Shirley Murphy - Cat Pay the Devil

Running a brush over Bucky’s back, Max smoothed on the blanket and set his saddle in place, reached under for the cinch, automatically fending off Bucky’s companionable nip at his backside. It might seem a cowboy thing to do, to set out after Charlie on horseback, but there was a lot of wild, tangled country up there, and no way you could get a truck or a car up that trail; it had been iffy even for whatever smaller vehicle those men had used. He had observed, even in the near dark as he walked up along the shoulder of the trail, tire marks careening up over the shoulder, and broken branches that would have scraped hard along the vehicle. Hitting Charlie’s bound body? His mind was filled with Charlie, sitting across the table from him, laughing over some silly joke; grinning down at him from the back of her mare; standing out in the pasture calling the dogs, the wind blowing her long red hair; her hair tumbled on the pillow as she lay warm against him.

As he tightened the cinch, Ryan put Rock in the pasture so the eager dog couldn’t follow them. Max fetched the shotgun from his unit, nestled it into the saddle scabbard, and checked the clip in his automatic; then he and Ryan mounted, Ryan on Charlie’s mare, and headed up the dark trail. They would avoid using much light, which might be seen for some distance through the woods, and their cell phones were on vibrate.

He didn’t like employing a civilian in this way, but none of the uniforms at hand was any good with a horse and he wanted someone with him in case they had to split up. Ryan, having grown up in a police family, knew more about the work than most rookies, and she was competent with a firearm; her uncle Dallas had overseen the training of Ryan and her two sisters as soon as he considered them old enough to be responsible. Dallas was their dead mother’s brother. It was their father’s brother, their uncle Scotty, who had taught Ryan carpentry. Ryan had never played with dolls, the little girl much preferring to tag along after Scotty on his construction jobs.

Moving quickly up the trail through the dark woods, they had to use their torches occasionally, shielding them heavily, flicking them on only to pick up a tire track, making sure the vehicle hadn’t turned off somewhere. Though that wasn’t likely; with no side roads, the rough terrain would slow it considerably. They were less than five minutes out when they heard a huff behind them-and Rock came racing, the big dog a pale, panting streak looming like a ghost out of the night, charging into their shielded beams.

“Oh, God,” Ryan breathed. “He climbed the fence.” The heavily woven wire of the pasture fence was constructed to confine the Harpers’ two big mutts, as well as the horses; it was six feet high, and the Harper dogs had never thought to climb it. A Weimaraner was another matter, Max thought, half angry, half amused.

The big silver dog was royally pleased with himself, and raring to go; he had his nose to the trail and paused only to look up at Ryan, as if for direction, then sniffed at the breeze, drinking in a scent that drew him. He was all tension, ready to forge ahead, not wanting to obey when Ryan told him to hold. Max watched the two of them, frowning.

Ryan didn’t know whether to scold Rock and waste time taking him back or wait and see what he’d do. She wondered if Rock’s original escape from his sadistic owner had been accomplished by climbing over the woman’s chain-link security barrier. The expression on the silver dog’s face reflected such joy at his accomplishment that she couldn’t scold him. She looked through the darkness to Max. “Do I take him back?” But she didn’t want to do that.

Max knew this was foolish, the dog wasn’t trained. But, “Let him try,” he said softly. “Keep him quiet.”

She had only to nudge the mare ahead and Rock’s nose was to the trail, then scenting up high, drinking in the still air-and like a shot he took off.

They booted the horses ahead, fast. What the hell were they doing? Max thought. This wasn’t a tracking dog, Rock had had no such demanding training. But Max shook his head. Give him a chance , let’s see what he has. He’s bred for it , and he’s sure as hell on to something. Max’s gut was churning, his mind filled with Charlie’s face; he daren’t blow it, bringing the damned dog. But they moved on quickly, following the ghostly dog; and the cop who never prayed was praying now, and was willing, tonight, to take any help they could get, no matter how off the wall.

They kept the horses to a fast trot, it was too dark to safely gallop, the trail too rough; he wasn’t going to cripple a horse, which would only slow them. He hoped to hell the trees were thick enough to hide their shielded lights. They followed Rock as fast as they dared, losing him sometimes, then catching a faint movement far ahead, the crack of a twig as he ate up the ground. Was he tracking the vehicle only because Ryan was following it, obviously distressed? Or could he be on a deer? But a deer wouldn’t stay to the trail this long. Max couldn’t believe Rock was following Charlie, but that was what it looked like: the big dog taking her scent from the air, moving fast and intently, never swerving from the narrow path.

They knew that Rock was exceptionally well-bred, from a long line of dogs developed to follow by scent as well as sight, to track and retrieve on land and on water. This was an all-around breed, intelligent and powerful, that Max had grown to admire. But, tracking without training? Watching him, Max could only speculate on what was happening in that intent canine mind. Rock was fond of Charlie, and he was keenly sensitive to Ryan’s feelings; clearly he knew that something was wrong. Before they set out, he had been attuned to their tension, watching them, nervous and alert, as they’d saddled up. Now, staying to the bridle path, repeatedly scenting the air above the tire tracks, Rock moved so fast he was leaving them behind. Ryan daren’t shout at him; she whispered to call him back but he paid no attention. Max was afraid he’d run straight into their quarry and give them away-but suddenly, at the top of a ridge, he slowed. Stood frozen.

They strained to see among the dense, dark trees, to hear the smallest sound. Approaching Rock, they could see him sniffing the ground in a circle, as if he’d lost the trail. They pulled the horses up at a distance so as not to disturb whatever he had-but the horses hardly had time to rest before Rock started again, stepping slowly now, his head raised to taste the wind. At the same instant, Max’s cell phone vibrated, sending unease through him and then a surge of hope that Charlie had been found, that he’d hear her voice. Snatching the phone from his pocket, he answered softly-and went rigid.

A female voice-but not Charlie.

“Charlie’s kidnappers are headed for the ruins,” she said, and the voice was so familiar that he shivered. “For the Pamillon estate. They plan to hide her there, leave her tied up in an old overgrown trailer, all covered with vines.”

“If you know where she is, then help her! ” he whispered. “Where are you? Can’t you untie her, help her get away! Where-”

“I’m not there. I…heard them say that’s where they’d take her. I’m not anywhere near there.”

“Then how did you hear them? Who are they?”

“Cage Jones. And a younger man, slimmer than Cage. Long hair and faded brown eyes.”

“Will you tell me who you are? Tell me how you…?”

The caller hung up.

He knew who the woman was, as much as he could ever know. This snitch, who had given him so many tips, had never identified herself and very likely never would. Feeling numb, he punched in the code for Garza, got him on the first ring.