Hayburner (A Gail McCarthy Mystery) (23 page)

Blue rested his chin on the top of my head. "Wait and see," he said. "I'm like your colt. We might look good to you now, but only time will tell how we work out in the long run."

"I'll take my chances," I said to his breastbone. "On both of you."

TWENTY-TWO

True to his word, Blue worked Danny while I watched, then weeded the vegetable garden. After that he headed back to the rose farm to tend his young plants, promising to be back by dinnertime, pizza in hand.

As his truck disappeared around the bend in the drive, I felt oddly bereft, a feeling which was rapidly replaced by an equally unfamiliar anxiety. Sitting on my front porch, overlooking my garden, I was restless and nervous, as if there were something I needed to do, something I'd forgotten.

What is this, I asked myself. I tried to sit quietly and be with the feeling, but the restlessness wouldn't let me alone. My ears buzzed; my head ached. Worst of all, the whole world looked slightly skewed.

It was nothing obvious, nothing readily identifiable. Still, the familiar blue gum tree was a stranger; I stared at my glowing scarlet begonia as if I'd never seen it before.

Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes. My perceptions had been knocked awry and there was no knowing how long this feeling would last. I would just have to accept it and try to live with it.

Closing my eyes was a mistake. The slight sense of dizziness I felt increased sharply, and my head spun. After a minute I stood up. Maybe I'd go for a little walk around the garden.

Slowly, clutching the porch railing with one hand, I made my way down the steps, for all the world like an old, crippled woman. Once on relatively level ground, I tried to focus on what was in front of me.

Walking around the garden was always my favorite means of relaxation. I liked to look at the plants, carefully and quietly, see how they were growing and changing. And since my garden nestled in a hollow of the wild and brushy coastal hills, I also saw a wide spectrum of animals-everything from bobcats to buzzards.

Now, step by step, I meandered along the border, trying to let my attention rest on what was there, trying to let go of this nagging edginess.

I smiled at a tall stalk of evening primrose, already gone to seed, decorated with half a dozen brilliantly yellow goldfinches, as vivid as the plant's own blooms had been in the summer. I had a love-hate relationship with evening primrose. I did not much care for its gawky shape, big, floppy leaves, or the sharp yellow of its flowers, but I loved the fact that hummingbirds visited the blooms and goldfinches, which my mother had also loved and called wild canaries, fed on the seeds.

Chickadees liked the seeds, too. I heard impudent chirps from the small, masked birds, who held their ground as I approached, fluttering away at the last minute. Chickadees were surprisingly unafraid of people. Last summer one had alighted briefly on my head.

Another few steps along the border and I stood in front of a big salvia plant called Limelight. The plant glowed as if illuminated by neon, its flowers a striking contrast between chartreuse-green bracts and indigo-blue blooms. In the early-afternoon sunlight they seemed unnaturally bright, or perhaps it was just the fragile state of my head.

On I went, staring at plants. A cottontail rabbit hopped into the border ahead of me, and a hummingbird swooped by, missing me by inches. After a moment, the little bird dive-bombed me again, then hovered briefly in front of my eyes in a show of territorial aggression. I could hear the goldfinches calling in the brush, a peculiar melancholic, three-note descending melody, a song they only sang in the fall.

Everywhere, Nature's ways were there to be read, and yet they remained mysterious. What did the goldfinches sing in the fall? Why did the hummingbird perceive me as a threat he could potentially vanquish? At the thought, a sudden crackling in the brush froze me. That had been near, very near. And by the sound of branches breaking, something large.

I stood perfectly still and scanned the brushy slope next to me, my heart pounding. Fear rushed in, all my free-floating anxiety seeming to coalesce in one surge. Who was out there?

Another second, and I saw the movement, maybe twenty feet away. Light brown hair with a sheen, moving in a gap; another stick cracked and snapped. I took a deep breath. Deer.

With more noisy rustling, the animal moved into a clearing where I could see him. A buck-a big one. In fact, I drew in my breath again, perhaps the biggest buck I'd ever seen out here.

This one was a six-pointer, and he carried his rack with a certain careful pride, in the way of older bucks. Standing there, he met my eyes as I stared. His expression was watchful but not unduly frightened. Deer who lived in these hills were used to people, and hunting was illegal. Bucks, especially, tended to have that look of wary dignity.

For my part, I watched the big animal cautiously and respectfully. In general, deer were timid creatures, but bucks could be aggressive, especially in the midst of the fall rut. This guy seemed quiet and calm, but last year an excited, snorting buck had charged in my direction. I'd avoided him easily but it wasn't an incident I'd ever forget. I hadn't known whether he'd been fighting with his fellows or run by dogs-either seemed possible-but I knew better than to assume that a buck was as docile as a bunny rabbit.

This buck and I stared at each other awhile. After a minute, he lowered his head to nibble on a vine. A rose vine, I realized. The extra-vigorous, bronzy gold climbing rose named Maigold had thrown many exploring arms up into the brush, and the buck was working on one of these. Maigold's vigor did it no good, because it was also, apparently, extra delicious; deer seemed to prefer it over any other rose I had.

I watched the buck eat my rose and reflected that all in all, it was not a bad deal. This buck was as beautiful as any plant in my garden and I was grateful to be looking at him. I studied the very black, shiny nose, the white tail and cream-colored belly, observed the delicate way he lifted his long, slender legs to step over branches. Until Roey got wind of him.

Incarcerated in her pen, the dog was no threat, but she sent a volley of barks rolling out at the animal who had invaded her yard. The buck raised his head, snorted, and departed rapidly up the ridge in a series of great bounding leaps.

Curiously, I made my way through the brush to the clearing where the deer had stood, wanting to see the size of his tracks. By my reckoning he was a very big buck for these parts.

Hunched over, I peered at the ground. My head spun. I blinked, and the dizziness cleared. I saw the buck's track in the sand. Next to it-I sucked in my breath. Sharp and clear in the loose ground-a man's footprint. Very fresh.

I froze. Thoughts tumbled. My heart began to thump and accelerated rapidly. There was no way this footprint should be here.

There was simply no possible explanation. This was my land; I had no neighbors who would trespass here. The print was an adult's foot, not a child's. And no one would go traipsing through the brush when my graveled drive was twenty feet away. There was no reason to do it. Unless the person were hiding.

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."