Kit Ehrman - At Risk (Steve Cline Mysteries)

At Risk

by

Kit Ehrman

Copyright 2011 Kit Ehrman

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Chapter 1

Some mornings, before darkness gives way tolight and a cold wind howls across the pasture and presses againstthe barn like a giant hand, I wonder what in the hell I'm doingworking on a horse farm.

A week earlier, the jet stream had ferried awall of Canadian air down the eastern edge of the AlleghenyMountains, and the mercury hadn't crawled out of the single digitsever since. I yanked a second sweatshirt over my head and walkedinto the kitchen.

The barn's crossbeams and joists creaked andgroaned like a Spanish galleon on the open seas while familiarsounds filtered up through the floorboards. Rustling straw, thehollow thump of a hoof knocking against a wooden plank, a bucketrattling.

I opened the drawer next to the kitchen sink.Buried among a Phillips screwdriver, a past due Gas and Electricbill and a stack of old bank statements, rubber bands, paper clips,and everything else that cluttered the junk drawer, I found a dirtymanila envelope with the flap crimped shut. I turned it over in mypalm. My boss had printed Stephen in bold black letters on one sidealong with the horse's name and detailed instructions that I knewby heart. Inside, were tubes of ophthalmic ointment that couldn'tbe left in a cold barn. I tucked the envelope in my pocket andshrugged into my coat.

Fronds of ice feathered across the inside ofthe windowpanes like a crystal-growing experiment gone wrong. Theymight have been pretty if they didn't mean I'd be freezing my assoff in a minute or two. I scratched at the frost with myfingernails, then squinted through the glass. The thermometer readtwo below zero.

There were a half dozen better ways to spendmy time at three o'clock in the morning, and this wasn't one ofthem. But corneal ulcers had to be treated aggressively, because ahorse that can't see, can't jump. And at Foxdale Farm, jumping'sthe name of the game. Hunters, jumpers, three-day eventers. Onlythe dressage horses kept their feet on the ground.

Outside, I took the steps two at a time,swiped the ice scraper across the windshield, then slid behind thewheel. The vinyl creaked under my weight, and the duct tape I'dplastered over a rip in the seat shifted and stuck to the seat ofmy pants. I huddled over the steering wheel and cranked the engine.Listening to the starter grind, I wondered what I would have beendoing if I'd stayed at college. Sleeping more than likely. Betteryet, I'd probably be in Florida on spring break where the localswould be inclined to think two below zero was the name of a rockgroup.

When the Chevy finally coughed to life, Icoaxed the truck onto the road and, ten minutes later, pulled ontoFoxdale's long gravel drive. The headlights cut across the metalwalls of the indoor riding arena as I swung around into my usualparking space. To the casual observer, the arena and two huge barnsfarther down the lane might have looked like warehouses if not forthe warren's nest of paddocks radiating outward like the spokes ofa wheel.

I cut the engine, and Bach's BrandenburgConcerto Number 3 in G Major died at the start of the secondmovement. The sudden quiet was overwhelming. So was the dark. Highabove me, the sodium vapor lamp was an indistinct shape against thebulk of the building. I made a mental note to have Dave replace thebulb, then I grabbed my flashlight from under the driver's seat andclimbed out.

My boots scrunched on the gravel as I roundedthe southwest corner of the indoor arena. When I switched on theflashlight, nothing happened. I slipped off my gloves, tightenedthe housing, and fiddled with the switch. Still no luck. I glancedtoward the barns and froze.

A pickup and horse trailer were parkedfarther down the lane where they had no business being, not atthree in the morning. A broad shaft of light poured from thetruck's cab and reflected off the barn's metal siding, but whatsent a shiver down my spine was the overall absence of light. Bothsodium vapors were out.

I stood still in the cold air and shifted myweight from one foot to the other. Mrs. Hill was too efficient tohave forgotten to tell me that someone was going to pick up ahorse. And it was the off season. No one was showing. Certainly notin Maryland.

Besides, no one loaded horses in the dark.Not if they could help it.

There was a pay phone in the arena by thebleachers. A call to the police seemed like a good idea. Prudentanyway. I opened the door and peered inside. Couldn't see a damnthing. I stepped over the threshold and ran my hand along the wall,feeling for the phone. When my fingers touched the receiver, Iheard a muffled noise behind me.

Something heavy glanced off the back of myhead and crashed into my shoulder. A searing pain slammed into mybrain as specks of light flashed in a dizzying arc behind my eyes.Someone grabbed my wrist and wrenched my arm behind my back. Heshoved me face-first into the arena wall, into dust and dirt andcobwebs. The door slammed shut.

"Shit." I clenched my teeth.

He leaned into me and readjusted his grip."Got that right, punk. And you just stepped in it."

"What are you gonna do?" someone behind ussaid. A male voice, high-pitched and tense. "You ain't gonna pop'im, are ya?"

The guy holding me felt my muscles tense andyanked my wrist higher between my shoulder blades.

Farther back in the building, a flashlightswitched on. "No. Not yet, anyway." His voice was ordinary, calm,as if he were discussing what to do with a stray piece ofequipment. The beam moved down the wall and focused on our backs."I know. Get the keys to his truck."

Iron Grip twisted my wrist and increased hisleverage, then the tense guy stepped around us and clumsilysearched my pockets. When he leaned forward to check my left frontpocket, I got a look at him. He'd pulled his ball cap low on hisforehead, but judging from what I could see of his face, I'd neverseen him before.

"They ain't on him," he said.

"All right, then. Turn him around."

They yanked me off the wall. The one with theflashlight shone the beam in my eyes as he adjusted something onhis face, and I realized he was wearing a ski mask. I glanced atthe guy on my right. His mask's eye holes were circled in red, andthe skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled as if he weresmiling.

I stood there stiffly, feeling heat seep frombeneath my coat collar. Except for my breathing, I could hear nosound. Not even a car on the road.

The guy with the flashlight stepped closer."You got lousy timing, kid," he whispered. "Lousy for you, that is.For me, now, it's a whole different ball game." He paused. "I ain'tgot my workout today."

The guy on my right sniggered.

The blast of light shifted as he crossed overto the bleachers and balanced the flashlight on one of the planks,bathing the wall behind us in a dull wash. When he turned around,the skin on the back of my head contracted. There was nothing butmalice in his eyes, his intent all too clear.

I briefly considered asking them what theywanted or telling them to let me go but knew I would get nowherewith either line. I kept my mouth shut.

He took off his gloves. As he methodicallyfolded them and stuck them one at a time into his coat pockets, itoccurred to me that he was dragging it out, trying to make mesweat. And it pissed me off. He shoved his right hand into hisjeans pocket and pulled out something metallic. I couldn't tellwhat it was until he slid it down over his fingers and made a fist.He clenched his hand, and light glinted off the top edge of thebrass knuckles.