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“Damn it, all I need is some fresh air, and you can’t get any of that in a hospital.”
“Okay, I’ll see what I can do. We can run by your place so you can pick up your things.”
“Can you drive with that arm?”
“Drive and shoot. The way things are going we’ll probably need both.”
As they pulled out of the parking lot an hour later in Michelle’s truck, King said grumpily, “Well, at least this time they didn’t blow up my house.”
“I admire a man who can find the silver lining in all situations.”
“Now I face only one more challenge.”
Michelle looked at him with a confused expression. “What’s that?”
“Surviving at your house.”
It was barely light outside when Sally Wainwright rose from her bed to start her work. Horses needed to be fed, ridden and groomed. Stalls needed to be mucked and bridles and saddle cinches mended, plus a host of other chores that would make the hours race by. Always the first one up, and usually the first in bed, she was moving more slowly this morning after her late night. She was scared of what might happen after her conversation with Sean King. Yet like he’d said, it was the right thing to do. At least now everyone would know Junior had been innocent.
She dressed and headed out into the crisp morning air, her quick strides carrying her rapidly to the stables. She approached the stall of the first horse, one she was dutifully trying to break in. She wondered how much longer she’d be working here. Only Savannah and Eddie rode, and with Savannah possibly leaving, would there be any need for horses and stables? Maybe it was time to move on anyway. Too much tragedy, too much death. She started shivering just thinking about it.
The serrated knife sliced cleanly through Sally’s neck, severing the carotid arteries and jugular veins, cutting so deeply, in fact, that it carved into her cervical spine on its jagged crescent path from her left to her right ear. She sputtered, tried to speak, felt the blood rushing down the front of her shirt, emptying far faster than it was possible for her body to replenish. She dropped first to her knees and then onto her face. Sally Wainwright’s stunned brain realized she’d been murdered an instant before she died.
Her killer used the rake to push Sally over on her back. She stared up but couldn’t see the person now, of course. The rake came down directly on her face, breaking her nose. Another blow caved in one of her cheeks; a third blow shattered her left eye socket. By the time the blows stopped raining down, Sally’s mother would not have recognized her own daughter.
The rake and knife were dropped beside the body as the killer continued to hover. The face held an expression of fury, of hatred for the fallen woman. A moment later Sally was alone in her death, the straw all around soaked through with her blood. The only sound was that of the horse as it jostled the stable door, waiting impatiently for its morning ride; a ride that wouldn’t be coming.
CHAPTER
70
KING SETTLED HIMSELF IN
the bed in the tiny guest room of Michelle’s small cottage. As the sky lightened, he could hear Michelle in the kitchen clanking dishes and utensils, and he shuddered to think what inedi
ble concoction she was making for him this time. She was forever trying to get him to drink power shakes and eat energy bars with low carbs, no carbs, or just the “right” carbs, promising him his body would feel the miraculous change overnight.
“I’m not really hungry,” he called out weakly. “Just fix yourself something, maybe some cardboard with a little tofu.”
The pots continued to clank and water ran and he distinctly heard the crack of eggs and then a blender starting up.
“Oh, God,” he groaned, and lay back against the pillows. Raw eggs in a blender with who knows what. He decided to start thinking about the case, to take his mind off the impending gustatory nightmare.
Seven deaths starting with Rhonda Tyler and ending, at least so far,
with Kyle Montgomery. Five of the deaths he believed were by the same killer. Bobby Battle and Kyle were not, he thought. Whether they’d been killed by the same person, he didn’t know. And now his life had been almost taken, and Michelle’s as well. There seemed to be an abundance of potential suspects and a dearth of clues. At every stage the killer or killers seemed to be one step ahead. They’d gone to see Junior, but the killer had gotten there first. Sylvia had told him about Kyle and the thefts and the lady at the Aphrodisiac. By the time they’d started investigating that, Kyle too was dead. Sally had come to tell him about her sexual encounter with Junior, and an attempt had been made on his life shortly thereafter.
He sat upright in bed.
Sally!
“Michelle,” he called out. The clattering was still going on. She obviously couldn’t hear him. He got up and staggered into the kitchen. His balance was still off. She was at the sink cutting up an onion and putting it into the blender, where a yellowish-green ooze currently resided.
She turned and saw him. “What are you doing up?” she said in a scolding tone.
“We have to check on Sally.”
“Sally? Why?”
