At Risk (18 page)

"Rachel." I reached up and took the ice pack
out of her hand. "Thanks for all your help. I think--"

"You're welcome."

"It's the last thing I want, but I really
need to head home."

"It's getting late, isn't it?" She lifted her
hand off the back of the sofa to check the time and lost her
balance. I caught her as she toppled forward. We stared at each
other, our faces almost touching. Her eyes were wide with surprise,
and I couldn't help but grin at her. I slid my hands around her
waist and helped her get vertical, though horizontal would have
been a hell of a lot more fun.

I let her go, and she stood up. "I'll walk
you to your car, if you like," I said.

"I like." She ran her fingers through her
hair, and if I wasn't mistaken, her face was flushed.

If she was embarrassed, she had no reason to
be. Not with me. I struggled to my feet but got to the door before
she did. When I held it open for her, she brushed past me and
smiled as if at some private joke, or so it seemed.

Rachel slid behind the wheel of her Toyota
Camry and wound down the window. Except for her vehicle and mine,
now looking ridiculous parked by the road, the place was deserted.
She looked at me looking at my truck and grinned. "Would you like a
ride to your truck?"

"No thanks. I need to go back and check the
barns before I leave." I stepped back as she started the engine and
slipped it into gear. "Have a safe drive home," I said.

"You, too."

I watched her drive off, checked the barns,
then broke every speed limit home, all the while wishing that Mrs.
Hill wouldn't find out about the fight but knowing she'd hear about
it one way or the other.

* * *

The clock radio clicked on, and I groped for
the off button. When I didn't find it right away, I yanked the cord
out of the wall. Monday morning, and rain was hammering the tin
roof above my head and slashing against the windows as gusts of
wind battered the barn. But what did I expect? It was, after all,
April first.

On the drive to Foxdale, the dreary, rhythmic
scrape of wipers across windshield grated on my nerves. I turned on
the radio--loud--and mulled over yesterday afternoon's unsuccessful
trailer search with Detective Ralston.

Based on Ralston's premise that "the obvious
is oftentimes the most likely" and assuming that the horse thieves
had been taking me to territory they were familiar with, we had
worked in concentric circles that radiated outward from where I'd
escaped the trailer. Almost half of the trailer owners weren't
home. Most who were kept their trailers on the farms where they
boarded their horses, necessitating yet another trip on our part.
All reacted with genuine surprise at a police detective's
appearance on their doorstep.

On the positive side, working down the list
produced the expected domino effect we'd hoped for. Knocking off
just one trailer's make and model immediately eliminated several
names on the list. We worked through all of Montgomery County and
part of Howard before calling it a day. Even still, the results
were disappointing.

When Ralston asked when I could take off for
another attempt, I selfishly avoided sacrificing any part of my
next scheduled day off. Rachel and I had a date planned, and I'd
justified my decision with the knowledge that I had some sleuthing
of my own in mind.

* * *

Rain moved in sheets across the pavement. I
squinted through the spray of water droplets and felt the
beginnings of a headache. As I pulled off Rocky Ford and headed
down the lane toward the parking lot, something in the large
outdoor arena caught my eye. One of the jumps looked different, but
I couldn't make out why from so far away. I backed into my usual
space and pulled on a rain poncho. Cold rain stung like needles on
my face as I trudged across the lane. I unlatched the gate and
walked into the arena. The going was deeper, but as usual, the
drainage system was doing its job. Even in a downpour, the footing
was good for the horses.

I stopped at the base of the jump, or what
was left of it. The message was bone-chillingly clear. The Foxdale
jump, the one that most represented Foxdale, had been burned to the
ground, the intricately-carved fox heads and hunt scene reduced to
a pile of charred rubble and ash. Standing there as the rain
splattered loudly on the plastic of my poncho and pounded in a
deafening roar on the arena's metal roof, I'd had enough. I would
have to find them, stop them. They wanted to play with fire, I'd
make sure they got burnt.

I looked for additional damage and found
none, but the message was poignant all the same. I grained the
horses and started haying. When the crew straggled in around seven,
I left them to finish up and went into the office. I pulled a worn
card out of my back pocket and dialed Detective Ralston's number.
After six rings, I was thinking about hanging up when he picked
up.

"This is Steve Cline, at Foxdale."

"What's up?" He sounded wide awake and
enthusiastic if not downright cheerful.

"Someone torched one of the jumps in the
outdoor arena last night. I didn't know if you'd want me to call
you or not, but the jump they chose was one with Foxdale's logo on
it. I took that to be a message of sorts." When he didn't respond,
I said, "Assuming it's the same crew, it seems there's been a shift
in their focus."

"What do you mean?"

"Profit." I rubbed my forehead. "There wasn't
any profit in what they did last night. Only malice."

"There was malice with the cat," Ralston
said. He was right, of course. "Is it raining there?"

"Coming down in buckets."

"I'll call Linquist and let him know. The
rain's probably destroyed any evidence, but it'll be good to get
the incident on record."

"All right."

"Any other damage?"

"No. Nothing else has been touched."

"Good. Someone will be out."

When Ralston disconnected, I stared at his
card lying on the blotter. What was I going to find next? What if
they decided that torching a jump wasn't enough?

Chapter 10

I left a note for Mrs. Hill, emptied out my
bin, and walked back to the barn.

Later that morning, after the crew had turned
out the first batch of horses and we'd started in on the stalls, I
grabbed a push broom from the storage area at the end of the aisle.
When I turned around, I almost bumped into Dave.

He opened his mouth to say something, then
hesitated. He hadn't gone to the party. Hadn't heard about the
fight. Hadn't seen my face.

I looked more closely and saw he was angry,
and I didn't think it had anything to do with me. "What's wrong?" I
said.

"What happened to the Foxdale jump?"

I crossed my arms and leaned on the broom.
Not one of the crew had noticed except him. "Someone was up to no
good last night."

Dave looked affronted. Probably couldn't
believe that someone had dared touch his artistic handiwork. He
glared at me. "You seem to be takin' it lightly."

"Err . . ." I straightened. "Sorry. It was a
magnificent piece of work, but at least it wasn't the barn they
burned down."

"Well, shoot. Hadn't thought about that." He
rubbed his hands down the front of his grubby overalls and strode
out of the barn. Five minutes later he was back, and if anything,
he was more agitated.

"What's wrong, now?"

"Somebody's been messin' about in my
workshop," Dave said.

"What?"

"My tools are all right." He kept them locked
up tighter than Fort Knox. "But paint's been spilled all over the
place and somebody's painted obscenities on the walls."

"Damn it." I hadn't thought to check there.
"Let's go see."

I hopped into Dave's rusted-out Ford, and he
wrenched on the steering wheel and bounced the pickup into the side
lane that led to the implement building. He had the wipers on high,
even though the downpour had slackened to a drizzle, and there must
not have been a shock absorber on the damn thing. I braced my hand
on the dash and was still in danger of being bounced off the
seat.

"Messing about" was an understatement. Every
surface in the workshop was covered with paint, including both
tractors. And what was printed on the walls was unbelievable.
Filled with rage. Whoever had done it must be literally sick with
hate. Dave leaned over to pick up an empty paint can.

"Don't touch that," I said.

He straightened and looked at me, his face
blank.

"Don't touch anything, at least not yet."

"What about cleanin' up? The paint's still
damp," Dave said. "It'll be easier to get off."

"The police are coming out because of the
jump. They'll want to look at this, too." I looked at the walls.
"Maybe take pictures. What were you going to work on, anyway?"

"I was gonna work in here 'cause of the
rain." He looked out at the gray sky and, after a moment, said he
might as well go back home.

"Dave, hold up. Could you buy some supplies,
instead?"

He squinted at me and pursed his lips. "What
kind of supplies?"

"Anything you need to make the place more
secure, go out and buy it. Like better locks for all the tack rooms
and the feed room. Maybe you should reinforce the locks on the
lounge and office doors, too." I started for his truck. "And is
there some type of lock we can put on the feed bin, the big one
outside?"

Dave caught up with me by the front bumper.
"Don't know."

"Well, if you can't rig something up, call
the manufacturer. See if they have any suggestions." I walked
around to the passenger's side and opened the door. "Get more fire
extinguishers for all the buildings, too. And I think we'll install
a gate across the lane to the road. What do you think . . . two
12-foot gates latched in the middle?"

"That'll work." Dave frowned. "What about
where the side lane empties into that old road down by the manure
pile?"

"There, too."

"Then we'll need to put up a line of
fence."

"Oh, yeah. You're right. Let's just get the
other things done first. We'll do that later, when we have time." I
slid onto the seat and waited for him to climb behind the wheel.
"If you think of anything else we can do to improve security, do
it."

He simply nodded, and I wondered how much
effort he would put into improving security against an unseen
enemy.

"Oh," I said. "And get whatever you need to
clean up that mess. When you come in tomorrow, find me. You can
show me what to do, and I'll clean up while you install the locks,
okay?"

Dave stared at me as if he couldn't quite
remember who I was. "Sure," he mumbled before dropping the truck
into reverse. He backed down the rutted lane without bothering to
look over his shoulder. When he jounced the truck onto the asphalt
lane between the barns and pointed the nose toward the road, I
wished I'd walked.

"Shit, Dave. You can't drive like that around
here."

He grunted and drove off at a more sedate
pace but put his foot heavily on the brake pedal when we pulled up
alongside the office door. The Ford jerked to a stop, and I just
about slid off the smooth vinyl seat. I jumped out and slammed the
door, thankful to be on firm, unmoving ground.

Dave sped off as abruptly as he'd stopped.
The truck's bald tires sluiced through a large puddle, and I
wondered how he'd lived to be so old.

After I called Ralston and was told he was
out, I dialed Mrs. Hill's number with dread. Her answering machine
picked up. I left a message and, for good measure, dropped another
note on her desk.

* * *

Notwithstanding the rain pounding on the
metal roof above our heads, we easily heard Mrs. Hill's voice
crackle over the PA system. She did not sound happy.

Her message for me to report to the office
ASAP elicited a variety of remarks from the crew, mostly obscene,
and, as far as I was concerned, said with far too much pleasure.
All morning long, they'd been debating whether or not Mrs. Hill
would have heard about the fight and had been taking bets on her
reaction. Ignoring them, I propped my pitchfork and rake in the
corner of the stall I'd been mucking out and headed for the
office.

By the time I got to the office door, I was
sopping wet, which, when I thought about it, was kind of
appropriate for the upcoming discussion. As I put my hand on the
rain-splattered doorknob, I had a knot in my stomach reminiscent of
visits to the principal's office. When I stepped inside, Mrs. Hill
looked up from her paperwork and compressed her lips.

I took off my hat. Rainwater dripped off the
ends of my hair and slid down the back of my neck. "Mrs. Hill?"

"Stephen . . ." She tapped a finger on my
notes. "What's all this about?"

I looked out the door. It was raining so
hard, I couldn't distinguish the pile of rubble from the line of
the arena fence. "Last night, someone torched the Foxdale Jump.
They stacked it into a heap and set it on fire. There's nothing
left but charred wood."

"But why?"

I slowly turned to face her. "I don't
know."

I told her about the vandalism, and her face
grew stiff with disbelief. She stared at me and absentmindedly
clicked the top of her ball point pen against the desk blotter. The
sound acted as a metronome, measuring each passing second,
intruding on the lengthening silence, and I found standing still
under her gaze difficult.

"You called the police?"

I nodded.

"Another thing . . . "She did not look
pleased. No pleasure anywhere. I shifted my weight from one foot to
the other. "Mr. Sanders told me that you got into a fight with
someone at the party." Her face was flushed with anger.

Damn Sanders. He hadn't walked away like I'd
thought but had hung around to watch. And when I'd had that damned
piece of glass shoved up my nose, he hadn't done a thing to help.
But he had the balls to imply that I'd started the whole thing. I
hoped his horse would dump him on his ass. Into a puddle would be
even better.