by Kit Ehrman
I remembered the deafening sound of the cold rain hammering on the barn roof as I stared at the pile of charred wood that had once been an artful jump. The words "Your dead motherfucker" painted in red on ribbed metal siding and later, "Cats have nine lives. You don't" scrawled over my name. Tax write-offs and staring at newspaper clippings until my vision blurred.
I thought about James S. Peters in the cold hard ground and Mrs. Peters losing herself to senility, the mind's reflex to unbearable pain. Whitcombe's irritability building to the point of instability. Brian's probation hanging over his head like a scythe. Elsa and Rachel, lust and love. Flip sides of the need for intimacy.
I thought about the trailer search and how it had been thwarted by the Pennsylvania registration. And Randor L. Drake who appeared innocent but couldn't be. And where was he? Had he crouched over a pile of feed bags in Greg's barn and struck his match, or was he stalking rainbow trout in West Virginia?
Had he been in Pennsylvania last week? In a barn set back off the road?
I was thinking that I should call Ralston for an update when Rachel walked down the lane. She had arrived early, presumably to watch Michael ride his Olympic-caliber horse. I stood as she approached.
She flattened her hand on my chest. "Hey there, cutie."
I enveloped her in my arms and gave her a kiss that she encouraged and allowed to linger. All the possibilities were there.
Her hair was still damp from her shower and smelled of apples. I slid my hands over the swell of her buttocks. When I pulled her tight against me, I felt her grin and realized she had noticed the intense, physical reaction her closeness had generated.
Behind us, Michael and his wonder horse executed a ten meter circle at the trot, just the other side of the fence. After their third revolution, I looked up as they came close to the fence on yet another pass. Michael grinned and cued his horse into a canter.
On their next circuit, I mouthed, "Go get some of your own."
Apparently, he wasn't finished.
"He needed that," he yelled to Rachel, and then to me, "Tell her about last night."
Rachel tilted her head back and peered up at me. "What?"
"Umm." I kissed her face somewhere in the vicinity of her left eyebrow. "Someone started a fire in Greg's feed room."
"Oh, no." She leaned back so she could see my face better.
"Luckily there wasn't much damage," I said. "Michael and I were able to put it out quickly."
"Were any of the horses in the barn?"
"No, it was empty," I said.
"Not entirely."
"What do you mean?"
"You were in the barn. A little later, and you might have been asleep." She shivered. "And I see you've already thought of that."
"Uh-huh."
"Oh, Steve."
She tightened her arms around my waist. I felt comforted by her embrace and, best of all, wanted.
Maybe the fire had been a random act, some pyromaniac doing his thing. But they typically chose empty structures to torch.
They didn't check to make sure you were home first.
* * *
During my lunch break, I called Detective Ralston and was told he was still in Pennsylvania. I drove into town and purchased a heavy-duty dead bolt for the kitchen door. The second item took more effort to locate, but with the help of a knowledgeable salesclerk at an electronics store, I found a smoke/heat detector with a remote alarm. I installed the lock, but left the rest for later.
What I really needed was a gun. But I hated them. Always had. My father had one, and I still remembered the afternoon when I'd discovered it in his dresser, hidden beneath a stack of undershirts. I couldn't have been much older than seven. I had been surprised by its weight and the coldness of the black steel against my palm. It made me cold just thinking about it.
I made it back to work a little after two. Michael was slouched in a lawn chair with his cowboy hat pulled low on his forehead, and I wondered how he was holding up. I stopped in the office on my way to the barns. Mrs. Hill was on the phone, so I checked my bin. It was empty. The door behind me opened. Elsa Timbrook had her manicured hand on the doorknob. Her blond hair was gathered high on the back of her head and hung in curls down her neck. She glanced at me as she stepped into the room.
My initial impulse was to hightail it out of there, but I intercepted her instead. "Mrs. Timbrook?"
She ran the tip of her tongue across her lips. "Elsa," she said.
"You never answered me the other night," I said. "How do you know the guy I got into a fight with at the party--Mr. Harrison's driver?" When she didn't respond, I checked that Mrs. Hill was still on the phone, then said, "Please. It may be important."
She shifted a bulky canvas tote from one hand to the other and studied me with her smoky green eyes.
I waited.
She smoothed a finger down the side of her nose.
After a pause, in which I was certain she wasn't going to tell me, she said, "Robby's my brother."
"Your brother?"
Elsa nodded and clasped the tote's straps with both hands. The canvas rested against her bare thighs. Tightly rolled bandages for doing up her horse's legs stuck out from the depths of the bag. T&T Industries was embroidered diagonally across the tote. "Johnny, too."
I frowned. "You mean John Harrison?"
She nodded.
"You said Robby was dangerous. In what way?"
"They both are. But Robby . . . He's smart and he's sneaky, and he always gets what he wants." She brushed a strand of hair off her forehead. "And it doesn't matter who or what gets in his way."
I'd heard of one other Harrison. A name from the past. James Peters' past. "What's your father's name?"
She frowned. "John, Sr. Why?"
"Does he go by a nickname?" I said.
"Most people call him Buddy."
I gestured toward her tote. "What's T&T stand for?" I'd seen the logo somewhere before but couldn't place it.
Her hands clutched at the straps, and I had a sudden impression she was holding her breath. She glanced at the blue and gold letters. "I don't know. I got this from a friend."
Elsa excused herself, and as I watched her push through the door into the lounge, I remembered what Gene had said about Sanders. That he'd boarded his horse with Harrison before he'd moved it to Foxdale. Then, at the party, Sanders and Robby had argued, and I would have loved to have known what it had been about.
"I'm glad you're back," Mrs. Hill said before the receiver had come fully to rest in the cradle. She leaned back, and her chair's springs squeaked under the strain. "Mr. Ambrose has hired a security service."
"You're kidding?"
She shook her head and smiled broadly. "Someone will report in each night around ten and leave at six. Can you meet him tonight and show him around?"
"Sure. Will he be armed?"
"No." She picked up a piece of hard candy and rolled it between her fingers. "And think of any instructions you want to give him."
I stepped outside, paused, then leaned back into the office.
Mrs. Hill looked up from her paperwork.
"Thanks," I said.
She beamed at me, then waved me off.
I walked down to the barns and found that the crew was in the middle of turnouts. I led a bay gelding into the farthest paddock and turned him to face the gate. He stood perfectly still, his noble head held high as he waited for me to release him. When I slipped the chain from his halter, he wheeled around. His hindquarters bunched, and he propelled himself away from me, stretching full out, his hooves kicking up clods of earth. I draped the lead over my shoulder and walked back up the hill.
As I neared the barns, the scent of freshly-mown grass and damp soil was replaced by the sharp odor of horses and the lighter fragrance of liniments that drifted from the wash racks. It occurred to me, then, that I hadn't felt this carefree in weeks. We now had a guard, and I assumed it was only a matter of time before Ralston had someone in custody
.
After the last horse had been turned out, I drove to the construction site's wide dirt entrance. Dozers, backhoes, loaders, and a scraper or two were parked in a line beyond the trailer office. Sunday afternoon, the door was locked up tight, the equipment idle. I left the truck running and crossed the rough ground to the sign at the edge of the road. "Huntfield Estates," it read. "Luxury homes on one to three acre lots." It went on to list details, options, a 1-800 number, and in the lower right hand corner, "T&T Industries" was printed in blue and gold.
First Elsa's bag, now this. Yet, I was certain I'd seen it before. But where?
After work, I made it to the library five minutes before they locked the doors for the night. When I got home, I picked up the phone and flipped through the pages of my notebook until I found the number for James Peters' nephew. I punched in his number.
When he answered, I told him who I was and said, "Do you remember the name of the company that's developing the land that used to belong to your uncle?"
"No. Not offhand. Some kind of initials. Oh, wait a sec. There was something about the name, made me think of . . . Oh, yeah. Something to do with explosives. Something like that."
I exhaled through my mouth. "T&T Industries?"
"Yeah." I could almost see him nod. "That's it."
* * *
Despite having been up all of Saturday night, I spent most of Sunday night lying awake in the dark. Around three in the morning, I woke from a restless sleep and remembered where I'd first seen T&T Industries.
When I called Detective Ralston at seven o'clock Monday morning, I was told he was unavailable. I left a message for him to call me ASAP and got through the morning's work on auto pilot. During my lunch break, the phone rang in the office, and the answering machine picked up. I half-listened to a voice I didn't recognize. It took me a second to realize the message was for me and that the voice belonged to Ralston. I swallowed the last bite of my ham and cheese sandwich and snatched up the phone.
"Steve here."
"Officer Dorsett told me you mailed out a bunch of letters about the truck and trailer last week," Ralston said.
"Yeah, but--"
"You shouldn't have done that," he snapped.
"What does it matter? We found the trailer."
There was a long pause before he said, "I wish you'd talked to me first because I don't think Drake's trailer's the one."
"It is. I'm one-hundred-percent certain. Have you found him yet?"
"Maybe it is the trailer, but we haven't found the men who are behind it, and that letter was just plain stupid."
I clenched the phone cord in my hand. I wanted to scream that somebody had to do something, that he didn't know shit about what it felt like to be a target. I clamped down on my anger and said, "What about Drake? Have you talked to him?"
"I just finished interviewing him. He has an iron-clad alibi which I've already verified with his C.O. Every weekend a trailer was used in a theft, he was on duty."
"What about what happened in Pennsylvania?"
"He backed up his fishing trip with receipts for gas, food, and lodging. He was in West Virginia, all right."
"So," I heard the bite in my voice but didn't care, "he's lending the trailer to a buddy."
"That's a possibility I'm working on. But I tell you, Steve, it doesn't feel like it. In your own words, 'the guy's clueless.'"
"Who's the trailer registered to?"
Papers rustled in the background. "Laura Anne Covington, Drake's girlfriend. Mean anything to you?"
"No." I sat on the edge of Mrs. Hill's desk. "But I know who owns the truck--"
"What?"
"--and I think I know why they're going after Foxdale." After a brief pause, I said, "Do you remember a guy named Sanders, one of the owners who had his horse stolen back in February?"
"Yes."
"I'm pretty sure he arranged for the theft or at least made sure his horse was targeted by the thieves." I told Ralston how he'd owned a horse that was stolen from a Carroll County farm, and how I suspected that the same horse had ended up at Foxdale two years later where it was stolen again. "He's been making a habit of scamming insurance companies, and I bet I know who helped him. In between the Carroll County farm and Foxdale, he boarded his horse with our hay dealer, John Harrison. Harrison's not above pulling scams of his own."
I told him how he and his brother had doctored the hay invoices and that their own sister had warned me that they were dangerous. "Her name's Elsa Timbrook. I checked the files at the library. Her husband is part owner of a land development company called T&T Industries. Remember when you said that the obvious is often the most likely?"
"Yeah."
"Well, Foxdale sits on five-hundred prime acres that back up to the Patuxent River State Park, and--"
"The same park where Peters' body was found," Ralston said.
"Yeah. Eighteen miles northwest from here. I checked, but I think that was just a coincidence or an indicator that they know the area. Anyway, over the past year or so, realtors have been pressuring Foxdale to sell. The farm next door already sold out and is being developed by--"
"T&T Industries," Ralston said.
"Yep."
"And the truck?"
"T&T industries owns a white, dual-axle pickup. It was on your MVA list."
Ralston snorted.
"My guess is that Mr. Timbrook, knowing full well what kind of scum his wife's brothers are, went to them when he needed someone to damage Foxdale in an effort to force the owner to sell out. And if Harrison's been teaming up with Sanders in the insurance swindles like I think he has, it would only be natural for him to fall back on stealing horses as a way to shake up the boarders. Only problem is, Timbrook didn't bargain on running into an owner who couldn't care less if his profit margin went down the tubes. And guess what?"
When Ralston didn't respond, I said, "Harrison's father, Buddy Harrison, used to deliver hay to James Peters' farm which, by the way, just so happens to border Piney Run Park. John Harrison might have delivered to him as well, but I couldn't verify that because Mrs. Peters' mind is stuck in the past. Anyway, the farm was sold and is now being subdivided and developed by T&T Industries."
"Damn."
"Ask Drake," I said, "if he knows John Harrison."
* * *
The six o'clock lesson had just begun, and I was on my way home when Mrs. Hill flagged me down.
"It looks like you were right about Harrison," Detective Ralston said when I took the phone from Mrs. Hill.
I turned my back to her and leaned against a filing cabinet. "He's involved, then?"
"John Harrison is Drake's cousin."
I exhaled slowly. "So Drake knew all along."
"I'm not so sure about that. I do think your visit got him thinking. He admitted that his cousins borrowed his trailer from time to time, but he never suspected it was being used for something illegal. What is clear is that he's afraid of them. If he knows something incriminating, I doubt he'll tell us. I'm on my way over to the Harrison farm now. It belongs to their father, but both brothers still live there." He paused. "Do you know where it is?"
"No idea."
"Montgomery County, about eight miles west of where you escaped from the trailer."
I didn't say anything.
"I'll let you know what I find out." He hung up.
I lowered the receiver onto the cradle.
When I didn't move, Mrs. Hill looked up from her paperwork. "How'd the guard work out last night?" she said.
I smoothed my palms down my jeans. "Good."
She leaned back in her chair and waited for me to continue. I walked into the lounge and stood in front of the soda machine. My throat was dry. I fumbled the coins into the slot and pressed the Coke button. The can rattled into the slot at the bottom.
I didn't go home. I watched a little TV, bits and pieces of the next three lessons, and otherwise hung around until the guard came in at ten. When the barns cleared out shortly afterw
ard, I accompanied the guard on his first walk-through of the night. Like he'd done the night before, he had ignored the sign at the entrance to the lane and had parked his vehicle outside the office door. That was fine by me. It was more visible there and would hopefully serve as a deterrent.
I watched him settle into Mrs. Hill's chair, then headed home. I turned into Greg's driveway and was halfway down the lane when headlights flashed in my rearview mirror.
My grip tightened on the steering wheel. I turned off the main drive and drove down the short lane that circled around behind the foaling barn. When the car made the turn, too, I pressed my foot down on the accelerator.
I swung the truck in a tight circle, spewing gravel across the vacant lot, and pointed its nose toward the lane. The Chevy's engine idled as the car moved into sight. As it entered the last curve, I noticed the shape and position of the headlights and realized it was Ralston's Crown Vic. I backed into my spot and rolled up the windows while Ralston climbed out and waited by the Ford's back fender.
"I was on my way to Foxdale when I saw you pull out in front of me," he said, and it bothered me that I hadn't noticed I was being followed. He jerked his head toward the steps. "Can I come up?"
"Sure. Did you talk to Harrison?"
"That's what I want to talk about."
He seemed prepared to wait until we were inside before he filled me in. We went up the stairs in silence. I braced open the screen door with my thigh and flipped through my keys.
Ralston stood behind me and fidgeted. "What'n the hell do you have so many keys for? You need to keep your house and truck keys separate so you can find them faster. And you should have your key in your hand before you get out of the truck." He glanced over his shoulder. "And you should lock your truck. I noticed you didn't."
