At Risk (26 page)

I flicked on the light. The sheet metal was
smooth and straight, not misshapen and dented. The workmanlike
hinges were free of rust. The escape door, on the whole, was in
much better repair than the rest of the trailer. I ducked down and
peered at the lower edge of the door. The thin strip of metal,
hidden from casual view, was blue not green.

A tingle went up my spine.

The door had been painted.

But I wouldn't know for sure unless I looked
inside. I flicked off my light and edged around to the side door
used for loading the horses. Thinking that I didn't want my
fingerprints plastered all over the trailer, I slipped my hand
under my T-shirt and unlatched the heavy ramp. I lowered it toward
the ground, letting the springs do most of the work. They twanged
and hummed under the stress, and the rusty hinges screeched until
the lower lip of the ramp settled into the grass.

I nearly lost my nerve then, but the barn
would muffle most of the sound, and the house was a good fifty
yards beyond. I swallowed.

Heavy plywood partitions lay folded across
the ramp. Normally, they would be raised on either side of the
ramp, then slotted and bolted into place to form sidewalls for
guiding the horses, but I didn't bother with the ramp. I stepped
around the ramp, grabbed the edge of the door frame, and scrambled
into the darkened trailer.

The air was chillier inside than out and
smelled strongly of cows. I switched on the flashlight. Someone had
removed the stall dividers and stacked them against the back wall.
I looked at the window placement, at the shape and size of the
storage space over the gooseneck, at the design and positioning of
the overhead lights, and was certain I was standing in the trailer.
Details I hadn't remembered came flooding back--the missing bar in
the left-hand window, the six-inch crack in the yellowed light
fixture over the back stalls, the tufts of torn baling twine that
stuck out like a bad hairdo from the tie ring in the central aisle,
the way the rubber matting under the escape door curled at the
edge.

I examined the interior surface of the escape
door. It, too, had received a paint job, but not as thorough. The
original color was evident in the crease along the hinges and in
the lower right-hand corner. I thought about how I'd escaped from
the trailer and searched the floor. The old bolt was lying in a
crevice where the fibers in the rubber matting had separated. Three
links of chain still hung from one end. I bent down to pick it up,
then hesitated.

I left it where it was, scrambled out of the
trailer, and raised the ramp. I slid the latch home, spun around,
and walked straight into the business end of a double-barreled
shotgun.

The barrel jerked upward, and I felt my scalp
contract.

"What'n the hell are you doin'?" He held the
gun at the ready, pointing straight at my chest. "Well?"

I tried to work some saliva into my mouth,
but all I could do was stare at the gun, at his hand steadying the
barrel, at his finger fidgeting over the trigger guard.

As he stepped back, I heard a deep, guttural
sound that rose into a menacing growl. I glanced down. A huge,
broad-shouldered Rottweiler crouched in the grass next to the man's
legs. His lips were pulled back from razor white teeth, his hot
gaze locked on mine. The fur from the nape of his neck to the base
of his tail stood on end, and I was sure, given half the chance, he
would tear me to shreds.

"Well, boy, speak up. What're ya doin'
lookin' in there?"

"I . . . I was looking for my dog, and I
thought I heard something down here, and--"

"What?"

"I was following his tracks on the trails
back there behind the pasture, when they broke off and headed down
here toward your barn."

"Tracking a dog?" His eyes narrowed. "The
hell you were. You were running across the field like the devil was
fixin' to light up your ass."

"It's true, sir. I was looking for my
dog."

"Put your goddamn hands up."

I looked at his dog and slowly raised my
hands. The Rottweiler stepped sideways, and his growl, if anything,
grew louder.

"We're gonna go talk to the police." He
motioned to me with the shotgun. "Go on back round the trailer.
Don't do anything stupid, now. Ain't nothin' gonna stop me from
shootin' your ass. Understand?"

I nodded.

"Go on."

I stepped backward and tripped over something
hidden in the tall grass. I landed flat on my back. The dog lunged
forward, and I was sure I was dead. He bounced to a stop and
lowered his head. A growl rumbled deep within his chest, and I
watched, transfixed, as drool slid off the tip of a fang. It seemed
to fall in slow motion before it landed on my face. The warm saliva
trickled down my cheek into my hair.

"Get up."

I couldn't move. Every muscle in my body had
seized, and I wasn't sure I was breathing.

"Get up, damn it," he yelled, and I wondered
which would hurt more, being ripped apart or shot to death.

Finally, he must have realized I wasn't going
anywhere with his dog breathing down my throat. He called to it and
damn if the thing didn't listen. It trotted off, circled around
behind its master, and stopped beside his leg. I slowly got to my
feet and stood there feeling lightheaded.

"Get your damn hands up." I put them up. "Go
that way." He jerked his head. "Walk through that gate there, the
one over by the barn, and head on up to the house."

I turned and stepped through overgrown grass,
praying that he wouldn't trip and end up shooting me in the
back.

"Keep moving," he said.

When I got to the house, I stumbled up the
back steps and stood where he told me, facing the wall. Out of the
corner of my eye, I saw that he was careful to keep the shotgun
leveled my way as he pulled open the screen door. He fumbled with
the doorknob, then pushed the storm door open and told me to go
inside. I turned to face him. He was standing awkwardly, his leg
braced against the screen door that was hanging out of plumb with
the frame. I hesitated and wondered if I'd be walking out under my
own power.

"Go on in, damn it. I don't got all
night."

I took two steps. He pointed the gun to the
side to give me room to walk through the doorway, and I thought it
might be my only chance. I could jump him. Then I looked at his
dog. I wouldn't get two inches.

I walked into the kitchen.

He slammed the door so hard, the window panes
rattled behind their thin, ratty curtains. The farmer kept his gaze
on me as he strode across the room, dragged a chair away from the
kitchen table, and told me to sit. I sat. The dog must have felt I
was a welcomed guest then, because he nonchalantly walked into a
half-collapsed cardboard box, circled twice, then lay down on a
dirty, rumpled quilt. He lowered his head onto his front paws and
sighed.

The farmer snatched the phone off the wall.
"Keep your hands where I can see 'em," he said as he punched in a
number. A long one. He hadn't dialed 911.

He leaned his butt against the kitchen
counter and tucked the shotgun under his arm. His grip looked
relaxed. The muzzle was pointed toward the floor, but there was no
way I could cross the space between us before he brought the gun to
bear.

"Wes? This is Randy." His gaze was steady on
my face, listening, impatient.

The muscles in my belly constricted, and a
rising wave of panic flooded my veins. I had made a big mistake. He
wasn't calling the cops. I should have made a break for it when I
was outside. Shouldn't have walked into this house.

"All right, fine. Listen, I caught this kid
here, trespassin'. Snoopin' round the trailer out back. . . . He's
sittin' right here, at the kitchen table. . . . I don't know. Could
be. Can't tell for sure. . . . All right, and come to the back
door." He hung up the phone and raised the shotgun in one fluid
movement, then he stepped past the sink and flicked on the porch
light.

I swallowed. "I thought you said you were
calling the police."

"I did. So . . . you wanna tell me what you
were doin'?"

When I didn't answer, he shrugged, pulled off
his cap, and tossed it on the counter. His red hair was full of
static. As he flattened his hair with the palm of his hand, I felt
like I'd been kicked in the gut. In the glow from the pickup's
taillights that night, I easily could have mistaken red hair for
blond. He was the right build, too.

And that barn. It would be perfect for
keeping horses out of sight until they were ready to be shipped to
Canada. If he and his buddy on the phone were the horse thieves, I
wondered what they were going to do with me and thought I already
knew.

A clammy wave of nausea swept over me. It was
hot in the kitchen, and I was sweating under my jacket. I rubbed a
hand across my forehead, and that simple movement got the dog's
attention. His head popped up, and he eyed me suspiciously.

Swallowing, I looked at the door. Light from
the porch filtered through old towels that were tacked to the wood
frame. I wouldn't be able to see who was at the door until he
actually walked into the room, and by then it would be too
late.

I cautiously turned my head to the right.
There were two doorways. One opened into a dining room, dark and
lifeless, giving an impression of disuse. From the other, a narrow
hallway led toward the front of the house where a faint light
shone. With each passing minute, the silence in the old house
deepened--no television, no radio, no voices, not even a ticking
clock.

The farmer--what was his name? Randy?--seemed
content with guard duty. He had shed his jacket and was leaning
against the counter, the shotgun wedged in the crook of his elbow.
I looked at the dog. His head once again rested on his paws, eyes
closed, but I doubted he was sleeping.

Someone rapped on the kitchen door, and all
three of us jumped. The dog hit the linoleum at a dead run. He paws
slid out from beneath him as he scrambled toward the door. Randy
yelled, "Come in," and every muscle in my body tensed. I could hear
my pulse pounding in my ears, even above the dog's frantic barking,
and I decided to try and get away. Run through the house, out the
front door, and away . . . if I could.

The door was creaking in on its hinges when I
jumped to my feet. By the time the chair I'd been sitting in
clattered to the floor, I was around the table.

"Hey," Randy yelled, but I was halfway down
the hall, praying he wouldn't let loose with his gun inside the
house.

Behind me, another voice yelled, "Stop," but
I kept running. Where the hallway emptied into the living room, I
almost ran into the back of a sofa. I vaulted it and landed on a
coffee table. Piles of magazines and a coffee mug scattered across
the polished wood, and the whole thing tipped over. Somehow, I
landed on my feet. I sprinted for the front door.

Without warning, something jerked my leg
backward, and I crashed face first onto the floor. The impact
knocked the breath out of my lungs. I gasped, trying to inhale and
feeling like I couldn't, when a knee jammed into the small of my
back. A strong hand gripped my neck and pressed my face into the
carpet. He was yelling at me, screaming, but I barely heard him.
Grunting with exertion, he tried to get hold of my right arm with
his free hand.

I reached behind my neck, grabbed his wrist,
and yanked as hard as I could. It broke his grip, and he
overbalanced. He toppled forward. I twisted and jammed my elbow
into him and tried to roll him off. He was too quick. He pinned my
shoulders to the floor, and the farmer walked over and ground his
boot into the back of my neck like he was squashing a bug. I lay
there for a second, panting, unable to move, and realized that
something was wrong with my leg.

The dog. It was the damn dog.

The guy on top of me shifted his weight and
latched his fingers around my wrist. He yanked on my arm and tried
to get my hand behind my back, but he was going to have to work for
it.

"Come on, kid," he grunted. "Give it up." He
pulled harder, but it didn't do him any good. "Randy, put your
weight into it."

"I am." Randy increased the pressure on my
neck.

"Relax, kid," the guy on my back panted.
"You're just making it harder on yourself." He changed his grip,
jackknifed my arm around, and pinned my wrist between my shoulder
blades.

He shifted, and I realized he was groping for
something. A gun, a knife?

Fueled with desperation, I wrenched my arm
free, grabbed Randy's ankle, and twisted at the same time. It threw
him off balance. His boot scraped across my neck, and he landed
heavily on the carpet. I rolled and twisted, trying to get to my
feet, when I caught sight of the guy behind me and froze. He was
squatting, bringing his arm down in a wide arc, and in his hand, he
held a shiny black stick. It cracked into my arm, just below the
shoulder. The blow shuddered through my body, and my arm went
numb.

He pushed me back onto my stomach and clamped
something on my wrist. The ratchetting sound was unmistakable, and
I had probably just gotten myself into a whole lot of trouble. He
pulled my left arm into position, slapped on the other cuff, and
pushed to his feet. I twisted around.

They stared down at me, both of them out of
breath, and sure enough, the glimpse I'd caught of a uniform hadn't
been a mistake. He was a cop. A sheriff's deputy, at least from the
waist up. From the looks of it, he had thrown on his jacket and gun
belt in a hurry. Otherwise, he was wearing jeans and sneakers. I
closed my eyes and groaned.

"Randy, call off your dog."

Randy motioned to his dog, and I looked
toward my feet. The dog had his huge jaws clamped around my right
ankle. His legs were braced, and he was pulling against me, his
nails digging into the carpet. He turned his head to the side,
struggled to open his mouth wider, and let go of my leg. He shook
his head as if disgusted, then walked behind Randy and sat
dutifully beside his master. I flexed my ankle. It burned, but I
was pretty sure I had escaped any damage. His teeth had sunk into
my boot, not my skin.