The Kill Read Free Page A

horse. He told me he’d stay here until the spring thaw if he had to.”
    “The horse saved Joe’s bacon more than once,” Abigale said. “He’s lucky the horse didn’t send him sailing over the cliff, the way he was jerking on its mouth.”
    Alex reached over and gave Abigale’s ponytail a playful tug. “Isn’t that just like our girl, standing up for the underdog.”
    “Trust me, Joe was the underdog, not the horse.”
    A crusty veteran from
The Daily Telegraph
plucked a flask from his pocket and sucked down a swallow. “Neither wind nor rain nor dark of night—nor a bloody horse—shall keep us from a story,” he said, raising the flask in a toast.
    Abigale smiled absently, cradling her camera in her hands. The recent blasts of outgoing fire had gone unanswered. She eyed the faded sky. Was it safe to leave the trench?
    “Look at Abigale…” The Brit’s eyes watered as he choked his way through a raspy smoker’s cough. “She’s just itching to get back out there and risk having her lovely arse blown off.”
    “Maybe you should take a page from her playbook, old chap,” Alex said, grinning. “Abigale didn’t win herself a Pulitzer by hunkering down in a trench.”

CHAPTER
6

    M argaret shifted against the wooden bench on the mid-level deck of the stewards’ stand and pulled the blanket tighter around her, vaguely aware of the disagreeable smell of wet wool, the scratch of the fabric against the back of her neck. Duchess stirred at her feet, stood, circled, then lay down again, snorting a sigh as she rested her head on Margaret’s boots.
    The stench of blood hung in Margaret’s nostrils. Her eyes stole back to the floorboards of the deck above her and her stomach heaved. She took slow breaths, determined not to vomit again. Nausea rose, then settled back down with a shudder.
    Footsteps clopped up the stairs toward her. It was Thompson James and the balding, round-faced deputy who’d been so kind when he’d questioned her earlier. She stood to meet them, a blast of wind coating her face with a chilly mist. Duchess scrambled to her feet and settled protectively against Margaret’s leg.
    Thompson’s eyes darted anxiously beneath the brim of a baseball cap, snaking from Margaret to the deck above. “God, Margaret, I can’t believe this. What happened? Are you okay?”
    She let the blanket slide from her shoulders and held it out toward the deputy. “I’m okay, but I need to get out of here.”
    “Of course,” Thompson said, nodding. “We can sit in the ambulance. It will be warm in there.”
    Margaret saw Thompson’s gaze drift to her outstretched hand, no doubt taking in the noticeable tremble. She shoved the blanket at the deputy. “Nonsense. I don’t need an ambulance, Thompson. I just can’t sit here any longer.”
    “Sure. I understand.”
    “Come on, Duchess.” Margaret nudged the dog with her knee as she slipped between Thompson and the deputy and grabbed the stair railing, concentrating on sidestepping race programs as she picked her way down the stairs.
    A small group was swarming around the ambulance and sheriff’s cars. Several brown-uniformed sheriff deputies. A handful of rescue workers. A Virginia state trooper, his rain poncho gusting in the breeze. A two-way radio crackled from one of the cars.
    Rain plastered Margaret’s hair as she stepped out from the stewards’ stand and she realized she’d lost her rain hat somewhere. She turned her collar up against the bone-chilling trickles dribbling down her neck.
    Through the blur of activity she spotted Smitty. He faced away from her, huddled in conversation with Carol Simpson, the head of the rescue squad, and one of the deputies, his hands flying here and there as he spoke.
    She weaved her way through the group to Smitty and put a hand on his shoulder. He spun around, his distress visible in the twist of his mouth, the stubborn thrust of his jaw. “What in God’s name is going on, Margaret? They’re telling me