The Kill Page 3

  Manning tried to prop himself up on one elbow, flopped back on the mattress, and let out a moan. “Any chance you have some Tylenol to go with that?”

  She held the glass to his lips and he raised his head enough to swallow a gulp, letting the cold juice swish the thickness from his dry mouth.

  “You really shouldn’t take Tylenol, Manning. Not with the amount of alcohol you consumed last night. Haven’t you read the warnings?”

  He winced as he let his head sink back and closed his eyes. “That would sound like swell advice if I didn’t have a marching band banging in my head right now. Be a sport and get me a pain reliever, will you? And some vodka for the orange juice would be nice.”

  Julia let out a deliberate sigh and clunked the glass on the tray. “I have some Advil in the medicine cabinet. I’ll be right back.”

  “Moonlight Serenade” blasted again and Julia called out from the bathroom, “You might want to see who that is. Your cell phone’s been ringing all morning. Someone must really want to talk to you.”

  Forcing his eyes in the direction of the music, Manning saw his white riding breeches draped across a wingback chair next to the bed. He reached out and snagged them, fishing his cell out of the back pocket. The ringtone died as he flipped the phone open and squinted at the display: 7 MISSED CALLS. He scrolled down and saw that the first three calls were from Wendy Brooks, the hunt secretary. He glanced at his watch. Ten-thirty. Shit. He had promised to be at the racecourse by nine o’clock. Wendy had probably called to chew him out for not showing up.

  The other missed calls were identified as PRIVATE. That was no help. Should he place a call back? His thumb hovered over the SEND button when Julia emerged from the bathroom waving a bottle of Advil at him. He palmed the phone shut and tossed it on the bed.

  The instant the cell phone landed, it began to ring again. Christ! He snatched it up and glanced at the display on the front: PRIVATE. He flipped the phone open and held it to his ear as he extended his other arm to Julia, wiggling his fingers for the Advil.

  “Hello.”

  “Thank God, I finally reached you. It’s Thompson.” Thompson James’s voice bellowed from the receiver and Manning tilted the phone away from his ear.

  He held his hand out and watched Julia shake two tablets from the bottle. “One more,” he whispered. She gave him a look, but rattled the bottle until another pill dropped into his hand. He tossed the tablets into his mouth and took a gulp of juice.

  “Now’s not a good time, Thompson,” Manning said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Well, make it be a good time.” Thompson’s voice cracked. “I’ve been trying to track you down for over an hour.”

  Manning smiled at Julia as she rolled her eyes at the phone. He reached up and toyed with the ends of her hair.

  “Manning.”

  “Yeah, I’m here. So, what’s up?”

  “It’s Richard.”

  Manning scooted up against the pillow. “What about him?”

  “He was shot. He’s dead.”

  “What!” Manning struggled to a sitting position and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “When? What happened?”

  “I don’t have time to go into details. Just get yourself over to your mother’s house. She wants you there, Manning. Now.”

  “At least give me the headlines. Who shot him?”

  Silence.

  “Thompson.”

  Manning jerked the phone away from his ear and looked at the display. DISCONNECTED.

  “Damn it.” He dropped the phone onto the bed and cradled his head in both hands, doubling over as nausea cramped his stomach.

  “What’s the matter?” Julia caressed the back of his neck with her long nails.

  He glanced at her over his shoulder. “It’s Richard Evan Clarke. He’s been killed.”

  “Oh, my God. What happened?”

  Manning snatched his briefs from the floor beside the bed and thrust his feet into them. “I don’t know, but I’ve got to get over to Mother’s.” He stuffed his cell phone into the pocket of his breeches and pulled them on, zipping up as he looked around for his shirt.

  “Your shirt’s right there,” Julia said, pointing a well-manicured finger toward a bench at the foot of the bed.

  Manning slipped the shirt on and grabbed his tweed jacket and riding boots off the floor next to the bench. “I’ll call you,” he said, fumbling with the shirt buttons as he headed toward the door.

  “Manning, wait.”

  He turned around.

  “Where are you going? You can’t drive anywhere.”

  “Why not?”

  “Your car’s still at the Blackthorne. Remember? You were in no condition to drive last night so I brought you home with me.”

  Manning stared at her, trying to recall some of what had happened the night before.

  Julia’s plump lips parted in a pouty glare. “You do remember, don’t you?”

  “Not exactly,” he murmured.

  “Oh, boy. You were in worse shape than I thought. I guess you’ve learned to hide it well.” Julia slipped out of bed and opened the door to her closet. “Give me a sec. I’ll throw on some clothes and give you a lift to your car.”

  CHAPTER

  9

  Abigale’s eyes burned. A fine dusting of Afghan sand coated her lashes and hair. She ran her tongue over parched lips and felt grit crunch between her teeth. She was back at camp, eager to get to her laptop computer so she could view the photos she’d shot on the ridge. But first she needed to check on Joe.

  She and Alex wove their way through the medical tent, where they found Joe on a cot hunched over his laptop, pounding away on the keyboard. His leg was bandaged, but other than that he appeared to be okay.

  “Don’t go getting any ideas about embellishing your account of what happened,” Abigale said. “I’ve got pictures that tell the real story.”

  Joe spun to face them but didn’t crack a smile at Abigale’s teasing.

  “You lucky son of a bitch, no doubt you earned yourself a first-class ticket out of here,” Alex said.

  “Yeah, they’re putting me on the next chopper. Abigale too.”

  “Me? Why?” Abigale asked.

  Joe’s eyes flickered to Alex, then back to her. “London’s been trying to reach you. There’s been a family emergency.”

  Abigale’s heart lurched in her chest. “My mother.”

  “No,” Joe said. “Your mother’s okay. She’s the one who called the bureau. It’s your uncle in Virginia. He’s been shot.”

  “Uncle Richard? Shot? What happened? Was he deer hunting? How badly is he hurt?”

  Joe regarded her somberly as he handed her the satellite phone. “Call Max.”

  Abigale couldn’t stop her hand from shaking as she punched in the number for her editor. She clutched the phone to her ear, waiting what seemed like an eternity for the call to go through. Joe scooted over and patted a spot next to him on the cot. She dropped down on the edge facing away from him as a hollow ring-ring trilled in her ear.

  “Max Chapman.”

  “It’s Abigale.”

  “Jesus. Abigale, I got a call from your mother. I guess Joe told you. Your uncle in Virginia—Richard—he’s been shot. We’ve got you on the next chopper out of there.”

  “How badly is he injured?”

  There was a long suffering pause. “He’s dead, Abigale. Your uncle was murdered.”

  CHAPTER

  10

  Manning parked his BMW in front of his mother’s house behind Wendy Brooks’s Jeep. Thompson’s Explorer and the hunt’s kennel truck were parked farther up the drive.

  He killed the engine, leaned over, and rummaged through the glove box for a tin of breath mints. As he straightened back into the driver’s seat, he glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror. He popped a mint in his mouth and shoved his fingers through his hair, forcing the blond waves into some sense of order. God, he looked like shit. He had skipp
ed shaving before hunting yesterday and now the two-day-old growth of beard made him look like some Hollywood bad boy. Nothing he could do about that now. Nothing he could do about his bloodshot eyes, either.

  Manning grabbed his tweed jacket off the passenger seat and climbed out of the car, slipping the jacket on and turning the collar up against the drizzle as he hurried along the stone walk toward the house. He saw lights on in the kitchen and veered off the walk, cutting across the lawn to the back. Through the glass in the mudroom door he saw his mother standing by the kitchen counter, talking on the telephone. Her back was to him. He stomped his feet on the doormat and opened the door.

  She glanced over her shoulder as he entered and he saw her eyes travel down to his boots. He smothered a sigh. Don’t worry, Mother. I remembered my manners and wiped my feet.

  Manning shook the rain off his jacket and hung it on a hook in the mudroom. As he walked into the kitchen, Margaret banged the receiver back on the base. He spotted a tremble in her hand.

  “If one more person tells me that Richard is in a better place, I think I’ll scream,” she said, turning to face him.

  Manning wrapped his arms around her and she gave him a quick squeeze before backing out of his embrace. “We’ve been looking for you all morning,” she said, settling against the counter, her arms clamped across her chest.

  “I came as soon as I heard.”

  “Um-hmm.” Her lips puckered into a crooked line and her blue eyes blazed as she gave him a good once-over. “Where were you? You look like you just climbed out from under a rock. Still dressed in yesterday’s hunt attire.”

  Manning glanced away.

  “Never mind. I already know the answer.” Margaret drew in an exaggerated sniff. “You reek of some woman’s perfume. That and day-old whisky.”

  God, Mother. He released a slow breath, refusing to be baited into an argument. “Tell me what happened to Richard.”

  Margaret turned and grabbed a coffee mug off the counter by the phone, wrinkling her nose as she took a sip. “This is cold.” She flung the contents in the sink and reached for the glass carafe in the drip coffeemaker, glancing at him as she poured steaming coffee into her mug. “I just brewed a fresh pot of coffee. Would you like a cup?”

  “No. Thanks.”

  Her disapproving eyes roved over him. “Are you sure? You look like you could use one.”

  Before he could respond there was a knock, and the door that led to the hall creaked partially open. Smitty poked his head into the kitchen. “Can I come in?”

  “Of course,” Margaret replied, lifting the mug to her mouth and eyeing Manning over the rim as she took a sip.

  Smitty’s gaze shifted back and forth between Margaret and Manning as the door swung closed behind him. “Wasn’t sure if I was interrupting something.”

  Manning looked away and perched on the edge of the kitchen table, rubbing the back of his neck as he stretched it from side to side.

  “What do you need, Smitty?” Margaret asked.

  “Percy Fletcher just showed up at the front door, all full of questions. I told him you were on the phone, but he’s made himself at home in the library with Thompson and Wendy. Seems to think that being your neighbor gives him the right to intrude.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll go talk to him.” Margaret glanced at Manning as she pulled open the door. “Are you coming?”

  He sighed and shifted to his feet. “Yeah, I’ll be right there.”

  CHAPTER

  11

  A burn shot through Manning’s gut as he watched the door swing closed behind his mother.

  Smitty arched a bushy eyebrow. “You all right?”

  He took a breath. “I just don’t get it, Smitty. Richard’s dead and she can’t get beyond the fact that I didn’t show up to work at Longmeadow this morning, that it took her a while to locate me.”

  “You’re her son. She needed you this morning. It’s her way of showing her disappointment that you weren’t there.”

  “Mother needed me? I doubt that.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “You can’t tell that from the way she’s acting now.”

  “She’s shed all her tears. At least publicly. You know how your mother is.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Manning’s fingers curled in the air like quotation marks. “Just get back on the damn horse and get on with it.”

  Smitty clamped his mouth into a pucker and slowly shook his head. There was an uncharacteristic hardness in his eyes. “She’s not getting any younger, Manning.”

  Manning narrowed his eyes. “What are you saying?”

  “You need to step up to the plate, son. Your mother just lost her oldest and dearest friend. She and Richard have had each other’s backs since high school—that’s more than fifty years. Margaret would kill me for saying it, but she can’t go through this alone. She needs you by her side.”

  Shouldn’t that work both ways? Manning thought. He was grieving Richard’s death, too, but his mother wasn’t there for him. He eased out a slow breath. “Yeah. All right.”

  Smitty gave him a tired smile and plucked a bottle of Virginia Gentleman from the liquor cabinet. “I think you and I might need a little something to help us get through today. What say I make us both a proper cup of coffee?”

  They carried their steaming mugs to the library, and Manning dropped down in a barrel chair next to Percy in front of the fire. He took a healthy draw of the spiked coffee as he listened to his mother recount how she had found Richard in the stewards’ stand at Longmeadow. She said it appeared Richard had been shot with his own hunting rifle during a robbery, and that the authorities were going to interrogate the members of the nearby road crew repaving St. Louis Road.

  “Jesus Christ.” Manning ran his hand along his jaw, his fingers rubbing noisily at the stubble of his beard. “It just doesn’t add up. How would someone from the road crew have spotted Richard? You can’t see the racecourse or the stewards’ stand from the road.”

  Thompson looked at him as if he were dense. “No, of course not. But one of those characters could have seen Richard turn in the entrance to Longmeadow. Margaret said the gate was closed when she arrived, so if someone saw Richard drive through and close the gate they could make a pretty good assumption that he was alone and wasn’t expecting anyone to join him.”

  “Someone might have seen Richard drive in, but I don’t think Richard was the one who closed the gate,” Margaret said. “It makes no sense for him to do so while he was at the course. You know we always open the gate when we arrive and fasten it when we leave. I think it’s more likely the killer closed the gate to delay the possibility of someone driving in and finding Richard’s body.”

  “When was Richard killed?” Percy asked.

  “I don’t know if the medical examiner has determined a time of death yet, but Richard had clearly been dead for some time before I arrived.”

  “So he might have been murdered last night,” Percy murmured. He shot a look at Manning. “Was the gate open or closed when you left Longmeadow yesterday afternoon?”

  “What are you talking about?” Manning asked.

  “The gate. When you left Longmeadow yesterday afternoon, was the gate open or closed?”

  A chill wrapped around Manning. “I wasn’t at Longmeadow yesterday.”

  “Since when? After the hunt yesterday, that’s where you said you were heading.”

  “Is that true, Manning, that you went to Longmeadow?” Margaret asked.

  “No.”

  Margaret raised an eyebrow at Percy.

  “Bull-shit!” Percy drawled. “When I left the tailgate, I asked if you wanted to grab a beer with me after you took your horse back to the barn and you said you were heading over to Longmeadow to help Richard work on the course.”

  Had he? Manning avoided his mother’s accusatory glare and drained the last of his coffee. “I might have said that’s where I was going, but that’s not where I went.”

  “W
hat do you mean, that’s not where you went?” Margaret demanded. “Good God, Manning, are you saying Richard was at Longmeadow yesterday, waiting for you, and you never showed up?”

  Jesus Christ. Had that happened? He shook his head. “No. I told Richard I wouldn’t be able to make it after all.”

  CHAPTER

  12

  Margaret lingered at the door with Smitty after the others had left. “What do you make of Manning saying he told Richard he couldn’t meet him at Longmeadow?” Margaret asked.

  “What do I make of it?”

  “Yes. Do you believe him?”

  “You want my honest-to-God opinion?”

  “You know I do.”

  “I don’t think he remembers.”

  Margaret sniffed. “You think he was too drunk.”

  “He was three sheets to the wind when he left the tailgate.”

  Margaret felt a sting in her nose, and her eyes filled with tears. “Good God, Smitty, what if Richard was waiting for Manning when the killer found him?”

  “Might be that’s what happened, but we can’t change fate. Besides, if Manning had been at Longmeadow with Richard, what’s to say he wouldn’t have been shot as well?”

  She shook off a shudder and clasped her arms to her chest. “I suppose you’re right. But if Manning did stand Richard up and that led to Richard’s murder, I’m not sure he’ll be able to live with himself.”

  Smitty cocked an eyebrow. “What about you?”

  “Will I be able to forgive Manning?”

  He nodded.

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  “Oh, boy.” Smitty squeezed her shoulder. “We’ve got a real mess on our hands.”

  “Don’t we ever.”

  They eyed each other. Margaret knew they were both thinking the same thing: how in the hell were they going to get on without Richard?

  “Should we cancel the races?” Smitty asked.

  “Richard wouldn’t want that. He’d want us to carry on.”

  Smitty grunted in agreement. “I don’t know how we’ll pull it off without him.”