BLINDFOLD

by Lyndon Stacey

  BLINDFOLD

  Lyndon Stacey

  The blindfold was a major hindrance, so much depended on body language with animals. Tiny changes of posture, movements of the ears and eyes and the swishing of a horses tail all gave away important information about the state of its mind, Normally, Gideon intuitively reacted to that information with his own body language; dominant posture when it was required, submissive when the occasion demanded. Without it, it felt uncomfortably like a game of Russian roulette.

  BLINDFOLD

  Lyndon Stacey

  HUTCHINSON LONDON

  Gideon Blake, artist and animal behaviorist, is used to dealing with distressed and unpredictable animals. But on one cold February night he is faced with the challenge of his life. Abducted from his home, handcuffed and blindfolded, Gideon is inexplicably forced by his violent captors to catch a dangerous and highly-strung stallion. Though severely handicapped by the blindfold and fearing certain death, he has no choice but to comply.

  Bruised and bewildered by events of that fateful night, Gideon ignores his abductors' threats to stay silent and resolves to find out who was behind this sadistic and seemingly irrational act.

  But a chance encounter leads to a shocking discovery, one that makes Gideon question the motives of those closest to him and brings the devastating realization that danger lies very close to home...

  Lyndon Stacey is an animal portrait artist by trade and has a love of Western style horse riding. She lives on the edge of the New For3est. This is her second novel

  For Pam Stembridge, who has a really special way with animals; and to the memory of Charlie, my equine companion of twenty years, who taught me all about Alphas.

  ONE

  THE LIGHT BULB HAD BLOWN. With a resigned sigh Gideon stepped into the darkness of his hallway and turned to close the front door against the cold night wind.

  There were two men waiting unseen, one outside and one in. Neither of them took the trouble to introduce himself.

  As Gideon reached for the handle, the first man kicked the front door viciously from the outside, smashing it into his face and shoulder and sending him stumbling back into the waiting arms of the second. The arms wrapped around him without hesitation, enclosing his own in a hug of rib-cracking enthusiasm.

  Pausing only long enough to regain some sort of footing, Gideon threw his head back hard, feeling it make contact with a satisfying crunch. There was a muffled curse and the owner of the arms fell away, freeing his captive as he clutched at his face in agony.

  Gideon had little time to appreciate his freedom, for as he staggered upright he was first blinded by blazing torchlight, and then floored by an unseen fist which took him just below the ribs with all the force of a kick from an offended mule.

  He found himself face down on the cold stone floor, his nose pressed to the uneven flags and one arm twisted up behind his back. There didn't seem to be anything he could usefully do about it, so he preserved what was left of his dignity and did nothing.

  Something cold clicked on to his right wrist and the other one was pulled to join it.

  Handcuffs! What the hell?

  A hand pressed down none too gently on the back of his neck, forcing his face into even closer contact with the stone, and somewhere above his head a voice said conversationally, `Be a good boy and lie still, and nobody will hurt you.'

  A bit late for that, Gideon thought. He already felt steamrollered, and the left side of his face, which had taken the major part of the impact from the door, had begun to throb. He heard footsteps moving away and took the opportunity to roll on to his side to try and ease his painful breathing.

  `You just try it!' a voice warned thickly from behind him. `An' I'll put your lights out for good!'

  Gideon had no intention of trying it, whatever it was. His head felt unpleasantly muzzy and he had a strong suspicion that for the time being he was probably best off horizontal.

  A light clicked on across the hall in his sitting room.

  `Leave him alone,' the first voice said from the doorway. `Why don't you do something useful, like putting that bulb back in?' It was a strangely soft voice with strong undertones of some northern city, probably Liverpool. The other voice sounded similar but much rougher.

  `He broke my fucking nose!' number two protested thickly, distinctly aggrieved.

  `Well, I've felt like doin' it myself, more than once, so he's saved me the trouble,' the first voice remarked, further off now. Gideon felt that had the circumstances been different, he could have liked this man.

  In the shaft of light from the sitting-room doorway, he could see the heavy pair of work boots worn by assailant number two as they crossed and re-crossed his vision, three or four feet away. After a moment, the hall light came on once more.

  He could hear the other man moving about in the next room and wondered what he was doing. If the object of the exercise were robbery, then they would find they had picked the wrong house. Gideon had little of value to this sort of thief no television or video, no computer system or microwave, and very little cash about the place. His hi-fi was good but hardly state-of-the-art. Admittedly some of the furniture was antique - Gideon liked old, mellowed things - but its condition was unlikely to arouse much joy in the heart of a collector. Apart from his credit cards and the keys to the Norton, both of which were in his pockets, the only really valuable things in the house were the paintings, but none of them was particularly well known and his two visitors didn't strike him as connoisseurs.

  The boots paused in their perambulations and came towards Gideon, abruptly banishing any thoughts of paintings to make room for more urgent considerations. A meaty fist descended and, hauling him to a sitting position, proceeded to drag him across the flagstones to the wall, where he leaned back gratefully and waited for the other walls and the ceiling to start behaving as walls and ceilings should.

  Broken Nose hadn't finished with him. He crouched down to Gideon's level and, still holding him by the front of his leather biker jacket, pointed at his own heavy-featured, blood-streaked face, saying in a low but nonetheless menacing voice, `I'll make you sorry you did this!'

  Gideon was saved by the return of the other man, who was clearly in charge.

  `Leave him alone! The Guv'nor wants him in one piece.' He pushed his injured colleague out of the way and bent down to hold a tumbler to Gideon's lips with a hand enclosed in a thin, black leather glove. `Drink this.'

  Gideon smelt brandy - his best Courvoisier - and obliged with no argument. The burning liquid did wonders.

  `Thanks,' he said, and immediately felt stupid. It was, after all, his own Cognac.

  His jacket was grasped once more and he was pulled to his feet, where he was surprised to find himself standing face to face with his captor. Surprised, because he himself stood six foot four and was accustomed to looking down at most people. This man was as tall or taller. He wore a black woolly hat over very short fair hair, and a cotton bandanna pulled up over his nose, bandit-style, so that all Gideon could see was a pair of uncompromising, ice blue eyes. Presumably the other man had also worn his neckerchief in the same way but it had since been removed and used to mop his face. Both wore black jeans and black leather jackets over dark roll-necks.

  The tall one patted Gideon down in the manner of one who had done it before and slickly removed his mobile phone, wallet and keys from an inside pocket.

  `You won't be needing those,' he said, tossing them on to a chair. `Now, turn round.'

  Gideon wasn't in a position to argue. He turned. From behind, a thick, soft pad was placed over his eyes and bound tightly in place with another piece of material. Darkness was absolute. Firm hands took hold of his shoulders and pushed him in the direction of the front door.

  `Right, let'
s get moving. We waited half an hour for you, pal, and the Guv'nor doesn't like to be kept waiting.'

  `What the hell's going on?' Gideon protested. `Where are you taking me?'

  `The Guv'nor said to bring you, I don't ask why, I just do it.' `I don't understand. Who is this Guv'nor?'

  `Yeah, right. I'm really going to tell you.'

  Gideon stumbled over his front doorstep and stopped. `Are you sure you've got the right man?' he persisted, mystified. Less than an hour before he had been celebrating the completion of a commissioned racehorse portrait with some delighted clients. The situation was unreal.

  `You are Gideon Blake and this is the Gatehouse to Graylings Priory?'

  There seemed little point in denying it, since one look in his wallet would give the game away. Gideon nodded.

  `Then we've got the right man. Now shut up and keep walking.'

  Gideon did as he was told. There was nothing else he could do. Shouting for help would have been a fruitless exercise with his nearest neighbours the best part of half a mile away.

  Moments later, he was shoved unceremoniously into the back of a van. A van which, on reflection, Gideon remembered seeing as he'd ridden past on his motorbike. Such things were notable in a country lane as quiet as this one. Broken Nose climbed in beside him, muttering darkly, the doors were slammed shut and with the tall man at the wheel, they moved off.

  The bed of the van, on to which Gideon had been pushed, was completely devoid of any form of upholstery, leaving him lying on the bare metal ribs of the bodyshell. The pervading smell was of oil, and from the hollow sound of it, the vehicle was more or less empty.

  With a sustained effort, Gideon managed to inch his way into an upright position by pushing his shoulders against the side of the vehicle and wriggling. Suddenly, just as he relaxed, the van turned and accelerated, throwing him against his companion, who swore and pushed him flat again.

  `Cut it out!' the tall man said over his shoulder.

  Gideon wriggled his way up once more and by bracing himself firmly with his feet, managed to stay there for the rest of the journey, which he judged was about twenty minutes. About halfway he began to shiver, due partly to the cold of the February night and partly to shock, but in the noisy darkness of the van his travelling companion didn't appear to notice, for which he was grateful.

  Fear was pushing at the edges of his consciousness, but his overriding emotion at the moment was complete bewilderment.

  He was still half-convinced that it was all a case of mistaken identity. He was certainly not an obvious target for kidnapping, his family being no more than comfortably off, and he wasn't aware that he owed anybody any money. He was thirty-four, single, and a self-employed artist with a sideline in animal psychology, although sometimes it seemed to be the other way round. As far as he knew he had never stepped on anyone's toes. What the hell were they playing at?

  The van slowed, turned sharply and proceeded to bump violently over an extremely uneven surface for a few yards before coming to a halt. The engine rattled into silence and Gideon heard the tall man get out, then the back was opened and Broken Nose scrambled out, pulling Gideon after him. He landed awkwardly and would have fallen, had it not been for the hand grasping the collar of his jacket. His head was throbbing in earnest now and it took him a moment or two to regain his balance.

  Footsteps could be heard approaching over the frosty ground and a new voice said, `You certainly took your time. What happened?' The tone was terse and held no discernible accent.

  `He was out,' the tall one replied. `We had to wait half an hour.' `Well, bring him in. We've been here too long as it is.'

  They all began to move forward, Gideon stumbling between the two from the van.

  `Did he give you any trouble?'

  `A little,' the tall man admitted. `He's a big bloke.' Then, with a chuckle, `He bent Curly's nose for him.'

  On the other side of Gideon, Curly swore viciously.

  A door creaked open. It sounded like an outside door, Gideon thought, to a shed or a barn, not a house. They stepped inside. He was right. Under his feet the ground was soft like trodden earth.

  He was propelled forward a few feet and then stopped by a hand dragging on his leather jacket. The third man, who he assumed from his manner was the Guv'nor, spoke from his left side.

  `We've got a little job for you to do, Mr. Blake. If you cooperate you'll be out of here in no time and none the worse for it.'

  He didn't say what would happen if Gideon didn't co-operate but somehow he didn't feel the need to enquire.

  `You're an animal tamer, right? A - what do they call it - a horse whisperer?'

  Gideon cringed inwardly. He hated the term, with its mystical connotations.

  `I'm a behaviourist,' he amended, `of sorts.'

  `Well, whatever,' the Guv'nor said impatiently. `But you sort out horses.'

  `Sometimes.'

  `Well, we need you to catch one. It's farting around in there and we can't get near it. Bloody mad it is! Kicked one of us already.'

  Oh, cheers! Gideon thought. Aloud he asked, `What's upset it?' `I don't know!' the other man said testily. `It's just like that. Maybe it's stressed. Maybe it's had a bad hair day. Just get on with it!'

  `Well, I'll need something to catch it with and you'll have to undo my hands,' he observed practically.

  `It's already got a bridle on. A head collar or whatever you call it.'

  `So how did it get loose?'

  `What is this?' the man hissed, losing patience. `Twenty fucking questions? You don't need to know what happened. Your job is to catch it. Right?'

  Gideon took a steadying breath. The force of this man's personality made Curly's threats seem like those of a child. `Okay,' he said, as calmly as he could. `And my hands?'

  `I can't let you free but you can have them in front,' the Guv'nor conceded.

  `And the blindfold?' Gideon asked as one handcuff was undone and swiftly reapplied in front of him.

  `No. That stays.'

  `What's to stop me pulling it off myself?' he asked reasonably. The Guv'nor leaned close. `Nothing except the knowledge that if you do we won't be able to let you leave here.'

  Gideon took his point.

  `Useless to mention you're making my job almost impossible?' he _suggested.

  `Useless,' the other man agreed. `Think of it as a challenge. Now get on with it!'

  `And if I can't do it?'

  `I don't think that's an option, do you?' he said softly.

  Gideon was turned through ninety degrees and once again pushed forward.

  `It'd be a help if I knew the horse's name,' he ventured hopefully.

  `Tough.'

  He took a deep, steadying breath and applied his mind to the problem. `Okay, so how big is the area? How big is the horse? And where is it in relation to me at the moment?'

  `About thirty feet by fifty. The horse is in the far corner, diagonally right from you. It's ... I don't know, about average size. What does it bloody matter?'

  From the rear another voice volunteered the opinion that the horse was about seventeen hands. Gideon assimilated the information, wondering at the same time just how many more people were standing silently around. It was almost eerie.

  Anyway, one thing was clear. Whoever the Guv'nor was, he wasn't a horseman. Seventeen hands wasn't really average. Difficult to say what was. It just wasn't the sort of thing a horseman would say.

  Trying to put his audience out of his mind, Gideon began to walk slowly in the direction of the animal, hoping that his way was unimpeded by obstacles. It was going to be difficult enough to gain the horse's confidence; doing a nosedive under its muzzle would seriously damage his chances of success.

  The blindfold was a major hindrance. So much depended on body language with animals. Tiny changes of posture, movements of a horse's ears and eyes and the swishing of its tail, all gave away important information about the state of its mind. Normally, Gideon intuitively reacted to that informat
ion with his own body language; dominant posture when it was required, at other times submissive. Without it, it felt uncomfortably like a game of Russian roulette. He was frighteningly vulnerable.

  This is crazy, he thought, I can't do it. And at the same time he knew he had no choice but to try.

  Somewhere ahead and to the right of him, he heard the horse begin to shift restlessly, its feet thudding softly on the loose dirt underfoot. Gideon paused, reaching out with his mind to the animal. What came back was a powerful mix of emotions; anxiety and distrust, certainly, and fear, but laced through with an unmistakable vein of aggression, fairly unusual in a horse.

  Gideon turned his head. `He's a stallion?' he asked softly. `Yeah. Get on with it.'

  `Oh, shit!' he muttered under his breath. Concentrating hard, he reached out once more to the horse, trying to project an aura of calm and reassurance.

  He could sense the stallion watching him. Anxiety.

  Indecision.

  It wasn't sure whether to stand its ground or run. Fight or flight. Given the option, horses almost invariably choose the latter. Nature has equipped them with the means to escape and they make good use of it. Stallions, however, are often the exception. Fired with the instinct to protect their herd, they meet aggression with aggression, challenge with physical attack.

  Gideon turned slightly sideways. He had no wish to appear challenging.

  The horse was still. Tense.

  Watching him.

  He would have given anything to be able to see it. Was it

  standing facing him, head high, defiant? Or had it lowered its head, considering the situation? The electricity in the air between them suggested the former.

  Still trying to radiate reassurance, Gideon stepped closer, head slightly bowed, shoulders still angled away.

  He'd moved too close, too soon.

  With a flurry of hooves the stallion rushed him, its teeth closing with a painful snap on his shoulder before it backed away.

  It hadn't gone far though. No more than a couple of paces. Gideon could feel the huffing of its breath on his face. He steeled himself to remain motionless, trying not to think of the damage those steel-sprung jaws could do; what havoc the immensely powerful legs could wreak on a soft, unprotected human body. Important not to think. He must be steady. Horses are strongly telepathic.