Out of the Dark Page 22

  And again Rocky was there ahead of him, nearly tripping him.

  Damn cat, Cole swore again silently. He moved to sweep Rocky away with his foot. The cat spat, and took another swipe at Cole’s boots.

  Cole froze. An idea glimmered in his mind. He would have preferred a .45, or better yet, Kyra’s preferred seventeen-shot, .40 caliber Glock, but he didn’t have either. All he had was himself. Himself and a cat more used to fighting than purring.

  It was crazy, but it just might work. It might give him the split second he needed. Shaking his head once sharply at the sheer insanity of it, he bent down and scooped Rocky up in his left hand.

  The cat made a startled little sound, almost a yelp. Cole pulled the jacket closer over his bare chest and arranged Rocky in the crook of his left arm, tickling his ragged ear as Tory always did.

  “Be useful for a change,” he muttered. Rocky looked at him with those pale-blue eyes. And then, surprisingly, he settled down as if Cole made a habit of carrying him around like a pampered lap cat. But he looked back with a pained expression as Cole began to whistle, casually, a light, cheerful off-key melody, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  * * *

  Tory heard the unexpected sound a moment before the man holding her whirled, yanking her with him as he turned toward the barn door. Cole, she thought, listening to the cheerful sound of his whistling. God, he was about to walk in on this crazy man, and he didn’t know he had a gun. She sucked in a breath as the barn door began to slide open.

  “Don’t even think about yelling, sweetie, or you’re dead,” the man hissed in her ear as he dragged her back into the darkness below the hayloft. “And so’s the old man.”

  Tory’s eyes flicked to where Hobie lay so dreadfully still against a stack of hay bales, his small rifle lying a few feet from his outflung hands, where it had fallen when the man holding her had hit him with a rake handle. Please, be alive, she prayed silently. She turned her head to stare back at the opening door, as if she could warn Cole simply by wishing hard enough.

  Cole strolled in casually, still whistling that absurdly carefree tune. Incredibly, Rocky was nestled in the crook of his arm, and Cole was petting the cat as if he were a beloved pet instead of a barely tolerated nuisance. And more amazingly, Rocky was accepting it. In fact, Tory realized with a shock that for an instant made her forget her precarious position, Rocky was purring.

  The man holding her tensed as they stood there in the shadows. Cole kept coming. He never looked up. He just sauntered into the barn, his attention on the cat, as if oblivious. Still whistling.

  Cole was never oblivious.

  It came to her then that he knew exactly what was going on. She could only hope he knew what he was doing.

  “Hey!” Cole stopped at Hobie’s feet, blinking as if coming out of a daze. “You al’ right, ol’ buddy?”

  If she hadn’t heard him when he’d been drunk, she would have thought he was now. But Cole drunk didn’t slur his words. They came out slowly, carefully, exactly, if not perfectly sensible. She didn’t understand, until the man holding her relaxed slightly. He obviously thought he was dealing with a drunk who wouldn’t be hard to handle despite his size. And maybe he was hoping Cole was so drunk he wouldn’t even notice them, and would stagger on outside without ever knowing they’d been there, hidden in the shadows. And she knew then that that was exactly what Cole wanted him to think.

  Cole staggered comically around to look at Hobie from the other side. This put him a bare six feet away from where they stood in the shadows of the hayloft.

  He was practically on top of Hobie’s rifle.

  Even as she thought it, Cole moved. He flung Rocky into the shadows where they stood. The cat let out a small roar. He clawed madly, catching her captor’s pant leg. The man jumped, startled, loosening his grip on her. Tory jerked away as hard as she could. She heard a tearing sound as her shirt gave way at the shoulder seam. Her captor swore. Rocky yowled, digging through cloth and into the man’s leg and boots with needlelike claws.

  And then Cole was there, Hobie’s rifle in one hand, the other reaching to pull Tory behind him. The man suddenly realized he was in trouble. He tried to bring the gun around. Cole grabbed the heavy horseshoer’s rasp and swung it hard and fast. He caught the man’s hand and wrist in a blow sharp enough to numb fingers. The gun flew off to disappear into Mac’s stall.

  The man turned to run, but Rocky dug in again and the man yelped.

  “I think you’d better stop right there,” Cole said, leveling the rifle at the man. It looked like a toy in his big hands. “And put your hands on top of your head. This thing may only be a twenty-two, but it’s semiautomatic, and I could put enough rounds in you fast enough to mess you up pretty good.”

  The man looked at him, as if gauging his seriousness.

  “Believe me,” Cole suggested, his voice taking on a deadly quiet tone that made even Tory shiver. But his left arm, around her shoulders now, steadied her. “There isn’t a court in the world that would convict me, not after you tried to kill two people.”

  “I didn’t try to kill anyone!” he squealed as he put his hands atop his head. His voice was absurdly high for such a stocky, muscular man. Or maybe he was just nervous, Tory thought, looking down the barrel of Hobie’s rifle. Hobie. She turned, but Cole held her fast.

  “That old guy, he just snuck up on me,” the man protested while he tried to kick Rocky loose. The cat hung on. “I didn’t hit him that hard.”

  “Hobie,” Tory repeated, still trying to pull away. Cole hesitated, looked over at Hobie’s sprawled form, then let her go. She ran to where Hobie lay. She knelt beside her uncle. When she touched him, the older man groaned.

  “Thank God,” she whispered.

  “You’d better be thanking God,” Cole told the man. “If he’s alive, maybe I won’t kill you after all.”

  The man paled then. He took a step back. Rocky let out a little yowl, and Cole glanced down at the man’s feet. “Eel-skin boots,” he said in satisfaction. “Close enough.” He lifted the rifle to his shoulder.

  The man gaped at him. “You can’t just—”

  “Can’t I? You’re a trespasser, a burglar and armed. Like I said, I’d never even look at charges for taking you out. Especially if mine’s the only story that gets told. And I put that little gun of yours back in your hand.”

  Tory’s gaze flicked to Cole. He looked deadly serious. She wasn’t sure that he wasn’t. And moreover, she wasn’t sure she cared. She supposed that made her unforgivingly vengeful, but she wasn’t sure she cared about that, either. The man had been in Mac’s stall.

  “He was carrying a bag when I found him,” she said. “It’s over there.” She pointed at a small canvas bag that lay a couple of feet away.

  “Oh?” Cole said with obvious interest. He stepped forward and ran his hands over the man in a quick search. Then he swiveled around, keeping the rifle trained on the man while he put himself between him and the bag. He turned toward Tory, but she’d already read his intent and scrambled over to pick up the bag.

  It was open, and she could see an odd arrangement of what appeared to be an industrial-weight extension cord and a length of wire with two large alligator clips on it. She held it up, puzzled, then looked at Cole. His face had gone rigid; he obviously knew what the contraption was. He turned back to the man. Tory set the bag down with distaste, even though not knowing what it was.

  “What do people call you, besides stupid?”

  The man twitched slightly, but his eyes never left the rifle or Cole’s finger, which rested inside the trigger guard threateningly. He’d got smart enough to hold still, and Rocky, with a low snarling sound and a final claw at the man’s boots, let go. He sidled over to Tory as if to check on her, then strutted back to sit at Cole’s feet, as if quite proud of a part well played.

  “Al,” the man muttered at last.

  “Okay, Al,” Cole said in a voice like chips of ice, “give me one good reason why I
should let you walk out of here alive.”

  The man’s eyes widened again. “I didn’t do anything to die over!”

  “Neither did those horses.”

  Tory quivered at the sound of Cole’s voice. The cool, barely controlled fury of it was also the voice for her rage, and in that instant she felt as close to him as she had in their most intimate moments.

  The man didn’t answer. His eyes were wide with fear, but he didn’t speak. After a moment, Cole shrugged and lifted the rifle.

  “Wait!” Al blurted.

  Cole lifted a brow at the man. “The way I look at it, one of two things can happen here. You tell me who put you up to it, and maybe I go take it out of his hide instead of yours. Or you don’t, and I take it out of yours, then go after your boss, anyway. I’ll find him either way, it just may take me a little longer. And, of course, you’ll be dead.”

  Al’s eyes flicked from Cole to Tory, incredibly, as if he were looking for help. Tory thought of John’s Prize, being carted away like so much dead meat. She thought of Firefly, stiff and cold in her stall. And Mac. She thought of Mac, and how close he’d come to being next.

  “If he doesn’t do it,” she said, “I will.”

  “You won’t have to, girl. I will.”

  It came from Hobie, propped up on one elbow, rubbing the back of his head with the other hand. The words were shaky, but blessedly rational. Cole shot them both a look, relief clear on his face. Then he looked back at the severely stressed Al.

  “No, that’s going to be my pleasure,” he said mildly.

  Al swore again, a profanity particularly appropriate to the barn they were in.

  “What do you say, Al? You’re in more trouble than you ever dreamed of. You gonna go down alone?”

  Al swore, that same short word again. Tory helped Hobie get to his feet, then stayed close so he could lean on her. Cole glanced at them, gave Hobie a nod, then turned his attention back to Al.

  “It’s up to you, man. The deck’s stacked, and it ain’t your way.”

  Finally, Al broke. “I don’t know who he is.”

  “Nice try.” Cole lifted the rifle to his shoulder.

  “No, man, I swear! I never saw him, never heard his name. It was all on the phone, you know? Somebody gave him my number. He called, we set up the hit. I called him back, told him where to send the money.”

  “Hit? Just one?”

  “Yeah, at first. Just the big brown horse, with the white nose.”

  Cole glanced at Tory. “John’s Prize,” she whispered.

  “Then what?”

  “Guy called again. Wasn’t happy about it this time. Wanted a second horse hit.”

  “And he told you which one?”

  “He just said the one in the next stall.”

  Firefly, Tory thought. And then she realized what that meant. Whoever was giving this man his orders knew what horses were in what stalls. Her gaze flew to Cole’s, and she saw the same knowledge there.

  “What about Arthur?” she asked. “The Appaloosa?”

  “The spotted one? Yeah, that was the third call. He said it didn’t really matter, just to clear with him which one I was gonna go after before I did it.”

  That made no sense, Tory thought, fighting that sick feeling again. “But why like that? Why his leg?”

  Al shrugged. “Seemed better. I saw that puddle there, and figured it’d be a good cover. Anybody’d believe a slip and fall in that muck.”

  “Anyone except someone who knew the horse hated water,” Cole said softly.

  “Huh?” Al was clearly puzzled.

  “Never mind,” Cole said. “What did you mean, when you said he wasn’t happy?”

  “He just sounded like he didn’t like any of this. I got the feeling he wanted to quit after the first one.”

  “Why?”

  “How the hell do I know? I don’t ask questions, long’s I get paid.”

  “I’ll bet,” Cole said acidly. “Who gave him your name?”

  Fear flared in the man’s muddy brown eyes. “Oh, no. I give him up, I’m as good as dead.”

  “You’re as good as dead, anyway,” Cole reminded him bluntly.

  Al stubbornly shook his head. “I’d rather be shot.”

  There was no denying that whoever the connection was, Al was more frightened of him than of dying right here. Even Tory could see he wouldn’t talk. “Maybe you can still save your life,” Cole offered after a moment. “What was the number you called this guy at?”

  Al hesitated. Cole sighed, as if he were getting mightily tired of this.

  “How about this, then, Al, old buddy. You don’t tell me a thing, and I let you walk out of here.”

  Al blinked.

  “And then,” Cole elaborated easily, “we just let the papers know that you rolled over like a big dog, on the guy who hired you, and the guy who gave him your name.”

  Al paled.

  “Yeah,” Cole mused. “By the time he finds out you didn’t squeal, you’ll already be dead, won’t you?”

  Al spat out an obscene phrase that made Cole’s mouth twist sourly. “No thanks. You’re not my type. The number, Al. Now.”

  In disgust, he rattled off a number. Tory felt her breath catch.

  “Good boy, Al.” Cole glanced at Tory. “I’ll just have my people trace—”

  He broke off, and Tory knew what must be showing in her face. “Don’t bother,” she said dully. “I know the number.”

  Cole’s eyes narrowed. “Tory?” he prompted when she didn’t go on.

  She sighed. “It’s John’s. His private line.”

  * * *

  Lennox glared at Cole as he burst past a protesting secretary into his inner office, but his angry expression faltered when Tory came in right behind him.

  “Tory? What’s this about?”

  “It’s about,” she said coldly as she slammed the bag holding the electrical wire down on Lennox’s desk, “this.”

  Lennox stared at the bag and its contents. When he looked up, there was no doubting that his perplexity was genuine.

  “You don’t even know, do you, Lennox?”

  Lennox rose to his feet at Cole’s tone. “I don’t know who you think you are—”

  “You want to know what this is, Lennox? It’s a murder weapon, that’s what it is. Real slick. Take one friendly, trusting horse. Clip these on him—” he held up one of the large alligator clips “—in two different places far enough apart. Plug it all in. Zzzzt. One dead horse.”

  Lennox paled.

  “That’s what he used on your horse, to make sure. The bad feed was too much of a gamble, by itself. So he electrocuted him. No telltale signs, and with the bad feed in the horse’s belly anyway...” Cole shrugged, then laughed harshly at Lennox’s ashen face. “What’s wrong? You don’t mind ordering it done, but don’t bother you with the ugly details?”

  Lennox looked at Cole, then at the door behind him.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Cole advised. “Even if you made it, Hobie’s already talking to the cops. You’re history, pal. Insurance fraud is damn near a hanging offense these days.”

  Lennox sank back down into his chair, obviously shaken.

  “Why, John?” Tory implored him, anguish seeping into her voice. “Did you really need money so badly?”

  The man seemed to collapse like a popped balloon, all his charm and style vanishing. “I’m going to be sued,” he said tiredly. “Or rather my new software company is. By some little shoestring operation who says the core of our new commercial publishing program was lifted from a program they copyrighted a year ago.”

  “Was it?” Cole asked, merely curious.

  Lennox glared at him, not answering. Which, he supposed, was an answer in itself.

  “So,” Cole said, “it’s going to take a lot of money and a battalion of lawyers to save your butt. And a million plus in insurance will pay for a lot of billable hours, eh, Johnny?”

  “How could you?” Tory cried. “Wh
y couldn’t you just sell him if you needed money?”

  “There wasn’t time to find a buyer willing to pay what I needed,” Lennox said, avoiding looking at her.

  Cole wished there was a way he could cushion this, but he knew there wasn’t.

  “And why the others?” Tory asked, sounding strained. “Just to cover your tracks? Arthur, and Firefly...they weren’t even yours. And God, Mac, how could you—”

  “That wasn’t my idea!”

  Cole lifted a brow at him. “Now there’s a defense for you,” he said acidly.

  “It wasn’t! None of the others were. I wanted to quit after the first one. I had enough money to buy me time until I could raise some more.”

  “Buy you time?” Tory said furiously. “With an innocent animal’s life?”

  For the first time Lennox looked at her. “There are more important things than your precious horses!” he snapped. “But you never could see that.”

  “Bruised your ego, did she, Lennox?” Cole’s voice was coolly taunting.

  “Let’s just say her taste is questionable,” he said pointedly, giving Cole a furious look.

  “Because I didn’t want to play your game?” Tory asked. “You know you only wanted me because I turned you down.”

  Lennox leaned back in his chair. The charm had vanished now, and the cold, calculating schemer was out in the open.

  “Not exactly,” he said.

  Tory looked suddenly thoughtful. Cole didn’t know what was going through her mind, but her expression made him uneasy. So did Lennox’s.

  “Was all your flirting to keep me...what, occupied? So I wouldn’t ask any questions? Is that why you were so kind after Firefly died, even more than when John’s Prize died? So you could head me off if I started getting too close?”

  “I wasn’t flirting,” Lennox said. “I was dead serious. And if you weren’t such a little fool, you would have realized that. You missed a hell of a chance, Tory. We could have really made it big, together.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Big? You’re already big.”

  “Not as big as I want to be. You were going to do that for me.”