Kit Ehrman - At Risk

I moved to get up, and the cop put his foot between my shoulder blades and pushed me back down. "Don't move." He was still panting. "You're already in enough trouble." After a minute or two, he squatted beside me and checked my jacket pockets.

"What's your name?"

"Stephen Cline."

"Why'd you run, Steve?"

"I didn't think you were a cop."

He rolled me onto my side and began to empty my jeans pockets. "Who'd you think I was? Santa Claus?"

"Funny."

"You know you could of got yourself shot?" He checked my waistline, then felt between my legs.

I tensed.

"What? You never been frisked before?"

"No." I unclenched my teeth. "What in the hell are you checking for."

"Guns, knives, hand grenades… suspicious bulges." He chuckled at his stupid joke and rolled me back onto my stomach. "Ever been arrested?"

"No."

When he finished his search, he grunted to his feet, then snatched his hat off the carpet. He stood in a wide-legged stance, his gut protruding over his belt. It had been a long time since his police academy days. A long time since he'd done anything more vigorous than drive around in his cruiser. He brushed off the hat's brim and adjusted it on his balding head. That done, he hooked his hand under my arm and pulled me to my feet.

"Settle down, Steve. Gettin' angry ain't gonna help you any." He tugged on his belt. "Now, what were you doing on Mr. Drake's property?"

I told him. I told him about the horse theft and about being beaten up and abducted and about Detectives Linquist and Ralston. I told him about James Peters and everything else I could think of because I had to. By the time I ran out of things to say, Randy no longer looked pissed off, and Deputy Thompson had been on the phone several times, running a check on me and verifying my story.

Randy chuckled. "No wonder you looked so scared." He was leaning against the kitchen counter, chewing on a toothpick, and I was back in the chair I'd started out in.

Thompson shook his head as he fitted his key into one cuff, then the other. "You could of got yourself killed. What if you'd stumbled into the murderer. Next time, leave it to the professionals." He jerked his head at the farmer, and they walked over to the hallway. The deputy crossed his arms over his broad stomach and talked quietly to Randy, all the while keeping his gaze on me.

I rubbed my wrists and listened to their low, indistinct voices. The dog was back in his box, asleep this time. I glanced at my watch. Ten after ten.

Damn. Karen would be wondering where I was, and I hoped to God, Jet was all right. I looked up as Thompson strode across the worn floor and stopped in front of me.

"Mr. Drake isn't gonna press charges for trespassing, son. You'd better go on home."

Press charges? I wondered what charges I could get Mr. Drake in trouble with. "Mind if I look at the trailer on my way out?"

Thompson's eyebrows rose. "Don't see why not." He turned to Randy. "Got any objections?"

Randy shook his head. I made a quick call to Foxdale and told Karen to go home, then the three of us trudged outside.

At the corral gate, I paused and looked Randy in the eye. "You had no right to hold me at gun point."

His back tensed under his jacket. "I got signs posted up and down my fence line, and you kids just keep doing what you please."

"I've never been here before," I said, and even I could hear the anger in my voice.

"Now, son. It's over." Thompson stepped closer. "Go on home. Mr. Drake was just protecting his property."

Wordlessly, I turned away from them and walked around to the trailer's back bumper. I pushed a clump of tall weeds out of the way. The license plate had been issued in Pennsylvania, which explained why Drake hadn't been on Ralston's list. As I straightened, I noticed my cap lying in the grass. I picked it up and dusted off the brim.

Deputy Thompson stood with his arms crossed over his broad belly and his chin tucked against his neck, waiting for me to leave, while Randy dug around his teeth with his toothpick. By all accounts, he looked bored. And I didn't understand it. If I wasn't mistaken, I had just found the trailer; yet the owner was clueless.

"You have any repairs made to your trailer in the past two months?" I said.

Randy shook his head. "I hardly ever use it."

I jerked my head toward his house. "I got turned around in the woods. What road do you live on?"

"Mink Hollow."

I told him I was sorry I'd bothered him, then crossed the corral and vaulted the fence.

I found Jet where I'd left her and turned her for home. She didn't need any encouragement. It wasn't until I pulled her up between the barns that I realized what I felt was no longer anger, but confusion and an overwhelming feeling of futility.

After I untacked Jet and brushed her off, I checked the barns. I was on my way out when I paused at the bulletin board outside barn A's tack room. I tore down the class schedule from the past weekend and crumpled it into a ball. Underneath was a crinkled copy of the announcement I'd tacked up weeks before, the one that described the rig used in the horse theft.

The paper was discolored from being in the barn so long, and someone had scribbled across the lower right-hand corner in red ink. As the words registered, I felt as if I'd been drenched with ice water.

"A cat has nine lives. You don't" was scrawled across my name.

An image of Boris swinging from the rafters with his throat cut crowded my mind.

No one knew about him except the cops.

And the killer.

"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.