9

Ashley leaned over the wire-mesh fence and talked to the chickens. The temperature was dropping fast, and it was almost dark. She had put on her uncle’s red-and-black plaid jacket to do the evening chores. David had aggravated his injuries with his wood chopping, and she’d banished him to his room with bowls of cream of carrot soup and homemade applesauce. They had passed a very frustrating afternoon.

There had been no word from Barky. No sign of the blond thug. Nothing more from Jeremy Carruthers. Nothing at all from his friend MacGregor Stevens. Tomorrow, Ashley thought, she would get in touch with Sarah Balaton—even if Sarah didn’t call, as promised. Perhaps that would lead to something. If not, at least she’d feel better for having acted.

Then she might consider talking to the police. She wasn’t sure. David was against it, but...she just didn’t know.

The chickens clucked aimlessly in their yard. They were Rhode Island Reds, the most beautiful of chickens, but she didn’t know them. When she was a girl, she would have names for all of them. Cartwright... Lefty. ..Mary...Ho. If they died of natural causes, she’d bury them in the field above the barn. Vividly, she could remember carting a dead chicken up on a shovel and dumping it in a hole; she’d even made little tombstones.

Most of the time, however, they didn’t die of natural causes. When their laying days were over, Barky would butcher them. By then they’d be tough, stringy old birds and he’d have to stew them for hours. Ashley could remember sitting up in her room doing her algebra to the smell of Lefty stewing on the cook stove. Barky had never had any patience with her sniffles at the dinner table. She should be glad to have food to eat, he’d say. He didn’t believe in being sentimental over a chicken.

Could such a man have stolen diamonds, pearls and emeralds? It didn’t seem feasible.

Turning from the chicken coop, Ashley looked out across the road and the fields to the hills beyond. The sun was disappearing in a glow of orange and red, and the air was fresh and brisk. God, she thought, she loved this place.

Someone—something—made a noise. It sounded like a groan.

Ashley spun around. “David?”

The wind blew sharply in her face. She tried to blot out the normal sounds of the farm. Standing very still, she looked all around her.

There was an unfamiliar dark shape down by the trailer, alongside the driveway. It was lying prone next to the pumpkins piled at the base of the trailer. Ashley’s knees buckled. She ran, tripping down the slope, her heart thudding.

“David!”

The kitchen door slammed, and David was leaping out of the house, yelling to her in a panic. “What’s wrong? Ash, you okay?”

“There’s someone at the trailer.”

They arrived there together.

Ashley saw the gray hair, the tall figure.

“Oh, my God. It must be MacGregor Stevens.”

“Is he dead?” David croaked.