Hayburner (A Gail McCarthy Mystery) Read online

I stared at the footprint. One glance told me there was no point in trying to follow tracks. The thick understory of the brush was carpeted with dry leaves; such a surface would be much beyond my limited tracking skills.

  More than that, the last thing I wanted was to find the author of this footprint. I had an immediate certainty that the man who had crouched here, hidden in the brush where he could see my house, had meant me harm.

  Swallowing, I made my way back to the driveway, my heart beating so hard it almost drowned out the buzz in my ears. Walking very slowly, I searched the surrounding hills with my eyes, looking for color or motion, listening for sounds. Anything inappropriate, anything that shouldn't be there. I could find nothing, but the brush, usually so friendly and familiar, seemed threatening. The thick scrub could hide a dozen enemies.

  Letting Roey out of her pen, I called her to me and shut myself in the house. For the first time in my tenure, I locked the doors. Then I got my gun out of its cupboard and set it on the bedside table. Putting the phone beside it, I crawled into bed.

  Roey jumped up by my feet and settled down, happy to take an afternoon nap. But I couldn't sleep. My head ached and the ringing in my ears seemed louder. Surges of cringing panic washed over me. I huddled under the sheets and peered out the window.

  Someone was after me. I knew it in an intense, visceral way I couldn't fathom. My body knew it, more than my mind. I was being hunted.

  Outside my bedroom window, the well-loved landscape of my home was ominous. I watched sunlight play on the towering buttresses of the blue gum tree and shivered. The hunter would be comfortable in the bush; he might be there now, in a new blind, watching and waiting. He would know I was alone.

  I looked at the gun. I looked at the phone. The dog will bark if she hears anything, I reminded myself. I'll dial 911. I'll pick up the gun. If anyone tries to come through that door I will shoot them.

  Try to avoid shooting Blue, the calmer side of my mind quipped.

  Right.

  Where was Blue? I wished, quite desperately, that he were here with me.

  Voices. I started and stared, straining to hear, trying to see. I heard them again, distant voices, calling to a dog, perhaps the neighbors, no threat to me.

  My heart was pounding again. I took a deep breath, swallowed, and tried to accept the fear. I thought of what Blue had taught me about fear when I first got on Danny.

  Look at what is happening now, Gail. You are sitting in bed. The dog is by your feet. Nothing scary is happening right now. It's all about "what if."

  Slowly the hours crept by. Eventually, as the daylight waned, I saw Blue's pickup pulling in the driveway. He got out of the cab bearing a cardboard pizza box, just as he'd promised. Freckles jumped out after him and followed at his heels.

  I tried to greet the two of them at the door with a show of normalcy, but it was a dismal failure. Blue took one look at me, put the pizza down, and wrapped his arms around me.

  "What happened, Gail?"

  Taking him by the hand, I led him to the bedroom. Somehow I felt safer there, away from the big windows. Blue reached to turn on the light, but I stopped him.

  "What's the matter?" he said again.

  "I saw a footprint." Realizing how inadequate it sounded, I tried again. "A man's footprint. In the brush where it shouldn't have been. Someone's watching me."

  Blue looked concerned. Holding my hand in his, he said, "Come on, Stormy. What makes you think this footprint was made by someone who's a threat? Surely there are dozens of possible explanations."

  I shook my head emphatically and then winced. "No," I said. "I know it. He's stalking me."

  Blue regarded me carefully, as if I were a wild animal he was unfamiliar with. "How do you know it?"

  I sighed. "I just do. You think I'm being paranoid, don't you. Because of my concussion."

  "Not necessarily. Someone once told me that there are three sorts of illogical thinking. Two are useless and the third is helpful. That's why I asked how you knew."

  "So what are my three options?"

  "Fear-based thinking, wishful thinking, and intuition."

  "Oh," I said. "Well, I guarantee you this isn't wishful thinking. I'm no drama queen."

  "That I know." Blue squeezed my hand and smiled. "Do you think it's fear-based or intuitive?"

  I thought. "I don't know," I said at last. "I was feeling fearful before I saw the track, it's true. But somehow I just know. My body knows."

  Blue nodded seriously. "What does it know?"

  "Whoever hit me last night is after me," I said flatly.

  "Because?"

  "Because I saw him."

  "Who is it?” Blue said sharply.

  "I don't know. I just know that I know, if you see what I mean. I've been thinking about it all afternoon, lying here in bed. I must have seen him, before he hit me. Jeri said I must have seen the candles, and I don't remember that, either. I must have seen him, too."

  "The arsonist?"

  "It has to be. Who else would have hit me? I think he ran off because Jeri was pulling in the driveway with all her lights and sirens. Otherwise I'd probably be dead." I shivered.

  Blue put his arm around my shoulders and held me close.

  "He's after me," I said again. "And I just can't remember. It's all a blank. I've tried and tried. And I still can't."

  "I know," Blue said soothingly. "Concussions can be like that."

  "It's happened to me before. Once when I was in a car wreck, once when I got bucked off a horse. Both times I couldn't remember anything that happened in the last few minutes before I got knocked out."

  "It's pretty common."

  "But this time it's important. I've got to remember. I've got to."

  "You can't force it, Stormy. It'll come when it's ready, or not at all."

  As I opened my mouth to speak, the phone rang. I picked up the receiver. "Hello."

  "It's Jeri Ward. Guess what?"

  "What?"

  "Those two guys you told me to check on. Hans Schmidt and John Romero? Well I did. You're not going to believe it."

  "Try me."

  "They both have records."

  "Of what?"

  I could hear the smile in Jeri's voice. "Arson."

  TWENTY-THREE

  “Shit. Both of them. I don't believe it." I was shocked.

  "Well, you must have suspected something," Jeri said. "You told me to run their records."

  "I heard about Hans' animal rights past," I said. "But John Romero. I had no idea."

  "It's true. Hans Schmidt was indicted as part of a group that burned down a barn and a lab at a research facility. John Romero's story is a little more complicated."

  "So what is it?"

  "He was a juvenile," Jeri said, "and the records are supposed to be sealed, but in a case like this, where there's a real need to know, I was able to pull a few strings. So this isn't common knowledge."

  "All right."

  "John Romero was known to have set two wildfires as a teenager. The story's a strange one. It seems his mother had three children, all boys, by three different men. She was never married and she had no steady source of income; apparently she raised these three kids more or less on the street."

  "She was homeless?"

  "That's right."

  "Around here?”

  "No. In Southern California. Anyway, our boy John was the oldest son and at a certain point in his teens, he was apparently more or less running wild. Literally. He stole food for his mother and brothers, and from what I understand, he also hunted for it."

  "Hunted?"

  "That's right. He snared rabbits and quail; he even shot deer with a bow and arrow."

  "In Southern California?"

  "In the hills," Jeri said. "He claims the fires he started were accidents. They were campfires that got out of hand. He says he was cooking food for his family."

  "Wow."

  "Yeah. The arresting officers didn't entirely buy this explanation, but they coul
dn't disprove it. And he was a juvenile. And, obviously, in a tough spot. His probation officer helped him to make a new start, and as we know, he went on to college and vet school, and he's been clean ever since. So the records were sealed."

  "Geez." I was thinking of John Romero's dark, sulky glare, and my shrink's words about men and their mothers. "What was his mother like?" I asked Jeri.

  "A total loser. Arrested numerous times for prostitution, drug use, and vagrancy."

  "I'm amazed she could hang onto the kids."

  "She didn't, in the end. The younger two were put in foster homes, eventually."

  "Poor kids," I said. Inwardly I was adding two plus two and coming up with big, flashing danger signs. Bad mother, arson record, obvious hostility to women, my God. And a hunter.

  "Got to go," Jeri said. "Just thought I'd check in. How are you?"

  "Not so good. My ears ring, my head hurts, and I'm dizzy." I thought about telling Jeri about the footprint and my fear, but rejected the idea. If Blue had a hard time believing me, Jeri would think I was crazy for sure.

  I hung up the phone after Jeri promised to stay in touch, and recounted what I'd learned to Blue.

  "Do you think John Romero hit you?" he asked.

  I closed my eyes. My head spun; in the whirling darkness I tried to find a face. I thought of John Romero. There was nothing. Not the faintest vestige of an image. Nothing. I thought of Hans. Still nothing. But my mind kept circling back to John. John and his hostility.

  "What are you seeing?" Blue asked.

  "Nothing. I try, and I have the sense there's something there, but no image will come. I just keep thinking about John."

  "Anything special about him?"

  "No. But there's something. Something I'm forgetting. Damn. This is so frustrating."

  "Come on," Blue said. "Don't get stuck. Maybe a little food will jog your memory." Taking my hand, he pulled me gently to my feet. "Let's go eat pizza."

  I held back. "Blue, I don't exactly know how to put this, but I'm scared to go out in the other room and turn on the light. Anyone who's outside can see in so clearly."

  Blue gave me a long, steady look. "Stormy, I'm here with you. Anyone who wants to get to you will have to kill me first. And I'm not that easy to kill."

  "A bullet would do it," I retorted.

  "Sure," Blue said easily. Glancing at my gun on the bedside table, he grinned. "Then you'll have the advantage."

  "It's not funny," I protested.

  "I know," he said soothingly. "But do you really want to keep hiding in your room?"

  "No," I admitted, "I guess I don't."

  "Then, here we go." Pulling me to him, he brushed my hair with his lips, and led me out the bedroom door.

  Plied with pizza and kisses, how could I resist? I went with Blue, but the fear remained. I glanced nervously at the dark windows for the rest of the evening, and lying next to Blue in bed, I could feel fear curled in my gut, as surely as Roey was curled by my feet.

  Someone was hunting me.

  I awoke to fear; Blue's presence couldn't dispel it. All morning long, through coffee, breakfast, and chores, I struggled with my anxiety, which seemed to take the form of endless questions. Who was after me? Why couldn't I remember? What in the hell was I going to do?

  As I leaned on the arena fence and watched Blue lope Danny, my one thought was how to avoid being left alone. Danny carried Blue smoothly and obediently; the colt slid to a perfect stop when Blue said whoa. I should have been happy. Instead I stayed obsessed with my own inner turmoil. The constant headache and din in my ears seemed part of this extreme whole-body panic. I jumped as my eye caught a bright red car driving up my driveway.

  Clay, I realized a second later. Clay Bishop, driving his red Porsche. My overwhelming anxiety was instantly replaced by a new nervousness. How would Clay and Blue deal with each other?

  Blue was just unsaddling Danny and looked a question my way.

  "Clay Bishop," I said briefly.

  Blue nodded and led Danny off to his pen. Clay parked his car and got out.

  "Hi, Gail" Clay's easy smile was smoothly in place. Staring after the departing forms of Blue and Danny, he said, "Your new horse?"

  "That's right."

  "And your new boyfriend?"

  "Yep." What else was there to say? I looked at Clay through the cacophony in my mind, and wondered what he was here for.

  As always, Clay seemed to intuit my thought. "I came to see if you needed help." Looking at Blue, he added, "but I guess I'm not needed."

  "That's nice of you," I said. "How'd you hear?"

  "Your friend Detective Ward was out at the barn yesterday. She told me what happened."

  "Was she investigating?" I asked curiously.

  "That, and riding her horse. I think she was killing two birds with one stone." Clay smiled. "She rides that little gelding almost every weekend. He sure is a funny-looking horse."

  I smiled, too. "ET, the extra-terrestrial. The name sure fits him, doesn't it?"

  "Yeah, it does. He's got that long skinny neck and those short legs and he's blind in one eye." Clay shook his head. "But he does seem to be as gentle and sweet as they come. Anyway, Jeri was riding him, and she talked to me and Bart and some of the other boarders. She let me know you had a pretty bad concussion. How are you feeling?"

  "Not the greatest. I'm hanging in there. I've got a headache."

  "I'm sorry to hear that. What happened?"

  "What did Jeri tell you?"

  "Just that you'd been hit over the head."

  "I seem to have caught the arsonist in the act at Judith Rainier's place," I said.

  "Really. Did you see him?"

  "If I did, I don't remember."

  "Wow. If there's anything I can do, let me know." Clay sent a

  significant look at Blue, who had put Danny away and was headed back toward us. "Though it looks like you've got it covered."

  In another minute the two men were shaking hands. They'd met before, I knew.

  "You remember each other?" I said lamely. Mutual nods and polite smiles. Damn, this was awkward. Blue seemed content to stand quietly by my side, and I hadn't a clue what to say next.

  Clay took the lead. "I just stopped by to see how Gail was doing," he said. "Mom and Bart send their regards."

  "Thank you," I said.

  "Take good care," Clay said, seeming to address the comment to Blue and me equally. "I'll see you later." Folding his long, slender body back into the red sports car, he gave us a jaunty smile and a wave and departed.

  As he disappeared down the drive, Blue said, "Poor guy."

  "Why's that?"

  "I've got you, and he doesn't." Blue pulled me to him and gave me a long kiss. "Lucky me."

  "I don't know that you're so lucky. Playing nursemaid to a grouchy sick person."

  "Stormy, any man who gets to sleep with you is lucky." Blue smiled. "Real lucky."

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Monday morning I went to the clinic. Blue protested, but I was sure. No way was I spending the day at home alone. Work felt infinitely safer. Blue promised to be back home before me, and seemed to understand my need not to be left alone. I was grateful.

  In one short weekend I seemed to have metamorphosed from a reasonably independent, confident woman into an extreme stereotype of a clinging vine. Here I was, begging my man not to leave me alone. It wasn't exactly the version of myself I would have chosen to present to Blue Winter.

  Amazingly, he seemed to accept me in this role, even respect me, as though my behavior were perfectly natural under the circumstances. I wondered how I had ever managed to get so lucky.

  Now I stood before Jim, doing my best to sound competent and coherent. "I've got a concussion, but I can function," I told him. "It's just a headache."

  Jim looked dubious. Since I didn't exactly want to go into what would sound like paranoid delusions, I didn't mention my fear of being alone at home. "You work when you have a headache, don't you?" I added
.

  "Whatever you think, Gail," Jim said at last. "You're the judge."

  "I'll be careful." What I didn't say, as I went out the back door, was that I had another reason to be here. John Romero's pickup had just passed the glass office door, en route to the rear parking lot. I wanted to see John.

  That is, I wanted to see John in a safe situation, with plenty of other people around. I also wanted to see him in reasonable privacy, so we could talk. The parking lot seemed ideal.

  I exited the office just as John got out of his truck. My heart began thumping as I walked toward him. What would I see, when my eyes met his? The face I'd last seen in Judith's barn?

  The moment, when it came, was anticlimactic. John stopped, as I stood in his path, and looked at me. I stared back at him. Those dark, sulky eyes were familiar, yes, but there was no particular jolt of emotional resonance. If my mind knew something about his face, it wasn't telling.

  "Hi, John," I said.

  "Hello." John regarded me curiously. I wondered if my inner din was somehow audible. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

  "How did you know?"

  "Someone told me."

  "Who?"

  John gave me an unfriendly look. "Detective Jeri Ward, if you need to know."

  "Oh."

  "She spent a good part of yesterday picking my brain. I think she thinks I bashed you over the head. And lit a few fires."

  "Oh," I said again.

  "Is that what you think?"

  "Uh," I floundered, startled by his blunt approach.

  Once again, I saw a brief flash of some very hot emotion in his eyes.

  "If you think that, you're wrong. Both of you. I may not like you, boss, but I'd never hit you over the head." John made as if to walk around me.

  "What about the fires?" I said.

  "What fires?" He threw it over his shoulder.

  "The fires you set when you were a kid."

  Slowly, very slowly, John turned back to face me. "How do you know about that?"

  I flinched. "I swore not to tell anyone. And I haven't. Not Jim. Not anyone."

  "What do you know?"

  "That you were arrested for arson as a kid."

  A long, long moment of silence. "Did they tell you what happened?"

  "Not really."