Edge of Midnight (11 page)

Opening her mouth slightly, Susan moved her jaw back and forth to make her ears pop, hoping she could hear better. It didn't help.

“Ronny always had horses, probably loves those four-legged beasts better than people. I went to see her when she got back, extend a welcome. We've been friends forever, since high school, me and my wife and Ronny and her husband.”

“Horses to lead the blind,” Susan said. The thing about George was, sometimes you got more information than you needed.

“Ronny told me the first mini was a gift. A friend gave it to her for her birthday. Then she thought the little guy needed a companion so she got a second one. And one thing led to another. The idea about a guide horse came when one mini paired up with a blind horse she owned and led the blind one around. Why are you asking?”

“Just checking that she's not running some kind of con game.”

He shook his head. “Not Ronny. She's got a business going.”

Because George thought most people were—deep down—good, Susan took that with a grain of skepticism and got directions to the Wells place. Letting Hazel know where she was headed, she went to the parking lot. The sun had bleached much of the blue from the sky, leaving it the color of dirty muslin. Heat from the pavement seeped up through her shoes.

Windows lowered, air-conditioning on, she waited the required minute or two for cool air to kick in. Directions on the passenger seat, she headed east of town, took a county road for a mile and a half, turned right at the crossroads and continued another mile, past pasture land, horses in some, cows in others. All very bucolic. When she came to the gate with an arched sign,
LEADING THE WAY
, she turned in.

After going up one hill and down another, she arrived at an old farmhouse recently painted white with deep blue shutters. The barn, red with white trim, sat behind. She pulled up near a corral where small horses walked around in a circle. A woman calling out commands noticed her, handed over a long whip to an assistant, and ducked under the rails. Susan climbed from the pickup. Heat slapped her in the face.

“Ronny Wells,” the woman said. “I figured you'd be out sooner or later.” Salt-and-pepper hair, tall and slender, wearing well-washed jeans and white T-shirt with sweat stains down the back and under the arms. “Let me show you around.”

In the barn, a tiny horse stuck its nose over the stall door and whickered softly. Ronny opened the door and the horse trotted out, nuzzled Ronny's pockets. Ronny produced a carrot.

“This is Ginger,” she said. “The one we took to the restaurant Tuesday evening. She's the smartest one we've ever had.”

Ronny rubbed Ginger's neck. “This little girl is special, but she's very sensitive. She'll need to be with someone gentle, soft-spoken. If she gets yelled at, or anyone says a harsh word to her, her feelings get hurt. She gets depressed and withdraws in a sad huddle. Then she has to be played with, jollied back to a good mood. We're very serious about fitting the animal with the handler. Personalities are taken into account, as well as how their walk fits.”

Ronny gave the horse a final pat and took Susan around to the corral where an assistant was putting four small horses—not ponies—through their paces. “These four are beginners. They're learning the basics.”

Susan rested a hand on the railing and watched. “And these animals are safe to lead the blind?”

“Under all kinds of conditions. Horses are very good at it because they have a three-hundred-and-fifty-degree range of vision. They can see traffic in a flash, for instance, and they always look for the safest, most direct route to get from point A to point B. And they have fantastic memories.”

“They can be housebroken?” Susan's voice was heavy with skepticism.

Ronny smiled, apostle to the unbeliever. “If they need to go out, they tap a hoof by the door. They're good for up to six hours.”

Back in the sunshine, Ronny focused on the horses in the corral. One decided it had enough of this walking around getting nowhere and broke ranks. A command from the trainer brought it back in line.

“You worried a guide horse might spook and take its handler into traffic or let him fall in a lake?” Ronny said.

Actually, Susan wasn't. Mounted police have horses trained to be calm in all kinds of noisy, chaotic situations. Fireworks, gunfire, vehicles honking, motors revving, balloons bursting, umbrellas popping open in their faces. There is nothing like a thousand-pound animal backing into a person to keep him in place.

“These guys like people. They bond, horse and handler, just like a Seeing Eye dog does. We're careful to make the right pairing.”

The sun was beginning to make Susan feel a bit light-headed. “They live in the house with the handler?”

Ronny shook her head. “No. They're horses after all. They need a barn or outside shed.”

“Are blind people interested in a small horse as opposed to a trained dog?” What would it be like to trust your welfare to a horse?

“Some people like horses, they ride, or used to ride. If it were me, I'd chose a horse every time. There are advantages.”

“And they are?”

“A dog has a working life of eight to ten years. Some blind people have had as many as three dogs. It's heartbreaking when a dog gets too old to do his job. A horse, especially these guys, can live thirty-five, forty years. They stand quietly in line, even take a nap, at the grocery store. Dogs have to sniff things. And for a bonus, horses keep your grass mowed. They have only one problem.”

“Yes?”

“Just look at them. They're so damn cute everybody wants to pet them.”

“Do you have many people wanting these animals?”

“Thirty on the waiting list. A woman here in Hampstead is interested.”

“Who?”

“Woman named Kelby Oliver. She called to find out about the program. Said she was calling on behalf of a friend.”

Kelby Oliver? For a second, Susan couldn't trace the name to a memory in her mushy mind. Ah, the woman who hadn't called her sister. Did Kelby have vision problems? If the sister called again, Susan would ask.

Ronny showed Susan the classrooms where handlers memorized basic commands, learned how to care for a horse. They went out to the pasture where beginners started training.

“We go to shopping malls with escalators and elevators, airports and get on planes, heavily trafficked areas. Set up situations where the horse has to lead his handler out of very tricky conditions, like roadwork with streets torn up or flooded areas with downed power lines.”

Susan thanked her for the tour and went back to the pickup. She took her aching head and crackling ears home, swallowed two Excedrin, and went to bed. Los Angeles Guitar Quartet on the CD player, she thought about Tim Baker and kids driving too fast, and what she could do about it. Sleep overtook her before she got anywhere.

In the dream, she was running through a grove of trees, afraid she wouldn't get there in time. Wind whipped the branches overhead and they tore at her like beseeching hands. She heard gunfire.

“Hurry! Someone's been shot!”

“Who?” She pounded along tangled undergrowth, stumbled and—

She woke with a jerk, sticky with sweat, heart banging away at her ribs.

 

12

As he sped along I-80, Mitch's mind played out gruesome scenarios. He peeled off the freeway at Central Street and took direct aim toward the shopping center, slowed slightly as he skidded into the parking lot and pulled into a slot two rows beyond the recognizable PD cars and a detective's sedan.

Jerking open his door as he turned off the ignition, he loped across to the uniformed officer leaning against the squad car, arms crossed like he didn't give a shit what the commotion was all about. Yellow plastic crime scene tape was strung from the patrol car's side mirror across to a sign that read
LEAVE CARTS HERE
and around to an unmarked. Cary's Honda sat inside the tape. Sitting here for four days. If she was in the trunk … All Mitch could see as he jogged up were bags of groceries on the backseat.

The patrol cop, beefy, young like he didn't know his ass from his elbow, straightened as Mitch approached. Mitch didn't know him, he was El Cerrito PD. The nameplate said
POST
, and he stared at Mitch through mirrored sunglasses where Mitch could see twin images of himself.

“Black? I don't think you're supposed to be here, man.”

Mitch wasn't surprised that Post knew him, probably every cop around knew his wife was missing. Most of them would be worried and sympathetic, but a few would be telling jokes and sending knowing looks at each other.

“Who's got this?”

Post shrugged. “Sergeant Fuller.”

Mitch knew him slightly.

“You found the car?”

“Yeah.” Post was proud of himself.

“You touch it?”

“The door handle. Opened it to see if she was scrunched down in back or something.”

The
she
this clown was referring to was his wife. “Touch anything else?”

Post planted his feet wide, getting defensive. “Thought about popping the trunk lid. In case she was inside. Missing four days…”

Cary in the trunk for four days. Mitch didn't want the image that brought.

“Detectives came along and yelled at me.”

“Should have done more than yell. I appreciate that you were checking this out, but you could have fucked up a crime scene. You understand that?”

Post tightened up. “If it was my wife, I'd want somebody to check the trunk on the chance she might be stuffed in there and still be alive.”

“Next time don't touch anything. Report it, let the detectives do what they're trained for.” He'd have done more than touch the trunk release, he'd have popped the fucking thing.

Ducking under the yellow tape, he walked toward Cary's car. Roy and Irving, the odd couple, were talking to the gawkers standing around. Irving was skinny as a wire and wrapped about as tight. Roy was squat and thick, built along the same lines as a Hummer. Crime scene guys were working the car.

“Mitch, what the hell you doing here?” Roy said.

“If it was your wife, where would you be?”

“Go home. We'll let you know what we find.”

“What've you got?”

Roy took a stance and crossed his arms. “Look, Mitch, I know this is hard but—”

“Just tell me what the fuck you found! I know you found something. I can tell from the way you won't look at me. What? Blood? Ransom note? What?”

Roy squinted at him, then stuck his fingers in his back pockets. “We found her purse.”

Relief caught up there somewhere high in Mitch's throat. He had to clear it before he could talk. “Empty?”

Roy shook his head. “Driver's license, credit cards, checkbook. Stuff women carry around with 'em.”

Cary wouldn't walk off and leave her purse. “You check in the trunk?”

“Mitch, we have to do this right.”

“Open the trunk, Roy.”

“We're just about to do that.” Roy put his hands on what would be his hips if he wasn't one solid block up and down, looked around at the crowd that had gathered to watch what was going on and back at Mitch. “You shouldn't even be here. If you give me trouble, I'll get somebody to cart you away. Swear to God. Cuff you and take you in, if I have to. Understand?”

Mitch wanted to squash his round, lumpy face.

“I'm cutting you some slack here,” Roy said. “But you're using it up real fast. If something happened to your wife, we don't want to mess up evidence that tells us what went down here.”

“Open the goddamn trunk, Roy, or I am personally going to shoot you in the nuts.”

“That's it! You just ran out of slack! Get your stupid ass out of here and let me do my job!”

Maybe Mitch had a thing or two to learn in the charm department, but he was going to see if she was in that trunk, or he would kill every fucking person in this lot. “Come on, Roy. Have one of the techs check the fucking lever and pop the trunk!”

Roy stuck his face in Mitch's. “I know you're under some serious shit here, but there's a limit to my patience. Now get the hell out.”

Mitch wanted to wring his thick neck. Except Roy's neck was big as a tree trunk and Mitch wasn't sure even both hands would fit around it. Reaching hard, Mitch pulled out a level voice. “Please, Roy, I'm beggin' you. Just open the trunk and I'm outta here. I have to know. Just do it. Please.”

Roy took a breath of such magnitude most of the air in the parking lot got sucked in. Mitch thought it would be used to blast him, but Roy relented and nodded at the tech guy.

Mitch moved in close, stiffened himself, and locked his knees so hard a strong wind could have blown him over. The tech popped the trunk, the lid raised a few inches. Roy nudged it up.

No Cary. Spare tire, jack, old blanket, empty paper bags, flat of bottled water, first aid kit, sack of books.

Relief came crashing down with such a jolt that Mitch staggered to keep his balance. Then rage took over with equal force. How dare she put him through this?

“Okay,” Roy said, voice flat, but Mitch could hear the relief under it. “Now get the hell out of my way.”

Mitch didn't leave, but he did get out of the way.

A flatbed truck arrived, Cary's car was loaded and the truck drove away. That's when the car keys were found. They were laying on the ground, under the car. Like they'd been dropped and accidentally kicked.

Nothing to explain what happened. If some sicko grabbed her, the only sign of possible struggle were those keys on the ground.

 

13

Dreaming.

Running. Running.

The leaves smelled sickly sweet. Joe knew that smell. The smell of death, decay. Keep running. Don't wake up. Stay in the darkness.