A short way beyond the old barn stood an enclosed circular metal structure and several corrals made of expensive steel pipes painted white. Within easy walking distance was a horse barn with stalls that opened onto individual paddocks. There were no animals in the corrals or paddocks.
Larson didn’t like the changes he saw. It made him think about Melvin and Viola Bedford and their showy attempts to act and live like Westerners, when in fact they were nothing but an elderly, retired rich couple from Minnesota. He figured the Lazy Z had maybe been turned into some sort of corporate retreat or a rich bitch’s equestrian fantasy come true.
Larson’s thoughts wandered back to Melvin and Viola and how he laughed behind their backs when they went off to some highfalutin Santa Fe social function wearing their matching cowboy hats, shirts, and boots, and sporting expensive Indian turquoise and silver jewelry. Aside from being old, both were short, fat, and unattractive. They looked like rejects from Munchkinland. When they climbed into their pristine, never-been-off-the-pavement, extended cab 4x4 pickup truck, their heads barely showed above the dashboard. The notion to steal a chunk of their wealth and kill them had grown in Larson’s mind the more he came to see them as ludicrous, undeserving posers.
He scanned the ranch headquarters for a while looking for a sign of movement. Only an older model Subaru at the front of the ranch house and a shiny silver Hummer parked by the circular structure, which Larson took to be an enclosed horse arena, gave a clue that someone might be about. As he walked down the narrow, overgrown switchback trail, he pictured a good-looking woman wearing jodhpurs and riding boots exercising a horse in the riding arena, and that got him thinking about sex.
He held off any further thoughts about the woman as he reached the bottom of the mesa and quickly went from house to house knocking on locked doors and getting no answers. The old stone barn was locked as well, so he made his way to the silver Hummer. It wasn’t locked and the key was in the ignition.
Through the open door to the riding arena he could hear the sound of hoofs on dirt. He waited until the horse passed by before quietly slipping inside and crouching at the side of the door with the semiautomatic in his hand. He focused hard on the horse and rider cantering on the far side of the arena, but it took a minute for his eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight outside. At first he thought the rider was a young boy, but it was a woman, a skinny old hag at that, in her sixties, with leathery skin and stringy long gray hair that flopped against her face as she rode. She wore tight jeans, boots, and a loose-fitting halter top that covered a flat chest. About the only positive things about her were that she sat a horse well and seemed to have a nice ass.
Larson hid the semiautomatic behind his leg when the woman saw him. She reined the horse to a walk and rode over.
“Can I help you?” she said, looking down at him as the horse, a nervous gray mare, snorted and pawed the ground.
Larson pointed the handgun at the mare’s forehead. “Get down or I kill the mare.” He pulled back the hammer for effect.
The woman’s hands tightened on the reins.
“Try to run and I’ll kill you too,” he added.
The woman dropped the reins and dismounted. She was small, not more than five-foot-two, but the boots made her seem taller.
“What do you want?” she asked. “Food? Money? The Hummer? Take it.”
She had a prominent chin and a missing tooth just visible at the right side of her mouth. Her upper lip was heavily wrinkled.
“You work here?” Larson asked, somewhat surprised at the woman’s cool demeanor.
The woman nodded. “I’m the caretaker.”
“Is anyone else here?”
“Not today.”
“Tell me the truth now,” Larson said, pointing the gun at her eye, trying for a reaction.
“I’m not lying,” she said flatly.
Larson gave it a rest. The woman seemed totally unruffled by him, like getting killed didn’t matter. “Who else lives here?” he asked.
“No one, full-time. When guests are here, a wrangler takes care of the horses and stays in an apartment in the old stone barn.”
“What horses?” Larson demanded. “The only horse I’ve seen is this mare.”
“She’s mine,” the woman answered. “The other horses are boarded at a neighboring ranch when no one is here.”
“Who owns this place?”
“A multinational corporation headquartered in Germany. It’s used as an executive retreat. The CEO’s wife is a horse lover.”
“Do you live on the ranch?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“I have rooms in the main house.”
Larson waved the gun at the open door. “Take me there.”
The woman reached for the reins. “First I need to unsaddle the mare and put her in the corral.”
“Stop stalling,” Larson barked. “The mare is fine as she is. Let’s go.”
The woman hesitated. “I have some money, if that’s what you want.”
Larson stepped up to the woman and bitch-slapped her. “Just do as you’re told.”
She rubbed her cheek and shrugged. “Whatever you say.”
“That’s a good girl,” Larson said as he pushed her outside into the bright sunlight. “Is the old line camp on Point of Rocks Mesa still standing?”
The question caught the woman by surprise. She stopped and gave Larson a quizzical glance that slowly turned to a look of recognition.
“You know who I am, don’t you?” Larson demanded.
“I don’t know you at all,” the woman replied.
Larson laughed. “Smart answer.” He poked the gun barrel in her ribs. “I asked you about the line camp.”
“Yes, it’s still there, and used as a hunting lodge.”
“Good deal.” He pointed the handgun at the old stone ranch house. “Get moving. What’s your name?”
“Nancy Trimble.”
“Stay in front of me, Nancy.” He walked behind her, thinking that from the backside, she didn’t look that bad at all. In some ways, she reminded him of manic-depressive Jeannie Cooper in a down phase, but there was a toughness to her that Jeannie never had. “You don’t rattle easy, do you?”
Nancy walked on with no comment.
“I like that in a woman,” he added, touching his genitals.
She looked back at him and broke into a hard run, veering in the direction of the stables. He caught up to her and slammed her facedown to the ground.
“Get up,” he ordered.
She gave him a dirty look, got to her feet, and brushed the dirt off her face. “Just shoot me,” she said without emotion.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Larson replied with a chuckle, trying not to concentrate on her old hag face. “No such luck, Antsy Nancy. I got plans for you.”
He prodded her along to the ranch headquarters, where he hogtied her securely with electric extension cords he found in a pantry, taped her mouth shut, and left her on the kitchen floor while he did a quick look around the old house.
The place had changed a lot. The large kitchen was equipped with restaurant-size appliances; walls had been knocked out to make the living room bigger; two bedrooms had been converted into a master suite; the bathrooms were all redone. It didn’t look anything like the house Martha Boyle had grown up in.
Back in the kitchen, Larson raided the refrigerator, made himself two big sandwiches, and popped open a bottle of imported German beer. He sat on a stool at the kitchen island and started eating, keeping an eye on Nancy, who was lying on her side at his feet. He decided to call her ugly instead of antsy.
After wolfing down half a sandwich, he removed the tape from the old bitch’s mouth so she could talk. “Is that old Subaru yours?” he asked.