by Kit Ehrman
Chapter 14
Despite Officer Dorsett's warning, I mailed the flyers Tuesday afternoon and didn't give them another thought. At quitting time, I poured myself a cup of coffee and went into the office. I fished a couple of aspirins out of the first aid kit and swallowed them. Through the Plexiglas, I watched the six o'clock warming up. Vicki Lewis was riding Jet, Foxdale's most recent addition to its string of school horses, and the mare was giving her a fit, shying in the corners and breaking into a canter at the slightest provocation. Mrs. Hill was huddled in her coat, talking to Karen. I blew across the coffee cup and wondered what I was going to eat for dinner.
Corey Claremont, one of Foxdale's boarders, walked into the office, said hello, then dropped an envelope on Mrs. Hill's desk. She turned to leave and paused. "Oh, Steve. You made me think of something. You know that notice you put up on the bulletin board? The one about the trailer."
I nodded.
"Well, there's a trailer like that off one of the trails." She told me how to find it. "Unless you know it's there, you can hardly see it, but I hacked out that way a lot this winter, so I know the area pretty good. Thought you might want to know."
I thanked her, and after she left, I dug Mrs. Hill's county map out of the supply cabinet and sat down at her desk. Corey was an experienced eventer, and when she went on a trail ride, she covered a lot of territory.
Though her directions were a bit complicated, after a few false starts, I pinpointed the section of park land she'd indicated. Two roads were close to the location, but without seeing it for myself, I wouldn't know which was the right one. I leaned back in the chair. Detective Ralston and I had covered that part of the county already, so why hadn't the trailer been on the MVA list?
I called Ralston's number and was told he was unavailable until Thursday. I went home and emptied a can of Campbell's Hearty Beef Stew into a pot. After it had heated through, I took it and a bag of pretzels out on the deck. I sat with my back to the wood siding and watched the colors fade from the day. Above my head, a full moon shone in a cloudless sky.
I'd never been much good at waiting. I dumped the dishes in the sink, slipped a flashlight into my jacket pocket, and headed back to Foxdale.
I caught Karen between lessons and told her I was taking Jet on a trail ride.
"She's never gone on the trail alone," Karen said, "and you're taking her out at night?"
"It's light enough with the moon."
"She doesn't even know the trails."
"She'll be fine," I said. "Besides, she needs the work."
"Only because half the students can't handle her," Karen snapped. She lowered the jump cup on the standard and repositioned the rail. "Which trail are you taking?"
"The one to the north."
"North?"
"To the left, Karen."
She put her hands on her hips.
"I'll follow the river for a while, then bring her back."
"You get her hurt, it's on your head." She looked across the arena when one of the ponies faked a shy in the corner and yelled, "Don't pull back on the reins! Inside leg! Use your inside leg and push him forward."
I left Karen to her class, tacked up Jet, and swung into the saddle. We headed down the corridor that runs between the rows of paddocks. When we reached the woods, I reined her to the left, and after a moment's hesitation, she followed the trail as it zig-zagged downhill toward the river. She strode out well, eager yet relaxed, and it was obvious she was enjoying herself.
Moonlight filtered through the woods, and after a while, my eyes adjusted to the light. Tall, thick-trunked oaks towered above us, their dark tangle of branches dramatic against the moon-washed sky. Where the trail dropped into a deep ravine, I leaned back in the saddle and let her choose where to put her feet. The cool air was curiously still in the shelter of the woods, her footfalls silent, the creaking leather and our breathing the only sounds.
When we came to the first stream crossing, I slipped the reins through my fingers. Jet half-slid, half-jumped down the slope, then scrambled up the opposite bank. She lowered her head and cantered down the trail with exuberance, all the while subtly trying to bounce me out of the saddle. Grinning at her enthusiasm, I brought her back to a walk.
The mare was still keyed up when we reached the place where the trail empties into a wide meadow down by the river. Jet wheeled around, and I almost came off. She bolted into the woods, and by the time I managed to get myself vertical and her stopped, she was standing in a grove of pine trees. Her body was rigid with tension. I could feel her heart pounding in her chest, and my own was doing a fair job at imitation.
A heavy pine branch arched across her neck, inches above her mane. If she took a step or two forward, I would be knocked off. There was no way around it, and I knew she wouldn't back up in that mess. I gathered the reins in my left hand, slipped my stirrups, and slid to the ground.
Even with the care I'd taken, she threw her head up. When she felt the branch brush against her mane, she ran backward. I ran along with her. Just as I reached the conclusion that I would have to drop the reins or be dragged across the ground, she came to her senses and stopped.
It took ten minutes to calm her, five more to pick our way through the woods, and one second to swing up onto her back. I had used the time in the woods to check for cuts or scrapes, and amazingly, she had none. I pointed her in the direction of the meadow and nearly laughed when I spotted the cause for her concern.
Deer were browsing among the thick grass and scattered saplings that grew by the river's edge. They noticed us immediately but seemed undisturbed by our presence. I stroked Jet's neck and made her stand until I felt her muscles relax and saw the lines of tension around her eyes soften. When she was thoroughly bored, I reined her to the north, away from the deer.
Wooded hills sloped upward on both sides of the river, and except for a faint gurgling, where fast-moving water tumbled over a natural dam, the meadow was quiet. I might have found it peaceful except for the night's objective. I looked at my watch. Seven-fifty-five. I had two hours before the last lesson was over, before Karen would check to see if we'd made it back.
When we came to a stretch of meadow where the footing was safe, I bridged the reins together over the crest of her neck--to act as a brace in case she stumbled--then crouched low over the saddle. She automatically lengthened into a ground-covering canter, the instinct for speed there for the asking. Her body rocked beneath me, her muscles straining, footfalls muffled, breath coming faster, louder, filling my ears. I pressed my knuckles into her mane and relaxed into her stride. The brisk air stung my face and pulled tears from the corners of my eyes. The ground beneath us was a blur, the speed intoxicating for both of us.
Where the meadow narrowed into a track not much wider than one of the old logging roads, with trees thick on both sides, I brought her back to a walk. Jet swiveled her ears and tossed her head in irritation.
"Sorry, girl. Can't run here." I patted her neck. Steam eddied through her coat, curling upward in tendrils, and I could smell her sweat, stirringly primitive. A link to the past. The result of countless years of man and horse working together.
It took me half an hour to find the trail, but when I did, I had no doubt I'd found the right one. Corey's directions had been dead on. "Right at a wide fork, go two-hundred yards to another fork, make a left. The trail rises sharply, then follows the crest of a narrow ridge that runs north to south with a fence line just visible on the western slope." We followed the trail for several miles, and it was there, where the trees thinned, that I saw the trailer.
I reined Jet to a stop. Fifty feet down slope, the woods gave way to pasture land that backed up to an old, white farm house and dilapidated bank barn. A trailer that looked remarkably like the one I'd had my ride in was parked behind the barn in a rickety-looking corral out of sight from the road. I studied the house. Lights were on downstairs, casting yellow squares across the grass, but the back porch light was dark.
I spent all of five minutes making up my mind.
I slid off the mare, tied her to a tree, and squeezed between strands of rusty barbed wire. It was only 600 feet to the trailer. Six hundred feet of open ground under a full moon. But if no one was looking, it wouldn't matter.
I took off at a dead run. Midway between the woods and corral, a drainage ditch I hadn't noticed stretched blackly through the tangled grass.
I vaulted over it, landed on my knees and scrambled up the other side, wondering what else I might have missed.
By the time I got to the old split-rail fence, my lungs were burning. I reached out to grab the top rail and brushed my hand against an electric wire. Inhaling sharply, I jerked my hand back, then wasted precious seconds looking for a place where I could squeeze between the rails. I slipped through where one of the rails had sagged and crossed the rough ground to the trailer.
Standing with my back against the trailer, I tried to catch my breath and listened for distant voices, barking dogs, anything that would indicate I'd been seen. All I could hear was my own breathing. The escape door was on the side closest to the barn. I pushed myself off the cool metal, moved to the front of the trailer, and peered around the corner. The barn was dark and silent and blocked my view of the house. I crouched down and crossed under the nose of the trailer, between the trailer's body and hitch. As I inched my way down to the escape door, I curled my fingers around the flashlight.
I flicked on the light. The sheet metal was smooth and straight, not misshapen and dented. The workmanlike hinges were free of rust. The escape door, on the whole, was in much better repair than the rest of the trailer. I ducked down and peered at the lower edge of the door. The thin strip of metal, hidden from casual view, was blue not green.
A tingle went up my spine.
The door had been painted.
But I wouldn't know for sure unless I looked inside. I flicked off my light and edged around to the side door used for loading the horses. Thinking that I didn't want my fingerprints plastered all over the trailer, I slipped my hand under my T-shirt and unlatched the heavy ramp. I lowered it toward the ground, letting the springs do most of the work. They twanged and hummed under the stress, and the rusty hinges screeched until the lower lip of the ramp settled into the grass.
I nearly lost my nerve then, but the barn would muffle most of the sound, and the house was a good fifty yards beyond. I swallowed.
Heavy plywood partitions lay folded across the ramp. Normally, they would be raised on either side of the ramp, then slotted and bolted into place to form sidewalls for guiding the horses, but I didn't bother with the ramp. I stepped around the ramp, grabbed the edge of the door frame, and scrambled into the darkened trailer.
The air was chillier inside than out and smelled strongly of cows. I switched on the flashlight. Someone had removed the stall dividers and stacked them against the back wall. I looked at the window placement, at the shape and size of the storage space over the gooseneck, at the design and positioning of the overhead lights, and was certain I was standing in the trailer. Details I hadn't remembered came flooding back--the missing bar in the left-hand window, the six-inch crack in the yellowed light fixture over the back stalls, the tufts of torn baling twine that stuck out like a bad hairdo from the tie ring in the central aisle, the way the rubber matting under the escape door curled at the edge.
I examined the interior surface of the escape door. It, too, had received a paint job, but not as thorough. The original color was evident in the crease along the hinges and in the lower right-hand corner. I thought about how I'd escaped from the trailer and searched the floor. The old bolt was lying in a crevice where the fibers in the rubber matting had separated. Three links of chain still hung from one end. I bent down to pick it up, then hesitated.
I left it where it was, scrambled out of the trailer, and raised the ramp. I slid the latch home, spun around, and walked straight into the business end of a double-barreled shotgun.
The barrel jerked upward, and I felt my scalp contract.
"What'n the hell are you doin'?" He held the gun at the ready, pointing straight at my chest. "Well?"
I tried to work some saliva into my mouth, but all I could do was stare at the gun, at his hand steadying the barrel, at his finger fidgeting over the trigger guard.
As he stepped back, I heard a deep, guttural sound that rose into a menacing growl. I glanced down. A huge, broad-shouldered Rottweiler crouched in the grass next to the man's legs. His lips were pulled back from razor white teeth, his hot gaze locked on mine. The fur from the nape of his neck to the base of his tail stood on end, and I was sure, given half the chance, he would tear me to shreds.
"Well, boy, speak up. What're ya doin' lookin' in there?"
"I . . . I was looking for my dog, and I thought I heard something down here, and--"
"What?"
"I was following his tracks on the trails back there behind the pasture, when they broke off and headed down here toward your barn."
"Tracking a dog?" His eyes narrowed. "The hell you were. You were running across the field like the devil was fixin' to light up your ass."
"It's true, sir. I was looking for my dog."
"Put your goddamn hands up."
I looked at his dog and slowly raised my hands. The Rottweiler stepped sideways, and his growl, if anything, grew louder.
"We're gonna go talk to the police." He motioned to me with the shotgun. "Go on back round the trailer. Don't do anything stupid, now. Ain't nothin' gonna stop me from shootin' your ass. Understand?"
I nodded.
"Go on."
I stepped backward and tripped over something hidden in the tall grass. I landed flat on my back. The dog lunged forward, and I was sure I was dead. He bounced to a stop and lowered his head. A growl rumbled deep within his chest, and I watched, transfixed, as drool slid off the tip of a fang. It seemed to fall in slow motion before it landed on my face. The warm saliva trickled down my cheek into my hair.
"Get up."
I couldn't move. Every muscle in my body had seized, and I wasn't sure I was breathing.
"Get up, damn it," he yelled, and I wondered which would hurt more, being ripped apart or shot to death.
Finally, he must have realized I wasn't going anywhere with his dog breathing down my throat. He called to it and damn if the thing didn't listen. It trotted off, circled around behind its master, and stopped beside his leg. I slowly got to my feet and stood there feeling lightheaded.
"Get your damn hands up." I put them up. "Go that way." He jerked his head. "Walk through that gate there, the one over by the barn, and head on up to the house."
I turned and stepped through overgrown grass, praying that he wouldn't trip and end up shooting me in the back.
"Keep moving," he said.
When I got to the house, I stumbled up the back steps and stood where he told me, facing the wall. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that he was careful to keep the shotgun leveled my way as he pulled open the screen door. He fumbled with the doorknob, then pushed the storm door open and told me to go inside. I turned to face him. He was standing awkwardly, his leg braced against the screen door that was hanging out of plumb with the frame. I hesitated and wondered if I'd be walking out under my own power.
"Go on in, damn it. I don't got all night."
I took two steps. He pointed the gun to the side to give me room to walk through the doorway, and I thought it might be my only chance. I could jump him. Then I looked at his dog. I wouldn't get two inches.
I walked into the kitchen.
He slammed the door so hard, the window panes rattled behind their thin, ratty curtains. The farmer kept his gaze on me as he strode across the room, dragged a chair away from the kitchen table, and told me to sit. I sat. The dog must have felt I was a welcomed guest then, because he nonchalantly walked into a half-collapsed cardboard box, circled twice, then lay down on a dirty, rumpled quilt. He lowered his head onto his front paws and sighed.
The farmer snatched the phone off the wall. "Keep your hands where I can see 'em," he said as he punched in a number. A long one. He hadn't dialed 911.
He leaned his butt against the kitchen counter and tucked the shotgun under his arm. His grip looked relaxed. The muzzle was pointed toward the floor, but there was no way I could cross the space between us before he brought the gun to bear.
"Wes? This is Randy." His gaze was steady on my face, listening, impatient.
The muscles in my belly constricted, and a rising wave of panic flooded my veins. I had made a big mistake. He wasn't calling the cops. I should have made a break for it when I was outside. Shouldn't have walked into this house.
"All right, fine. Listen, I caught this kid here, trespassin'. Snoopin' round the trailer out back. . . . He's sittin' right here, at the kitchen table. . . . I don't know. Could be. Can't tell for sure. . . . All right, and come to the back door." He hung up the phone and raised the shotgun in one fluid movement, then he stepped past the sink and flicked on the porch light.
I swallowed. "I thought you said you were calling the police."
"I did. So . . . you wanna tell me what you were doin'?"
When I didn't answer, he shrugged, pulled off his cap, and tossed it on the counter. His red hair was full of static. As he flattened his hair with the palm of his hand, I felt like I'd been kicked in the gut. In the glow from the pickup's taillights that night, I easily could have mistaken red hair for blond. He was the right build, too.
And that barn. It would be perfect for keeping horses out of sight until they were ready to be shipped to Canada. If he and his buddy on the phone were the horse thieves, I wondered what they were going to do with me and thought I already knew.
A clammy wave of nausea swept over me. It was hot in the kitchen, and I was sweating under my jacket. I rubbed a hand across my forehead, and that simple movement got the dog's attention. His head popped up, and he eyed me suspiciously.
Swallowing, I looked at the door. Light from the porch filtered through old towels that were tacked to the wood frame. I wouldn't be able to see who was at the door until he actually walked into the room, and by then it would be too late.
I cautiously turned my head to the right. There were two doorways. One opened into a dining room, dark and lifeless, giving an impression of disuse. From the other, a narrow hallway led toward the front of the house where a faint light shone. With each passing minute, the silence in the old house deepened--no television, no radio, no voices, not even a ticking clock.
The farmer--what was his name? Randy?--seemed content with guard duty. He had shed his jacket and was leaning against the counter, the shotgun wedged in the crook of his elbow. I looked at the dog. His head once again rested on his paws, eyes closed, but I doubted he was sleeping.
Someone rapped on the kitchen door, and all three of us jumped. The dog hit the linoleum at a dead run. He paws slid out from beneath him as he scrambled toward the door. Randy yelled, "Come in," and every muscle in my body tensed. I could hear my pulse pounding in my ears, even above the dog's frantic barking, and I decided to try and get away. Run through the house, out the front door, and away . . . if I could.
The door was creaking in on its hinges when I jumped to my feet. By the time the chair I'd been sitting in clattered to the floor, I was around the table.
"Hey," Randy yelled, but I was halfway down the hall, praying he wouldn't let loose with his gun inside the house.
Behind me, another voice yelled, "Stop," but I kept running. Where the hallway emptied into the living room, I almost ran into the back of a sofa. I vaulted it and landed on a coffee table. Piles of magazines and a coffee mug scattered across the polished wood, and the whole thing tipped over. Somehow, I landed on my feet. I sprinted for the front door.
Without warning, something jerked my leg backward, and I crashed face first onto the floor. The impact knocked the breath out of my lungs. I gasped, trying to inhale and feeling like I couldn't, when a knee jammed into the small of my back. A strong hand gripped my neck and pressed my face into the carpet. He was yelling at me, screaming, but I barely heard him. Grunting with exertion, he tried to get hold of my right arm with his free hand.
I reached behind my neck, grabbed his wrist, and yanked as hard as I could. It broke his grip, and he overbalanced. He toppled forward. I twisted and jammed my elbow into him and tried to roll him off. He was too quick. He pinned my shoulders to the floor, and the farmer walked over and ground his boot into the back of my neck like he was squashing a bug. I lay there for a second, panting, unable to move, and realized that something was wrong with my leg.
The dog. It was the damn dog.
The guy on top of me shifted his weight and latched his fingers around my wrist. He yanked on my arm and tried to get my hand behind my back, but he was going to have to work for it.
"Come on, kid," he grunted. "Give it up." He pulled harder, but it didn't do him any good. "Randy, put your weight into it."
"I am." Randy increased the pressure on my neck.
"Relax, kid," the guy on my back panted. "You're just making it harder on yourself." He changed his grip, jackknifed my arm around, and pinned my wrist between my shoulder blades.
He shifted, and I realized he was groping for something. A gun, a knife?
Fueled with desperation, I wrenched my arm free, grabbed Randy's ankle, and twisted at the same time. It threw him off balance. His boot scraped across my neck, and he landed heavily on the carpet. I rolled and twisted, trying to get to my feet, when I caught sight of the guy behind me and froze. He was squatting, bringing his arm down in a wide arc, and in his hand, he held a shiny black stick. It cracked into my arm, just below the shoulder. The blow shuddered through my body, and my arm went numb.
He pushed me back onto my stomach and clamped something on my wrist. The ratchetting sound was unmistakable, and I had probably just gotten myself into a whole lot of trouble. He pulled my left arm into position, slapped on the other cuff, and pushed to his feet. I twisted around.
They stared down at me, both of them out of breath, and sure enough, the glimpse I'd caught of a uniform hadn't been a mistake. He was a cop. A sheriff's deputy, at least from the waist up. From the looks of it, he had thrown on his jacket and gun belt in a hurry. Otherwise, he was wearing jeans and sneakers. I closed my eyes and groaned.
"Randy, call off your dog."
Randy motioned to his dog, and I looked toward my feet. The dog had his huge jaws clamped around my right ankle. His legs were braced, and he was pulling against me, his nails digging into the carpet. He turned his head to the side, struggled to open his mouth wider, and let go of my leg. He shook his head as if disgusted, then walked behind Randy and sat dutifully beside his master. I flexed my ankle. It burned, but I was pretty sure I had escaped any damage. His teeth had sunk into my boot, not my skin.
I moved to get up, and the cop put his foot between my shoulder blades and pushed me back down. "Don't move." He was still panting. "You're already in enough trouble." After a minute or two, he squatted beside me and checked my jacket pockets.
"What's your name?"
"Stephen Cline."
"Why'd you run, Steve?"
"I didn't think you were a cop."
He rolled me onto my side and began to empty my jeans pockets. "Who'd you think I was? Santa Claus?"
"Funny."
"You know you could of got yourself shot?" He checked my waistline, then felt between my legs.
I tensed.
"What? You never been frisked before?"
"No." I unclenched my teeth. "What in the hell are you checking for."
"Guns, knives, hand grenades . . . suspicious bulges." He chuckled at his stupid joke and rolled me back onto my stomach. "Ever been arrested?"
"No."
When he finished his search, he grunted to his feet, then snatched his hat off the carpet. He stood in a wide-legged stance, his gut protruding over his belt. It had been a long time si
nce his police academy days. A long time since he'd done anything more vigorous than drive around in his cruiser. He brushed off the hat's brim and adjusted it on his balding head. That done, he hooked his hand under my arm and pulled me to my feet.
"Settle down, Steve. Gettin' angry ain't gonna help you any." He tugged on his belt. "Now, what were you doing on Mr. Drake's property?"
I told him. I told him about the horse theft and about being beaten up and abducted and about Detectives Linquist and Ralston. I told him about James Peters and everything else I could think of because I had to. By the time I ran out of things to say, Randy no longer looked pissed off, and Deputy Thompson had been on the phone several times, running a check on me and verifying my story.
Randy chuckled. "No wonder you looked so scared." He was leaning against the kitchen counter, chewing on a toothpick, and I was back in the chair I'd started out in.
Thompson shook his head as he fitted his key into one cuff, then the other. "You could of got yourself killed. What if you'd stumbled into the murderer. Next time, leave it to the professionals." He jerked his head at the farmer, and they walked over to the hallway. The deputy crossed his arms over his broad stomach and talked quietly to Randy, all the while keeping his gaze on me.
I rubbed my wrists and listened to their low, indistinct voices. The dog was back in his box, asleep this time. I glanced at my watch. Ten after ten.
Damn. Karen would be wondering where I was, and I hoped to God, Jet was all right. I looked up as Thompson strode across the worn floor and stopped in front of me.
"Mr. Drake isn't gonna press charges for trespassing, son. You'd better go on home."
Press charges? I wondered what charges I could get Mr. Drake in trouble with. "Mind if I look at the trailer on my way out?"
Thompson's eyebrows rose. "Don't see why not." He turned to Randy. "Got any objections?"
Randy shook his head. I made a quick call to Foxdale and told Karen to go home, then the three of us trudged outside.
At the corral gate, I paused and looked Randy in the eye. "You had no right to hold me at gun point."
His back tensed under his jacket. "I got signs posted up and down my fence line, and you kids just keep doing what you please."
"I've never been here before," I said, and even I could hear the anger in my voice.
"Now, son. It's over." Thompson stepped closer. "Go on home. Mr. Drake was just protecting his property."
Wordlessly, I turned away from them and walked around to the trailer's back bumper. I pushed a clump of tall weeds out of the way. The license plate had been issued in Pennsylvania, which explained why Drake hadn't been on Ralston's list. As I straightened, I noticed my cap lying in the grass. I picked it up and dusted off the brim.
Deputy Thompson stood with his arms crossed over his broad belly and his chin tucked against his neck, waiting for me to leave, while Randy dug around his teeth with his toothpick. By all accounts, he looked bored. And I didn't understand it. If I wasn't mistaken, I had just found the trailer; yet the owner was clueless.
"You have any repairs made to your trailer in the past two months?" I said.
Randy shook his head. "I hardly ever use it."
I jerked my head toward his house. "I got turned around in the woods. What road do you live on?"
"Mink Hollow."
I told him I was sorry I'd bothered him, then crossed the corral and vaulted the fence.
I found Jet where I'd left her and turned her for home. She didn't need any encouragement. It wasn't until I pulled her up between the barns that I realized what I felt was no longer anger, but confusion and an overwhelming feeling of futility.
After I untacked Jet and brushed her off, I checked the barns. I was on my way out when I paused at the bulletin board outside barn A's tack room. I tore down the class schedule from the past weekend and crumpled it into a ball. Underneath was a crinkled copy of the announcement I'd tacked up weeks before, the one that described the rig used in the horse theft.
The paper was discolored from being in the barn so long, and someone had scribbled across the lower right-hand corner in red ink. As the words registered, I felt as if I'd been drenched with ice water.
"A cat has nine lives. You don't" was scrawled across my name.
An image of Boris swinging from the rafters with his throat cut crowded my mind.
No one knew about him except the cops.
And the killer.