I couldn't breathe. Couldn't speak.
He, however, continued. "A white or off-white pickup, pulling a dark-colored horse trailer, was seen in the vicinity around the time we estimate the owner was abducted. A month later, two boys were hiking a trail that parallels the western bank of the Patuxent when they discovered the partially-buried body of a white male. He was later identified as the farm's owner. Before he died, he had been beaten and," he paused, still watching me, "his wrists had been bound with baling twine. It was still on what was left of the body."
I leaned my head against the side window and closed my eyes. A humming noise filled my ears, and I felt as if I were sinking, the blackness behind my eyelids spiraling out of control.
"Mr. Cline… you okay?"
I swallowed. My throat was dry. My tongue felt like it was stuck to the roof of my mouth. I opened my eyes. "Yeah, sure," I mumbled. "How the hell do you think I am?" I couldn't keep the anger out of my voice. Or was it fear?
He didn't say anything, just looked at me with that damn uninformative expression of his, and I wondered if anything rattled him.
I shifted in my seat and stared out the window. A dozen riders were circling their horses, waiting to go inside for their lesson. Behind us, the sun cast long shadows down the lane. The light had an orangish late-afternoon quality to it. Voices drifted on the cold air while some of the horses, impatient to be going, blew down their noses and pawed the ground. Farther down the lane, the barns looked warm and inviting… and safe.
He cleared his throat. "So, now you see why it's important that you carefully think through everything that happened, every detail."
"I already have." I rubbed my face. "I didn't see enough or hear enough to be a threat to them. They took me anyway, and I learned more because of it." Though what good it would do, I couldn't imagine. "Once I was out of the trailer, I could see them better. The leader had light brown hair, maybe blond." I licked my lips and turned to face him. "So, if they wanted to kill me," I paused and hoped he couldn't hear the tremor in my voice, "why didn't they just do it here, on the farm? When I was out?"
He closed his notebook and slid the pencil through the channel formed by the spiraled metal wire. "These guys are smart. In the first place, their timing would have been perfect if you hadn't interrupted them. Under normal circumstances, they wouldn't have been disturbed. In the first incident, in Carroll County, it was just pure luck that we got a description of the truck and trailer, as vague as it is. Howard got zilch when they canvassed this neighborhood. Montgomery County didn't do any better at the location where you escaped. Whatever they used to hit you with, they took with them. They didn't leave fingerprints. The ground was too frozen for tire tracks. You saw how careful they were after you got away from them. That's rare. I'm surprised they didn't double back after they lost you in the woods."
I groaned.
Ralston compressed his lips and studied me with an otherwise dispassionate expression. "And what do you think would have happened Saturday morning, when the rest of the employees arrived to find seven horses missing and you nowhere to be found?"
I looked at him and didn't think I liked the implication.
"Your boss and fellow employees might have been certain you had nothing to do with it," he said. "But sure as I'm sitting here, the police would've been looking for a suspect, not a body. If these guys were really smart, they would have gotten rid of your truck. Then you would have been on top of our list, without question. Not until the connection was made between the two cases, would we seriously have considered that you'd been abducted, and by that time, we would've been lucky to find your body. In the other case, we never found the murder scene. We were damn lucky to find the body, and after a month's exposure in the heat and humidity we had last summer, much of the forensic evidence had been destroyed."
I shifted in my seat. Such a casual discussion of inhumanity was more than a little unsettling.
Ralston reached inside his jacket. "Here's my card. Call me if you think of anything else, no matter how insignificant."
He dropped the gear into reverse, and as I put my hand on the door latch, it occurred to me that they had tried to move my truck. I told him how Marty had found it. That they must have been unsuccessful because the starter was acting up. That I was certain I hadn't left the door open, which had drained the battery. I refrained from telling him about Marty's hot-wiring capabilities.
He tossed his notebook into the briefcase and lowered the lid but left it unlatched. "You need to be careful when you come here outside normal business hours."
"Why?" It came out high-pitched. I cleared my throat. "Why would they come back?"
"I doubt they will. As long as they stay smart they won't, but.. ."
"But what?"
He shrugged. "Just a thought."
"Oh, great." I shoved his card into my jeans pocket. "Who was the man who was, eh… killed?"
"James Peters. Ever heard of him?"
I shook my head.
"He and his wife owned and operated a horse farm. Hunter's Ridge. He went out to check on a sick horse and never came back."
I climbed out of the car and watched Ralston drive off. With him went any confidence I'd been able to scrape together in the past week.
The lane was deserted now. All the horses had gone inside for their lesson, out of the wind, out of the cold. The glare from the sodium vapors was taking over in the fading daylight, and after the warmth of the car, the air felt bitterly cold. I pulled my collar up around my neck, got back on the tractor, and drove to the implement building on auto pilot.
I parked next to the manure spreader and didn't bother unhitching the drag. Someone else could do it in the morning. I stopped alongside Dave's workbench and smoothed my fingers across the expertly-sanded wood. The sweet aroma of freshly-cut lumber still hung in the air.
He never came back.
My legs buckled, and I collapsed onto Dave's chair. I wrapped my arms around my waist and hunched forward to keep from shaking. I felt like I had when I was a kid. Felt as helpless and as scared and alone as I had the day my old man dropped me off at a dude ranch in West Virginia a week after my eleventh birthday. I'd stayed the entire summer. Learned more about horses than I'd thought possible, and that seemed to piss off my father even more. The following year, I'd gone off to soccer camp, then lacrosse. Being on my own like that, I'd learned how to take care of myself. By the time I was thirteen, I had grown used to the routine. Actually looked forward to it. Hell, it was better than staying at home with him, with them, where I wasn't wanted, both of them too caught up in their own lives to parent.
I'd thought I could handle anything. Until now.
After a while, I squinted at my watch and waited for the numbers to come into focus. I was late for evening feeding. I wiped my face, blew my nose, and hoped no one had missed me. As I hurried down the rutted lane, I saw that the horses had already been brought in for the night. The winter day had come to an end.
Marty was standing in the middle of the feed room, staring at the cart. He turned with a start when I walked through the doorway. "Where the hell've you been? I was I' ready to grain the horses myself."
"I'll do it."
"Good. I don't know how you stand it. All those damn supplements." He squinted at me. "Hey, you don't look so good, Steve. You comin' down with somethin'?"
"No, I'm fine." I rubbed my face. "Any problems this afternoon?"
"Nope. Everything's done. Was that a cop you were talking to?"
"Uh-huh."
"What'd he want?"
I glanced at Marty then looked down at the feed cart. "Nothing much."
When I said nothing further, Marty said, "Well, seein' as you're gonna do the feeding, can I leave now?"
"Sure… have a good night."
"I always do. Jessica's off," he added with a grin that could only be described as wicked.
I chuckled. Marty had the pursuit of happiness down to an art form. The pursuit of sex, more like.
"You sure you're all right, Steve?"
I told him to get the hell out before his girlfriend found a replacement and watched as he strolled out of the feed room, whistling under his breath.
Saturday afternoon, when the last batch of private turnouts were in their paddocks, I went into the feed room and lifted my clipboard off the shelf above the workbench. I leafed through the pages until I came to the medications list. There were no wounds to clean, medicate, and bandage, no eyes to apply ointment to, no injections to give. I was caught up until it was time to grain. I replaced the clipboard and walked up to the office.
The last lessons of the day were winding up, but the farm was busy as usual. I grabbed a magic marker off Mrs. Hill's desk, pulled some paper out of the printer, and printed in bold black letters: NOTICE. A white or light-colored dualie and an older dark-colored, six-horse gooseneck were used in the horse theft at Foxdale Farm on February 24th. If you have any information regarding the identity of the rig's owner, or know anything about the theft, contact Steve Cline. I added Foxdale's phone number and my home number in the lower right-hand corner and made a couple of copies. I thumbtacked a sheet to the bulletin board in the office and walked into the lounge.
I tacked a copy squarely in the center of the cork board by the soda machine. Across the room, Maryanne, Sheila, and Mrs. Curry had pigeonholed Mrs. Hill by the coffee machine. Because of the horse theft, they were planning another boarder meeting. I left before they drew me into what I knew from experience would be a long conversation and headed back to barn A. I stopped at the cork board in the aisle near the wash rack, rearranged some advertisements, and pulled off several outdated announcements. I pinned up my notice.
"Cline, tack up Bethany for me."
I turned around as Whitcombe, one of Foxdale's trainers, looked over my shoulder. As his gaze flicked over the wording, I noticed a momentary tightening around his eyes. His thick, curly red hair, which he had the good sense to keep cut short, was damp with sweat from his last ride, and his freckled, weather-wrinkled skin reminded me of a prune.
"Fall off a horse?" he said, referring to the faded bruising under my right eye.
"No." I edged past him and started down the aisle toward the tack room.
"I'll be in the lounge," he called after me. "And, Cline?"
I stopped and pivoted around. "Sir?"
"I want a dropped nose band and a Dr. Bristol bit, and this time get it right."
Get it right? Who was he kidding? I turned away from him and wondered when he'd grow tired of his stupid little control game and give it up, always asking for one thing, then telling me I'd gotten it wrong when I hadn't. Trying to make me look stupid. Maybe he wouldn't stop until I reacted. Got myself in trouble.
"Cline?"
I slid my hands into my pockets and turned around. Movement behind him caught my eye. Marty. Marty bouncing into the aisle, swinging a lead rope in his hand.
"I didn't hear you," Whitcombe said.
I refocused my gaze on Whitcombe's ugly face. "Yes… sir."
He smiled as he spun around and headed for the exit. Marty suddenly became interested in the floor. As soon as Whitcombe passed him, Marty looked up at me and grinned, and I could have killed him. He caught up with me, glanced over his shoulder, and whispered, "The asshole likes to ride more than horses, don't he?"
"Marty, don't." I cradled my arm along my ribs and tried not to laugh. "It hurts too much."
"Awh, Stevie, don't cry."
"Damn it, Marty, stop." I walked into the tack room and heard his footsteps behind me. "Don't you have something to do?" I said over my shoulder.
"No."
I spun the combination on the supply locker.
"I can see it now," Marty said. "One day you're gonna let 'im have it and get your ass fired."
"Won't happen. He's not worth it." I creaked the door open and stared at the pile of brushes, curry combs, rub rags, and cans of hoof oil. "Help me out, Marty. Grooming's a pain right now."
"Sure."
"Hope Bethany's not too dirty."
"She's turned out."
"Oh, shit. I forgot."
"I'll go get her," Marty said.
"Thanks. Bet that's why he wanted to ride her in the first place, 'cause he knew getting her ready would be more work."
"The guy's a genuine, fu-" Marty glanced at me and shut his mouth. "Be back in a sec."
He ended up doing most of the grooming and all the tacking up. When he was finished, I led Bethany into the indoor and waited for Whitcombe. I could see him in the office, talking to Mrs. Hill and one of the boarders. He saw me but pretended he hadn't-typical Whitcombe. I was ready to walk over and tap on the glass, when he pushed out of his chair and walked around to meet us.
He carried a crop in his right hand and absentmindedly slapped it against his boot. Bethany moved away at his approach, subliminally voicing her opinion of who was preparing to climb on her back. I steadied the mare while he checked the girth and stirrups, gathered up the reins, and stood next to the horse with his knee bent, waiting for a leg-up.
Damn. The guy weighed a good one-eighty, and-
"Give me a leg-up, Cline."
"I can't… sir."
"What do you mean, you can't?"
"I, eh… hurt my ribs," I said, trying to keep the distaste I felt for him from showing and conscious I wasn't succeeding.
"You're stinking useless. Here." He jerked on the mare's mouth. "Hold her by the bleachers."
Whitcombe stepped onto the plank. I held Bethany in position, put pressure on the stirrup so the saddle wouldn't slip, and wished he'd get on with it. The ribs were hurting more than I cared to admit. Whitcombe grunted as he hauled himself into the saddle. He swung his leg over the mare's back and almost kicked me in the face.
I glared at him as I stepped back. He wisely didn't look at me, but busied himself with getting organized. He'd done it on purpose; although, to anyone watching, it would have looked like a careless accident.
I left before I said or did something I'd regret.
I went home early, and around eight o'clock, Marty showed up unannounced at my door with a cardboard box loaded down with an assortment of booze.
I fingered a cheap bottle of Gordon's Vodka and whistled. "What's all this?"
"Ale for what ails ya."
He thunked the box down on the counter by the sink, and I shook my head.
"Contrary to what those boys in white think, the medicinal qualities of alcohol are highly underrated. This'll have you straightened out in no time."
"Let me guess. Jessica's at work."
"You fuckin' slay me." He hefted two twelve-packs out of the box.
"Christ," I said. "You intending to break the world record for alcohol consumption, or what?"
"Hey, I knew you wouldn't have shit in this joint."
"Just some wine."
Marty rolled his eyes as he popped the top of what I determined was his second Budweiser. An empty lay in the bottom of the box. He'd gotten a head start on the drive over. I watched as he rooted through the refrigerator and cabinets, found what he wanted, then grabbed a spoon out of the drawer by the stove. He dumped a quart of Land O' Lakes sour cream into a bowl, followed by two packets of dip mix.
"Hungry, are we?" I said.
Marty lifted a bag of UTZ potato chips out of the box, looked at me, and grinned. "Not for long."
I sloshed some vodka into a tall glass and topped it off with some orange juice.
"You always put your mail in the trash?" Marty had dropped the empty sour cream container into the can and was holding a letter from my father between his fingers. "You forgot to open it."
"I didn't forget."
He looked up from the envelope. "Damn, Steve. Don't you wanna know what it says?"
"I know what it says. 'Come back home and go to this college and major in that subject, and I'll get you in at Johns Hopkins or Yale or wherever, and you can have whatever you want as long as it suits me.'" I sat cross-legged on the floor.
"Ain't nothin' wrong with a little bribery, as long as you get what you want in the end. So what if he wants you to follow in his snotty, condescending, ivy-leagued, scalpel-wielding footsteps."
I thought I was going to choke. "How'd you like somebody telling you how and where and when to take a piss?"
Marty shrugged. "Depends what I get in return, I suppose."
I picked up the remote and turned on the CD player.
"Why didn't you finish school, anyway?" Marty said. "With your smarts, not to mention your old man's connections, you could've gone anywhere, done anything, even if you did have to kiss his ass from time to time."
"That's exactly why I didn't." Not to mention the fact that I had felt rudderless, without purpose, and most devastating to me… without passion. Then there was that sour taste I knew I'd have in my mouth if I let him run my life. I swallowed some orange juice, set the glass on the floor, and closed my eyes. I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life, just knew I didn't want to live his.
Marty dragged a kitchen stool around onto the carpet, then perched on it with his heels hooked on the lower rung. "Plus, you'd still have that sweet, motherfuckin' ride of yours. Hell, I would of stayed just for that."
I stared at him and wondered where all this shit was coming from.
"I can't believe he kicked you out just 'cause you quit school."
"He liked control, Marty. Quitting college was only half of it. What really pissed him off was that I went to work on a horse farm. It didn't go with his image, having one of his sons slinging shit for a living. What would his colleagues think? Guess he figured if he kicked me out, I wouldn't make it on my own, and before long, I'd be back home, following his marching orders like a good little boy."
"I don't know," Marty said. "It just don't figure. You'd've thought you'd whacked somebody, the way he treats you. Here you get the shit beat out of you, and you can't even talk to him, can't even go to your own parents for help or-"
"Marty…"
"-support. He's an asshole. He should be proud of you instead of-"
"Marty, quit."
"You're even defending him, for Christ's sake. And all because you made the wrong fucking career choice."
"I'm not-"
"He pisses me off. Doesn't he care?"
I was on my feet, and I think that only then did Marty realize what he was doing. "No." I glared at him. "He doesn't care." I walked over to the audio system, cranked up the volume to some rock 'n roll, and said under my breath, "He only cares about himself."
Marty was behind me then, and I hadn't heard him. He put his hand on my shoulder, wanting me to turn around. "Steve?"
I shrugged him off. I felt like hitting him, but it wasn't Marty I wanted to hit. I stood there and stared at the throbbing green and red lights arcing across the panel in sync with the music. If I stared at them long enough, they blurred together, everything else in the room dissolving into nonexistence.
"They killed him, Marty." I said softly.
"What?"
"They went to steal some horses, and they killed him."
I told him about James Peters and watched the animation die out of his face.
At some point, I must have drifted off, because I woke on the floor, in the dark, with a stiff neck. I moved to check my watch and realized Marty had dropped a blanket on top of me. Two o'clock. I staggered to my feet and saw him lying on my bed, on my pillow, under my blankets.
"Fuck."
Well, at least he'd had the sense not to drive home. I took some pain pills, which I probably shouldn't have, pulled out my sleeping bag, and went back to sleep.
It took all of Sunday to recover from that stunt, but by the time Tuesday morning rolled around, I was halfway to normal. Even the rib pain had settled into a dull ache, noticeable, but no longer annoying.
Like clockwork, Foxdale's farrier bumped his pickup down the lane at precisely seven-fifty-nine on the first Tuesday in March. He swung the truck around, backed up to the barn door, and braked to a halt.
"What've you got for me today, Steve?" Nick asked as he lowered the tailgate.
"Thirteen. You've done them before." I pulled a crumpled sheet of paper out of my back pocket and handed it to him.
He skimmed the list, grunting at a name or two, then tossed it back at me. I leaned against the barn door and watched him rummage through an assortment of shoes, pads, and nails. Anything an equine athlete might require to produce a winning performance.
Nick was a short, compact man with wiry black hair and a heavily-muscled back from years spent doubled up under the bellies of countless horses. I'd never seen him without a twisted bandanna tied around his head, even in winter, and his thick neck always looked sunburned. Unlike Foxdale's last farrier, Nick always had what we needed in stock, even for the most complicated job. But what I appreciated most was the fact that he actually liked horses. I'd known more than one farrier who behaved as if they didn't like horses at all.
Nick hopped off the tailgate, reached back into the bed, and dragged the anvil toward him. The resultant screech of metal against metal caused me to grit my teeth. When he switched on the forge, I brought out the first horse, a bright chestnut gelding with exceptionally thin soles. He had been one of the most difficult horse I'd ever held for Nick.
"Well, this ol' boy's finally come round," Nick said, reading my thoughts.
"Thanks to you," I said.
"No… I think it was your singin' that did it," he said straight-faced.
I groaned. "Don't remind me."
"Well, come on now," Nick drawled in a hillbilly twang that I had long since concluded was mostly act. "It was torture all right, but it calmed 'im down. Must have a twisted sense of music." He ran his hand down the gelding's neck. "He's finally recovered his trust. Who did 'im before me?"
"Barren."
"Well then, that explains it. He's screwed up more of 'em than a hooker on a Saturday night."
I snorted.
We were on the second horse of the day when I heard the hay truck pull down the lane. Since Nick was working at the forge, I cross-tied the mare and told him I'd be back in a minute. I ran outside and caught up with Marty before he got to the truck.
"Marty, wait."
"What's up?"
"I want you to supervise the unloading. Get some of the guys to help you. Count every bale they throw off that truck. And," I paused and caught my breath, "I left a scale in the implement building. It's hung up and ready to go. I want you to weigh bales, say, at twenty-bale intervals. Let me have the figures as soon as you're done."
"What, they're ripping us off?"
"I think so."
"Stupid bastards," Marty said through a yawn. "How come it don't surprise me?"
"Thanks… oh, and did Brian come in yet?"
"Nope. Called in sick."
"All right. And let me know what the tonnage on Harrison's paperwork is, too."
"Sure thing, boss." I watched him head for the truck, knowing full well Marty couldn't care less about little scams like that. I wondered why I did.
Forty-five minutes later, we were almost finished with horse number three, and Marty still hadn't come back.
"Nick," I said. "Do you know anyone who owns a white dualie and an old, dark-colored, six-horse? A gooseneck."
He straightened and stretched the kinks out of his back. "Not offhand. Why?"
"Here you go, boss," Marty said in my ear. He handed me a slip of paper. "Anything else?"
I shook my head, and Marty spun around and headed back to barn B.
I worked out the sums. The tonnage was off. Somehow, Harrison was altering the figures from the weigh station. In the past, all I'd had were suspicions. Now I had proof. Unfortunately, bringing this to Harrison's attention would not to be pleasant. He was irritated with me anyway, because I didn't hesitate to return moldy or poor-quality hay and demand credit-services he touted, but when it came to the actual case in point, he did so grudgingly.
"What about that trailer, Steve?" Nick said as he clinched a nail flush against the hoof wall.
"Oh. A rig like that was used by whoever stole the horses."
"From Foxdale?" he said.
"Yep."
"I didn't think the police had any leads."
"They don't. Not if they can't figure out who owns the trailer." I watched Boris, Foxdale's lone barn cat, make his way down the aisle. When he saw me, he trotted over and leaned against my leg. I pushed him away with my foot, but he came right back, not getting the hint. "Damn it."
Gene paused with the rasp in his hand. "What's that?"
"Oh, nothing," I said. "Just that this stupid cat won't leave me alone. Have you heard of any other horse thefts or-" I glanced over my shoulder.
Mr. Harrison had squeezed between Nick's truck and the barn door and was walking down the aisle toward us. A tall, plain-faced man, he kept his thinning blond hair combed across his scalp in a misplaced effort to hide the fact that he was balding prematurely.
He nodded to Nick, then handed me his clipboard. "Any return bales?"
"No." I hesitated. "There's a problem, though."
"What?"
I looked from the paperwork to his face. He had narrowed his eyes, and I had a sudden impression that the muscles in his face had settled into an arrangement they were accustomed to. Deep wrinkles creased his forehead, and his eyebrows had bunched together into a straight line that shadowed his gray eyes.
I cleared my throat. "There's a discrepancy between the tonnage stated on the invoice and what we actually received."
"What are you talking about?" His face was turning red, and he'd clenched his hands.
"By my calculations, we're about twelve-hundred pounds short, give or take a bale or two. And that's just this one delivery," I said and saw he knew exactly what I meant.
He looked so angry; I thought he might hit me. Instead, he grabbed the clipboard, scratched out his figure, wrote in a new one, and shoved it back into my hand.
I looked at the invoice. He'd pressed so hard, the pen's tip had ripped through the top sheet. I checked it, signed it, gave it back to him.
He stood there for a couple of seconds, staring at me with eyes that had become oddly vacant. The muscles along his jaw were bunched with tension, and I still thought he might slug me.
He turned abruptly and headed down the aisle. His shoulders were hunched forward under his stained coveralls as he walked out of the barn and into the flood of sunlight.
Behind me, Nick chuckled. "You sure know how to make friends."
"I wouldn't want him for a friend," I said quietly.
"No. He's a creepy bastard. Mean too, what with that incident a while back."
"What incident?"
"You didn't hear about that?"
I shook my head.
He slid the hoof knife into its slot on his leather apron and picked up a rasp. "Well, about a year ago, there was a stink about him beating a horse-"
"He has horses?"
"Yep. Owns a farm west of here. Can't remember the name right now. Anyway, some horse did somethin' that pissed 'im off, so he tied it to a post and beat it with a whip. Cut the animal up good, so they say. Blood everywhere. Somebody reported him to the Humane Society. Course, by the time they showed, the horse was nowhere to be found." He spit a glob of chewing tobacco into an open stall. "Nothin' ever came of it."
"What kind of farm's he run?"
"Hunter/jumpers, lessons, sales, anything, I imagine… Got his hand in everything. Makes 'im feel important."
"You shoe for him?" I said and wondered whether Harrison would have the nerve to continue supplying us.
"Yep. For 'bout a year now. But I'm thinkin' of droppin' him."
"Why's that?"
"Guy's got a major cash flow problem." Nick flipped the rasp over in his hand. "Ol' Steel use to board at his farm?"
"You mean Mr. Sanders' horse?"
"Yep."
"He's one of the horses that was stolen," I said.
"I know. Sanders had him insured for twenty grand while he was at Harrison's."
"You're kidding?"
"Nope. My sister works for the insurance company that issued the claim. Agent who sold 'im the policy had a couple of tense minutes over it, 'cause in retrospect, it appears the horse ain't worth as much as all that."
"I wouldn't have thought so."
By the time Nick's truck disappeared down the road, my side was throbbing, and I was beat. Thinking about Mr. Sanders' little insurance policy, I left a message for Detective Ralston and headed home. As I climbed the steps to the loft, a trace of light lingered in the west, conclusive evidence that the days were getting longer.
I closed the kitchen door behind me and dropped my mail on the counter. The loft was oppressively quiet, the air stale. I dumped everything I'd been wearing onto the floor in the closet. Nothing smelled worse than burnt horse hoof. Even I couldn't stand myself. I took a long, hot shower, sloshed some Jack Daniels' over ice, and downed a Percodan. Between the two of them, the rib pain didn't stand a chance.