At Risk (11 page)

"So you've got to be careful where you place
your horse," I said.

Marilyn nodded. "That's right, and you don't
keep him there long, and though you'll probably have to give the
barn owner his fake show name, you make sure everyone else around
the barn knows him as plain ol' Jake."

I swallowed some Coke. "Why's he have to be
the same color?"

"For the vet exam."

"But if one of your buddies is a vet, then it
wouldn't matter what the horse looked like. You wouldn't even need
a horse, would you?"

"Your buddy the vet could fill out a fake
report, sure. But when it came time to 'steal' the horse, you'd
need a police report, and for that, you've gotta have a stable
owner that can witness the fact that there actually was a horse.
Too many thefts from one farm won't be noticed by different
insurance companies, but the cops would eventually catch on."

I grinned. "Guess it would be too farfetched
to think you'd have a crooked vet, cop, and stable owner as
friends, wouldn't it?"

She looked at the ceiling. "Let's hope so.
Course, I imagine if you were smart enough and had the connections,
the entire scam could be done on paper without there ever being an
actual horse."

We ate in silence. Despite the dreary decor
and poor service, the food was surprisingly good. Eventually, I
said, "It's a pretty unscrupulous industry, isn't it?"

Marilyn shrugged. "It's everywhere. Kinda
makes you wonder about human nature, doesn't it?"

"Yeah. So, is Sanders' policy being
questioned?" I asked, not sure that she would tell me.

She glanced around the room. "No. He'd signed
up three months before the theft. That might've caught someone's
attention, but it happens. In this case, what really got the ball
rolling was pure and simple fate. Nicky happened to be shoeing at
the barn the day the horse was vetted for the policy, and he
overheard the figure, which he thought excessive. He mentioned it
to me when he heard the horse was stolen, and," she caught her
breath, "since I just so happen to work for the insurance company
in question, the underwriter had a tense moment or two because the
policy did appear to be on the high side. But after an
investigation, he was cleared." Marilyn leaned back in her chair
and eyed me speculatively. "And you have no suspicions?"

"No. I'm just trying to figure out who'd gain
by taking the horses."

"Besides the thieves, you mean?"

"Yeah." I thought about James Peters and
figured she was right. It was just too farfetched to think that
Sanders had anything to do with what had happened at Hunter's
Ridge. "So he's going to get a check?"

"Sure. No reason why he won't. Thirty days
after the date of the theft, we'll cut his check."

"Why thirty days?"

"SOP."

"What?"

"Standard operating procedure."

"What if the horse shows up after he
collects?"

"Then the company has the right to take title
and possession of the animal." She glanced at her watch. "Anything
else?"

"I don't think so."

"If I hear you're going around collecting on
insurance claims," she said with a grin, "I'll wring your
neck."

I chuckled. "Yes, ma'am."

"Don't 'ma'am' me, boy. Makes a girl feel
old." She wiped her mouth with a napkin, tossed it on the table,
and stood up. "I'm late. Thanks for lunch."

I stood also and thought that I'd gotten the
prim part wrong. "Thanks for the education." I hesitated. "Any
chance I could get a look at my friend's paperwork?"

She tilted her head. "I'll think about
it."

We shook hands, and I watched her walk out of
the cafe.

Chapter 6

Five-thirty Saturday morning, and already
bands of color had spread across the eastern horizon. The horses
watched as I walked down the barn aisle, flipping through my farm
keys, looking for the right one. I had too many damn keys. Even
with color-coded tape, I was still sorting through them when I
stopped outside the tack room door.

Sensing something wrong, out of place, I
looked up. I wouldn't be needing my keys. Not that morning,
anyway.

The door was half open, and the jamb was
cracked and splintered and dented with pry marks.

With nerves on high alert, I pushed the door
inward with the toe of my boot and flipped the light switch with my
key.

Locker doors hung askew or lay on the floor.
Most of the saddles were gone. I walked into the center of the room
and surveyed the damage. Some of the more expensive bridles were
missing, too. I checked the other boarders' tack room. Everything
of value that could easily be sold was gone. On my way out, I
stopped outside the school horses' tack room. It was still locked.
I frowned at the undisturbed door and considered the
implications.

I walked over to barn A, knowing I'd find the
same thing.

I pushed the door in with my boot, hit the
light switch, and froze. A thin trail of blood snaked across the
floor and disappeared around the corner of the central island of
lockers.

I looked at my hand. Blood darkened my
fingertips. The light switch had been smeared with blood, and it
was still tacky.

The lockers were eight feet tall. I couldn't
see around them. I inched toward the first row of lockers.

Before I made it around the corner, a hollow
thump resounded in the barn. The muscles in my gut tightened. I
looked back at the doorway. No one was there. The sound had come
from one of the stalls. It was simply one of the horses across the
aisle, knocking a hoof against the wall.

I looked down at the floor, realized I was
holding my breath, forced myself to breathe. I stepped around the
corner and followed the trail with a gaze so intent, I could see
nothing else.

Something touched my hair.

I jumped back. The heel of my boot caught on
the edge of a broken locker door, and I crashed backward into the
row of lockers. Hanging from the rafters, and now gently swaying,
was Boris the barn cat. Baling twine was tied around the tip of his
tail, and his throat had been cut. His head dangled from a thin
ribbon of flesh and matted fur. My stomach lurched, and saliva
flooded my mouth. I swallowed and stumbled out of the room.

My muscles felt rubbery from the flood of
adrenaline. I rubbed my face, then remembered the blood on my
fingers. I wiped my hand on my jeans and looked up and down the
aisle. Everything looked peaceful. Normal. The horses were
watching, wondering what I was up to.

"Just having heart failure, guys," I said and
didn't recognize my own voice.

After a minute or two, I went back in. Most
of the saddles in that barn were ridiculously expensive. They were
all gone. I crossed the room and examined the door that opened into
aisle two. It was still locked. Blood had been smeared on that
light switch, too. Whichever door I chose, I would have put my hand
on a bloody light switch.

I walked back into the center of the room.
The flies hadn't taken long to find the cat. They buzzed and
flitted around the gaping wound in his neck and crawled over the
matted fur. He'd been the only cat on the farm--a mascot of
sorts--and wasn't aloof like most of them. Many of the boarders
brought him treats. I doubted he'd ever caught a mouse. He wasn't
going to now.

I thought about the room's layout and how his
body had been strategically placed for maximum effect. I hadn't
seen him until I was right on top of him. Someone had a very sick,
twisted mind. Tack theft was all too prevalent, but this was cruel,
wicked. Designed to terrify. Judging by my physical state, it had
been, on the whole, entirely successful.

I headed for the office. The buildings were
bathed in an early-morning wash of gray, and a ground-hugging mist
had settled in the swales that cut through the pastures. The farm
looked like a latent photograph come to life. As I walked down the
sidewalk, it occurred to me that the office and lounge weren't
immune to vandalism, either. I quickened my pace.

I peered through the glass as I unlocked the
office door and saw that everything was secure. In the quiet room,
my footsteps echoed hollowly on the cheap linoleum. I snatched up
the phone and punched in the familiar number.

Mrs. Hill answered in three rings, fast for
her. I glanced at the clock. Five-forty-three.

"Yes?" An element of dread in her voice.

"Mrs. Hill, this is Steve. . . ." When she
didn't respond, I said, "There's been more trouble at the
farm--"

"Oh, no."

I told her about the saddles and Boris and
the blood.

She didn't say anything . . . not a word.

"Mrs. Hill?"

"I can't believe this. Are you okay?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Are any of the horses missing?" Her voice
was tight.

"No, ma'am."

"Well, there's that at least. I'll be in as
soon as I can. It'll be a while, though. I have to wait until the
bus comes for the kids."

She told me to notify the police, and I could
hear her yelling to her husband as she hung up the phone. I slumped
into her chair and rubbed my face. It was too much. Too damned
much. I sat up, tapped my fingers on the blotter, and looked at the
phone. Made another call.

The voice at the other end said, "C.I.U.,
Ralston."

"This is Stephen Cline from Foxdale Farm. You
interviewed me last week, about--"

"What's up?"

"Last night, someone broke into the tack
rooms on the farm. Most of the saddles are gone, and I think it
might be the same people who took the horses."

He cleared his throat. "What makes you think
that?"

"Well, whoever was here last night couldn't
keep it simple. They killed a barn cat and smeared its blood
around. Then they hung the body from the rafters." Christ, I had
walked into the damn thing.

"How?"

"How what?"

"How was the cat killed?"

"Oh. They slit its throat."

After a pause, he said, "Did you see anyone
when you arrived?"

"No, sir."

"You're sure no one's there now that
shouldn't be?"

I glanced reflexively at the door. "Yes."

"Okay. I'll give Howard County a call." He
paused, and I could hear papers rustle in the background. "And I
think I'll drive over there myself. Do me a favor, Steve. Keep
everyone clear of the barns. Don't let anyone drive all the way
down there, okay?"

"Sure."

He disconnected, and I thought about the
exhaustion I'd heard in his voice and didn't envy him his job.

I grained the horses early--they didn't
object--then lugged hay bales out of the storage area at the end of
the barn and spaced them down the center of the aisle. I slid my
hand into my pocket and wrapped my fingers around the knife that
was successfully wearing a hole through my jeans. The smooth
plastic sheath was warm from my own body heat. It wasn't until I
pulled the blade out that I thought how someone, just hours before,
had used a knife to slit the cat's throat.

* * *

Shortly before seven, a police car pulled
down the lane and jerked to a halt between the barns. As the
officer climbed out and grabbed a clipboard off the dash, a
dirt-streaked white Taurus parked alongside the grain bin. I
answered questions that had become increasingly familiar in the
past two weeks, while the driver of the Taurus popped the trunk and
levered himself out of his car. He wasn't in uniform, and judging
by the equipment he'd hefted onto the asphalt, I guessed he was a
technician of some sort. When he joined us, carrying a black duffel
bag with HCPD stenciled on the side in one hand and a heavy-looking
aluminum case in the other, we walked into the barn.

I glanced over my shoulder when one of them
whistled.

The uniformed cop adjusted his mirrored
sunglasses. "How many horses you got in this place?"

"In both barns, one hundred and ninety
three."

He whistled again, then grinned at his
partner. "Look like they're in jail, don't they?"

The plainclothes cop didn't respond, and I
wondered what was eating him. We stopped at the tack room door.

"They broke in here," I said. "But we can get
in through the undamaged door in the other aisle. I nailed this one
shut, because I didn't want the employees or boarders to see what's
inside."

"And what's that?" the uniformed cop
said.

I glanced at my reflection in his glasses and
realized how disconnected I felt because I couldn't see his eyes. I
told him about Boris. "I was hoping to keep it quiet. Some of the
boarders loved that cat."

"Did you touch anything?"

"No. Oh, yeah. The light switch."

"Humph. We'll start processing the scene, but
I can't guarantee we'll be done in time for what you want."

I skirted a puddle in the wash rack and
ducked under the divider that allowed two horses to be bathed at
once. "We can cut through here," I said over my shoulder, "to get
to the other aisle." I turned in time to see them hesitate. The
grumpy guy crinkled his nose and proceeded as if he were in alien
territory. Smiling to myself, I took the opportunity to rinse my
hands under the spigot. A minty scent, left over from liniments and
leg braces, clung to the walls.

The uniformed cop stood beside me as I
unlocked the door. "You'll need to make a preliminary list of the
items that were stolen and their estimated value."

"It'll be a rough estimate," I said. "Very
rough, like not even in the ballpark kind of rough."

He grinned. "That'll do for now. You can
submit a more accurate inventory later."

As I opened the door and stepped back, a dark
green Crown Victoria pulled alongside the patrol car. Detective
Ralston climbed out and clicked the door shut. His wrinkled suit
hung loosely off his shoulders. He looked as if he hadn't made it
to bed the night before, or if he had, he'd slept in his
clothes.