by Kit Ehrman
I quit flipping through the keys.
"And," Ralston said, "when you pull into the parking lot, here or at work, look around before you get out. If you think you're being followed, head for the nearest police station, or a fire station if it's closer. Someone's always there, day or night."
I stood with my arms stiff at my sides.
"Come on, Steve. Open the door." He bent down and peered at the lock. "Is this new?"
I nodded.
"Good choice. But both the door and jamb are wood. They're your weak link. It wouldn't take much to kick the door in, even with the dead bolt." He shifted his weight. "Come on."
I found the right key, unlocked the door, and switched on the lights.
Ralston scanned the loft. When he walked around the far side of the island counter, he kept his hand near his gun. The skin on my arms tingled. I leaned against the island counter and crossed my arms over my chest while he checked to make sure no one was hiding on the other side of my bed. After he'd given the bathroom and closet a once over, he walked to the far end of the loft and looked toward the road.
With his back to me, he said, "If you feel the least bit insecure when you walk in here, or have a feeling that something's not right, leave immediately."
"They're gone, aren't they?" I said and couldn't keep the tension out of my voice.
Ralston walked back into the kitchen. "Don't know for sure. Guy who works for them said they canceled a delivery scheduled for today. Something about the semi being out of commission, but as far as he knew, they hadn't called out the mechanic they use."
"Damn."
Ralston looked at my face, and his expression softened. "Let's sit down."
He slid a stool around the corner of the counter and settled onto the vinyl cushion. I sat with my back to the windows, and only then did it register that he'd moved his stool so he was facing the door. I turned and looked at the long stretch of glass, black with the night, and felt apprehension settle into my chest like a block of ice.
"I want to set up a protective detail here." Ralston tapped his fingers on the edge of the counter. It was quiet in the loft, and the sound got on my nerves.
"You think they're gonna come after me?"
"It's a possibility I'd like to use to advantage."
"They might have been here already." I told him about the fire.
Ralston glared at me, and I suddenly felt like a little kid who'd been caught out.
"Why in the hell didn't you tell me about this before now?"
"You were in Pennsylvania."
His eyes narrowed. "I wasn't there today."
I didn't say anything, and after a minute or two, he propped his elbows on the counter and rubbed his face. The overhead lights reflected off his blond hair.
"How'd it go up there, anyway?" I said.
"They found her late yesterday. Got some good trace, even DNA, but--"
"She's dead?"
Ralston nodded. "I don't think her case is related. It felt staged. Too many differences in the MO, and no signature. My money's on the boyfriend."
"What's a signature?"
"A compulsive behavior the killer doesn't vary from victim to victim."
I frowned. "How could there be a signature if Peters is your only victim?"
"He isn't. There are two other cases in the computer that closely match the MO in the Peters' case--David Rowe and Larry Jacob. Only difference is, they weren't part of the horse community."
My skin felt clammy. "They sound familiar, but I can't think . . ."
"They were on my list the first time I interviewed you, mixed in with the grain dealers and fence companies."
"What's the . . . signature?" I said but wasn't sure I wanted to know.
"They were all bound with baling twine and beaten, and their throats were cut."
I swallowed and looked at my hands. "Like Boris."
"What?"
"The cat. They cut the cat's throat, too." I looked at his face. "Why are you telling me this?"
"I want you to take your situation seriously."
"Shit. I do."
"Have you still been going to the farm early, before anyone else?"
"Yeah," I said, "but now there's a guard."
"I mean before the guard."
I shrugged. "I can't let them run my life."
"Just end it?"
I looked down at the counter top.
"Which security firm?"
"Eastfield," I said.
Ralston grunted.
"Was James Peters' throat cut?"
Ralston nodded.
"I didn't know."
"Only partial information's released to the press," Ralston said. "Comes in handy when you're interviewing suspects or flakes who confess to crimes they didn't commit." Ralston pulled a notepad from his jacket pocket. "Go over your schedule with me so I can start working this out."
I told him what my normal routine was like, and he suggested some changes I could live with.
"And I'll talk to your boss and suggest they switch to Reinholdt Security. They're more professional, and they're armed."
Ralston picked up the phone and punched in a number. I propped my elbows on the counter, jammed my fingers in my hair, and rested my forehead against my palms. I listened as he tried to make arrangements and realized from the tone of his voice that his plans weren't working out. When he slammed down the receiver, I flinched.
"You're going to have to stay somewhere else until I can get a team together," Ralston said. "I don't have enough to justify having a detail stationed here without convincing my superiors first. I can't get it arranged tonight, but I will."
"Is it that bad?"
"I don't know. I don't want to find out the hard way." He looked me straight in the eye. "And neither do you."
The loft was so quiet, I could hear the second hand on the stove clock clicking like a metronome.
"Is there somewhere else you can stay?" Ralston said.
"It's almost midnight. I'll be back at work in five hours. In the morning, I'll ask a guy at the farm if I can stay with him. I'm sure he'll let me, at least for a while."
He frowned, then lifted the phone off the hook and held it out to me. "Wake him up."
I called Marty, and he said he would unlock his door and that I was damn lucky he didn't have company. I smiled as I hung up and said, "It's arranged."
"Do you have my card?"
I shook my head.
He fished a card out of his wallet, wrote down his pager number and Dorsett's, and handed it to me. "Call either one of us directly if you're worried about something, even if it seems insignificant, okay? And key in 911 after your number if you're in trouble."
I nodded.
Chapter 19
I closed the door quietly behind me and waited for my eyes to adjust to the dark. The whir of a fan drifted from the half-opened door to Marty's bedroom. After a minute or so, I dumped my duffel bag on the floor by the sofa and walked into the kitchen. The sink was cluttered with dirty dishes, and a collapsed Budweiser 24-pack and Domino's pizza box lay on the floor by the trash can. Chocolate ice cream from the bottom of an empty half-gallon carton had seeped across the counter and puddled on the floor. The room smelled of onions and beer.
My muscles were tense, and a dull ache had settled behind my eyes. I snagged two beers from the fridge, downed one, then set the empty on the counter. I flicked off the light switch and carried the unopened can into the darkened living room.
I slumped down on Marty's sagging sofa. After I polished off the second beer, I wedged a pillow against the armrest and lay down. I hadn't eaten since lunch and already had a buzz going.
* * *
The phone's ringing brought me slowly back to consciousness, like mist rising off the surface of a lake. I had been dreaming. A nice dream, too. I opened my eyes and at first couldn't remember where I was, or why. Couldn't tell, from how I felt, whether I had been asleep for minutes or hours.
Marty's vo
ice, thick with sleep, drifted through the open bedroom door. "Steve, it's for you."
I reached over the armrest and picked up the phone.
"This is Larry Oaks from Eastfield Security. There's something wrong with one of the horses."
His voice sounded hoarse, and I wondered if he'd been asleep. "What do you mean?" I mumbled.
"It keeps trying to get up but can't," he said, "like it's stuck."
"Shit. Which horse?"
"I don't know. A brown one."
Each stall was numbered, information cards hung on every stall door, and he didn't know which one. It figured. "Which barn, then?"
"The one with the arena in it."
"Okay, I'll be right there." I hung up. If the horse was simply cast, it would probably be up and fine by the time I got there. But if it had been rolling around in its stall because it was colicky with gas pain and had gotten itself jammed in the angle between the stall wall and the floor, it was an emergency. Even if the horse managed to get to its feet, colic didn't just go away by itself.
I pulled on my socks and yanked my jeans off the back of the sofa. Something thunked onto the floor between the sofa and wall. I checked that my wallet hadn't fallen out, then finished getting dressed. When I walked over to the bedroom door to tell Marty where I was going, he was snoring over the drone of the fan. I left him alone and headed for the front door.
It was pouring, and my truck was parked halfway down the block. I borrowed Marty's poncho off his coat tree and sped down rain-slicked streets with only a moderate try at caution. When I got to Foxdale, the gate was locked. It would be. I had locked it myself. I left it standing open and parked between the guard's car and office door. The clock on the dash read one-thirty. I hadn't been asleep long. No wonder my brain felt fuzzy.
Barn B's lights blazed in the night, and a shaft of fluorescent light streamed through the office door, laying a wide rectangular patch across the wet ground. I walked into the office, but the guard wasn't there. The lights in the lounge were off, the room still. I crossed over to the desk. A half-empty coffee cup sat on the blotter alongside a yellow legal pad. The guard had listed his rounds. The first one was at ten o'clock, and he'd noted my name alongside the time. The next round was at eleven. At 11:55, he'd printed my name and phone number--Marty's phone number, actually--from when I'd called to tell him how he could get in touch with me. The last entry read 12:25 a.m.
There was no mention of his call about the colic. I touched the side of the Styrofoam cup. It was room temperature.
I went back outside and ran down the lane to barn B, avoiding the largest puddles on the way. He wasn't in the aisle. I switched on all the lights and walked quickly down the aisle one. None of the horses looked upset. Some were even dozing. They wouldn't be. Not if one of their own was in trouble. They'd be wide awake and excited. I'd seen it often enough. I cut through the arena and checked aisle two just to make sure. No one there, either. I flicked on the lights on my way out and decided to call Ralston. I jogged toward the office.
I slowed to a walk at the sidewalk, and when I did, I noticed that the light was on in the men's room. That explained it.
I pushed open the door and stepped inside.
"Anybody here?" My voice echoed off the bare walls as a thought nagged at the edge of my consciousness. Something that wasn't right. Something the guard had said, but I couldn't think what.
As I turned to leave, the curtain to the shower stall moved and Robby Harrison stepped into the room.
He lunged toward me, and I briefly glimpsed another figure behind him. My muscles tensed as I grabbed the handle and pulled the door inward.
I stopped. There was nowhere to go.
At the threshold stood Mr. John Harrison, hay dealer, horse trader, and, according to our farrier, "a creepy bastard." He had severely beaten a horse with a whip, and he'd gotten away with it. His arm was outstretched, pointed at my face, and in his hand, he held a gun. Rain drops glistened on the black metal.
Harrison took a step forward. I had no choice but to back up. He directed me backward until my shoulder blades hit the first stall.
I had only glimpsed his face. What held my undivided attention was the small, round hole at the end of his gun. As black and final as death itself.
He latched his fingers around my throat and pressed the muzzle into my scalp above my left ear. Pressure began to build across the bridge of my nose, and the veins in my neck throbbed. It wasn't until then that I clearly saw Harrison's face. His lips were pulled back from his teeth like an animal's, and his eyes were stretched wide and unblinking. In the fluorescent light, they looked black.
I didn't have a chance.
I slid my fingers into my pocket and felt for my knife. It wasn't there. I remembered the thud as something had dropped behind Marty's couch.
Harrison licked his lips. "It's about time you and I got together, Mr. Stephen fucking Cline. You got away from me once, but you damn well won't this time."
He was leaning on my neck so hard, I thought I was going to pass out.
"How's that feel Steve? Huh?"
He tightened his grip, and I tried to move.
"Uh-uh." He pressed the gun's muzzle harder against my skin. "Don't try anything. You ain't goin' nowhere. What you are gonna do is learn. You're gonna fucking learn about it tonight. About fear and pain." He laughed. "And I'm gonna teach you."
Bastard.
Without taking his gaze off me, Harrison spoke over his shoulder to the man I thought I recognized from that night back in February. "Rich, hand over the rope."
The guy held the rope out to Harrison.
"Not me, you idiot. Give it to Robby." He gestured to his brother. "Now, go back outside and stand guard."
The guy was nervous, not as comfortable with the job as his buddies, and most ominous of all, he wouldn't look me in the eye.
The door thumped closed, leaving the room suddenly quiet. Harrison turned back to me. "All I hear is Foxdale this and Foxdale that, and I was getting damn sick of it. People leaving my place and comin' here. Saying 'Steve Cline's done this, and he's done that, and isn't the place nice.' Enough to make you puke." He clenched his teeth. "So when somebody wanted me to mess with your precious Foxdale, you think I needed askin' twice?"
No one answered.
He moved his face closer to mine. I could smell his sweat. His breath stank of cigarettes and beer as it slid across my skin. I looked past his face to the door.
"Shit, no," Harrison continued. "I didn't need askin'. Hell, he didn't even have to pay me, you being such a prick and all, checking the hay like it was your own damn money you was partin' with. And if that wasn't enough," his voice vibrated with anger, "I see your stupid little announcement stuck up on the bulletin board like you're some kinda Dick Tracy, and I can't use my truck and trailer no more, and all because of you, you fucking piece of shit. Imagine what I thought," he coughed and choked on his spit, "when I get your fucking stupid letter in the mail."
I didn't say anything.
"I decided, then and there, that I was gonna kill you. Kill you and make you pay. Make you suffer."
Behind him, Robby stood in a wide-legged stance, jiggling the coins in his pocket as he watched me with interest.
"Every day that went by," Harrison said, "it was all I could think of. Getting my hands on your scrawny neck and making you pay."
He let go of my throat and backed up. I could still feel his fingers on my neck.
"Lie on the floor, face down."
I took a shaky breath as Robby coiled the rope in his hands. He was wearing gloves. They both were. No fingerprints. No clues. I wondered if I'd end up in the woods, too.
"I said, 'lie down,' damn it!"
I wouldn't have a chance, not tied up.
"Lie down, or I'll shoot you right now." He raised the gun and pointed it at my face.
I got on the floor.
"Robby, make it tight," Harrison said. "I don't want him getting out of it this time."<
br />
Robby . . . Robert. Same as my father, same as my brother. Ironic. If they killed me--when they killed me--I wondered if the old man would somehow blame me. "He should have stayed in school, gotten an education and a good job, then none of this would have happened."
Robby was going to make sure this time. He yanked the poncho off and roughly tied my hands. When he was finished, he stood up and rubbed his hands together.
Harrison jammed his knee into the small of my back, grabbed a handful of my hair, and pulled my head off the floor.
Something touched my throat. It was cold and thin and sharp. I hadn't seen it coming. Maybe it was just as well. I closed my eyes. He pressed the knife harder against my skin. I tried to move away from the pressure but couldn't.
Blood trickled down my neck and soaked into my shirt.
Without warning, Harrison loosened his grip on my hair, and the blade cut deeper. I groaned with the effort of keeping my back arched. If I lowered my head, the knife would cut deeper. He shifted more weight onto my back. I gritted my teeth and grunted.
The bastard. I couldn't hold it much longer.
"Say something," he growled.
I wouldn't. Not if I could help it. He was going to kill me anyway. I would not give him the satisfaction of hearing me beg . . . or cry.
"You should of heard Peters," Harrison said as if he'd read my thoughts. "He cried like a baby, didn't he Robby? And boy could he scream. Screaming and crying for me not to hurt him, the old fart. Guess he shouldn't have reported me, the stupid son of a bitch."
Harrison took the knife away, and my face smashed against the cement.
He moved his face close to mine and whispered, "You're going to beg for mercy, scream for it, before the night's out."
My back and shoulder muscles trembled uncontrollably as the chill of the cement seeped into my sweat-soaked skin. I clenched my fists to stop the shaking.
Robby said, "Let's get going. It's not safe here. Anyway, you can take your time with him at the farm."
I closed my eyes and felt sick.
"Yeah, well . . . I want him to beg." Harrison kicked me in the ribs. The blow knocked the breath out of my lungs. He nailed me again, this time on my shoulder.
