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With the rodeo at an end, fans were streaming out of the grandstand on the far side of the dirt oval. There was plenty of activity on the near side, too, with people leaving the VIP and competitor sections.
Keeping Tess close, Brock escorted her back through the chute area. Behind the pens, trailers were already backed up to the loading gates. Diesel smoke from idling engines permeated the dusty air. Animals, snorting and lowing, thundered up the ramps.
Brock let his vest front fall loose to expose the pistol in case anyone was watching. “We could be here awhile,” he said. “We’ll need to wait for loading space. And before we move your rig, we can’t forget to check underneath for anything that doesn’t belong there.”
“That’s a good idea,” she said. “But meanwhile, I really need a pit stop before we get out of here. There’s a restroom at the foot of the grandstand. I won’t be long.”
She started away, but he caught up with her. “No, you don’t,” he said. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
“You can’t go into the women’s restroom.”
“Of course, I can’t. But I can walk with you and stand watch outside the door. I won’t let anybody pass who looks the least bit suspicious.”
“All right. But don’t blame me if some little old lady starts beating you with her purse because she has to go and you won’t let her in.”
“Funny girl. Let’s go. Lead the way.”
He walked with her across the floodlit end of the arena, toward the neon restrooms sign. People milled around them, walking and chatting. Most were probably headed out to the main parking lot, but Brock found himself casting suspicious eyes at anyone who came close or even looked in their direction. This was a dangerous place at a dangerous time. The killer could be anywhere.
By the time they reached the side-by-side restrooms, the crowd had thinned. Two teenage girls came out through the door of the women’s room, laughing and giggling as they walked away. As Brock posted himself a few steps from the door, a young mother, leading her little girl by the hand, opened the door and went inside. Tess followed them.
A short while later the mother and child emerged, the little girl wiping her hands on her pink princess T-shirt. Tess was still inside when a stocky gray-haired woman in a baggy dress, with a flowered tote bag slung over her shoulder, shuffled past him with her walker. Remembering how Tess had joked about an old lady beating him with her purse, Brock stepped out of her way as she pulled open the door and disappeared.
Glancing around, he could see no one who looked or acted suspicious. All the same, his danger senses were prickling. As soon as Tess came out through that door, he would rush her back to the stock pens, load her bulls, and hit the road. He couldn’t get out of this town fast enough.
The floodlights cast a moving shadow from around the corner of the men’s room. Drawing the pistol, Brock moved down the sidewalk and rounded the corner—only to find a teenage punk lighting up a forbidden joint.
As he saw Brock’s gun, the young man dropped the joint and flung up his hands. “Don’t shoot, mister!” he gasped. “I wasn’t doin’ nothin’.”
“Just get out of here,” Brock growled.
As the teen fled, Brock holstered the pistol and strode back to his place. A middle-aged woman in a rhinestone-studded cowgirl vest walked up to the restroom door and tugged on the handle.
The door didn’t open.
* * *
There were three stalls in the restroom, including a larger one for the disabled. Tess had come out of a stall and was washing her hands when the door to the handicapped stall opened.
Reflected in the mirror above the sink, she saw an elderly woman with curly gray hair approaching from behind. Tess wouldn’t have given her a second thought. But then, by chance, she noticed something.
The woman was wearing latex surgical gloves and holding something in her hand.
Acting on reflex, Tess spun around, feet kicking. The woman dodged the blows and lunged at her from the side. Tess’s eyes caught the gleam of a long hypodermic needle, the kind used on large animals.
Stumbling, she made a break for the door, but a powerful hand caught her wrist and whipped her back in the other direction. A lifetime of ranch work had made Tess strong and fit. But she was no match for her assailant. No woman would have that much strength.
Her free hand flailed at his head, fingers catching the gray curls. The wig flew off, revealing close-clipped brown hair. The expression in the light-colored eyes that met hers was pure, cold evil.
One hand gripped her wrist. The other held the syringe high, poised to strike at a vulnerable spot, like her neck, where the needle could find a vein. To avoid the fatal stab, she had to keep moving. But she was already tiring.
As she struggled, she could hear Brock’s voice and the sound of his fists beating on the steel door. The door had to be locked, the deadbolt needing a key on the outside. There was no way he could get to her. She was on her own.
Then a new thought struck her. Her enemy was wearing a dress. But he was a man. And there was one thing a woman could do to incapacitate a man. Bracing her back against the sink counter, she focused all her energy into one desperate kick. Her pointed riding boot flew upward under the dress, sliced between his legs, and found its target.
Yowling with pain and rage, he doubled over. His grip on her wrist had loosened, but he’d positioned himself between her and the door, and he still had the syringe. There was no escape—only brief shelter.
Twisting free, she plunged into the handicapped stall, slammed the door behind her, and slid the lightweight bolt into place. It wouldn’t hold for long, but at least she had a moment to breathe and recover her wits.
