Five-thirty Saturday morning, and already bands of color had spread across the eastern horizon. The horses watched as I walked down the barn aisle, flipping through my farm keys, looking for the right one. I had too many damn keys. Even with color-coded tape, I was still sorting through them when I stopped outside the tack room door.
Sensing something wrong, out of place, I looked up. I wouldn't be needing my keys. Not that morning, anyway.
The door was half open, and the jamb was cracked and splintered and dented with pry marks.
With nerves on high alert, I pushed the door inward with the toe of my boot and flipped the light switch with my key.
Locker doors hung askew or lay on the floor. Most of the saddles were gone. I walked into the center of the room and surveyed the damage. Some of the more expensive bridles were missing, too. I checked the other boarders' tack room. Everything of value that could easily be sold was gone. On my way out, I stopped outside the school horses' tack room. It was still locked. I frowned at the undisturbed door and considered the implications.
I walked over to barn A, knowing I'd find the same thing.
I pushed the door in with my boot, hit the light switch, and froze. A thin trail of blood snaked across the floor and disappeared around the corner of the central island of lockers.
I looked at my hand. Blood darkened my fingertips. The light switch had been smeared with blood, and it was still tacky.
The lockers were eight feet tall. I couldn't see around them. I inched toward the first row of lockers.
Before I made it around the corner, a hollow thump resounded in the barn. The muscles in my gut tightened. I looked back at the doorway. No one was there. The sound had come from one of the stalls. It was simply one of the horses across the aisle, knocking a hoof against the wall.
I looked down at the floor, realized I was holding my breath, forced myself to breathe. I stepped around the corner and followed the trail with a gaze so intent, I could see nothing else.
Something touched my hair.
I jumped back. The heel of my boot caught on the edge of a broken locker door, and I crashed backward into the row of lockers. Hanging from the rafters, and now gently swaying, was Boris the barn cat. Baling twine was tied around the tip of his tail, and his throat had been cut. His head dangled from a thin ribbon of flesh and matted fur. My stomach lurched, and saliva flooded my mouth. I swallowed and stumbled out of the room.
My muscles felt rubbery from the flood of adrenaline. I rubbed my face, then remembered the blood on my fingers. I wiped my hand on my jeans and looked up and down the aisle. Everything looked peaceful. Normal. The horses were watching, wondering what I was up to.
"Just having heart failure, guys," I said and didn't recognize my own voice.
After a minute or two, I went back in. Most of the saddles in that barn were ridiculously expensive. They were all gone. I crossed the room and examined the door that opened into aisle two. It was still locked. Blood had been smeared on that light switch, too. Whichever door I chose, I would have put my hand on a bloody light switch.
I walked back into the center of the room. The flies hadn't taken long to find the cat. They buzzed and flitted around the gaping wound in his neck and crawled over the matted fur. He'd been the only cat on the farm-a mascot of sorts-and wasn't aloof like most of them. Many of the boarders brought him treats. I doubted he'd ever caught a mouse. He wasn't going to now.
I thought about the room's layout and how his body had been strategically placed for maximum effect. I hadn't seen him until I was right on top of him. Someone had a very sick, twisted mind. Tack theft was all too prevalent, but this was cruel, wicked. Designed to terrify. Judging by my physical state, it had been, on the whole, entirely successful.
I headed for the office. The buildings were bathed in an early-morning wash of gray, and a ground-hugging mist had settled in the swales that cut through the pastures. The farm looked like a latent photograph come to life. As I walked down the sidewalk, it occurred to me that the office and lounge weren't immune to vandalism, either. I quickened my pace.
I peered through the glass as I unlocked the office door and saw that everything was secure. In the quiet room, my footsteps echoed hollowly on the cheap linoleum. I snatched up the phone and punched in the familiar number.
Mrs. Hill answered in three rings, fast for her. I glanced at the clock. Five-forty-three.
"Yes?" An element of dread in her voice.
"Mrs. Hill, this is Steve…" When she didn't respond, I said, "There's been more trouble at the farm-"
"Oh, no."
I told her about the saddles and Boris and the blood.
She didn't say anything… not a word.
"Mrs. Hill?"
"I can't believe this. Are you okay?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Are any of the horses missing?" Her voice was tight.
"No, ma'am."
"Well, there's that at least. I'll be in as soon as I can. It'll be a while, though. I have to wait until the bus comes for the kids."
She told me to notify the police, and I could hear her yelling to her husband as she hung up the phone. I slumped into her chair and rubbed my face. It was too much. Too damned much. I sat up, tapped my fingers on the blotter, and looked at the phone. Made another call.
The voice at the other end said, "C.I.U., Ralston."
"This is Stephen Cline from Foxdale Farm. You interviewed me last week, about-"
"What's up?"
"Last night, someone broke into the tack rooms on the farm. Most of the saddles are gone, and I think it might be the same people who took the horses."
He cleared his throat. "What makes you think that?"
"Well, whoever was here last night couldn't keep it simple. They killed a barn cat and smeared its blood around. Then they hung the body from the rafters." Christ, I had walked into the damn thing.
"How?"
"How what?"
"How was the cat killed?"
"Oh. They slit its throat."
After a pause, he said, "Did you see anyone when you arrived?"
"No, sir."
"You're sure no one's there now that shouldn't be?"
I glanced reflexively at the door. "Yes."
"Okay. I'll give Howard County a call." He paused, and I could hear papers rustle in the background. "And I think I'll drive over there myself. Do me a favor, Steve. Keep everyone clear of the barns. Don't let anyone drive all the way down there, okay?"
"Sure."
He disconnected, and I thought about the exhaustion I'd heard in his voice and didn't envy him his job.
I grained the horses early-they didn't object-then lugged hay bales out of the storage area at the end of the barn and spaced them down the center of the aisle. I slid my hand into my pocket and wrapped my fingers around the knife that was successfully wearing a hole through my jeans. The smooth plastic sheath was warm from my own body heat. It wasn't until I pulled the blade out that I thought how someone, just hours before, had used a knife to slit the cat's throat.
Shortly before seven, a police car pulled down the lane and jerked to a halt between the barns. As the officer climbed out and grabbed a clipboard off the dash, a dirt-streaked white Taurus parked alongside the grain bin. I answered questions that had become increasingly familiar in the past two weeks, while the driver of the Taurus popped the trunk and levered himself out of his car. He wasn't in uniform, and judging by the equipment he'd hefted onto the asphalt, I guessed he was a technician of some sort. When he joined us, carrying a black duffel bag with HCPD stenciled on the side in one hand and a heavy-looking aluminum case in the other, we walked into the barn.
I glanced over my shoulder when one of them whistled.
The uniformed cop adjusted his mirrored sunglasses. "How many horses you got in this place?"
"In both barns, one hundred and ninety three."
He whistled again, then grinned at his partner. "Look like they're in jail, don't they?"
The plainclothes cop didn't respond, and I wondered what was eating him. We stopped at the tack room door.
"They broke in here," I said. "But we can get in through the undamaged door in the other aisle. I nailed this one shut, because I didn't want the employees or boarders to see what's inside."
"And what's that?" the uniformed cop said.
I glanced at my reflection in his glasses and realized how disconnected I felt because I couldn't see his eyes. I told him about Boris. "I was hoping to keep it quiet. Some of the boarders loved that cat."
"Did you touch anything?"
"No. Oh, yeah. The light switch."
"Humph. We'll start processing the scene, but I can't guarantee we'll be done in time for what you want."
I skirted a puddle in the wash rack and ducked under the divider that allowed two horses to be bathed at once. "We can cut through here," I said over my shoulder, "to get to the other aisle." I turned in time to see them hesitate. The grumpy guy crinkled his nose and proceeded as if he were in alien territory. Smiling to myself, I took the opportunity to rinse my hands under the spigot. A minty scent, left over from liniments and leg braces, clung to the walls.
The uniformed cop stood beside me as I unlocked the door. "You'll need to make a preliminary list of the items that were stolen and their estimated value."
"It'll be a rough estimate," I said. "Very rough, like not even in the ballpark kind of rough."
He grinned. "That'll do for now. You can submit a more accurate inventory later."
As I opened the door and stepped back, a dark green Crown Victoria pulled alongside the patrol car. Detective Ralston climbed out and clicked the door shut. His wrinkled suit hung loosely off his shoulders. He looked as if he hadn't made it to bed the night before, or if he had, he'd slept in his clothes.
He introduced himself to his Howard County counterparts, mentioned Detective Linquist, then looked at me. "What've we got, Steve?"
For an answer, I pushed the door open with my boot. Detective Ralston walked inside, looked around, and came back out.
He yawned. "Did you touch anything?"
I rubbed my thumb across my fingertips. "The light switch." I pointed across the room. "Over there." He looked at me as if I should have known better. "I didn't in the other tack rooms, though," I said and thought I saw a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.
"How many people have access to this room?"
"Fifty-plus."
Ralston grunted, and the plainclothes cop, who was standing behind him, scowled. His expression said loud and clear that he thought he was wasting his time.
"If the burglars had any sense," Ralston continued, "they wore gloves."
"Even if they didn't," the plainclothes cop said, "with all that traffic, it won't matter."
Ralston looked at the man, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. "When's Gary gonna show?" he said.
The cop shrugged.
After the Howard County team stepped into the tack room and dumped their equipment on the floor, Ralston went back to his car. I separated out four flakes of hay, fed the last two horses at the far end of the aisle, and squinted at Ralston's car. He was on the phone, and I would have bet half my paycheck that he was bending Detective Sgt. Gary Linquist's ear.
Five minutes later, Ralston strolled back into the barn and stood looking into the tack room. He folded his arms across his chest and watched the uniformed officer take pictures. The glare of the flash bounced off the walls and the ceiling… and Boris. I checked my watch. Seven-ten. It would be a miracle if the crew didn't end up standing around with their mouths open, gawking at the cat, then telling everyone they could think of about it, and the story would become unnecessarily sensationalized and blown out of proportion.
I stuck my head in the doorway. "Would you let me know when you're done in there? I want to clean up as soon as possible."
The uniformed cop looked up and nodded. "No problem."
Ralston started in on the questions. I hadn't seen anyone. The sodium vapors were still on. The place had been dead. He rubbed his face. "You're the first person here every morning?"
"Usually."
"How common's that knowledge?"
"I have no idea."
"What did you think when you saw the blood?"
"That there was a person around the corner." I looked him in the eye. "A dead person."
He grunted. "What did you think when you saw the cat?"
I blinked. "Think?"
He waited.
"That someone was playing a game," I said and felt that Ralston could read my every thought. Was sure he could imagine every damn feeling I'd had the pleasure of exploring earlier that morning. "A mind game."
"You think it was directed at you personally?"
I shrugged.
"If it's the same crew, they probably had you in mind." When I didn't respond, he said, "When, exactly, did you discover the burglary?"
"Around five-thirty."
He frowned. "Was the blood dry?"
"It was damp. Kind of tacky."
"They hadn't been gone long."
I looked at the floor and kicked at a few wisps of hay with the toe of my boot. Someone hadn't done a very good job sweeping up the night before.
"You might want to change your routine."
Change my routine. Easy for him to say.
"So," Ralston said. "You think the events are related because of the excessive brutality."
I nodded. "They didn't need to do that."
Ralston shifted his weight and leaned on the doorjamb. "Burglars normally don't waste time leaving such an elaborate message, not unless there's a reason for it. Especially since they must have known they were running out of time." Ralston poked his head into the tack room. "Did Gary tell you this case might be related to an open homicide?"
The uniformed cop looked up from where he'd been trying to enhance a print, a small brush poised in his hand. "Yes, sir. He did."
"Also," I said to Ralston. "It looks like they knew the layout of the farm. They didn't touch the school horses' tack room. The saddles in there are cheap."
I glanced over Ralston's shoulder. Marty was strolling into the barn, a questioning look on his face. I hurried to cut him off.
"Steve, what the fuck's goin' on?"
"Someone made off with a truck load of saddles and-"
"No shit."
"No shit. The police are collecting evidence now, so please stay away from all three tack rooms. If you see the guys before I do, let them know. Oh, and the school horses' tack room wasn't touched, so you can do whatever you have to in there."
"Wow. I don't believe it. First the horses, now this." He calmly looked at my face. "Someone doesn't like us very much, do they?"
"Apparently not. By the way, has this happened before? A tack theft I mean?"
"Not that I know of. Not since I've been here."
I sighed. The morning seemed to be going on forever. "Let's get to work. Most of the haying's done over here. Go help out in barn B, then we'll start turnouts."
"Okay, boss."
I watched him saunter off without a care in the world, and I envied him.
A half hour later, the uniformed cop told me they were finished in the tack room.
"How'd it go?" I asked.
"Everywhere they would've touched, we got nothin' but smudges."
"They were wearing gloves," I said.
"Looks that way. We do have some good tool marks to work with, which reminds me. I need your signature." He handed me the clipboard and showed me where to sign.
"What good are tool marks?"
"Aren't good for nothin', not until Detective Ralston figures out who did it. Then we can compare their tools with the impressions."
"Oh," I said, and he could probably see I wasn't impressed.
I watched him head to the other barn. Out in the lane, Ralston and Detective Linquist were talking to Brian, and I wondered when I'd hear about that.
I was leaning against a locker, working halfheartedly on the inventory, when Mrs. Hill marched into the room. I pushed myself off the locker and straightened my spine. She circled the room with her hands on her hips.
I closed one locker, squatted down, and was checking the locker on the bottom row when I became aware of a stillness in the room. I looked over my shoulder. Mrs. Hill was standing in the middle of the room with her hands in her pockets and her head bowed. I stopped what I was doing and stood up.
"Oh, Stephen," she said. "What a mess. I hate to think what Mr. Ambrose is going to say when he hears about this. He's going to have a fit."
I doubted Mr. Ambrose would care one little bit. Although he was Foxdale's owner, his wife had been behind Foxdale's inception. A talented rider who had represented the United States in numerous Olympic and World Cup competitions, she had died of cancer a month after the ribbon-cutting ceremony.
"He doesn't care about the place," I said.
"Oh, that's not true, dear. He likes anything that makes a profit, which we do. And I must say, you've helped tremendously in that department. I tell him all the time what innovations and improvements you've come up with. He's quite pleased." She frowned. "He won't be now."
"No." I slid my pencil under the clasp on the clipboard and thought about money and insurance… and tax write-offs. Contrary to what he tells her, what if Ambrose wanted Foxdale to lose money? Even if he was rolling in the stuff, I found his avoidance of the place a little strange. "Who do you send the payroll information to?" I said.
She frowned. "Farpoint Industries in Baltimore. Why?"
"Just curious."
"What are you doing?"
"Working on a list for the police." I looked at my scribbled notes. "But without the boarders' help, it won't be complete. I don't know the saddles' values. All I can do is write down the names of everyone who's had their saddles stolen. And if by chance they've taken them home to clean, I've got that wrong, too."
"You're right. I'll start making calls. We'll need an accurate itemization from each boarder."
I looked at her face and saw by her expression that she'd already shifted into high gear. Making plans, working out procedures, focusing on the days ahead. She turned and left with a characteristic "Carry on, dear," floating over her shoulder.
I carried on but with little enthusiasm.
The resultant uproar was predictable and worsened by the fact that Foxdale was holding a schooling show the following morning. Two boarders gave notice that they were taking their horses and belongings elsewhere. I overheard more than one boarder asking Mrs. Hill about a night watchman and privately wondered how she would fare with the frugal Mr. Ambrose.
Three boarders asked if I knew where Boris was. I didn't. No one seemed to notice that he had disappeared along with the saddles. Dave spent all of the afternoon and most of the evening restoring the tack rooms to their former perfection, and life went on except, of course, for Boris.
Sunday afternoon, "the schooling show that wasn't" was thankfully half over. Some of the boarders had borrowed saddles, but most had stayed home. Sitting around, watching competitors from other farms win all the ribbons, was no one's idea of fun. I walked into the southwest field that served as a parking area during show days and scanned the rows of trailers.
Checking had become a habit. Checking locks, checking horses. Checking trailers, looking for the elusive dualie and old trailer, my personal introduction to hell.
There were far too many trucks and trailers in the pasture to check them from a distance, so I walked up and down the rows. Quite a few saddles had been left sitting on their stands. On the off chance I might recognize one of the more distinctive saddles that had been stolen from the tack room, I took note of them, too. More checking.
There were few people in the parking area-most had gone to lunch-so I was surprised to hear heavy, quick footsteps behind me. Before I could react, someone grabbed my shoulder and spun me around.
He tightened his grip on my jacket. "What in the hell do you think you're doing, snooping 'round out here?"
I looked up at him. Had to. He had a good four inches on me. Maybe thirty-five, and overweight, I had never seen him before. He didn't look like a rider or a trainer.
"You looking to steal somebody's stuff?" He shook my shoulder with each inflection of his voice. "Is that it? What're you doing? Speak up."
He hadn't given me a chance. I resisted an urge to kick him in the shins and said with irritation, spitting my words out slowly, "Actually, I was looking for stolen tack… not trying to steal any." I exhaled and made an effort to relax. "I'm Foxdale's barn manager. Somebody cleaned out our tack rooms Friday morning, and I was hoping to find a lead of some kind."
"Oh." He let go. "Sorry, then. I heard about that."
I smoothed out my shirt. "Have you had any tack stolen?"
"What do you think? I run a show barn in Pennsylvania, and right before Christmas, our tack room was broken into." He ran a hand through his hair and stared off into the middle distance as if reliving the event. "We couldn't believe it 'cause our house sits across the road from the barn, and somebody had the balls to go in there with a truck and empty the place out. We never thought it would happen to us."
"No." I sighed. "Have you had any horses stolen?"
"Hell, no."
"Do you know anyone who has?"
"Yeah. Come to think of it, I do. A buddy of mine had four of his horses stolen right from under his nose."
"When?"
"Two years ago. Maybe longer. Don't rightly recall."
"Where does he live?" I asked without much hope.
"He runs a dressage barn in northern Carroll County, just south of the Maryland-PA line. Four of his best horses, gone without a trace, and he didn't have any damn insurance on them, either."
Carroll County. James Peters lived in Carroll County. We weren't far from Carroll County. The world wasn't that small a place.
"What's your friend's name."
"George Irons. Why?"
"I'd like to talk to him. Do you know anyone who owns a white dualie and an old, dark-colored six-horse?"
"No."
He'd answered quickly, without thinking. "Are you sure?" I said. "It's important."
He smoothed a hand over his hair and down the back of his neck. "No, can't think of anyone. Why?"
"In February, someone stole seven horses from Foxdale with a rig like that. And last June, seven horses were stolen from James Peters' farm in Carroll County. Ever heard of him?"
"No."
"Apparently the same truck and trailer were used. If you see a rig like that, could you let me know? Just call Foxdale. Ask for Steve."
"Sure, but you aren't ever gonna get your horses back."
"I know. But whoever did it, whoever stole the horses… murdered James Peters."
His mouth fell open, and he gaped at me like a fool.
I knew intimately how he felt.
He gave me an idea, though. A risky idea, nonetheless. From that day on, I would tell everyone I met the same thing. Many of the exhibitors traveled a circuit. Who's to say the thief slash murderer wasn't doing the same thing elsewhere. With luck, I might learn something useful. Consequently, I spent the rest of the day, not watching the show, not working, but talking. By the end of the day, there wasn't a soul on the grounds who hadn't heard of James Peters, the stolen horses, and the white dualie and old six-horse.