More than one of the crew had overheard Whitcombe blaming me for what happened, so as soon as I was certain I'd catch Marty at home, I closed the door between the lounge and office and used the phone.
"Shit, Steve. I have a date."
"Come on, Marty." I swiveled around in the chair until my back was to the door and rested my chin on my hand. "Bring her along. You can hang out in the lounge."
"Not for what I got planned. Not unless you wanna watch."
I groaned.
"Man, I can't stand it when you whine… Oh, all right, but I won't be over until ten, maybe eleven."
I didn't say anything.
He sighed. "Okay. Ten o'clock and not a minute before, and you owe me."
"Thanks."
"Sissy," he said, and I could hear a smile in his voice.
"Got that right. Whitcombe's PO'ed, and I'm not on his top ten list."
"Depends what list you're talkin' about."
Ten o'clock came and went, and no Marty. Karen and Judy left for the evening, and all the boarders packed up and drifted home. The place was deserted, yet the newly-installed gates by the road stood wide open so Whitcombe could drive down to the barn, and Marty.
Where the hell was he? I could imagine where he was, damn him.
At eleven thirty, I picked up the phone. No answer.
I had never thought much about the presence or absence of courage. Apparently I was lacking in that department, and I didn't like it. Not one little bit. I was tempted to call Mrs. Hill, or just go home; instead, I sat on the sofa and switched the channel to a late night talk show that was only marginally entertaining.
Someone gripped my shoulder and shook me.
I scrambled off the sofa and just about fell on my butt. "Damn, Marty. You almost gave me a heart attack, sneaking up on me like that."
He laughed. "'Sneakin', my ass. You were sound asleep."
"God." I shook myself. Every muscle in my body was strung tight, and my heart was pounding so hard it hurt. Waking up like that couldn't be healthy.
"Nervous, Steve?"
"A little… So where the hell've you been?" I looked at my watch. "It's one-fifteen."
"Sorry. Fell asleep."
"In whose bed?"
Marty grinned. "Wouldn't you like to know." He yawned and rubbed his face. "I take it Whitcombe hasn't showed?"
"No. Even if he got past me while I was asleep, he still needs to come in here and pick up his paperwork before he can get his deposit refunded."
"Think he's gonna show?"
"Who knows," I said. "This is the last thing I feel like doing right now." I looked at Marty. "Or you, either. Thanks for coming in."
"Well, I would of felt like shit if Whitcombe planned some pay-back and you were here all by your lonesome."
"Didn't know you cared."
"I don't." Marty dropped down onto the sofa. "I just don't like guilt."
"Now, that sounds like the Marty I know-"
"And love?"
"Not on your life," I said. "Not in this life. Not in any life." Marty was still chuckling when I walked over to the soda machine and slotted some coins into the machine. "I think you're confusing me with Whitcombe. Want a Coke?"
"No, I'd be awake half the night. Speakin' of sex-"
"I thought we were speakin' of love," I said. "Or sleep."
"Whatever. Anyhow, that Rachel's sure cute." He leaned back against the sagging, worn cushions and hooked his leg over the armrest. "Maybe she'll wake you up."
I grinned.
Marty lifted his head off the cushions. "Well, hallelujah. I was afraid you were gonna turn into a monk or somethin' and be celibate for the rest of your godforsaken life."
I swallowed some Coke, and we both looked up when a horse van rumbled down the lane past the lounge door.
I lowered the can from my lips. "Party time." I grabbed the paperwork off Mrs. Hill's desk.
The van had parked in the pool of light between the barns. As Marty and I approached, Whitcombe hopped down from the cab and turned toward me with a smirk on his face that disappeared when he saw Marty.
Marty worked out every day. Excluding the opposite sex, it was his passion, and I'd often thought that I wouldn't want to find myself on the wrong side of his anger.
The passenger's door opened. Someone got out and walked around the front bumper. He stopped behind Whitcombe, and I thanked my lucky stars I'd had the sense to get reinforcements. He looked like a goon-all muscle, no brain-and he didn't look like a horseman. Light glinted off his bald head, and despite the chilly night air, he was wearing a muscle shirt that showed off his tattooed biceps to best advantage.
"Get the horses for me, Cline," Whitcombe said.
"Get them yourself."
Marty snorted, prompting a scowl from Whitcombe and a grin from me. Whitcombe turned and strode into the barn, followed obediently by his friend. I took a swig of Coke. When they finished loading the horses, I handed Whitcombe the forms.
He creased them in half and wedged them into his jacket pocket. "Unlock the tack room, Cline. I need to get my gear."
I walked down the barn aisle, sorting one-handed through the keys, and thought how nice it was not having to say Sir to that creep anymore. When I paused to unlock the door, I glanced at Marty. My own personal bodyguard, I saw with amusement, was checking out Whitcombe's friend. Marty winked at me when he saw me looking.
I suppressed a grin and flicked on the lights. Whitcombe and his friend followed me into the room. Before I realized what was happening, his friend closed and locked the door.
Damn.
My bodyguard was on the wrong side of the door, and I doubted he had his key.
Marty yelled and banged on the door.
Whitcombe and friend closed ranks. I backed up until my back was pressed against a row of lockers. They stopped short of bumping into me, and I felt like a damned idiot, standing there with a soda in one hand, keys in the other, and without a useful thought in my head.
Whitcombe leaned in closer. His hot breath stank of beer. "You caused me to lose a damn good job, you little shit, and I'll get even."
"You didn't need my help, losing your job," I said. "You did it all by yourself."
His eyes narrowed to slits, and his lower lip looked fatter than ever. "When you first started here, I thought you were different. But you're just like all the rest. Afraid of anybody who's different than you."
"No, I'm not."
"Don't kid yourself. You make me sick."
He signaled to his friend, and I tensed. Instead of laying into me, he walked across the room and unlocked the door. Marty stood glaring at them with hunched shoulders and clenched fists.
Whitcombe walked over to his locker as if nothing had happened and hauled his stuff out to the van. Marty and I watched in silence until they'd finished loading Whitcombe's tack and had driven away.
"What happened?" Marty said.
"Nothing."
He frowned at me. "He say where he's going?"
"Nope," I said and couldn't help but wonder if he'd be back.
Seven-thirty Sunday morning, and the first A-rated show of the season was half over. Cliff started up the John Deere 960, shifted into gear, and hauled the overflowing manure wagon out of the barn. I walked outside and looked down the lane toward the arenas.
Exhibitors were already warming up their horses, lunging them in the pasture alongside the road, and hacking them in the ring. In the chilly air, the horses' breath formed misty plumes that shimmered with gold in the early-morning light. The entries were double what they had been the year before. Figures for the day would be comfortably in the black.
Soon, the quiet, surrealistic moment would be replaced by the hustle and bustle of dozens of people competing against each other, a civilized modern-day imitation of mounted warfare. Risk was noticeably absent.
When the tractor pulled into the lane between the barns, I headed back. After we mucked out the next group of stalls, Cliff pulled the wagon farther down the aisle, adding diesel fumes to the dusty haze kicked up from cleaning stalls. I picked up the push broom and began sweeping the aisle where we had just finished working. Marty was in rare form, singing a country song rather badly. Some song about somebody losing somebody.
I looked up when I heard someone walking toward me. Elsa. My muscles tensed. It was the first time I'd seen her since the feed room. I bent over and jabbed the broom toward a tangle of hay and sawdust.
As she walked past, I glanced sideways at her. Without breaking stride, she slapped my butt-a blatantly clear message to anyone who was watching.
Marty was watching. He stepped into the aisle and stared at me with his mouth open.
"I can't believe it," he said. "You fucked her, didn't you?"
I unclenched my teeth. "Shut up."
"After all this time-"
"Shut up, damn it."
I leaned the broom against the stall front and turned toward the door. One of the boarders had walked into the barn, and she had undoubtedly heard at least part of the conversation.
I went outside, sat at one of the picnic tables, and rested my forehead on my knuckles. What a mess. I should have known better. Should have left Elsa alone.
"Sorry." Marty's voice.
I looked up. There was no humor in his face. No laugh lines crinkled the skin around his eyes. "Never mind," I said.
He sat across from me. "You're only human, Steve… I know what she's like. The woman's relentless. 'Course all she had to do was look my way."
"Man." I rubbed my face. "I really screwed up. Rachel will dump me if she finds out, and the thing is, I had no intention, none at all of
… Oh, damn it."
He shook his head. "You worry too much. Rachel's a smart girl. Anybody with half a brain can see what kind of woman Elsa is. I mean, it's kind of understandable what happened. And the two of you haven't been going out all that long, right? It's not like you've agreed that you wouldn't date other people, right?"
"I know."
"Well, see. She probably won't find out, anyway. Elsa ain't the kiss and tell type. I'll bet-"
"Could of fooled me."
Marty grinned. "I think the only reason she made an example of you was because you were a challenge."
"Ha. Hardly."
My timing had been awful. A month earlier, and it wouldn't have made any damn difference.
Monday morning, I fixed a bowl of corn flakes, and while I ate, I made a list of people who might, for whatever reason, be waging a hate campaign against Foxdale. Or maybe the evil-mindedness was directed at me, though I couldn't guess why.
I started with the people I had fired. Mark, Tony, Bobby and, most recently, Alan.
I printed a second heading, "Discontinued Services:" Dr. Weston-vet, Rick Parker-farrier, Luke Barren-farrier, Pence-grain dealer, Schultz-hay dealer. I added Harrison's name. Although he still supplied us, he was pissed at me, and so was his driver.
The list looked ridiculous. I couldn't imagine any of them having a grudge strong enough, and where was the connection to James Peters? I doodled in the margins and thought about motive. I wrote that down, too.
Greed, jealousy, hate. I thought about Boris the cat and added psychosis.
What was their motivation, if not simple, straightforward malice? Maybe Foxdale's success was hurting someone, possibly another horse farm with the same hunter/jumper focus. Maybe they were losing clients while we were flourishing. They would be jealous, envious, hateful. Maybe they were losing clients to us.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
I ran my fingers through my hair and stared at the lists until the words blurred. So far, Foxdale had prospered despite the campaign. It wouldn't last forever. There was only so much the boarders would overlook.
I yanked the calendar off the wall and tossed it on the counter. It hit the surface with a resounding smack. The loft was too quiet, and it was getting on my nerves. I switched on the audio system, turned up the volume, and tried to work the kinks out of my neck
As best as I could remember, I listed all the events I'd learned about in the past six weeks: George Irons, PA, horses stolen two summers ago. James Peters, murdered Saturday, August 4th (last year). Tack theft, S. Miller, PA Saturday, December 21st. At Foxdale, we had the horse theft on Saturday, February 24th, the tack theft/Boris on Saturday, March 9th, and the burnt jump/graffiti on Monday, April 1st.
Assuming the events were related, our man liked to work on the weekend.
In the past week, I'd scanned old headlines until my eyes glazed over, yet I had only uncovered two other horse thefts. I'd discounted both out of hand. A boarder had stolen his own mares and skipped town without paying his board, and in the other case, only one horse had been taken.
As of yet, I hadn't discovered a connection between the Foxdale and Hunter's Ridge. The rig was the only lead, and that was looking more and more like a dead end.
At ten o'clock, I walked into the office and stood in front of Mrs. Hill's desk. I pulled the lists out of my back pocket, unfolded them, and handed her the wrinkled sheets.
She glanced at them. "What's this?"
I wiped my hands on my jeans. "Foxdale really needs to hire a night watchman. I'd say it's become a necessity."
She started with the list of chronological events.
"What's this? James Peters, murdered?"
"Did you know him?"
She shook her head. "No. But his name's familiar." She tapped her fingers on the desk blotter and stared at the office door as if she'd find the answer there. "Oh, yes. That detective asked about him, but I can't now remember…"
"He owned and operated a hunter/jumper facility in Carroll County." I paused. What happened to him was hard to think about, much less talk about, especially with someone who knew what had happened to me.
"Stephen?"
I cleared my throat. "Someone stole seven horses from his farm, and when they did… they murdered him."
"Oh, no. But-"
"The police believe his murder, the horse theft here, and possibly the tack theft, were committed by the same people."
"But that… that means that you-"
"Then there are those other incidents on the list, which may or may not be related."
She stood and walked around the desk. "You could have been murdered," she gestured to my lists with a flap of her hand, "just like this man."
A slight tremor worked at the corner of her mouth, and she wasn't telling me anything new. That depressing fact had been hovering in my subconscious for the past month and a half. I looked down at my feet, at the square of blue carpet in front of her desk. It needed to be hosed off. Too many muddy feet trudging in from the barns.
She sighed. "I'll ask Mr. Ambrose about a night watchman again." She paused, then picked up my list of names. "I can't believe any of these people would do such a thing, Stephen. It's absurd."
"I know, but I can't think of anyone else."
"Leave it to the police. They'll find out who's behind it." She held my lists out to me and, mistaking my silence for agreement, switched to discussing preparations for the dressage clinic Foxdale was hosting over the weekend.
I studied the wall alongside Mrs. Hill's desk which was, in effect, one gigantic calendar. She had covered it with white board, and every weekend for the next three months had some event or other scheduled. I felt tired just looking at it.
"Stephen, are you listening?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"And you'll have to move all the school horses…"
Last night, I had spent more time than I'd care to admit, lying awake, unable to sleep, which was ironic, considering how physically tired I'd been. Telling everyone about James Peters and the rig used in the horse theft was fine as far as it went, but inefficient. I could do better.
"Stephen?"
"Yes, ma'am. I'll make sure it gets done. Tonight, can I use the computer and printer?"
"Of course, dear."
"With your permission, I'd like to send a letter to everyone in the address files-boarders, suppliers, contractors, everyone on the show mailing list-all the individuals and organizations we deal with."
"Whatever for? There are hundreds of them."
I told her.
"But that could be dangerous."
"I'll use an anonymous post office box, then. Not Foxdale's, and I won't sign it."
She shook her head but gave me permission in the end. She didn't seem concerned about what my letter might do to Foxdale's reputation. Maybe she saw, as I did, that if the attacks didn't stop, there might not be anything left worth saving.
Eleven o'clock Monday night, and I was still peeling labels and stuffing envelopes with what I hoped would be an effective attempt at finding James Peters' murderer. Mrs. Hill had been wrong. There were more than a thousand names once I'd opened all the files. But like Ralston had pointed out, it only took one.
Someone out there knew who owned a white dualie and dark-colored six-horse. But that wasn't all I was after. I was looking for information from anyone who had been the victim of horse or tack theft or unusual vandalism in the last five years. Maybe a pattern would emerge. I set aside a stack of letters to give to Greg and Nick.
As I switched off the computer, light flashed across the office door. I crossed the room and peered through the glass. It was only a police car. Officer Dorsett climbed from behind the wheel as I unlocked the door.
He stepped inside and looked me up and down. "I'd've thought you spent all your time in the barns."
I glanced down at my jeans. They were filthy, and when I did get around to doing the laundry, I used the machines on the farm, which were used for washing the horses' leg wraps, saddle pads, and blankets, so whether I realized it or not, I probably smelled like a horse.
"Yeah," I said. "I generally steer clear of the office if at all humanly possible." I walked behind the desk and noticed him eyeing the cup of coffee I'd just made. I pointed toward the lounge door. "Want some, help yourself."
He returned moments later with a Styrofoam cup in his hand. Steam rose from the cup's rim and curled toward the ceiling in lazy spirals. "What're you working on?" he said. "The place is usually dead this time of night."
"Just some paperwork."
He strolled around the office, his gaze drifting over the clutter that blanketed every flat surface.
I stuffed the last stack of envelopes into a cardboard box and set it on the floor by the door. Dorsett's patrol car was parked under the glare of the sodium vapors. A nice touch as far as security went. Maybe I'd get Dave to make some official-looking signs about guards or attack dogs.
Officer Dorsett said, "Doing a little sleuthing?"
I turned around and saw he'd been reading the stack of flyers. "Nosy, aren't you?"
"Comes with the job."
I picked up the flyers and wedged them in alongside the envelopes.
"I'm serious," he said. "Have you told Detective Ralston you're doing this?"
I straightened. "Why should I?
"He's talked to everyone who has Foxdale on their post," Dorsett said. "Apparently he's frustrated with the case he's working, and frankly, I think he's worried about you and-"
"What do you mean, he's worried about me?"
"Come on, be your age. Whoever's been doing this," he gestured to my letter, "is probably going to keep on doing it until they're caught."
"Shit."
"Damn straight. You should tell Ralston about it." He glanced at his watch. "How much longer you going to be here?"
"I'm done." I pulled on my denim jacket. "I just have to check the barns."
"I'll go with you."
I lugged the box of letters outside, dumped it on the sidewalk, and locked the doors.
When we walked into barn B, Dorsett said, "Damn, I've never seen so many horses before. And they're not your ordinary plow horse, either."
I chuckled, "No, they most certainly are not."
"How much are they worth?"
"It all depends." I jiggled the tack room lock. "Anywhere from a thousand to forty thousand. Often more."
"Shit."
"Damn straight."
His eyebrows rose. "You don't miss much do you?"
"Yeah, right."
After checking both barns, we walked down to the implement building. I flicked on the lights and rattled the doorknob to Dave's storage room, then I walked around to the back of the building. We still hadn't gotten around to fencing in the lane. It was wide open to anyone who might drive in off the back road. Officer Dorsett unhooked his flashlight and switched it on. There was nothing to see.
He followed me out like the last time and waited while I closed and locked the gates, except this time he didn't follow me halfway home.