by Laura Crum
"She runs at us," the woman said. "She acts like she'd bite, or strike out at you with a front foot."
"Hmmm. We'd better try and catch her first," I said. "Does she know you the best?" I asked the woman.
"Yes."
"Why don't you try offering her some grain and we'll see if we can get the halter on her. We'll approach her from the far side, so she's between us and the foal, that way she won't feel threatened."
"I don't think she'll let me catch her," the woman said simply.
"Well, see if you can get her to eat grain," I said. "If she has her nose down in the bucket I can probably get this tranquilizer in her neck. Then we should be all right."
"Okay."
The woman approached the mare slowly from the uphill side. I followed a few paces behind, palming the shot in my hand. From her spot by the creek, the mare regarded us with some degree of agitation, tossing her head and stomping her front feet, but didn't appear unduly frantic. We both talked soothingly; the woman proffered the bucket, shaking it gently so the mare could hear the grain inside.
I could see the foal now, down on its side, his hindquarters submerged in one of the potholes. The bank was quite steep here; I had no doubt the baby had been unable to climb out. He looked ominously still.
The mare's ears came forward at the rattle of grain: I noticed she was very thin, every rib showing. She stuck her nose in the bucket willingly enough and I slipped the shot into her neck with no trouble. In a few minutes she was swaying slightly, a glazed look in her eyes. The woman put the halter on her. I made my way down to the foal.
Once I managed to drag him out of the water and up on the bank, I examined him carefully. He appeared normal and undamaged, looked as if he were full-term. But his skin was cold to the touch, his gums very pale, his pulse almost undetectable. During the five minutes or so it took me to check him over, he took only one breath.
At a guess, this baby was almost dead of exposure; I was pretty sure he had slipped into the creek bed shortly after he was born and been unable to get out. The combination of cold water, too much struggle, and the inability to get to his mother and the life-giving milk had killed him. Or almost killed him.
"Is he alive?" the woman asked.
"Barely," I said. "I'm afraid we're too late. But we can still try. We need to take him to the house where we can get him warm."
"All right," she said. "I can have one of the boys carry him."
At her gesture, the black-hatted man picked up the foal and started up the hill with him.
"Maybe someone else could lead the mare," I suggested. "She'll need to go slow; she'll be unsteady."
One of the bearded men nodded and took hold of the mare's lead rope. We trooped up the hill in the gathering dusk-a sad little cavalcade.
The cabin, derelict as it appeared on the outside, was surprisingly high-tech once we were inside. In fact it was crammed with computers and odd-looking screens that I couldn't readily identify. The woman produced warm towels out of a dryer, and we dried the little horse and tried to stimulate him by rubbing and massage. To no avail.
Despite our efforts, the foal never took another breath, and the faint pulse faded and disappeared.
"I'm sorry," I said, twenty minutes later. "He was just too far gone. He's dead now."
The woman seemed resigned, her expression no more or less tranquil than when I'd arrived. She sighed, and looking around quietly, said, "I knew he was doomed as soon as I saw that cowboy in the black hat standing over him."
This made no sense to me. But then, I had no idea who the various "boys" might be or why the black-hatted one might be an omen of death. I wasn't sure I wanted to know, nor was I sure I was interested in what was starting to look like a lot of remarkably sophisticated surveillance equipment.
Much pot was grown in these hills. It was big and highly illegal business. If I had stumbled on the modern-day equivalent of a bootlegger's still, I wanted to know nothing about it.
I took my leave as quickly and gracefully as possible. The truck clock said eight o'clock. Enough time to get to Clouds by nine, but not enough to go home and change. Fortunately I'd prepared for this eventuality by wearing a pair of newer jeans and boots and my nicest chambray shirt, as well as stuffing my turquoise beads and black silk blazer in the truck. With these two additions and a quick hair and face touch-up in the parking lot, I'd look presentable enough. There was mud on my jeans from dragging the foal out of the creek-but what the heck, the light would be dim.
I walked into Clouds at ten to nine. The place was crowded and lively, but I didn't see Nico anywhere. I found a seat at the bar and greeted Caroline.
"What'll you have?" Her smile was as wide as ever, but she looked rushed.
"One of those," I said on impulse, pointing at an elegant pale pink drink in a martini glass that sat on the bar near me.
"A cosmopolitan." Caroline grinned and put the drink together almost more quickly than I could follow the steps. Very pretty it looked, too, in a frosted glass on the mahogany bar.
I took a sip; the drink was perfect. Not too sweet, smooth, not harsh. Just what I wanted.
Taking my time, I sipped and watched the crowd, waiting for Nico. As usual, I found that watching people in a bar entertained me quite nicely. Slowly the sad, uncomfortable feeling from the last call began to melt away.
Such was the lot of a vet. There was no reason that poor foal had to die. It was ignorance that killed him, the same ignorance the head groom rails about in Black Beauty. Ignorance that does more harm than malice ever thought of doing.
Ignorance had created a situation where a perfectly healthy foal had died of exposure in the middle of summer.
I took a long swallow of my drink. I ran into this sort of thing all the time. I couldn't change it; I could only do my best to help. It was important not to take it too much to heart.
Still, the unnecessarily dead baby was undeniably sad. I finished my drink, looked carefully through the crowd at the bar. Caroline approached me and glanced a question at my glass. I shook my head.
"Have you by any chance noticed a slim, dark woman in here, about my age, looking around for somebody?"
"Nope. But I might not have. We haven't had a slow moment. My stalker was in, though." She grinned and rolled her eyes. "He's a real creep. Left me a note on a cocktail napkin. It said, 'I can feel you want me and I want you.' Then he left. Can you believe it?"
I shook my head. "That's weird." Once again I wandered if Caroline's stalker was really Warren White. I'd never liked Warren, but I wouldn't have said he was that strange.
"I'll have a glass of Sauvignon Blanc," I told Caroline.
It was now nine-twenty; surely Nico would be here soon.
But she wasn't. I finished the wine fifteen minutes later and went out to the truck to call her home. No answer. Not even a machine.
I stared at the car phone in my hand. From what little I knew of Nico, I couldn't believe she would simply fail to show up. It didn't seem right.
Starting the truck, I rolled out of the parking lot and down the highway toward home. Minutes later the Corralitos exit took me inland.
I pulled in my driveway at ten o'clock, by the truck clock. I fed my hungry animals and went in the house. No message from Nico on the answering machine. I dialed her number. Once again, no response.
Without thinking about it, I climbed back in the truck. I was worried about Nico. I would go and see.
TWENTY-FOUR
Lights were on in Nico's house when I got there, and the white van was in the driveway. I climbed out of my truck after cracking the windows for Roey. I'd taken the little dog with me; I often felt happier when she was by my side during night calls.
Flashlight in hand, I approached the house through the kitchen garden. The Dutch door stood open.
"Nico," I called.
No answer.
I walked into the kitchen.
"Nico. Are you there?"
Still no answer. No one in
the main room, either, though the lights were on. Only the silent paintings, brilliant on the white walls. Now what?
"Nico!" I called again, louder. No response. Should I look in the bedroom? It seemed like an unwarranted invasion of her privacy. And yet.
That open door ...
I turned and walked back through the house, out into the garden, back toward the barn. No lights on there. A gibbous moon illuminated the night as I walked toward the barn, showing me the dark shape of the building, throwing shadows under the apple tree.
I walked toward the stall. All was quiet and yet, what?
Motion, something, disturbed the night. I stopped. Turned my flashlight on. It showed only the dark blank of an open stall doorway.
Some rustling, some branch breaking behind the barn. A horse neighed. I thought I could hear the muffled thud of hoofbeats. Roey barked excitedly from the pickup.
I swung the flashlight wildly around. I could see nothing. Dark trees, corral fence, that gaping black stall door.
My heart pounded. I wished I'd thought to bring my gun.
"Nico!" I yelled.
Nothing. No answer. No movement. And then a rustling noise from the stall.
"Nico!" I called again.
Roey barked louder, no doubt hearing the fear in my voice. Another soft rustle from the stall.
"Nico, are you there?"
I played the flashlight on the stall doorway. It caught a gleam-the phosphorescent blue sheen of an eye. And then, a nicker. There was a horse in the stall.
I stepped closer. Now the flashlight showed me the black mare's shape. I took another step, and another, until I was standing one pace away from the doorway.
The mare watched me, ears forward. She was cross-tied in her stall.
"Nico," I said again.
Nothing.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped to one side, where I could see through the doorway at an angle. Still nothing-only the mare. I moved to the other side. Shone the flashlight in. And saw a leg. A leg clad in black fabric, a sandaled foot. One by one the details registered, as if in slow motion. I stepped forward; the flashlight revealed a human form lying face down. A white blouse, dark hair-Nico. On the floor in the corner of the box stall. Her pants were pulled down.
I ran the flashlight rapidly around the stall; it was empty except for the mare. Reaching Nico's side even as I looked, I dropped to my knees and turned her over. Her face was bluish, tongue protruding slightly, eyes wide open. I knew before I tried to get a pulse that she was dead.
For a long moment everything blurred. I heard a rushing in my ears and squatted to a sitting position, putting my head down between my knees. I still held Nico's hand, not yet cold, in my own.
I sat there, perfectly still, fighting dizziness. Slowly the rushing noise receded. I lifted my head. Nico's frozen face caught me unprepared; I closed my eyes, not knowing if I was praying or merely babbling.
Please, please, please. Don't let this be.
Another voice answered.
Hold it together. You have to hold it together.
After a minute I stood up, keeping my eyes carefully averted from Nico. Giving her hand a final pat, I laid it down. Then I turned and left the building.
The moonlit night remained. Shadows of branches laid bars across the gravel drive. I walked to my truck and climbed in. Roey licked my face.
I locked the doors and turned on the phone. Dialed 911. My voice was steady as I requested police assistance at the scene of a murder and gave directions. Then I hung up the phone.
A huge blankness. Not fear, not grief-just an enormous emptiness. This could not be. This was not. And yet it was. I stared through the window at the quiet night, closing my mind to any feeling. Hold it together. Just hold it together. Roey sat next to me. I put my arm around her and rubbed her chest and she licked my cheek. I waited.
Eventually came the sound of sirens. In a minute, a sheriff's car pulled into the driveway. I climbed out of my truck, explained to a male sheriff's deputy who I was, and led him to the barn, feeling as though I were in a trance.
Indicating the stall door, I stepped back and let him enter. Still the same moonlit night-the blue silver light, the dark shadows. Nothing had changed; nothing was the same.
The deputy emerged from the stall; before he could say anything, I asked if I could wait in my truck. He assented, already dialing on his cell phone.
I went back to the pickup and sat down next to the dog. Stared out my window at a patch of night sky obscured by tree branches. Tried not to think about anything.
Time passed. Emergency vehicles arrived, sirens blaring, lights flashing. More sheriff's cars, an ambulance, a fire truck. I stayed where I was, seeing and hearing the activity but not really paying attention to it. My mind seemed to have shut off. Nothing seemed real.
Some time later, another man approached my truck. A man in a suit. I opened the door.
"Yes?" I said.
"I understand you found the body, Ms. McCarthy?"
"That's right. Dr. McCarthy."
He said nothing. He was a big, thick man with a solid look to him and a wide jaw. "Can you explain how you happened to arrive here?" he said.
I explained. I explained everything to the best of my abilities without mentioning the horse rapist at all. When I was done I gave him my address and phone number and said that I would like to speak to Detective Jeri Ward.
He looked at me. "She's not on tonight."
I met his eyes and read hostility. Toward who or what I wasn't sure.
I shrugged. "May I go home now?"
He consulted his notes and gave me another look. "Will you be available to give us a statement tomorrow?"
"Yes," I said.
"You can go."
I shut the truck door as he turned, and started the engine with my other hand. It was midnight. Backing out of the driveway, now a crime scene, took a few minutes. I did not look at the barn, or Nico's house. I kept my mind on maneuvering the truck between sheriff's cars and fire trucks without denting anything or anyone. Finally, I was on the road.
The dog still sat next to me; I could feel the warm weight of her body leaning into my side. The road was fairly empty this late at night; my headlights made a path through the darkness.
I did not think about Nico; I merely drove. Drove until I was home, and climbed in bed with my clothes on and shut my eyes. Finis.
TWENTY-FIVE
Jeri Ward woke me up at eight o'clock the next morning. I stumbled to the door in last night's jeans and shirt to find her on the porch, hand raised to knock again.
"Come in," I said.
I saw what looked like a brief flick of concern in her eyes as she glanced at my face-gone as soon as it came. No doubt, I looked a wreck. The contrast with Jeri's pristine appearance might have amused an observer, had there been one.
Roey sniffed Jeri's pants leg and wagged a friendly greeting. Jeri patted the dog and followed me into the main room. I sat down on the couch and waited.
I saw Jeri's eyes go around the room, saw the appreciative widening. I kept my own eyes on the window. I did not look at Nico's painting. Jeri looked back at me-once again, that flicker of concern.
"Can I make some coffee?" she asked.
"If you want." I didn't move. Perhaps I should have offered to make the coffee myself, but I just sat.
Jeri found the coffee-making accoutrements on the counter, made a pot of French roast, and brought me a cup. Pulling one of my two chairs up to the couch, she sat down next to me, coffee in hand.
"Can you tell me about it?" she asked.
"I don't want to talk about it," I said without thinking.
Now Jeri looked very concerned. "Gail, you're going to have to talk about it. Why don't you drink a little coffee?"
Obediently, I took a sip. Jeri waited for several minutes while I absorbed coffee, then said gently, "I take it Nicole Devereaux was the other victim you wouldn't tell me about."
"Yes," I said. I drank
some more coffee.
"Why did she demand the secrecy?"
"She wasn't a citizen and was here illegally. She didn't want to be deported. "
"I see."
We were quiet.
"He killed her," I said finally.
"Yes." Jeri sighed. "She was strangled. We think she must have come on him just as he was, uh, about to begin." She winced. "There was no semen on the mare, but the woman had been raped-after she was strangled, we think."
I said nothing.
"Gail, it's not your fault," Jeri said.
"Yes. It is. Partly, anyway."
"This might have happened whether you told us or not."
"Might," I said.
"We wouldn't have been able to mount a guard on her," she said.
"But he might have realized you knew. It might have scared him off."
"Maybe," Jeri said. "Maybe not. This sort of sexual crime becomes compulsive. The perpetrator has to repeat the act. At a certain point in the process, he'll take any kind of risk. We run into this all the time with rapists."
"That's what he is now-a rapist," I said.
"And a murderer. And it is the same person," Jeri said. "The semen we found on the woman matched the semen we found on Kristin Griffith's horse. It's the same man."
"What about the other murder?" I asked.
"There's nothing conclusive there," she said. "No fingerprints anywhere, and since no one was interested in the horse angle at the time, nobody knows if a horse was abused. The woman wasn't raped."
