At Risk (34 page)

The loft was so quiet, I could hear the
second hand on the stove clock clicking like a metronome.

"Is there somewhere else you can stay?"
Ralston said.

"It's almost midnight. I'll be back at work
in five hours. In the morning, I'll ask a guy at the farm if I can
stay with him. I'm sure he'll let me, at least for a while."

He frowned, then lifted the phone off the
hook and held it out to me. "Wake him up."

I called Marty, and he said he would unlock
his door and that I was damn lucky he didn't have company. I smiled
as I hung up and said, "It's arranged."

"Do you have my card?"

I shook my head.

He fished a card out of his wallet, wrote
down his pager number and Dorsett's, and handed it to me. "Call
either one of us directly if you're worried about something, even
if it seems insignificant, okay? And key in 911 after your number
if you're in trouble."

I nodded.

Chapter 19

I closed the door quietly behind me and
waited for my eyes to adjust to the dark. The whir of a fan drifted
from the half-opened door to Marty's bedroom. After a minute or so,
I dumped my duffel bag on the floor by the sofa and walked into the
kitchen. The sink was cluttered with dirty dishes, and a collapsed
Budweiser 24-pack and Domino's pizza box lay on the floor by the
trash can. Chocolate ice cream from the bottom of an empty
half-gallon carton had seeped across the counter and puddled on the
floor. The room smelled of onions and beer.

My muscles were tense, and a dull ache had
settled behind my eyes. I snagged two beers from the fridge, downed
one, then set the empty on the counter. I flicked off the light
switch and carried the unopened can into the darkened living
room.

I slumped down on Marty's sagging sofa. After
I polished off the second beer, I wedged a pillow against the
armrest and lay down. I hadn't eaten since lunch and already had a
buzz going.

* * *

The phone's ringing brought me slowly back to
consciousness, like mist rising off the surface of a lake. I had
been dreaming. A nice dream, too. I opened my eyes and at first
couldn't remember where I was, or why. Couldn't tell, from how I
felt, whether I had been asleep for minutes or hours.

Marty's voice, thick with sleep, drifted
through the open bedroom door. "Steve, it's for you."

I reached over the armrest and picked up the
phone.

"This is Larry Oaks from Eastfield Security.
There's something wrong with one of the horses."

His voice sounded hoarse, and I wondered if
he'd been asleep. "What do you mean?" I mumbled.

"It keeps trying to get up but can't," he
said, "like it's stuck."

"Shit. Which horse?"

"I don't know. A brown one."

Each stall was numbered, information cards
hung on every stall door, and he didn't know which one. It figured.
"Which barn, then?"

"The one with the arena in it."

"Okay, I'll be right there." I hung up. If
the horse was simply cast, it would probably be up and fine by the
time I got there. But if it had been rolling around in its stall
because it was colicky with gas pain and had gotten itself jammed
in the angle between the stall wall and the floor, it was an
emergency. Even if the horse managed to get to its feet, colic
didn't just go away by itself.

I pulled on my socks and yanked my jeans off
the back of the sofa. Something thunked onto the floor between the
sofa and wall. I checked that my wallet hadn't fallen out, then
finished getting dressed. When I walked over to the bedroom door to
tell Marty where I was going, he was snoring over the drone of the
fan. I left him alone and headed for the front door.

It was pouring, and my truck was parked
halfway down the block. I borrowed Marty's poncho off his coat tree
and sped down rain-slicked streets with only a moderate try at
caution. When I got to Foxdale, the gate was locked. It would be. I
had locked it myself. I left it standing open and parked between
the guard's car and office door. The clock on the dash read
one-thirty. I hadn't been asleep long. No wonder my brain felt
fuzzy.

Barn B's lights blazed in the night, and a
shaft of fluorescent light streamed through the office door, laying
a wide rectangular patch across the wet ground. I walked into the
office, but the guard wasn't there. The lights in the lounge were
off, the room still. I crossed over to the desk. A half-empty
coffee cup sat on the blotter alongside a yellow legal pad. The
guard had listed his rounds. The first one was at ten o'clock, and
he'd noted my name alongside the time. The next round was at
eleven. At 11:55, he'd printed my name and phone number--Marty's
phone number, actually--from when I'd called to tell him how he
could get in touch with me. The last entry read 12:25 a.m.

There was no mention of his call about the
colic. I touched the side of the Styrofoam cup. It was room
temperature.

I went back outside and ran down the lane to
barn B, avoiding the largest puddles on the way. He wasn't in the
aisle. I switched on all the lights and walked quickly down the
aisle one. None of the horses looked upset. Some were even dozing.
They wouldn't be. Not if one of their own was in trouble. They'd be
wide awake and excited. I'd seen it often enough. I cut through the
arena and checked aisle two just to make sure. No one there,
either. I flicked on the lights on my way out and decided to call
Ralston. I jogged toward the office.

I slowed to a walk at the sidewalk, and when
I did, I noticed that the light was on in the men's room. That
explained it.

I pushed open the door and stepped
inside.

"Anybody here?" My voice echoed off the bare
walls as a thought nagged at the edge of my consciousness.
Something that wasn't right. Something the guard had said, but I
couldn't think what.

As I turned to leave, the curtain to the
shower stall moved and Robby Harrison stepped into the room.

He lunged toward me, and I briefly glimpsed
another figure behind him. My muscles tensed as I grabbed the
handle and pulled the door inward.

I stopped. There was nowhere to go.

At the threshold stood Mr. John Harrison, hay
dealer, horse trader, and, according to our farrier, "a creepy
bastard." He had severely beaten a horse with a whip, and he'd
gotten away with it. His arm was outstretched, pointed at my face,
and in his hand, he held a gun. Rain drops glistened on the black
metal.

Harrison took a step forward. I had no choice
but to back up. He directed me backward until my shoulder blades
hit the first stall.

I had only glimpsed his face. What held my
undivided attention was the small, round hole at the end of his
gun. As black and final as death itself.

He latched his fingers around my throat and
pressed the muzzle into my scalp above my left ear. Pressure began
to build across the bridge of my nose, and the veins in my neck
throbbed. It wasn't until then that I clearly saw Harrison's face.
His lips were pulled back from his teeth like an animal's, and his
eyes were stretched wide and unblinking. In the fluorescent light,
they looked black.

I didn't have a chance.

I slid my fingers into my pocket and felt for
my knife. It wasn't there. I remembered the thud as something had
dropped behind Marty's couch.

Harrison licked his lips. "It's about time
you and I got together, Mr. Stephen fucking Cline. You got away
from me once, but you damn well won't this time."

He was leaning on my neck so hard, I thought
I was going to pass out.

"How's that feel Steve? Huh?"

He tightened his grip, and I tried to
move.

"Uh-uh." He pressed the gun's muzzle harder
against my skin. "Don't try anything. You ain't goin' nowhere. What
you are gonna do is learn. You're gonna fucking learn about it
tonight. About fear and pain." He laughed. "And I'm gonna teach
you."

Bastard.

Without taking his gaze off me, Harrison
spoke over his shoulder to the man I thought I recognized from that
night back in February. "Rich, hand over the rope."

The guy held the rope out to Harrison.

"Not me, you idiot. Give it to Robby." He
gestured to his brother. "Now, go back outside and stand
guard."

The guy was nervous, not as comfortable with
the job as his buddies, and most ominous of all, he wouldn't look
me in the eye.

The door thumped closed, leaving the room
suddenly quiet. Harrison turned back to me. "All I hear is Foxdale
this and Foxdale that, and I was getting damn sick of it. People
leaving my place and comin' here. Saying 'Steve Cline's done this,
and he's done that, and isn't the place nice.' Enough to make you
puke." He clenched his teeth. "So when somebody wanted me to mess
with your precious Foxdale, you think I needed askin' twice?"

No one answered.

He moved his face closer to mine. I could
smell his sweat. His breath stank of cigarettes and beer as it slid
across my skin. I looked past his face to the door.

"Shit, no," Harrison continued. "I didn't
need askin'. Hell, he didn't even have to pay me, you being such a
prick and all, checking the hay like it was your own damn money you
was partin' with. And if that wasn't enough," his voice vibrated
with anger, "I see your stupid little announcement stuck up on the
bulletin board like you're some kinda Dick Tracy, and I can't use
my truck and trailer no more, and all because of you, you fucking
piece of shit. Imagine what I thought," he coughed and choked on
his spit, "when I get your fucking stupid letter in the mail."

I didn't say anything.

"I decided, then and there, that I was gonna
kill you. Kill you and make you pay. Make you suffer."

Behind him, Robby stood in a wide-legged
stance, jiggling the coins in his pocket as he watched me with
interest.

"Every day that went by," Harrison said, "it
was all I could think of. Getting my hands on your scrawny neck and
making you pay."

He let go of my throat and backed up. I could
still feel his fingers on my neck.

"Lie on the floor, face down."

I took a shaky breath as Robby coiled the
rope in his hands. He was wearing gloves. They both were. No
fingerprints. No clues. I wondered if I'd end up in the woods,
too.

"I said, 'lie down,' damn it!"

I wouldn't have a chance, not tied up.

"Lie down, or I'll shoot you right now." He
raised the gun and pointed it at my face.

I got on the floor.

"Robby, make it tight," Harrison said. "I
don't want him getting out of it this time."

Robby . . . Robert. Same as my father, same
as my brother. Ironic. If they killed me--when they killed me--I
wondered if the old man would somehow blame me. "He should have
stayed in school, gotten an education and a good job, then none of
this would have happened."

Robby was going to make sure this time. He
yanked the poncho off and roughly tied my hands. When he was
finished, he stood up and rubbed his hands together.

Harrison jammed his knee into the small of my
back, grabbed a handful of my hair, and pulled my head off the
floor.

Something touched my throat. It was cold and
thin and sharp. I hadn't seen it coming. Maybe it was just as well.
I closed my eyes. He pressed the knife harder against my skin. I
tried to move away from the pressure but couldn't.

Blood trickled down my neck and soaked into
my shirt.

Without warning, Harrison loosened his grip
on my hair, and the blade cut deeper. I groaned with the effort of
keeping my back arched. If I lowered my head, the knife would cut
deeper. He shifted more weight onto my back. I gritted my teeth and
grunted.

The bastard. I couldn't hold it much
longer.

"Say something," he growled.

I wouldn't. Not if I could help it. He was
going to kill me anyway. I would not give him the satisfaction of
hearing me beg . . . or cry.

"You should of heard Peters," Harrison said
as if he'd read my thoughts. "He cried like a baby, didn't he
Robby? And boy could he scream. Screaming and crying for me not to
hurt him, the old fart. Guess he shouldn't have reported me, the
stupid son of a bitch."

Harrison took the knife away, and my face
smashed against the cement.

He moved his face close to mine and
whispered, "You're going to beg for mercy, scream for it, before
the night's out."

My back and shoulder muscles trembled
uncontrollably as the chill of the cement seeped into my
sweat-soaked skin. I clenched my fists to stop the shaking.

Robby said, "Let's get going. It's not safe
here. Anyway, you can take your time with him at the farm."

I closed my eyes and felt sick.

"Yeah, well . . . I want him to beg."
Harrison kicked me in the ribs. The blow knocked the breath out of
my lungs. He nailed me again, this time on my shoulder.

"Don't kick him in the head," Robby said. "I
don't want to have to carry the bastard."

"Say something, damn it."

He kicked me again and again, and in a very
short time, I lost count. I gritted my teeth to keep myself from
groaning. Maybe I could talk my way out of it. It was worth a
try.

I struggled to regulate my breathing and
said, "The police know you murdered Peters."

"Yeah right." He punctuated his words with
kicks. "They don't know shit."

Each blow seemed to merge with the next. My
skin burned, and I could feel my heart pounding in my chest.

I gulped some air. "And they know that you
helped Sanders with his insurance swindles. Do you think he's going
to keep his mouth shut when they come down on him?"

Harrison became very still. Somewhere in the
room, flies droned above the drip of a faucet. He began to pace,
and it seemed that his agitation increased with each passing
second. His boots scraped across the grit on the cement, and his
breathing grew louder, faster, out of sync with the sound of my
pulse pounding in my ears.