The moment the wheels of her 4Runner touched onto the property, Laura’s stomach clenched. She should have known all those memories would come back. Sitting cross-legged on the ground, waiting, the cold seeping up through the seat of her jeans, her eyelids getting heavy.
Starting to fall asleep and not wanting to, because she’d been here three nights in a row and just knew the mare would foal tonight.
The lane headed south toward the river between the over-arching trees. Laura realized the wall and the gate were window-dressing—the property had deteriorated. It looked downright shabby.
The sound of a car engine jarring her from sleep. It scared her. She was safe on the Ramsey property, at least she thought she was, but her parents didn’t know she was here and Julie Marr had been kidnapped not far from here.
Laura noticed that some of the trees on Alamo Farm suffered the same fate as others along the Rillito River; a lowering water table as the city grew put them in deep distress. Bare limbs stuck up through the green summer growth, and the mesquites were snarled with mistletoe. The irrigation ditch alongside the road, once brimming with water, was dry. She’d heard on the news that Betsy Ramsey was killed in a car accident a couple of years ago. Clearly, no one had used the hunt course since then. It had dried up and blown away—the jump rails lying on the ground, their colors faded to the brown of the earth. A dusty halo of grass and high weeds poked up through the threadbare dirt.
The droning of the engine, coming closer.
Laura drove into an S turn bottoming out in a dark copse of mesquites and walnut trees. Now the lane ran parallel to Fort Lowell Road, going west. On one side was a windbreak of Aleppo pines, and on the other, a dry field. The white board fences remained, but the pastures where Thoroughbreds had once grazed were overgrown with more weeds.
Looking toward the end of the lane, she got a shock.
The stables were gone.
The big cottonwood tree—which gave the farm its name—remained, but the stables with their spacious box stalls and paddocks had been ripped out. Knocked down, bulldozed, scrap lumber stacked in a haphazard pile. Weeds growing up around a mountain of torn green asphalt shingles, splintered white wood, pipe fencing.
Gone.
1987
Headlights appeared at the far end of the lane and barreled up the road, cones of light illuminating the farm trees.
Wide awake now. And scared. Something about the violence of the way the visitors came, flooring the car up the dirt road. Heart thumping, Laura stood up and melted into the shadow of the cottonwood tree beside the mare’s stall, uncertain what to do.
The headlights turned in at the house. Car doors slammed.
Laura listened to the rustling of the night creatures, a cricket chirping. Voices drifted out of the house—angry and male. She couldn’t hear what they were saying.
Two loud cracks came close together—like an ax splitting firewood. Her disbelieving ears told her it was something else. The door banged open and she heard running footsteps. Car doors slammed. An engine roared to life.
The car slewed around in a fountain of dust, headlights pinning the mare in her stall before it rocketed back down the tunnel of trees.
Laura waited a few minutes, but they didn’t come back.
She crept up to the hedge dividing the barns from the side yard of the house, followed the path to the open gate and went through, heading for the back door. Partly open, the door was almost obscured by a cloud of bougainvillea until she was right on top of it. Remembering what she’d seen on TV, she pushed the door wider with her forearm, not her hands. So she wouldn’t leave fingerprints.
She thought about what the foreman, Rafael, had told her. Both Ramseys were out of town for the summer and their son was house-sitting during their absence.
The kitchen light was on. She tiptoed through the house. “Mr. Ramsey? Are you all right? It’s Laura Cardinal. Are you there?”
The carpet in the hallway was surprisingly old, plush and white, and still had vacuum marks. Footprints made deep impressions. She walked around them. The footprints led toward the last door at the end of the hall. Light spilled out from the open door.
Inside the room was a king-sized bed, the rich teal-green and white bedclothes piled up. Two mean-looking black iron dogs glowered at the foot of the bed.
It smelled funny in here. A burning smell.
It felt funny, too. Like the air had been sucked from the room. What she had thought were bedclothes now materialized into a pale torso and arm, hanging down off the bed, mostly covered by a pillow. On the carpet beneath was an irregular blotch, as if someone had stomped a raspberry Popsicle into the carpet:
Blood.
