Kit Ehrman - At Risk

"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.