound. Muted rustling, like the wind.

  Not the wind, though. The trees were still. I listened. A long silence. Then, abruptly, the noise again. This time I could pinpoint it-straight ahead, down the trail. I went in that direction.

  When the noise came again, I both saw and heard it-the distant flash of a red car as it passed through the trees. I had come to a road.

  To Harkins Valley Road, it turned out. One look around, and I knew exactly where I was. Less than a quarter mile from Kris's place. I followed the trail in that direction.

  Back up the ridge we went and soon, just as Kris had said, I saw a branch trail leading back in the direction of her house. We picked our way down it; in a minute Kris's barn was visible through the trees.

  I sat and stared. No one seemed to be about. Kris's car was not in the driveway, neither were any cop cars. The last thing I needed was to run into Jeri Ward. But everybody appeared to be gone.

  Slowly I approached the barn. This was what the horse rapist did, perhaps. Rode down this hill in the dark, watching and listening. That argued that he had some familiarity with this trail.

  I tried to remember what sort of a moon was out last night. Couldn't. But it would have been pretty dark under these trees, even with a full moon.

  We were at the back of Kris's barn now; I could see the trampled spot next to the fence where the stranger's horse had apparently been tied. I tried to picture this man, whoever he was, tying his horse to the railing, sneaking into the dark barn. My shoulders twitched uncontrollably.

  The only thought that came to mind was that it must be someone who knew Kris, knew she owned a mare. I tried to picture George Corfios in this role; it was difficult.

  Approaching the tie-up spot, I noticed a pile of relatively fresh droppings, which must have come from the stranger's horse. They were green, the droppings of a horse who was on a diet of primarily alfalfa hay. Of course, most horses in this part of California were fed alfalfa. Still, a horse who ate oat hay or forage-mix hay would have yellowish droppings; a pastured horse would have brownish droppings. I wondered what George Corfios's horse ate.

  Whatever Warren White was feeding his horses, no doubt. And that, I thought, I could find out. Any horse who did not eat alfalfa hay was not the horse rapist's horse. This was potentially very useful information.

  Fired up by my new idea, I turned Plumber back up the hill. The sweat had dried on his neck and he was no longer breathing hard. "Come on, boy," I told him. "Just a little bit further."

  NINETEEN

  It took about twenty minutes to ride to Lushmeadows. I ambled through the subdivision, glancing at horse barns as I went. Plenty of stacks of alfalfa hay were prominently visible. As I'd feared, eliminating suspects on the basis of what they fed their horses wasn't going to be easy. Alfalfa hay was just too common.

  Mike O'Hara was in his barnyard grooming Sonny as I rode by. I waved, and he came over to the fence to greet me.

  "Hello, Gail."

  "Hi, Mike," I responded. "Sonny looks good."

  "Yes, he's fine."

  "No more bellyaches?"

  "Nope." Mike regarded me steadily. "That was a terrible thing that happened to Kris's daughter."

  "How did you find out?" I asked, surprised. "Was it in the papers?"

  "Kris told me," Mike said simply. "She came over, told me what happened, and asked if she could call me at night if she heard anything suspicious. I'm more or less her closest neighbor."

  No closer than George or Warren White, I thought. It was interesting that Kris had asked Mike instead. I wondered if I should discuss my suspicions of George with Kris.

  "So what did Kris say?" I asked Mike curiously.

  "Just that Jo had apparently surprised a burglar when Kris was out, and he hit her over the head and knocked her out."

  "Oh," I said. No mention of the horse-raping aspect, I noticed.

  Mike glanced at me. "I offered to come over, have a look around, but Kris said it wasn't necessary."

  "That's right, you used to be a cop, didn't you?"

  "Thirty years," Mike nodded. "Up near San Francisco," he added.

  I nodded slowly in return, thinking that Mike was probably a good choice for backup. He would know what to do in an emergency. Glancing at the angle of the sun, I smiled and said, "I'd better keep moving."

  "You be careful, Gail. Especially when you're out by yourself."

  "I'll do that," I said. "See you later."

  Looking into Mike's barn as I rode by, I noticed that it, like the others I'd passed, contained a stack of alfalfa hay. As did Warren White's, I found out when I reached his driveway. Neither Warren nor George was out in the yard; I turned Plumber and rode back down the road toward the Bishop Ranch.

  This whole idea about the hay was proving to be a big waste of time. Everybody fed alfalfa hay, it seemed.

  Crossing Harkins Valley Road, I rode up the Bishop Ranch drive, Plumber plodding wearily now. He was tired. I was, too. I was very glad I'd asked Clay to give us a ride back home.

  Locating Clay proved to be easy. He stood in a group of four men outside the big barn. The other three were brother Bart, Warren White, and George Corfios. The men were talking and laughing together; I approached the group unnoticed.

  Clay was the first to see me; he gave me that warm smile and a "Hi, Gail. You made it."

  "Sure I did," I said to Clay. The other men greeted me briefly. I dismounted and Plumber bumped me with his nose, then rubbed his head against my arm. He was itchy under his bridle, I knew. I scratched his ears and the back of his neck, and he bobbed his head up and down and twitched his upper lip with pleasure.

  I saw Bart's look and could imagine the negative comment that was probably coming. Meeting his eyes, I continued to rub Plumber's face.

  My unspoken "Shut up you asshole" must have registered loud and clear, because Bart looked away and kept quiet. His face had a hostile expression, though.

  Ostentatiously he resumed his conversation with Warren White, which appeared to be about some air-headed female boarder with a horse she couldn't control. Bart's posture, with his back almost turned to me, effectively shut me out of the talk.

  This was just fine with me. I rubbed Plumber's neck, watched the men, and thought my thoughts.

  Bart made a comment to Warren that was inaudible to me; both men laughed. I recognized the tone. That old we're-all-assholes-together laugh, I called it to myself. That excluding, completely male, inevitably derogatory laugh, usually in a certain type of man, accompanied by some sort of comment heavily embroidered with the word "fucking." I had heard this laugh and this tone many, many times; I had come to believe that it signified a deep insecurity and was a sure tip-off that the guy would be difficult to deal with. Men who favored this particular mannerism could be just about counted on to be neither confident, intelligent, nor mature.

  Resisting the urge to give Bart yet another glance that would certainly have revealed the intense distaste I felt, I kept my eyes firmly fixed on Clay. Neither he nor George was taking part in whatever adolescent bandying the other two were playing out. Both just smiled from time to time and kept quiet.

  Shifting my gaze to George, I tried to decide if I was facing the horse rapist. I felt no intuitive twinges one way or the other. George's dark face was relaxed, reserved, non-threatening. I could not imagine him assaulting a horse.

  That was just the trouble. For that matter, I couldn't imagine any of these men assaulting a horse. Or any other man I knew. The only picture I could come up with was giggling seventeen-year-old boys. But that somehow didn't equate with the solitary stranger who had ridden a horse to Kris's and bashed Jo over the head.

  There was a gap in the conversation; just for the heck of it I asked Bart, "What do you feed all these horses? Alfalfa?"

  For a m
oment I thought he wouldn't answer, but eventually came a grudging, "Yep. Unless the customer wants something different."

  As I had supposed. Any of these hundred or so boarded horses could be the horse rapist's mount. At the thought, I felt intensely discouraged with my amateur sleuthing and an equally intense desire to go home.

  I looked plaintively at Clay; he caught the glance as quickly and accurately as if we were longtime lovers.

  "Ready to go?" he asked quietly.

  "Yes, if you don't mind."

  "No problem."

  And in another minute he was efficiently hitching his truck to the stock trailer, every move displaying the deft competence I had come to think of as his trademark.

  I loaded Plumber, waved a casual good-bye to the other men, and climbed in the cab. Clay drove out onto Harkins Valley Road without a word.

  We passed Nico's house and then Kris's; all I could think of was the strange threat that seemed to hang over both. Was it just the two of them, I wondered.

  I glanced at Clay's quiet profile and a jarring buzz went through me, as if I'd been stuck with an electric cattle prod. What had Clay said, driving me to town a week ago? That a neighbor woman had been murdered?

  My mouth seemed to open without volition. "Clay, that woman you knew who was murdered, did the police ever figure out who did it?"

  Clay looked at me a little oddly, but he answered easily enough. "Not that I know of."

  "She was just found dead out at her barn?"

  "That's right," he said quietly. "Someone hit her over the head."

  "I take it she had horses, if she had a barn."

  "Yeah. Two Morgans."