Wounded Earth by Mary Anna Evans Read Free Book Online Page A

She called her travel agent and booked an afternoon flight to Nebraska.
    Her omelet was cold, but she ate it anyway while she reviewed her plans. It would be bedtime before her plane landed in Lincoln. Tomorrow was Sunday—not good for reaching government personnel, but she could talk to the owners of the damaged property and, if she were lucky, one of the cropdusters. Maybe Mac MacGowan himself, but she didn't expect much. Judging from the looks of him, she doubted that he'd had a clue about what he was doing.
    The phone rang. She kept writing, absently lifting the receiver with her left hand.
    “Hello?”
    “Good morning, Doc. Have you read the paper? I told you to keep your eye on the paper.”
    Larabeth set the receiver on the table and stared at it. Babykiller's voice was still audible, calling her name. She snatched the receiver back to her ear.
    “So you've crawled back out from under your rock. I thought I was rid of you.”
    “Careful, Doc. A well-bred woman is always polite. Why, even I'm polite. I didn't call you at dawn, as soon as the newspaper hit your driveway. I let you have your beauty sleep.”
    Larabeth glanced at her new caller ID box. UNAVAILABLE, it said in stark block letters. She thanked her lucky stars—and J.D.—for the voice-activated recorder plugged into the empty phone jack in her guest room. J.D. called it a “tattletale.” They might not be able to trace the call, this time, but at least they'd have the creep's voice on tape.
    “Cut the crap, Babykiller.”
    “You are not polite.” The connection was bad, and there was an annoying hum in the background.
    “Harrassing me by phone isn't polite, either. Why did you want to call me when the newspaper hit my driveway?”
    “I told you to watch the papers.”
    “Yeah, well, I've gotten three or four papers since we talked. What's so special about this one?”
    He didn't respond. Larabeth scanned the front page. Below the fold, there was a small spread on the latest sex scandal in Baton Rouge. Half a column was devoted to a hurricane brewing in the Caribbean. That was all. The rest of the front page was taken up by the photo and report on the crop sabotage in Nebraska.
    “Did you do this?" she demanded, poking her finger through the picture of Mac Malone and the ruined cornfields. "Why would you do this?”
    “A well-bred woman always makes sense. I shouldn't have to remind you of these things.”
    “I don't care what you think of my breeding,” she said. “I think you are behind this herbicide mess in Nebraska. You told me to watch the papers, then dropped out of sight for days. Now I see a wasteful, pointless stunt on the front page and—what a coincidence—you're back. And, at the risk of sounding conceited, this stunt seems calculated to get my attention. A high-profile herbicide spill—Babykiller, it's got my name written all over it.”
    “You're right. You do risk sounding conceited.”
    Larabeth knew that victory in a battle of wits goes to the combatant who best uses silence. So she sat, silent, and refused to let him provoke her. When he had waited long enough for her response, she said, “You haven't denied responsibility and you sound mighty self-satisfied. I'm confident that you did it, but I'd like to know why.”
    “I don't do anything these days, Doc, that doesn't add to my little financial empire or provide me with entertainment.”
    “And why do you keep calling me?”
    “Certainly not to add to my financial empire. No, you provide entertainment. Not much yet, unfortunately. I picked you because you're intelligent enough to pose a challenge. I thought it would be fascinating to cross swords with a woman like you. But then, we haven't really crossed swords yet, have we?”
    There was a moment of restrained laughter, then Babykiller was gone. Larabeth peeked through the metal blinds of her kitchen window—she had never kept them closed until Babykiller came into her life—and reflexively clasped the collar