By Dog Alone: A Kelton Jager Adventure Book 2

by Charles Wendt

  Virginia summers are hot and the biting flies can be most intolerable. Late at night is a wonderful time to ride, if lights are available, and the giant indoor riding arena had them. Such a schedule also aligned well with teenagers who didn’t have to get up the following morning. It was also fun to ride horses informally without an instructor nagging about leg position or using too much hand. Someone, most probably Vicky in the current day and age, streamed internet music through the public-address system and had cranked the volume. This turned the entire barn into a sort of mounted house party.

  The music carried all the way across the hockey field to Mrs. Grant’s apartment in the main school building. Years ago, she’d been furious the first time, dressing and marching across, prepared to deliver a special version of the riot act and commence its provisions with the firmest of hands. She’d been taken aback when he was nearby and professed not to be excited about the situation. This had earned Helmut an ‘I expected better of you’ speech.

  He’d shrugged off her disciplinarian tirade with the patience he’d learned riding hotheaded sport performance horses for decades. They were kids. It was Saturday. Do you want them sneaking off campus to meet boys on a hot summer night? Or do you want them not just staying on campus, but looking forward all week to staying on campus? She’d looked at the delight in their faces, and the shrieks of laughter which sounded like an amusement park. The following week, Mrs. Grant provided punch. Occasionally Helmut brought a grill and made some German sausages. The one sticking point in which she would not yield, is that he had to be there in case something happened. So he was. He didn’t have anywhere else to go like Jose.

  Helmut would spend the nights like this all summer, kind of floating in and out after the day’s labors. He was old and always slept fitfully anyway. There were exceptions of course. Occasionally, they put a team together to go to a Sunday morning hunter show and he insisted upon a good night’s sleep to compete well. At the very least, they must be well rested and able to put on their best behavior in public and show good sportsmanship when representing the school. The cooling temperatures of fall would bring things to an end until the following June. Sometimes someone was having trouble with a horse and would ask for his help. He was always happy to provide it, no lesson charge, but he didn’t force it on anyone. He wanted them to enjoy their horses. Sometimes someone fell off, but that was horses.

  It was in this state of not awake but not quite asleep, that he felt the warm hot breath in his face that smelled like rotting meat.

  Without opening his eyes, or even moving, Helmut grunted, “I have no use for a dog. Try the useless drunken fox hunters up the road.”

  “It’s okay, Azrael. You’ve got a job with me,” soothed Kelton as he sat down in a seat next to Helmut.

  Helmut still didn’t open his eyes, but slowly reached out a hand, found Azrael’s furry ears and gave them a rub.

  “Hauptmann Jager. You’ve come to our party,” said Helmut smiling with closed eyelids. Hauptmann was the German equivalent of Kelton’s old army rank. The smile twisted one of the straight-line scars across a cheek into an arc.

  “I’m afraid I seem to have misplaced my invitation, but perhaps you might help me with a question concerning a man and an upset little blond student here?”

  “Fathers do come to visit occasionally and not all daughters are pleased to see dear old dad. You’re not giving me a whole lot to go on.”

  “I don’t think he was her father. He had enough clout to lean on me on short notice which tells me something is going on. I want to find him.”

  Helmet smirked briefly, and then after a long pause replied, “Teen girls are good at hiding things, but from experience I can tell you they aren’t near as good as corrupt and wicked old business men. I’d find him through her.”

  Kelton sighed loudly, audible even over the music from below, “I don’t know anything else about her.”

  “Blond teen girl still leaves nearly half the school. You might consider calling the police and get some professionals on this if you are certain in what you saw.”

  “I thought about that, but he was able to sic law enforcement on me at the drop of a hat when all I’d done is notice him. I’m not saying the department is corrupt, I just want to gather more information first.”

  “Sounds like tracking down this man and pushing back to see what pops out is your best option, Hauptmann Jager. People who think they are above the law eventually will do something too big for higher authority to overlook. The trick is being able to survive in the meantime.”

  Kelton nodded, “The challenge is this man is of the professional class, which means my best chance to see him again is downtown during business hours. That’s not a place I can go at that time and not have the police take an interest. Azrael was not gentle with the dogcatcher.”

  “I saw that on the evening news. That inbred is such a boob making inspections out here, trying to throw his weight around with incompetent statements. I knew I liked you, Azrael,” said Helmut shifting from ear rubs to more of a petting motion along the shoulders. “I’m supposed to give testimony at a city council meeting Monday night. If this character is as prominent as you say, he is bound to be there. Disguise yourself and attend to point him out. Then we can ask someone to find out who he is. It would be a start.”

  “Okay. Appreciate the advice. Please don’t tell anyone I’m still around.”

  “I never saw you,” Helmut said as he relaxed his hand and let it hang, and Azrael turned to silently follow Kelton down the spiral staircase into the darkness.

  CHAPTER—9

  Bruno Salvitore sat in a faded silver Oldsmobile pulled over down the street from the Harper family farm on Sunday morning. It was the average type of car that nobody noticed. He’d received the call three days ago at his district apartment and immediately drove to be on station in Westburg just a few hours later. Mr. Armesto put him to work immediately. He found the addresses on a paper map so there was no electronic trail. It was just a matter of following until presented with an opportunity, which had come yesterday evening. Then he’d gotten a call with a couple more names and addresses.

  He rested behind the wheel wearing a cheap wrinkled suit with the crumbled paper wrapper of an egg sandwich on the seat next to him. His coffee cup was empty. On the passenger side floorboard was a dumbbell he considered picking up for another set, but he was tired. Beating someone nearly to death tended to do that. In the trunk was a cooler of steaks and another of beer to welcome the guys to town that would spell him in future efforts. They could grill in the park and not look suspicious or risk being overheard like in a crowded restaurant.

  The instructions concerning Councilman Justin Harper were specific and very different from the others: stay away from him and let things take a natural path. Do not intimidate or harass. Allow the elected official to do his duty with the information presented to him. The strategy would simply be to hurt the common people who would provide Mr. Harper information that Bruno’s boss found contrary to the decisions Bruno’s boss wanted Mr. Harper to make. But Bruno knew from experience that could change, especially if Mr. Harper didn’t catch on. The more he knew about Mr. Harper the better prepared he would be to hurt Mr. Harper or his family.

  Someone was feeding Mr. Armesto information on the situation in Westburg. Whatever it was that other person was saying, the boss wasn’t digging it. That’s what drove the decision to send him, Bruno, in the first place. That much he could figure out. The rest, he didn’t try to. He was content to be sent for his specialty work. Things like intimidating or punishing. Observing like this at Mr. Harper’s farm was just a way to stay mentally engaged until he struck his next target. He didn’t care about his targets any more than he cared about the club he beat them with. They were both just things. What the boss said, he did.

  Mr. Armesto wanted this project. There were already a string of bar and nightclub renovations going on in the district. Bruno knew that from pulling security dut
y to keep bidders from making site visits who hadn’t paid their tithes. Obviously, it wasn’t enough. Maybe they were looking for something with a less seedy reputation to avoid scrutiny. Did the boss want to send some future daughter to school and have a way to be close and keep an eye on her? Was he going to marry one of the dancers and try to go more legit? Bruno didn’t know. And in most ways, Bruno didn’t care. He’d been good to work for. Treated him fairly. All he asked in return was breaking some stranger’s thigh bone here and there and digging an occasional hole to throw a problem into. It was a good gig. More than he would ever make selling chips and sodas to truckers working at some quick stop.

  It was something Bruno felt he could continue to do for several more years. He was what some would call a “seasoned thug”. He’d done the rough nasty jobs when he was younger. He’d been cut or beaten more than once and had the scars to prove it. Served a couple of years for felony assault and kept his mouth shut. Smart enough to still be alive in his thirties and wise enough not to succumb to his temper when facing challenges. Trusted and reliable enough to work alone and not needlessly draw attention by throwing his weight around when it wasn’t warranted. He was still more than a match for “civilian” targets.

  It was around 9:00 am when he saw the truck pulling out from the Harper’s with a rusty white horse trailer in tow. He let it have a head start and then started up the Olds to follow. Bruno didn’t closely pursue. There was nothing to be gained by risking being made and with the trailer, he wasn’t expecting them to make any sudden lane changes.

  After a couple of miles north on Hounds Tooth, they took a right at the stop sign onto Full Cry Road. Traffic was light, and Bruno kept his distance. As the road arced around to the east side of Westburg, they pulled into Full Cry Market on the right just before State Route 715. Bruno opted to park by the free air hose. A handful of vehicles were at the fueling islands and as many again by the store. Harper’s truck pulled up to an outside pump. A man in jeans got out the driver’s side and swiped a credit card. A teen girl with long auburn hair strode toward the store. She was wearing riding breeches and knee high leggings of some sort.

  Bruno pretended to put the air hose on the tire’s value stem, without bothering to unscrew the black plastic cap, and sized up Justin Harper. He sure didn’t look like a real farmer. The jeans were dark without tears or fraying. The aviator sunglasses seemed a leftover accessory from days of being young and cool. He’d controlled his weight but there was no hiding the softness from working in an office every day. Justin wore a long sleeved tucked-in shirt with a button down collar although the cuffs had been rolled back. It was a tight tailored fit, with no bulge over his hip that might be a firearm. Bruno didn’t consider him a match at all.

  The girl returned with a white paper sack and a cup she handed to her father. Bruno dropped the air hose and climbed back inside to continue the pursuit. They weaved through the fuel islands to a large vacant parking area on the store’s east side. Bruno tailed, only to watch them U-turn and head back to Full Cry Road. Rather than follow he made a left on to State Route 715, and watched them slowly roll pass in front of him while stuck at the traffic light. After giving them a few hundred feet, he made a right on red and continued to shadow.

  When they took a right into the entrance for Fox Ridge School, he drove on by. Bruno was no fool. His car was very low profile when it came to scouting about town. But in the visitor’s parking lot of an elite prep school, it would stick out. That was okay.

  Bruno had been thorough and studied the map. He knew the very next right was Stirrup Cup Road. He’d been there a couple of times yesterday. It was a quiet road, with woods on both sides. He pulled in, but didn’t take it all the way down to the Hunt’s parking lot and clubhouse. For good measure, he raised the hood. It wouldn’t be a far walk to the campus, and while his car on school grounds might attract some scrutiny, his attire would likely work for a quick look around the grounds. If it didn’t, the raised hood gave him a plausible backstory.

  Carefully he picked his way through the coverts until reaching the northern section of the perimeter road. Then he wiped his brow with his handkerchief before soiling it dusting off his shoes. He didn’t want to look like he’d just tromped through the woods. But he sure felt like it. The day wasn’t quite yet hot, but it was humid for a walk wearing a tie and jacket. His sweat damp collar and jacket rubbed at his neck and shoulders, especially with the weight of the steel collapsible baton in the jacket’s breast pocket.

  He moved slowly so not to overheat himself or draw attention, but he kept moving. Loitering wouldn’t be good for any length of time either. The narrow loop of chewed asphalt circling all the buildings seemed to be his best bet to observe everything and still seem that he belonged on a Sunday morning. Signs in front of the cottages named them Dogwood, Tansy and Aster. He couldn’t see the names on the far side. The green in the middle was busy with a game of field hockey and a whistle blew.

  The barn was also abuzz. It was a tall structure, with what looked like a living space on a second floor above the horse stalls. A young Hispanic man drove a tractor towing a wagon full of straw and manure toward a meadow past the empty paddocks and pastures. Through the trees to the southeast he could see an outdoor riding ring where a trio of riders worked a course of jumps. In front of the barn, he saw the Harper’s truck and trailer. A grey horse was tied to the side and the auburn haired girl was throwing a saddle on to his back. Mr. Harper chatted to a tall blond girl on her horse waiting nearby and flanked by a pair of mounted friends.

  From inside the barn, Bruno heard the yelling with a German accent so he changed course. He kept the same slow deliberate pace, but left the perimeter road to slip behind the three girls on their horses and enter the barn.

  It was a large entryway, enough to drive the tractor and wagon through or a couple of horses to comfortably pass each other. A restroom was on the left and an office to the right with a rectangular Plexiglas window and door marked private. A quick glance through the dusty window showed a couple of desks and a big whiteboard with lots of colored magnets and cards.

  After twelve feet, Bruno was at an intersection. To the left and right was the long main barn aisle, twice as wide as the entrance he strode through extending nearly a football field from end to end. Every twelve feet, on both sides, were stall after stall and the steady drone of fans. The air smelled of the straw bedding. The high ceiling with the farm laborer apartments above provided insulation, and combined with the shade of the surrounding old growth trees made it quite pleasant inside despite the time of year. A pigeon narrowly missed him with a white and yellow dropping.

  The sharp German accent yelling something about watching the line, came from straight ahead and Bruno could clearly see the middle of the enormous space of the indoor riding ring. As he neared the entryway he froze in his tracks as a 1200 pound Hanoverian thundered from left to right across the opening in a quick flash. Staying a few feet back from the opening, he shifted to the side to get a better view of the end of the ring.

  A short older man leaned on a cane, slowly pivoting to follow the girl on her horse coming around for another pass through a series of jumps. The horse attacked them with energy, letting out a buck which threw his petite rider forward as they cleared the last fence.

  The instructor laughed and relayed his advice, “He’ll celebrate if you stop riding after you clear the jumps. Give him something to do. Change the pace, flex his head, doesn’t matter. Anything. Engage his mind else he’ll come up with something and he’s not so smart! Be a Fox Ridge girl and think!”

  He’d seen what he needed to see. Possibly putting everyone on edge by being noticed lurking was counterproductive. Bruno ducked back and took a walk down the barn’s long aisle way to the south. A little way down he found a door between a couple of stalls. It was unlocked, and behind it was some dusty wooden steps leading upstairs. This job would be easy.

  After walking by numerous horses eating hay and the o
ccasional stray student tacking up or grooming in her horse’s stall, he exited to resume his course about the perimeter road. Over his left shoulder he saw Mr. Harper reading his phone at a picnic table under a tree. Harper had a few file folders laying in front of him. The four girls were gone.

  As the stone dust path from the barn exit swooped a little to the right to join the asphalt road he had one last view into an open short end of the riding arena. It was a split pair of sliding doors. While the bottom was closed to prevent a horse from escaping, the open top allowed a good cross breeze. The rider was conferring with her animated coach talking with wildly waving hands. She laughed at something he said. Bruno moved on.

  He’d go by the trio of houses on the south side of the hockey field, then around the school building’s front parking lot. Finally, he’d come along the north side again and pick up the narrow deer path to his car. All the reconnaissance he needed to risk had been done. Now it was just a matter of waiting for the moment. Later tonight looked promising as he swatted at an annoying fly.

  Holly stared out the window panes at the man walking in his suit from her library study table and wished her biological dad would see fit to come visit. He probably didn’t know she existed, but why not fantasize all the way? A number of cars were in the parking lot below, coming and going, and absolutely none of them were for her. Her eyes drifted back down to the geometry quiz and its depictions of triangles, arcs and circles. She leaned back from the oak table in the worn chair and stared down her nose at it.

  In red ink at the top, written with a hard force that gouged the paper was a “B-”. Back in grade school, that wasn’t so bad in the big scheme of things, but here at Fox Ridge School it was disaster. No one got worse than a “C”. Ever. That would mean flunking out and the school couldn’t afford to flunk anyone out. They had to foster an image of success to continue to attract students and earn big tuition dollars. She’d love to be able to flunk out, be sent home, and force her parents to acknowledge her inconvenient existence.