Kit Ehrman: At Risk

My grip tightened on the steering wheel. I turned off the main drive and drove down the short lane that circled around behind the foaling barn. When the car made the turn, too, I pressed my foot down on the accelerator.

I swung the truck in a tight circle, spewing gravel across the vacant lot, and pointed its nose toward the lane. The Chevy's engine idled as the car moved into sight. As it entered the last curve, I noticed the shape and position of the headlights and realized it was Ralston's Crown Vic. I backed into my spot and rolled up the windows while Ralston climbed out and waited by the Ford's back fender.

"I was on my way to Foxdale when I saw you pull out in front of me," he said, and it bothered me that I hadn't noticed I was being followed. He jerked his head toward the steps. "Can I come up?"

"Sure. Did you talk to Harrison?"

"That's what I want to talk about."

He seemed prepared to wait until we were inside before he filled me in. We went up the stairs in silence. I braced open the screen door with my thigh and flipped through my keys.

Ralston stood behind me and fidgeted. "What'n the hell do you have so many keys for? You need to keep your house and truck keys separate so you can find them faster. And you should have your key in your hand before you get out of the truck." He glanced over his shoulder. "And you should lock your truck. I noticed you didn't."

I quit flipping through the keys.

"And," Ralston said, "when you pull into the parking lot, here or at work, look around before you get out. If you think you're being followed, head for the nearest police station, or a fire station if it's closer. Someone's always there, day or night."

I stood with my arms stiff at my sides.

"Come on, Steve. Open the door." He bent down and peered at the lock. "Is this new?"

I nodded.

"Good choice. But both the door and jamb are wood. They're your weak link. It wouldn't take much to kick the door in, even with the dead bolt." He shifted his weight. "Come on."

I found the right key, unlocked the door, and switched on the lights.

Ralston scanned the loft. When he walked around the far side of the island counter, he kept his hand near his gun. The skin on my arms tingled. I leaned against the island counter and crossed my arms over my chest while he checked to make sure no one was hiding on the other side of my bed. After he'd given the bathroom and closet a once over, he walked to the far end of the loft and looked toward the road.

With his back to me, he said, "If you feel the least bit insecure when you walk in here, or have a feeling that something's not right, leave immediately."

"They're gone, aren't they?" I said and couldn't keep the tension out of my voice.

Ralston walked back into the kitchen. "Don't know for sure. Guy who works for them said they canceled a delivery scheduled for today. Something about the semi being out of commission, but as far as he knew, they hadn't called out the mechanic they use."

"Damn."

Ralston looked at my face, and his expression softened. "Let's sit down."

He slid a stool around the corner of the counter and settled onto the vinyl cushion. I sat with my back to the windows, and only then did it register that he'd moved his stool so he was facing the door. I turned and looked at the long stretch of glass, black with the night, and felt apprehension settle into my chest like a block of ice.

"I want to set up a protective detail here." Ralston tapped his fingers on the edge of the counter. It was quiet in the loft, and the sound got on my nerves.

"You think they're gonna come after me?"

"It's a possibility I'd like to use to advantage."

"They might have been here already." I told him about the fire.

Ralston glared at me, and I suddenly felt like a little kid who'd been caught out.

"Why in the hell didn't you tell me about this before now?"

"You were in Pennsylvania."

His eyes narrowed. "I wasn't there today."

I didn't say anything, and after a minute or two, he propped his elbows on the counter and rubbed his face. The overhead lights reflected off his blond hair.

"How'd it go up there, anyway?" I said.

"They found her late yesterday. Got some good trace, even DNA, but-"

"She's dead?"

Ralston nodded. "I don't think her case is related. It felt staged. Too many differences in the MO, and no signature. My money's on the boyfriend."

"What's a signature?"

"A compulsive behavior the killer doesn't vary from victim to victim."

I frowned. "How could there be a signature if Peters is your only victim?"

"He isn't. There are two other cases in the computer that closely match the MO in the Peters' case-David Rowe and Larry Jacob. Only difference is, they weren't part of the horse community."

My skin felt clammy. "They sound familiar, but I can't think.. "

"They were on my list the first time I interviewed you, mixed in with the grain dealers and fence companies."

"What's the… signature?" I said but wasn't sure I wanted to know.

"They were all bound with baling twine and beaten, and their throats were cut."

I swallowed and looked at my hands. "Like Boris."

"What?"

"The cat. They cut the cat's throat, too." I looked at his face. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I want you to take your situation seriously."

"Shit. I do."

"Have you still been going to the farm early, before anyone else?"

"Yeah," I said, "but now there's a guard."

"I mean before the guard."

I shrugged. "I can't let them run my life."

"Just end it?"

I looked down at the counter top.

"Which security firm?"

"Eastfield," I said.

Ralston grunted.

"Was James Peters' throat cut?"

Ralston nodded.

"I didn't know."

"Only partial information's released to the press," Ralston said. "Comes in handy when you're interviewing suspects or flakes who confess to crimes they didn't commit." Ralston pulled a notepad from his jacket pocket. "Go over your schedule with me so I can start working this out."

I told him what my normal routine was like, and he suggested some changes I could live with.

"And I'll talk to your boss and suggest they switch to Reinholdt Security. They're more professional, and they're armed."

Ralston picked up the phone and punched in a number. I propped my elbows on the counter, jammed my fingers in my hair, and rested my forehead against my palms. I listened as he tried to make arrangements and realized from the tone of his voice that his plans weren't working out. When he slammed down the receiver, I flinched.

"You're going to have to stay somewhere else until I can get a team together," Ralston said. "I don't have enough to justify having a detail stationed here without convincing my superiors first. I can't get it arranged tonight, but I will."

"Is it that bad?"

"I don't know. I don't want to find out the hard way." He looked me straight in the eye. "And neither do you."

The loft was so quiet, I could hear the second hand on the stove clock clicking like a metronome.

"Is there somewhere else you can stay?" Ralston said.

"It's almost midnight. I'll be back at work in five hours. In the morning, I'll ask a guy at the farm if I can stay with him. I'm sure he'll let me, at least for a while."

He frowned, then lifted the phone off the hook and held it out to me. "Wake him up."

I called Marty, and he said he would unlock his door and that I was damn lucky he didn't have company. I smiled as I hung up and said, "It's arranged."

"Do you have my card?"

I shook my head.

He fished a card out of his wallet, wrote down his pager number and Dorsett's, and handed it to me. "Call either one of us directly if you're worried about something, even if it seems insignificant, okay? And key in 911 after your number if you're in trouble."