Kit Ehrman - At Risk

I went back into the feed room and examined the damage which, to my untrained eyes, appeared superficial. "They must not have planned this," I said.

"Why do you think that?"

"If they had, we wouldn't have had a prayer of stopping it ourselves." Or getting out alive, but I didn't say that. "They would have brought gasoline or something like it to speed up the process. Greg, the guy who owns this place, is fanatical about keeping the barn neat. He doesn't stockpile any chemicals or hay or let piles of junk accumulate around the barn. The fire hadn't spread much before I opened the door."

"What do you think they were planning?"

"I don't know."

He snorted. "When they saw you had company, they changed their plans."

I blinked.

"God, Steve. You'd better watch your back."

I rubbed my face. I didn't feel safe at work, not at night anyway, and now I wouldn't feel safe in my own home. Not until Ralston rounded them up. We went upstairs, and I phoned Greg and told him to come down to the foaling barn. He didn't ask why.

We met in the parking lot. When he was close enough to see us, his face went white.

"What the hell?"

"Someone started a fire in the feed room."

He skirted past me and stopped in the doorway. He looked relieved, as well he might. "How do you know it wasn't electrical?"

"The fire extinguishers were outside," I said, "in the grass."

His face paled even more. He looked back into the feed room and muttered, "God."

That just about summed it up.

When Greg turned around, he seemed to notice Michael for the first time. I made introductions. Greg was still dressed in the navy blue coveralls he wore to work.

"How long have you been home?" I said.

"About an hour. Had an emergency colic."

"Did you notice any vehicles parked where they shouldn't have been? Anything that strikes you odd, now?"

He shook his head. "No. To tell the truth, I was half asleep. Three nights in a row I've been out on calls. If I'd seen anything unusual, I would've checked it out."

"No! Don't!"

They both looked at me in surprise, then Greg with understanding.

"You, more than anyone, ought to know." Greg stepped back into the feed room and tested the phone. The line ran up the wall along the doorjamb, and it still worked. He called the police.

Michael turned to me. "What did he mean by 'you ought to know?'"

I shrugged. "Beats me."

"You're a terrible liar, you know that?"

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

I crossed my arms over my chest. "Damn, it's cold."

Michael chuckled. "Stop changing the subject."

Greg stepped out of the feed room and gave him a look that shut him up pretty quick. Michael looked at the floor and cleared his throat. I suggested we go upstairs.

The authorities arrived in time, poked around the feed room, took statements, then left, leaving behind a clutter of empty coffee mugs and soft drink cans.

I picked the empties off the counter and tossed them in the trash. "I'm sorry about all this, Greg."

"It wasn't your fault. Hell, your quick reactions kept the whole barn from burning down." He stood up and stretched. "If you're worried about sleeping here, you could stay at the house for a while."

I thanked him for his offer but declined immediately. The skin around his eyes seemed to relax, and I realized he was relieved. His good nature had moved him to ask, but if danger was following me around, his house was the last place I should be. More than anything, he had his kids to think about.

Greg yawned. "What about your parents'?"

"I'll work something out," I said, but I didn't have a clue.

It was three-thirty by the time Greg headed home. I asked Michael if he still wanted to go in early.

"Might as well," he said. "Too late to get any sleep now."

He was right, of course. "Should have gone to a hotel, huh?"

"Damn right… but I'm glad I didn't."

"Why, for Christ's sake?"

"If we weren't talking, if I hadn't thought I'd seen someone on the deck, you might have been asleep when the fire broke out… or when they came through the door."

I didn't say anything.

I scrambled some eggs while Michael toasted half a loaf of bread.

When he'd downed his third slice, he said, "You trust your landlord?"

"What?"

"You said he knows some of the players. Maybe he's involved. Maybe he-"

"No way. You don't know what you're talking about. Plus, it's only natural that he'd know a lot of people in the industry."

Michael shrugged.

"He even offered me a place to stay."

"Sure. Forget it. Like you said, I don't know him. You going to tell Rachel what happened?"

"I don't think so."

"You should. She's a nice girl, and she cares for you, but she doesn't like it when you keep things from her. Especially your feelings. She senses that you're holding out on her as far as your concerns go about what's happening at the farm, so-"

"How come you know so much?"

"We talked. Anyway," Michael continued, "I fixed it for you."

I lowered the glass of orange juice from my lips. "What, exactly, did you fix?"

"Let's see." He propped his elbows on the counter and yawned. "I told her that you're naturally reticent. That you avoid anything that even slightly resembles pity, that you have a major fear of failure despite the fact that you can't resist taking risks. You have an overwhelming desire to prove yourself. Oh, and you're embarrassed by strong emotions." He looked over the rim of his coffee mug. "And, your mouth's open."

I shut it. "Where the hell'd you come up with that load of crap?"

"Observing you. I took psych before I left school. Ultimately, I found that I prefer horses to most people. They're much nicer to work with."

"Good thing you gave it up. You're lousy at it."

"Not true." He wiped the corners of his mouth with his fingertips. "Keep that girl, Steve. And let her in more."

"Yes, sir."

I jammed my last bite of toast in my mouth and dumped the dishes in the sink. "Let's hit the road."

Michael frowned at his half-full cup of coffee. "Why the rush?"

"I want to check the farm, make sure your horses are okay."

He jumped up, and I saw that my alarm was infectious. "I now see why you've pursued an offensive."

At Foxdale, everything was secure. I fixed myself a cup of coffee and watched Michael run a quick brush over the horse's coat before sliding the saddle into place, seeing firsthand that the perfection evident in his horses' grooming had nothing to do with his efforts but with his groom's. When he led the chestnut down to the outdoor arena, I slumped onto a bench. My eyelids felt like sandpaper, and my head ached.

I closed my eyes and thought of all that had happened since that frigid morning in February. The three men and the fear they had wielded like a weapon. The horses on a fast trip to death. Sanders and his questionable remorse over a horse he'd thought of as an object and had been careful to insure. Harrison's driver and his drunken anger. Blood dripping from my nose. The bulldozers' throaty rumble as they cut into the brown earth and the realization that Foxdale would never be the same. Boris hanging from the rafters, his life blood draining from a slash in his throat.

I remembered the deafening sound of the cold rain hammering on the barn roof as I stared at the pile of charred wood that had once been an artful jump. The words "Your dead motherfucker" painted in red on ribbed metal siding and later, "Cats have nine lives. You don't" scrawled over my name. Tax write-offs and staring at newspaper clippings until my vision blurred.

I thought about James S. Peters in the cold hard ground and Mrs. Peters losing herself to senility, the mind's reflex to unbearable pain. Whitcombe's irritability building to the point of instability. Brian's probation hanging over his head like a scythe. Elsa and Rachel, lust and love. Flip sides of the need for intimacy.