Part 2 (1/2)
”Target shooting?”
”Yeah, we try to get out every couple of months to stay sharp. Anyway, we want to make sure those poor kids know we meant no harm.”
Annie cracked an eye to look at Swann. Don't do it, she wanted to shout.
”Scared 'em pretty good, eh?” Swann said.
”I'm afraid so. Anyway, we want to find them and let 'em know everything's okay.”
”Is everything okay?” Swann asked.
Singer didn't respond.
”It will be when we find those kids,” another man said with a trace of a Mexican accent. Annie guessed it was the Dark Man with the mustache.
”So you haven't seen them?” Singer asked again.
Swann hesitated.
Annie closed her eyes again and tried to prepare to die. She didn't hear the bulk of the conversation that followed because it was drowned out by the roar of blood in her ears, although she did hear Swann say someone had come up behind him and was waiting for him to go.
”Yes,” Singer had said, ”you had better go home now.”
She couldn't believe her luck-their luck-when she realized the truck was moving again.
”I think you kids should stay down,” Swann said.
Annie asked, ”Where are you taking us?”
”My place is just up the road, and I need to make a call.”
”Why aren't you taking us home?”
”Because I don't want to run into those boys again,” Swann said. ”I know them from back on the force, and that story they just told me doesn't make a lot of sense.”
”That's because we're telling you the truth,” Annie said, feeling the tears well up in her eyes.
”Maybe,” Swann said. ”Keep your heads down.”
Friday, 4:40 P.M.
JESS RAWLINS was doing groundwork with his new horse Chile in the round pen near the corral when a new-model Lexus emerged from the timber on the southern hill and drove down the access road toward his ranch house. It caught him by surprise because he was concentrating so fully on his horse, a fourteen-hand three-year-old red dun. He had fallen into a kind of hyperalert trance, mesmerized by the rhythmic sound and cadence of her hoofbeats. Jess had forgotten how much he loved the sound of hoofbeats, the solid soft pounding rhythm of them, how he could feel them through the ground as the eleven-hundred-pound animal trotted, how the sound lulled him, took him back. A few moments before, when he was lunging her to the right, he'd picked out the sound of a series of sharp rapid-fire percussions along with the thump of her hoofbeats, a snapping sound that alarmed him for a moment before he realized they were from far up the valley and had nothing to do with the gait of his horse. He had stopped her suddenly, and she had turned nicely into an abrupt stop, facing him like she was supposed to, looking at him with both eyes, breathing hard, licking her lips with compliance. He listened and heard no more pops in the distance.
If the wooded valley he lived in was indeed a saddle slope, his house and outbuildings were located just under the pommel. From there, he could see anyone coming down from the state highway toward his ranch. At dusk, he often watched mule deer graze their way to the valley floor to drink at the stream.
He kissed the air and sidestepped to the right, and Chile responded instantly with the correct lead, trotting in a circle to the left on the end of the lead rope Jess held loosely in his left hand. In his right was a stiff coil of rope used to signal the mare, keep the invisible pressure on her to keep moving in a nice smooth stride. Sometimes, to get her attention, he whapped the rope against the leg of his Wranglers. Mostly, though, all he had to do was raise it to get her moving. He had never hit her with it. As Chile circled, Jess stayed on her left flank. Jess was falling madly in love with this horse, a short, stout, heavily muscled little mare with a kind eye and two white socks. People who watched horse races and thought horses should be aquiline and sleek would find Chile ugly. Jess didn't. She was a cla.s.sic foundation quarter horse, a cow horse. In his peripheral vision, he noted the slow progress of the car.
The Lexus crawled down the access road, the afternoon sun gleaming off the winds.h.i.+eld and the chrome grille, the car slowing even more as it neared a cow and calf in the meadow, as if the driver expected the cattle to bolt across the road. There was only one way into the Rawlins Ranch from the state highway, and the road ended at the ranch house.
Jess Rawlins was tall, stiff, all sharp angles: bony elbows and knees, prominent hawklike nose, p.r.o.nounced cheekbones. The only thing soft about him, his wife Karen told him once, were his eyes and his heart, but not in a good way.
When the Lexus parked between his house and the barn and the driver's side door opened, Jess shot his first glance over while Chile circled. The man who climbed out was slim, well built, with thick blond hair and a bristly mustache. He was wearing khakis and a purple polo s.h.i.+rt that draped well on his frame. He looked like a golfer, Jess thought. No, worse. A Realtor.
Jess brought the coil of rope down sharply, and Chile stopped. Like all horses, it didn't take much to convince her to stop working. Jess liked the way she looked at him, though, waiting for the next command. Sometimes, horses could stare with contempt. Chile, though, respected him. He respected her back. He thought, We are going to have a long relations.h.i.+p, Chile and me.
Jess waited for the man to approach the round pen. Then he heard it again, two distinct pops from far up the valley. Gunshots. Not an unusual sound at all in North Idaho, where everyone had guns.
The man-his name was Brian Ballard, Jess recognized him from his photo in the real estate pages of the newspaper-appeared not to hear the gunshots. Instead, he stopped on the other side of the railing and put a ta.s.seled loafer on the lower rail and draped his arms over the top rail. As he did it, Jess's eyes slid from Brian Ballard to the Lexus and saw the profile of the pa.s.senger inside for the first time. It was her, all right.
”How's it going, Mr. Rawlins?” Ballard asked with false good cheer. ”I see you're training a horse there.”
”Groundwork,” Jess said. ”I have to hand it to the new breed of horse trainers out there who stress groundwork above all. They know their stuff, and they're right.” He looked over at Brian Ballard: ”What do you want?”
Ballard smiled and his eyebrows arched and his mouth pursed. He was uncomfortable, despite the smile. ”I don't know much about horses. I'm allergic to them.”
”Too bad.”
”I'm Brian Ballard, but I guess you know that.”
”I do.”
”I'm pleased to meet you, finally,” Ballard said, nodding toward Jess. ”This is a pretty place, all right.”
Jess didn't move.
”I saw Herbert Cooper in town this morning. He said you had to lay him off at the ranch.”
Herbert Cooper had worked for Jess for thirteen years. The day before, Jess had to tell his longtime foreman that he couldn't pay his wages anymore, that there was not enough income for both bank loan payments and an employee. It was one of the hardest things Jess had ever had to do, and he hadn't slept well. Plus, it was calving season, and he was now on his own.
Jess noticed Ballard looking at Chile. Jess could tell what he was thinking, and it made him angry.
”This horse came to me as payment for leasing out a quarter section for grazing,” Jess said, wis.h.i.+ng he hadn't said it. There was no need to justify himself, certainly not to this man.
”Oh.”
Jess nodded toward the Lexus. ”I see Karen in there. She put you up to this?”
Ballard looked back as if confirming it was Karen in his car, even though he knew it was. It took a moment for Ballard to turn back to Jess.
”Let's leave her out of this, if you don't mind. There's no reason you and I can't be gentlemen about this.”
Jess said, ”There are plenty of reasons. So why don't you get back in your car and get the h.e.l.l off of my ranch?”
”That's not necessary,” Ballard said, his eyes almost pleading. Jess felt sorry for him for a moment. Then it pa.s.sed.
”You can get out the same way you came in,” Jess said. ”Remember to close the gate.”
”Look,” Ballard said, showing Jess the palms of his hands. ”Everybody knows the situation out here. It's a struggle, a real hard struggle. You had to let Herbert go, and everybody else is”-he searched for the right word and came up with a wrong one-”gone. I've been sending you offers for months now, and you know my reputation. I'm a fair man, and in this case more than generous. I was hoping we could have a discussion man-to-man, feelings aside.”
Jess paused, felt his chest tighten. He looked down at his hand and saw that his fingers were white from gripping the lunging rope so tightly that it hurt.