Kit Ehrman - At Risk

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.