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“Noddy, did you ever take them?”

“Harry, you go right for the throat.” Noddy shook her head. “Yes. When I was young, I was very, very lucky to find a doctor—call him crooked if you like—but I followed instructions, never went over the line, and stopped when I’d achieved my goal. My competitive days are long gone, and I stopped shall we say ‘chemical enhancement’ years ago. There’s nothing in my system.”

“Wouldn’t you be stripped of your bodybuilding titles like that Olympic sprinter?”

“Yes. More than one athlete has been stripped, but you’re referring to Ben Johnson,” Noddy said, naming the great Canadian athlete. “And the ones prancing about saying it was unfair competition, that when they ran they were clean. I don’t believe one word.”

“Come on, Noddy. Some athletes are clean,” Harry argued.

Annalise said, “It’s true. Not everyone takes those things, and not everyone is a liar, although I think most are. They have to be.”

“If they didn’t take the drugs, who would pay to watch baseball, football, or basketball?” said Noddy. “We’ve become accustomed to fantastic performance. Really fantastic, in all professional sports. We’d be bored. When you get right down to it, the reason all this goes on is because more people want it than don’t.”

“I opened a can of worms. I’m sorry.” Harry looked at the cylinder, still no closer to her objective but full of information about other things. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.” Noddy meant it, too.

•    •    •

Later, about 3:30 P.M., way in the back with her sunflowers, Harry reached into her hip pocket for her cellphone. What was going on had hit her like a bolt of lightning. It was obvious, but before now she couldn’t see it. Nor could anyone else. Well, something is obvious once you know.

The animals tagged after her as she headed for the barn, where she’d left her cell in the tack room.

In the distance, she heard the crackle of wheels on the dirt road. She ran for the tack room. Too late.

Shortro and Tomahawk watched in wonderment as the old Saab bumped over the open meadow behind the barn.

Harry turned back from the barn, running for all she was worth toward the creek. She knew Annalise couldn’t get the Saab over the steep banks. If Annalise was going to kill Harry, she’d have to get out and run after her.

Tucker flew to the paddocks. “Jump out! Jump out!”

Shortro needed no further provocation. The Saddlebred took three trotting strides to gracefully arc over the three-board fence, which stood at three feet eight inches.

In the same paddock, Tomahawk soared over, too. The mares and youngsters remained in their paddocks.

“Follow me!” The corgi tore after the Saab, tiny bits of soil flying off her claws.

Mrs. Murphy and Pewter sped alongside Harry. Bouncing over the pasture, Annalise bore down on Harry—now zigzagging to present a tougher target to hit. Windows up, the doctor didn’t hear the horses coming up behind her.

The steep creek, thirty yards off, might be Harry’s salvation. Running evasively delayed her reaching the wooded high banks.

Tomahawk and Shortro thundered up on Annalise’s left side. She could have cared less whether she killed the horses, but she knew if she turned into them they’d damage her car. She needed the car to get out of here once the deed was done.

No fool, Harry ran to the left at a diagonal, finally reaching the creek. She slid down the banks above the beaver dam, where the water was lower.

Annalise skidded to a stop, her car’s nose in a pricker bush, and got out of the car, Colt MKIV .38 in hand. The gun, while well balanced, was heavy in her hand.

Tucker slammed into Annalise behind the knees. Down she went. Annalise rolled down the bank, the little dog right behind her, the horses peering over the bank. She never loosened her grip on the gun.

Pewter and Mrs. Murphy swam to the other side of the creek. Harry, who had been knee-deep, clambered up the steep side, slipping as she went. She grasped a protruding root, pulling herself up.

The beavers, out of their lodge now, began slapping the water with their broad, flat tails.

Annalise plunged in, holding her gun straight up over her head. Harry, already over the bank, proved a difficult target. Annalise needed to pull up over the bank.

Swimming behind her, Tucker called to the horses, “Get in the water. Follow me!”

Harry turned, saw Annalise climbing up, more difficult for her while carrying a pistol.

“Go back to the creek bank! Use the trees!” Mrs. Murphy hollered, heading to the creek bed to show Harry.

Whether she understood the cat or figured it out herself, Harry dodged behind a large old sycamore, large sheets of bark on the ground.

Pewter acted like a rear guard, slowing to watch Annalise, then telling Mrs. Murphy, “She’s taking aim.”

A report, then a thud as a bullet hit the sycamore. Harry moved down into the creek bed, but she couldn’t go fast, for she was now below the beaver dam, and the water was high, the creek bed soggy.

“Won’t work,” Mrs. Murphy screamed. “Get back up, use the trees. It’s your only hope.”

Fit, Annalise was fast. By the time she reached the sycamore, Harry had hauled herself back up on the creek’s bank again. Senses razor-sharp, Harry dug in her toes, bent low like a runner coming out of the blocks on hearing the pistol shot. But unlike those on the track, the pistol shot was aimed at her.

Again, moving from tree to tree, Harry continued downstream, sprinting, bent over, when she could. The only plan she had was to get to Coop’s house, if she made it that far down, or try to reach her own barn. She would be exposed when she ran across the back pastures to her sunflowers, which were not high enough to cover her. She’d also be a clear target in Coop’s newly mown pasture. She still might make it again, zigging and zagging. She didn’t know whether to again cross the creek into her farm or to keep on Coop’s side. Sooner or later, Annalise would empty out her clip. She’d counted three shots—five would be left. Then she’d run for all she was worth for about fifteen paces, hit the dirt, roll, and run some more.

Compromised as Harry was due to radiation treatments, she was pumped with adrenaline and running for her life.

Tucker kept at Annalise’s heels. Much as the physician wanted to plug the irritating dog, she’d been counting bullets, too. Harry’s speed and evasive actions were proving to be a real problem.

Taking aim, she fired again. This time the bullet burrowed into the black ridged bark of a sweet gum tree. Harry backed away from the tree, pushing through Virginia thornbushes, trampling wild lilies, sown courtesy of birds. She dodged behind the trees near Coop’s cutover lower pasture. The level ground there meant she could burn the wind, but fast as she was, a bullet was faster.

Annalise saw a flash of Harry’s blue T-shirt. She missed the cats, running with her, darting in and out of low bush.

Harry’s lungs seared. She needed to bend over and take a deep breath. If she did, she’d expose herself and allow her pursuer to draw closer. Behind an ancient Fiddle oak, Harry veered right to a hickory at the pasture’s edge. Annalise, slower, was running in the mown pasture to catch up. As the ground was flatter and drier, she gained on Harry. Harry had little time in which to decide whether to try for Coop’s house or to go back into the creek. The water was deeper down here. It might be difficult getting across before Annalise reached the bank.

Now aware of his master’s fragile position, Tomahawk said to Shortro, “Do what I do. Get behind me.”