No Way Out (10 page)

Fifteen more minutes passed, and it was getting a lot darker inside the stables. Only the three outside lights were on, casting eerie shapes of light inside and across the floor. Joe walked over to the large light switch by the open door and yanked the handle up, but nothing happened. There was a click, but no light.

Immediately, Joe felt that familiar spiky tickling across the back of his neck. His instincts told him something was awry. As if reading his mind, a few horses began moving around in their stalls, twitching their tails and bobbing their heads.

Joe's senses instantly rose into high alert, but he knew better than to just jump and run.
If this is a trap
, he asked himself,
where's the danger? Am I safer in here?
He strained his eyes so he could see through the dark shadows inside the stables.
Or should I make a run for it?

Keeping his back against the wall so his body
faced into the stables, he turned his head to look outside the open door next to him. Although there were patches of ground bathed in large swaths of light, there was even more darkness—plenty of places to conceal an ambush.

Some of the horses seemed to grow more nervous—pawing the ground and sending small snorts out into the stable silence.

Joe felt a new urgency, and he knew it was time to make a move. It was ten to eight already, so he decided to make one more try at Shorty's apartment. “Maybe he went up from an outside door,” Joe whispered to the horses as he hurried past their stalls. “Maybe he was up there when I knocked earlier, but he was asleep and didn't hear me. Or maybe—”

Joe didn't finish his thought. He didn't want to guess what else could have happened to Shorty.

He was more cautious this time as he climbed the flight of wooden steps next to the last stall. He reached the small landing and put his ear to Shorty's door, but he heard nothing.

He decided not to knock this time, and cautiously tried the doorknob. It turned easily. He waited until the shiver had finished rippling down his back. Then he slowly inched the door open. A thin bolt of moonlight cut across the room.

There was hardly any sound at first, just a low
swoooooosh.
Then he heard a sudden hollow-sounding clattering. He looked up just in time to see the falcon's talons glint in the moonlight as they shot toward his face.

By the time he saw the falcon zooming toward him, it was too late to close the door. Joe dove facedown on the floor, covering his head with his arms. He heard a
thunk
from above and realized the falcon must have banged into the doorsill. He felt a thud on the back of his leg and then a pain so intense that he temporarily lost his voice and couldn't even yell.

He whipped around in time to see the falcon shoot through the door and down into the stables. He couldn't see his leg very clearly in the darkness. But he felt the rip in his jeans and the sticky wetness oozing from his calf.

He rolled up to stand, and felt a new wave of pain. Limping and hopping, he went down the steps and out of the stables. He had gone only a
few yards when Shorty pulled up in his golf cart.

“Hey, what happened to you?” he yelled to Joe, who hopped over to the cart.

“I was slashed by a peregrine,” Joe said, hoisting his leg into the passenger seat. “In your flat.”

“What?! What do you mean, my flat? How did you … why were you … no, never mind, we'll talk about that later,” he added, spotting the blood soaking through Joe's jeans. “We have to get you to the hospital!”

Shorty helped Joe over to his car, where Joe lay down in the backseat. They then sped into the village.

“Don't be concerned about how small our little hospital is,” Shorty assured him. “It might not be the place you'd want for a kidney transplant, but for a falcon slashing, it's perfect.”

“Glad to hear that,” Joe said. He was feeling a little woozy, although his leg had finally managed to stop his bleeding all over Shorty's car.

“So what were you doing at my place?” Shorty asked.

“What do you mean?” Joe said. “You told me to meet you there.”

“And exactly when was it that I said that?”

“In the note the gatekeeper gave me,” Joe said. He fished into his jeans pocket and pulled out the folded paper. Then he lobbed it over into the front passenger seat.

Shorty reached over and unfolded the paper. He scanned the note quickly and then got his eyes back on to the road. “Interesting,” he said. “I didn't write that note. I never set up that meeting with you.”

“‘Set up' seems to be the right term,” Joe said, shaking his head. “It was a total trap. Were you scheduled for something specific at seven?”

“Sure,” he answered. “That was the jousting semi-pros. I handle all the horses for all the matches. The games were scheduled for six to ten, and I'm booked solid the whole time.”

“So anyone who knows the schedule and knows that you handle the horses would know that you wouldn't be in your flat during that time.”

“That's right,” Shorty said.

“What do you know about the falconer who entertained the crowd on Friday night?” Joe asked.

“He's a good man,” Shorty said, “a personal friend. He's employed by Mr. Horton, and lives not far from here.”

“Does anyone else keep falcons in this area?”

Shorty chuckled. “Yes, sir. We've got several. Believe it or not, a couple are still using them for hunting ducks, pheasants, and such.”

“So it wouldn't be too hard to find one or buy one or
steal
one around here,” Joe concluded.

“Not if you knew what to look for,” Shorty agreed. “‘Course, you'd have to know a little bit about handling one too. If you want, I'll ask around
the falconers I know. See if anyone's been selling lately or had one go missing.”

“That'd be great, Shorty,” Joe said. “Thanks.” Joe felt himself drifting off into a drowsy state—not quite sleep and not quite unconscious.

Shorty's voice pulled him back. “Here we are,” he said. “Just lie still. I'll get the medics.”

Within just a couple of minutes, Shorty returned with two doctors and a gurney. They lifted Joe gingerly onto the mattress and wheeled him into an examining room. Another doctor and two nurses were waiting for him.

The emergency team worked quickly, cutting off Joe's jeans leg, cleaning and dressing the wound, taking a blood sample to check for infection and clotting factor, and giving him an IV boost of fluids and antibiotics to help jump-start his healing process.

Then the doctor slowly, systematically stitched up the eight-inch slash.

“You were very lucky,” the doctor told him after he'd finished and they'd moved Joe to a bed. “Those talons are like razors, but they missed the tendons, ligaments, and major vessels in your calf. You're going to be really sore for a while and hobbling around with a crutch or cane. But the wound should heal up nicely.”

“But I can leave now, right?” Joe asked. “I don't have to stay here overnight or anything?”

“No, you can go. I'll give you some literature to
read so you can watch for signs of infection. And I'll need to see you again tomorrow and the next day to change the dressing.” He handed Joe some pamphlets and flyers about wild bird attacks.

“You're not local,” the doctor said. “Where are you staying?”

“At EagleSpy.”

“Ah, you're part of the festivities going on out there, are you?”

“Yes, sort of. My brother and I are actually guests of the Hortons. We're old friends of Ray's.”

“Well, then, you're really in luck. Penny Horton is a registered nurse. If she consents, I will allow her to change your dressing and monitor your vital signs. You won't have to come back here unless there's a problem.”

“Perfect,” Joe said. He attempted to sit in the bed, but he felt woozy and fell back on the pillow.

“We've given you some medication that will knock you out for a little while,” the nurse told him. “Your body needs rest after such a shock. You lost a lot of blood. We'll lend you a crutch and a cane until you either get your own or no longer need them.”

The nurse soon pushed Joe in a wheelchair out of the small emergency room. The pamphlets, flyers, crutch, and cane were draped awkwardly over his lap. He was glad to finally lie down on the
backseat of Shorty's car again, and he fell asleep almost immediately.

Shorty had called ahead to Penny, and she and Frank were waiting for Joe when he arrived. Shorty and Frank helped Joe into a guest room on the first floor that Penny had fixed up for him.

“No point in making you climb the stairs,” she said. “And you have your own bathroom right here.” She opened the door next to the closet.

Penny looked over at Frank. “I can never thank you enough for rescuing Kay this evening,” she said. “If it hadn't been for you, I might be fixing this room up for
her
recovery.”

“That's okay, Penny,” Frank said. “I'm happy everything worked out.”

Shorty and Penny left while Frank helped Joe strip down to sleep shorts and shirt and pile into the comfortable bed.

“Looks like you'll need a new partner in the maze relay,” Joe said with a crooked smile. “What's this about rescuing Kay?”

“I'll tell you about that in a minute,” Frank said. “First, tell me what happened to you.”

Joe described his wait for Shorty at the stables and the subsequent peregrine attack. “I was set up,” he concluded. “Shorty's going to check around and see who might have planted the falcon there. Probably Blackstone or one of his thugs.”

“Blackstone's in jail,” Frank announced with a big grin. He told Joe about tailing the fire-eater and Blackstone through the bazaar and rescuing Kay from the ring of fire.

“Officer Chester called Penny a half hour ago,” Frank reported. “They caught Blackstone. He's cooling off in the village jail. The fire-eater has agreed to spill everything. Both of them insist they had nothing to do with the arrow or Alan's disappearance. But the police don't believe that story. Officer Chester is having the arrow shaft traced. If he can prove a connection between it and Black-stone …”

“What do you think?” Joe asked his brother.

“I don't know. The fire-eater seems willing to confess about the maze destruction and the vicious assault on Kay—although he swears he never meant that fire to get so out of hand.”

“So you think he'd confess to the flaming arrow and to kidnapping Alan if he'd done those, too?” Joe said. “Kidnapping's pretty serious—it might be more than he's willing to admit.”

“True, but he came pretty close to attempted murder or manslaughter with that fire. And he seems to be willing to do anything to keep himself out of prison. I just think that if he knew where Alan is, he'd tell the cops.”

“Even if the fire-eater didn't have anything to do with the rest of it, that doesn't mean that Blackstone's
hands are clean. Maybe Vincenzo pulled off the kidnapping by himself—or hired someone else to do it.”

“I can't shake the feeling that there's something more going on,” Frank said. “Maybe when Shorty checks out the falconers, we'll get a new lead that I can go after tomorrow. I also want to check out the caretaker's cottage.”

“Ray and I didn't notice anything—except the smell of cooked fish.”

“I know, but you didn't have time to give it a real search. I've searched for Alan in every building on EagleSpy except that one. I need to tie up that loose end.”

“I hear you,” Joe said, “and you're right.”

“Meanwhile, you get some sleep and get well,” Frank said. He propped up Joe's leg with a pillow, turned out the light, and went upstairs to his own bed.

Joe sat up suddenly. It was pitch black and the only sound he heard was the large grandfather clock.
Bong … bong … bong.

“Where
am I?” he muttered, fumbling at the side of the bed for a light. He swung his legs around and sat on the edge of the bed. He felt dizzy for a few seconds, but then got his bearings.

His left leg felt thick and clumsy … weird.

He moved his hands around until he finally
found a lamp, fumbled for the switch, and turned it on. It was only a sixty-watt bulb, so it illuminated just a small area.

This isn't my room
, he thought, looking over to where Frank's bed should be. There was a small chest there instead. Then he noticed the bottle of antibiotics on the table next to the bed. All of Sunday's memories tumbled through his brain like a tidal wave. The message in his computer … the film footage … Blackstone and the fire-eater … the stables … the falcon.

He reached down and gingerly touched his thick padded wound dressing. His leg was a little sore, but it wasn't too bad. If the grandfather clock was right and it was three o'clock, he figured he'd been asleep for about four hours. And now he was wide awake.

He was also hungry. He couldn't remember eating anything since the sandwiches and soup they'd had in the kitchen. And that had been more than twelve hours ago.

He slid off the bed onto his good leg. Then he cautiously lowered his slashed leg and carefully transferred his weight onto it a little at a time. He felt a little pang when he stepped on it, but it wasn't anything he couldn't tolerate.

A stack of his clothes sat on the chair by the bathroom. Joe cleaned up a little, pulled on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and his cross-trainers, and limped
into the kitchen. He didn't hear a sound from the bedrooms upstairs.

He headed straight for the refrigerator. “Mmmmm … turkey, roast beef, cheese, pickles,” he murmured, stacking it all on a tray. “I can fix one gigantic sandwich.” He added a piece of pie, a quart of milk, and a bottle of water. Then he took his food over to the long table and, perched on a stool, dug into his meal.