Kit Ehrman - At Risk

I reined Jet to a stop. Fifty feet down slope, the woods gave way to pasture land that backed up to an old, white farm house and dilapidated bank barn. A trailer that looked remarkably like the one I'd had my ride in was parked behind the barn in a rickety-looking corral out of sight from the road. I studied the house. Lights were on downstairs, casting yellow squares across the grass, but the back porch light was dark.

I spent all of five minutes making up my mind.

I slid off the mare, tied her to a tree, and squeezed between strands of rusty barbed wire. It was only 600 feet to the trailer. Six hundred feet of open ground under a full moon. But if no one was looking, it wouldn't matter.

I took off at a dead run. Midway between the woods and corral, a drainage ditch I hadn't noticed stretched blackly through the tangled grass.

I vaulted over it, landed on my knees and scrambled up the other side, wondering what else I might have missed.

By the time I got to the old split-rail fence, my lungs were burning. I reached out to grab the top rail and brushed my hand against an electric wire. Inhaling sharply, I jerked my hand back, then wasted precious seconds looking for a place where I could squeeze between the rails. I slipped through where one of the rails had sagged and crossed the rough ground to the trailer.

Standing with my back against the trailer, I tried to catch my breath and listened for distant voices, barking dogs, anything that would indicate I'd been seen. All I could hear was my own breathing. The escape door was on the side closest to the barn. I pushed myself off the cool metal, moved to the front of the trailer, and peered around the corner. The barn was dark and silent and blocked my view of the house. I crouched down and crossed under the nose of the trailer, between the trailer's body and hitch. As I inched my way down to the escape door, I curled my fingers around the flashlight.

I flicked on the light. The sheet metal was smooth and straight, not misshapen and dented. The workmanlike hinges were free of rust. The escape door, on the whole, was in much better repair than the rest of the trailer. I ducked down and peered at the lower edge of the door. The thin strip of metal, hidden from casual view, was blue not green.

A tingle went up my spine.

The door had been painted.

But I wouldn't know for sure unless I looked inside. I flicked off my light and edged around to the side door used for loading the horses. Thinking that I didn't want my fingerprints plastered all over the trailer, I slipped my hand under my T-shirt and unlatched the heavy ramp. I lowered it toward the ground, letting the springs do most of the work. They twanged and hummed under the stress, and the rusty hinges screeched until the lower lip of the ramp settled into the grass.

I nearly lost my nerve then, but the barn would muffle most of the sound, and the house was a good fifty yards beyond. I swallowed.

Heavy plywood partitions lay folded across the ramp. Normally, they would be raised on either side of the ramp, then slotted and bolted into place to form sidewalls for guiding the horses, but I didn't bother with the ramp. I stepped around the ramp, grabbed the edge of the door frame, and scrambled into the darkened trailer.

The air was chillier inside than out and smelled strongly of cows. I switched on the flashlight. Someone had removed the stall dividers and stacked them against the back wall. I looked at the window placement, at the shape and size of the storage space over the gooseneck, at the design and positioning of the overhead lights, and was certain I was standing in the trailer. Details I hadn't remembered came flooding back-the missing bar in the left-hand window, the six-inch crack in the yellowed light fixture over the back stalls, the tufts of torn baling twine that stuck out like a bad hairdo from the tie ring in the central aisle, the way the rubber matting under the escape door curled at the edge.

I examined the interior surface of the escape door. It, too, had received a paint job, but not as thorough. The original color was evident in the crease along the hinges and in the lower right-hand corner. I thought about how I'd escaped from the trailer and searched the floor. The old bolt was lying in a crevice where the fibers in the rubber matting had separated. Three links of chain still hung from one end. I bent down to pick it up, then hesitated.

I left it where it was, scrambled out of the trailer, and raised the ramp. I slid the latch home, spun around, and walked straight into the business end of a double-barreled shotgun.

The barrel jerked upward, and I felt my scalp contract.

"What'n the hell are you doin'?" He held the gun at the ready, pointing straight at my chest. "Well?"

I tried to work some saliva into my mouth, but all I could do was stare at the gun, at his hand steadying the barrel, at his finger fidgeting over the trigger guard.

As he stepped back, I heard a deep, guttural sound that rose into a menacing growl. I glanced down. A huge, broad-shouldered Rottweiler crouched in the grass next to the man's legs. His lips were pulled back from razor white teeth, his hot gaze locked on mine. The fur from the nape of his neck to the base of his tail stood on end, and I was sure, given half the chance, he would tear me to shreds.

"Well, boy, speak up. What're ya doin' lookin' in there?"

"I… I was looking for my dog, and I thought I heard something down here, and-"

"What?"

"I was following his tracks on the trails back there behind the pasture, when they broke off and headed down here toward your barn."

"Tracking a dog?" His eyes narrowed. "The hell you were. You were running across the field like the devil was fixin' to light up your ass."

"It's true, sir. I was looking for my dog."

"Put your goddamn hands up."

I looked at his dog and slowly raised my hands. The Rottweiler stepped sideways, and his growl, if anything, grew louder.

"We're gonna go talk to the police." He motioned to me with the shotgun. "Go on back round the trailer. Don't do anything stupid, now. Ain't nothin' gonna stop me from shootin' your ass. Understand?"

I nodded.

"Go on."

I stepped backward and tripped over something hidden in the tall grass. I landed flat on my back. The dog lunged forward, and I was sure I was dead. He bounced to a stop and lowered his head. A growl rumbled deep within his chest, and I watched, transfixed, as drool slid off the tip of a fang. It seemed to fall in slow motion before it landed on my face. The warm saliva trickled down my cheek into my hair.

"Get up."

I couldn't move. Every muscle in my body had seized, and I wasn't sure I was breathing.

"Get up, damn it," he yelled, and I wondered which would hurt more, being ripped apart or shot to death.

Finally, he must have realized I wasn't going anywhere with his dog breathing down my throat. He called to it and damn if the thing didn't listen. It trotted off, circled around behind its master, and stopped beside his leg. I slowly got to my feet and stood there feeling lightheaded.

"Get your damn hands up." I put them up. "Go that way." He jerked his head. "Walk through that gate there, the one over by the barn, and head on up to the house."

I turned and stepped through overgrown grass, praying that he wouldn't trip and end up shooting me in the back.

"Keep moving," he said.

When I got to the house, I stumbled up the back steps and stood where he told me, facing the wall. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that he was careful to keep the shotgun leveled my way as he pulled open the screen door. He fumbled with the doorknob, then pushed the storm door open and told me to go inside. I turned to face him. He was standing awkwardly, his leg braced against the screen door that was hanging out of plumb with the frame. I hesitated and wondered if I'd be walking out under my own power.