He was downstairs with the front door open when he stopped to stare at his office space. Ah, hell.
Slowly, reluctantly, he closed the door again and walked back to the space. He flipped through the old-fashioned rolodex he kept his little-used phone numbers in until he came to the one he sought. If I want her to do something painfully difficult, I guess I better pony up the same.
He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and thumbed in the number.
"Mildred?" he said a moment later. "When is the next board meeting? Tomorrow?" He wrote a notation on his calendar, assuring himself it wasn't too soon. What the hell. Might as well get it over with. "Pencil me in, will you? I’m ready to make my presentation."
I had prepared for every eventuality with my usual attention to detail. Until Ty Holloway actually walked into the small clearing not far from the train trestle that crossed Big Bear Gap, however, I had not been entirely convinced I would be able to carry out my plan.
I do not look around at him, keeping my concentration focused on my bow's sight and the target. Still, I am fully aware of him standing at the clearing's edge, jiggling the change in his pockets and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. I let the arrow fly, then frown when it buries itself in the target slightly above the bulls-eye. I nock another arrow, certain I can do better. Even with these cheap-ass store-bought wooden ones.
Ty's patience with my slow, deliberate movements lasts maybe ten seconds beyond that. "Did you call me all the way out here to watch archery practice or do you have something you actually want to tell me?" he finally demands.
"Have a seat, Ty." I indicate a fallen log to my right.
He blows out a bad-tempered sigh but does as directed.
"Hayley likes archery practice," I inform him, sparing him a brief glance.
"Yeah? Well, hey. That certainly oughtta wow 'em on the five o'clock news."
I fire off another arrow but am unhappy to see it, too, go high. Damn. I am still letting the bow pull up when I release the arrow. Or maybe it is the cheap wood target arrows themselves. I only bought them because they are generic, with none of the identifying characteristics of arrows I fletch myself. Reaching into my quiver, I pull out another and nock it again. Finally, I look over at Ty. "Does that type of sarcasm pass for wit where you come from?" I inquire mildly. "Because I have to tell you it does not play all that well here." I shrug. "Then again, perhaps Kurstin enjoyed it."
His expression closes. "I am not discussing Kurstin with you."
I arch a brow. "No? Given the way you used, then dumped her, I did not realize you harbored soft feelings for her. But forgive me if I am mistaken. Love is undoubtedly treated as differently back east as humor is."
He shoots me a thunderous glare, but I turn my attention back to the target. "Rumor has it she is crushed. Hayley will not have anything to do with her and Kurstin is trailing around town looking like a whipped puppy." I had rather enjoyed that when I saw her on the street yesterday. Served her right for betraying Hayley the way she did.
"I suggest you tell me whatever the hell it is you called me out here for," Ty says through gritted teeth. "Otherwise I'm out of here. I've still got some packing to do."
"Leaving town?"
"Yes."
"And going where?"
"New York. I have a job interview at the NYT."
"Why, how nice for you. And you only had to destroy two women to get it, too."
"That's it." He rises to his feet but then freezes when I swing to face him, my steel-tipped arrow pointing straight at his heart. "Jesus. Put that down."
"I do not care you messed up Kurstin's life," I say in a conversational tone. "Serves her right for breaking Hayley's confidence." Then my voice goes hard. "You made a huge mistake, however, when you went public with Hayley's private pain. Yes, she has inconsistent feelings when it comes to the death penalty. But you should not have made them public, Ty. She never wanted to talk about her conflicted feelings over capital punishment, but you went and told the world."
"And what bothers you most, Patsy? That I aired her conflict—or that she didn't confide it to you?"
My bow dips slightly. "What?"
"She never talked to you about them, either, did she? What happened, did you learn her feelings right along with everyone else who read the news?"
"Do not be ridiculous.” Okay, that sounds defensive and I hurry to add, “Of course not."
He knows I am lying. "Kurstin is her best friend and Hayley didn’t want to tell her, but Jon-Michael dragged it out of her. I don't think she told you at all."
"In a pig's eye she would tell Jon-Michael anything," I scoff. For a second there he had me going. Clearly, however, it was just a ploy to distract me.
"Why wouldn't she?" Ty looks at me as if I am a simpleton and my fingers tighten on the bow. Stupid, unnatural girl, Mother's voice whispers.
Yet it is Ty's voice that says, "They have been living together ever since the first reporters blew into town."
"Liar!" Rage at the very idea fills me and it is all I can do to stand still. Look calm.
I do not think I am doing a great job of it because he raises his hands in a gesture of mollification. ”Yeah, yeah, okay. You are absolutely right." The jerk takes a step back, but his calves bump against the log he has been sitting on, bringing him up short. "Hey, I’m just blowing smoke." But his expression is pitying.
He pities me.
He probably thinks I’m stupid.
I release the line, letting the arrow fly.
For an action so fast, so explosive and violent, it is conducted with surprising quietness. The arrow strikes him, its velocity lifting him off his feet. Then his heels smack against the log behind him and he tumbles over onto his back. Breathing heavily, heart thundering, I creep up to the fallen log and peer over.
He has fallen almost squarely into the tarp-lined shallow depression I dug with the little camp shovel I found in the garage. Looking down at him I whimper a little.
It is not at all like killing a deer. There is very little blood, which is good since it means I hit him squarely in the heart as I had intended. I lean over, grip the arrow just above his chest and yank it out.
Now there is blood and I look around until I see a patch of moss. I gather up a handful and press it against the wound to stop the flow. His heart is no longer pumping and he is lying on his back, so what I disturbed removing the arrow is bound to be all there is. Gravity will take care of it.
Still, it is imperative fresh blood be kept to a minimum. The last thing I need is to attract wild animals before I can get back to dig a deeper grave. Then, flipping the edge of the tarp over him so I do not have to look at my handiwork, I squat on my heels and tug, dragging him the couple essential inches to bring him fully into the depression. "Oh my God. Oh my God," I croon and grab for the shovel.
Moments later his body is covered and I have gathered up armfuls of needles and leaves to scatter over the raw mound. I am sweaty and disheveled when I finally straighten and I slap at the bits of leaves and needles clinging to my hands, my clothing, my arms and legs.
After climbing back over the log I pry the target from the tree and stuff it into my backpack. Then I pull out the canteen and dribble water over my fingers. I scrub the dirt free of my hands and scrape it from beneath my immaculate manicure, pouring more water over each hand to rinse away the mess. I wet a handkerchief and scrub at the spots that dot my arms, my legs. Then I carefully rinse the shovel and pack it away. I pick up the backpack and swing it onto my back, retrieve my bow and quiver of arrows, then take another look around the clearing. My breathing is rapid and jerky and I am trembling like an aspen in a high wind.