At Risk (28 page)

"Training?"

"Yeah. He's with the Guard.

"When's he due back?"

"Monday. I'm on my way to see his C.O. now.
What were you wearing when they put you in the trailer?"

I thought back. "Jeans, T-shirt, a flannel
shirt, boots--"

Ralston held out his hand. "I mean, do you
remember specifically which flannel shirt? And can I have it?"

"Well, no. I was hypothermic, and my clothes
were wet. The medics cut them off, and when I got them back, I
threw them away."

"Damn."

"You found something?" I said.

Ralston shook his head. "It'll be weeks
before results come back from the lab, but I needed your clothing
so they can try to match it with any fibers they do find." He
rubbed his face. "What about a coat?"

I nodded. "I still have that."

Ralston lowered his hand and looked at me
with interest.

"And it's got a fleece collar."

"Perfect," he said. "When can I have it?"

"Now. I'll go get it."

"I'll drive," he said.

Ralston pulled out onto Rocky Ford. "I've
been thinking about what I said yesterday, about your contaminating
the scene. I think we still have a chance, even though we messed
up."

I noticed his use of "we" but didn't comment
on it. "How?"

"Let's say the techs find a couple of strands
of hair they can prove came from you. The defense will say their
presence has nothing to do with any alleged abduction back in
February. Well, there's this forensics guy in Anchorage who
performed an experiment that demonstrates the gradual deterioration
of hair left in the environment. In that case, it was the opposite
scenario he had to prove, but that doesn't matter."

"How do you mean?"

Ralston slowed the Ford as he approached the
sharp curve at the entrance to the future housing development. "In
that case, the defendant was accused of murdering his ex-girlfriend
in her apartment. Forensics found hair and other fibers that linked
him to the scene on the bed where the woman was strangled, in the
bathroom, in the living room carpet. He used to live there, so the
defense simply claimed that any of his hair found in the apartment
was old."

"Makes sense."

"Yeah," Ralston said. "He swore up and down
that he hadn't been there for at least three months, but
ultimately, that claim was his downfall because, while they were
waiting to go to the trial, this forensics guy vacuumed his house
every day with one of the special vacuums they use at crime
scenes--"

"The murder scene?"

"No. His house."

"I bet his wife loved that," I said.

"Yeah, I imagine so." Ralston yawned.
"Anyway, he demonstrated how hair deteriorates over time but is
still identifiable. So, from any given sample, he could show which
hairs had been in the environment for an extended period of time
and which hairs had been newly shed. He proved that some of the
defendant's hairs found at the crime scene were fresh."

Ralston took off his sunglasses and pinched
the bridge of his nose. "Look at it the other way around. We can
prove that any older hairs of yours have been in the trailer long
enough to substantiate the claim that you were in that trailer two
months ago as well as the other day."

"And if they find fibers from my coat, which
I obviously didn't wear Tuesday, that'll help."

Ralston nodded.

I thought about the condition of the trailer
and the fact that it had been forked out at least once since the
theft. "What are the chances of forensics finding anything?"

"Not as bad as you might think. The overall
lack of cleanliness might actually work in our favor. It's when the
bad guys get out a hose and vacuum that it gets tough."

"What about James Peters?"

"I'm hoping we'll get something there, too.
It's a crap shoot. You just hope you get something good." Ralston
looked at me a little longer than was prudent for the narrow back
road we were traveling. "Kind of an unusual job for someone with
your background, isn't it?" he said.

I shrugged.

"I'd've figured you for Notre Dame or Harvard
or Yale." He paused for emphasis. "Or even Johns Hopkins."

I shifted in my seat. "Done your homework, I
see." When he didn't respond, I said, "I took a break from school
and got a job here because I thought the idea of working with
horses would be fun."

What I hadn't counted on was the old man
kicking me out. Out of his house and out of his life, each of us
waiting for the other to change his mind.

I sighed. "For a while, anyway."

Ralston accelerated into a curve. "But you
stayed."

I adjusted the sun visor. "I kind of got
caught up in it. I don't know. I like it a hell of a lot more than
sitting in some lecture hall." I rubbed my eyes and said, "Do you
think whoever stole the horses has someone inside Foxdale?"

"Hard to tell. Why?"

"Just wondered. One of our trainers got fired
Friday. Whitcombe. The one I told you about before, who showed up
with an expensive saddle right after the tack theft. He has a brand
new Mustang convertible, too." And a baldheaded friend who
resembled a eunuch, but I didn't tell him that.

"He inherited a chunk of change a while back,
from an aunt," Ralston said, "but some family members contested the
will. The ruling went in his favor. He received a check sometime in
February. More than enough to cover that new saddle and a
Mustang."

"Well then, that explains that. And maybe it
explains his mood, too. He's always been . . . difficult, but in
the last three or four months, he's been downright obnoxious."

"Money or love. Does it every time," Ralston
said. "Know anything about his love life?"

"No," I said, "I do not."

The detective grinned, and I realized he must
have known about, or at least suspected, Whitcombe's sexual
preference.

"One of the other employees," I said, "Brian
Denning. There's something up with him, isn't there?"

"He's in the system."

"What for?"

"Residential burglary, theft from a motor
vehicle, DUI. He's on probation for another eight months.

"What's that entail?"

"Besides keeping his nose clean, staying off
the booze, and holding a job, he's gotta attend A.A. and submit to
drug testing. And he can't miss a meeting with his PO."

I pointed to a mailbox up ahead. "Turn in
there."

I retrieved my coat, and Ralston lowered it
into a plastic trash bag and sealed it shut with tape. He then
rested a pad on the hood of his car and filled out a label which he
pressed down across the bag's seam like a seal. "What about a hat?
Gloves?"

I shook my head. I hadn't seen them since
that night. Ralston handed me a receipt for the coat and dropped me
off at Foxdale. I watched him back down the lane and hoped that
something good would come from my screw-up.

* * *

After lunch, I fell asleep on the sofa in the
lounge. When I next became aware of noises, someone was working at
the computer keyboard in the office.

I hadn't slept for thirty hours, and lying
down, even for a moment, had been a mistake. My legs and arms were
felt heavy, as if they were weighted down.

The lounge door opened.

My entire body felt as if it were sunk into
the cushions.

Whoever had opened the door, hadn't walked on
through to the office.

I opened my eyes.

Mr. Harrison was standing alongside the sofa
with a clipboard in his hand. His face was stiff, and I had the
distinct impression he was clenching his teeth.

I checked my watch. Lunch time had ended
without my knowledge. The crew was back at work, and no one had
bothered to wake me.

When I pulled myself into a sitting position,
Harrison handed me the paperwork. I glanced at his figures and saw
that Marty had already initialed the invoice. I scrawled my name
across the bottom of the sheet just the same and held out the
clipboard. Harrison stared at me for a second, his eyes flat and
expressionless, then he snatched it out of my hand and walked into
the office.

Nick had described him as creepy. He wasn't
far off.

Harrison could have left by the office door,
but he chose to cut through the lounge on his way out. I was still
sitting on the sofa when he stepped outside. He turned back around
as the door swung shut and stared at me through the glass with that
tight, expressionless face of his before he headed for his
truck.

What a jerk. He was the one who had tried his
stinking little scam. It was his damn luck he'd gotten caught.

I opened the lounge door as the flatbed
lumbered down the lane. Harrison sat motionless in the passenger's
seat. I glanced at the drive and realized I didn't know him and
wondered if Harrison had fired the other guy. Harrison had seen me
check. He scowled at me through the glass as the truck jostled
past.

I rubbed my forehead and felt an overwhelming
tiredness deep within my bones. And to top it off, it was going to
be a late night. After the last lesson, the school horses had to be
turned out and their stalls cleaned because we would be leasing the
space to the clinic participants. If Rachel wanted to hang around,
she'd have to watch me muck stalls.

There had to be a better way to impress your
girlfriend.

I took the rest of the afternoon off, went
home, and took a nap. Just before four o'clock, someone knocked on
the kitchen door. I squinted through the glass.

Rachel was standing on the other side of my
door.

Chapter 16

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and
stood up. My jeans were on the floor halfway across the room, and
the gray cat had curled into a ball on top of them. When I grabbed
a pant leg, the cat dug her claws into the denim. I dragged her
across the carpet until she gave it up and abandoned ship. When I
straightened, I saw that Rachel was laughing.

"Ha, ha," I mouthed.

I zipped up my jeans, didn't bother with the
snap, and opened the door.

Rachel was wearing a form-fitting T-shirt and
along with skin-tight riding breeches and boots. Very sexy. She'd
pulled her silky dark hair into a loose pony tail. Wisps of hair
had worked free and hung along the side of her face and down the
back of her neck. She stepped inside, and I reached behind her and
clicked the door shut.

A thin breeze drifted through the open window
and stirred the dust that hung in the air. Her perfume smelled
faintly of vanilla.

Rachel reached out and touched my skin. I
looked down at her hand. Her fingertips brushed across my waist,
close to the snap on my jeans.

"Marty told me you'd pulled an all-nighter."
Her gaze rose slowly to my face. She was concerned . . . and
something else.

I nodded.

She stood very still, and she was breathing
through her mouth.

I took her hand in mine and embraced her,
then leaned into the counter and pulled her against me. Rachel
wrapped her arms around my waist, and the feel of her hands on my
bare skin was electrifying. I traced my fingertips along her jaw
and kissed her mouth. Her lips were cool and tasted of cinnamon. I
smoothed my hand down the front of her shirt and tugged it out of
her pants. When I ran my hand across the small of her back, she
twisted her fingers in my hair and kissed me hard on the mouth.

The loft seemed unnaturally quiet and still,
the air around us charged.

I turned her around until her buttocks were
pressed against my thighs. Flattening my hands on her belly, I slid
my fingers under her shirt, lifted it out of the way, and cupped my
hands over her breasts. She arched her back, and every time she
shifted, her ass brushed against my crotch.

Rachel turned her head toward me, and her hot
breath fanned across my cheek. Her breasts rose with each
inhalation, her nipples erect under the thin fabric of her bra. I
rubbed against her, and after a moment, I slipped my fingers under
the elastic.

She gripped my hand, then stepped away from
me. She flicked down her shirt and turned to face me.

"I can't." She crossed her arms over her
chest. "I'm sorry, Steve. I'm not ready."

"You don't have to be." My voice sounded
hoarse. "I'll get dressed."

I walked into the bathroom, braced my hands
on the sink, and hung my head. She'd been sending out subtle
messages all along that she needed to go slow, and I'd blown it. I
sucked in a lungful of air. After a minute or two, I splashed cold
water on my face--it didn't help--finished dressing, and brushed my
teeth.

When I went back into the kitchen, Rachel had
made herself at home on one of the barstools. She looked composed
and relaxed, and she'd tucked in her shirt.

I kissed her on the cheek and rested my hands
on her knees. "I need to go back to Foxdale, I'm afraid."

"To feed the horses?"

I nodded.

"Marty's taking care of it."

"Wow," I mumbled.

"He couldn't get you on the phone--"

"It's off the hook."

"So I see." She brushed her bangs off her
forehead. "Anyway, he wanted to tell you to stay home. They're
going to do whatever they can tonight to get ready for the clinic
and finish up in the morning. So I offered to drive over to tell
you, but I see Marty was wrong." She glanced at my crotch and
seemed surprised that her eyes had betrayed her. "You're not at all
impaired from lack of sleep, are you?"

"Wide awake now that you're here."

She giggled. "So you don't mind my dropping
in unannounced?"

I grinned. "Come anytime."

Rachel rolled her eyes. "Are you sure this
wasn't an elaborate plot between the two of you to get me over
here," she glanced around the loft, "in your apartment?"

I grinned. "No, we're not that clever."