2 Crushed (13 page)

“The tablet was Ketamine.”

She pressed her hands to her chest
as though to protect her heart. “Tell me what that is.”

“It’s a powerful anesthetic used in
horse surgery.”

“What?” She barely breathed the
word.

“Horse tranquilizer.”

She closed her eyes and knew such
intense self-recrimination that the pain was physical. Her stomach knotted and
she bent over with a sob. Handel tried to pull her into his arms but she
dropped to her knees in the dirt and screamed. There were no words, only
wailing that bordered on hysteria. The wails continued and she couldn’t seem to
stop. Full-blown hysteria. The neighbor’s dog began to bark, an empathetic
howling.

Handel grabbed her by the shoulders
and shook her. “Stop it, Margaret! This is not helping Davy! Get hold of
yourself!”

“You knew! You knew all along he
couldn’t be trusted. But I felt guilty for not calling him when Davy went
missing. I took him into my office and comforted him.” She spit out the word,
bitter on her tongue. “He said he prayed God would give him another chance to
be a real father.”

Handel bent down and lifted her by
the elbows. This time she allowed him to pull her into the strength of his
arms. When her sobs quieted, he pulled back. “Are you all right, now?” he
asked.

She nodded, and wiped her face with
the sleeve of her shirt. She’d never be all right until they found Davy, but it
wasn’t what he meant.

“The police already questioned him.
He has a rock-solid alibi for his whereabouts at the time of Davy’s
disappearance.”

“Of course he does. He would never
get his own hands dirty. But we both know he’s involved.”

“Probably. It’s too big of a
coincidence for a horse tranquilizer to be the drug of choice. Although, the
police did say that teens in rural areas have been found using it.”

“They’re not accusing the boys of
taking it themselves?”

“No, they just asked if we knew of
neighbors with horses. Somewhere the drug could have been stolen from.”

“Did the police tell you what this
drug does?” she asked, fearful of the answer but needing to know.

He nodded. “It produces euphoria
and an inability to concentrate. Probably why they gave it to him. He wouldn’t
remember where he went or what happened and he wouldn’t cause any trouble along
the way.”

“What aren’t you telling me? I’ve
seen drug commercials. Every drug has side-effects far worse than the problems
they fix.”

He hesitated. “It could possibly
include numbness, vomiting or unconsciousness.”

“Which means he could choke to
death if no one is watching him,” she said, panic gripping her insides again.

“Don’t borrow trouble, Margaret. We
have more than enough without worrying about
what ifs
.”

*****

Adam waited in the dark, leaning
against an old piece of machinery. He watched the flashlight beam move through
the vineyard, go off for a time, and then come back on pointing in his
direction, like a giant firefly wandering aimlessly. The beam bobbed unsteadily
and then went dark when Margaret screamed. The sound was gut-wrenching and he
stood rooted to the spot, fearing the worst. He wanted to run into the
vineyard, to be her shield against the pain, but Handel’s voice carried across
the field, “stop it Margaret!” and soon she quieted.

Billie had locked up the winery and
retired to the house, still angry with Handel and him for the scene with
Salvatore earlier. But she didn’t know Salvatore, hadn’t met him. She didn’t
know what a piece of work he was, that he shouldn’t be trusted. Adam had a
feeling the Italian playboy might have something to do with Margaret’s
emotional breakdown in the field. He gripped the edge of the smooth metal
behind him and waited, digging the heels of his tennis shoes into the dirt.

Murmured voices reached his ears
long before they left the field and crunched over the gravel drive toward
Margaret’s car. He moved out of the shadows and caught up to them as Handel
opened the driver’s side door and Margaret slid behind the wheel.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to
drive you?” Handel asked, even as his eyes strayed toward Billie’s house.

“That’s silly. You have your car
here. I’ll be fine.” She pulled her seatbelt across and snapped it in place.
“Besides,” she said, “you need to talk to Billie. I don’t know what you said to
her, but she looked really hurt.”

“I can go with her,” Adam said,
moving around the car. “I’ll just walk back across the fields.”

“That’s not necessary,” she said,
turning the ignition. “I’m not a child.”

Adam climbed in the car beside her,
and smiled. “I’m not a child either.”

“Good, you’re both consenting adults
to ride in a car. Glad to hear it.” Handel closed the door and headed toward
the house.

“I hope she lets him in,” Adam
said, glancing back. “Billie can be a tad stubborn.”

“Must run in the family.”

She was quiet until they pulled up
outside her house. The garage was closed and she reached up to push the remote
before she remembered that it was gone. She thrust the car door open and
climbed out, her lips set into a thin angry line. “I hope they give him life
for this,” she murmured, digging in her sweatshirt pocket for the key to the
front door.

Adam followed her up the steps and
waited as she turned the key and released the deadbolt. He reached out and
turned the knob and stood back for her to enter first. She hesitated as though
afraid of what she’d find. He took her hand in his and they went in together.

She flipped the light switch beside
the door and an overhead chandelier illumined the hallway and staircase that
led to the upper level rooms. The kitchen was as they’d left it that morning
after finding the broken window. The gun case was still on the table, open and
conspicuously empty.

“Would you like some coffee?” she
asked, her eyes darting about the room as though searching for a clue to the
events of the day. She obviously wasn’t interested in sleep or knew it would
never come anyway. She opened a cupboard and pulled out a box of filters and a
bag of ground coffee, then gave him a crooked smile. “I forgot,” she said. “You
don’t really like coffee, do you?”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to. I’ve never
seen anyone nurse coffee so long without managing to taste it.”

He shrugged. “I tasted it. I just
prefer cocoa.”

“You really are too young for me,”
she teased, filling the coffee pot with water. “Don’t worry, I won’t make you
drink any.”

“Thanks.” He moved over to the
broken slider. “You got a broom? I’ll clean up this glass for you.”

She pointed at the small closet
door behind him.

He swept up the glass and put some
duct tape over the hole in the window to keep the jagged edges from being a danger
until it could be replaced. When he turned around she was sitting at the table
with her head in her hands. Her shoulders shook as she cried silent tears.

He poured a cup of coffee and
brought it to her at the table. She raised her head and tried to smile. A tear
dripped off the end of her nose and she wiped her face with the tissue wadded
in her hand. “You don’t have to stay. Handel will be home later. You should go
get some sleep. Billie will need you in the morning.”

“Don’t worry about me. I think I
held some kind of record at college for the most consecutive nights without
sleep.” He held out his hand. “Come on. Why don’t you lay on the couch and
relax, and I’ll play something for you.”

She put her hand in his and he led
her from the kitchen. The family room was more cluttered than usual and
Margaret moved about picking up books and magazines and straightening pillows
until Adam gently pushed her down on the couch, and swung her feet up before
she could get back up.

“You came in here to relax, remember?
Just lay there and close your eyes and you won’t see the mess,” he said. He
picked up his guitar and slipped the strap over his head.

“But you will,” she argued weakly,
with eyes closed, a hand thrown over her face.

He breathed out a soft laugh. “I’m
a guy. Messes are my life.”

He began slowly strumming an old
lullaby his mother taught him when he was a kid, soothing and mellow as a satin
pillow, then moved on to something classical he’d learned in high school. He no
longer remembered the name or the composer, but played from memory a version
all his own. The composition always reminded him of water trickling over smooth
stones in a mountain stream.

Her jaw grew slack in sleep, her
lips parted slightly, and she pressed into the back of the couch. He watched
her; afraid to stop playing for fear she’d wake. His fingers continued moving
over the strings, as though they had a mind of their own. He played every slow,
love song he knew and even managed to turn Rod Stewart’s classic
Hot Legs
into a calming, slumber-inspired
lullaby.

Finally, his fingers grew tired.
She didn’t wake when he stopped playing but curled tighter into the couch as
though she were cold. He looked around the room and found a blanket folded over
the top of the recliner. He carefully tucked it around her, feeling like he was
in some chick flick and he was the rugged, romantic lead who falls for the
beautiful, but tormented girl, who pretends to hate him, but is really
head-over-heels.

He settled into the recliner and
crossed his arms over his chest, watching her. He could only hope she felt that
way about him. Her breathing turned heavy and her eyelids twitched as though
she were dreaming. She moaned softly and curled her hands under her chin. He
hadn’t meant to come to California and fall for the first girl he met, but
apparently he had. Now there was no going back.

The hairs on the back of his neck
tingled and he turned his head to find Handel standing silently in the doorway.
The man’s shoulders sagged with the weight of responsibility. He stared at his
sister, helplessness and fear deepening the lines in his face. Adam quietly
stood up, revealing the fact that he was in the room, and Handel turned away,
moving into the kitchen.

He followed.

Handel stood at the counter, his
back to the room, pouring a cup of coffee. When he turned around he had
regained his composure. He leaned against the counter and took a sip. “Thanks
for bringing her home,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t
think she’d sleep. How’d you manage that?”

He lifted his hands. “Magic
fingers.”

Handel quirked his eyebrow but
didn’t ask. “Well, whatever you did, thanks.”

“No problem.” He rubbed a hand over
his chin. “Can I ask what happened out there? In the vineyard?”

“Margaret didn’t tell you?” He set
his cup down and crossed his arms over his chest.

“I didn’t ask her.”

“Probably for the best. She didn’t
take it well.”

That was obviously an
understatement. Adam remembered the sound Margaret made, more like a wounded
animal than a woman. He waited.

“The police called. Told us that
the drug Davy was given was a horse tranquilizer.”

“That’s horrible.”

“That’s not the worst of it. Agosto
Salvatore owns racehorses. He came to America to race one of them. He has
access to such drugs. My father would not. But together they make a formidable
team.”

Adam shook his head. “Are you
sure?”

Handel shrugged and picked up his
cup. “I’m sure. Margaret’s sure. The police? Who knows what they believe. They
questioned him and checked out his alibi, but are they staking out his hotel to
make sure he doesn’t skip the country with my nephew? Doubtful.”

“You know where he’s staying?” Adam
asked, reaching for the keys on the counter. Margaret wouldn’t mind him
borrowing her car for a few hours. Not for this.

“Sure. The biggest hotel with the
fanciest...” he trailed off. “What do you have in mind?”

“I think someone should be watching
him. Make sure he doesn’t run off in the middle of the night.”

Handel reached in his pocket and
pulled out a money clip. He extracted three one hundred dollar bills. “It would
be a lot easier if that someone were a guest of the hotel. They would have
access to the underground parking as well.”

He took the money and slipped it in
his wallet. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

CHAPTER
TWELVE

Adam drove slowly through the
parking garage, searching for the blue convertible. There were so many fancy
sports cars, he wondered if there was a mid-life crisis convention in town.
After winding around up to the fourth level, he finally found what he was
searching for. Blue metallic paint sparkled alluringly as he turned the corner
and the headlights of his car flashed over the Ferrari. Salvatore had one of
the best spaces available, wide enough for a huge SUV and far from any of those
annoying concrete posts. His car had buffer zones large enough to keep any
fellow drivers from parking too close and dinging his doors. Obviously he’d
tipped the hotel’s parking valet an exorbitant amount.

He found the nearest open spot and
maneuvered Margaret’s Toyota between the cement posts, hoping he could get back
out without taking her side mirrors off. Another car drove past, tires
squealing, not finding space, and continued to the next level. Very carefully,
he opened his door and slid out between the tightly parked vehicles.

He walked nonchalantly toward the
Ferrari, his gaze taking in the strategically placed security camera that
covered this corner and pointed at the stairwell door beyond. He was tempted to
lift the handle of the car as he passed, setting off the alarm, but he
refrained. Bending down, hands on his thighs, he took a good look through the
driver’s side window. Agosto had left a cap on the passenger seat, the words
Golden Gate Racetrack
embroidered on the
crown—a memento of his time here—other than that, the car was
pristine, uncluttered.

Adam straightened and walked slowly
around the vehicle to the stairwell. He took the stairs down to level two, then
hopped on the escalator and rode it down to the lobby. The desk was attended by
two men and an older woman, busy waiting on guests. The concierge sat at his
own desk off to the side, speaking with a young couple while they tried to
sooth a crying baby in a stroller. Adam stepped off the escalator and moved
through the lobby toward the elevators. He’d already managed to find out what
floor Agosto Salvatore was staying on. He pushed the up button and waited.

The chime sounded, heralding the
elevator’s arrival. The young couple caught up with him just as the doors
opened. The man didn’t appear any older than Adam, his dark hair cut short and
spiked with some hair gel that smelled like citrus. He pushed the stroller,
while his wife, her face scrunched in desperation, held a stuffed bunny over
the baby’s head in hopes of distracting it from continuing the ear-splitting
screams emitting from tiny cherub lips. Adam wanted to cover his ears as he
held the door for the family. He was sure the decibels emitting from the baby
was more dangerous than the sound of a jackhammer.

“Sorry,” murmured the woman as she
passed him, shaking the bunny so close to the baby’s face it was in danger of
getting a mouthful of fur. She moved in beside her husband on the other side of
the stroller and let her arm drop limply to her side. The baby continued to
wail.

Adam tried to remain inconspicuous,
pressing as close to the other side of the elevator as possible. He watched the
numbers light up as they ascended and hoped the family would exit soon.

The doors finally opened on twelve
and the man rolled the screaming child out the door. “We might as well go home
tomorrow, Babe, cause pushing this thing around all day is not my idea of a
vacation.”

“Well, if your mother had been
willing to watch him for one stinking week…” her voice dwindled away as the
doors slid shut again.

Adam released a sigh of relief and
leaned against the wall as the elevator slid up to floor fourteen and came to a
stop. The doors slid open and he was face to face with a large black woman.
Behind her, coming down the hall, was Agosto Salvatore. He quickly moved back
into the corner of the elevator and pulled his cap low over his eyes. The woman
looked at him strangely but stepped in and pushed the button for the lobby. He
crossed his arms and stared down at the floor.

Agosto stepped in and turned to
push the lobby button. Seeing it already lit up, he dropped his hand to his
side and faced forward. The doors closed and the elevator descended. Staring at
his wavy reflection in the brushed metal of the door, Agosto nervously combed
fingers through his hair and straightened his suit coat. The elevator made
stops at nine, seven, and four, and Agosto was pushed back as people entered,
close enough that Adam could smell alcohol on his breath. When the doors
finally opened to the lobby another group of passengers waited.

Adam, backed to the furthest corner
in his attempt to be invisible, nearly missed his chance to get off the
elevator. He pushed through oncoming traffic and stepped out just in time to
see Agosto pause to chat with the concierge. The man smiled and gestured toward
the front doors.

Salvatore moved toward the
entrance, obviously expecting his Ferrari to be brought around any minute. He
stopped and picked up a newspaper from a table, read the headlines, his mouth
grim. He folded it and stuck it under his arm.

Adam took the escalator at a run,
hoping Salvatore would be too engrossed in waiting for his car to look up. He
nearly collided with an old man in Bermuda shorts and a straw hat when he
opened the stairwell door. “Sorry,” he said, moving quickly around him and
darting up the stairs to garage level four.

He bolted through the door and ran
to his car with the key fob out. Sliding between the vehicles, he squeezed back
behind the wheel and started the ignition. The Ferrari was already gone from
its space, but the valet had left orange cones to keep it saved from
non-tipping customers. He threw the car into reverse and managed to inch out
from between the pillars without scraping anything off. He turned toward the
exit, his tires squealing like a litter of pigs. He couldn’t lose Salvatore
now. He prayed all the lights turned red so he could catch up. Better yet, that
the smug rich boy would get picked up for drinking and driving. That would put
him out of commission for a while.

Pulling up to the parking attendant’s
booth, he saw a flash of blue move under streetlights and turn, disappearing
from his view. He signed the card and handed it back, stepped on the gas as the
bar was raised.

By the time he hit the street, the
Ferrari was pulling away from the front of the hotel, the valet waving him off.
He slowed, waiting for Salvatore to pull into traffic, then followed, keeping
two or three cars between them for a buffer.

Once the city lights faded behind
them, Salvatore sped up, his car weaving in and out of traffic as if he were
driving in the Indy 500. Adam struggled to keep close enough not to lose him
without getting himself killed in a head-on collision.

He opened the vents and let the
cool night air in, heavy with the sweet scent of sun-ripened grapes. He glanced
at the clock in the dash. Half past nine. If Salvatore was driving back to San
Francisco tonight, he hadn’t brought his luggage. But maybe that was a ploy to
throw anyone watching off his tail. The police may have asked the hotel to let
them know when he checked out.

Wherever he was going, he was in a
hurry to get there. Adam kept his eye on the taillights. Traffic thinned as
they drove further out and he pulled back, not wanting to spook him. He’d
watched enough cop shows to know the bad guy was always paranoid. Apparently
for good reason.

He suddenly realized they were
nearing the winery. He saw the sign for Fredrickson’s lit up by the Ferrari’s
headlights as it sped past, and he followed slower, glancing toward the house.
Hunkered down in the shadow of the giant oaks, it seemed much smaller than it
actually was. Billie still left a light on in the hallway at night, but all
looked dark from his vantage point. He hoped she was getting some sleep, but
she was probably sitting up wondering why he hadn’t come home and worrying
about Davy. He should have called.

The Ferrari’s brake lights came on
and the car pulled quickly over to the side of the road just past the Parker
driveway. Adam continued on, hoping Salvatore hadn’t spotted him. He looked in
his rearview mirror and saw the Ferrari make a u-turn and speed back the way
they came. He cut his lights and pulled to the side of the road, waiting to see
what Salvatore was up to.

A truck barreled past, shaking the
little Toyota, and him to the core. This was a dangerous piece of road and here
he was sitting alongside it in the dark. A few seconds later the Ferrari’s
brake lights glowed red once again and the car turned off the road. Salvatore
either pulled into the winery or the little dirt-packed access road that wound
down between Fredrickson’s vineyards and the neighbor’s fields on the other
side.

Adam flicked his lights back on,
waited for two cars to pass, and then whipped the Toyota back around onto the
highway. He slowed when he neared the Fredrickson sign, but no car was in
sight. He cut his lights and turned into the winery driveway. He thought he
caught a glimpse of movement in the field to his right, but if Salvatore had
actually driven his precious sports car down that rutted road, he was also
playing with lights out. The road was only meant for workers on tractors or
other machinery; a rough piece of dirt track that would destroy the shocks on
something so low to the ground. Salvatore would probably have to abandon the
car before he went far.

Adam parked the Toyota near the
winery and stepped out, closing the door softly. He stood and listened, hoping
to catch the sound of the performance engine whimpering in agony, but the night
was quiet around him. He took to the shadows, staying close to the buildings
and trees, making his way back toward the access road. He thought he heard
someone cough and paused to listen. The neighbor’s dog barked across the field,
probably chasing a rabbit. He moved on, pulling back vines and crawling under a
row of grapes, then another. The access road was hard-packed and rutted. He
followed it toward the highway keeping to the shadow of the vines. The moon,
obscured by a swath of cloud cover for the moment, gave him much needed
invisibility, but he knew it wouldn’t last for long. Clear skies were obviously
the curse of California. At least for someone wanting to move about in the dark
undetected.

The Ferrari, as he suspected, had
been deserted close to the highway. The wheelbase would never survive this
terrain. Salvatore was gone, a faint scent of cigarette smoke lingering in his
wake. Adam turned and moved back the way he’d come. Why would the man be out
here at the winery in the dark? Was he planning on walking all the way around
to Margaret’s place, or was he up to something else?

Nearing the winery, he thought he
heard a voice on the wind, a murmur that rose and faded away, followed by a
short, harsh laugh. He paused, wondering whom Salvatore was meeting. The moon
slid out from behind clouds and lit up the yard like a theatre spotlight for
just a moment. Adam slunk back against the wall of the shed and inched forward
to peer around the edge. He didn’t see anyone. Wherever they were standing was
out of his line of sight, and he was afraid to venture further and be seen.
Another voice—murmured words indecipherable at this distance, but the
feeling behind them was clear.

Anger.

The moon disappeared again, and he
moved back around the building in the other direction, hoping to come up behind
them and hear what they were saying. Somewhere in the distance a radio was
suddenly turned up, the happy stuttering trumpets of a Mariachi band. The
neighbors were probably working through the night to bring in their harvest.

He rounded the building fairly
quickly, moving toward the work yard. The black hulking shapes of a tractor and
trailer lay before him, his familiar forklift—an eerie
specter—crouched beside the sorter. Somewhere close a car backfired and
he automatically ducked. His pulse accelerated as he stood there listening hard
to decipher meaning out of the silent aftermath. Realization flooded his mind.
Not a car backfiring, but a gunshot. The sound had been close, echoing off the
walls of the winery.

Leaning back, he pulled his cell
phone from his pocket. Who should he call? The police? Handel? He flipped it
open and the face lit up. Flipped it closed again. What if this person with a
gun saw the light? He crouched low, listening. The porch light came on at the
house, lighting a path halfway across the gravel. He heard the squeak of the
screen door as Billie looked out, her dark hair shining in the overhead bulb.
She glanced around, then closed the door and shut off the light.

Adam released the breath he’d been
holding and slowly stood up, stretching the kink in his back. Everything was quiet
again. No voices. No nothing. Maybe it wasn’t a gun he’d heard. Maybe it really
was a vehicle backfiring in the neighbor’s fields—or something else. The
bang could have come from a machine.

Staying to the shadows, he moved
forward. Someone grunted, struggling with something heavy behind the machinery,
a scooting sound and a thud accompanied by heavy breathing. He waited what
seemed like an interminable amount of time. Just when he’d decided to confront
the person, he heard the Ferrari start. The soft purr of the performance engine
was unmistakable even at this distance. He turned and raced back around the
building and down the dirt track, hoping he didn’t trip in a rut and twist his
ankle. The car’s headlights sliced on, blinding him. Thrust into reverse, it
moved backwards at a dangerously damaging speed, bumped back onto the shoulder
of the highway and spun around in the gravel, gears grinding. Adam watched as
the car spun out in the gravel and shot forward like a bullet, rubber squealing
as it found purchase on solid blacktop, and headed back toward town. Red
taillights winked and slowly disappeared into the night.