Castle Rock (10 page)

There was no answer to her silent cry, just the click of Hurricane's hooves on the rocky trail, the rustle of rabbits or ‘possums in the underbrush, the cheerful summer chatter of the birds.

Then, abruptly, Serena reined in Hurricane and sat, her face wrinkled in thought.

How could she have forgotten?

She had tried to figure who might be part of this summer's strangeness at Castle Rock and she had thought of everyone but Uncle Dan himself.

The night before he died, Uncle Dan was furious.

The next day, Uncle Dan died.

Her heart began to thud as though she had ridden a hard race.

The idea was monstrous, unbelievable.

Anything that the mind of man can conceive can happen. Serena understood that, but this time she didn't want to accept that reality.

“No.” She said the word with force aloud, to herself and Hurricane.

Her mind wouldn't be deflected. Accidents can be caused. Accidents can be arranged. Uncle Dan rode out to Castle Rock. If, when he started to dismount, something had startled Senator at just the right instant, Uncle Dan was vulnerable. It could have been done. Easily. A sharp rock thrown at Senator's flank. A gun shot nearby into the air. Once the horse bolted, Uncle Dan wouldn't have had a chance.

Dead, Dan McIntire couldn't stop whatever had infuriated him the night before, and, if there was one thing Serena knew for certain, he had intended to stop it.

Serena nudged Hurricane with her knee and he began to trot. They were nearing the point where this trail diverged from the one that led up to the Anasazi ruins. Serena urged Hurricane to go faster. She felt a compelling need to get back to the ranch as fast as possible. She must make an attempt to find out what had made Dan McIntire so angry his last night alive.

If she could find the man he had been talking to . . .

She had barely heard the other voice speaking to Uncle Dan. The voice was lower, softer. A man's voice? Yes. She was almost sure of that. But it could have been anyone, a member of the family, a dude, a guest.

Or Jed, she thought unhappily. It could have been Jed. It could have been anyone at all.

Serena slowed Hurricane when they reached a narrow wooden bridge that spanned a stream. His hooves clopped hollowly on the wooden spans. The water beneath hissed and gurgled. Somewhere ahead, she heard a rattle of falling stone. Someone must be coming down the Anasazi trail.

“Hello,” she called out. She reined in and waited for an answering call.

None came.

Again, distinctly, unmistakably, she heard the click of a horse's hooves.

“Hello.” She leaned forward in the saddle, listening.

The hiss of water, the vague rustlings of the undergrowth, the sharp wail of a raven, all these she heard, and nothing more.

Pine trees crowded close to the trail here. A prickle of unease touched Serena, the first faint stirrings of fear.

“Hello there. Who's coming?”

Hurricane moved uneasily beneath her. Did he sense her fear? Serena patted his shoulder.

Now, listen though she might, she heard no sound of another horse, nothing but the rushing of the water and Hurricane's measured breaths and the rustlings among the pines.

If anyone had been coming, they too had stopped.

Abruptly, Serena flicked her reins and Hurricane started forward. The path here ran deep among the pines. They pressed toward her, their thick resiny scent almost suffocating.

When they reached the fork, where the other path angled up toward the ruins, Serena stopped again. She looked up the path. If she had heard another horse, if her ears hadn't tricked her, the rider must have been on this trail. Someone could have reached this point in the trail, heard her shout, and within a few yards been able to move off the trail and disappear into the pines.

She scanned the woods. A white-tail deer looked warily at her.

Twenty riders could be hidden among the pines and she would never be able to see them.

Why would anyone ignore her call and plunge off the trail to hide?

The answer was obvious, of course. The rider didn't want to be seen, was determined not to be seen.

Serena sat stiffly in her saddle. Were eyes watching her at this very moment? Waiting for her to go?

Her face set and grim, she turned Hurricane down the trail back to the hacienda.

She felt a grim resolve. Something was very wrong indeed at Castle Rock, but she wasn't going to be intimidated or fooled or deflected. She was going to get to the bottom of it. The trail led past Will's studio. She would start with him.

Serena had always enjoyed entering Will's studio. The entire southern exposure was a plate glass window. More light streamed in from two skylights. The studio always seemed to hold the gold of the sun within its whitewashed walls.

Today the sunlight glistened as it always did, but Will wasn't painting. He sat slumped in a leather chair, a brush loose in his hand, staring at a canvas on an easel. When she opened the door, his big head moved slowly.

When he saw her, his face brightened, and he jumped to his feet, dropping the brush on a table. “Serena, come right in.” He started to move a stack of canvases from another chair.

“Don't bother, Will. I can't stay long.”

He beamed at her. “It's been a long time since you've come to my studio.”

“I know.” She looked away from his eager face, walked to the easel, and felt a quiver of shock.

Will was painting Castle Rock, the huge mound of red rock with its thousands of fantastic shapes, but, instead of sandstone glistening in the bright sunlight, this immense rock was dark, bleached of color, a somber, twisted, tortured fretwork of pinnacles and caves under a dark and foreboding sky.

Serena's breath caught in her throat. She whirled to look at him. “You think so too, don't you? You think Uncle Dan was killed.”

“No.” He almost shouted it. “No.” But his shoulders hunched.

She looked back at the painting, then at Will.

“No.” His voice was empty now, dry as winter leaves. “I painted it that way because that's where he died.” He didn't look at her. He began to fumble with his paints.

Serena moved around until they were again face to face. “Did you talk to Uncle Dan the night before he died?”

He looked surprised. “No.” This answer came easily with no hesitation. She heard relief in his voice. Then, wearily, he said, “Don't you remember? I was drunk.” He jammed his brush into a water jar. “Dammit, I wish I had talked to him. I wish I had.”

The sadness in his voice, the genuine sorrow was more convincing than any denial. So it hadn't been Will in the office with Uncle Dan.

“Will,” and she asked gently, “why did you get drunk that night?”

He avoided her eyes, picking up a rag to dry the brush. He shrugged. “How should I know? I mean, you don't set out to get drunk. It just happens.”

“Will, I've known you for a long time.” She waited, and finally, reluctantly, he met her gaze. “I know you, Will.”

“Do you? Can anyone ever really know someone else?”

“Yes. You aren't a drinker. Something must be terribly wrong.”

His blue eyes turned toward the window. He stared out at undulating brown country with delicate shadings from burnt sienna to russet to gold. “Sure,” he said abruptly, “there's something terribly wrong. Sometimes when I start drinking, I can't stop.” He looked back at her, his face drawn. “You didn't know until now. I'm sorry, Serena. Damn sorry.”

Again his eyes wouldn't meet hers—and she didn't believe him.

“Will, won't you tell me?”

“There isn't anything to tell,” he said harshly.

She could scarcely push out the words. “I can't believe you could have had anything to do with . . . hurting Uncle Dan . . .”

That jolted him. “Oh God, Serena. No. That's not possible. Nobody killed Uncle Dan. It was Senator. You know Senator's a bad horse.”

“If someone startled Senator when Uncle Dan was dismounting, he would have fallen, his boot catching in the stirrup.”

She saw horror in Will's eyes and something more. Fear? Knowledge? Suspicion? But he shook his head. “No,” he said violently, “it can't be.” He looked at Serena broodingly. “Why do you think so, Serena? You have to tell me.”

She didn't know how to put her unease into words, it was all so vague and formless. She spoke slowly. “Something's wrong this summer at Castle Rock.”

“Wrong?”

“Wrong,” she said determinedly. “And that last night, Uncle Dan was furious.”

Will looked shocked.

Serena told him of the scrap of conversation she had overheard.

“Don't you see? Something bad was happening on the ranch and Uncle Dan was determined to put a stop to it. And the next day he's killed—in an accident.”

Will shook his head back and forth. “It can't be that,” he said violently.

Serena couldn't understand why the idea upset him so much. Was it because the idea of someone having engineered Uncle Dan's accident was so horrible he couldn't face it? Whatever the reason, she didn't want to devil Will any longer.

“You're just imagining things, Serena, don't you see?”

“I suppose so, Will. I'd like to think that's true.”

“It's having to stay here,” he said jerkily, “being trapped.”

She looked at him in surprise.

“If we could get away . . .” He looked imploringly at Serena, “Serry, why don't we get married? We could live in Santa Fe. I could set up a gallery. We could find a house, a low adobe house . . .”

“Will, why should we want to leave Castle Rock?”

“If we could be together . . .”

“Will, we can't.”

“Serry, there isn't anybody else for you so why . . . you and I, we've known each other so long. I've loved you for so long.”

He held her shoulders, his big hands so gentle.

Serena felt tears welling in her eyes. He was handsome and she had loved him for so long as a part of her life, a good part. But not the way she should love a man to marry him.

“Will, you're so good to me. But I can't leave Castle Rock. I have to take care of Danny. And the ranch.”

Will's face darkened. His hands dropped away from her. He turned and slammed a hand against a bookcase. “Damn Castle Rock,” he said bitterly.

That was the picture she carried with her back to the hacienda, Will's face dark with anger and behind him the easel with that tortured painting.

That scene with Will cast a dark spell over the rest of her day. Dinner was uncomfortable, Will taciturn, Peter aloof, Julie nervous, the Minters bored, the two professors politely talkative. The conversation ranged from a discussion of Minoan art to futures trading, and Serena had trouble keeping any of it in mind. Directly after dinner, she excused herself, saying she had work to do in the office.

When she reached the office, Serena didn't sit at her desk. Instead, she stood by the window that opened out onto the patio. It was raised about six inches. It must have been open like that the night before Uncle Dan died, and she clearly heard his raised voice on the patio.

Will denied having talked to Uncle Dan.

Uncle Dan's companion could have been Will. It could as well have been anybody at Castle Rock. But why would one of the men on the ranch, either the family or one of the dudes or Jed, talk to Uncle Dan about something important during the party? Didn't it make more sense to guess that the other man spoke then because that was his only chance to see Uncle Dan? In other words, the other man must have been a guest.

Serena whirled around, walked determinedly to her desk. She called Luis Montoya at Crazy Horse Ranch first. He was friendly and polite but said he had only visited casually with Dan McIntire that night. Serena received the same response from Sam Berry at Dutchman's Creek. Then she called Bob Mackenzie at Burnt Hill. She had her question down to an easy patter now.

“Bob, I'm sorry to bother you but I'm trying to get things in order here at Castle Rock since Uncle Dan died. I wondered if you happened to be the man who talked to him in his office the night before he died?”

Bob Mackenzie didn't say a word.

Serena heard faint static and cracklings, the usual background to ranch calls. She pictured Bob in her mind, tall, rangy, with thinning red hair and tired green eyes. He never looked like he felt very good, but he still rodeod, and he was almost fifty.

“Bob?”

“I'm here, Serena. I'm thinking.”

She felt a quiver of excitement. She was close. So close. “So it was you.”

“Maybe.”

“Will you tell me what you said that upset him?”

“Look, Serena, I'm not looking for any trouble.”

“Neither am I. But I think I have some.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bob, something odd is going on at Castle Rock. I don't know what it is. But I'm going to find out. I think your talk with Uncle Dan could be part of it.”

“Yeah,” he agreed slowly. “It could be. It sure could be. 'Cause it's damned strange.”

Then he told her. One of his hands, Luke Short, had been chasing some Burnt Hill cattle that had crossed over into Castle Rock land. He lost the steer, an old and canny one, in a thicket of pines. On his way back to Burnt Hill land, Luke passed Castle Rock. “Luke was ambling along, in no hurry, and he said you could have knocked him over with a feather when he saw a plane taking off from that flat stretch of land like it was La Guardia or something.”

Lots of ranches fly their own small planes. “It wasn't Castle Rock's plane?”

“Not unless you folks have started flying World War II cargo planes. Luke said it was a C-9.”

“My God.”

“Yeah. Nobody's out for a Sunday hop in that kind of plane.”

“No.” She hesitated, then asked, “I don't suppose Luke could have been mistaken?”