Jan Neuharth - The Kill: A Hunt Country Suspense Novel

ALSO BY
Jan Neuharth

Published by
Paper Chase Farms Publishing Group
a division of Paper Chase Farms, Inc.
Post Office Box 448
Middleburg, Virginia 20118
www.paperchasefarms.com
www.huntcountrysuspense.com

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations, business establishments, events, and incidents are either products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author. The authors use of names of actual places and streets does not alter the purely fictional character of the work.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010923108

ISBN: 978-0-9841898-2-3

Copyright 2010 by Paper Chase Farms, Inc.

All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, transmitted, or distributed in any printed or electronic form, or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

First Edition

Book and cover design by Judy Walker
www.JudyWalkerDesign.com

For
Dr. Dan

A CKNOWLEDGMENTS

M y deepest appreciation and respect go to the talented professionals who worked with me on this book: my editors, Mike Sirota, Nancy Butler-Ross, Lisa Wolff, and Melaina Phipps; photographers, Ruthi David and Susan Whitfield; and my book designer, Judy Walker. You worked with tight deadlines, turned stumbling blocks into solutions, and made the journey fun.

I am indebted to the following folks for lending their expertise to my research efforts and for patiently answering my pesky questionsno matter how many times I asked: Ann Heacock, Michael Hoffman, Dave Mazzarella, Keith Meurlin, Will OKeefe, and Gary Shook; and Janell Hoffman, RN and Dr. Edward Puccio from INOVA Loudoun Hospital Center. Your guidance was invaluablethe fault for any errors or inaccuracies in translating fact to fiction lies solely with me.

Heartfelt thanks to my friends who kept my feet on the ground and kindly gave their time, support, good humor, and sound advice: Janell Hoffman, Fern Kucinski, and Michelle Martinson. I owe you more than dinner for this one.

John Anderson, you went above and beyond the call of friendship, and your keen eye helped smooth out the bumps. Thank you.

Special recognition goes to Michelle Hostler, whose generous contribution to The Fairfax Hunt won her the right to name a character in this novel. Michelle, I hope you enjoy Michelle de Becque as much as I enjoyed brain-storming with you to create her.

Thanks to Al and Dan for their honest feedback and wise counsel, and my mom, Loretta, for her gentle support.

Love, gratitude, and hugs to Joseph, Dani, and A.J., for enduring late nights and long weekends, for tolerating those absent moments when my thoughts drifted to the characters living in my head, and for tirelessly helping sort out plot scenariosespecially the rescue scene. You helped in more ways than you can know.

A GLOSSARY OF EQUESTRIAN TERMS
CAN BE FOUND AT THE BACK OF THIS BOOK.

A shot exploded in the hushed twilight and grumbled through fog in the hollows. The report cracked back through soggy crimson leaves, then faded into a stillness that swaddled the rambling Virginia countryside. On a nearby knoll, a lone buck darted for cover in the surrounding woods. The bite of gunpowder hugged the raw air.

The shooter lowered the rifle and leaned it against the rail. Adrenaline pumped hard, but the shooter curbed the swell of triumph, sucked in a deep breath, and exhaled a cloud that oozed into the dusk.

Focus. Wipe off the prints.

The stock tie around the shooters neck was fixed in a square knot, fastened with a gold safety pin. The shooter flicked the pin open and tugged the tie loose. The white cotton, crisp from the dry cleaner, softened as the gun was wiped clean, extra care taken in rubbing the walnut-burl stock. Squinting at the gun in the dwindling light, the shooter admired how the tiny imperfections added to the beauty of the swirls in the wood. It was custom-made, of course. What a pity to have to leave it behind.

Riding boots clunked hollowly against the gray wood planks of the elevated deck, but no effort was made to tread quietly. The closest farm was half a mile away. The only person within earshot was dead, or would be soon.

Sidestepping a dark puddle, the shooter squatted next to the body, extended two fingers, and checked for a pulse. Wide blue eyes stared vacantly, ghostlike in the shadowy dusk.

Satisfied, the shooter grasped the rifle with both ends of the stock tie and placed it on the deck, tipping the body just enough to wiggle a wallet out of the dead mans back pocket. Letting the body fall back down, the shooter slid the sleeve on the dead mans left wrist to expose a gold Rolex watch. The temperature had plummeted with the setting sun, causing the shooters fingers to move stiffly as they worked to release the catch on the band and slide the timepiece over the dead mans hand.

A fox screamed somewhere in the woods and a shiver tingled down the shooters spine. Smiling, the shooter rose and fingered a salute at the dead man.

Good night, Master.

A bigale Portmann resisted the urge to guide the mare and avoided looking down at the sheer cliff to her right. She let the sure-footed Arab choose her own way along the craggy path.

Jesus Christ, Portmann. Fear raised the pitch of the reporters voice in front of her. Of all the stupid things Ive ever done to get a story, this is by far the stupidest. Why the hell didnt you talk me out of it?

Abigale tugged the scarf away from her frozen mouth. Dont try to ride him, Joe, she called, unsure whether he could hear her or if the driving wind swallowed up her words. Just give him his head. He doesnt want to fall any more than you do.

Fuck.

The horses head shot straight up in the air. Abigale could tell it was getting increasingly irritated with Joes death grip. Joe yanked on the left rein, trying to steer the horse around a sharp turn that skirted the precipitous drop. The horse fought to escape Joes heavy hand, danced to the right, and teetered on the edge of the pass. Abigale gasped as its right hind hoof punched air, searched for a foothold, then found firm footing back on the trail.