"Brian, jiggle the chain to distract him," I said over my shoulder and hoped he'd understood what I meant. Whether he would oblige was anyone's guess.
I had the end flap of a roll of Vetrap between my teeth, a wad of sterile gauze coated with Betadine in my right hand, and the gelding's hind leg wedged between my forearm and thigh. The bandage I'd wrapped around his hoof yesterday lay on the ground beneath his tail.
Monday afternoon, he'd clipped the bulb of his heel, and he hadn't cared for my ministrations ever since. I hiked his leg higher up my thigh and placed the gauze over the gash. I felt the horse's head come up and realized that someone must have walked into the aisle and spooked him.
I anchored the end of the Vetrap in place with my thumb and got in four good wraps before the gelding tried to snatch his hoof out of my hands.
"Whoa," I said to the horse and, with irritation, to Brian, "Don't let him move forward." Like you did yesterday, I wanted to add but knew better.
I unwound the last of the Vetrap, then clamped my hands over the sole of his hoof to mold the bandage to itself. When I let go of his leg, he kicked out before placing his hoof on the ground where it belonged.
I straightened. Detective Ralston was standing just inside the doorway, and he was watching Brian.
"Couple more minutes," I said, "and I'll be done."
I had waited to hear from Ralston all day yesterday, but he hadn't returned my call until ten when he'd arranged to meet me at the farm in the morning. I had slept poorly and had come in early to get a head start on the day's work.
I reinforced the Vetrap with duct tape and snipped through the top margin of the bandage to alleviate pressure over the coronary band. The horse didn't like that, either.
"Okay, Brian. Put him back in his stall." I slapped the gelding on his rump as he moved off, and he flattened his ears.
After I'd washed up in the men's room, I found Ralston standing on the grassy strip that borders the outdoor arena. Beyond the fence, a handful of riders were working their horses. As I joined Ralston, Anne pointed Chase down the outside line. The gelding flew the jumps, covering the six-stride line in a ground-eating five, clearing the fan jump with a foot and a half to spare.
I whistled under my breath.
Halfway through their approach to the next line, Anne pulled the gelding off line. They galloped past so close, I felt the vibrations from his hoof beats through the soles of my boots. Ralston stepped backward. I pretended not to notice.
Anne turned the gelding toward the center of the ring. His hooves sluiced through the footing and spattered the fence boards with sand. The instant Chase realized they were heading for the diagonal line, he pricked his ears and sailed effortlessly down the line, a streak of liquid gold.
Ralston turned and looked at me over the rims of his sunglasses.
"Can we talk in your car?" I said. "The office is crowded."
"Sure."
"First, there's something I want to show you." I led him back into barn A and stopped at the bulletin board. "I found this the other night."
Ralston read the scrawled words and looked at me. "How long's this been up?"
"The beginning of March. I tacked it up as soon as I started back to work."
"When do you think they left the message?"
I shrugged. "I don't know. Marty stapled last weekend's show schedule over top of it Friday afternoon, and he didn't notice it, but that doesn't mean it wasn't there."
"What about the boarder who told you about the trailer? She notice anything?" Ralston said.
"No, she'd read the copy I'd posted in the lounge, not this one. I've asked around, but no one noticed the writing."
Ralston went back to his car and came back with an evidence bag and a pair of gloves. He dropped the wrinkled sheet into the bag, and I followed him back outside. He'd parked his car next to the office door. I guessed when you were a cop, you got into the habit of parking wherever you damn well liked.
Ralston turned the key in the ignition and powered down the windows. "Okay. Tell me about it."
I told him how I'd learned about the trailer and how I'd been caught trespassing.
He listened without interrupting, his expression unchanged, but I sensed his irritation from the stiffness in his shoulders and his overall stillness.
I told him about the Pennsylvania tags and why I thought it was the right trailer. "But the thing is, Drake didn't act like he was guilty. Either he's an extraordinary actor, or he's not involved, which doesn't make sense."
Ralston stared straight ahead, his gaze fixed on some point beyond the windshield. "Your impulsiveness negates your intelligence. If it is the trailer, besides the immediate danger you put yourself in, they've more than likely moved it by now."
I looked out the passenger window. "I didn't think anyone would see me."
"And you went inside?"
I nodded.
Ralston turned in his seat. "Do you realize what you've done?"
I didn't answer.
"You've contaminated any evidence we might have retrieved." His voice was as near to yelling as I'd ever heard it.
"How do you mean?" I said. "I didn't touch anything."
"Trace evidence. Proving that you were in that trailer on February the 24th was of primary importance. Now the defense will say anything we find was left behind Tuesday, not two months ago. Without that link, we don't have a case."
"Oh."
After a minute or two, he sighed. "I do appreciate what you're trying to do. But if you hear something, fine, phone it in. When it comes to chasing down leads, leave it to us, all right?"
I nodded.
"How'd Drake act when you asked him about the repairs?"
"It was weird," I said. "He didn't react at all."
"Maybe it's not the trailer."
"It is." I rubbed my forehead. "What are you going to do?"
"Get a warrant. Check it out."
Ralston popped open his briefcase and handed me a form. Under his direction, I wrote out a statement, stating that, to the best of my knowledge, the Wellington trailer parked on Mr. Drake's property, 10471 Mink Hollow Road, was the trailer used in the February twenty-fourth theft of seven horses from Foxdale Farm. In addition, I had been held in the trailer against my will. Ralston had me list the trailer's characteristics that enabled me to make a positive ID. Then I signed and dated it.
Afterwards, Ralston headed north to fill out the necessary paperwork to obtain a search warrant for the property and belongings of Randor L. Drake.
I spent Thursday night sitting on a hay bale in a school pony's stall. The brown mare had colicked late in the afternoon, and when a dose of Banamine hadn't set her right, I'd called Greg.
He had gone over her vitals, pumped mineral oil into her stomach, and instructed me to watch her overnight in case she got worse.
So far, she hadn't, and by two in the morning, she was dozing in her stall with her head lowered, eyes half-closed, ears at half-mast. I stretched, then leaned against the stall's rough wooden planks and closed my eyes. The crickets and tree frogs had quit their singing sometime earlier, and the barn was deeply quiet.
As dawn approached, I watched the sky lighten. By the time the rafters glowed red, touched by the nearly horizontal sunlight cutting through the windows, the mare was nosing around her stall, searching out stray wisps of hay. I got to work, and Ralston caught me in the middle of morning turnouts. Mrs. Hill hadn't come in yet, so we went into the office.
"Did you arrest him?" I said.
Ralston smiled, I assumed, at my naivete and shook his head. He closed the door and crossed his arms over his chest. "He's on a fishing trip in West Virginia."
"What?"
"Relax. It was prearranged. I don't think he's running yet. I talked to his neighbor. The guy feeds Drake's cattle when he's away which, according to him, is most weekends of the year. Drake's got a girlfriend in West Virginia, and when he isn't up north, he's training."
"Training?"
"Yeah. He's with the Guard.
"When's he due back?"
"Monday. I'm on my way to see his C.O. now. What were you wearing when they put you in the trailer?"
I thought back. "Jeans, T-shirt, a flannel shirt, boots-"
Ralston held out his hand. "I mean, do you remember specifically which flannel shirt? And can I have it?"
"Well, no. I was hypothermic, and my clothes were wet. The medics cut them off, and when I got them back, I threw them away."
"Damn."
"You found something?" I said.
Ralston shook his head. "It'll be weeks before results come back from the lab, but I needed your clothing so they can try to match it with any fibers they do find." He rubbed his face. "What about a coat?"
I nodded. "I still have that."
Ralston lowered his hand and looked at me with interest.
"And it's got a fleece collar."
"Perfect," he said. "When can I have it?"
"Now. I'll go get it."
"I'll drive," he said.
Ralston pulled out onto Rocky Ford. "I've been thinking about what I said yesterday, about your contaminating the scene. I think we still have a chance, even though we messed up."
I noticed his use of "we" but didn't comment on it. "How?"
"Let's say the techs find a couple of strands of hair they can prove came from you. The defense will say their presence has nothing to do with any alleged abduction back in February. Well, there's this forensics guy in Anchorage who performed an experiment that demonstrates the gradual deterioration of hair left in the environment. In that case, it was the opposite scenario he had to prove, but that doesn't matter."
"How do you mean?"
Ralston slowed the Ford as he approached the sharp curve at the entrance to the future housing development. "In that case, the defendant was accused of murdering his ex-girlfriend in her apartment. Forensics found hair and other fibers that linked him to the scene on the bed where the woman was strangled, in the bathroom, in the living room carpet. He used to live there, so the defense simply claimed that any of his hair found in the apartment was old."
"Makes sense."
"Yeah," Ralston said. "He swore up and down that he hadn't been there for at least three months, but ultimately, that claim was his downfall because, while they were waiting to go to the trial, this forensics guy vacuumed his house every day with one of the special vacuums they use at crime scenes-"
"The murder scene?"
"No. His house."
"I bet his wife loved that," I said.
"Yeah, I imagine so." Ralston yawned. "Anyway, he demonstrated how hair deteriorates over time but is still identifiable. So, from any given sample, he could show which hairs had been in the environment for an extended period of time and which hairs had been newly shed. He proved that some of the defendant's hairs found at the crime scene were fresh."
Ralston took off his sunglasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look at it the other way around. We can prove that any older hairs of yours have been in the trailer long enough to substantiate the claim that you were in that trailer two months ago as well as the other day."
"And if they find fibers from my coat, which I obviously didn't wear Tuesday, that'll help."
Ralston nodded.
I thought about the condition of the trailer and the fact that it had been forked out at least once since the theft. "What are the chances of forensics finding anything?"
"Not as bad as you might think. The overall lack of cleanliness might actually work in our favor. It's when the bad guys get out a hose and vacuum that it gets tough."
"What about James Peters?"
"I'm hoping we'll get something there, too. It's a crap shoot. You just hope you get something good." Ralston looked at me a little longer than was prudent for the narrow back road we were traveling. "Kind of an unusual job for someone with your background, isn't it?" he said.
I shrugged.
"I'd've figured you for Notre Dame or Harvard or Yale." He paused for emphasis. "Or even Johns Hopkins."
I shifted in my seat. "Done your homework, I see." When he didn't respond, I said, "I took a break from school and got a job here because I thought the idea of working with horses would be fun."
What I hadn't counted on was the old man kicking me out. Out of his house and out of his life, each of us waiting for the other to change his mind.
I sighed. "For a while, anyway."
Ralston accelerated into a curve. "But you stayed."
I adjusted the sun visor. "I kind of got caught up in it. I don't know. I like it a hell of a lot more than sitting in some lecture hall." I rubbed my eyes and said, "Do you think whoever stole the horses has someone inside Foxdale?"
"Hard to tell. Why?"
"Just wondered. One of our trainers got fired Friday. Whitcombe. The one I told you about before, who showed up with an expensive saddle right after the tack theft. He has a brand new Mustang convertible, too." And a baldheaded friend who resembled a eunuch, but I didn't tell him that.
"He inherited a chunk of change a while back, from an aunt," Ralston said, "but some family members contested the will. The ruling went in his favor. He received a check sometime in February. More than enough to cover that new saddle and a Mustang."
"Well then, that explains that. And maybe it explains his mood, too. He's always been… difficult, but in the last three or four months, he's been downright obnoxious."
"Money or love. Does it every time," Ralston said. "Know anything about his love life?"
"No," I said, "I do not."
The detective grinned, and I realized he must have known about, or at least suspected, Whitcombe's sexual preference.
"One of the other employees," I said, "Brian Denning. There's something up with him, isn't there?"
"He's in the system."
"What for?"
"Residential burglary, theft from a motor vehicle, DUI. He's on probation for another eight months.
"What's that entail?"
"Besides keeping his nose clean, staying off the booze, and holding a job, he's gotta attend A.A. and submit to drug testing. And he can't miss a meeting with his PO."
I pointed to a mailbox up ahead. "Turn in there."
I retrieved my coat, and Ralston lowered it into a plastic trash bag and sealed it shut with tape. He then rested a pad on the hood of his car and filled out a label which he pressed down across the bag's seam like a seal. "What about a hat? Gloves?"
I shook my head. I hadn't seen them since that night. Ralston handed me a receipt for the coat and dropped me off at Foxdale. I watched him back down the lane and hoped that something good would come from my screw-up.
After lunch, I fell asleep on the sofa in the lounge. When I next became aware of noises, someone was working at the computer keyboard in the office.
I hadn't slept for thirty hours, and lying down, even for a moment, had been a mistake. My legs and arms were felt heavy, as if they were weighted down.
The lounge door opened.
My entire body felt as if it were sunk into the cushions.
Whoever had opened the door, hadn't walked on through to the office.
I opened my eyes.
Mr. Harrison was standing alongside the sofa with a clipboard in his hand. His face was stiff, and I had the distinct impression he was clenching his teeth.
I checked my watch. Lunch time had ended without my knowledge. The crew was back at work, and no one had bothered to wake me.
When I pulled myself into a sitting position, Harrison handed me the paperwork. I glanced at his figures and saw that Marty had already initialed the invoice. I scrawled my name across the bottom of the sheet just the same and held out the clipboard. Harrison stared at me for a second, his eyes flat and expressionless, then he snatched it out of my hand and walked into the office.
Nick had described him as creepy. He wasn't far off.
Harrison could have left by the office door, but he chose to cut through the lounge on his way out. I was still sitting on the sofa when he stepped outside. He turned back around as the door swung shut and stared at me through the glass with that tight, expressionless face of his before he headed for his truck.
What a jerk. He was the one who had tried his stinking little scam. It was his damn luck he'd gotten caught.
I opened the lounge door as the flatbed lumbered down the lane. Harrison sat motionless in the passenger's seat. I glanced at the drive and realized I didn't know him and wondered if Harrison had fired the other guy. Harrison had seen me check. He scowled at me through the glass as the truck jostled past.
I rubbed my forehead and felt an overwhelming tiredness deep within my bones. And to top it off, it was going to be a late night. After the last lesson, the school horses had to be turned out and their stalls cleaned because we would be leasing the space to the clinic participants. If Rachel wanted to hang around, she'd have to watch me muck stalls.
There had to be a better way to impress your girlfriend.
I took the rest of the afternoon off, went home, and took a nap. Just before four o'clock, someone knocked on the kitchen door. I squinted through the glass.
Rachel was standing on the other side of my door.