Kit Ehrman - At Risk

"Maybe in a couple weeks." I walked over to the tractor, thinking I could do without that chore just then. "If the ground isn't frozen."

When he saw me struggling to hook up the drag, he stepped in front of me, snapped on the lynch pins, and adjusted the hitch. The man did everything with precision, without fuss, and I would miss him when he decided to retire for real.

I looked over my shoulder as I steered the tractor out of the building. Dave stood motionless, his face blank as he watched me drive off. Wisps of his thin white hair stuck out from beneath his Orioles cap, and he was sucking on his lower lip, giving an impression of the ordinary, but there was nothing common about Dave.

I got to work on the largest outdoor arena and soon found that what I had hoped would be an easy job was more difficult than I'd anticipated. The big old John Deere was difficult steering through the heavy sand at the best of times, and it didn't take long before my ribs began to ache. I swung the tractor around to the north. A cold wind stung my face, and diesel fumes, caught in a down draft, wrapped around the back of my throat.

I maneuvered the tractor through the one-stride in-and-out and made another sweep around the diagonal line of fences. As I pulled out of the turn, I almost ran into my favorite jump. I gritted my teeth and hauled on the steering wheel. The weights in front came within an inch of crashing into the rust-brown jump standard with a fox's head carved out of the middle. Mrs. Hill's sister had painted an impressive hunt scene on the wide middle panel of the jump, and my boss would have been majorly pissed if I'd creamed it.

Someone yelled, and I looked over my shoulder. A bunch of kids were running toward the barn, just goofing around. But it was not they who held my interest.

A car braked to a stop alongside the office door, ignoring an official-looking sign at the mouth of the lane that prohibited vehicular traffic of any kind. The driver climbed from behind the wheel and scanned the grounds before he walked into the office where I was certain Mrs. Hill would lay into him. I swung the tractor into another turn and made one last sweep down the outside line, then drove around to the far side of the judge's stand.

A half-hour later, I pulled out of a tight corner and glanced toward the buildings. Mrs. Hill was standing outside the office door with her arms wrapped around her chest. When she saw me look over, she signaled that she wanted to see me. Wondering what was up, I drove across the arena, parked next to the gate, and climbed stiffly to the ground. I'd had enough. Dave could finish in the morning.

I cut across the lane, head bowed, hands in my pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold, and wished I were going home instead. The driver watched my approach, and I had the distinct impression he was waiting for me. He stepped aside as I walked into the office. I glanced from him to the door between the office and lounge and frowned. It was closed, and what was more, it was locked. Mrs. Hill always left it open.

She was standing behind her desk, her face tinged with color from the brief moment she had stood in the wind. Through the side window that looked into the arena, I saw that Karen's three o'clock was in full swing, the horses cantering by in a quiet, orderly line. Voices filtered in from the lounge, which was packed that time of day with students and boarders.

"Stephen, this is-"

Someone knocked on the lounge door.

"Wait a minute," Mrs. Hill yelled. She frowned at her visitor. "Could you take this somewhere else? I need my office back."

Take what, I wondered? I looked at him with growing curiosity. Tall and broad-shouldered, he had sandy brown hair like my own and pale hazel eyes. I glanced around the room and couldn't figure why she wanted us out.

"My car will do," he said, his gaze on me, and there was a light in his eyes that spoke of nothing if not intelligence, and interest. Interest in human nature.

Outside, a strong breeze cut across the open pasture and funneled between the buildings. Like so many winter days, when the sun begins its descent, so does the temperature. I looked more closely at his car, a dark green Crown Victoria with three whip antennas sticking out of the trunk. The guy was a cop. No wonder Mrs. Hill had wanted us out. Frequent visits by the police were definitely not on her list of boarder confidence builders.

"I'm Detective James Ralston with the Maryland State Police." He pulled his identification from an inner pocket and flipped it open and shut too fast for me to read.

I wondered if he'd done it on purpose. Like a police or psychological tactic of some kind. Or a test. He'd be able to draw a different set of conclusions based on whether or not his subject asked to see it more closely. I decided I wasn't going to play.

He gestured to his car, and I climbed in, happy to get out of the wind.

Detective Ralston lifted a pair of aviator glasses off the dash, put them on, and thumbed to a blank page in a worn notebook. "I have some questions regarding the horse theft and your assault and abduction which occurred Saturday morning, February the 24th."

Ralston covered all the questions the detective in the hospital had asked, then added a few of his own. He made sporadic notes with a chewed on pencil, and I didn't think I had told him anything he didn't already know. He popped the latch on a briefcase that was wedged between the back seat and a bank of controls that straddled the transmission hump, then pulled several tightly-folded sheets of paper from a compartment built into the lid. He smoothed them out on his thigh. I watched him flip through the pages until he found what he wanted.

"This is a printout from the MVA." He handed me the top page. "I had them compile a list of people who own white or off-white dual-wheel pickups and a separate listing for six-horse gooseneck trailers. The one you're looking at consolidates both. As you see, there aren't many matches. Do you recognize any of the names?"

I studied the list, then shook my head.

"All right. Take a look at the list of truck owners."

He handed over a more substantial printout. The tractor-fed pages were still linked together. I took my time over the list, and before long, Ralston switched on the engine and cranked up the heat.

Many of the registered owners weren't individuals, but companies. Rose Acre Farms, Smith Landscaping, T amp;T Industries, Murray Construction. "I had no idea there were so many white dualies on the road," I said.

"And that's just from the surrounding counties. Howard, Montgomery, Carroll, Baltimore, Anne Arundel… Thought I'd start locally and expand the search if need be."

"Well, I think you struck out." I handed him both lists, which he laid face down in the briefcase. "I don't know any of them," I said. "How come you think I'd recognize them, anyway?"

Ralston ignored my question and handed me a smaller list. "These are the trailer owners. The list isn't broken down as well as I would have liked. Some of these trailers are probably smaller than what they used."

I studied the list and shook my head. "Sorry."

He shrugged. "It was a long shot. How about this list?" He handed me another printout. This one, however, was not from the MVA.

I scanned the sheet and told him the names I was familiar with-one farrier, two grain outfits, a fence company, and Greg, Foxdale's vet. As I read through to the end, I became conscious of the fact that he'd been watching me.

"Does Raymond Crump work for Foxdale?" Ralston said, referring to the farrier whose name I had recognized.

I shook my head. "No."

"In the past?"

"Not that I know of."

"How do you know him, then?"

"I don't. Just heard of him." I shrugged. "He doesn't hot-shoe, so we don't use him."