Bones of a Feather - Carolyn Haines [68]
I couldn’t be certain, but it seemed Sweetie had taken the path to the gardener’s cottage. Was Jerome the one breaking into Briarcliff? That didn’t make any sense, but so little in this case did. Jerome had failed to disclose so many things, including his relationship with Eleanor, a smoldering omission—and where there was smoke, there was often a conflagration.
Up ahead, I heard a faint human voice. I glanced south, hoping to catch a glimmer of Briarcliff. I felt a compulsion to go back, to protect my partner and Eleanor.
The cry came again, weak and indistinguishable. It occurred to me I was being set up. Pulling my cell phone from my pocket, I dialed Tinkie to alert her to the possibility of danger. Maybe she could convince Eleanor to call the authorities, as she should have done long before now.
To my disgust, my cell phone was dead. I’d charged it, I was certain. But there was no denying that it was useless. Technology was not my friend.
“Please!” The cry came from the woods beyond the rose garden.
The voice was male, I could detect that much, and the person sounded hurt or in danger. Even as my fingers tightened on the gun, my brain sent panicked messages warning me of a trap.
“Help! Oh, please, help!”
I couldn’t ignore the pleas. I left the rose garden behind and moved along the narrow path that cut through a wooded area. Branches damp with fog scraped my face and neck. The trees and shrubs crowded close to the path in this section. I had to move carefully or risk poking out an eye.
I thought I was headed in the direction of Jerome’s cottage, but the fog was disorienting. Though I searched the distance for a porch light or some indication of the cottage, I couldn’t see a thing. The Delta’s flat cropland suffered weather like this, but generally in the fall, when a warm front smacked into a cold front and created their love child—fog. This heavy curtain of non-rain blew in off the river and swirled like the swift currents that spawned it.
I’d been walking for what felt like hours and was about to turn back, realizing I’d been played, when I heard rustling in the underbrush ahead. Sweetie or an ambush? I couldn’t tell. The poor visibility worked in my favor as well as theirs.
Stepping off the path I cut quietly through the gallberries and undergrowth toward the sound. A pitiful cry came from the soupy darkness and my hair literally stood on end. Briarcliff was a place that stimulated the most frightening fantasies. There was the sense that evil deeds from the past roamed at night. The cry coming from the woods made me want to run in the opposite direction.
Gripping the gun, I moved forward.
“Help me.” The voice was weak. “Please. I’m bleeding.”
Not twenty yards away, the mournful howl of a hound on a scent waffled through the night.
A sharp scream ripped through the woods, followed by someone crashing through the underbrush. Sweetie’s howl sounded again. She was on a hot trail.
“I’m hurt! Please help me.” The plea issued from the darkness only ten feet in front of me. Keenly aware that it could be a trap, I inched forward. More groaning ensued.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“John Hightower. The writer. Please, help me.”
I couldn’t be certain it was the eccentric writer—the upper-class British accent had slipped considerably. I inched forward, flicking on the flashlight to sweep the ground directly in front of me. At last my beam picked up what appeared to be a human form in a fetal position curled at the base of a tree. He was dressed all in black. Leather straps constricted his chest.
“Hightower?” I knelt down.
“Thank god. Help me.”
“Did the horse trample you?” If so, it would be best not to move him.
“I’ve been beaten.”
It was impossible to see much in the fog, so I relied on feel. When I touched his head, something warm, wet, and sticky coated my fingers. His wound was bleeding profusely.
“Who hurt you?” I tried to find the source of the blood.