At Risk (22 page)

BODY IDENTIFIED

Damascus: A body found in the Patuxent River
State Park early Friday morning has been identified as that of
James S. Peters of Berrett, Maryland. Peters, 64, who owned and
operated a horse facility near Piney Run Park, disappeared August
4th, the same day seven horses were stolen from the farm.

Detective James Ralston, who is heading the
investigation, said preliminary findings indicate that Peters
interrupted the intruders and was murdered. Ralston refused to
comment on other details of the investigation except to say that
cause of death was determined to be blunt force trauma to the head.
Peters is survived by his wife.

Those three clippings, combined with a brief
write-up in the obituary column, were, as far as I could determine,
the total coverage devoted to the life and death of James S.
Peters. I downed the last of the beer and threw the empty into the
trash.

Chapter 12

Thursday morning, I visited Gwendolyn
Peters.

The only other living relative mentioned in
Peters' obituary had been a nephew, and after a bit of detective
work with the phone book the night before, I'd tracked him down. He
knew little about the events surrounding August fourth and next to
nothing about Hunters Ridge. He did, however, point me in the right
direction as far as his aunt was concerned. Shortly after her
husband's death, Mrs. Peters had suffered a nervous breakdown and
seemed destined to live out the remainder of her days in a nursing
home.

"What about the farm?" I'd said. "Do you
think anyone still works or boards there who knew your uncle?"

"You're outta luck there, pal. Place got sold
and is being bulldozed as we speak."

"Bulldozed into what?"

"A housing development, what else? Nice, too.
The land backs right up to Piney Run."

Shortly after eight, I pointed the Chevy's
nose northward. After a few wrong turns, I found the town of Wards
Chapel and, on Eighth Street, Shady Grove Nursing Home.

They must have recently polished the floor,
because my shoes squeaked with each step I took down the long,
depressing corridor. I had always hated hospitals, and nursing
homes were close enough to elicit the same adversionary response. I
turned a corner and nearly walked into an elderly man with
disheveled yellow-gray hair. His back was so stooped, he reminded
me of a tree limb, ready to snap. Even his skin looked like bark. I
continued on.

Most of the doors were open, but I did not
look in any of them. I paused just before I got to room 309 and
wished I were anywhere else. The air stank of strong disinfectant
that couldn't mask the stench of urine and was nauseating. I wiped
my hands on my jeans and stood in the doorway.

Mrs. Peters sat unmoving in a chair that had
been placed so she could look out the window. Early morning
sunlight shifted and winked in the branches of a nearby Mimosa and
angled through the glass like a moving kaleidoscope. The view was
pleasant enough—manicured lawn, a hedge of forsythia bushes that
had probably been spectacular a week earlier, a patch of blue sky.
A breakfast tray sat on the bedside table, and by the looks of it,
Mrs. Peters ate very little. The room was cheerless and drab with
institutional furniture and empty walls, except for a still-life
print that hung above the bed. The only personal possession in
evidence was a photograph on the night stand.

I cleared my throat. "Mrs. Peters?"

She didn't respond.

I walked around the bed and stood by the
window where she could see me. "Mrs. Peters?"

She turned her head slowly and looked at me
with pale, watery eyes, her expression blank. Her skin was deeply
wrinkled and hung slackly from her bones. She no longer looked like
a woman in her sixties as her nephew had said she was.

I introduced myself and asked if she would
mind answering some questions about Hunters Ridge.

"Hunters Ridge?" Her eyes widened, and her
hands clutched at the knitted afghan draped across her lap. "You
know Hunters Ridge?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Is it a job you want?"

I blinked. "Uh . . ."

"Because you'll have to ask Jimmy. He's the
one does the hirin'."

I didn't say anything. Couldn't.

"Have you seen him?"

I shook my head and swallowed. "I wasn't
looking for a job. I wanted to know who worked for, uh . . . is
working for him."

"Oh, well, Maryanne and Crystal come in the
afternoons and on weekends, and Vicky gives lessons."

According to Greg, it had been years since
they'd switched from boarding to breeding, and I wondered what time
frame Mrs. Peters' mind was stuck in. "What are their last
names?"

"Oh, heavens, I don't have the vaguest. Jimmy
would know. He keeps the records. You just go on over and ask him.
He'll know."

"What about boarders?"

"Oh, well there's Jenny and Sue Ellen, Linda
and--"

"Their last names?"

"Oh, my. I don't rightly recall. They come
and go, you know? You'll have to ask Jimmy."

I asked her who shod their horses, delivered
their grain and hay, and anything else I could think of, and I
learned that Mr. Peters had done with as little help as humanly
possible. She mentioned a Buddy Harrison who may or may not have
been related to John Harrison; otherwise, none of the names were
familiar. If she was talking about twenty years ago, then I
supposed it made sense.

"And your vet?" I said.

"Greg Davis." She nodded to me. "So young and
handsome, like yourself. At first, I told Jimmy I thought Greg was
too inexperienced, but Jimmy had great faith in him. Said he knows
how to time a breeding better than Morgan ever did. Course, Morgan
was always half in the bottle. Couldn't tell a one from a three if
his life depended on it. And if you don't read the follicles right,
you end up breeding too early or too late and have to wait another
whole month."

"Morgan?"

"Doctor Morgan. Passed away, God rest his
soul."

I glanced behind her, at the photograph on
the night stand, and she followed the direction of my gaze and
twisted around in her chair. She picked up the gold-framed
photograph, then settled back against the cushions and balanced the
frame on the folds of her afghan. It vibrated in her trembling
hands. A network of blue veins and tightly strung tendons threaded
their way under skin that looked transparent, and her knuckles were
swollen, fingers misshapen with arthritis. A gold wedding band hung
loosely around a bone-thin finger. I stepped to her side with sick
fascination.

Peters had been a tall, gangly man with a
broad forehead and easy smile. His arm was casually draped around
his wife's shoulders as they stood in front of a split rail fence.
A group of yearlings had gathered on the far side with their ears
pricked curiously toward the couple. Mrs. Peters was leaning
against her husband with her arms around his waist, her head tilted
back as she gazed into his face. She looked young and carefree and
exceedingly happy.

She touched the glass with her fingertips, as
if she could bring back the moment. "Have you seen Jimmy?" she said
without looking up.

I swallowed. "No, ma'am."

"I told him he shouldn't have reported it."
Her voice caught in her throat. "But he always does what's
right."

"Report what?"

She didn't answer.

"Mrs. Peters, who did he report?"

"Do you know when he'll be back?" Her voice
was high-pitched with strain. "Dinner's almost ready."

"Mrs. Peters. It's important that you tell
me. What did he report?"

She covered her mouth with a trembling
hand.

"Who, Mrs. Peters? Who did he report?"

Tears spilled down her cheeks. "No, no,
no-o-o." Her voice rose in a wail that filled the tiny room.

I put my hand on her bony shoulder. "I'm
sorry, Mrs. Peters."

A nurse bustled into the room. "You. What are
you doing?"

I straightened.

"You'll have to leave." She stood aside so I
could move around her. "Now."

I walked out into the sunlight and tried to
imagine all the possible things Mr. Peters might have reported that
had anything to do with horses. As I drove back to Foxdale, I
couldn't stop thinking about the fragility of the human mind. Under
normal circumstances, I imagined, Gwendolyn Peters could have been
reduced to such a state by senility or Alzheimer's or whatever, but
I had an overwhelming feeling that she had been pushed. Pushed by
the horror of her husband's sudden, violent death.

The man who was behind this, whoever he was,
had destroyed more than one life on that hot summer night.

* * *

Rachel beat me to Foxdale by half a minute.
She stretched back into her car as I idled my pickup down the row
of parked cars and came to a stop behind her back bumper. She
straightened and turned quickly, and I was rewarded with a
welcoming smile. I hopped out and opened the door for her as she
slipped on a sweater.

She reached up and flipped her hair out from
under the collar. "Sneaking up on me?"

I grinned. "Me? Never."

"Uh-huh."

I checked out the rest of her outfit with
growing appreciation. A short, brown skirt, secured around her
waist with a wide, yellow belt, revealed a lot of good-looking leg.
The only surprise . . . she was wearing tennis shoes.

Rachel smiled. "I like to be
comfortable."

"So, you're a mind-reader."

"It's a girl thing. Or, I suppose you could
say it's a guy thing. 'Cause you guys are easy to read."

"Oh, come on. Okay." I crossed my arms over
my chest. "Where would I like to be right now?"

"Somewhere horizontal and . . . private."

"Damn. You are a mind reader."

She grinned, then climbed into the truck. The
skirt rode up on her thighs. I reluctantly shut the door and walked
around to the driver's side.

We headed south and, as it happened, the
route I'd chosen took us past Greg's farm. I pointed it out.

"You live in that house?"

I shook my head. "No, I live in the
barn."

"The barn?"

I glanced sideways at her. "Yes. Where the
hay loft used to be. It was remodeled into an apartment. Very nice,
too."

"Can we stop?"

I briefly wondered if she was initiating the
horizontal and private thing but dispelled the idea as wishful
thinking on my part. I pictured how I'd left the place and decided
it would be acceptable. I'd picked the clothes off the floor a
couple of days earlier, and I'd even thrown the bedspread back
across the mattress.

She must have sensed my hesitation, because
she said, "Oh . . . I shouldn't have asked."

"No," I said. "I'd like to show you."

I turned around, and we headed back. As I
pulled onto Greg's farm, it struck me how elegant the place looked.
Pin oaks lined the drive on both sides along with an immaculate
four-board fence. The three-story brick house looked as stately as
ever, and the barns were constructed of rich wood siding instead of
the usual steel, which I found cold and dreary.

I pulled into the parking area behind the
foaling barn, and we climbed the steps to the loft.

A dead mouse lay on the doormat.

"You have cats, I see." Rachel said.

"No. Well . . . yes. Actually, they're not
mine. They sort of came with the place. They're barn cats, really.
I probably shouldn't have let them in at all, but they're
insistent."

She grinned at me, and I wondered why I
couldn't shut the hell up. When I opened the door for her, she
said, "You don't lock your door?"

"Nah. On a farm like this, there's always
someone around. I don't worry about it."

Rachel walked inside and stood in the middle
of the kitchen. "Wow. This is nice."

She turned slowly, taking it in, her brown
skirt and the sweater's warm shades of tan, orange, and yellow a
vibrant splash of color, intense and alive.

She spun around and walked onto the carpet.
"What a great place. It's so cool and big and on a horse farm with
such great views. I envy you. I live close to the Baltimore City
line. Not even in a neighborhood."

Rachel paused at my stereo system. It was
stacked on an old, wooden crate and had cost me a fortune. She
picked up a stack of CDs and shuffled through them like they were a
deck of cards. "Kenny Wayne Shepherd, Vilvaldi, Kid Rock,
Mellencamp, Bach, matchbox 20." She looked up at me and raised her
eyebrows. "You've got quite an eclectic collection here, don't
you?"

I shrugged and told her about my sister.
"With her room next to mine, it was either get used to it and like
it, or live day after day in misery."

She smiled, then walked to the end of the
loft and looked out the north windows at the tree-lined drive. When
she turned around, it seemed to me that she had noticed my bed for
the first time. She glanced from it to me and walked purposefully
back into the kitchen. The long-haired cat squeezed out from under
my bed and trotted over to her.

"Oh, what a beautiful cat." Rachel crouched
down, and the cat rubbed against her legs.

I didn't look at the cat, however, having a
definitely more interesting view elsewhere. Rachel's skirt was very
short.

I cleared my throat. "You've made a life-long
friend."

"I've never seen a cat that's so friendly."
Rachel laughed when the cat flipped onto its back. "What a wiggle
worm. What's her name?"

"Far as I know, she doesn't have one."

Rachel was on her hands and knees, and her
hair had fallen forward over her shoulders. "How could you have a
cat and not name it?"

"But it's not my cat."

Rachel shook her head and rose to her feet.
She put her hands on her hips. "Don't you ever pet her?"