by Kit Ehrman
* * *
By late-afternoon Wednesday, Dave had put his wizardry into effect. A formidable gate stretched across the lane to the main road, and I had spent the better part of two days in the implement building, cleaning paint off every conceivable surface (no one's idea of fun) while my thoughts swayed between Elsa and Rachel, between ecstasy and guilt. As Marty liked to put it, I'd given control to someone else and gone along for the ride. I didn't particularly like it, but hell, I hadn't minded the ride, had I? No. I'd jumped right on.
Earlier that afternoon, I had avoided Rachel by graining the horses when she was riding, because I had this uncomfortable feeling that she would know what I had done just by looking at me. Now, I was finally finished with the cleanup. I gathered together the filthy rags, brushes, and cans and tossed everything into the trash. Dave wouldn't approve, but I couldn't care less. I gave the work area one last cursory glance and walked outside into sunlight and air not laden with fumes. I headed to the men's room, bent over the sink, and turned on the tap.
I was waiting for the water to get hot when someone opened the door.
"Finished with the paint removal yet?"
I glanced over my shoulder as Marty strolled into the room. "Yeah," I said. "Finally."
"What did the inspector say?"
"That horse barns were almost always a total loss if a fire breaks out." I soaped my hands and looked at Marty's reflection in the mirror. "Shit. There's so many horses in one barn, just the thought of it makes me sick."
"Jesus." Marty leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. "Did he have any suggestions?"
"Not really. We've done everything we can short of installing an overhead sprinkler system, and--"
"That'll be the day."
"Got that right. No way in hell will Ambrose shell out that kind of money. He said no to hiring a night watchman, too."
"I heard."
"Mrs. Hill did talk the local cops into driving by after-hours to give the farm a once over. Who knows how long that'll last."
"Or how open their eyes'll be."
I rinsed my hands and splashed water on my face. "Well, I'm finally caught up." I yanked some paper towels out of the dispenser and started to dry my face.
"Er . . . maybe not."
I paused. "What do you mean, maybe not?"
"Whitcombe's added two more horses to your list."
"Shit."
"And he's in a foul mood. Motherfucker needs to get laid."
I wadded the towels into a ball and hooked them into the trash bin that stood in the corner of the room. "Damn. Would you do one for me?"
"Sure."
"Thanks."
"Speakin' of needin' a good lay," Marty said. "You've been awfully tense lately."
I made a noncommittal noise in my throat and turned for the door, not trusting my expression. "See ya," I said over my shoulder.
I was heading for the lounge to get a Coke when Whitcombe called after me. He had already jumped off the horse he'd been riding and was leading it across the ring. I glanced at my watch. He'd quit early.
I wound my way through a bunch of kids who were waiting for the three-thirty lesson to begin and stood by the arena gate. The horse's sides were heaving, and despite the chilly air, he was damp with sweat.
"Got lead up your ass, Cline?" Whitcombe said. "I don't have all day."
I glanced over my shoulder. Everyone was watching and no wonder. The man was hard to ignore. But, it was his grave he was digging if Mrs. Hill caught him talking like that. I reached out to take the horse's reins. Whitcombe didn't let them go, so I dropped my hand to my side.
"You don't know jack shit about horses do you?" he said. "I asked for a figure-eight noseband, and I get a flash attachment."
"Your figure-eight was--"
"And I wanted a Dr. Bristol, and you can't figure that out, either."
I clenched my fists. I hadn't messed up, and he knew it.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Cline. You have no business working here. You're an incompetent, ignorant, lazy"--and then he lowered his voice so only I could hear--"son of a bitch who wouldn't be able to find your own fucking asshole without a map." He continued again with increasing decibels. "That you're barn manager blows me away. You're too damn stupid."
What a goddamned jerk.
He was down to a whisper again. "What'd you have to do, screw Mrs. Hill to get the job?"
I felt my face getting hot. I snatched the reins out of his hands. "What's wrong, Lawrence?" I whispered. "Can't find any boys to fuck?"
He narrowed his eyes and clamped his mouth shut. A film of sweat glistened on his skin, and he glared at me with such hatred, I felt as if a cold ball of ice had settled in my gut.
I turned away from him and led the horse back to the barn.
Damn it. I'd crossed that line, and worse, I had let him push me over it. I should have known better. Should have kept my damn mouth shut.
After Razz had cooled down, I tied him in his stall and began the tedious job of brushing the sweat out of his coat. I was working on the matted hair along his stifle when I heard someone stop in the aisle outside Razz's stall. I looked over the horse's rump.
Marty took note of my expression and grinned. "Expecting somebody, Steve?"
"You could say that."
He came into the stall. "I hear Whitcombe's at it again."
"Got that right. And shit, Marty. I let the asshole get to me."
"Damn . . . you're human after all. What'd you do?"
"It's not what I did, it's what I said."
"Well?"
"I called him a fag, more or less."
Marty snorted. "When you lose it, you do it with style. Anyway, thought I'd better warn ya. He's in the office, whinin' to Mrs. Hill."
I swiped the brush down the horse's rump. "He's prob--"
Mrs. Hill's voice came over the PA system loud and clear, calling me to the office. Marty chuckled.
"Here, Marty." I tossed the brush at him. "You think it's so funny, you finish Razz."
"Give 'em hell, Steve."
"Damn it, Marty. Don't look so happy."
"I'm not. It's just that you're so damned serious."
I walked into the office. Mrs. Hill was sitting behind her desk, and what surprised me was that she didn't look angry. I glanced at the door to the lounge. It was locked.
Whitcombe had claimed the one and only comfortable chair in the room. He crossed his legs and brushed the horsehair off his britches. His own hair was freshly combed, and I could have sworn he'd changed his shirt.
I crossed the room and stood facing him with my back to a row of filing cabinets. Leaning against the cool metal, I hooked my thumbs in my pockets and crossed my ankles.
"Stephen," Mrs. Hill said. "I want you to apologize to Larry for what you said."
I looked at her and tried to keep anything from showing in my face. She was watching me with calm eyes, certain that I would do as she asked.
I turned back to Whitcombe. His blue eyes glimmered, and the corners of his mouth twitched. He was enjoying himself. Gloating. I felt like wringing his scrawny neck. But if and when I left the job, I wouldn't let Whitcombe have the satisfaction of thinking he'd had a hand it in.
I unclenched my jaw and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry I lost my temper," I mumbled. It wasn't exactly what Mrs. Hill had in mind, but it was all she was going to get.
A small smile crept across his fat-lipped mouth. "That's more like it, Cline. Remember who's--"
"And, Larry," Mrs. Hill interrupted. "I want you to apologize to Stephen for the way you've been treating him."
"But--"
"In the past month, more than one person's complained to me about your actions. Stephen's the best barn manager we've ever had, and you don't give him the respect he deserves."
Whitcombe's, or should I say "Larry's," face deflated like a punctured balloon. His smug, self-satisfied smile dissolved and his eyes widened with astonishment. His
mouth hung open, and when I realized I was mirroring him, I snapped my mouth shut.
Whitcombe jumped to his feet. "Mrs. Hill, I beg to differ. I owe Cline nothing. He's insubordinate and insolent and disrespectful, and I will do nothing of the sort."
He started for the door, spun back around, and whisked his coat off the back of the chair. He raised a finger and pointed in my direction. "They make fun of me."
His eyes were moist, and I wondered if he was going to cry. He turned around abruptly and slammed the door on his way out.
I stared after him. As much as I disliked the guy, I'd never intended for him to overhear the things Marty and I said.
"Stephen," Mrs. Hill said.
I pulled my gaze away from the empty doorway.
"In the future, please keep your opinions of Larry to yourself."
"Yes, ma'am."
"You may go."
"Thank you." I walked outside, half expecting to find Whitcombe waiting for me. But he was nowhere in sight.
I didn't see Whitcombe for the rest of the day, and when I opened the door to the loft, the phone was ringing. I dumped my notebook and mail on the counter and snatched up the receiver.
"Aren't you ever home?" Kenneth Newlin said before I'd gotten two words out.
He'd gone by Kenneth ever since I'd known him. No one in his right mind would have called him Kenny. Kenneth was, pure and simple, a geek. Until we'd met during fifth period Physics class in tenth grade, I'd never thought anyone actually wore a pocket protector. The only thing he lacked was tape on his glasses, and for all I knew, he could have lowered himself to that by now.
"No," I said. "Not much."
Kenneth grunted. "Well, you were right about the tax write-off. Farpoint Industries has been listing Foxdale as a liability ever since they broke ground on the place, but they won't be able to this year. Foxdale's now in the black by a narrow margin. But I don't see how losing the write-off 's gonna make any difference whatsoever in FI's end-of-year balance sheet."
"Why's that."
"The company's making money hand over foot. Losing the write-off 's penny-ante stuff to them."
"What about money laundering?" I said.
"Well, I'm no accountant, but based on the files I accessed, I didn't see any indication of that."
"How'd you get into them?"
"The files?" Kenneth said.
"Yeah."
"You don't want to know. Oh, and even though they've lost the write-off, FI's still getting a hefty tax break because of the Green Space Act."
"The what?"
"Some bleeding heart liberals in the Senate and EPA are promoting it. In certain parts of the country--and your Foxdale just so happens to be smack in the middle of one of their grids--the government's granting landowners a hefty tax break for every acre they leave undeveloped in a futile effort to slow urban sprawl. At five-hundred-and-seven acres, FI's doing itself some good just by owning the land."
"So you don't see any way Ambrose would benefit from Foxdale losing money?"
"Nope. If someone wants the place to go belly up, it's not him."
"Okay. Thanks, Kenneth."
"No sweat."
"What're you up to these days?" I asked.
"I'm starting at NASA in May."
"Don't you have two more years before you graduate?"
"Nah. I crammed the four into two. Hell, I could have taught the classes I've been taking in my sleep, they're so basic."
I chuckled.
Kenneth told me about the artificial intelligence project he'd soon be cutting his teeth on, and by the time we said goodbye, the dull ache behind my eyes that I'd been nursing all evening had turned into a full-blown headache.
I knocked the cap off a bottle of beer and swallowed some ibuprophen. After I'd opened a box of Cheez-Its, I flipped through the pages in my notebook until I came to the scribbled notes I'd made at the library, where I'd stayed until closing time. I was fast becoming a pro at scanning microfiche, but I'd come away empty-handed as far as news coverage on horse and tack theft went. More depressing, however, were the lack of details on James Peters' death.
I unfolded the photocopies, smoothed them out on the counter, and read the blurred print for the third time.
STABLE OWNER MISSING ALONG WITH SEVEN HORSES
Berrett: Police were called to Hunters Ridge Farm on Martz Road shortly after seven a.m. Saturday morning, when Gwendolyn Peters discovered that seven of the farm's horses were missing from their stalls and presumed stolen. Police could not locate her husband, James S. Peters, though it is unclear at this time whether the events are related.
BODY FOUND IN PATUXENT RIVER STATE PARK
Damascus: The partially decomposed body of an unidentified adult male was found in the Patuxent River State Park just south of Long Corner Road early Friday morning. Two fourteen-year-old boys from Dorsett, Maryland discovered the body while hiking along a trail west of the Patuxent River. Police determined that the body had been buried, but recent heavy rains had washed away the loose soil. The cause of death was not immediately known.
BODY IDENTIFIED
Damascus: A body found in the Patuxent River State Park early Friday morning has been identified as that of James S. Peters of Berrett, Maryland. Peters, 64, who owned and operated a horse facility near Piney Run Park, disappeared August 4th, the same day seven horses were stolen from the farm.
Detective James Ralston, who is heading the investigation, said preliminary findings indicate that Peters interrupted the intruders and was murdered. Ralston refused to comment on other details of the investigation except to say that cause of death was determined to be blunt force trauma to the head. Peters is survived by his wife.
Those three clippings, combined with a brief write-up in the obituary column, were, as far as I could determine, the total coverage devoted to the life and death of James S. Peters. I downed the last of the beer and threw the empty into the trash.