by Kit Ehrman
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After the day's work was done, and with security high on my list of pressing concerns, I methodically walked around the farm, looking for weaknesses in our defenses. First stop, the implement building. I crossed over to the wall that enclosed the small storage room and flicked on the lights. Because the fixtures were widely spaced and partially blocked by the hay mow, the work area was poorly-lit with heavy, deep shadows under the equipment.
I squeezed behind the row of tractors, ducked under the hay elevator, and looked up at the massive wall of hay. Large quantities of it. All highly combustible. For that reason, even though it was a pain in the ass to haul, we only stored a day's worth in the barns. I would get Dave to hang more fire extinguishers near the entrance, but what good it would do, I couldn't imagine. If they decided to burn down the building, it would be at night when no one was around. If they decided to burn down a barn. . . . Well, I couldn't even think about that.
The smeared, sick graffiti seemed even more threatening at night. I backtracked, switched off the lights, and wondered if they'd been bold enough to turn them on while they spray-painted their little message. For the umpteenth time, I wondered who they were and why were they messing with Foxdale. And would they be back?
I followed the lane past the implement building and looked toward the old paved road. It dead-ended to my left, at a barricaded fire road that marked the western boundary of a wide swath of state park land. All of those unspoiled acres and the river that wound through it attracted boarders as much as anything else. Only Foxdale's employees and an occasional truck from the mushroom farm frequented this part of the farm. It wouldn't take much fencing and a couple of gates to prevent anyone getting onto the farm from the road, but if someone really wanted to hurt Foxdale, chains and locks and gates across the driveway wouldn't make any difference.
As I turned to go back, something moved in the pine grove that screened the muck pile.
I started, then saw it was just a fox. I exhaled slowly through my mouth and listened to the wind whistling through the boughs. Above my head, stars shone through breaks in the clouds, and in the west, the moon was a chalky smudge behind a thin veil of fast-moving cloud. Away from the farm's lights, the sky seemed vividly alive and close. Close enough to touch.
I slipped my hands into my pockets and headed back. A horse was being led into barn A, his figure back-lit by the soft light that poured through the open doors. Even at that distance, I could clearly hear his shoes scraping the asphalt.
I checked barn B. Short of installing better locks and adding more fire extinguishers, I couldn't think of anything else we could do to improve security. Outside, I looked at the grain bin that towered high above my head and thought about poison. If someone wanted to contaminate the grain, they would have to climb up a narrow ladder to reach the valve at the top. Thirty feet up. Thirty feet of flimsy metal ladder in the dark.
There were easier ways to ruin Foxdale. With a match, for one.
I walked into barn A and cut through the wash rack. Footsteps echoed behind me, and I spun around.
"Jumpy, aren't we?"
"Hello, Mrs. Timbrook," I said.
Elsa had come out of Satellite's stall, and she'd stopped so close, I thought she might bump into me. I resisted the urge to back up. Her eyes were a deep green, and I wondered if she was wearing colored lenses. She moved closer. Her musky perfume filled my head, and her closeness was overwhelming. I stepped back, forgetting myself, and her smile broadened.
"Stephen, there's a nail sticking out of a board in Lite's stall. I'm afraid he'll cut his smooth, beautiful skin."
Christ. "I'll get a hammer." I took a step backward to avoid bumping into her as I turned and went over to the other barn.
I unlocked the feed room door. "I'm afraid he'll cut his smooth . . . beautiful . . . skin," I mouthed. Give me a break. I scanned the pegboard--screwdrivers, pliers, wrenches, all neat and organized thanks to Dave--and spotted the Craftsman hammer with the leather grip. As I lifted it off its bracket, I sensed subtle movement behind me. A slight shifting of air current. I spun around.
Elsa had followed me into the room.