by Kit Ehrman
I left before I said or did something I'd regret.
* * *
I went home early, and around eight o'clock, Marty showed up unannounced at my door with a cardboard box loaded down with an assortment of booze.
I fingered a cheap bottle of Gordon's Vodka and whistled. "What's all this?"
"Ale for what ails ya."
He thunked the box down on the counter by the sink, and I shook my head.
"Contrary to what those boys in white think, the medicinal qualities of alcohol are highly underrated. This'll have you straightened out in no time."
"Let me guess. Jessica's at work."
"You fuckin' slay me." He hefted two twelve-packs out of the box.
"Christ," I said. "You intending to break the world record for alcohol consumption, or what?"
"Hey, I knew you wouldn't have shit in this joint."
"Just some wine."
Marty rolled his eyes as he popped the top of what I determined was his second Budweiser. An empty lay in the bottom of the box. He'd gotten a head start on the drive over. I watched as he rooted through the refrigerator and cabinets, found what he wanted, then grabbed a spoon out of the drawer by the stove. He dumped a quart of Land O' Lakes sour cream into a bowl, followed by two packets of dip mix.
"Hungry, are we?" I said.
Marty lifted a bag of UTZ potato chips out of the box, looked at me, and grinned. "Not for long."
I sloshed some vodka into a tall glass and topped it off with some orange juice.
"You always put your mail in the trash?" Marty had dropped the empty sour cream container into the can and was holding a letter from my father between his fingers. "You forgot to open it."
"I didn't forget."
He looked up from the envelope. "Damn, Steve. Don't you wanna know what it says?"
"I know what it says. 'Come back home and go to this college and major in that subject, and I'll get you in at Johns Hopkins or Yale or wherever, and you can have whatever you want as long as it suits me.'" I sat cross-legged on the floor.
"Ain't nothin' wrong with a little bribery, as long as you get what you want in the end. So what if he wants you to follow in his snotty, condescending, ivy-leagued, scalpel-wielding footsteps."
I thought I was going to choke. "How'd you like somebody telling you how and where and when to take a piss?"
Marty shrugged. "Depends what I get in return, I suppose."
I picked up the remote and turned on the CD player.
"Why didn't you finish school, anyway?" Marty said. "With your smarts, not to mention your old man's connections, you could've gone anywhere, done anything, even if you did have to kiss his ass from time to time."
"That's exactly why I didn't." Not to mention the fact that I had felt rudderless, without purpose, and most devastating to me . . . without passion. Then there was that sour taste I knew I'd have in my mouth if I let him run my life. I swallowed some orange juice, set the glass on the floor, and closed my eyes. I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life, just knew I didn't want to live his.
Marty dragged a kitchen stool around onto the carpet, then perched on it with his heels hooked on the lower rung. "Plus, you'd still have that sweet, motherfuckin' ride of yours. Hell, I would of stayed just for that."
I stared at him and wondered where all this shit was coming from.
"I can't believe he kicked you out just 'cause you quit school."
"He liked control, Marty. Quitting college was only half of it. What really pissed him off was that I went to work on a horse farm. It didn't go with his image, having one of his sons slinging shit for a living. What would his colleagues think? Guess he figured if he kicked me out, I wouldn't make it on my own, and before long, I'd be back home, following his marching orders like a good little boy."
"I don't know," Marty said. "It just don't figure. You'd've thought you'd whacked somebody, the way he treats you. Here you get the shit beat out of you, and you can't even talk to him, can't even go to your own parents for help or--"
"Marty . . ."
"--support. He's an asshole. He should be proud of you instead of--"
"Marty, quit."
"You're even defending him, for Christ's sake. And all because you made the wrong fucking career choice."
"I'm not--"
"He pisses me off. Doesn't he care?"
I was on my feet, and I think that only then did Marty realize what he was doing. "No." I glared at him. "He doesn't care." I walked over to the audio system, cranked up the volume to some rock 'n roll, and said under my breath, "He only cares about himself."
Marty was behind me then, and I hadn't heard him. He put his hand on my shoulder, wanting me to turn around. "Steve?"
I shrugged him off. I felt like hitting him, but it wasn't Marty I wanted to hit. I stood there and stared at the throbbing green and red lights arcing across the panel in sync with the music. If I stared at them long enough, they blurred together, everything else in the room dissolving into nonexistence.
"They killed him, Marty." I said softly.
"What?"
"They went to steal some horses, and they killed him."
I told him about James Peters and watched the animation die out of his face.
At some point, I must have drifted off, because I woke on the floor, in the dark, with a stiff neck. I moved to check my watch and realized Marty had dropped a blanket on top of me. Two o'clock. I staggered to my feet and saw him lying on my bed, on my pillow, under my blankets.
"Fuck."
Well, at least he'd had the sense not to drive home. I took some pain pills, which I probably shouldn't have, pulled out my sleeping bag, and went back to sleep.
* * *
It took all of Sunday to recover from that stunt, but by the time Tuesday morning rolled around, I was halfway to normal. Even the rib pain had settled into a dull ache, noticeable, but no longer annoying.
Like clockwork, Foxdale's farrier bumped his pickup down the lane at precisely seven-fifty-nine on the first Tuesday in March. He swung the truck around, backed up to the barn door, and braked to a halt.
"What've you got for me today, Steve?" Nick asked as he lowered the tailgate.
"Thirteen. You've done them before." I pulled a crumpled sheet of paper out of my back pocket and handed it to him.
He skimmed the list, grunting at a name or two, then tossed it back at me. I leaned against the barn door and watched him rummage through an assortment of shoes, pads, and nails. Anything an equine athlete might require to produce a winning performance.
Nick was a short, compact man with wiry black hair and a heavily-muscled back from years spent doubled up under the bellies of countless horses. I'd never seen him without a twisted bandanna tied around his head, even in winter, and his thick neck always looked sunburned. Unlike Foxdale's last farrier, Nick always had what we needed in stock, even for the most complicated job. But what I appreciated most was the fact that he actually liked horses. I'd known more than one farrier who behaved as if they didn't like horses at all.
Nick hopped off the tailgate, reached back into the bed, and dragged the anvil toward him. The resultant screech of metal against metal caused me to grit my teeth. When he switched on the forge, I brought out the first horse, a bright chestnut gelding with exceptionally thin soles. He had been one of the most difficult horse I'd ever held for Nick.
"Well, this ol' boy's finally come round," Nick said, reading my thoughts.
"Thanks to you," I said.
"No . . . I think it was your singin' that did it," he said straight-faced.
I groaned. "Don't remind me."
"Well, come on now," Nick drawled in a hillbilly twang that I had long since concluded was mostly act. "It was torture all right, but it calmed 'im down. Must have a twisted sense of music." He ran his hand down the gelding's neck. "He's finally recovered his trust. Who did 'im before me?"
"Barren."
"Well then, that explains it. He's screwed up mor
e of 'em than a hooker on a Saturday night."
I snorted.
We were on the second horse of the day when I heard the hay truck pull down the lane. Since Nick was working at the forge, I cross-tied the mare and told him I'd be back in a minute. I ran outside and caught up with Marty before he got to the truck.
"Marty, wait."
"What's up?"
"I want you to supervise the unloading. Get some of the guys to help you. Count every bale they throw off that truck. And," I paused and caught my breath, "I left a scale in the implement building. It's hung up and ready to go. I want you to weigh bales, say, at twenty-bale intervals. Let me have the figures as soon as you're done."
"What, they're ripping us off?"
"I think so."
"Stupid bastards," Marty said through a yawn. "How come it don't surprise me?"
"Thanks . . . oh, and did Brian come in yet?"
"Nope. Called in sick."
"All right. And let me know what the tonnage on Harrison's paperwork is, too."
"Sure thing, boss." I watched him head for the truck, knowing full well Marty couldn't care less about little scams like that. I wondered why I did.
Forty-five minutes later, we were almost finished with horse number three, and Marty still hadn't come back.
"Nick," I said. "Do you know anyone who owns a white dualie and an old, dark-colored, six-horse? A gooseneck."
He straightened and stretched the kinks out of his back. "Not offhand. Why?"
"Here you go, boss," Marty said in my ear. He handed me a slip of paper. "Anything else?"
I shook my head, and Marty spun around and headed back to barn B.
I worked out the sums. The tonnage was off. Somehow, Harrison was altering the figures from the weigh station. In the past, all I'd had were suspicions. Now I had proof. Unfortunately, bringing this to Harrison's attention would not to be pleasant. He was irritated with me anyway, because I didn't hesitate to return moldy or poor-quality hay and demand credit--services he touted, but when it came to the actual case in point, he did so grudgingly.
"What about that trailer, Steve?" Nick said as he clinched a nail flush against the hoof wall.
"Oh. A rig like that was used by whoever stole the horses."
"From Foxdale?" he said.
"Yep."
"I didn't think the police had any leads."
"They don't. Not if they can't figure out who owns the trailer." I watched Boris, Foxdale's lone barn cat, make his way down the aisle. When he saw me, he trotted over and leaned against my leg. I pushed him away with my foot, but he came right back, not getting the hint. "Damn it."
Gene paused with the rasp in his hand. "What's that?"
"Oh, nothing," I said. "Just that this stupid cat won't leave me alone. Have you heard of any other horse thefts or--" I glanced over my shoulder.
Mr. Harrison had squeezed between Nick's truck and the barn door and was walking down the aisle toward us. A tall, plain-faced man, he kept his thinning blond hair combed across his scalp in a misplaced effort to hide the fact that he was balding prematurely.
He nodded to Nick, then handed me his clipboard. "Any return bales?"
"No." I hesitated. "There's a problem, though."
"What?"
I looked from the paperwork to his face. He had narrowed his eyes, and I had a sudden impression that the muscles in his face had settled into an arrangement they were accustomed to. Deep wrinkles creased his forehead, and his eyebrows had bunched together into a straight line that shadowed his gray eyes.
I cleared my throat. "There's a discrepancy between the tonnage stated on the invoice and what we actually received."
"What are you talking about?" His face was turning red, and he'd clenched his hands.
"By my calculations, we're about twelve-hundred pounds short, give or take a bale or two. And that's just this one delivery," I said and saw he knew exactly what I meant.
He looked so angry; I thought he might hit me. Instead, he grabbed the clipboard, scratched out his figure, wrote in a new one, and shoved it back into my hand.
I looked at the invoice. He'd pressed so hard, the pen's tip had ripped through the top sheet. I checked it, signed it, gave it back to him.
He stood there for a couple of seconds, staring at me with eyes that had become oddly vacant. The muscles along his jaw were bunched with tension, and I still thought he might slug me.
He turned abruptly and headed down the aisle. His shoulders were hunched forward under his stained coveralls as he walked out of the barn and into the flood of sunlight.
Behind me, Nick chuckled. "You sure know how to make friends."
"I wouldn't want him for a friend," I said quietly.
"No. He's a creepy bastard. Mean too, what with that incident a while back."
"What incident?"
"You didn't hear about that?"
I shook my head.
He slid the hoof knife into its slot on his leather apron and picked up a rasp. "Well, about a year ago, there was a stink about him beating a horse—"
"He has horses?"
"Yep. Owns a farm west of here. Can't remember the name right now. Anyway, some horse did somethin' that pissed 'im off, so he tied it to a post and beat it with a whip. Cut the animal up good, so they say. Blood everywhere. Somebody reported him to the Humane Society. Course, by the time they showed, the horse was nowhere to be found." He spit a glob of chewing tobacco into an open stall. "Nothin' ever came of it."
"What kind of farm's he run?"
"Hunter/jumpers, lessons, sales, anything, I imagine. . . . Got his hand in everything. Makes 'im feel important."
"You shoe for him?" I said and wondered whether Harrison would have the nerve to continue supplying us.
"Yep. For 'bout a year now. But I'm thinkin' of droppin' him."
"Why's that?"
"Guy's got a major cash flow problem." Nick flipped the rasp over in his hand. "Ol' Steel use to board at his farm?"
"You mean Mr. Sanders' horse?"
"Yep."
"He's one of the horses that was stolen," I said.
"I know. Sanders had him insured for twenty grand while he was at Harrison's."
"You're kidding?"
"Nope. My sister works for the insurance company that issued the claim. Agent who sold 'im the policy had a couple of tense minutes over it, 'cause in retrospect, it appears the horse ain't worth as much as all that."
"I wouldn't have thought so."
* * *
By the time Nick's truck disappeared down the road, my side was throbbing, and I was beat. Thinking about Mr. Sanders' little insurance policy, I left a message for Detective Ralston and headed home. As I climbed the steps to the loft, a trace of light lingered in the west, conclusive evidence that the days were getting longer.
I closed the kitchen door behind me and dropped my mail on the counter. The loft was oppressively quiet, the air stale. I dumped everything I'd been wearing onto the floor in the closet. Nothing smelled worse than burnt horse hoof. Even I couldn't stand myself. I took a long, hot shower, sloshed some Jack Daniels' over ice, and downed a Percodan. Between the two of them, the rib pain didn't stand a chance.
Chapter 5
Wednesday morning, I could have done without. The combination of whiskey and pain medication that had successfully obliterated feeling of any sort the night before had mutated into a sledgehammer of a headache between my temples. And it didn't help that the first person I ran into was Brian.
"What'n the hell'd you tell that cop?" he asked before I'd even unlocked the feed room door.
"What cop?"
"That cop that was here, Ran . . ."
"Ralston?"
"Yeah, him."
"What about it?" I said. "He's investigating the horse theft."
"I know that," he snapped. "He was here again Monday, day you was off. Questions he was asking, you'd of thought I was guilty or somethin'."
I shook my head. "Brian, I didn't say a
nything about you."
"You must of said something."
"No," I said and knew I was wasting my breath. "I didn't."
Brian sulked off, and I wondered if he'd ever see that he created his own reality. And I was impressed with Ralston. He'd pegged Brian pretty quick, and I wondered how he had classified me.
The morning dragged on. Boarders came and went. Horses were shifted from stall to paddock or paddock to stall. A third of the stalls had been mucked out by lunch time, and the headache had disappeared without my being aware of it. I walked into the lounge, got my lunch out of the fridge, and checked the office. Mrs. Hill had gone home to eat, and everyone else had gone out. For something to do, I switched on the TV, sank into the sofa cushions, and flipped through the channels. The news was a repeat of the day before; only the names had changed. The soaps were a farce. The talk shows worse. I hit the play button. Someone had left an instructional video in the machine, and though it didn't much interest me, it was better than nothing.
I had almost finished my lunch when the door to the lounge opened. I looked over my shoulder.
Mrs. Elsa Timbrook walked into the room. Well, she hadn't walked, not really. I doubted she walked anywhere. More accurately, she strode with long lithe legs, like a cat. Or a tigress. She stood just inside the doorway and surveyed the room as the door swung shut behind her. Satisfied that we were alone, she looked at me and smiled, and I felt my pulse pick up.
She had long blond hair that tended to frizz when it rained, stunning green eyes, and a body so sensual in design and proportion, she ought to be illegal. I looked back at the television and tried to ignore her. She crossed the room and sat next to me. I glanced at her and managed a weak smile, then looked at the apple in my hand and couldn't imagine finishing my lunch.
She wriggled around on the sofa and slid her leg onto the cushion, like she was going to sit Indian-style, but she left the other leg where it was so that her knees were spread apart. She made sure her shin was pressing into my leg. My gaze drifted downward. Her skin-tight breeches left little to the imagination, and I felt frozen, sitting there like some damn idiot, completely under her control.
