Authors: Dianne Emley
Cut to the Quick (43 page)
“Didn’t mean to scare Gypsy.” Tossing off the horse’s name was good. He was golden. He could almost see the wheels turning as she sized him up, wondering, “Do I know this guy?” It was all this nondescript, young Caucasian male could do to keep from grinning. He knew how the world saw him. He had learned to use it to his advantage.
His adoring gaze made her wary. It aroused her instincts of danger. He hoped it also appealed to another part of her. She would be unaccustomed to such attention from men. She was a raw-boned woman with a lantern jaw, a squat nose, and thin lips framing a gash of a mouth. Calling her handsome would be generous. She wasn’t the type of woman who inspired sonnets. But
he
loved her. He could hardly wait to show her how much. He caught his breath, feeling overwhelmed.
Control, he told himself.
Control
.
Christmas always made him emotional.
She asked, “Do I know you?” She searched her mind, grabbing at a memory that stubbornly slipped back into the shadows. “Where have I seen you?”
He pulled the sticky marshmallow from the end of the hanger with his fingers and blew on it before tossing it into his mouth. He chewed with obvious pleasure, letting out a little moan. He stood and stabbed the wire into the sand where it wobbled back and forth.
He struggled to calm his breath. “Nowhere. Everywhere.”
“What’s your name?”
He retrieved the wire hanger and intentionally held it by his side in his left hand, the one farthest from her, in a nonthreatening manner. He ducked beneath the yellow rope and walked a few feet toward the surf. He wrote in the wet, smooth sand.
Feathers cocked her head and squinted at the scrawling. “What does that say?”
He shrugged, chucking the wire away. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Okay, pal …” Feathers reached behind her and pulled a small spade from a loop on the saddle bag. “You’re gonna put out that fire and I’m gonna escort you out of the park. Being Christmas Eve, if you cooperate, I won’t cite you. If you don’t, I’ll arrest you and you’ll spend the night in jail. Got it?”
“Ranger Feathers, you know about death.”
He was standing a few feet away from her and the horse, his hands by his sides. He didn’t want to breathe through his mouth, but he couldn’t help it. He’d never been more rock hard. He was afraid that the slightest
movement would make him explode, which would be awkward.
Control
.
“Tell me what you know about death, Ranger Feathers. I want to know. I want to know everything.”
She shifted the spade to her left hand and pulled out her two-way.
The call would go to Ranger Dispatch. Budget cuts had made staffing thin. They would probably reach out to the San Luis Obispo Sheriff’s Department. Backup would arrive, but not in time.
“Do you wear the pearl necklace?”
The question caught her off guard. She released the radio button.
“Yes, Marilu.
That
necklace. Do you like it?”
“So you’re the one who gave it to me.”
“That’s right.”
“Why?”
“You earned it. The heroism you showed the day you brought down Bud Lilly … You were judge, jury, and executioner, ridding the world of a worthless creep. That should be honored in a special way.”
Finally, she raised Dispatch.
He detected relief in her eyes. A crack in the armor.
She announced her location into the two-way and asked for an assist with a nine-eighteen—a psycho/insane person.
Now
.
In a flash, his hand was in and out of his pocket. He aimed the snub-nose .38 at a spot between her eyes as if it was something he did every day, even though it was the first time he’d aimed a gun at a human being, other than at his own reflection in the mirror.
She reacted quickly, but not quickly enough. He fired.
He couldn’t believe he’d missed. He looked at his gun as if it had betrayed him.
At the sound of the gun blast, the horse had reared. With one hand, Feathers tried to rein in Gypsy while pulling out her gun with the other. Struggling with the frantic horse, Feathers got off a shot. The horse reeled.
His hand flew to his neck that stung like crazy. He drew back bloody fingers. He stared at the blood. She’d grazed him. He started to giggle. She’d only grazed him. But the blood … And the heat radiating from the long fissure across his skin. It thrilled and calmed him. His hand was steady. It was like magic. He aimed again.
Feathers did too, but this time, his aim was true.
Gypsy took off at full gallop. After fifty yards, mortally wounded Feathers fell from the horse into the surf, scattering the sandpipers and cormorants. The calls from the soaring birds grew more frantic.
Overwhelmed, he dropped to his knees. He tried to keep his eyes open, but the pleasure of release was so sublime, he had to close them as he cried out, his hands clutching the sand.
Still panting and fuzzy-headed with bliss, he pulled himself together to finish his mission. He picked up his beach chair and bag of marshmallows and walked to retrieve Feathers’ Ranger Stetson from where it had fallen just within reach of the foamy fingers of the surf. The mare, Gypsy, hovering near her fallen master, galloped off at his approach.
He took a long, final look at his prize, Ranger Marilu Feathers, bleeding into the sand. The young man, whom years later Detective Nan Vining would give the nickname T. B. Mann, then turned and walked into the lengthening shadows. The next phase of his life had begun.
A wave washed away his handwriting in the sand.
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