At Risk

by Kit Ehrman

  * * *

  The next morning, two of the guys called in sick. Since Marty was in the other barn tacking up a horse for Anne, Foxdale's other trainer besides Whitcombe, the barn was unnaturally quiet. No rock 'n roll blaring from a cheap boom box, or worse--country. No arguing over who was going to do what. Only the muted rustling of a horse moving in his stall. A bucket being nudged. A soft exhalation like a sigh. I flung a load of manure into the wagon, and it hit the bare wooden floor with a dull thud. Despite the soreness in my ribs, I was already halfway down the aisle.

  Unlike most of the crew, I didn't mind mucking out. The job took little concentration, so there was plenty of time to think. I raked the wet sawdust into a pile, forked it into the wagon, and wondered who had it in for Foxdale and what, if any, connection existed between Foxdale and James Peters. If the horse and tack theft at Foxdale were committed by the same people, then all three events could be linked. But the police had no conclusive evidence, and without it, the connection was pure speculation.

  I smoothed out the sawdust with my rake, moved on to the next stall, and thought about motive. If it wasn't greed, then what was it? Maybe someone had a grudge against Foxdale. An ex-employee, perhaps. In the past two years, I had fired four employees. I'd also been responsible for Foxdale's discontinuing the services of two farriers, one vet, and several suppliers. But it was absurd to think they had anything to do with what was going on. Anyway, what did they have against James Peters?

  Foxdale and Hunter's Ridge could have been the targets of random theft and nothing more. I leaned the rake against the wall, pulled a tattered notebook and chopped-off pencil out of my back pocket, and made a list. I didn't have enough information. I didn't know enough about Hunter's Ridge or James Peters. But ignorance could be deadly.

  I ripped the page from my notebook, crumpled it into a ball, and flicked it into the wagon. Hopefully, it would be smooth sailing from now on. No horses going to slaughter . . . no cats hanging from the rafters with their throats slit . . . no bodies in shallow graves.

  "Hey? Whatju doin'?"

  I jumped.

  Marty was watching me through the stall's grillwork. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

  I swallowed. "Just thinking."

  The mischievous grin faded from his face. "Uh-huh." He propped his shoulder against the doorjamb and crossed his arms. "You want me to muck out or do the school horses?"

  I checked my watch. "Damn, we're running behind."

  Marty looked down the aisle.

  "Brush off the school horses first," I said. "Then--"

  Marty's easygoing features had dissolved into a look of pure dislike as thoroughly as if someone had reached up and wiped the expression off his face. I poked my head into the aisle and saw the reason for the transformation.

  Whitcombe stopped alongside the wagon. Marty pushed himself upright and took a step backward.

  "Cline, I want . . . What's so funny?"

  I cleared my throat. "Nothing, sir."

  "I want to ride Fleet." He glanced uncertainly at Marty, then looked back at me. "Get him ready."

  "Yes, sir."

  I stepped out of the stall. Whitcombe was standing in the narrow space between the wagon and stall front, twirling a riding crop between his fingers. I walked the long way around. "Marty, could you--"

  "Now, Cline."

  "Yes . . . sir." I gritted my teeth and gestured for Marty to follow.

  "So," Whitcombe said. "It takes two of you to tack up a horse, does it?"

  I paused and looked him straight in the eye. "No, sir. I was giving Marty instructions." Before you interrupted me, you shithead, I wanted to say, and for a brief second, I was sure he could read my thoughts. I started down the aisle.

  "Oh, and Cline?"

  Keeping my face neutral, I turned around.

  "I want a segunda bit on him today."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Hurry it up. And Cline . . ."

  "Sir?"

  "I'll be in the lounge." He turned and strolled down the aisle.

  I watched the departing view of his back and wholeheartedly wished I could fire his ass. Disgusted, I walked into the tack room and spun the dial on Whitcombe's locker.

  Though Whitcombe was long gone, Marty stood next to me and whispered, "What a fucking asshole. You better do what he says though, Stevie," he said with an exaggerated lisp, "or he might have to spank you with that crop of his."

  I went right past the last number on the combination. "Christ, Marty. Quit before we both get in trouble." I leaned my forehead on the locker and concentrated on the dial. "The way you backed away from him, I thought I was gonna lose it. You wouldn't be homophobic, now, would you?"

  "Me?" Marty said. "Well, correct me if I'm wrong, but more than once, I've seen you change course when you were headin' to the men's room and saw Whitcombe go in first."

  I grinned. "This may be true."

  "He sure likes to keep on going and going, don't he? Likes to jerk you around, see if he can piss you off."

  "Yeah," I said. "Like the Energizer Bunny. He keeps going and going and--"

  Marty snorted.

  "--going. He sure likes his little games." I rummaged through Whitcombe's locker. "You know, he threatened to get me fired last week."

  "What the fuck for?"

  "For nothing." I sorted through the crate until I found the segunda. "Guess he didn't like the way I said 'sir.'"

  "Bet Mrs. Hill'd pick you over him if it came down to it." Marty said. "Who cares about his reputation? He's nothin' special."

  I shrugged. "He thinks he is. My only hope's that he'll get a job offer somewhere else, and seeing that trainers usually don't stay in one place for long, especially trainers who aren't as good as they think they are, I might luck out."

  "I heard him chewing you out the other day for the way you tacked up Nightshade."

  I grunted. "Ever notice how he makes sure he has an audience? I wouldn't be surprised if half the people around here think I'm an idiot."

  "Nah," Marty said. "It's pretty obvious who the idiot is."

  I selected one of Whitcombe's bridles and switched the bits. "I'll bet you a thousand to one, when I take Fleet down there, he'll find something to complain about."

  "Why don't you say somethin' to Mrs. Hill?"

  "She doesn't need that. Anyway, I have a game plan of my own when it comes to dealing with our Mr. Pretentious Whitcombe."

  Marty's eyebrows rose. "And what might that be?"

  "The more I keep my cool and don't respond to his digs, the more pissed he gets. It's almost comical."

  "Jesus. Remind me not to get on your bad side."

  I pulled Whitcombe's saddle off the rack and ran my fingers across the smooth, supple leather. The rich, earthy new-leather smell filled my head. "Damn, money must not be a problem for him. He's already replaced his old saddle, and this one's expensive big time."

  "Maybe he wiped out the tack rooms and used the money to buy hisself a new load of shit."

  I spun around. "Why do you think that?"

  He grinned. "No reason. Just that he's jerk enough for it. Why don't you mention it to the police?"

  "Yeah, right. I can see it now. Officer, I think he did it. And why do you think that, Mr. Cline? Oh, nothing substantial, sir. It's just that I can't stand the guy."

  Marty arched his eyebrows. "Guy?"

  I chuckled. But Whitcombe did have opportunity and knowledge and connections, not to mention the fact that he was a jerk. I draped the bridle and girth across the saddle and lugged the armload of tack into the aisle.

  Marty cut in front of me and plopped the tote of grooming supplies on the floor outside Fleet's stall. "I still don't see how you put up with him," he said.

  "I'm not going to let him ruin this job for me, though most days I'd like to ram a pitchfork up his ass."

  "Awh, man. Don't do that. He might like it."

  "Christ, Marty, you're sick." And I almost didn't get Whitcombe's saddle
onto the rack before I dropped it on the floor, I was laughing so hard.

  I handed Fleet over to Whitcombe--amazingly he kept his mouth shut--and went into the lounge to get a cup of coffee. Voices floated in from the office, and I walked over and leaned against the doorjamb. A scrawny-looking guy, dressed in a suit, tie, and wrinkled overcoat, had his hands pressed down on Mrs. Hill's desk, his fingers splayed on the blotter. His mousy brown hair was windblown, and his face was pinched with displeasure.

  "You'll have to talk to Mr. Ambrose about that," Mrs. Hill said.

  "But I can't get past his assistant."

  Mrs. Hill shrugged. "Well, I'm sorry. I can't help you."

  He snatched his card off her blotter, glanced at me, and stalked out the door.

  "What was that about?" I asked.

  "Real estate agent. Vultures. That's what I call 'em. That one's been here before. Now that they're building next door, I imagine they'll be crawling out of the woodwork."

  The brothers' farm was now dotted with survey flags, and I imagined it wouldn't be long before the heavy earth-moving equipment rolled over the fallow fields.

  "Thank God for the park," I said.