Bones of a Feather - Carolyn Haines [52]
As we pushed our way toward the back of the property, we tried to piece together the information we had.
“This whole case is off-kilter.” My attention distracted, a limb whacked me across the bridge of my nose. “Crap!” Tears filled my eyes and I stumbled. Only Cece’s quick reach kept me from falling.
Sweetie Pie, who’d stayed at my side, hit a scent and tore off to the south, baying like she was on the trail of the most bloodthirsty pirate since Bluebeard. Chablis was hot on her heels. Tinkie tried to call them back, but they ignored her. One thing about Sweetie, she had the keenest nose in the Southeast, and she’d find us when she tired of tracking her prey.
We trudged on, doing our best to calculate directions from the sun—when we could see it through the thick canopy of trees. The grounds of Briarcliff covered close to four hundred acres, a square bigger than half a mile on all sides. We couldn’t hope to bulldoze through that much wilderness. Once we found the small creek or branch or spring or whatever water source should be in a low area, we’d call it quits if we didn’t find the old stables.
Since I was in the lead, I stopped at an impenetrable wall of underbrush and vines. “I don’t think we can go any farther unless we come back with machetes.”
“Wait a minute.” Cece grasped a limb of the underbrush. “This is dying.” She shook it. “I don’t think it’s attached.”
We all grabbed limbs and pulled, and the whole mass gave.
“This was put here deliberately to hide something,” Tinkie said.
We cleared a narrow lane and hurried into an open area where all underbrush had been removed. Straight ahead were the old stables. The bare ground was covered in fresh hoofprints.
“Well, well,” Cece said. “We begin to unravel the mystery of the Briarcliff horseman.”
She was answered with a soft whinny from inside the stables. Cece and Tinkie turned to me. “Aren’t you going to check it out, Sarah Booth?” Cece asked. “If it’s filled with old horse poop, I’ll ruin my shoes.”
“Sure.” I stepped forward slowly. The stables were as dark and foreboding as the house, and I was reluctant to investigate, even though I knew I’d find only a horse. It wouldn’t make sense for the rider to remain in the vicinity if he hoped to keep his identity secret. He could easily have heard us a mile away.
Tinkie cleared her throat when I didn’t move.
“Okay.” I signaled her to desist. “I’m going.” I marched to the door that looked like a black maw. The whinny came again, soft and curious. I stepped into the darkness and moved toward the sound of rustling. There had to be a light, but I didn’t know where to begin groping for it, and I would have to feel for it because I couldn’t see a thing. Something big shifted to my left, but I couldn’t see what. I was operating on sound alone.
“Sarah Booth?” Tinkie called from outside. She sounded concerned. “Have you found something?”
I considered hiding and waiting for them to come searching. It would serve them right for sending me into the barn alone. I grinned in the darkness at the scenario that played out in my head.
Something brushed my cheek, the softest of touches. Gossamer against my skin. My grin vanished, as did thoughts of pranking my friends. Someone was in the barn with me. Someone I couldn’t see, but who could obviously see me.
“Sarah Booth?” Tinkie sounded almost frantic.
“Hush.” The voice was soft, seductive, confident.
“Sarah Booth?” Tinkie was closer.
“Stay quiet,” the voice whispered. “I insist.”
“Sarah Booth, this isn’t funny. We’re coming in!”
I opened my mouth to call out to her. A hand covered my face, shutting off the sound.
“Be still,” the voice ordered, but there