The Color of Wounds Page 15

  Within minutes a dozen more troopers appeared. Kent marveled at how efficiently they re-routed traffic, reinforced the sentries at each end, and made escape impossible.

  Merrill raised a bullhorn to his lips, easing around the abutment and down just enough to direct his voice into the darkness under the bridge.

  “This is the police. We have you surrounded. Come out slowly.

  Keep your hands where we can see them.”

  Kent could see sweat glistening on the officers’ faces as they crouched, weapons ready.

  For an electric five seconds, nothing happened.

  Merrill repeated his command. Still no response.

  Finally, Merrill called for a flashlight, and a long black one was dropped to him. All watched as he bent slowly around the protective abutment and shined it under the bridge.

  After a minute he stepped onto a narrow catwalk built along the wall of the bridge a few inches above the waterline. He edged along under the bridge, back against its concrete wall, brushing away spiderwebs with one hand and waving his light with the other. When he was convinced, he turned to an officer who was backing him up. “There’s nobody here,” he said.

  Kent heard Merrill’s assessment. His jaw dropped. “Can you see the money?”

  “No. The bag’s not here either.”

  Kent charged down the bank. “Where’d it go?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  Suddenly one of the officers who had moved along the catwalk on the other side of the bridge said, “You better get over here, Chief. We’ve got something.”

  Kent and Merrill raced to the opposite side and climbed down and under the bridge again. They shuffled along the catwalk to the officers. They were guarding a four-foot diameter opening in the wall. It was a pipe that served as a conduit for a pair of eight-inch pipes hanging from the top of it.

  “What the hell are those?”

  “Gas mains or water lines,” the officers said.

  Merrill looked at Kent, his face twisted with frustration. “You know. You live in a town all your life. You work in the town. You’d think you’d know everything about it.”

  “Where do you figure it comes out?” Kent asked.

  “I haven’t the foggiest.”

  “I bet the bomber knows.”

  To one of his men, Merrill said, “Go get what’s-his-name. You know. The village engineer.” Merrill was so flustered he couldn’t remember the man’s name.

  “Joe Miller,” the officer said.

  “Right. He’ll know if anyone does. Tell him what we need him for so he can check his maps and stuff.”

  “Let me see your light a minute,” Kent said. He took the flashlight from his brother and shined it into the passage. For as far as he could see, there was nothing but glistening black walls of wetness. A gentle breeze of cool, damp air blew back at him. “I’d bet anything the sonofabitch is in there.”

  Merrill turned and began instructing his men to fan out in the direction the pipe ran and look for anything suspicious. When he turned back, Kent was gone.

  He looked around quickly, unwilling to believe his brother would be fool enough to crawl into the pipe. Kent was nowhere to be seen. Merrill looked deep into the pipe and saw a light, his light, bobbing away from him into darkness.

  “Kent Stephenson, you dumb shit,” Merrill roared. “Get back here now. And I mean now!”

  The light disappeared.

  Decades of summer moisture and winter frost had scaled the passage’s concrete floor into millions of razor-edged spicules. They tore at the flesh of Kent’s hands and knees as he crawled along, arms bent to make room for his head, shoulders smearing both slimy walls. He ignored his brother’s shouting and tried to devise a plan. Just in case he came upon the bomber.

  There were no junctions, no side passages, the bomber had to be straight ahead.

  His light reflected off something silver a few yards ahead. He crawled toward it. As he approached, it materialized into an aluminum pole lying on the concrete. Its surface was new, strangely clean, and foreign in the darkness and mold.

  Kent studied the walls, looking for a cranny that could hide an assailant waiting for him to take the bait. As far as the beam penetrated, there was nothing.

  He eased up to the rod, nudged it slightly with the flashlight, as if testing to be sure it was dead, then pulled it toward him. At one end was a landing net, the type fishermen used to lift a fish aboard their boat. The rod was a handle, which Kent estimated to be about six feet long and designed to telescope three or four times that length.

  He stared at the device, marveling at his quarry’s ingenuity. “The sonofabitch netted our money as it floated by,” he said and let out a long sigh.

  He was deciding what to do next when he heard a distant grating sound. He listened and heard it again. It was a ponderous, metallic sound, like someone dragging an enormous sledgehammer across pavement. He shined the light into the depths of the tunnel and saw only darkness. Then he felt a rush of fresh, clean air blow across his face. He listened again, but there was only silence. He snapped off the light, gave his eyes a few seconds to accommodate to the blackness, and squinted down the passageway.

  A half a football field’s length away there was a patch of light.

  He scrambled toward it as fast as he could, ignoring the pain in his hands and knees. “The sonofabitch went out a manhole,” he said to nobody and prayed Merrill’s men were there to meet him.

  Minutes later, sodden with black mold and dripping blood from raw hands and knees, he stood up in the passageway. He pushed his head and shoulders into the sunlight just as he imagined the bomber had done. He blinked, shaded his eyes, and rotated a full circle to get his bearings.

  There was a green dumpster ten feet away, a single parked car, an older model, battered but obviously still in use, and a loading dock attached to the back of a cement block building. He was in a secluded service lot behind the dry cleaners.

  Kent pulled himself onto the macadam, then charged for the front of the building, looking for any fleeing suspects. He rounded the corner of the building in full stride and collided headlong into a large man. He careened backward, falling amidst a collection of empty cardboard boxes. Quickly, he rolled to his feet, fists up, ready to defend himself, but he stopped dead still when the man spoke.

  “Kent, I should wring your neck,” Merrill said.

  Kent made a noise that was halfway between a grunt and a sigh, then allowed his knees to buckle. He settled back into the bed of cardboard and closed his eyes.

  “You see anybody?” he asked Merrill.

  “Nobody saw a soul.”

  Kent flopped a bloody hand in the general direction of the manhole from which he had emerged. “He netted the money bag from the creek and got out over there.”

  Merrill’s voice piqued. “How do you know that?”

  “The net he used is in the tunnel. I saw it. And I saw him lift off the manhole cover. I saw him.”

  Merrill’s expression brightened at this possible break in the case. “What did he look like?”

  “He was too far away to tell.”

  “But you know it was a man, right?”

  Kent opened his eyes and looked up at the cloudless blue sky. “Not for sure.”

  “You are pretty sure you saw a person crawl out of the manhole?”

  “Yes.”

  Merrill extended a hand. Kent took it by the wrist and allowed his brother to pull him to his feet.

  “I guess that’s not much, is it?”

  Merrill’s mouth drew into a thin line as he shook his head. “No. It’s not. Not for three hundred grand.”

  CHAPTER 27

  It irritated Kent when folks referred to his home as a gentleman’s farm. But years ago, when Emily was young and impressed by such things, he had let her talk
him into naming their little horse farm Pine Holt. That was the start. When he caved in to a sign at the end of the driveway that read PINE HOLT, his fate was sealed. Aubrey thought it was cute.

  She sat alone on a heavy leather sofa in the living room. She leaned back, put her feet on the coffee table, and studied her reflection in the toes of her polished black riding boots. The things she did for Kent. It was bad enough that Loren Summer had actually taken her up on the suggestion they go riding. Aubrey had assumed it to be polite small talk when they were at the Presbyterian Church. Then Loren’s schedule had been so rigid that they had decided on a time that was totally inconvenient—and now Loren was late.

  Aubrey reached over and took her mug of tea from the end table, sipped it, then let it rest on her belt buckle. From where she sat, she had a clear view of the driveway through a bay window. If Loren wasn’t the accreditation committee’s head honcho, if it wasn’t so important to keep her happy, Aubrey would have begged off the whole thing.

  How smart was it to let Loren enter their lives, anyway? Or, re-enter Kent’s life? “Old friends from vet school.” Uh-huh. If she was smart, she would make sure it stayed that way. No sense tempting fate. Aubrey growled softly at herself. She trusted Kent absolutely. She refused to be that kind of woman.

  Loren guided her rental car along the forest-walled country road that led to Pine Holt. At least, that she hoped led to Pine Holt. She was pretty sure she had correctly followed the directions Aubrey had given her over the telephone that morning: a big dairy farm on the right, with nice-looking red buildings and a white house. Through a wildlife management area, then a pine forest for half a mile, and look for the sign on your left. Jesus, like a bunch of hillbillies: Follow the creek to the big stump, cross the bridge, and go up the gully till you see the shed. Jethro will be at the still behind it.

  Loren watched the left shoulder and, sure enough, she soon caught sight of a neatly carved wooden sign that read: PINE HOLT. She turned into the driveway between a pair of white pines with girths like barrels, drove up a rise, and brought the car to a stop just as Kent’s place came into view. As she surveyed it through the windshield, she drew a thin silver flask from the inside pocket of the riding jacket she’d purchased for the occasion, unscrewed the cap, and took a swallow. She closed her eyes as the liquor sent a familiar shiver rolling through her body.

  Kent’s house was a ranch style, sprawling and rustic, with a steep roof and overhanging eaves designed to handle a huge snow load. Welcome to Upstate New York. There was a screened porch, or solarium, she couldn’t tell which, toward the back, and a three-car garage. It seemed warm and welcoming in spite of its large size. It was surrounded by pines, craggy rock outcroppings, and a large pond in back. Beyond the pond was a white-fenced paddock, a barn with Dutch doors that indicated about a dozen stalls, and an indoor riding ring.

  Loren admired it all. So this is where the great Dr. Stephenson hides himself. Who could blame him?

  From her vantage point in the den, Aubrey saw Loren’s car pull into the driveway and stop, but distance and glare prevented her from seeing Loren inside. “Now what is she doing?” she grumbled. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  She stood, adjusted the tail of her blouse into her riding pants, and watched as Loren’s car came the rest of the way up and parked. By the time Loren had followed a brick sidewalk to the front door, Aubrey was waiting. She opened it as Loren knocked. “Welcome to Pine Holt,” she said.

  “Thanks. Sorry I’m late.”

  “You get lost?”

  “No. I got a late start.”

  “No problem.” Aubrey ran her eyes over Loren’s new riding attire. “Looks like you’re ready to go. You want a drink or something before we head out?”

  “I’m fine. Let’s go.”

  Aubrey led Loren through the house. She grabbed a woolen shoulder bag decorated with Iroquois icons as they passed through the kitchen. They exited across a patio and headed to the barn.

  As they crossed the lawn, Loren spread her arms and rocked her face back into the sun. “What a great day.”

  “Kent doesn’t ride much so I usually ride with Emily, but she’s busy all the time now. Plus, she has gotten really serious about her riding. She works hard in the ring but not much trail riding anymore. It’s nice to get out on a day like this.”

  “I get that. When I looked out of my hotel window this morning and saw how nice it was, I said to myself, this is a perfect riding day. There ought to be some way I can get on a horse. Then I remembered our conversation at the historical society meeting.”

  Aubrey held the barn door for her guest. “Once horses are in your blood, it’s hard to live without them.”

  She gave Loren a quick tour of the barn. “It used to be a cow barn, believe it or not. Kent had some beef cows. Emily and I convinced him to sell them when she began to ride seriously.” She laughed. “Then we conned him into adding a few extra stalls. And, of course, no up-and-coming rider can survive in Upstate New York without an indoor ring.”

  Loren said, “Good work ladies.”

  “The poor guy didn’t have a chance, outnumbered two to one. What can I say? And, there are some great trails leading up into the state land from here. You’ll see.”

  She led a dark bay gelding from his stall to the crossties. “This is Neapolitan. He’s been with us for years.” She nodded toward the woods rolling up a hill behind the barn. “He knows the state forest trails like the back of his hoof.”

  Loren slid her hand down the horse’s neck. “He’s handsome.”

  “He’s got plenty of steam, too.”

  “Perfect.”

  After Aubrey pointed out what was what in the tack room, Loren quickly and efficiently got Neapolitan saddled up. Begrudgingly, Aubrey admitted that the woman did know her way around horses. She tacked up a sleek seventeen-hand Trakehner gelding for herself. Both women mounted off a block, and they headed out.

  Within minutes, they were hacking along a network of cool green trails that wound through two thousand acres of protected forest and meadows.

  Aubrey watched Loren and Neapolitan for the first mile to be sure the two of them were getting along. All was well, so she stepped up the pace for the second mile and could see Loren was relaxed and enjoying the ride. She signaled for Loren to follow as she cut across to an open field.

  “Now we are back on our land…well… Kent’s land,” Aubrey said when they stopped to let the horses catch their breath. “I circled back around once I saw how well you ride.” She pointed to the open area dotted with jumps. This is a little hunter course Emily and I put together. You can see the jumps out there, then it goes off through the woods into a cross country course. It’s not too challenging. Want to try?”

  Loren surveyed the field. “It looks doable. Sure. Why not?” She gave Neapolitan a pat on the neck.

  For the next half hour, they jumped rails and stone walls, and raced across meadows and through water hazards. Neapolitan was rock-steady. Loren screamed like a kid on a carnival ride.

  Finally, Aubrey reined them to a walk. “Fun, huh?”

  “That was just what I had in mind,” Loren said.

  “I could see you are too good a rider to just jog the trails.”

  They walked abreast for a few minutes. Neither spoke, both mesmerized by the creak of the saddles and the sway of the horses under them.

  There was a flicker of camaraderie now; two women who knew horses and loved to ride.

  After a while, Loren said, “How did you and Kent meet?” Her tone was lazy, casual, as if the question had just breezed into her head.

  “I worked for an animal rights organization called Freedom of Animals Movement, FOAM for short,” Aubrey said, remembering the old days. “To make a long story short, I came to Jefferson protesting animal welfare issues at Copithorn Research. Kent and I butted heads.”

&
nbsp; Loren’s brow creased. “Kent Stephenson was against animal welfare?”

  “No. I didn’t realize it at the time, but we were both on the same side.”

  “So one thing led to another and you moved to Jefferson.”

  “Right. The FOAM people ended up helping Kent build the CVC, and luckily, I was able to parlay my horse background into a job at VinChaRo. Eventually, I made it up to farm manager.”

  “And the rest is history.”

  “I guess so.”

  Aubrey led them up a slow grade on a trail that was narrower, less traveled than the ones they had been on. It opened onto a small meadow. When they had crossed it, Aubrey dismounted and secured her horse to a hidden cross rail between two trees. She pointed out a similar one a few yards away and told Loren to tie Neapolitan there. She signaled Loren to follow and disappeared into the trees.

  Within a few steps, the foot path ended at the rim of a limestone precipice. A panorama of treetops and a winding river stretched out below.

  Aubrey sat on a flat rock and watched Loren marvel at the view.

  “What a fabulous place!”

  “It’s my secret spot. Except Emily and Kent know about it.”

  “I’m honored.”

  Aubrey pulled the strap of her shoulder bag over her head and opened it. By the time Loren turned to face her, she had laid out a cloth. On it she had placed a baguette, a wedge of cheese, two apples, and a bottle of red wine.

  When Loren saw the spread, she shook her head. “You are the perfect hostess.”

  Aubrey uncorked the wine and poured two plastic cups. “You and Kent went to vet school together?”

  Loren settled cross-legged and lit a cigarette. “Yeah. Those were the bad ol’ days. Both of us were in screwed-up marriages at the time. We kind of helped each other through it.”

  Aubrey tore off a piece of bread. “Then you went into government work—whatever that agency is.”

  “The Office of Compliance Oversight at the NIH. I’ve been there a lot of years.” Loren paused a moment, crushed out her cigarette, and coughed a humorless laugh. “I work a lot. That way I’m almost never at home. I got out of one screwed-up marriage and, wouldn’t you know my luck, right back into another one. It’s better that I’m out on the road.”