Steve Cline Mysteries - 01 - At Risk

by Kit Ehrman

  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 since 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.

  Chapter 15

  "Brian, jiggle the chain to distract him," I said over my shoulder and hoped he'd understood what I meant. Whether he would oblige was anyone's guess.

 
I had the end flap of a roll of Vetrap between my teeth, a wad of sterile gauze coated with Betadine in my right hand, and the gelding's hind leg wedged between my forearm and thigh. The bandage I'd wrapped around his hoof yesterday lay on the ground beneath his tail.

  Monday afternoon, he'd clipped the bulb of his heel, and he hadn't cared for my ministrations ever since. I hiked his leg higher up my thigh and placed the gauze over the gash. I felt the horse's head come up and realized that someone must have walked into the aisle and spooked him.

  I anchored the end of the Vetrap in place with my thumb and got in four good wraps before the gelding tried to snatch his hoof out of my hands.

  "Whoa," I said to the horse and, with irritation, to Brian, "Don't let him move forward." Like you did yesterday, I wanted to add but knew better.

  I unwound the last of the Vetrap, then clamped my hands over the sole of his hoof to mold the bandage to itself. When I let go of his leg, he kicked out before placing his hoof on the ground where it belonged.

  I straightened. Detective Ralston was standing just inside the doorway, and he was watching Brian.

  "Couple more minutes," I said, "and I'll be done."

  I had waited to hear from Ralston all day yesterday, but he hadn't returned my call until ten when he'd arranged to meet me at the farm in the morning. I had slept poorly and had come in early to get a head start on the day's work.

  I reinforced the Vetrap with duct tape and snipped through the top margin of the bandage to alleviate pressure over the coronary band. The horse didn't like that, either.

  "Okay, Brian. Put him back in his stall." I slapped the gelding on his rump as he moved off, and he flattened his ears.

  After I'd washed up in the men's room, I found Ralston standing on the grassy strip that borders the outdoor arena. Beyond the fence, a handful of riders were working their horses. As I joined Ralston, Anne pointed Chase down the outside line. The gelding flew the jumps, covering the six-stride line in a ground-eating five, clearing the fan jump with a foot and a half to spare.

  I whistled under my breath.

  Halfway through their approach to the next line, Anne pulled the gelding off line. They galloped past so close, I felt the vibrations from his hoof beats through the soles of my boots. Ralston stepped backward. I pretended not to notice.

  Anne turned the gelding toward the center of the ring. His hooves sluiced through the footing and spattered the fence boards with sand. The instant Chase realized they were heading for the diagonal line, he pricked his ears and sailed effortlessly down the line, a streak of liquid gold.

  Ralston turned and looked at me over the rims of his sunglasses.

  "Can we talk in your car?" I said. "The office is crowded."

  "Sure."

  "First, there's something I want to show you." I led him back into barn A and stopped at the bulletin board. "I found this the other night."

  Ralston read the scrawled words and looked at me. "How long's this been up?"

  "The beginning of March. I tacked it up as soon as I started back to work."

  "When do you think they left the message?"

  I shrugged. "I don't know. Marty stapled last weekend's show schedule over top of it Friday afternoon, and he didn't notice it, but that doesn't mean it wasn't there."

  "What about the boarder who told you about the trailer? She notice anything?" Ralston said.

  "No, she'd read the copy I'd posted in the lounge, not this one. I've asked around, but no one noticed the writing."

  Ralston went back to his car and came back with an evidence bag and a pair of gloves. He dropped the wrinkled sheet into the bag, and I followed him back outside. He'd parked his car next to the office door. I guessed when you were a cop, you got into the habit of parking wherever you damn well liked.

  Ralston turned the key in the ignition and powered down the windows. "Okay. Tell me about it."

  I told him how I'd learned about the trailer and how I'd been caught trespassing.

  He listened without interrupting, his expression unchanged, but I sensed his irritation from the stiffness in his shoulders and his overall stillness.

  I told him about the Pennsylvania tags and why I thought it was the right trailer. "But the thing is, Drake didn't act like he was guilty. Either he's an extraordinary actor, or he's not involved, which doesn't make sense."

  Ralston stared straight ahead, his gaze fixed on some point beyond the windshield. "Your impulsiveness negates your intelligence. If it is the trailer, besides the immediate danger you put yourself in, they've more than likely moved it by now."

  I looked out the passenger window. "I didn't think anyone would see me."

  "And you went inside?"

  I nodded.

  Ralston turned in his seat. "Do you realize what you've done?"

  I didn't answer.

  "You've contaminated any evidence we might have retrieved." His voice was as near to yelling as I'd ever heard it.

  "How do you mean?" I said. "I didn't touch anything."

  "Trace evidence. Proving that you were in that trailer on February the 24th was of primary importance. Now the defense will say anything we find was left behind Tuesday, not two months ago. Without that link, we don't have a case."

  "Oh."

  After a minute or two, he sighed. "I do appreciate what you're trying to do. But if you hear something, fine, phone it in. When it comes to chasing down leads, leave it to us, all right?"

  I nodded.

  "How'd Drake act when you asked him about the repairs?"

  "It was weird," I said. "He didn't react at all."

  "Maybe it's not the trailer."

  "It is." I rubbed my forehead. "What are you going to do?"

  "Get a warrant. Check it out."

  Ralston popped open his briefcase and handed me a form. Under his direction, I wrote out a statement, stating that, to the best of my knowledge, the Wellington trailer parked on Mr. Drake's property, 10471 Mink Hollow Road, was the trailer used in the February twenty-fourth theft of seven horses from Foxdale Farm. In addition, I had been held in the trailer against my will. Ralston had me list the trailer's characteristics that enabled me to make a positive ID. Then I signed and dated it.

  Afterwards, Ralston headed north to fill out the necessary paperwork to obtain a search warrant for the property and belongings of Randor L. Drake.

  * * *

  I spent Thursday night sitting on a hay bale in a school pony's stall. The brown mare had colicked late in the afternoon, and when a dose of Banamine hadn't set her right, I'd called Greg.

  He had gone over her vitals, pumped mineral oil into her stomach, and instructed me to watch her overnight in case she got worse.

  So far, she hadn't, and by two in the morning, she was dozing in her stall with her head lowered, eyes half-closed, ears at half-mast. I stretched, then leaned against the stall's rough wooden planks and closed my eyes. The crickets and tree frogs had quit their singing sometime earlier, and the barn was deeply quiet.

  As dawn approached, I watched the sky lighten. By the time the rafters glowed red, touched by the nearly horizontal sunlight cutting through the windows, the mare was nosing around her stall, searching out stray wisps of hay. I got to work, and Ralston caught me in the middle of morning turnouts. Mrs. Hill hadn't come in yet, so we went into the office.

  "Did you arrest him?" I said.

  Ralston smiled, I assumed, at my naiveté and shook his head. He closed the door and crossed his arms over his chest. "He's on a fishing trip in West Virginia."

  "What?"

  "Relax. It was prearranged. I don't think he's running yet. I talked to his neighbor. The guy feeds Drake's cattle when he's away which, according to him, is most weekends of the year. Drake's got a girlfriend in West Virginia, and when he isn't up north, he's training."

  "Training?"

  "Yeah. He's with the Guard.

  "When's he due back?"

  "Monday. I'm on my way to see his C.O. now. What were you
wearing when they put you in the trailer?"

  I thought back. "Jeans, T-shirt, a flannel shirt, boots--"

  Ralston held out his hand. "I mean, do you remember specifically which flannel shirt? And can I have it?"

  "Well, no. I was hypothermic, and my clothes were wet. The medics cut them off, and when I got them back, I threw them away."

  "Damn."

  "You found something?" I said.

  Ralston shook his head. "It'll be weeks before results come back from the lab, but I needed your clothing so they can try to match it with any fibers they do find." He rubbed his face. "What about a coat?"

  I nodded. "I still have that."

  Ralston lowered his hand and looked at me with interest.

  "And it's got a fleece collar."

  "Perfect," he said. "When can I have it?"

  "Now. I'll go get it."

  "I'll drive," he said.

  Ralston pulled out onto Rocky Ford. "I've been thinking about what I said yesterday, about your contaminating the scene. I think we still have a chance, even though we messed up."

  I noticed his use of "we" but didn't comment on it. "How?"

  "Let's say the techs find a couple of strands of hair they can prove came from you. The defense will say their presence has nothing to do with any alleged abduction back in February. Well, there's this forensics guy in Anchorage who performed an experiment that demonstrates the gradual deterioration of hair left in the environment. In that case, it was the opposite scenario he had to prove, but that doesn't matter."

  "How do you mean?"

  Ralston slowed the Ford as he approached the sharp curve at the entrance to the future housing development. "In that case, the defendant was accused of murdering his ex-girlfriend in her apartment. Forensics found hair and other fibers that linked him to the scene on the bed where the woman was strangled, in the bathroom, in the living room carpet. He used to live there, so the defense simply claimed that any of his hair found in the apartment was old."