Night of Shadows (16 page)

Mac looked visibly upset, but he managed
to hold his tongue. Finch glanced uneasily at his watch.

"So there you have it,"
he said. "It was easy enough to get the surrogates. The Bureau of Land
Management adopts out wild horses from rangelands that are being overgrazed in
the West. You can pick up a spirited mare for less than two hundred dollars,
implant her with a fertilized embryo — and she produces a winner, a real
blueblood."

"What about the papers?"
Melinda asked.

Finch shrugged. "It's easy
enough to get the papers faked for ordinary racing stock. After all, why would
there be any questions? You instruct your jockey to hold back in the early
races. And then, when the big money is there, you place your bets and have your
ringer run like the wind. You have yourself a long shot — only, it's a long shot
that's almost a sure thing. And then you also have a winning horse, which adds
value when it comes time to sell or breed. Win, win, win. That's what this
business is all about, isn’t it?"

Finch glanced down at his watch
then, and nodded toward one of his men.

"Bring them to the
airstrip," he said. "I'd feel safer having them there, where I can
keep an eye on them. It's going to be a while before Preston gets back, so tie
their hands first."

Finch left the building. A short,
balding man walked over to Mac, took the candle from him, and switched on a
flashlight. "You won't be needing this."

Melinda could see Mac's eyes roving
around the room, assessing the three men assigned as their keepers. The two in
the back of the room kept guns trained on them. The balding man spotted some
old, frayed rope on the floor and picked it up. He took out his pocket knife
and began to section it out.

A few minutes later, the three
prisoners were marching along, each with their hands tied behind their backs. Flashlights
illuminated their way up a well-worn trail, no doubt leading to the airstrip
where soon they would take a plane ride.

Melinda noticed that Mac's head
kept shifting back and forth, as though he were looking for something — or
someone. She opened her mouth to question him, but he gave her a stern look,
indicating she must keep quiet.

At that moment, Melinda heard a
soft "whump" behind her. Then, another. Then a stifled exclamation,
and a thud. She whirled in time to see the balding man fall to his knees and
topple onto the ground to join two other bodies.

Scott Bradford, ever the reserved one,
stood behind him — looking very pleased with himself. He was carefully taking
off a pair of gloves as he switched what appeared to be a padded nightstick
from one hand to the other. In the limited view afforded by the now-grounded
flashlights, Melinda also was aware of other dark figures in the background.

Several of the unidentified shadows
stepped forward, flicked on their own lights, and began untying the prisoners
while Scott's eyes coolly appraised them.

"What happened, McClure?"
he asked. "You were supposed to see to it that the woman stayed in the
house and out of the way. For that matter, you were both supposed to stay out
of the way."

Bradford walked up to Joan and eyed
her as though she were a piece of cargo being inspected for damage.

"Joan McClure," he said. "How
nice to see you. We were preparing a full-scale search of Eagle Ranch, hoping
to find you there."

"Who are you?" Joan
blurted out the words uppermost on Melinda's mind.

"Scott Bradford, FBI." He
flashed a badge to prove his point.

"Really?" Melinda found
herself glaring openly at Mac. "You could have told me."

"Now, now, Miss Bailey,"
Scott interrupted. "It was strictly my decision. I wanted as few people as
possible to know what we had planned. It was for your own safety."

"How very chauvinistic of
you," Melinda said sarcastically.

"Thank you." Scott, as
obtuse as ever, didn't catch her meaning.

Mac reached over and gave Melinda
an affectionate hug. Then he turned to Joan, reached out, and took her under
his other arm.

"I'm glad to see you again,
Joannie," he said. "We've got a lot to talk about."

"What about Preston?"
Joan asked worriedly. "I want to see Preston."

Mac squinted up at the sky. "The
FBI wanted more evidence. So that's why we had to find out where Finch kept the
horses hidden. It was Preston's idea to go on this one, last trip to a Tucson
horse ranch and wear a wire. He told Finch Melinda was sedated, and hadn't been
able to talk to anyone except me — and that I wasn't asking any
questions."

"That's why you wanted me out
of the way yesterday," Melinda guessed. "You were bringing in all the
agents, hiding them, getting ready for this."

"That's right," Mac said.

At that moment, another man emerged
from the darkness.

"Everything's secure," he
informed Scott.

Scott nodded, and turned to the
three former prisoners. "Let's get back to the air strip and wait for
Preston. I'm going to let you folks be there on one condition —
Stay out of
the way
. Can I make that any clearer?"

With all their thoughts focused on
the clear night sky and the plane that would soon appear, they followed the
beam of a flashlight down the trail toward the landing strip. Melinda hooked
her arm through Joan's and beamed at her as they walked. They didn't need
words, at least not at the moment.

"I sure feel better knowing
you fellows have Roy Finch in custody," Mac said finally.

There was a pause as Scott, who was
leading the way, suddenly stopped and turned.

"What are you talking about,
McClure?"

"Your men said everything was
secure. That means everyone has been taken prisoner — accounted for. Doesn't it?"
Worry crept into Mac's voice.

"No," Bradford said. "We
thought Finch was supposed to get on the plane — to keep an eye on Preston.
That was the plan. So you're telling me Finch changed his mind?"

Melinda no longer looked at the darkness
surrounding them as a friend. Now it was a cloak hiding their worst enemy.

"You mean Finch got away?"
she asked.

"You hear that, Wilson? O'Rourke?"
Bradford snapped at some of the men bringing up the rear. "Get to the air
strip. Organize a search."

As the men ran ahead of the group,
Bradford smiled tersely. "I'm sure Finch saw us, so he's probably long
gone."

"Do you think you'll ever find
him again?" Joan asked.

"Don't know. Maybe. If I were
him, though, I'd leave the country."

Bradford's tone sounded far too fatalistic,
as though he had known too much disappointment in past endeavors to offer any
false hope.

"Well, at least no one's been
hurt — or killed — tonight," Mac said, as he gazed up at the sky. "We've
had a lot of luck so far. Let's just hope for Preston's sake we haven't used it
all up."

Mac, Melinda, and Joan sat on the
ground, quietly waiting for what seemed an intolerable length of time as the
moon dropped lower on the horizon. Tonight, even the crickets were mute as
though sensing the tension surrounding them.

The efficient movements of about a
dozen of Scott's men in the dim light comforted the three onlookers on the
sidelines. The agents were all armed, patrolling the area with an attitude of
readiness.

Scott stopped by to reassure them.

"Preston's about an hour
behind schedule, but don't let that bother you. Our spotters tell us he's already
taken off from Tucson. We'll move in now to make some arrests there, but we
wanted him out of harm's way first."

Melinda and Joan exchanged relieved
smiles. Soon after receiving the news, they heard the faint drone of an
airplane in the distance. They leaped to their feet in unison, all straining to
catch sight of movement in the sky.

"Everybody get out of
sight!" Scott shouted. "We don't want the guy Finch sent to guard Preston
to get any ideas that something might be wrong here."

They obediently ducked down behind
some rocks, while the other agents melted into the darkness. The only lights
around them were from the Eagle Ranch van and a lone figure standing on the
runway, from where he signaled the plane with a flashlight.

Preston had briefed the agents on the
routine, including the guide light used to direct him to the strip. Of course,
the agents had all replaced Finch's men — who had been carted away in federal
vehicles. The plane was flying without lights, and the dark hulk that now
approached was only barely visible against the bright stars.

The rest was easy — almost too easy.
The plane drifted downward and coasted to a stop. Two dark figures stepped down
onto the runway. Immediately, about a half dozen federal agents surrounded them.

Spotlights from nearby vehicles were
flicked on. One of the men was handcuffed. Preston detached himself from the
group, and stood alone in full view. Joan could no longer contain herself. She
jumped to her feet from behind the rock and began shouting his name. He grinned
widely, as his face brightened.

"Joannie!" he called out.

He began running toward them.

And that's when a single shot rang
out, as ominous and final as death itself.

Preston crumpled. A crashing sound
in the timber sounded like someone running in frantic escape. Joan screamed.
Despite warnings that were shouted at her from various agents to stay down, she
ran to Preston's still body and kneeled beside him. Mac and Melinda were right
behind Joannie. They, too, ignored Scott's shouts ordering them to stay where
they were and to remain out of sight.

The scene exploded in confusion. Scott
yelled out to his agents to douse the lights. Darkness enveloped the area. Men
and women then surrounded them in a protective circle, holding up their guns. More
agents went running off in the direction from where the shot originated.

Scott pushed his way through the
circle and stood beside Melinda briefly. Then he stooped and grabbed for
Preston's wrist. He held it tightly for a minute, with his two fingers strategically
placed while feeling for a pulse.

Then he quickly stood up.
"Nothing we can do here."

He jumped up and began barking
orders, organizing another search for Finch.

Melinda just stood, paralyzed with
disbelief, as she stared down at Joan's pathetic figure in the pale moonlight. She
averted her eyes from the blood pooling under Preston's head. Mac, kneeling
beside Joan, put an arm around her and squeezed. His face, too, was stricken.

None of them protested when one of
Scott's men led the three of them to a car and hustled them inside.

It was eerie riding in that car, in
the backseat between Joan and Mac. Neither shed a tear, though their faces were
molded into expressions of anguish. Melinda could think of no words to comfort
them. Instead, she reached out and put an arm around Joan, and one hand on
Mac's shoulder.

It was daybreak when they reached
the ranchhouse.

Harriet anxiously greeted them at
the door. And when Mac told her what happened, she broke into unashamed wailing.
Her reaction was just what was needed for release for all of them. Joan sank
onto the sofa, where she sat trembling and sobbing. Melinda went to her, sat
down beside her, and held her.

Melinda then looked up to see tears
trickling down Mac's face. But it was mostly his eyes that that betrayed his
deep suffering. He put his arm around Harriet, who was inconsolable.

"Joan needs a sedative,"
he told Melinda. "Take her on upstairs. I'll bring her something shortly
that should help her sleep."

Melinda obeyed, as though in a
stupor. Joan didn't argue as Melinda tucked her into the bed her sister and
Preston had shared. Minutes later, Mac appeared carrying a glass of water and
two pills.

"I gave one of these to
Harriet. It seemed to calm her down some."

Joan took the pills, stretched out
in bed, and in only minutes appeared to fall into a deep sleep.

"Poor kid," Mac said
softly. "She's been through a lot."

"And what about you?"
Melinda asked, searching his face.

"I've got my own plans."  He
turned and walked away, without explaining.

"Mac!"

Something in the tone of his voice
made Melinda run after him. She followed him down the stairs and to the gun
cabinet, where he pulled out a rifle with a stock that looked well worn. He
opened a drawer, and took out a box of ammunition. He started shoving bullets
into the rifle chamber.

"Did I ever tell you what a
good hunter I am?" he asked bitterly. "I can shoot a turkey through
the neck at 200 yards."

At that moment, Scott appeared in
the hallway.

"What do you think you're doing,
McClure?" he demanded.

"Hunting."

"No way," Scott said. "I'm
not having two of you on my conscience. My men are out there looking for Finch
right now."

"Your men don't know this
country. I do."

Scott paused, thinking. "I can
arrest you right now, you know — for obstructing justice."

Mac reached into the cabinet and
grabbed a holster with two six-guns. "These were my great
granddaddy's. They still work."

He shoved bullets into the pistols,
strapped the holster around his waist and finally met Scott's eyes.

"Tell you what, fella,"
Mac said. "There's no way to cover this country without a horse. My men
out there — they know how to ride. They know their way around. And they'll know
what to do with Roy Finch if they find him. So don't be an idiot. You need our
help. And besides — you owe me one. A big one."

Scott looked down at the floor. "I
do at that. All right, McClure. But I'm going to warn you about something. We
want Finch alive. I'd hate to see you up on murder charges. Do you understand me?"

"Listen to him!" Melinda
burst out.

Both men looked at her with open
surprise. They had forgotten she was there, as usual. Mac's look softened.

"For you, Melinda — I promise
I won't do anything stupid."

About thirty minutes later, she stood
watching on the porch as about a dozen men saddled up horses for themselves and
the agents. They then took off in bunches of twos and threes. Some of the
agents looked a little awkward, hanging onto the saddlehorns of spirited
mounts. But the search was on.

Mac rode off alone.

Scott followed along in his
government jeep to explore back roadways. He planned to stay in radio contact
with the searchers on the ground and the helicopter that had been sent to help
in the air pursuit.

Melinda herself felt depressed rather
than comforted by the activity.

She knew from her own recent
experience that there were far too many places for Finch to hide out in that
wilderness. But for Mac, it was the diversion he needed for now to help keep
him from brooding over the loss of his brother.

Melinda looked over to see
Preston's assistant, Rod, standing near the corrals. He had volunteered to stay
behind at the house and keep watch. She lifted a hand, feeling at least solace
at his return wave.

When Melinda walked inside, she was
met by Harriet's sorrowful face. The housekeeper dropped the curtain from where
she had been peeking out at the expedition through the window.

"Harriet!" Melinda
exclaimed. "That sedative you took should have you knocked out."

"Not me. Don't tell Mac, but I
wasn't about to take it. I don't believe in all them highfalutin drugs. I'll
just keep real busy. That's my tonic. And when I get tired enough, I'll sleep. Don't
you worry none about that."

Harriet grabbed a feather duster
and began taking absent-minded swipes at everything in sight. Melinda spotted
her own reflection in the window, the dark circles under her eyes telling of
the ordeal. But, like Harriet, she didn't feel in the least bit tired. Her
heart was pounding, her nerves tangled into little knots. But she had her own
version of therapy.

"I'm going to get my drawing
pad and take a walk," Melinda said.

"I've got work — lots of work
to do," Harriet said, not even hearing as Melinda walked upstairs to
retrieve her drawing materials.

A few minutes later, Melinda opened
the door and walked outside. She reflected that each of them had their own form
of grief, and their own way of dealing with it. Melinda still couldn't believe
what had happened, and her sense of unreality numbed her feelings.

She sat down on a bench in front of
a corral, and began drawing the face of a friendly mare that had hung its head
over the fence to stare curiously. Melinda sketched the ears and eyes, trying
not to dwell on melancholy thoughts. She barely noticed as Rod walked up and
stood beside her.

"I don't think you should be
out here alone," he said.

Something in his tone disturbed
Melinda. She looked up, a little dazed. "You don't understand. I need to
do this."

"It's you who don't understand.
Get out of here. Now. I mean it. Get back in the house."

This was far more than casual
concern.

In alarm, Melinda placed her drawing
materials beside her on the bench. She saw Rod's eyes shifting, as though he
were looking for someone. It was understandable. The events of the last day or
so would make anyone tense.

"It's all been so
terrible," Melinda said. "Sammy really was murdered. Did you know
that?"

"So I heard."

"I wonder how he did it."

"Who?"

"Finch. I wonder how he
managed to do it, with all the witnesses around. It seems like someone would
have seen him come or go. Even if he sent one of his men, someone would have
seen. Unless…"

Melinda paled as she examined Rod
more closely. "Unless he had someone on the inside."

"You're just too damned smart
for your own good, aren't you?" Rod's hands tightened around the rifle he
was carrying. "You should have taken the advice I left you in that
note."

Melinda's eyes suddenly rested on a
rack of spiked elk horns hanging on a nail on the outside of a stable. For the
first time, she saw a slight smear of blood there. And then she realized.

Sammy was gored to death by a steer
— or something like a steer. That's what Rod had said in his death
pronouncement. Sammy's blood was conveniently found on the steer's horns.
Sammy's body was examined by Rod, a veterinarian with medical experience.

And no one thought to question him.
Not even the coroner.

She saw the expression on Rod's
face, and then she knew for sure. He was the man she glimpsed moving behind the
house when Sammy had made the fatal arrangement to see her that night. Rod was
the one who lurked in the shadows, and made sure Preston saddled up and kept
his appointments on the nights when the dark airplane swooped down from the sky.

Then Melinda watched Rod's face grow
chalky as he stared at a point directly behind her. She felt a hand close
around her mouth, and a bone-crunching strain on her neck. Her arm was
twisted savagely behind her.

She didn't have to look to know who
it was.

"The best place to hide is
under the nose of your enemy, didn't you know that?" Finch gloated. "It
was nice of you to come to me, Miss Bailey. Now. Who's left in the house? Answer
me. But if you try to scream for help, I'll break your pretty neck right
here."

He slowly removed his hand while she
gasped for breath. She tried to collect her wits. "There's a couple of
guards inside — "

"Is that true?" Finch
turned to Rod.

"I — I'm not sure," he
stammered. "I think most of them rode off this morning, looking for
you."

Rod, the turncoat, glanced from
Melinda back to Finch. "Look, Roy — don't you think this has gone far
enough?"