One Hoof In The Grave [Carriage Driving 02] (18 page)

Peggy’s bedroom is on the other side of her house from the driveway, and she has shutters on her windows, so I could sneak out without waking her. I knew that if she did wake, she’d demand to come with me. I didn’t want to argue with her, and since I was probably being silly, there was no reason to wake her.

When my cell phone didn’t ring before I was halfway down the block, I knew I’d made my escape. Good. Twenty minutes to the farm, twenty minutes to find and check the horses and the locks on the trailer, workshop, and stable, then home again, home again, jiggety-jig.

I didn’t meet a single car on the winding two-lane road to the farm, nor were there any strange cars in front of the barn we used for a workshop and storage.

We’d removed the harness for cleaning and swept the shavings out of the stall areas in the trailer, but we hadn’t dragged Dick Fitzgibbons’ marathon cart and the miniature horse cart out. Locked inside the trailer was as good a place as any to store them. I might not attempt to put Don Qui to the miniature cart for a week.

The next step was teaching him to drag an automobile tire while I steered him with reins.

I parked my truck with the headlights pointed toward the pasture in hopes I’d spot the horses looming out of the darkness, but no luck. I’d have to go walk the pasture and look for them. Nuts.

At night, horses habitually stand perfectly still in the shadows, while they watch human beings search within five feet of them without seeing them. You have to wait for the swish of a tail or the stamp of a hoof to give away their position. Irritating.

I didn’t actually expect trouble, but I slipped my Glock into the holster on my belt, stuck the spare clip in the pocket of my jeans with my cell phone, worked the big flashlight down the back of my jeans—a singularly unattractive sensation in the chill spring air—and climbed out to start my horse hunt.

The moon was at that point my grandmother called “the old moon in the new moon’s arms.” The sliver of new moon lay on its back with its horns up, while the outline of the last full moon could still be glimpsed between the horns.

That meant precious little moonlight. I could see billions more stars than I could in Mossy Creek, but they didn’t do me much good.

And the temperature had dropped to the dew point. When I aimed the flashlight on the grass, it turned into a carpet of diamonds. My left paddock boot had developed a leak. I could feel the moisture soaking my sock.

On my left loomed the big pile of logs and roof trusses slated for my house. On the right stood Hiram’s workshop, behind it, the stable, and past the stable, the dressage arena. Beyond the border of my land to the north lay the heavily wooded property belonging to the governor and his cronies.

I knew my way around my own property pretty well even without moonlight to aid me, but I also knew I could stumble or run into a tree if I got cocky, so I kept the flashlight pointed toward the pasture.

“Come on, guys,” I called, and whistled. I whistle loud enough to startle
me
at night. I listened. No answering stamp, no tail swish, no sound of approaching hooves. I swung the light in an arc shoulder high. Nothing.

I didn’t want to go into the pasture to hunt for them. I wasn’t afraid. They wouldn’t stampede. Whatever books say, horses don’t generally do that. They see better than we do at night, but they are still careful. And they absolutely, positively will not run into or over a human being or animal if they can possibly avoid it. Human beings feel squishy when stepped on. Horses loathe stepping on swishy stuff. I wasn’t concerned that I’d be ground into the mud. But I’d be wet to the knees and cold.

Off to my left I heard movement, but it sounded as though it came from the far side of the pasture where the old farmhouse had stood before my contractor knocked it down.

The construction types had also cleared away the debris along with the decrepit house trailer where Hiram’s handyman had lived. Then they’d scraped and re-graveled that back drive up from the highway. Since my front road up to the stable with its sharp turns and steep drop-offs was dangerous for the contractor’s big equipment, they drove up the back road and across the geldings’ pasture to my building site. I had to live with the ruts in my pasture until they were finished.

The only thing that remained of the original farmhouse was the root cellar. Bobby, my contractor, had been promising to fill it in and cover it with a concrete pad so we could park the tractor on it, but hadn’t gotten to it yet.

As I walked across the pasture, my light glanced off the yellow road grader sitting at the top of the hill in front of the old cellar.

Since the guys were driving their equipment through the pasture, I warned them to be extra careful to secure the pasture gate on that side. I didn’t want horses falling into the cellar or wandering off down the old driveway to the road below.

I heard another movement . . . dear Lord, it sounded as though it was on the far side of the gate! If they’d left the gate unfastened, I would flay Bobby alive.

My heart lurched and I sped up only to stumble and fall onto my hands and knees in the wet grass. The flashlight rolled five feet away from me. I lunged for it, clambered to my feet, and realized I’d twisted my knee.

Couldn’t let a little thing like that slow me down. Hoping the kink in my knee would work itself out, I limped on until my light hit the gate.

It was open!

Only a gap of about six inches—not wide enough for a horse to slip through, but wide enough for a big horse like Heinzie to push open with his nose if he decided to try. The gate was always double latched—two chains with two latches, top and bottom. I checked late this afternoon. They’d both had been securely fastened. Now both were undone.

No horse did that. I stood with my back to the gate and swept my light in an arc behind me across the pasture.

About fifty feet from me the entire herd watched me silently.
Now
I heard a tail swish and a snort. I counted quickly. Even Don Qui was there. He might have been small enough to slip out. Instead, he stood between the Friesian Heinzie’s big black feet and stared at me.

“Hey guys,” I said softly. “What ya’ doin’?”

In answer they turned as one and meandered off into the darkness.

Why was the gate open? If I hadn’t heard a horse outside the pasture earlier, then what had I heard? A deer? Coyote? Too big for a raccoon or a possum. No panthers left in this area. Bear? They went through
fences
, not gates.

Animals didn’t unlock gates. Human beings did.

I snapped off my light, moved to my left and stood perfectly still. I needed to give my eyes time to adjust. If someone had come up the back driveway while I was around to hear him, he’d taken care to walk on the grass verge, and not on the noisy gravel. I hadn’t seen a light either.

I’d walked up and down that driveway lots of times, but I wouldn’t want to walk it at night without a light. “Anybody there?” I called.

No answer. If there had been someone over there, I wanted to believe they were long gone. But they could be hiding, waiting for me to leave so they could go back through my pasture, leave the gate open again, and do what? Burgle the place? Let the horses loose again? Burn down the barn?

I am a card-carrying coward. I do not go blindly into anything remotely resembling danger, so I pulled my Glock out of its holster and took out my cell phone. Shielding its light with my body, I checked the signal. Two lousy bars. Maybe that would be enough. Who to call? It wasn’t really Mossy Creek police chief Amos Royden’s jurisdiction, and the sheriff of Bigelow County didn’t like me. I didn’t want to wake Peggy, who would freak.

So I called Geoff Wheeler. I didn’t know his room number at the Hamilton Inn, but I did know the number of the inn.

At first the clerk didn’t want to ring his room because it was after ten p.m.

In a whisper that no doubt carried in the clear night air like a boom box, I finally convinced him it was an emergency.

Geoff answered instantly.

“I’m at the farm,” I whispered. “Somebody’s been here. I may be over-reacting, but . . .”

“Stay where you are. I’m on my way.”

“Geoff, I’m . . .”

He’d already hung up. I hadn’t told him I was at the far end of the pasture. He didn’t give me a chance.

Now all I had to do was sit tight. I put my cell phone back in my pocket with the extra magazine of shells.

That’s when I saw the light. Or the reflection of a light.
Penlight, maybe?
Something small at any rate, shining off the far side of the road grader.

The intruder was still here, but with the road grader in the way, I couldn’t see him. Inside I went dead still. If he wasn’t doing anything wrong, then why hadn’t he answered me?

Panic would get me and the horses hurt. I knew that as surely as I knew my own name. I willed myself to calm. I could stop him and hold him for Geoff. I was armed and carrying a big honking flashlight.

Course, he might be armed as well. These days, everybody is. I slipped through the partially open gate and hooked it behind me. I hunkered down, stuck my flashlight back down my jeans, and held the Glock in the two-handed grip I’d been taught.

So long as I stayed on the grass and off the gravel, I too could move almost silently. All I had to do was get the drop on him. With the pasture gate chained behind me, his only escape route was back down the driveway.

The road grader sat at the edge of the cellar excavation.

I listened, heard nothing, not even breathing.

I peered around the edge of the road grader. Nobody. I only realized I’d been holding my breath when I released it.

I should never have called Geoff. I’d probably stumbled over some poor hunter jack-lighting deer. Could be a teenaged couple looking for someplace to smoke dope and make out, although a road grader would not be my first choice.

Whoever it was, was long gone. Probably scared worse than I was.

I leaned against the front edge of the road grader and reached for my cell phone. I might still catch Geoff before he dressed and came out to rescue me. I’d never live that down.

Then something smacked me hard across the back.

I stumbled forward. The Glock flew out of my hand and down into the darkness in front of the road grader. Breathless and momentarily stunned, I tripped over the lip of the cellar and tumbled head first, down into the pile of sand and dirt on the cellar floor.

“Ow!” I yelped as my hands and wrists took the full force of my body.

Talk about a sitting duck! I groped around for my flashlight with one hand while I felt for the Glock with the other. The mud and sand felt as soggy as quicksand, but thank God it was just wet from sitting in the dew for three days.

“Whoever you are, get me out of here! All is forgiven if you don’t leave me down here. I won’t tell the game warden, your wife or your parents if you promise not to come back on my land,” I shouted. Surely if he intended to kill me he would have done more than just tumble me into the cellar.

“I promise I won’t tell your preacher either. Get me out!”

This time there was no attempt to disguise the footsteps. They ran down the driveway. One person in silhouette behind the flashlight. I couldn’t tell whether it was male or female.

A moment later, a car engine started and gunned away. Since it was impossible to turn on that slope, he must have driven up the hill, turned the car and parked it heading down hill for a fast getaway.

Great! Talk about pitch black. I kept feeling for the flashlight—the Glock wouldn’t do me much good at the moment.

I found it after what felt like a panicky half century. “If you’re broken, I’ll kill you,” I promised. I snapped it on and breathed a sigh of relief when it lit.

The Glock lay nose down in the dirt two feet to my right. Did guns fire when their barrels were blocked with dirt? I had no intention of finding out.