Thicker Than Blood (34 page)

Grayish-green leathery leaves rasped against her flesh, rustling like a Victorian skirt. She flattened herself and lay still. An acrid smell tilted her already queasy stomach toward severe nausea.

A vehicle braked to a standstill close by, much too close by. A lizard ran over the fingers of her right hand. She jerked away, then lay still again.

Footsteps scratched along the pavement, eight steps, then nineteen more, then a brushing sound. Then, for a long time, nothing. Finally, the unseen feet took eleven more steps and a door closed.

A tiny albino worm inched its way up her arm, but Rachel lay utterly still. The sound of the motor dimmed to nothing. She compelled herself to remain motionless, for what seemed hours. When she began to crawl toward the road, it was almost full dark.

In the dim light, the highway, when she found it, sliced the world into two farm fields.

Headlights approached but the driver didn’t slow. It was many minutes before two more headlights appeared. Rachel stepped out onto the road. When the pickup stopped, she began to sway, unable to keep her feet.

A door opened. Hands grabbed her shoulders. She cried out at the pain, tried to wrench away, flailing with her fists.

“Stop. Stop dammit.” The voice was gruff, the face in the headlights obscured by an unruly bush of a beard.

Her arms went weak. She could feel the sobs coming.

Hands picked her up, thrust her through the open door of the truck, past the steering wheel to the passenger seat. He climbed in beside her and started the truck. In cowboy boots and faded, baggy jeans, he looked like a barrel with a beard.

“Who are you?” she asked, voice quavering.

“Lady, it don’t matter a red hot damn who I am, you are goin’ to the hospital.”

Chapter Fifty-eight

Rachel, Hank, and Goldie sat strewn about the furniture in the condo’s living room like the dregs of an audience at an over-long play.

Aside from a sprained shoulder and too many bruises and lacerations to count, the hospital staff had pronounced Rachel without serious injury.

Now, huddled on the sofa, wrapped in bandages both elastic and tape, shoulder trussed in a sling, legs wrapped in a blanket, she was reciting everything she could remember.

Hank swore softly when she stopped. “Jesus. You thought it was me?” He fed another log to the fire.

Rachel pulled an apologetic face. “What can I say? It seemed to make sense. Who would think an environmentalist would kill? People, maybe, but wildlife?”

Goldie had used her entire stock of expletives three times over, but for the moment she was speechless.

“Will that balloon just float into outer space?” Rachel asked, her voice hoarse. Her head was beginning to throb as weariness flowed into the places vacated by fear.

“I don’t think so. It probably didn’t go far,” Hank said. “But there’s a lot of farmland out there and not many roads. It may be a while before it’s found.”

Rachel pulled her knees up to her chin. “With Alexandra’s body and a gun and my fingerprints.” On the street, a car sped by.

Hank got to his feet and began to pace. “Self-defense is so obvious. I can’t imagine a DA would even charge you.” They all considered that.

“You’re right,” Goldie agreed, then turned to Rachel. “You’ll never guess what Peter found under the Oriental rug in Charlotte’s office.”

“Something called the Delta Plan.”

The black woman stared at her. “How the hell do you know that?”

“Amazing what you can learn when you’re trapped with a murderer.”

“Why was that worth all this killing stuff?” Goldie wanted to know.

“Three-quarters of the state’s population,” said Hank, “is dependent on water from the delta. More than twenty million Californians would have been at Alexandra’s mercy.…”

Goldie shrugged. “I’ll take your word for it, but before all this froo-fra, I’d hardly heard of the delta.” The fire spat and flared. “Anyway,” she went on, “I’ve got everything together to give to the cops. We need to get hold of the border patrol, drug enforcement, LAPD, the San Bernardino Sheriff—”

“I don’t see why we have to call any of them,” Rachel cut in. “Alexandra’s dead, Harry’s dead. We’d just be tying ourselves up in an investigation that probably wouldn’t prove much, especially about the poisoning of those ponds.”

“You may be wrong,” Goldie said. “That Andrew Greer looked down the back of his shirt and seems like he found a spine.”

Hank nodded. “Andrew can check the records on how much selenium the lab bought. I’ll bet they were buying as much as they figured they could without attracting attention. Smuggling alone is not exactly a reliable way to go. And there’s Charlotte’s Delta Plan.” He lowered his chin. “This time, Rachel, we have to.”

Rachel squeezed her eyes tight, then nodded, as if giving something up after a long fight. “I guess so,” she said slowly. “But I’m almost as afraid of the cops as I was of Alexandra.”

“I never understood why,” Hank said.

She turned to face him. “Because for a very short, unpleasant time I was in jail. For drugs. I would have been there a lot longer if Bruno hadn’t got me a good attorney. I wasn’t a dealer, in case you’re wondering.” She paused and took a deep breath. “But I am an alcoholic. And I came so close to falling off the wagon this morning that I actually bought a bottle of wine.”

Hank had not moved.

Rachel stared at an empty chair across the room. Somewhere in the back of the house a timber creaked. The silence became heavy with its own weight.

Goldie broke it. “Well. Think I’ll turn in. I’m beat. Seems like you could have hidden out closer to home. Took forever to get here.”

The black woman started down the corridor to the spare room, then turned back. “Almost forgot. Irene said to tell you she owes you a fortune. That old gal is pretty sharp. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had one.”

Rachel gave a half smile. “She doesn’t mean money, she means palm-reading, tarot, even a crystal ball for all I know. Maybe I’m ready to take her up on that offer.”

Goldie shrugged and ambled back down the hall.

Hank turned to Rachel. A slow, lopsided grin crept over his face. “Be right back. I left something in the car. Actually two things.” And he was out the door.

When he returned, she could hear him wiping his feet much longer than necessary on the welcome mat.

“I don’t know if this is the right time,” he muttered awkwardly, closing the door behind him.

Avoiding her eyes, he sat down on the sofa next to her and held out a small, square jeweler’s box.

Rachel stared at it, not knowing what to think.

“It’s not real,” he said. “I mean not an engagement thing or anything.”

“Well, that’s good. I never believed in engagement things.”

“When I got married last time,” Hank said, “I hardly thought about it. It was like we happened to be at the right place at the right time and marriage, well, that was just what one did.”

“I guess it happens to a lot of people that way.”

“I don’t think like that anymore. I think it has to be thought about. A lot.”

She took the box and opened it. The ring was silver, an Indian design. It reminded her of Jason’s cuff link, except there was no tortoise. Blinking, she looked up at him.

“It will be a while before it’s legal, but I sent the papers to a lawyer in Brazil a week ago. When it’s over, I’d like to think about…well, whatever….”

With her good arm, Rachel drew him to her, pressing her cheek to his chest.

“Careful,” he said as his mouth sought hers.

Something squirmed inside his jacket. Rachel drew back, bewildered.

Hank’s face split in a broad smile. “He turned up at the garage. Irene found him.” Clancy’s orange tiger-striped head emerged over his jacket zipper, licked Rachel’s chin, and began to purr.

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