At Risk (5 page)

"Is there anything else?" I said.

"No, dear, carry on." She slid a stack of
mail across her coffee-stained blotter and flicked on the
computer.

When I found the crew, they'd already begun
mucking out barn A. Cliff was perched on the John Deere 960,
twisted around in the seat as he inched the tractor down the aisle.
A skinny sixteen-year-old, Cliff was hopelessly undereducated,
hardworking, and so enthusiastic I sometimes wondered if he was on
something. He wore his blond hair spiked--effortlessly achieving
the just-stuck-my-finger-in-an-outlet-look--and he liked his jeans
baggy. I figured it was only a matter of time before one of us
found him hanging from the tractor with his pant leg snagged on the
gear shift, not to mention the fact that the color and style of his
underwear had become a running joke with the crew. Checking had
become reflexive. Today's choice: purple jockeys with a black
waistband.

He'd just about gotten the manure wagon lined
up with the next group of stalls when he caught sight of me. "Hiya,
Steve."

"Where's Brian?" I said.

"Takin' a leak."

I nodded and turned, ready to retrace my
steps back toward the lounge, when Cliff said, "Wrong way. He's out
back."

I clamped down on my response and started
around the tractor when Cliff looked beyond me and did a double
take. I turned to see what he was looking at. Not what, but whom.
Mrs. Elsa Timbrook had cut through the wash rack, which was
surprising, considering the elegant knee-high suede boots and fur
jacket she was wearing.

She walked up to me and stood so close, I
figured she'd never heard about personal space. The musky scent of
her perfume overpowered the pervading odors of diesel fumes,
sawdust, and horse.

"Steve, I need Lite brought in for a training
session with Anne."

"Yes, ma'am," I said. "Cliff, go get him for
Mrs. Timbrook."

Cliff's grin widened. "Sure thing." He
switched off the engine, swung his leg over the steering wheel, and
jumped to the ground with a degree of agility I wouldn't have
thought possible with those jeans.

Mrs. Timbrook frowned as Cliff skirted past
us.

"Excuse me," I said. I squeezed between the
wagon and a jumble of pitch forks and rakes that leaned against a
stall front. As I approached the doorway, Brian sauntered into the
aisle. He stopped abruptly when he saw me.

"Go back outside," I said. I pulled the doors
closed and turned to face him. "What do you think you're
doing?"

"Takin' a piss, man. Whataya think?"

"What I think is that we have restroom
facilities for a reason. One of the boarders walks out here and
sees you, I don't think she'd be too impressed with Foxdale's
professionalism."

"Depends on which one," he said with a smirk
that pissed me off.

"And another thing—"

"Oh, let me guess," Brian said. "Marty ratted
me out."

"You get caught smoking on the premises
again, and that's it. You can find a job somewhere else."

"Is that all?" His voice was sullen.

"Yeah."

I put my hands in my pockets and waited for
him to head back, and in a moment, he did.

* * *

By Friday afternoon, a week after the theft,
three boarders had taken their horses somewhere safer. We were down
ten horses, but I wasn't concerned. Owners who kept their horses at
pasture for the winter would be looking for a facility like Foxdale
as the show season drew nearer.

I walked into the implement building and
yanked my keys out of my pocket. Dave, who had been hunched forward
over his workbench, rhythmically rubbing a sheet of sandpaper along
the length of a two-by-four, looked up when he heard me.

"How's it going?" I said.

"I'm 'bout finished with the fan jump
combination. Doin' the standards right now. Wanna see?"

"Sure." I squeezed between the bush hog and
an old manure spreader we no longer used and stood beside him.
"They look great. I see you've finished the Liverpool."

He nodded.

I gestured to the piece of wood he was
working on. "Why don't you use the sander for that?"

"Already did. I like to finish up by
hand."

I ran my fingertips along the smooth wood.
The show jumps he created were as much works of art as they were
obstacles for the horses to negotiate. I was, as usual,
impressed.

"Supplies'll be arriving next week for that
cross-country jump you want built in the southeast field," Dave
said. "When you want to work on that?"

"Maybe in a couple weeks." I walked over to
the tractor, thinking I could do without that chore just then. "If
the ground isn't frozen."

When he saw me struggling to hook up the
drag, he stepped in front of me, snapped on the lynch pins, and
adjusted the hitch. The man did everything with precision, without
fuss, and I would miss him when he decided to retire for real.

I looked over my shoulder as I steered the
tractor out of the building. Dave stood motionless, his face blank
as he watched me drive off. Wisps of his thin white hair stuck out
from beneath his Orioles cap, and he was sucking on his lower lip,
giving an impression of the ordinary, but there was nothing common
about Dave.

I got to work on the largest outdoor arena
and soon found that what I had hoped would be an easy job was more
difficult than I'd anticipated. The big old John Deere was
difficult steering through the heavy sand at the best of times, and
it didn't take long before my ribs began to ache. I swung the
tractor around to the north. A cold wind stung my face, and diesel
fumes, caught in a down draft, wrapped around the back of my
throat.

I maneuvered the tractor through the
one-stride in-and-out and made another sweep around the diagonal
line of fences. As I pulled out of the turn, I almost ran into my
favorite jump. I gritted my teeth and hauled on the steering wheel.
The weights in front came within an inch of crashing into the
rust-brown jump standard with a fox's head carved out of the
middle. Mrs. Hill's sister had painted an impressive hunt scene on
the wide middle panel of the jump, and my boss would have been
majorly pissed if I'd creamed it.

Someone yelled, and I looked over my
shoulder. A bunch of kids were running toward the barn, just
goofing around. But it was not they who held my interest.

A car braked to a stop alongside the office
door, ignoring an official-looking sign at the mouth of the lane
that prohibited vehicular traffic of any kind. The driver climbed
from behind the wheel and scanned the grounds before he walked into
the office where I was certain Mrs. Hill would lay into him. I
swung the tractor into another turn and made one last sweep down
the outside line, then drove around to the far side of the judge's
stand.

A half-hour later, I pulled out of a tight
corner and glanced toward the buildings. Mrs. Hill was standing
outside the office door with her arms wrapped around her chest.
When she saw me look over, she signaled that she wanted to see me.
Wondering what was up, I drove across the arena, parked next to the
gate, and climbed stiffly to the ground. I'd had enough. Dave could
finish in the morning.

I cut across the lane, head bowed, hands in
my pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold, and wished I were
going home instead. The driver watched my approach, and I had the
distinct impression he was waiting for me. He stepped aside as I
walked into the office. I glanced from him to the door between the
office and lounge and frowned. It was closed, and what was more, it
was locked. Mrs. Hill always left it open.

She was standing behind her desk, her face
tinged with color from the brief moment she had stood in the wind.
Through the side window that looked into the arena, I saw that
Karen's three o'clock was in full swing, the horses cantering by in
a quiet, orderly line. Voices filtered in from the lounge, which
was packed that time of day with students and boarders.

"Stephen, this is--"

Someone knocked on the lounge door.

"Wait a minute," Mrs. Hill yelled. She
frowned at her visitor. "Could you take this somewhere else? I need
my office back."

Take what, I wondered? I looked at him with
growing curiosity. Tall and broad-shouldered, he had sandy brown
hair like my own and pale hazel eyes. I glanced around the room and
couldn't figure why she wanted us out.

"My car will do," he said, his gaze on me,
and there was a light in his eyes that spoke of nothing if not
intelligence, and interest. Interest in human nature.

Outside, a strong breeze cut across the open
pasture and funneled between the buildings. Like so many winter
days, when the sun begins its descent, so does the temperature. I
looked more closely at his car, a dark green Crown Victoria with
three whip antennas sticking out of the trunk. The guy was a cop.
No wonder Mrs. Hill had wanted us out. Frequent visits by the
police were definitely not on her list of boarder confidence
builders.

"I'm Detective James Ralston with the
Maryland State Police." He pulled his identification from an inner
pocket and flipped it open and shut too fast for me to read.

I wondered if he'd done it on purpose. Like a
police or psychological tactic of some kind. Or a test. He'd be
able to draw a different set of conclusions based on whether or not
his subject asked to see it more closely. I decided I wasn't going
to play.

He gestured to his car, and I climbed in,
happy to get out of the wind.

Detective Ralston lifted a pair of aviator
glasses off the dash, put them on, and thumbed to a blank page in a
worn notebook. "I have some questions regarding the horse theft and
your assault and abduction which occurred Saturday morning,
February the 24th."

Ralston covered all the questions the
detective in the hospital had asked, then added a few of his own.
He made sporadic notes with a chewed on pencil, and I didn't think
I had told him anything he didn't already know. He popped the latch
on a briefcase that was wedged between the back seat and a bank of
controls that straddled the transmission hump, then pulled several
tightly-folded sheets of paper from a compartment built into the
lid. He smoothed them out on his thigh. I watched him flip through
the pages until he found what he wanted.

"This is a printout from the MVA." He handed
me the top page. "I had them compile a list of people who own white
or off-white dual-wheel pickups and a separate listing for
six-horse gooseneck trailers. The one you're looking at
consolidates both. As you see, there aren't many matches. Do you
recognize any of the names?"

I studied the list, then shook my head.

"All right. Take a look at the list of truck
owners."

He handed over a more substantial printout.
The tractor-fed pages were still linked together. I took my time
over the list, and before long, Ralston switched on the engine and
cranked up the heat.

Many of the registered owners weren't
individuals, but companies. Rose Acre Farms, Smith Landscaping,
T&T Industries, Murray Construction. "I had no idea there were
so many white dualies on the road," I said.

"And that's just from the surrounding
counties. Howard, Montgomery, Carroll, Baltimore, Anne Arundel . .
. Thought I'd start locally and expand the search if need be."

"Well, I think you struck out." I handed him
both lists, which he laid face down in the briefcase. "I don't know
any of them," I said. "How come you think I'd recognize them,
anyway?"

Ralston ignored my question and handed me a
smaller list. "These are the trailer owners. The list isn't broken
down as well as I would have liked. Some of these trailers are
probably smaller than what they used."

I studied the list and shook my head.
"Sorry."

He shrugged. "It was a long shot. How about
this list?" He handed me another printout. This one, however, was
not from the MVA.

I scanned the sheet and told him the names I
was familiar with--one farrier, two grain outfits, a fence company,
and Greg, Foxdale's vet. As I read through to the end, I became
conscious of the fact that he'd been watching me.

"Does Raymond Crump work for Foxdale?"
Ralston said, referring to the farrier whose name I had
recognized.

I shook my head. "No."

"In the past?"

"Not that I know of."

"How do you know him, then?"

"I don't. Just heard of him." I shrugged. "He
doesn't hot-shoe, so we don't use him."

He glanced at his notes. "What about the two
feed suppliers?"

"I've heard of them, but we haven't used
either company, not since I've worked here."

"How long's that been?"

"Two years in June."

"And the fence company?"

"We buy supplies from them." I shifted in my
seat and leaned my back against the door.

"Do they deliver the supplies?"

"Yes."

"When were they here last?"

I thought back to our last project. "In
October."

"Where do they unload? Would they know the
farm's layout?"

"Yeah, probably. We have them unload
different places, depending on what we're working on."

"And Gregory Davis?"

"He's Foxdale's vet." I handed Detective
Ralston the sheet. "And my landlord."

He tossed the printout into his briefcase and
scribbled something in his notebook. "He'd know Foxdale's routine,
then?"

"I guess so. He has a whole slew of clients,
so I wouldn't say he's an expert on what goes on here." I gestured
to his briefcase. "You don't think they have anything to do with
what happened, do you?"

He glanced at me over the rims of his
glasses. "I'm checking everyone."

Ralston shifted in his seat and looked toward
the barns, and I couldn't begin to guess what he was thinking. When
he said nothing further, I leaned my head against the vinyl
headrest and stared unseeingly at the sun visor. After several
minutes, I looked over at him. He was jotting down notes in a neat,
controlled script. His fingernails were clean and well manicured,
his hair cut military short. Everything about the man was neat and
tidy, right down to his expertly-polished shoes.