At Risk (24 page)

I grinned.

Marty lifted his head off the cushions.
"Well, hallelujah. I was afraid you were gonna turn into a monk or
somethin' and be celibate for the rest of your godforsaken
life."

I swallowed some Coke, and we both looked up
when a horse van rumbled down the lane past the lounge door.

I lowered the can from my lips. "Party time."
I grabbed the paperwork off Mrs. Hill's desk.

The van had parked in the pool of light
between the barns. As Marty and I approached, Whitcombe hopped down
from the cab and turned toward me with a smirk on his face that
disappeared when he saw Marty.

Marty worked out every day. Excluding the
opposite sex, it was his passion, and I'd often thought that I
wouldn't want to find myself on the wrong side of his anger.

The passenger's door opened. Someone got out
and walked around the front bumper. He stopped behind Whitcombe,
and I thanked my lucky stars I'd had the sense to get
reinforcements. He looked like a goon--all muscle, no brain--and he
didn't look like a horseman. Light glinted off his bald head, and
despite the chilly night air, he was wearing a muscle shirt that
showed off his tattooed biceps to best advantage.

"Get the horses for me, Cline," Whitcombe
said.

"Get them yourself."

Marty snorted, prompting a scowl from
Whitcombe and a grin from me. Whitcombe turned and strode into the
barn, followed obediently by his friend. I took a swig of Coke.
When they finished loading the horses, I handed Whitcombe the
forms.

He creased them in half and wedged them into
his jacket pocket. "Unlock the tack room, Cline. I need to get my
gear."

I walked down the barn aisle, sorting
one-handed through the keys, and thought how nice it was not having
to say Sir to that creep anymore. When I paused to unlock the door,
I glanced at Marty. My own personal bodyguard, I saw with
amusement, was checking out Whitcombe's friend. Marty winked at me
when he saw me looking.

I suppressed a grin and flicked on the
lights. Whitcombe and his friend followed me into the room. Before
I realized what was happening, his friend closed and locked the
door.

Damn.

My bodyguard was on the wrong side of the
door, and I doubted he had his key.

Marty yelled and banged on the door.

Whitcombe and friend closed ranks. I backed
up until my back was pressed against a row of lockers. They stopped
short of bumping into me, and I felt like a damned idiot, standing
there with a soda in one hand, keys in the other, and without a
useful thought in my head.

Whitcombe leaned in closer. His hot breath
stank of beer. "You caused me to lose a damn good job, you little
shit, and I'll get even."

"You didn't need my help, losing your job," I
said. "You did it all by yourself."

His eyes narrowed to slits, and his lower lip
looked fatter than ever. "When you first started here, I thought
you were different. But you're just like all the rest. Afraid of
anybody who's different than you."

"No, I'm not."

"Don't kid yourself. You make me sick."

He signaled to his friend, and I tensed.
Instead of laying into me, he walked across the room and unlocked
the door. Marty stood glaring at them with hunched shoulders and
clenched fists.

Whitcombe walked over to his locker as if
nothing had happened and hauled his stuff out to the van. Marty and
I watched in silence until they'd finished loading Whitcombe's tack
and had driven away.

"What happened?" Marty said.

"Nothing."

He frowned at me. "He say where he's
going?"

"Nope," I said and couldn't help but wonder
if he'd be back.

* * *

Seven-thirty Sunday morning, and the first
A-rated show of the season was half over. Cliff started up the John
Deere 960, shifted into gear, and hauled the overflowing manure
wagon out of the barn. I walked outside and looked down the lane
toward the arenas.

Exhibitors were already warming up their
horses, lunging them in the pasture alongside the road, and hacking
them in the ring. In the chilly air, the horses' breath formed
misty plumes that shimmered with gold in the early-morning light.
The entries were double what they had been the year before. Figures
for the day would be comfortably in the black.

Soon, the quiet, surrealistic moment would be
replaced by the hustle and bustle of dozens of people competing
against each other, a civilized modern-day imitation of mounted
warfare. Risk was noticeably absent.

When the tractor pulled into the lane between
the barns, I headed back. After we mucked out the next group of
stalls, Cliff pulled the wagon farther down the aisle, adding
diesel fumes to the dusty haze kicked up from cleaning stalls. I
picked up the push broom and began sweeping the aisle where we had
just finished working. Marty was in rare form, singing a country
song rather badly. Some song about somebody losing somebody.

I looked up when I heard someone walking
toward me. Elsa. My muscles tensed. It was the first time I'd seen
her since the feed room. I bent over and jabbed the broom toward a
tangle of hay and sawdust.

As she walked past, I glanced sideways at
her. Without breaking stride, she slapped my butt—a blatantly clear
message to anyone who was watching.

Marty was watching. He stepped into the aisle
and stared at me with his mouth open.

"I can't believe it," he said. "You fucked
her, didn't you?"

I unclenched my teeth. "Shut up."

"After all this time--"

"Shut up, damn it."

I leaned the broom against the stall front
and turned toward the door. One of the boarders had walked into the
barn, and she had undoubtedly heard at least part of the
conversation.

I went outside, sat at one of the picnic
tables, and rested my forehead on my knuckles. What a mess. I
should have known better. Should have left Elsa alone.

"Sorry." Marty's voice.

I looked up. There was no humor in his face.
No laugh lines crinkled the skin around his eyes. "Never mind," I
said.

He sat across from me. "You're only human,
Steve. . . . I know what she's like. The woman's relentless.
'Course all she had to do was look my way."

"Man." I rubbed my face. "I really screwed
up. Rachel will dump me if she finds out, and the thing is, I had
no intention, none at all of . . . Oh, damn it."

He shook his head. "You worry too much.
Rachel's a smart girl. Anybody with half a brain can see what kind
of woman Elsa is. I mean, it's kind of understandable what
happened. And the two of you haven't been going out all that long,
right? It's not like you've agreed that you wouldn't date other
people, right?"

"I know."

"Well, see. She probably won't find out,
anyway. Elsa ain't the kiss and tell type. I'll bet--"

"Could of fooled me."

Marty grinned. "I think the only reason she
made an example of you was because you were a challenge."

"Ha. Hardly."

My timing had been awful. A month earlier,
and it wouldn't have made any damn difference.

* * *

Monday morning, I fixed a bowl of corn
flakes, and while I ate, I made a list of people who might, for
whatever reason, be waging a hate campaign against Foxdale. Or
maybe the evil-mindedness was directed at me, though I couldn't
guess why.

I started with the people I had fired. Mark,
Tony, Bobby and, most recently, Alan.

I printed a second heading, "Discontinued
Services:" Dr. Weston--vet, Rick Parker--farrier, Luke
Barren--farrier, Pence--grain dealer, Schultz--hay dealer. I added
Harrison's name. Although he still supplied us, he was pissed at
me, and so was his driver.

The list looked ridiculous. I couldn't
imagine any of them having a grudge strong enough, and where was
the connection to James Peters? I doodled in the margins and
thought about motive. I wrote that down, too.

Greed, jealousy, hate. I thought about Boris
the cat and added psychosis.

What was their motivation, if not simple,
straightforward malice? Maybe Foxdale's success was hurting
someone, possibly another horse farm with the same hunter/jumper
focus. Maybe they were losing clients while we were flourishing.
They would be jealous, envious, hateful. Maybe they were losing
clients to us.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

I ran my fingers through my hair and stared
at the lists until the words blurred. So far, Foxdale had prospered
despite the campaign. It wouldn't last forever. There was only so
much the boarders would overlook.

I yanked the calendar off the wall and tossed
it on the counter. It hit the surface with a resounding smack. The
loft was too quiet, and it was getting on my nerves. I switched on
the audio system, turned up the volume, and tried to work the kinks
out of my neck

As best as I could remember, I listed all the
events I'd learned about in the past six weeks: George Irons, PA,
horses stolen two summers ago. James Peters, murdered Saturday,
August 4th (last year). Tack theft, S. Miller, PA Saturday,
December 21st. At Foxdale, we had the horse theft on Saturday,
February 24th, the tack theft/Boris on Saturday, March 9th, and the
burnt jump/graffiti on Monday, April 1st.

Assuming the events were related, our man
liked to work on the weekend.

In the past week, I'd scanned old headlines
until my eyes glazed over, yet I had only uncovered two other horse
thefts. I'd discounted both out of hand. A boarder had stolen his
own mares and skipped town without paying his board, and in the
other case, only one horse had been taken.

As of yet, I hadn't discovered a connection
between the Foxdale and Hunter's Ridge. The rig was the only lead,
and that was looking more and more like a dead end.

* * *

At ten o'clock, I walked into the office and
stood in front of Mrs. Hill's desk. I pulled the lists out of my
back pocket, unfolded them, and handed her the wrinkled sheets.

She glanced at them. "What's this?"

I wiped my hands on my jeans. "Foxdale really
needs to hire a night watchman. I'd say it's become a
necessity."

She started with the list of chronological
events.

"What's this? James Peters, murdered?"

"Did you know him?"

She shook her head. "No. But his name's
familiar." She tapped her fingers on the desk blotter and stared at
the office door as if she'd find the answer there. "Oh, yes. That
detective asked about him, but I can't now remember. . . ."

"He owned and operated a hunter/jumper
facility in Carroll County." I paused. What happened to him was
hard to think about, much less talk about, especially with someone
who knew what had happened to me.

"Stephen?"

I cleared my throat. "Someone stole seven
horses from his farm, and when they did . . . they murdered
him."

"Oh, no. But--"

"The police believe his murder, the horse
theft here, and possibly the tack theft, were committed by the same
people."

"But that . . . that means that you--"

"Then there are those other incidents on the
list, which may or may not be related."

She stood and walked around the desk. "You
could have been murdered," she gestured to my lists with a flap of
her hand, "just like this man."

A slight tremor worked at the corner of her
mouth, and she wasn't telling me anything new. That depressing fact
had been hovering in my subconscious for the past month and a half.
I looked down at my feet, at the square of blue carpet in front of
her desk. It needed to be hosed off. Too many muddy feet trudging
in from the barns.

She sighed. "I'll ask Mr. Ambrose about a
night watchman again." She paused, then picked up my list of names.
"I can't believe any of these people would do such a thing,
Stephen. It's absurd."

"I know, but I can't think of anyone
else."

"Leave it to the police. They'll find out
who's behind it." She held my lists out to me and, mistaking my
silence for agreement, switched to discussing preparations for the
dressage clinic Foxdale was hosting over the weekend.

I studied the wall alongside Mrs. Hill's desk
which was, in effect, one gigantic calendar. She had covered it
with white board, and every weekend for the next three months had
some event or other scheduled. I felt tired just looking at it.

"Stephen, are you listening?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And you'll have to move all the school
horses . . ."

Last night, I had spent more time than I'd
care to admit, lying awake, unable to sleep, which was ironic,
considering how physically tired I'd been. Telling everyone about
James Peters and the rig used in the horse theft was fine as far as
it went, but inefficient. I could do better.

"Stephen?"

"Yes, ma'am. I'll make sure it gets done.
Tonight, can I use the computer and printer?"

"Of course, dear."

"With your permission, I'd like to send a
letter to everyone in the address files--boarders, suppliers,
contractors, everyone on the show mailing list--all the individuals
and organizations we deal with."

"Whatever for? There are hundreds of
them."

I told her.

"But that could be dangerous."

"I'll use an anonymous post office box, then.
Not Foxdale's, and I won't sign it."

She shook her head but gave me permission in
the end. She didn't seem concerned about what my letter might do to
Foxdale's reputation. Maybe she saw, as I did, that if the attacks
didn't stop, there might not be anything left worth saving.

* * *

Eleven o'clock Monday night, and I was still
peeling labels and stuffing envelopes with what I hoped would be an
effective attempt at finding James Peters' murderer. Mrs. Hill had
been wrong. There were more than a thousand names once I'd opened
all the files. But like Ralston had pointed out, it only took
one.