Wild Honey (14 page)

“I bet you're right,” Sam said, but when Ally wasn't in Journalism, either, Sam asked Mr. Blair for a pass to the pay phone by the quad.

Rachel Slocum, dressed in a crocheted top, short black skirt, and sandals with heels so high she tottered, stood up from her desk, eyes intent on Sam.

“Use the phone on the wall, Forster,” Mr. Blair told her.

“Please,” Sam begged. “I can't call from here. I have to check on Ally, and it's personal.”

“Everything is,” Mr. Blair grumbled. “Go, but make it quick.”

As Sam headed for the classroom door, Rachel sidled up to her and whispered, “If you had anything to do with the sheriff coming to my house last night…” Her voice trailed off, scary as the tip of a snake's tail disappearing around a corner.

Sam recoiled, but Mr. Blair saved her from answering.

“Forster! Go or don't. Slocum, put a sock in it.”

“Well, I never!” Rachel retorted. She tossed her hair back at his rudeness, then flounced to a computer terminal in the rear of the room.

Sam kept walking. As if she didn't have enough to worry about, Rachel, and maybe the entire Slocum family, was angry with her. She gave a heavy sigh. At least she had the right change for the phone, and Ally answered on the first ring.

It turned out Jen had been right. Ally was fine. Sort of.

“I didn't come to school because I was afraid you were going to try to push me into telling someone,” Ally snapped.

“Don't be afraid of me,” Sam said. “But you've still got to tell.”

“No, I don't. Everything's fine.”

“If you had any idea what I've been thinking all day because you weren't here—”

“Sam, you hardly know me,” Ally said.

“Well, then…”

Sam stared at a group of sparrows on the quad. They were squabbling over a piece of bread crust no bigger than a dime when a starling darted down and grabbed it.

“I guess that wasn't a very nice thing to say,” Ally amended, finally.

“It doesn't matter,” Sam said. “You've got to tell someone.”

“I won't do it,” Ally insisted.

“Okay, then I will,” Sam said.

“Go ahead. I'll say you made it up!”

“But you have bruises!”

“I'll stay home until they're gone, or I'll tell them some story. Something really good. You know how creative I am….” Then all of the anger faded from Ally's voice and she sounded like a little girl. “Do you think my dad's some kind of an addict, Sam?”

Sam sighed. There were lots of warning signs—money disappearing, erratic behavior, lying, but Sam remembered Dad telling her she might not always know what was right.

Sam shielded the mouthpiece of the phone even though she couldn't see anyone nearby or far away. Then, instead of answering Ally's question herself, she asked, “What do you think?”

“I think he might be,” Ally said in a tiny voice. “So, what will I do? Where will I live if I turn him in?”

“I don't know,” Sam said, “but we'll figure something out.”

 

After school, Sam was walking toward the lines of school buses, scanning dozens of loud groups of other students for Jen, when Darrell and Jake headed her way.

Darrell wore baggy pants and a shiny red bowling
shirt. The red shirt reminded her of Fluffy and the other fighting roosters and the fact that Saturday was coming and they hadn't done a thing to stop the bloody contests.

When Darrell sprinted ahead of Jake to catch her, Sam saw her chance.

“It's time!” Darrell yelled.

“Darrell,” Sam hissed, “quick, before Jake gets here….”

He looked confused, but happy to go along with her.

“Anything you want, darlin',” he drawled.

“Stop it. Just tell me where the roosters are kept and I'll tell my dad and he and our cowboys will go out and set them loose.”

“No.” Darrell shook his head uncertainly. “I don't think so.”

Sam pressed her advantage before Jake caught up with them. “Okay, don't tell me. Let's do it together. How fun would that be?”

“Bad idea,” Darrell said, glancing back over his shoulder. Jake was just a few feet away.

“But what about all the other Fluffies?” Sam pleaded. “We've got to rescue them before Saturday night.”

Frowning, Darrell nodded, but then he confused her, by saying to Jake, “I tell ya, it's time. See how down she looks? Oh yeah, Ely, it's most definitely time.”

Sam kept walking toward her bus until Darrell spun her around to face him.

“It's time for your on-the-spot punching class in five easy steps.”

“Just in time,” Sam said, pretending to draw her fist back for a punch. “But I've got to catch the bus.”

It was a shame, too, Sam thought, because Jen would love watching a spontaneous punching class.

“All ya need to remember is a simple series of dos and don'ts,” Darrell instructed. “As we mentioned before, don't fold your thumb inside your fist. Jake?”

“Do jab in and out, quickly,” Jake said in a colorless voice.

“Don't fold your thumb over your knuckles,” Darrell cautioned.

“And do be prepared for your hand to hurt like crazy,” Jake said.

“Now for the Ely brothers' secret sock,” Darrell announced.

“Oh no, what are you doin'?” Jake asked.

“Some secrets are meant to be told, brother,” Darrell said.

“I don't care about that,” Jake said. “Go ahead and tell anyone you want, but not Sam. Knowing her, she'll try to use it sometime, and when it doesn't work—”

“But it does. It just depends on how the Ely sock is, you know, dealt out!” Darrell crowed.

“Don't trust it,” Jake insisted. “How old was I
when I showed it to you? Eleven? Twelve?”

“So it's not a secret anymore?” Darrell asked.

“That stupid hammer fist? No, of course it's no secret,” Jake said. “About the only thing it's good for is breaking noses, and only if you're the tall one.” Jake paused and pretended to whisper to Darrell. “In case ya haven't noticed, Samantha Anne is never gonna be the tall one.”

Sam soaked up the punching information, glad to have it from these guys since she was pretty sure Dad never would have taught it to her. She was memorizing the dos, don'ts, and the hand position of the Ely Brothers' Super Sock when she heard the air brake on Bus 9, her bus.

“Gotta go!” Sam yelled to Jake and Darrell.

She had to run for it. Her bus was rolling forward, on its way. Jen was waving from the window, and Sam just barely made it.

A
black-and-white sheriff's car was idling at the bus stop when Sam and Jen climbed down the bus stairs to start walking home that afternoon.

“What did you do, now?” Jen asked.

“Me?” Sam's heart thumped with worry. She hadn't heard anything in three days about the honey-colored mare.

“Wow. Could things get any weirder?” Jen asked as big tires skidded on dirt, bringing Linc Slocum's champagne-colored Jeep up beside the police car, almost as if he'd been following him.

Linc climbed out of his Jeep. He didn't slam the door closed. Instead, Linc fidgeted beside the Jeep as if he wasn't sure what to do next. Then, as if he realized
he wasn't going to fade into the background in his snakeskin boots, turquoise blazer, and brick-colored shirt tucked into matching pants, Linc clapped a gray cowboy hat on his head and clomped up to the sheriff's car.

Sam wanted to surge forward, right after him, to find out what was going on, but Linc shot her and Jen a look over his shoulder. Sam stopped. That look had been almost concerned, but he must have been thinking about whatever had brought him here, because a second later, his shoulders twitched in a shrug that meant Linc was dismissing them as unimportant.

Whatever he was thinking, Sam realized she and Jen could probably learn more if they hung back instead of crowding close to listen in.

“I got this letter,” Linc boomed as he flapped a piece of paper at the sheriff's car window.

“Hold on.”

Sheriff Ballard gestured Linc back so that he could open the driver's door without bowling the man over.

“You got to look at this,” Linc said.

“I'm after doing just that, Linc. Relax.”

“I'm just trying to do right by my kids,” Linc said.

Jen drew back, reacting to Linc's words with disbelief. Although Linc treated Rachel like a princess, he and Ryan weren't getting along. And Linc “doing right” was hard to believe, unless he saw a profit in it.

Sheriff Ballard turned his back to the girls and tilted his head in a confidential way. Sam couldn't hear what he was saying, but Linc's voice rumbled a puzzling response.

“I admit I'm the one who reported Trudy Allen for her treatment of those poor horses. It's a crime the way she keeps them locked up like that.”

Stunned by Linc's hypocrisy, Sam gasped. Linc Slocum had tried every tactic—legal and illegal—to catch the Phantom. He'd had Flick, a criminal with the roping skill of a rodeo champ, rope the stallion from the back of a truck, then leave him tied to a barrel full of concrete. The Phantom still had scars on his neck from fighting the rope and weight, but he'd escaped.

How could Linc condemn Mrs. Allen as cruel for penning mustangs in a wide, green pasture?

“Down, girl,” Jen whispered.

Sam heard her own loud breaths and forced herself to stay quiet, since Linc was still talking.

“…ought to be shut down and her property sold at auction…”

Of course, Sam thought. There was his motive for reporting Mrs. Allen to the Humane Society. He'd been after her land for years, and he'd thought of another strategy to try to get it.

“That cruel old woman should have the same treatment she gives those ponies, don't you think, Samantha?” Linc pivoted toward her.

The look on his face was crafty. He knew she'd been listening and he hoped she'd be on his side.

Sam played dumb. “Huh?” she said.

One side of Linc's mouth lifted in a sneer.

“Kids,” he snorted, but then Sheriff Ballard took over.

“Linc, I'd like to stick to the business at hand—if there is any.” He touched Linc's elbow, guiding him away a few steps.

“Oh, there surely is, Sheriff.”

“Girls,” Sheriff Ballard said, “if you could sit over there on the boulder for a couple minutes and give us a little privacy?”

“Okay,” Sam and Jen said together. They hurried to do as the Sheriff asked, but kept listening.

“I appreciate it,” he said, but just then Linc's voice soared louder than before.

“You've gotta do something!” he insisted. “The law's meant to protect me just like anyone else.”

The sheriff grimaced and made a settling gesture with one hand.

“Now who's this from?” he asked as he took the letter with the other.

“Danged if I know. The coward didn't sign it!”

Muttering, Sheriff Ballard bent his head to read.

“This is too creepy,” Sam whispered as she and Jen sat side by side on the cold boulder. “He's not acting right.”

“He never acts right, but he seems scared,” Jen
said. “Don't you think?”

Sheriff Ballard turned the letter over, examined it front and back, then rubbed his thumb over the paper. Holding the letter at eye level, he considered the stationery and print rather than rereading it. At last he let out a sigh.

“It's anonymous,” Linc said.

“I can see that.” Sheriff Ballard's voice was low, but Sam caught a few words. Whoever…payoff…Then the sheriff demanded, “Explain this part.”

Linc leaned over to read the passage Sheriff Ballard was pointing at.

“A ‘standing ten-thousand-dollar fee.' That part?” Linc asked.

Why were those words familiar? They jolted Sam like an electric shock.

“I can't say I understand, either,” Linc admitted. “Standing offers are a part of doing business. I have standing offers on some property in Mississippi. You know, if someone should ever come around to wanting to sell, my offer is right there, waiting. But ten thousand dollars? Who'd make an offer that small? Not me. Besides”—Linc made a show of reading the exact wording in the letter—“this says the standing offer is ‘for services rendered.' What's that about, Sheriff? You tell me. I have no idea, whatsoever.”

“He's lying,” Jen whispered to Sam.

“All that blustering so the sheriff can hardly think,” Sam said, agreeing with Jen.

“And watch how he keeps fixating on the letter. He won't meet Sheriff Ballard's eyes.”

Sam nodded.

“Okay, Linc, settle down. Let me see if I have this right. Put in simple terms, the letter writer wants to meet you at Apple Mills during the Harvest Home parade this Saturday….”

Jen grabbed Sam's arm and forcefully mouthed something.

“What?” Sam whispered back, but Jen shushed her and leaned so far forward she almost slid off the boulder as she concentrated on Linc and the sheriff.

“That's tomorrow, I—” Linc must have noticed the sheriff's impatience, because he interrupted himself to say, “Yes sir, Sheriff.”

“—and this anonymous person wants ten thousand dollars on an old debt that you know nothing about—”

“Yes, sir. I don't owe anyone ten thousand dollars for services rendered. Nobody.”

“And another ten thousand on a standing offer.”

“That's the way I read it, too, Sheriff.”

“So, how can I help you?” Sheriff Ballard asked.

Linc jerked back in amazement.

“Come along and protect me!”

“From what, Linc? No crime's been committed, has it?”

“I'm shocked at you, Heck. In the old days they used to hang—” Linc's jaw snapped shut.

Had he been about to say something incriminating? Sam wondered. Or had he realized he'd gone too far?

Sam glanced at Sheriff Ballard and for just a second he looked as patient as a predator. A flash of memory told Sam she'd seen the same expression on a coyote waiting at a ground squirrel's hole.

The sheriff must have heard something in Linc's blustering that she hadn't, Sam thought, but Sheriff Ballard finally filled the tense silence.

“Except for specifying an unusual meeting place—a parade on the other side of the county—I don't see any threat here. Don't show up in Apple Mills.” Sheriff Ballard handed the letter back to Linc. “Far be it from me to give you financial advice, Linc, but if you owe someone money—”

“I don't owe that mangy crook a red cent!” Linc shouted.

“Sounds like you know who you're dealin' with,” Sheriff Ballard said. “Maybe if you told me—”

Linc snorted. “I don't owe
any
mangy crook twenty thousand dollars, that's all. Can't you just come along and make sure this unscrupulous person doesn't extort money out of me?”

“What do you really want, Linc. Me involved in your financial affairs? You plan to go along with some kind of payoff, then you want us to follow the money?”

“Who's us?” Linc interrupted.

“Darton County's taxpayers, that's who,” the sheriff snapped.

Seeing that he wasn't making any progress, Linc cleared his throat, took off his hat, and stared at it. Then he looked into the sheriff's face for the first time.

“I've caused you trouble in the past, Sheriff, but I'm changin' my ways. For my kids, like I said before. And the truth is, if I'm in physical danger from this polecat—” Linc shook his head. “Only reason I'm going to meet him at the Harvest Home parade is because I don't want him coming to my house and being around my daughter.”

Wow, Sam thought. If Linc wasn't being sincere, he'd fooled them all. Suddenly he had Sheriff Ballard's cooperation.

The sheriff gave a quick nod. “I'll be there.”

“Thanks, Sheriff; you don't know how much this means to me. Now if we could just make some plans. You know”—Linc gave a short laugh—“synchronize our watches and stuff like that.”

“I'll be in touch, Linc. Right now I have business with these ladies. Hard tellin' what kind of trouble they'll be in if they're too late getting home.”

Sam flinched. He was right. How could she have forgotten Dad's command to come straight home after school?

“I'll give them a ride,” Linc offered.

Jen rushed in with an excuse before Sam realized they needed one.

“Thanks, but we're on an exercise program for P.E.,” Jen said solemnly. “We're supposed to walk at least a thousand steps each day.”

“We are?” Sam blurted.

Jen gave a long-suffering sigh. She smoothed a few loose strands of hair back from her temples, toward her tight braids, then straightened her glasses on her nose.

“You were standing right next to me in the gym when the teacher told us.” Jen patted Sam's shoulder, turned toward the men, and added, “I guess I was paying closer attention. Because of my broken ribs, I can't do much else but walk.” Jen pulled up the edge of her blouse to show a little plastic counter clipped to her jeans' pocket. “See, this records each and every step.”

Before Jen went on, Linc backed away, nodding.

“I'll be waiting for your call, Sheriff,” he said, and then he was gone.

“We're riding in that parade!” Jen came out with the words as if she'd been about to explode, waiting for Linc to leave. “My family, I mean, with the Kenworthy palominos.”

“Is that what you said after you sank your fingers into my arm?” Sam asked.

“Are you, now?” Sheriff Ballard asked Jen.

“Sure, my dad's riding Sundance and I'll ride Silly. My mom's been working with Golden Rose, and they want to try her out in this parade, because it's so small, and we'll kind of bracket her between
us.” Jen's breath caught. Then she blushed. “I could go undercover for you, if you want. I mean, I'd have a good vantage point, being on horseback.”

“Good vantage point for what?” Sam asked quietly.

“Watching whatever goes down,” Jen said, as if she were on a television crime show.

Sheriff Ballard smiled, but it didn't look as if he'd completely dismissed what Jen said, and Sam was confused.

“Like, you'd be watching Linc to see who's trying to get money from him?” she asked.

Jen took a deep breath and looked at both Sam and the sheriff.

“Okay, at the risk of sounding like I'm fantasizing, here's what I've been thinking, ever since I heard Preston talk about the horse theft ring….” Jen's voice trailed off and she blushed even redder.

“Go ahead,” the sheriff told her. His encouragement seemed to be the push that Jen needed.

“What if Linc arranged for Hotspot's theft, with Karl Mannix, but he didn't pay up because Karl made such a mess of it—letting Hotspot escape and leaving Shy Boots in a petting zoo. But maybe Karl was involved with that guy Cowboy and he thought Cowboy might shoot Shy Boots, so he just left the colt the first place he thought of.”

Sam gasped, but she remembered Preston saying that Cowboy had decreed any stolen horse a dead horse.

“Or maybe Linc's deal was that Mannix was just supposed to make the foal disappear, but Hotspot was supposed to turn up right away.”

“But then the Phantom ruined everything,” Sam said, remembering the flurry of hoofprints in the dirt up in Cowkiller Caldera.

“Right,” Jen said, pointing at Sam, and then they both looked at Sheriff Ballard.

With crossed arms, the sheriff leaned back against his car. He watched them carefully but he didn't say a word. Finally, though, he nodded.

“Okay, so in this fantasy of mine,” Jen said in a self-mocking tone, “Karl has come back for his money. After all, Linc offered him ten thousand dollars for the job—‘the services rendered'—but Linc didn't pay up.”

“If he didn't pay Karl then, when it happened at the beginning of the summer, why would he pay him now?” Sam asked.

“He's holding something over Linc's head,” Jen said. “I'm positive.”

“Like what?” Sam asked.

“Blackmail,” Jen said ominously.

Sam whirled toward the sheriff so quickly, she had to push her auburn bangs back from her eyes. “When you talked with Ryan and Mrs. Coley yesterday, did they say anything about blackmail?”

“I can't comment on that, Sam,” the sheriff said in a level tone.