by Kit Ehrman
Marty latched onto my arm. "Give it a rest for crying out loud."
"Let go!" I pulled against him, but his grip was like steel. "Let go of me, Marty."
"Forget him."
"Fuck you." I slammed my hands into Marty's chest and pushed him backward, but he held on like a leech. I looked after the driver and saw that he'd already disappeared around the corner of the indoor.
Marty moved around in front of me and blocked my view. "Steve, you're making a mistake."
"No, Marty." I glared at him and said through clenched teeth, "You're making a mistake if you don't fucking turn me loose."
I looked down at his fingers wrapped around my arm, at my hands clenched into fists, at the blood smeared across my jacket.
"Okay, Steve." He released my arm. "It's your call." His voice was so calm, it took me by surprise. "Just don't be stupid."
I glanced around. The remaining guests were clustered in little groups, whispering to each other with sidelong glances, trying not to be too obvious. I sat down at a nearby picnic table, braced my hands on my knees, and watched blood drip from my nose and splatter onto the grass between my feet. I closed my eyes and felt dizzy.
"Come on, Steve." Marty slipped his hand under my arm. "Let's go into the lounge. Okay, buddy?"
I yanked my arm free. "I can stand up, dammit,"
It wasn't until I was on my feet that I noticed Rachel. She was hovering behind Marty with her arms wrapped around herself, looking like she didn't know what to do.
She walked over to me. "Are you all right?"
I nodded.
* * *
It took forever for my nose to stop bleeding. We had gone into the lounge, which thankfully was deserted. Once I'd successfully squelched the flow, I tossed the wad of paper towels in the trash and took off my jacket. Shards of brown glass cascaded to the ground.
Marty reached down and picked up a fragment. "What the hell?"
"It's from the beer bottle." I ran my fingers through my hair and rubbed the back of my neck. "My hair's wet, too."
"What beer bottle?"
I grabbed hold of my shirt collar and peeled the wet fabric off my back. I smelled like a brewery, but at least the glass hadn't worked its way into my shirt. "The bottle Harrison's driver had."
"What are you talking about?"
"That's what he had in his hand when you yelled at him."
"It didn't look like a beer bottle."
"Guess not. Not after he'd tried to smash my head in with it, it didn't. He missed and broke it on the side of the barn. Then, I suppose he figured he might as well redecorate my face while he was at it."
"Son of a bitch. If I'd known, I'd've laid into him, too." Marty walked across the room and dropped the piece of glass into the trash. He opened the freezer door. "Son of a bitch," he said again, more to himself than anyone else.
I sat down and wondered how many other people had only seen the tail end of the fight and thought I had gone stark-raving mad. Marty returned and unceremoniously plopped some ice, wrapped in a towel, on my face.
"Thanks." I held the bundle on the bridge of my nose and tilted my head so I could look at him. "And, Marty . . . I owe you an apology."
"Damn right you do," he said. "Pull that shit again, and I'll . . . I'll have your job."
I grinned at him. "I thought you didn't want my job?"
"Oh, yeah. I forgot." He crossed his arms over his chest. "So, what started the whole fucking thing?" When I finished telling him, he chuckled. "Shit, Steve, you should of given him a medal for bothering Mr. Hotshot Sanders. That asshole sure could use some puttin' in his place."
I glanced at Rachel.
Marty continued. "Come to think of it, I saw them talkin' earlier, thicker 'n flies on shit, and Sanders didn't look too happy then, either."
"Well, it makes sense they'd know each other. Sanders used to board at Harrison's farm." I readjusted the ice. "Wonder what's up."
"Who the hell cares?"
I scrunched down into the cushions and concentrated on balancing the ice while keeping the pressure as light as possible. Several minutes later, Marty was still pacing around the room. Angie was sprawled on the adjacent sofa and looked bored, and Rachel was watching me with a worried expression on her pretty face.
I tried a smile. "Well," I said, "so much for an uneventful party."
Rachel shifted on the cushions. "I thought he was going to kill you."
"No. He wasn't that stupid," I said, convincing myself as much as her. "Anyway . . . everything worked out okay."
She frowned. "Your perception of okay's kind of skewed."
"Yeah." Marty plopped down next to Angie. "Just wait 'til Monday morning."
"Monday morning?" Rachel looked from Marty to me.
"Yeah," Marty said. "When Mrs. Hill finds out about our wild man here."
I listened to the grin in his voice. "What was I supposed to do?" I said. "Just stand there and let him cut me?"
"No, Steve. But you didn't have to pound him into the ground, either. Not that I blame you. Hell, I might of killed the bastard."
I slid my spine deeper into the sofa and rested my head on the cushions.
Marty said, "Is the ice making any difference?"
"Yeah. Now, not only does my nose hurt, it's cold."
He snorted.
After a minute or two, I shifted the ice pack. Marty had his arm draped across Angie's shoulders. Their heads were turned toward each other, their voices indistinct murmurs. Rachel's arms were stiff at her sides, and her shoulders looked tense. I took the ice off my face, sat up straighter, and put my hand on hers.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"For what?"
"Sorry that this whole stupid thing happened." I squeezed her hand.
"Well, we're outta here." Marty levered himself off the sofa. "You gonna be all right, Steve?"
"Yep."
"Good. See you Monday, if you still got a job."
I groaned. "And, Marty . . . thanks."
He slid his arm around Angie's waist and grinned wickedly. "We'll discuss my fee later."
I watched them head toward the door and decided he looked fit enough to drive. The evening's events had no doubt gone a long way toward sobering him up. "Hey . . . drive carefully," I yelled over my shoulder.
"Yes, Mom," he said with mock disgust.
After the door had swung shut, I thanked Rachel.
"For what?"
I shrugged. "For being here."
"You're welcome. It's been . . . different."
She was sitting close. The place was deserted, and given any other circumstance, it would have been perfect.
"Are you really going to get in trouble?"
"I hope not."
"Can I get you something?" She rose to her feet and scanned the lounge. "Don't they have a first aid kit around here? Some aspirin would help."
I started to get up.
Rachel put her hands on my shoulders. "Stay put. I'll get it."
She looked so serious, it was all I could do not to grab hold of her and pull her into my lap. I smiled at her instead and sank back into the cushions. "In the office. On the table along the back wall."
While she went on her search, I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the throbbing in my head. Listening to her rummage around in the office, I thought about the following morning, when I was expected to come in early and clean up after the party. I didn't feel like it, and I doubted six hours were going to change my outlook any. I checked my watch. Eleven-forty-five. Make that five hours. When I opened my eyes, Rachel was standing in front of me with three Tylenol caplets in one hand, a Coke in the other, and a worried expression on her pretty face. A grin from me was met with a frown, and I found I was liking her more and more.
"Three?" I said.
"It won't hurt, and you look like you could use it." She watched me swallow the pills, then sat down beside me. "Do you think your nose is broken?"
"Probably not, but if it is, there's n
othing much to be done about it. The last time I . . . eh." Damn, why'd I have to bring that up? I sure as hell didn't want to talk about that. "It probably isn't."
"Um." Rachel swiveled around to face me, much as Elsa had done, minus the sexual come-on. She reached over and lifted the ice pack off the armrest. "Here, you should keep this on your nose. Somehow, I figure when you get home you won't bother."
Rachel scooted around so that she was on her knees beside me on the sofa. She braced her left hand on the backrest next to my shoulder and held the ice on my nose. Any closer and she'd be in my lap. I wanted to take the damn ice off my face and wrap my arms around her, but my stomach had other plans. My gut was churning like a cement mixer, and I thought I'd probably swallowed more blood than I'd realized.
"Rachel." I reached up and took the ice pack out of her hand. "Thanks for all your help. I think--"
"You're welcome."
"It's the last thing I want, but I really need to head home."
"It's getting late, isn't it?" She lifted her hand off the back of the sofa to check the time and lost her balance. I caught her as she toppled forward. We stared at each other, our faces almost touching. Her eyes were wide with surprise, and I couldn't help but grin at her. I slid my hands around her waist and helped her get vertical, though horizontal would have been a hell of a lot more fun.
I let her go, and she stood up. "I'll walk you to your car, if you like," I said.
"I like." She ran her fingers through her hair, and if I wasn't mistaken, her face was flushed.
If she was embarrassed, she had no reason to be. Not with me. I struggled to my feet but got to the door before she did. When I held it open for her, she brushed past me and smiled as if at some private joke, or so it seemed.
Rachel slid behind the wheel of her Toyota Camry and wound down the window. Except for her vehicle and mine, now looking ridiculous parked by the road, the place was deserted. She looked at me looking at my truck and grinned. "Would you like a ride to your truck?"
"No thanks. I need to go back and check the barns before I leave." I stepped back as she started the engine and slipped it into gear. "Have a safe drive home," I said.
"You, too."
I watched her drive off, checked the barns, then broke every speed limit home, all the while wishing that Mrs. Hill wouldn't find out about the fight but knowing she'd hear about it one way or the other.
* * *
The clock radio clicked on, and I groped for the off button. When I didn't find it right away, I yanked the cord out of the wall. Monday morning, and rain was hammering the tin roof above my head and slashing against the windows as gusts of wind battered the barn. But what did I expect? It was, after all, April first.
On the drive to Foxdale, the dreary, rhythmic scrape of wipers across windshield grated on my nerves. I turned on the radio--loud--and mulled over yesterday afternoon's unsuccessful trailer search with Detective Ralston.
Based on Ralston's premise that "the obvious is oftentimes the most likely" and assuming that the horse thieves had been taking me to territory they were familiar with, we had worked in concentric circles that radiated outward from where I'd escaped the trailer. Almost half of the trailer owners weren't home. Most who were kept their trailers on the farms where they boarded their horses, necessitating yet another trip on our part. All reacted with genuine surprise at a police detective's appearance on their doorstep.
On the positive side, working down the list produced the expected domino effect we'd hoped for. Knocking off just one trailer's make and model immediately eliminated several names on the list. We worked through all of Montgomery County and part of Howard before calling it a day. Even still, the results were disappointing.
When Ralston asked when I could take off for another attempt, I selfishly avoided sacrificing any part of my next scheduled day off. Rachel and I had a date planned, and I'd justified my decision with the knowledge that I had some sleuthing of my own in mind.
* * *
Rain moved in sheets across the pavement. I squinted through the spray of water droplets and felt the beginnings of a headache. As I pulled off Rocky Ford and headed down the lane toward the parking lot, something in the large outdoor arena caught my eye. One of the jumps looked different, but I couldn't make out why from so far away. I backed into my usual space and pulled on a rain poncho. Cold rain stung like needles on my face as I trudged across the lane. I unlatched the gate and walked into the arena. The going was deeper, but as usual, the drainage system was doing its job. Even in a downpour, the footing was good for the horses.
I stopped at the base of the jump, or what was left of it. The message was bone-chillingly clear. The Foxdale jump, the one that most represented Foxdale, had been burned to the ground, the intricately-carved fox heads and hunt scene reduced to a pile of charred rubble and ash. Standing there as the rain splattered loudly on the plastic of my poncho and pounded in a deafening roar on the arena's metal roof, I'd had enough. I would have to find them, stop them. They wanted to play with fire, I'd make sure they got burnt.
I looked for additional damage and found none, but the message was poignant all the same. I grained the horses and started haying. When the crew straggled in around seven, I left them to finish up and went into the office. I pulled a worn card out of my back pocket and dialed Detective Ralston's number. After six rings, I was thinking about hanging up when he picked up.
"This is Steve Cline, at Foxdale."
"What's up?" He sounded wide awake and enthusiastic if not downright cheerful.
"Someone torched one of the jumps in the outdoor arena last night. I didn't know if you'd want me to call you or not, but the jump they chose was one with Foxdale's logo on it. I took that to be a message of sorts." When he didn't respond, I said, "Assuming it's the same crew, it seems there's been a shift in their focus."
"What do you mean?"
"Profit." I rubbed my forehead. "There wasn't any profit in what they did last night. Only malice."
"There was malice with the cat," Ralston said. He was right, of course. "Is it raining there?"
"Coming down in buckets."
"I'll call Linquist and let him know. The rain's probably destroyed any evidence, but it'll be good to get the incident on record."
"All right."
"Any other damage?"
"No. Nothing else has been touched."
"Good. Someone will be out."
When Ralston disconnected, I stared at his card lying on the blotter. What was I going to find next? What if they decided that torching a jump wasn't enough?
Chapter 10
I left a note for Mrs. Hill, emptied out my bin, and walked back to the barn.
Later that morning, after the crew had turned out the first batch of horses and we'd started in on the stalls, I grabbed a push broom from the storage area at the end of the aisle. When I turned around, I almost bumped into Dave.
He opened his mouth to say something, then hesitated. He hadn't gone to the party. Hadn't heard about the fight. Hadn't seen my face.
I looked more closely and saw he was angry, and I didn't think it had anything to do with me. "What's wrong?" I said.
"What happened to the Foxdale jump?"
I crossed my arms and leaned on the broom. Not one of the crew had noticed except him. "Someone was up to no good last night."
Dave looked affronted. Probably couldn't believe that someone had dared touch his artistic handiwork. He glared at me. "You seem to be takin' it lightly."
"Err . . ." I straightened. "Sorry. It was a magnificent piece of work, but at least it wasn't the barn they burned down."
"Well, shoot. Hadn't thought about that." He rubbed his hands down the front of his grubby overalls and strode out of the barn. Five minutes later he was back, and if anything, he was more agitated.
"What's wrong, now?"
"Somebody's been messin' about in my workshop," Dave said.
"What?"
"My tools are all right."
He kept them locked up tighter than Fort Knox. "But paint's been spilled all over the place and somebody's painted obscenities on the walls."
"Damn it." I hadn't thought to check there. "Let's go see."
I hopped into Dave's rusted-out Ford, and he wrenched on the steering wheel and bounced the pickup into the side lane that led to the implement building. He had the wipers on high, even though the downpour had slackened to a drizzle, and there must not have been a shock absorber on the damn thing. I braced my hand on the dash and was still in danger of being bounced off the seat.
"Messing about" was an understatement. Every surface in the workshop was covered with paint, including both tractors. And what was printed on the walls was unbelievable. Filled with rage. Whoever had done it must be literally sick with hate. Dave leaned over to pick up an empty paint can.
"Don't touch that," I said.
He straightened and looked at me, his face blank.
"Don't touch anything, at least not yet."
"What about cleanin' up? The paint's still damp," Dave said. "It'll be easier to get off."
"The police are coming out because of the jump. They'll want to look at this, too." I looked at the walls. "Maybe take pictures. What were you going to work on, anyway?"
"I was gonna work in here 'cause of the rain." He looked out at the gray sky and, after a moment, said he might as well go back home.
"Dave, hold up. Could you buy some supplies, instead?"
He squinted at me and pursed his lips. "What kind of supplies?"
"Anything you need to make the place more secure, go out and buy it. Like better locks for all the tack rooms and the feed room. Maybe you should reinforce the locks on the lounge and office doors, too." I started for his truck. "And is there some type of lock we can put on the feed bin, the big one outside?"
Dave caught up with me by the front bumper. "Don't know."
"Well, if you can't rig something up, call the manufacturer. See if they have any suggestions." I walked around to the passenger's side and opened the door. "Get more fire extinguishers for all the buildings, too. And I think we'll install a gate across the lane to the road. What do you think . . . two 12-foot gates latched in the middle?"
