Kit Ehrman - At Risk

When Ralston asked when I could take off for another attempt, I selfishly avoided sacrificing any part of my next scheduled day off. Rachel and I had a date planned, and I'd justified my decision with the knowledge that I had some sleuthing of my own in mind.

Rain moved in sheets across the pavement. I squinted through the spray of water droplets and felt the beginnings of a headache. As I pulled off Rocky Ford and headed down the lane toward the parking lot, something in the large outdoor arena caught my eye. One of the jumps looked different, but I couldn't make out why from so far away. I backed into my usual space and pulled on a rain poncho. Cold rain stung like needles on my face as I trudged across the lane. I unlatched the gate and walked into the arena. The going was deeper, but as usual, the drainage system was doing its job. Even in a downpour, the footing was good for the horses.

I stopped at the base of the jump, or what was left of it. The message was bone-chillingly clear. The Foxdale jump, the one that most represented Foxdale, had been burned to the ground, the intricately-carved fox heads and hunt scene reduced to a pile of charred rubble and ash. Standing there as the rain splattered loudly on the plastic of my poncho and pounded in a deafening roar on the arena's metal roof, I'd had enough. I would have to find them, stop them. They wanted to play with fire, I'd make sure they got burnt.

I looked for additional damage and found none, but the message was poignant all the same. I grained the horses and started haying. When the crew straggled in around seven, I left them to finish up and went into the office. I pulled a worn card out of my back pocket and dialed Detective Ralston's number. After six rings, I was thinking about hanging up when he picked up.

"This is Steve Cline, at Foxdale."

"What's up?" He sounded wide awake and enthusiastic if not downright cheerful.

"Someone torched one of the jumps in the outdoor arena last night. I didn't know if you'd want me to call you or not, but the jump they chose was one with Foxdale's logo on it. I took that to be a message of sorts." When he didn't respond, I said, "Assuming it's the same crew, it seems there's been a shift in their focus."

"What do you mean?"

"Profit." I rubbed my forehead. "There wasn't any profit in what they did last night. Only malice."

"There was malice with the cat," Ralston said. He was right, of course. "Is it raining there?"

"Coming down in buckets."

"I'll call Linquist and let him know. The rain's probably destroyed any evidence, but it'll be good to get the incident on record."

"All right."

"Any other damage?"

"No. Nothing else has been touched."

"Good. Someone will be out."

When Ralston disconnected, I stared at his card lying on the blotter. What was I going to find next? What if they decided that torching a jump wasn't enough?

I left a note for Mrs. Hill, emptied out my bin, and walked back to the barn.

Later that morning, after the crew had turned out the first batch of horses and we'd started in on the stalls, I grabbed a push broom from the storage area at the end of the aisle. When I turned around, I almost bumped into Dave.

He opened his mouth to say something, then hesitated. He hadn't gone to the party. Hadn't heard about the fight. Hadn't seen my face.

I looked more closely and saw he was angry, and I didn't think it had anything to do with me. "What's wrong?" I said.

"What happened to the Foxdale jump?"

I crossed my arms and leaned on the broom. Not one of the crew had noticed except him. "Someone was up to no good last night."

Dave looked affronted. Probably couldn't believe that someone had dared touch his artistic handiwork. He glared at me. "You seem to be takin' it lightly."

"Err…" I straightened. "Sorry. It was a magnificent piece of work, but at least it wasn't the barn they burned down."

"Well, shoot. Hadn't thought about that." He rubbed his hands down the front of his grubby overalls and strode out of the barn. Five minutes later he was back, and if anything, he was more agitated.

"What's wrong, now?"

"Somebody's been messin' about in my workshop," Dave said.

"What?"

"My tools are all right." He kept them locked up tighter than Fort Knox. "But paint's been spilled all over the place and somebody's painted obscenities on the walls."

"Damn it." I hadn't thought to check there. "Let's go see."

I hopped into Dave's rusted-out Ford, and he wrenched on the steering wheel and bounced the pickup into the side lane that led to the implement building. He had the wipers on high, even though the downpour had slackened to a drizzle, and there must not have been a shock absorber on the damn thing. I braced my hand on the dash and was still in danger of being bounced off the seat.

"Messing about" was an understatement. Every surface in the workshop was covered with paint, including both tractors. And what was printed on the walls was unbelievable. Filled with rage. Whoever had done it must be literally sick with hate. Dave leaned over to pick up an empty paint can.

"Don't touch that," I said.

He straightened and looked at me, his face blank.

"Don't touch anything, at least not yet."

"What about cleanin' up? The paint's still damp," Dave said. "It'll be easier to get off."

"The police are coming out because of the jump. They'll want to look at this, too." I looked at the walls. "Maybe take pictures. What were you going to work on, anyway?"

"I was gonna work in here 'cause of the rain." He looked out at the gray sky and, after a moment, said he might as well go back home.

"Dave, hold up. Could you buy some supplies, instead?"

He squinted at me and pursed his lips. "What kind of supplies?"

"Anything you need to make the place more secure, go out and buy it. Like better locks for all the tack rooms and the feed room. Maybe you should reinforce the locks on the lounge and office doors, too." I started for his truck. "And is there some type of lock we can put on the feed bin, the big one outside?"

Dave caught up with me by the front bumper. "Don't know."

"Well, if you can't rig something up, call the manufacturer. See if they have any suggestions." I walked around to the passenger's side and opened the door. "Get more fire extinguishers for all the buildings, too. And I think we'll install a gate across the lane to the road. What do you think… two 12-foot gates latched in the middle?"

"That'll work." Dave frowned. "What about where the side lane empties into that old road down by the manure pile?"

"There, too."

"Then we'll need to put up a line of fence."

"Oh, yeah. You're right. Let's just get the other things done first. We'll do that later, when we have time." I slid onto the seat and waited for him to climb behind the wheel. "If you think of anything else we can do to improve security, do it."

He simply nodded, and I wondered how much effort he would put into improving security against an unseen enemy.

"Oh," I said. "And get whatever you need to clean up that mess. When you come in tomorrow, find me. You can show me what to do, and I'll clean up while you install the locks, okay?"

Dave stared at me as if he couldn't quite remember who I was. "Sure," he mumbled before dropping the truck into reverse. He backed down the rutted lane without bothering to look over his shoulder. When he jounced the truck onto the asphalt lane between the barns and pointed the nose toward the road, I wished I'd walked.

"Shit, Dave. You can't drive like that around here."

He grunted and drove off at a more sedate pace but put his foot heavily on the brake pedal when we pulled up alongside the office door. The Ford jerked to a stop, and I just about slid off the smooth vinyl seat. I jumped out and slammed the door, thankful to be on firm, unmoving ground.