"Where are you?" Max said. "The house is dark, the door unlocked. Are you all right? I'm at the barn. You haven't fed. The horses and dogs are still out. What is it, what's wrong?"
"I'm in the woods. I'm fine, I'm almost home. Sage ran off, but I found him. He seemed disoriented this afternoon, maybe his medication. When he ran out, Kit followed him, the way cats will." She had no idea whether an ordinary cat would do that, but what could she say? "I ran after her. It wasn't quite dark. I have a flashlight. I found them both, but there were…I could hear coyotes…"
Was he buying her rambling explanation? He said, "I'll saddle Bucky. I'll whistle to find you. Keep your light on."
"I…The battery's about dead."
Max said nothing. He hated it when she forgot to keep the batteries fresh. Cops, she thought. So damned careful about their equipment. But she was glad he was-and she wished she had been.
In a very short time she heard his whistle and the far sound of a horse approaching, stepping on twigs, the rustling sound as Bucky pushed through the dense foliage. He was there so quickly that she knew Max had hardly brushed Bucky's back, had just thrown the saddle on, jerked up the cinch, and headed out.
She'd have to tell him that she'd killed the coyotes. She wasn't looking forward to that. He must have still been on the highway when she fired, or he would have heard the shots. They'd have to send wildlife management to collect the bodies and test for rabies, and Max would question her to see if she or the cats had been bitten. She answered his whistle, and in a moment Bucky came looming out of the night between two stands of pine, nearly in her face, his pale shoulders catching her fading light, his nose pushing at her. She'd never been so glad to see anyone, she wanted to hug both Bucky and Max at once.
Leaning down from the saddle, Max took Sage gently from her.
"Watch his leg," she said. "He may have torn the splint loose."
Max got Sage settled in his arms, and took his foot out of the stirrup so she could swing up behind him. Kit clung to her shoulder, trying not to draw blood. The tortoiseshell was so careful that Charlie hardly felt a claw.
Quietly she settled behind Max on the saddle skirt, leaning against his warmth.
"Why did the cat run?" Max said, looking down at Sage. "Well, you couldn't leave him out here all trussed up. Damn cat. How did you find them in these tangles?"
"I could hear coyotes, that's what drew me. The cats were on a branch and two coyotes were leaping up at them."
"Lucky the coyotes didn't climb. They will, you know. Then what happened?"
She laid her head against his back. "I killed them."
And Max said nothing more as good Bucky made his way home through the night-black woods.
AS MIKE AND Dallas careened into the San Jose airport, their siren screaming and red light spinning, Dallas glanced at Mike with concern. His brother-in-law, not the type to come apart, was pale and sweating.
During his professional life, Mike Flannery had handled easily the most out-of-control parolees and the most temperamental judges, soothing both with the greatest diplomacy, but now he was a basket case, the detective had never seen him this way, not since the death of his wife, Dallas's sister. Pulling into the airport, navigating between drivers too preoccupied with finding their terminal to pull out of the way, between pedestrians too busy hauling luggage and racing for connections, he said, "You're not helping Lindsey. Get it together, take it easy!"
"What the hell was Lindsey doing, chasing them!"
Dallas slowed for a woman pushing a baby stroller. "Say Gibbs did kill the woman at the ruins. How would Lindsey know that? And how did Gibbs know we found the body? For that matter, why put his car in short-term if he meant to catch a flight and skip?"
Stopping to snatch a ticket to open the gate, Dallas maneuvered through the covered parking area toward the flashing lights, approaching the cordoned-off crime scene. "Why the hell haven't they cleared a larger area, cleared the whole parking garage?" But most of the area would already be contaminated by the movement of officers and their vehicles. Dallas moved on through, pulling up behind the medics' van. The Blazer hadn't come to a stop when Mike jumped out and ran.
Two officers behind the van grabbed him. He shoved them away, his rage surging, jerked open the van doors and leaped inside, his mind a cold blank, not wanting to think what he would find.
The body was covered with a sheet. The face covered, a hank of brown hair hanging down. A sheet pulled over her face as if…as if…Kneeling beside the stretcher, he reached over, ignoring the medic's hand on his shoulder. When the medic held him back, he straightened up and spun around swinging.
The medic grabbed his arm. Tall, skinny, no more than a kid, he didn't back off, but looked at him steadily. All he said was "Can you identify her?" Then Dallas was there beside him, too, gripping his shoulder. Mike shrugged him off, wanting to be alone with her, not wanting anyone near them. The two men backed off. He reached out to her, reached to lift the sheet, steeling himself. Needing to touch her, to hold her. Not wanting to see her like this. Wanting to turn away, not really knowing what he wanted.
He folded the sheet back. Didn't want to look, and was drawn to look, to touch her face…
He went limp. Felt Dallas supporting him.
Ryder. It was Ryder. Ryder Wolf lay there, not Lindsey. Ryder, blood congealing on her face, blood gluing her shirt to her chest. He stared at her, shocked with relief.
She'd apparently taken a glancing shot to her cheek and jaw, the flesh and bone were torn, clotted with drying blood. There was a second, close shot to her chest. Her blouse was torn open where the medics had staunched the wound with gauze. He looked at her for a long time. Thanking God that this was Ryder. Wondering if he'd burn in hell for his joy and gratitude at someone's death. But Lindsey was safe, Lindsey was alive.
Wasn't she? Where was she?
Stepping down out of the van, he realized Dallas was still holding his arm. He looked around, past the cops and security people, past the tangle of vehicles, scanning the covered parking.
"Where is she? Where's her car?"
Dallas pointed. The tan Mercedes, circled by yellow crime scene tape. A man was coming toward him carrying a black satchel, a stoop-shouldered man wearing a mussed suit, his tie loose over the open collar of a rumpled white shirt, a man who held out his hand to Dallas.
He watched and listened to Dallas greet Emmett Brassen, the San Jose medical examiner. None of their conversation seemed to make sense, they could have been speaking in Swahili. Brassen complained about the contamination of the crime scene, then headed for the Mercedes. Mike, behind him, approached Lindsey's car, where cops and a plainclothes detective were working, and now he was afraid again.
But if Lindsey were hurt, they'd have her in the medics' van. Was she in the car, at an angle where he couldn't see? Approaching the Mercedes, his stomach twisted.
He stopped where he could see in through the car's open door. No one in the driver's seat. It was covered with blood. Bloody Levi's jacket bunched up on the passenger seat, a plain Levi's jacket like the one Lindsey had worn this morning. He could not see a purse. Had she carried a purse this morning? He looked into the backseat, saw that it was empty. Moving away, he scanned the rows of parked civilian cars, looking for her, cold with the feeling that he'd see her lying on the concrete. Three officers were walking the scene, not collecting trace evidence but looking for Lindsey, looking in and under cars. Mike was both annoyed by their interference and annoyed by his illogical reaction, and thankful for their help.
He had no notion that someone else had already scanned the scene, far more efficiently, crouched on the concrete where he could see nearly the whole floor of the parking complex except behind the cement pillars.