Neither of them spoke for a couple of minutes, Zeke as lost in his thoughts as she was in hers. Hobo finally broke the silence with a whimper of confusion. Rory ran her hand down his back to soothe him, but he wasn’t buying it. The whimper grew into a round of anxious, high-pitched barking right next to her ear.
“This here ticket’s the first link I’ve had to the coward who shot me,” Zeke said, for once oblivious to the racket the dog was making.
Rory hushed Hobo back to a whimper. “The only trouble is that it might be the last link too. If that’s all the U.S. Marshals Service could find back when the trail was fresh, I don’t see how I can possibly come up with anything else.”
“You didn’t think you’d find this, until you found it,” Zeke reminded her, undaunted by her pessimism.
Since there was nothing to be gained by belaboring the point, she decided to put the subject aside. “Have you got your traveling shoes on?” she asked him instead. The day was winding down and she had a promise to keep.
“I don’t believe I have travelin’ shoes,” Zeke said with some concern. “I’ve always been partial to boots.”
“Boots will do just fine,” Rory assured him. “I’m going out to the backyard. Care to join me?”
1878
New Mexico Territory
D
rummond left Las Cruces barely two hours after he arrived there. He’d only lingered that long to give his horse a chance to rest and dine on fresh oats and hay. Part of that time the marshal spent wolfing down a meal of beefsteak, rice and beans at a narrow restaurant that looked as if it had been compressed over the years between the larger boardinghouse and general store that were its neighbors. After he’d eaten, Drummond made his way through the town, stopping to show Trask’s picture to shopkeepers and people he passed on the dusty wooden sidewalks. Several of Las Cruces’ citizens claimed to have seen the fugitive, but hadn’t taken notice of which way he’d been heading when he rode out two days earlier. Drummond had the distinct feeling that some of them knew more than they were willing to let on, either due to an imagined fear of reprisal or a very specific threat of one. A young mother herding her two children home from school remarked that she’d been relieved to see him go.
“I’m a God-fearing woman, Marshal, and I don’t like to talk ill of folks, but I believe I saw Lucifer himself staring out of that man’s eyes.” Her shoulders jerked with an involuntary shudder as if she’d intuited the horror that her family had mercifully escaped.
“You didn’t happen to notice where he was headed, did you, ma’am?” Drummond asked.
“No, but I daresay no matter where he was headed, he’s bound for the fires of Hell.”
“I saw, I saw,” the little girl chirped up, proud to be of help. “He went that way.” She pointed north, up the road that led to Albuquerque. She couldn’t have been more than six years old, with sunny blond hair and wide, guileless eyes. Looking at her, Drummond was struck by the random nature of tragedy. This child had crossed Trask’s path and been left unscathed, but if he didn’t stop Trask soon, there was another child somewhere who would not be as lucky. As soon as he restocked his saddlebags with provisions for himself and oats for his horse, he was back on the fugitive’s trail.
The road to Albuquerque was well-worn and for the most part provided easy footing for the chestnut. As much as Drummond yearned to run the horse flat out and eat up the miles between him and Trask, he knew there was nothing to be gained that way. The horse had a loyal and willing nature and would no doubt try to accommodate him. But in the end, the animal would only wind up dropping in his tracks, leaving the marshal to finish his journey on foot. So he set a reasonable pace, stopping often to rest and water the horse while he did the best he could to still the demons that gnawed at his heart and haunted his dreams.
He was still several hours from Albuquerque, riding in the shade of the Manzano Mountains, when the bullet slammed into his left shoulder, knocking him backward like a fist and nearly unseating him. He was so stunned by the assault that he didn’t immediately feel any pain, a blessing as he struggled to keep the terrified horse from rearing and throwing him. Once he’d regained control, Drummond slid down from the saddle, pulling his Winchester free of the scabbard that held it. By his best estimate, the shot had come from the high ground where the slopes of the Manzano Mountains rose to the east. Crouched low and holding tight to the reins, he made for the only source of cover in the area, an old barn half burned to the ground. Before he could reach it, another bullet whistled by, digging into the ground near the chestnut’s front hooves. Eyes wild and nostrils flared, the horse reared, then bolted, tearing the reins out of Drummond’s hand and racing off to some imagined refuge.
By the time the marshal reached the barn the pain had laid claim to him. It blazed through his chest, a red-hot branding iron that knocked him to his knees and forced up the remains of the hardtack and peaches he’d eaten for lunch. The pain crashed over him in waves, a relentless tide ebbing and flowing, and in the troughs a gentle darkness crept around the edges of his mind, calling to him, wooing him with the promise of a long and painless sleep. He fought off the darkness and forced his mind back to the business of survival.
There hadn’t been another shot, which most likely meant that the gunman had left his position and was coming down to see if the job needed finishing. Drummond could only wait. Wait and hope that he was still conscious when the man reached him. Was it someone he would recognize? His mind sifted through the possibilities. An old enemy with a score to settle? Possibly a bandit. A lone Apache marauder? Not likely. Or had Trask heard that he was on his trail and circled back to set up the ambush? No matter. He needed to make a decision. After considering his limited options, he settled on playing possum. It was a dangerous game, one that could easily end with his death, but in his present state he stood little chance of overwhelming his attacker without some element of surprise.
He placed his rifle within arm’s reach, where it might logically have fallen at the moment he’d succumbed to his wound, and drew the pistol from his holster. Thankfully he’d been hit on the left side so he still had reasonable use of his right arm. He lowered himself as gently as he could onto the hard-packed earth. Even so, all the moving and jostling spiked the pain beyond endurance. He clenched his jaw against the scream that was clawing its way up his throat, but he couldn’t shut out the siren song that promised sweet oblivion. If the gunman walked in before he was properly settled, it would be over. Curiously that thought was no longer cobbled with fear. In a strangely removed state of calm, he tucked the pistol into the lee of his body where it would not be immediately visible and he set about the difficult business of waiting.
Time had little meaning. A minute might easily have been an hour. Drummond fought to stay awake and aware. Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, he heard the crunch of boots on underbrush. The footsteps closed in on him, then abruptly stopped. He kept his breathing as shallow as possible, depending on the dark shadows in the barn to hide the subtle rise and fall of his chest. If his assailant were to simply shoot him again to ensure that he was dead, the game would be over.
As one second became two, Drummond thought he might still have a chance. He strained to hear any sound that would help him get a better fix on the man’s location, but his heart was hammering too loudly. Since he couldn’t risk opening his eyes, he’d have to make his play blind. But in the next instant the gunman launched a devastating kick to his gut. This time he didn’t try to stifle the roar of pain, but used it as a warrior’s cry as he rose up shooting. The first round went wide, but the second slammed into his assailant’s throat, dropping him before he could get off a single shot.
Drummond wanted desperately to lie back down and rest, but he knew that if he did, he might never wake again. He’d already lost a lot of blood. He had to find help. He holstered his pistol, picked up the Winchester and dragged himself up on legs that made no promise to hold him. The dead gunman lay sprawled a few feet away. Drummond looked at him hard, but he was as sure as he could be in his present state that he’d never seen the man before. He stumbled over to him and checked his pockets for something that might identify him, but he found nothing. He’d have to puzzle it out later. If indeed he had a “later.”
His head spinning, his shirt plastered to his body with blood and sweat, he staggered out of the barn into the late afternoon sun. He saw the chestnut in the distance grazing tranquilly. He summoned up a painful breath and issued a thin whistle. The horse looked up at the familiar sound and came trotting toward him as if they’d simply paused to rest there on a perfectly ordinary day.
When the horse came to a stop beside him, Drummond immediately grabbed for the canteen that was hanging by its strap from the saddle horn. He tried to drink slowly, but his need overwhelmed him, and he was soon guzzling the water, letting it splash over his mouth and chin and down the front of his shirt. When the canteen was empty, he looped it back over the saddle horn and stepped into the stirrup. It took him several agonizing attempts to lift himself onto the saddle, but the chestnut stood there patiently. By the time he was seated, the bleeding, which had subsided to a trickle, was flowing freely again from his exertions. He took hold of the reins in a hand that was too weak to grip and headed the horse back onto the trail to Albuquerque. An hour later and still several miles from his destination, Drummond slumped forward onto the chestnut’s neck, where he balanced awkwardly for a few seconds before tumbling to the ground.
Chapter 18
Z
eke practiced traveling from the house out to the backyard until the sky was a dusky blue-gray. By then his energy level was so low that he could barely make it through the walls of the house let alone materialize. Rory was happy to pack it in. Even though she was wearing a cozy shearling jacket and had been running laps around the yard to keep warm, she was shivering well before the sun slid below the horizon. October was a fickle month on Long Island, one day as mellow as summer, the next as bitter as winter. In his permanent cloak of fur Hobo showed no signs of discomfort or fatigue. Content to have Rory nearby, he patrolled his domain, staunchly defending it against trespassing squirrels and the occasional cottontail rabbit. At times he was so absorbed in his work that he didn’t seem to notice Zeke’s attempted comings and goings, which gave Rory some real hope that a future of peaceful coexistence might be possible after all.
Zeke’s practice session itself proved somewhat less successful. It was a complicated business involving two different components—breaking through the bonds that kept him housebound, and then materializing once he was outside. Neither of these appeared to be even remotely possible unless Rory figured into the equation. Unless she was at the other end of his journey, he simply wasn’t going anywhere. Even with her in place, leaving the house was the most difficult part of the process for him. Although he’d proven that he could travel to her at will when her life was in jeopardy, traveling at other times required such a deep concentration of energy and determination that when he did make it out of the house, he was too depleted to manifest completely in three-dimensional form. His first attempt, at Brenda’s house, had been a dismal failure, but he had improved substantially by the time he tried it again at the grocery store.
The results that afternoon could only be characterized as bizarre. In one appearance Zeke had a head and legs, but just an empty space where his torso should have been. In another, there was a head-to-toe Zeke with no arms. And then there was a full-body Zeke with a neck, but no head. He actually appeared intact once, but only as a flat, partially transparent image that reminded Rory of some filmmakers’ visions of what a ghost should be. Still, he’d managed these travels all in one afternoon with no rest between them. Based on such progress, there was every reason to believe that he would eventually learn how to travel and materialize whenever and wherever he wished. Not surprisingly, Zeke found even this limited success heartening, while Rory was considerably less thrilled by the prospect of what lay ahead.
“I
can’t believe I’m actually here having brunch with you,” Leah said, taking a sip of hot chocolate and coming away with a whipped cream mustache. “And I can’t believe you talked me into this evil drink.” She licked the residue from around her mouth, not looking the least bit remorseful.
“Well, I’ve been craving it since the weather turned cooler and it’s much more fun being bad with an accomplice.” Rory grinned. “Besides, you’re right about it being forever since we’ve enjoyed our little Sunday ritual. So consider it a celebration.” She clinked her mug against Leah’s.
“No doubt about it, kids and husbands take a real toll on a girl’s social life.” Leah chased a piece of crisp bacon around her plate with a fork, then gave up and snagged it with her fingers. “How goes the case of the purloined pooches?”
“Slowly. Ve-r-ry . . . slow-w-ly.” Rory took a couple of minutes to tell her about the interview with Joanne Lester.
“Holbrook,” Leah repeated, thinking aloud. “I guess if she’s right about his involvement with the thefts, it’s possible he went to snatch Tootsie and wound up killing Brenda in the process.” She took a sip of her hot chocolate. “I actually have a little news for you too.”
Rory put her English muffin down before taking a bite. “Start talking.”
“I was at ‘meet the teacher’ night at my kids’ school Thursday, and I bumped into a friend who’s been working that case. We got to talking and she told me it seems that it’s mostly breeders and pet stores who have reported stolen puppies. For some reason the thieves are not just targeting private owners for them.”
“That is peculiar. Did your friend have any theories about it?”
“She thinks it has to do with the fact that puppies grow so quickly. She asked a number of breeders, and they told her that most people in the market for a puppy want one that’s two or three months old. It’s probably too difficult for the thieves to find one in that narrow an age range from a private owner, so they hit the nurseries, so to speak—breeders and pet stores.”
“That makes sense,” Rory said. She didn’t know how much the information was going to help her, but at least it was one more avenue to explore.
“I also have a couple of new stolen dog reports for you,” Leah said, already rummaging through a handbag the size of a briefcase. “One chocolate Lab and one sheltie. It’s in here somewhere. Ah, found it.” She pulled a sheet of paper from the recesses of the bag and handed it to Rory. “I noted the same type of information I gave you on the others.”
Rory thanked her and deposited the paper in her own pocketbook. When she got home she’d cross-reference the new data with the information she had on the other dogs and see if there were any more commonalities.
“I don’t get it,” she said, after swallowing a piece of her muffin. “Either the thieves don’t know I’m investigating these cases, which I doubt, given the speed of today’s high-tech grapevine, or they think they’re untouchable.” She didn’t mention the possibility that the thieves were depending on their threatening letter to scare her off. Since she’d never told Leah about the letter, now hardly seemed like a good time to bring it up.
“I pity the dognappers,” Leah said wryly. “If they don’t think you pose a threat, they don’t know you like I do.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence and the new info. How are you guys doing on the Brenda Hartley murder?”
“I’m afraid we’re not doing much better than you are.” Leah forked the last of her scrambled eggs into her mouth. “Of course I shouldn’t be talking about this with anyone outside the department,” she said, lowering her voice, “but I’d trust you with my life, let alone some fairly useless data.”
“I’m listening.”
“Well, Brenda’s only family was a sister by the name of Eileen who lives upstate in Duchess County with her husband and two daughters. She told me she and Brenda were close growing up, but after she moved off the island in the early eighties, they only got to see each other on holidays. Now here’s where it gets interesting. Eileen told me that she talked to Brenda a few days before she was murdered, and Brenda was extremely depressed over a relationship that had gone sour.”
“Does Eileen know the name of the guy?”
“Of course not. That would make my life way too easy,” Leah said wryly. “Whenever she asked, Brenda would only give her a first name—Bob. Eileen doesn’t think that’s even his real name, because during one conversation Brenda called him Jim instead, and then got all flustered and defensive when Eileen pointed out the discrepancy.”
Rory drained the last of her hot chocolate and blotted her mouth with a napkin. “Married guy.”
“That’s what Eileen thinks and I’m inclined to go with that too.”
“Did she know any other details about him or the breakup?”
“About the breakup—nothing significant. But she did say Brenda was always going on about how the guy was wining and dining her, buying her gifts and all.”
“If you could find out whom she was seeing, you might have the murderer.”
“No kidding. We’ve followed every lead and more than a few hunches, but it hasn’t gotten us anywhere.”
“You’ve spoken to the other women in that photo on Brenda’s mantel?”
“Several times.”
“I guess you’ve got more pull than a lowly PI. I haven’t been able to pin them down.”
“You haven’t missed much. They both had alibis that checked out. One of them was out of the country at the time Brenda was killed, and the other one was on jury duty. We’ve also canvassed every restaurant, diner and deli in a ten-mile radius and shown them Brenda’s picture in the hope that she might have been seen there with the guy. We’ve sent her picture to every precinct on the island and asked them to do the same. So far—
nada
. But enough about work,” she said firmly, “I don’t get to see you all that often and I don’t want to spend all our time talking shop.”
Rory was in complete agreement. Half an hour later they were still chatting about everything and nothing, just glad to be in each other’s company, when Leah glanced at her watch.
“Oh, crap, I’m late.” She dug into her purse for her wallet and handed Rory a twenty-dollar bill. “You don’t mind if I run? I promised my son I’d get back for his soccer game. Being with you is like being in a time warp.” She slid out of the booth. “You know I mean that in the best possible way.”
Rory assured her that she did. She hadn’t realized how long they’d been sitting there either. She motioned to the waitress to bring the check. She had to get home too, before Hobo destroyed any more of her house.