Behind the blinding curtain of headlights, there had been no way for Lucy to tell who was in the waiting vehicle. Now, though, the rider’s door swung open, pushed by an invisible hand. In the dim glow of the dome light Lucy could see the figure of a woman seated behind the wheel of the vehicle, but lighting and distance both made it impossible to sort out any distinguishing features.
Muscling the door the rest of the way open, the man shoved Sandra Ridder’s suddenly limp body into the backseat, then he went back to the hole. For several minutes he searched fruitlessly, cursing all the while. Finally he returned to the car and clambered into the front seat. “Now you’ve done it, you stupid bastard!” the woman muttered.
“Just shut up and drive,” he told her. “Get us the hell out of here! Step on it.”
He slammed the door shut, and the white car’s engine roared to life. Too stunned to move, Lucy watched while the once again invisible driver made a tight turn. Sending a spray of dirt and rocks into the air, the car sped back down the road. It all happened so quickly that there was no chance of seeing the license plate, and once the car was gone, Lucy made no effort to follow. Instead, sobbing and shivering, Lucy ducked deeper into the folds of the bedroll that had burrowed deeply into the sandy floor of the dry creek bed.
Lucy had earnestly prayed for her mother’s death, and now that prayer had been answered. Sandra Ridder was dead, and it was all Lucy’s fault.
Several long minutes passed before Lucy finally calmed herself enough to creep from her hiding place. By then her eyes had once again adjusted to the moonlit darkness. She barely paused at the blood-spattered spot of sand where her mother had been shot. Instead she raced down the roadway to retrieve her bike. Once on it, she went pumping after the long-disappeared vehicle as if by overtaking it she might somehow be able to help.
Within a hundred yards or so, she knew it was hopeless. She stopped and stood still. As soon as she did, Big Red came gliding down out of the darkened sky and landed once again on her handlebar.
Walking the bike now because she was crying too much to see to ride, Lucy continued down the roadway. “It’s got something to do with this stupid blank disk,” she told Big Red. “It’s why my father died and it’s why my mother is dead now, too. And if that guy ever figures out I have it, he’ll kill me as well. And maybe even Grandma Yates. What are we going to do, Red? Where can we go?”
Big Red gave no answer, but he made no effort to leave either. And for right then, that was answer enough. At last, squaring her shoulders, Lucinda Ridder climbed on her bike and rode back the way she had come to retrieve her bedroll.
CHAPTER 2
“Mom,” Jennifer Ann Brady called from the bathtub. “Tigger’s drinking out of the toilet again. It’s gross. Come make him stop.”
Sighing, Joanna Brady opened her eyes and forced herself up from the couch where she had inadvertently dozed off while waiting for Jenny to finish her bath so they could both go to bed. “Tigger,” she called. “You come here.”
But even as she said the words, she knew it was hopeless. Tigger, Jenny’s half golden retriever/half pit bull, was one of the most stubborn dogs Joanna had ever met. Simply calling to him wouldn’t do the job. Walking into the steamy bathroom, she grabbed Tigger’s collar and bodily hauled the dripping dog out of the toilet bowl. Then, closing the door to keep him out of the bathroom, she led him through the kitchen and into the laundry room.
“There,” she said, pointing at the water dish. “That’s where you’re supposed to drink.”
Except, even as Joanna said the words, she realized the water dish was empty. And not just empty, either—it was bone-dry. Reaching down, Joanna picked up the dish and filled it at the laundry-room sink. As soon as she put the dish down, Sadie, Jenny’s other dog appeared in the kitchen doorway as well. The long-legged bluetick hound and the shorter, stockier mutt stood side by side lapping eagerly from the same dish.
That’s odd, Joanna thought. That’s usually the first thing Clayton does when he comes over to do the chores. He lets himself into the house to feed and water the dogs.
Clayton Rhodes was Joanna’s nearest neighbor. A bow-legged, spindly octogenarian, Clayton was a hardworking widower whose 320 acres were situated just north of Joanna’s High Lonesome Ranch. For years now, ever since Joanna’s husband’s death, Clayton had come to the High Lonesome mornings and evenings six days a week to feed and water the ranch’s growing collection of animals. The man was nothing if not dependable, but now, watching the thirsty dogs, Joanna recalled the unusual attention Sadie and Tigger had focused on the dinner table that evening while she and Jenny ate.
“Did he forget to feed you guys, too?” Joanna asked. “Do you want to eat?”