Free A Rendezvous to Die For by Betty McMahon

seventeen. I knew I was
luckier than most of the foster kids I had bunked with over the
years. I had four years of “family.” I had my own closet in my
own bedroom filled with clothes Mrs. A had bought me. Soon, I was
living the way I imagined “regular” kids lived—in a life filled
with swimming lessons, picnics in the park, and pedaling a new bike
through the streets. Because Mrs. A had no other family, it was
always only the two of us, and I hoped the arrangement would never
end. Mrs. A encouraged me to forget my past.
    I thought about what I knew of
Marty Madigan. Maybe he was still locked into his past, fixated on
events that had occurred nearly forty years ago. Had his sadness or
bitterness driven him to such anger that he’d kill the person who
got in his way? Had Eric uncovered something about his past that he
wanted kept buried? I wanted—needed—to know.

    Chapter
8

    Thursday mid-afternoon
    On the way back from my meeting
with Randy, I stopped in at Sanders’ office. He had persuaded the
sheriff’s department to make a second copy of the photos they’d
confiscated from me. He not only had my cameras and several fat
envelopes of color prints, he also had an envelope with the photos
from my digital camera copied onto a compact disc. Once again, I
thanked God and Anna for sending Sanders to me. If I had depended on
my own resources, I would probably never have seen the pictures
again.
    At home, an hour later, I loaded
the disc into my computer and clicked through some of the photos.
Images of people having a good time at the Rendezvous filled my
screen and I forgot, for a moment, the last horrendous one taken at
the door to the sweat lodge. When I flipped through the color prints,
I stared at it, trying to see and remember any details that might
provide a clue as to the identity of the murderer. When nothing
seemed out of place, I gave up and stashed the photos in a folder in
my file cabinet for future reference.
    Since it was only 2:35 p.m., I
decided to take Jack up on his invitation to visit his cutting
clinic. The smell of horses and saddle leather had always been a good
way to re-ground myself and I was ready for a diversion. Too much
deep thinking was decidedly depressing.
    I didn’t mind that the sky was
overcast as I drove to Patriot Stables, because cloudy skies always
produce more interesting photos. Already in a “downcast” mood, I
wasn’t about to let the lack of brilliant sun deepen my gloominess.
I focused on the types of photographs I could produce. By the time I
reached the stables, my disposition had changed considerably. I was
the always-interested professional.
    Several horse trailers, still
hitched to their pickups, were parked in the field surrounding the
fenced arena situated a short distance from the barn. I parked on the
other side of them, grabbed my camera and headed toward the group of
mostly young riders—more girls than boys—who were focused on
grooming the animals. The adults, who had driven the trucks, milled
about drinking coffee and reading newspapers. The pounding rhythms
and undecipherable lyrics of some new rock song intermingled with
whinnies from one horse to another. I counted about fifteen horses.
Jack was nowhere in sight.
    A half dozen red and white
Hereford calves drifted around the arena, occasionally bawling for
their mothers. Teenage girls chatted while they saddled their horses,
in their inimitable murder-the-English-language that always made me
feel middle-aged. First girl: “Me and him went to the concert alone
this time.” Response: “The concert was, like, you know . . .
awesome.”
    The overnight drizzle, which had
produced the lingering overcast sky, had made the arena muddy. No one
seemed to mind, although it appeared to be a messy day for both
animals and riders. Once the horses were saddled and ready to go by
their riders, they were taken to the gate. By now, I had snapped
several photos and was searching for Jack. No one else seemed to