“You do?” Dustin smiled. “Dustin Blake. That’s my name, sir. Special agent—that’s what I do for a living.”

“I heard about a boy they called Dustin about twenty years ago. I was a reporter in my day. In Nashville, I used to hang out with the cops—I handled the police beat. I’m pretty sure that boy was you. You would’ve been a kid, a few years older than the two at that table over there, when this all happened, but I remember your name. Hell, even the media has some decency. They didn’t let out your name, and maybe I just heard your first name among friends. Anyway, you picked up some knowledge on the street—or in some other way—that helped them find a killer. Am I right?”

Dustin’s coffee cup was halfway to his lips. He paused. It was so long ago. No one ever connected him with the Opry-Buff, as the killer had been labeled, or the police shootout that had taken him out.

“I am right,” Coot said, nodding sagely. “So what are you doing here?”

“I’m enjoying the Horse Farm. Really.”

“Sure. So, you seen the general?”

“Hasn’t everyone?”

“Oh, everyone claims he sits on that warhorse of his up in the hills, ever watching out. But not many really see him.”

“But you have?”

“Yep. I’ve seen him. I’ve had him tip his hat to me. When the mists are lying low over the pastures and fields, some folks see him ’cause they want to. They see him in the cloud patterns, too, on a summer’s day. But there are those who really see him. Like young Olivia.”

Olivia, he thought, had to be in her mid-to late twenties. To Coot that was young.

“And, I reckon,” Coot went on, “you.”

“Who knows what we see and don’t see?” Dustin said evasively.

“I’ve been thinking about Olivia, you know. She’s one special person. The girl could’ve done just about anything, gone just about anywhere. But she’s done some mighty good things instead. Sometimes she’s got kids with autism so bad the parents are at wits’ end, and she can calm ’em down for a few hours and get ’em grooming the horses, laughing in the field. She’s great with the youth-in-rebellion types, too. I don’t want anything happening to her.”

Dustin felt a coldness in his gut. This old man—this old observer—was worried.

“She thinks someone killed Marcus Danby,” Coot said.

“Well, she’s upset. She doesn’t want to believe he went back to his old ways.”

Coot snorted. “You really figure that’s what he did? I didn’t take you for a fool, Special Agent Blake!”

Dustin was careful when he spoke. “So you think someone drugged Marcus Danby and threw him in the ravine?”

Coot narrowed his eyes. “Threw him, or gave him a shove. Yeah. I knew Marcus. A guy like that doesn’t go twenty-odd years, then take a walk in the woods one day and decide he’s gotta have a fix. Think about it, boy. It doesn’t work like that.”

“I’ve seen addicts go in and out of recovery.”

“There was nothing—absolutely nothing—to make Marcus do that. It would be like me waking up and saying to myself, ‘Hey, nice day, think I’ll put a Smith & Wesson in my mouth and pull the trigger.’”

“Everyone else seems to have accepted it.”

“They only see what’s there. They aren’t looking for more. Sometimes people have to look beyond the obvious to get the real picture. Hell, you know that.”

“But who would have killed Marcus—and why?”

“Now, there’s a dilemma,” Coot agreed. “Aaron gets the place, or rather, the management of it and the pay that comes with being boss, even when you’re nonprofit. That means things aren’t going to change much, since Aaron’s been in charge a long time. Marcus never liked being in charge. He liked to be more like a...a shaman walking down from the mountain to impart his words of wisdom and go off on another nature walk. But someone had to be in charge and do the day-to-day work, and that someone was Aaron Bentley. Then, of course, there’s Mama Cheever, as they call her. Sandra Cheever. Why she’s Mama Cheever, I don’t know. Nothing maternal about that woman. More of a drill sergeant type. Schedules are everything to her. She yells at the kids and gets obsessed about upkeep.”

“Why would she want to kill Marcus?”

“He was sloppy? Well, he was. Came in and left his coffee cup wherever, tracked mud into the offices... Ruined her schedules a lot. He’d make an appearance and a whole class might run late.”

“You think that would cause her to kill him?” Dustin asked skeptically.

“No... Just sayin’.”

“What about the students? The clients.”

“The ‘guests,’ you mean?” Coot said dryly. “No. The students come and go. None of ’em that I know of ever had a grudge against the place.”

“Has any kid—or adult, for that matter—ever been kicked out?”

“Nope. Not a one. If there’s problems with a therapist, they just shift people around.”

“How do you know so much about the place?” Dustin asked.

He grinned. “’Cause Marcus was my friend. I’m an old horse-lover from way back. Found a few animals I got him to take. Animals that needed rescuing. There’s a big old Lab-shepherd mix you’ll see around the stables. I found him on the road and Marcus took him in.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Dustin told him.

“Thanks. I can see you mean that.”

“So,” Dustin pursued. “If not a student, who?”

Coot shook his head. Delilah was bringing their food. “You’ve heard that old saying?” he muttered. “‘Tell a woman, tele-gram’? Well, it was written for Delilah.”

Delilah arrived at their table, and Coot smiled up at her. “Thank you, Delilah! Looks wonderful.”

“Enjoy!”

She stood there a minute, but they both made a pretense of being fascinated with their chicken potpie.

“More coffee, gentlemen?” she asked.

“Yes, please,” Dustin told her.

She refilled their coffee. Then the family of four apparently needed some directions, and Delilah was distracted.

“I’d say look at those closest to him,” Coot said in a low voice. “Isn’t that what you law types do in situations like this?”

“Usually, yes.”

Coot nodded. “So at the Horse Farm you’ve got two more therapists. You’ve got Mason Garlano. The guy’s great with animals, but too much of a narcissist to be as good with people. I think he’s waiting to be in the right ice cream parlor at the right time and have some Hollywood type ‘discover’ him. He gets some modeling jobs on the side. Mariah Naughton is nice enough. A bit of an edge to her sometimes, as if she believed there’d be more in the world for her.”

“Doesn’t sound like they’d have anything against Marcus, though.”

“No. Then you’re down to the stable managers. Drew Dicksen and Sydney Roux. They’re both decent types, far as I can tell. They run a tight ship there, not easy with the number of animals Marcus was always bringing in. His door was open to any abandoned creature, and I should know, since I brought him a bunch. He’d try to find homes for the cats and dogs, but most of ’em wound up staying at the farm. That meant lots of animals to feed. Lots of housekeeping. Lots of—literally—shit to shovel.”

“So even if you resented him because of the workload or whatever, don’t you think you’d find another line of work before killing a man?” Dustin asked.

“Yeah. There’s the dilemma. Which one would have an agenda? Damned if I know.”

A few minutes later they finished their meals. Coot was insistent that they split the check; he wasn’t taking taxpayer money by letting Dustin pay, he said, but neither was he going to pay more taxes by buying Dustin’s meal.

They rose to leave, setting their money on the table.

About to walk out, Dustin thanked Delilah, who was busy wiping tables, preparing to close for the night. He could honestly tell her the chicken potpie was excellent.

The house was quiet when they returned. But Coot didn’t have any more to say. He started up the stairs to his own room.

“Nice to talk with you, young fellow,” he told Dustin.

“Nice to talk with you, too, sir,” Dustin said politely.

In his own room, he went on his computer to look into everyone’s backgrounds.

Mariah, Marcus and Sydney Roux were all from the area and had families that had been around these parts for over a hundred years. Mariah had already told him as much, at least where she was concerned.

Aaron Bentley was originally from Arkansas, Andrew Dicksen from Biloxi, Mississippi, Sandra Cheever from White Plains, New York, and Mason Garlano was from Austin, Texas.

He wondered if any of that would be significant. Probably not, he assumed—but you never knew.

* * *

Olivia had actually fallen asleep when the dog suddenly went crazy. She was dimly aware of a little woof by her side, then the patter of his nails as he raced down the stairs. At the front door, he started a frenzy of barking.

Nervously she jumped out of bed. She looked around the room and realized that Dustin Blake was right—she was virtually defenseless. She thought about the knives in her kitchen and decided they wouldn’t do her much good. If there really was an assailant, he’d just turn her own knife on her. She wasn’t a weakling by any means, but neither did she know about combat.

Her heart thudding, she threw on a robe, then snatched her phone off the bedside table.

The screen told her it was 4:31 a.m.

As she started down the stairs, the barking seemed to come from the back of the house.

She reminded herself that the place was completely locked down.

But...if the person at her door had a gun, he could easily shoot out the locks. If so, wouldn’t he already have done that? It wasn’t as though she had neighbors who’d hear. She hesitated for a split second and then, instead of hitting 9-1-1, she called Dustin Blake’s number.