A kiwi lock, shaped like a comma, slipped into a round ring secured on the post. A smaller ring then flipped up on the comma to securely hold it in place and to prevent horses from opening the lock, something for which the species evidenced a marked talent. Tomahawk would work the kiwi with his lips. Granted, it took him at least an hour—his determination remarkable—but he would finally release the little ring, then pluck the kiwi out of the big ring and push the gate open with his nose. Off he’d go, tail straight out, to rush around the pastures. After doing this enough times to become both tired and bored, he’d walk into the barn, go to his stall, flop down on his side, and sleep, complete with musical snoring.
It infuriated the other horses that they couldn’t pick the locks.
Just as Harry and Fair reached the barn, Coop drove up in an old beat-up pickup truck she’d bought so she could haul stuff. A deputy’s slender salary prevented her from purchasing a new truck, much as she lusted after one.
“Hey,” Harry greeted her.
“Didn’t get you on the phone, so I thought I’d come over.”
“Need a hand with anything?” Fair asked.
“No. I wanted to tell you we’ve heard from Will Wylde’s killer.” She paused, while the other two held their breath for a moment without realizing they were doing so. “No name. No anything except he—I assume it’s a he—says he has the list of all Will’s patients over the years and he is going to do to them what they did to the unborn.”
“What?”
“Dropped off an envelope sealed with Scotch tape—obviously he’s smart enough not to lick the envelope. Dropped it in Rick’s mailbox at his house. Smart there, too. Too big a risk to leave it at the station, even in the middle of the night.”
“Good God.” Fair was aghast.
“He could be bluffing.”
“Harry, he could, but I keep coming back to someone on the inside. It’s not that hard for a nurse or office manager to steal files. Everything is on a disc. How hard is it to copy it and give it to our killer?”
“True.” Fair was more computer literate than Harry, but she was pretty good at doing agricultural research on her computer.
“Thank heaven,” Harry whispered, “I’ve never had an abortion.”
“Me, either. But there are so many women who have and no one knows. Apart from the danger if he does make good on his threat, what about the mess in their personal lives?”
“Are you going to make this public?”
“Well, that’s not my decision, but I don’t see how Rick can keep it quiet. It’s important to the case, and people must take precautions.”
“This could destroy marriages, careers.” Harry wiped the sweat pouring down her brow. “There are an awful lot of women in this county keeping a secret.”
“Exactly.” Coop leaned against the truck’s grille. “We’ve got to catch this guy.”
“If he starts killing women, you will, but let’s pray he trips up before that.” Fair felt sick about the threat.
“Why now?” Harry asked.
“What do you mean?” Coop respected Harry’s mind.
“Why kill now? Will Wylde has been practicing medicine in our county for three decades. What’s set off this person?”
“Could be he’s found out his wife or girlfriend had an abortion and didn’t tell him,” Fair stated logically.
“Or it could be his mind is deteriorating in some fashion,” Harry thought out loud.
“Like drugs?” Coop had seen plenty of what booze and drugs can do to the human brain.
“That, but sometimes the mind goes when it’s diseased and the person doesn’t know. He thinks his thoughts and actions are normal. That’s the truly frightening thing about being crazy: so often the person doesn’t know. And sometimes a head injury can change a person’s personality,” Fair informed them.
Harry turned to Coop. “You might want to check the experts on this. I guess psychiatrists would be a good place to start.”
“I will. Either way, if this guy is a raving lunatic or a political fanatic, we’ve got major problems.”
“Coop, come on in. It’s sweltering out here.” Harry touched Fair’s hand.
As they walked into the house, Matilda, eyes glittering, swayed gently on her limb. Mrs. Murphy glanced up at her but said nothing.
They were grateful to come into the kitchen, the large overhead fan cooling the room. Harry refused to put in air-conditioning, because she thought going from cool air to the hot outside all the time made you sick. Fair knew in time he could wear her down. As it was, the fans in the house helped, but sometimes all they did was push around humid air.
“The statement?” Coop gratefully took a beer offered her by Fair as she queried Harry.
“We drove over this morning after church. Harry tried.” He shrugged.
“It’s the talk of the town: the murder and the face-off between Big Mim and Little Mim.” She swallowed straight from the bottle. “Perfect.”
“A cold beer on a hot day, one of life’s little pleasures.” Fair sipped his, too.
After Cooper left, Harry called Little Mim and gave her the news so she could be calm when she heard it from the sheriff.
“Mother is probably being briefed by Rick as we speak,” Little Mim replied, trying to push down the rising terror.
Rick had learned the hard way to keep Big Mim informed. Part of it was because she felt she ran the town along with the western part of the county; part of it was because she knew a great deal that a sheriff might not know and could be helpful. In this case, she was blissfully ignorant of her daughter’s dilemma.
“She’ll come out both guns blazing.”
“She will.” Little Mim reached down to touch Doodle’s glossy head. Touching the dog reassured her, calmed her. “Harry, I can’t thank you enough.”
“Don’t mention it, but, Little Mim, please, please be careful, and whatever you do, don’t lose your temper with your mother.”
Easier said than done.
10
Yesterday’s rains had scrubbed the sky, and the cleanness of the air intoxicated Mrs. Murphy as she sat on a paddock fence post, gazing at the twilight. Pewter perched on another fence post, and Tucker sat on the ground.
Around the time of the autumnal equinox, the light began to change slightly, the winds from the west began to hum low over the mountains, and summer’s thick haze melted as if on command. Even the humans noticed.
The nights grew cooler, the days shorter. Animals stepped lively, the vital business of securing food for the winter taking precedence for squirrels and other hoarders. The foxes, who usually found fresh supplies, created bigger caches just in case.
This Sunday evening, the fiery sunset splashed red gold across the western horizon. It was all the more dramatic as the Blue Ridge Mountains deepened from blue to cobalt in front of Apollo’s show. Now streaks of pink and lavender enlivened the deepening velvet of oncoming night.
“I love this time,” Mrs. Murphy purred.
“Me, too. The big moths come out,” Pewter said.
“You’ve never caught a moth, not even a rosy maple, and they sit still on boxwoods for a long time,” Tucker taunted Pewter.
“I didn’t say I wanted to catch one. I like to look at them and smell them.” The gray cat lifted her chin. “Since when have you caught anything, bubble butt?”
“I don’t hunt, I herd.” Tucker’s large brown eyes were merry. “If you’d jump down, I’d herd you.”
“You and what army? One swipe from my razor-sharp claws and your nose will look like a plowed field.” Pewter lifted the fur on her back for effect.
“Shut up,” Mrs. Murphy snapped. She was intently looking way across all the fields toward the creek that separated Harry’s farm, which had always been in her paternal family, from the farm that Cooper rented, which originally belonged to Herb Jones’s ancestors.
Pewter widened her pupils. She then saw the shuffling movement about a half mile away. The bear that lived up in the hardwoods behind the farm was moving toward the high ridges. They knew this bear; she’d had two cubs, which would be full grown and on hunting missions of their own by now. Sometimes the families would stay close, but usually they established their own hunting territories. Fortunately, this year game was plentiful.