The Payback Man (16 page)

He admitted he’d always found Steve to be a light sleeper when they’d traveled together.

He also admitted that he recognized the murder weapon as belonging to a set in Steve’s kitchen drawer. When pressed, he said that he recognized the knives because he and Steve had bought two sets exactly the same in Germany the year before to give to their respective wives.

He realized that there was no evidence of an intruder, but he maintained that Steve was innocent. If Steve said there was an intruder, then there must have been, even if there wasn’t any evidence of one. Why he hadn’t reported one during the night, Neil did not know. Why he had not discovered his wife’s corpse before he bathed and dressed for the day, Neil did not know. Nor why Steve hadn’t realized Chelsea had not been to bed.

Neil’s testimony had turned out to be damaging—because he had seemed to say one thing while in fact he’d said another. Leslie Vickers should have seen, noted and
gone after the man on cross-examination. Why hadn’t he set forth the possibility that Neil himself might be guilty?

That was answered during cross-examination. Neil had an alibi. He had been home asleep with his wife. They had gotten ready for bed together the previous night, and had even made love. He had come over to Steve’s house in the morning still unshaven, and dressed in his pajamas and robe.

Posey Waters was his wife. Would she lie for him? Probably. To protect her sister’s killer? Who knew? Maybe. At any rate, there was no other trace evidence linking him or anyone else to the crime scene.

The two sisters probably had keys to each other’s house. If not, who better than Neil to know where a spare key might be kept outside for emergencies?

Maybe Steve wasn’t drunk, but drugged. And who better to drug him than one of the people he’d had dinner with?

Eleanor didn’t know this Neil person. He might be a saint, but reading the transcript had given her a powerful gut feeling that he was anything but.

She was beginning to believe Steve. He’d been framed. But by whom? Neil? His wife, Posey? A real intruder? A hired killer?

Leslie Vickers hadn’t put Steve on the stand. He apparently didn’t want to open him up to cross-examination. As a matter of fact, he’d put on no case at all, saying that the case against Steve had no merit and had not been proved. In his summation he’d hit on the lack of real evidence again and again, and told the jury that unless they were positive in their own minds there had been no intruder, they had to acquit Steve.

They didn’t. The jury members weren’t certain enough to convict him of first- or second-degree murder, but they weren’t certain enough of his innocence to let him off free, either.

The punishment portion of the trial started immediately after Steve’s conviction. Now that it was too late to do
anything but mitigate against a long sentence, Vickers paraded witness after witness to testify what a fine decent man Steve was, what an excellent boss, a man of integrity, an honorable man who always played by the rules. Vickers had even put a couple of members of his polo team on the stand to talk about what an honest player he was. That had probably done more harm than good.

Reading the testimony, Eleanor became more and more uncomfortable. Either all these witnesses were right about his character, or he was an incredible actor. But didn’t Raoul say that even the smartest sociopaths couldn’t keep up the act for long? Apparently everybody, including Steve’s high-school history teacher, thought he was a wonderful human being.

One character witness was absent. Steve’s father, the Colonel, did not testify for his son during the penalty phase.

Even fine men can snap. But do they lie about it afterward? Everyone agreed that Steve was extremely intelligent with a computer maven’s logical mind. If he was going to make up a story to cover killing his wife, surely he could have done a better job of it. A two-year-old could see through that intruder story.

So what now? Steve would be up for parole in a little less than two years, unless Neil and his wife opposed it. Would they take the chance? Would Neil simply move to Phoenix with his millions?

Could Steve let it go and rebuild his life from scratch?

Eleanor desperately wanted to talk to Leslie Vickers, Steve’s lawyer.

She longed to talk to Steve even more.

S
UNDAY MORNING DAWNED
dull and even colder. The weather report spoke of the first real cold snap of the year at some point during the week, possibly accompanied by sleet. The first two weeks of November were usually the most beautiful of the year in Memphis, with the fall foliage at its peak. This year, however, the trees were already losing their leaves.

She went to the barn to make certain that Gil Jones and Robert Dalrymple, the two men detailed to feed and water the stock this weekend, had done their jobs properly. Everything seemed in good shape. She let the three horses out into the far paddock, and despite their age, they raced around like yearlings. She left them out when she went to the clinic. She could bring them in on her way home.

Creature Comfort didn’t keep regular hours on Sunday, but was available for emergencies. Eleanor found Liz Carlyle, the night vet, sitting at the registration desk studying a heavy textbook on diseases of the eye.

“I didn’t know you were on call,” Eleanor said.

“I’m not. I left the kids with my dear old hubby. I hope he can keep his eyes off football long enough to prevent major disaster. This is the only quiet place I could think of to study. I’m headed to Mississippi State for a week of hands-on eye surgery tomorrow morning.”

“Who’s looking after the children?”

“They’re in day care full-time this week, then home at night. I hope everybody survives.” She pointedly looked back at her book.

Eleanor left her. In the kennel, the brindle pit bull female greeted her joyfully. The dog now wore a mesh collar, as did the other three pit bulls who were still under the care of the clinic. “Who cares what Mac Thorn thinks.
I
think it’s time we started teaching you to be a lady.”

She found a training lead and collar, opened the cage and slipped the collar over the female’s head. “Come on, sweetie, let’s take a walk.”

The dog hunched and sat back, pulling toward the back of the cage. She began to shiver.

Eleanor dropped to her knees. “It’s all right, baby.” The dog stared at her in terror. The cage had become her refuge. Since she’d been at the clinic she’d only come out to have her wound cleaned or get a shot, both painful.

And before, out of her cage must have meant a fight for her life.

Eleanor pulled over the pad that was used as a recovery area for big dogs that had undergone surgery. She made herself comfortable and began to talk softly.

“First, you need a name, don’t you? All ladies have pretty names. How about Rose Petal? Peony? You’re yellow, so we might call you Goldenrod.”

The dog watched her from the back of her cage.

Eleanor kept talking in the same quiet, singsong voice. She recited nursery rhymes, sang old Broadway show tunes, cajoled, and cussed but always in the same soft voice.

Little by little the dog relaxed until she lay on her mat with her one and a half ears relaxed and her eyes on Eleanor. But she made no move to come out. Finally Eleanor gave up, pulled the collar off, stroked the dog’s head, and shut her in once more. “You know what, dog? I think you need a dose of Big Little. Tomorrow afternoon I’ll make sure you get one.”

The rest of the day passed with the usual crises that were not really crises, except in the minds of frightened owners.

By the time Eleanor got home, she was ready for a diet microwave dinner and bed. At nine-thirty the phone rang.

“Hope I didn’t call too late. J. K. Sanders here.”

“No, it’s okay. What can I do for you?”

“Larry Duntreith wants to bring his buffalo over tomorrow afternoon.”

“That’s almost a week early!”

“Fences mended?”

“Well, yes, but none of the men has even attempted to ride the horses yet, and we really need some mounted wranglers when we turn them loose, don’t you think?”

“Yeah. I’ll stall Larry until Tuesday. I’ll be over tomorrow morning to work with your men, show ’em a few techniques to stay on their horses when they start cutting. That’s all I can do.”

“They shouldn’t need much more unless the buffalo turn loony.”

He laughed. “Now, that I cannot promise. ’Bye.”

J.K.
RODE WITH THE EASE
of a man to whom a horse is an extension of himself. His demonstration of cutting techniques was awesome. No matter how quickly his horse moved from side to side, or how deeply he sucked out from under J.K. when he did it, the man never bobbled. He made the whole process look easy.

Robert Dalrymple and Steve, the members of the team who’d claimed they had riding experience, were chosen to attempt to ride the other two horses.

Robert was the first to take a lesson. Old Will, his quarter horse, had been a champion before he’d retired.

“What that horse doesn’t know about cows, the cows don’t know themselves,” J.K. told Robert.

Robert’s limber frame gave him a natural balance. All he needed was to remember what it had been like to ride as a child. In ten minutes he was loping happily around the pasture. J.K. pronounced him ready to try sitting the horse while it cut out a cow.

“You don’t do nothing. The horse knows his job. He’ll do it whether you’re up there or not—he
hates
cows. Now brace your feet in front of you in the stirrups, tuck that elbow hard into your side and hang on for dear life.”

J.K. trotted into the pasture where the cows watched warily. Robert followed. “Whoa! I don’t like this,” he said, as his horse perked up.

J.K. sidled quietly in among the cows and began to move one cow away from her calf. She went quietly at first. J.K. took care not to spook her. “Soon as she realizes she’s all alone, she’ll break back. That’s when Old Will will start to work. Whichever way she runs, he’ll be there before she even thinks about it, so you hang on to that saddle horn.”

The instant the cow broke to go back to the herd, J.K.’s horse began to move from side to side like a pendulum. A second later Robert’s horse did the same thing. Robert, however, did not. He landed hard on his bottom in the dirt.

All the men hanging over the fence started to clap and hoot with laughter.

Robert stood up, brushed himself off, and yelled, “You think you so smart, you try it!” He began to walk off.

“Not too bad for a first try, young man,” J.K. said. “Get back on that horse. You can do it. Now listen to me.”

After an hour Robert was wringing wet and so was the horse. The cows were extremely annoyed, but Robert could stay on. He was even beginning to enjoy himself, and when he finally drove a calf into the imaginary pen set up at the end of the field, everyone applauded.

J.K. nodded. “Fine. Walk him out. You’re a long ways from a finished cowboy, but you got some talent. Maybe I got a job for you when you get out of here, you keep this up.”

Robert scowled, but it was obvious he was pleased.

Steve rode as easily as J.K. He took just two minutes to pen a calf.

“Where’d you learn that, boy?” J.K. asked.

“Spent a couple of summers on a ranch,” Steve said. “Guess I remembered more than I thought I had.” Steve wasn’t about to mention that the ranch had belonged to one of his father’s old army buddies on Kauai. That was where he’d learned to play polo—not among the south-Florida rich, but with a bunch of hard-bitten cowboys.

“I’ll tell Duntreith we’ll take his dad-gum buffalo tomorrow afternoon, then,” J.K. said. “Set up one of them big round rolls of hay in that pasture. Maybe they’ll eat, instead of running.”

“Good idea,” Eleanor said. “About the only thing good about this whole situation. Slow Rise, can you and Gil and Sweet Daddy get that bale moved?”

“Sure thing, Doc.” Slow Rise swung onto the tractor, and Sweet Daddy and Gil jumped up and hung beside him. He drove to the far end of the enclosure where the big round bales of winter hay were stored. The prongs with which they had to be moved were quickly attached to the tractor, and all three men were positioning the bale ten minutes later. When set on end in the metal holder in the center of the buffalo pasture, it stood six feet tall and at least seven feet in circumference.

“That ought to keep even them buffalo eating for a while,” Slow rise said.

“Then let’s knock off,” Eleanor said. “Steve, Robert, look after the horses. Thanks, J.K. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

J.K. took her arm and walked her to his truck. “That Chadwick guy. I know his daddy. Fine man, the Colonel. Terrible thing that boy of his turning out like he did.”

Eleanor nearly defended him, but managed to keep her mouth shut.

“He was supposed to go to West Point until his sister got so bad hurt. I guess he just went downhill from there.” He shook his head. “I wasn’t kidding about maybe giving that black kid a job. What’d he do?”

“Drugs, I think. Talk to Raoul Torres about him. He could use a job when he gets out.”

“Can’t do much, but I try to help out where I can. See you tomorrow.”

T
HE BLACK-AND-WHITE
longhorn steer came out of Larry Duntreith’s stock trailer first. Eleanor had forgotten that the steer was part of the deal. He was small, and from the way he tore down the ramp and into the pasture, he seemed to be fleeing from his companions.

When the three female buffalo erupted from the trailer and jumped off the ramp, Steve could see why the steer was so intimidated.

“Easy, girl,” he whispered to his mare. She had begun to wriggle from side to side the moment the longhorn came off the trailer. He could feel the pull on his reins, and set himself in case she decided to go herding on her own without his instructions.

On his right, J. K. Sanders sat easy on his horse, as well, but one glance told Steve he also was set for trouble. Robert, on his left, was the unknown quantity. He’d done remarkably well yesterday learning to stick with the horse when it dodged from side to side under him, but one day penning calves was a far cry from herding buffalo.

“Hold on, Robert,” Steve said softly. “Don’t ask for trouble.”

“No way, man. Damn! Those mothers are
large.
”

Perhaps they’d worried for nothing. The longhorn and the buffalo looked at the roll of hay with interest, then circled it as though searching for the best place to start tearing into it.

The other members of the team, plus Selma on her four-wheeler and Eleanor on the tractor, sat absolutely still outside the pasture. Except for Sweet Daddy’s gasp, no one had made a sound since the trailer gates had opened.

Larry Duntreith grinned at Steve, gave J.K. a thumbs-up, and slammed the metal doors of the stock trailer.

The sound reverberated like Big Ben at midnight. In an instant the buffalo exploded into flight. A moment later the longhorn joined them.

And a second after that, all three horses decided it was time to go to work.

Steve had been prepared. So had J.K.

Robert yelped as Old Will dropped low on his hind legs and thrust himself to the left. Robert slid right, his spidery legs riding up in the stirrups, his hands gripping the saddle horn.

“Stay with him, boy!” J.K. yelled.

There was no way. Old Will slid left a good six feet. Robert slued right the same distance.

“Help!” he screamed as he hit the ground.

Old Will, stirrups flapping, reins flying around his ankles, decided he’d waited for his incompetent rider long enough. He had a job to do—herd those hump-backed creatures that were flying around the pasture at a dead gallop.

And right at Robert.

Steve drove his horse forward. He could hear the hooves of J.K.’s horse right behind him. Somehow they had to turn those buffalo.

Steve’s horse had guts for an old guy. He skidded to a stop in front of the buffalo and began to dance from side to side. Steve held on and moved with the horse. His body remembered what to do without instruction from him.

The buffalo snorted and thrashed.

“Get him out of there!” Eleanor shouted.

Steve glanced behind him. Robert was on his feet. A little dazed, but apparently unhurt.

In the nanosecond he’d taken his eyes off the buffalo, they’d done a one-eighty and were now flying around the pasture in the other direction.

“I’ll handle this,” J.K. yelled as he galloped by. “Get the boy.”

Robert’s riderless horse’s reins had broken just above
ground level—a good thing, since now he wouldn’t trip on them. He galloped behind J.K. A true professional, even if Robert wasn’t.

Steve wheeled his horse. The buffalo were incredibly fast for such heavy beasts. He measured distances and shouted, “Go for the hay roll. Climb on top. I’ll pick you up.”

Robert just stared at him.

“Move, man! Look behind you!”

Robert looked and took off at a dead run.

It would be close. Steve had no idea what would happen if there were a dead heat—Robert, buffalo and Steve’s horse.

Then he saw nothing but Robert. Time slowed.

He heard his heart and his breathing, and somewhere way in the background hoofbeats. He knew he was in the zone. He hadn’t been so focused since his last polo match. God, it felt good, as though he’d suddenly come alive, if only for a few seconds. All the time in the world.

Robert scrambled up the hay.

The buffalo were close. Would they swerve if Steve cut across their path? Or run right over him?

He drove his heels deeper into his horse’s flanks.

Out the corner of his eye he saw a monumental brown creature almost crash into him.

Then he was past.

He pulled his horse to a stop beside the roll and reached out for Robert.

“Jump on behind me. We’re outta here.”

The instant he felt Robert’s arms lock around his waist, he spun his horse and drove for the pasture gate.

Gil Jones held it open long enough to step in and haul Robert off the back of Steve’s horse.

Steve wheeled and galloped back to help J.K.

In the end, they gave up and pulled their horses in close to the hay roll to let the buffalo run themselves out.

The longhorn gave up first. He cut away and trotted over
to the shelter of the hay roll. Robert’s horse snorted, but J.K. held him by the remaining length of rein.