by Laura Crum
Desperately I steadied myself. Took the half second remaining to bend my aching knee, take a deep breath, tighten my grip on the ax. I stood there, swaying slightly, but crouched and ready, with the ax poised over my shoulder like a batter, when Dave's light touched me.
In the glow, I could see his face fall in a way that would have been funny under any other circumstances. He'd expected me tied up and helpless; instead, he saw me free and wielding an ax.
He had a second of real doubt, I could tell, and my heart soared. If he'd been carrying a gun, surely he would simply have pulled it out and shot me. Instead, his face hardened into lines of resolve; he swung the heavy black truncheon of a flashlight over his shoulder in an imitation of my stance.
"Oh yeah," he grunted. Balancing myself, I tried to be ready and let him make the first move.
He swung the flashlight at me in an obvious feint and I sidestepped. Realized how weak I was. Took a desperate grip on myself and waited for him to swing again.
He must have read my weakness because he came in fast and hard, swinging the flashlight at my face. I dodged and parried with the ax and he launched a savage kick at me. I saw it coming and got out of the way, but I nearly fell down doing it.
We faced off again, weaving and faking moves in the jerking flashlight beam, locked onto each other in a sick parody of a cutting horse on a cow.
This can't go on, I thought. I have to look for a spot to hit him and try and knock him out. I have to.
I waited for him to rush me again, but he caught me by surprise and threw the flashlight at me. Light and darkness swirled wildly and it hit me in one shoulder. I dropped the ax.
He started to come in on me with his fists, saw the ax fall, changed his mind and went for it. I had a split second to think. No use wrestling Dave for the ax; I hadn't a chance. I saw the fire extinguisher in the beam of the rolling flashlight and reached down for it.
I almost didn't come up. Dave had the ax and swung it at me in one fierce motion. I felt it coming and threw myself sideways. He missed me by a hair, but the violent jerk was too much for my fragile balance and I ended up on my side in the hay, clutching the fire extinguisher.
Dave was coming at me with the ax above his head and all his strength gathered for the downward swing. I aimed the fire extinguisher at him and pulled the trigger.
White powdery dust shot in his face, catching him totally by surprise. Some of it got in his eyes, and the ax came down to the left of me. I kept spraying it at him as well as I could, and struggled to my feet.
His coughs mingled with choked yells of "bitch" and the air between us was full of white chalky powder. I held my breath. He swung the ax savagely in all directions, unable to see, a major leaguer desperate for a grand slam.
He couldn't see, I thought. Timing it as well as I could, I waited until he was off balance, gathered myself and lunged in, kicking him in the groin.
He screamed, stumbled, went down. I grabbed the ax, hardly thinking, swung it over my shoulder and brought the flat side of it down on the back of his head, hard. He crumpled instantly. Dead or alive, I thought, you bastard, I don't care.
For a long second I stared at him, helpless and silent on the ground. Then I turned, picked up the flashlight, and started out of the barn.
Chapter TWENTY-TWO
Once outside, shock seemed to catch up with me. I had no idea where to go, no idea where I was. The flashlight showed a forest around me and a dirt road running off through the trees. I followed the road.
Thoughts, disconnected, disbelieving, swirled through my mind as I tromped along in the bobbing beam of light. The night was still and dark, moonless as far as I could tell in this tunnel of trees. From what Dave had said, I was pretty sure it was the same night.
Night from hell, I thought grimly. My knee throbbed painfully as adrenaline seeped out of my system; I felt weak and trembly all over. My leg muscles twitched. I kept walking. Eventually this road would lead somewhere. It had to.
It took a long time, or I thought so, anyway, but eventually the dirt road, muddy in patches from the recent rain, and impassable for anything but a four-wheel-drive vehicle, joined a paved road. There by the side, half hidden in a clump of trees, was a pickup. Dave's pickup. Hopefully I tried the door and found it unlocked.
Hope died a second later. Dave had taken the keys. I was not, absolutely not, going to go back to the barn and look through his pockets. I would just keep walking. The question was, which way?
The paved road gave no hints. Narrow and unmarked, it boasted no road signs, no indications of any sort what it was or where it was. I could be anywhere in the world, as far as I knew.
No, that's not true, I told myself. It's the same night. I must be in central California somewhere; he couldn't have taken me much further away.
Central California is a big area. I stared up at the sky-what I could see of it through the trees. Some faint stars, but they didn't reveal anything to me. I needed to choose a direction. Dave might merely be out for a few minutes. If he came to, the first thing he'd do would be aim for his pickup.
The thought shoved me into motion. The road sloped slightly; I chose the downhill direction on the somewhat illogical grounds that one should always follow a creek downstream, if lost in the woods.
A road is not a creek, I told myself, but what the hell. I trudged. My feet were getting cold. My knee throbbed. I hoped and prayed the batteries in the flashlight were good and strong, wondered if maybe a car would come down the road.
None did. By my reckoning, it was at least three in the morning and the road had an untraveled look. Probably not much chance that someone would come along.
What seemed miles later, my road reached another, larger road. There was a gate and a mailbox; my road appeared to be a driveway. I swung the flashlight around. The gate, the mailbox, the whole entrance looked familiar. It took me a few seconds, but I got it. This was Martha Welch's driveway.
I'd been on Martha Welch's place then, in a barn on her property. The immense relief of knowing where I was swallowed up all questions as to why Dave had brought me here in particular. This was Mt. Madonna Road I was standing on. I knew which way to go.
I headed down the hill again, toward town, toward civilization. Casserly Store sat at the junction of Mt. Madonna Road and Casserly Road, and it had a pay phone in front of it. No matter that it was a mile away. At last I was back in the world I knew.
My elation vanished rapidly. It was still cold, and I was getting weaker and sorer by the moment.
I eyed the occasional houses I passed, but they were dark and quiet, all occupants asleep. Somehow the notion of knocking, waking them, my own appearance-gag and blindfold around my neck, dried blood on my face and wrists-seemed worse than walking. I kept walking.
Thoughts began to tromp through my mind to the rhythm of my footsteps. Panic had subsided; tiredness seemed to bring a clear head. Slowly I began to unravel the knot and make sense of some of the things Dave had said. One foot in front of the other. Conclusions followed inexorably. Thinking kept exhaustion at bay.
By the time I reached the Casserly Store, a half hour later, I was sure I understood how it had all happened and why.
Marching up to the phone, I punched in a number, then my card number, and waited. Three rings. Four. Five. Be there. Please be there.
On the eighth ring someone picked up and my heart soared in relief. Grinning stupidly, I spoke into the receiver, "Bret, old buddy, I need help."
An hour later-4:00 A.M., actually-Bret and I sat in his pickup arguing. He'd come to fetch me immediately, brought what I'd requested and driven me where I'd asked to go, but he was balking now. "Why don't we just call the sheriffs and let them take care of this?"
"Because." I stopped, stumped for an answer he would accept.
"Because why? Jesus, Gail, you look like death warmed over, you say you were knocked out and tied up and about to be burned to death by Dave Allison, who incidentally killed Casey and Melissa, an
d who is lying in a barn where you knocked him over the head, and you don't want to call the sheriffs?"
"Will you just listen to me? Do what I tell you. Let me out of this pickup and wait here for me. I am goddamn sure going to do this, with your help or without it." Bret was staring at me; I realized I was shouting. My hands were also trembling.
"You're in no state to go in there." His voice was soft.
I took a grip on myself. "I need to do this," I said as calmly as I could. "I don't trust the sheriffs to get it done. Tell you what. You go on down there," I waved a hand down the hill, "and call them as soon as I go in. Then come back here and wait for me."
Bret shook his head, but agreed reluctantly. "All right. And if I hear any noise, I'm coming in."
"You do that." I got out of the pickup, my heart thudding with fear despite my brave words, and walked slowly toward the house.
All was darkness. I knocked on the front door and waited. Everything quiet, no lights in the windows. I knocked again.
Despite the silent, deserted atmosphere, I was sure someone was there. Awake, I thought. Waiting, probably. Scared, maybe.
On the side of the house, some glass doors reflected the faint starlight. I walked along the porch to them and looked in. Shapes of furniture loomed in a big room. With a sudden jolt, my brain registered a human shape in a chair near the window.
Closing my hand around the butt of the pistol in my jacket pocket, my .357, which Bret had brought me, I knocked on the glass.
The figure didn't move. I tried the door; it was unlocked. I opened it gently, but it still squeaked. The shape in the chair turned to face me.
Gripping the gun, I stared back. I could see eyes, that faint unmistakable liquid sparkle in the darkness of the face. Then the voice. "Is he dead?"
"I don't know," I said levelly. "Can I come in?"
With a sigh that could have been relief or defeat and a slight motion of his hand, Ken Resavich waved me into his living room.
Chapter TWENTY-THREE
He was sitting in a padded, basketlike chair in front of a wall of glass. The lights of Watsonville sparkled below, and distant glittering lights lined the curve of the bay. Ken's front room, like Martha's, had a view.
I spoke his name and he inclined his head toward a nearby chair and lifted his arm. My stomach muscles tightened, but the shiny thing in his hand was a drink.
"Have a seat," he said. Then he swiveled back toward the window. I walked to the chair he'd indicated and sat, feeling awkward. This wasn't going quite as I'd expected.
Ken Resavich sipped his drink and stared out at the view. "You're not sure if he's dead," he said finally, not looking at me.
"I hit him over the head pretty hard. He tried to kill me." I spoke as neutrally as I could manage.
Ken sighed. "I've been waiting. Waiting to hear one way or another." His voice sounded tired, but the same. Unemotional, formal tones. His face, in the faint light from the window, was as expressionless as ever. Yet, he was facing ruin.
"Did you know," I said slowly, "that he was planning to kill me?"
He swung his chair back toward me. All my muscles contracted with a ripple, but when he spoke his voice was quiet, polite as ever. He didn't look threatening. Why did I keep waiting for the gun?
"I didn't know," he said. "But I suspected."
"He killed Casey; you knew that."
"Not to begin with. I wasn't sure, anyway. But I knew, later. He told me."
"Why? Why did you let him do all this?"
"I didn't." A long pause. "I didn't intend any of it."
I let the silence grow and after a while he spoke, slowly, picking and choosing his words, as if the right ones were difficult to find.
"I've always been a successful businessman. My father was a farmer and I inherited his land. I've made it produce, made it pay, ten times what he did. But ... my father. You had to know my father.
"His father, my grandfather, was from Croatia, and my father had that sort of pride you sometimes see in the children of immigrants who've done well. He, my father, was a handsome man, a flamboyant man-he had a sports car, always kept a pretty mistress, and he loved horses. That old country-western song about faster horses, younger women, older whiskey, and more money was written about my father." Ken laughed-a dry chuckle.
"I was his only son and I never measured up. I was always quiet, and though I was good at school, it wasn't what he wanted. He died of a heart attack at fifty, just as I was getting out of college, and I know he thought of me as a failure. I never had the women or the sort of color he wanted me to have."
Ken took a long swallow of his drink and stared out into the darkness over the bay. Faint, almost indistinguishable light marked the horizon to the east; dawn was coming.
"My father died twenty-five years ago, and I'm still trying to prove something to him. He had cutting horses, and when he died I didn't sell them, even though I've always been afraid of horses. My father rode them himself, but I hired other people to ride them and gradually I got the idea that I'd succeed in the cutting horse world, his world, in a way he never did."
I stared at Ken in fascination. His words painted a picture that was suddenly very vivid. "Where'd Dave come in?" I asked.
He looked at me with the faintest of smiles. "I wasn't winning. I won some here and there, but what I wanted, what I needed, was a great horse, one who would dominate the industry and make my name a legend."
The words, I thought, were full of emotion, but the voice and face were as wooden as ever.
"Dave came in because I was buying cattle from him. He was at the ranch one day when Casey was working my new colt-Casey called the horse Gus-and I told Dave I had hopes I'd win the Futurity with him. Dave laughed. Said I'd never win the Futurity with Casey, no matter how good the colt was. To make a long story short, Dave must have seen something in what I said-something that told him how much I wanted to win the Futurity.
"He called me a week later. Said he'd make sure I won it. He'd have Will ride the horse, he said. He had a plan. And he wanted a cut."
Ken sipped a little more of his drink. "He said I'd have to fork out a little extra money, of course. But it would all be completely safe.
"I knew what he was. I didn't ask him what his plan was-though in the end I figured it out. The extra money was to buy the other horse; Dave sold him afterwards and pocketed the proceeds, I think, on top of the ten thousand I gave him. But I had the money to spare.
"The one thing I wouldn't do was get rid of Casey, even though Dave wanted me to. Casey had talent, even I could see that. I thought in the end he might train some champions for me. I told Dave I'd sell the Gus horse, ostensibly. And I did. I sold him out of my name and put him in the name of one of my companies, R & R Enterprises. Casey didn't know anything about my business. I was pretty sure he wouldn't recognize the name if he ever saw it."
R & R Enterprises. The light clicked on in my brain. That last night, while he was making phone calls, Casey must have asked Will George who owned Gus. And Will, having no reason not to tell him, had said some company named R & R, and given him the phone number. Casey had called; I remembered the recording. "You have reached R & R Enterprises and Resavich Farms." Casey had known.
"Casey found out, didn't he?"
A long, long silence. Trees were black silhouettes on the eastern ridge-the sky blue-black behind them. The lights of Watsonville seemed faded.
"Yes, Casey found out. He came to this house, sat right where you're sitting and told me he wouldn't let me get away with it. I tried to buy him off but he wasn't interested. Said he'd think it over and decide what he had to do."
Casey, I thought, had signed his own death warrant.
Ken was still talking. "I called Dave; Casey had called him, too. Dave just said not to worry, he'd take care of it. Told me to be sure and be gone from the ranch the next day, be somewhere where people could see me all the time."
Ken's face turned toward me. In the dawn light, I coul
d see him a little better, but I still couldn't read his feelings. "He didn't tell me any more and I didn't ask. I didn't do anything special. I went to work, the way I always do, just made sure I stayed around the office all day. And that evening ... well, you know. You told me."
"Dave killed Casey and made it look like an accident," I said matter-of-factly. "But you knew it wasn't an accident."
"I was pretty sure."
I remembered the gray look on his face when I'd told him; Ken had been sure all right. Casey-all that brilliant life and talent-had been snuffed out to protect Ken and Dave's scam, and Ken knew it.
"Just to win the Futurity?" I said it bitterly, and it prompted the strongest response out of Ken so far.
"Not just the Futurity," he snapped. "Gus was a stallion. And he was a good colt. I thought that if he had the Futurity win on his record, and Will George showed him successfully for a few years, he could go on and stand at stud and become a legend."
Vindicating Ken to his long-dead father, I added to myself. "So you didn't intend to run any more ringers?" was what I said.
"No."
"I'll bet Dave did."
Ken shook his head slowly. "I don't know what Dave thought he was going to do. Dave was out of control. And now you tell me he's tried to kill you. I didn't intend ... any of that."
A long, heavy silence. I thought of lots of things to say along the lines that Ken's passivity had done every bit as much damage as Dave's power-hungry maliciousness, but kept my mouth shut in the end. He'd either see it for himself or he wouldn't.
"There's one thing," I said slowly, "that I don't understand. The thing that started all this. Why did Dave poison the horses to begin with?"
Ken laughed, a short bark of a laugh with an edge to it.
"Because of something I said one day when he was over here picking up cattle. I told him I had two horses that hadn't panned out; I'd never be able to sell them for what they were worth. He asked me if they were insured and I said yes. Then he asked me to point them out to him. He said if I collected on them he wanted twenty-five percent."
