At Risk (32 page)

"Might as well," he said. "Too late to get
any sleep now."

He was right, of course. "Should have gone to
a hotel, huh?"

"Damn right . . . but I'm glad I didn't."

"Why, for Christ's sake?"

"If we weren't talking, if I hadn't thought
I'd seen someone on the deck, you might have been asleep when the
fire broke out . . . or when they came through the door."

I didn't say anything.

I scrambled some eggs while Michael toasted
half a loaf of bread.

When he'd downed his third slice, he said,
"You trust your landlord?"

"What?"

"You said he knows some of the players. Maybe
he's involved. Maybe he--"

"No way. You don't know what you're talking
about. Plus, it's only natural that he'd know a lot of people in
the industry."

Michael shrugged.

"He even offered me a place to stay."

"Sure. Forget it. Like you said, I don't know
him. You going to tell Rachel what happened?"

"I don't think so."

"You should. She's a nice girl, and she cares
for you, but she doesn't like it when you keep things from her.
Especially your feelings. She senses that you're holding out on her
as far as your concerns go about what's happening at the farm,
so--"

"How come you know so much?"

"We talked. Anyway," Michael continued, "I
fixed it for you."

I lowered the glass of orange juice from my
lips. "What, exactly, did you fix?"

"Let's see." He propped his elbows on the
counter and yawned. "I told her that you're naturally reticent.
That you avoid anything that even slightly resembles pity, that you
have a major fear of failure despite the fact that you can't resist
taking risks. You have an overwhelming desire to prove yourself.
Oh, and you're embarrassed by strong emotions." He looked over the
rim of his coffee mug. "And, your mouth's open."

I shut it. "Where the hell'd you come up with
that load of crap?"

"Observing you. I took psych before I left
school. Ultimately, I found that I prefer horses to most people.
They're much nicer to work with."

"Good thing you gave it up. You're lousy at
it."

"Not true." He wiped the corners of his mouth
with his fingertips. "Keep that girl, Steve. And let her in
more."

"Yes, sir."

I jammed my last bite of toast in my mouth
and dumped the dishes in the sink. "Let's hit the road."

Michael frowned at his half-full cup of
coffee. "Why the rush?"

"I want to check the farm, make sure your
horses are okay."

He jumped up, and I saw that my alarm was
infectious. "I now see why you've pursued an offensive."

* * *

At Foxdale, everything was secure. I fixed
myself a cup of coffee and watched Michael run a quick brush over
the horse's coat before sliding the saddle into place, seeing
firsthand that the perfection evident in his horses' grooming had
nothing to do with his efforts but with his groom's. When he led
the chestnut down to the outdoor arena, I slumped onto a bench. My
eyelids felt like sandpaper, and my head ached.

I closed my eyes and thought of all that had
happened since that frigid morning in February. The three men and
the fear they had wielded like a weapon. The horses on a fast trip
to death. Sanders and his questionable remorse over a horse he'd
thought of as an object and had been careful to insure. Harrison's
driver and his drunken anger. Blood dripping from my nose. The
bulldozers' throaty rumble as they cut into the brown earth and the
realization that Foxdale would never be the same. Boris hanging
from the rafters, his life blood draining from a slash in his
throat.

I remembered the deafening sound of the cold
rain hammering on the barn roof as I stared at the pile of charred
wood that had once been an artful jump. The words "Your dead
motherfucker" painted in red on ribbed metal siding and later,
"Cats have nine lives. You don't" scrawled over my name. Tax
write-offs and staring at newspaper clippings until my vision
blurred.

I thought about James S. Peters in the cold
hard ground and Mrs. Peters losing herself to senility, the mind's
reflex to unbearable pain. Whitcombe's irritability building to the
point of instability. Brian's probation hanging over his head like
a scythe. Elsa and Rachel, lust and love. Flip sides of the need
for intimacy.

I thought about the trailer search and how it
had been thwarted by the Pennsylvania registration. And Randor L.
Drake who appeared innocent but couldn't be. And where was he? Had
he crouched over a pile of feed bags in Greg's barn and struck his
match, or was he stalking rainbow trout in West Virginia?

Had he been in Pennsylvania last week? In a
barn set back off the road?

I was thinking that I should call Ralston for
an update when Rachel walked down the lane. She had arrived early,
presumably to watch Michael ride his Olympic-caliber horse. I stood
as she approached.

She flattened her hand on my chest. "Hey
there, cutie."

I enveloped her in my arms and gave her a
kiss that she encouraged and allowed to linger. All the
possibilities were there.

Her hair was still damp from her shower and
smelled of apples. I slid my hands over the swell of her buttocks.
When I pulled her tight against me, I felt her grin and realized
she had noticed the intense, physical reaction her closeness had
generated.

Behind us, Michael and his wonder horse
executed a ten meter circle at the trot, just the other side of the
fence. After their third revolution, I looked up as they came close
to the fence on yet another pass. Michael grinned and cued his
horse into a canter.

On their next circuit, I mouthed, "Go get
some of your own."

Apparently, he wasn't finished.

"He needed that," he yelled to Rachel, and
then to me, "Tell her about last night."

Rachel tilted her head back and peered up at
me. "What?"

"Umm." I kissed her face somewhere in the
vicinity of her left eyebrow. "Someone started a fire in Greg's
feed room."

"Oh, no." She leaned back so she could see my
face better.

"Luckily there wasn't much damage," I said.
"Michael and I were able to put it out quickly."

"Were any of the horses in the barn?"

"No, it was empty," I said.

"Not entirely."

"What do you mean?"

"You were in the barn. A little later, and
you might have been asleep." She shivered. "And I see you've
already thought of that."

"Uh-huh."

"Oh, Steve."

She tightened her arms around my waist. I
felt comforted by her embrace and, best of all, wanted.

Maybe the fire had been a random act, some
pyromaniac doing his thing. But they typically chose empty
structures to torch.

They didn't check to make sure you were home
first.

* * *

During my lunch break, I called Detective
Ralston and was told he was still in Pennsylvania. I drove into
town and purchased a heavy-duty dead bolt for the kitchen door. The
second item took more effort to locate, but with the help of a
knowledgeable salesclerk at an electronics store, I found a
smoke/heat detector with a remote alarm. I installed the lock, but
left the rest for later.

What I really needed was a gun. But I hated
them. Always had. My father had one, and I still remembered the
afternoon when I'd discovered it in his dresser, hidden beneath a
stack of undershirts. I couldn't have been much older than seven. I
had been surprised by its weight and the coldness of the black
steel against my palm. It made me cold just thinking about it.

I made it back to work a little after two.
Michael was slouched in a lawn chair with his cowboy hat pulled low
on his forehead, and I wondered how he was holding up. I stopped in
the office on my way to the barns. Mrs. Hill was on the phone, so I
checked my bin. It was empty. The door behind me opened. Elsa
Timbrook had her manicured hand on the doorknob. Her blond hair was
gathered high on the back of her head and hung in curls down her
neck. She glanced at me as she stepped into the room.

My initial impulse was to hightail it out of
there, but I intercepted her instead. "Mrs. Timbrook?"

She ran the tip of her tongue across her
lips. "Elsa," she said.

"You never answered me the other night," I
said. "How do you know the guy I got into a fight with at the
party--Mr. Harrison's driver?" When she didn't respond, I checked
that Mrs. Hill was still on the phone, then said, "Please. It may
be important."

She shifted a bulky canvas tote from one hand
to the other and studied me with her smoky green eyes.

I waited.

She smoothed a finger down the side of her
nose.

After a pause, in which I was certain she
wasn't going to tell me, she said, "Robby's my brother."

"Your brother?"

Elsa nodded and clasped the tote's straps
with both hands. The canvas rested against her bare thighs. Tightly
rolled bandages for doing up her horse's legs stuck out from the
depths of the bag. T&T Industries was embroidered diagonally
across the tote. "Johnny, too."

I frowned. "You mean John Harrison?"

She nodded.

"You said Robby was dangerous. In what
way?"

"They both are. But Robby . . . He's smart
and he's sneaky, and he always gets what he wants." She brushed a
strand of hair off her forehead. "And it doesn't matter who or what
gets in his way."

I'd heard of one other Harrison. A name from
the past. James Peters' past. "What's your father's name?"

She frowned. "John, Sr. Why?"

"Does he go by a nickname?" I said.

"Most people call him Buddy."

I gestured toward her tote. "What's T&T
stand for?" I'd seen the logo somewhere before but couldn't place
it.

Her hands clutched at the straps, and I had a
sudden impression she was holding her breath. She glanced at the
blue and gold letters. "I don't know. I got this from a
friend."

Elsa excused herself, and as I watched her
push through the door into the lounge, I remembered what Gene had
said about Sanders. That he'd boarded his horse with Harrison
before he'd moved it to Foxdale. Then, at the party, Sanders and
Robby had argued, and I would have loved to have known what it had
been about.

"I'm glad you're back," Mrs. Hill said before
the receiver had come fully to rest in the cradle. She leaned back,
and her chair's springs squeaked under the strain. "Mr. Ambrose has
hired a security service."

"You're kidding?"

She shook her head and smiled broadly.
"Someone will report in each night around ten and leave at six. Can
you meet him tonight and show him around?"

"Sure. Will he be armed?"

"No." She picked up a piece of hard candy and
rolled it between her fingers. "And think of any instructions you
want to give him."

I stepped outside, paused, then leaned back
into the office.

Mrs. Hill looked up from her paperwork.

"Thanks," I said.

She beamed at me, then waved me off.

I walked down to the barns and found that the
crew was in the middle of turnouts. I led a bay gelding into the
farthest paddock and turned him to face the gate. He stood
perfectly still, his noble head held high as he waited for me to
release him. When I slipped the chain from his halter, he wheeled
around. His hindquarters bunched, and he propelled himself away
from me, stretching full out, his hooves kicking up clods of earth.
I draped the lead over my shoulder and walked back up the hill.

As I neared the barns, the scent of
freshly-mown grass and damp soil was replaced by the sharp odor of
horses and the lighter fragrance of liniments that drifted from the
wash racks. It occurred to me, then, that I hadn't felt this
carefree in weeks. We now had a guard, and I assumed it was only a
matter of time before Ralston had someone in custody.

After the last horse had been turned out, I
drove to the construction site's wide dirt entrance. Dozers,
backhoes, loaders, and a scraper or two were parked in a line
beyond the trailer office. Sunday afternoon, the door was locked up
tight, the equipment idle. I left the truck running and crossed the
rough ground to the sign at the edge of the road. "Huntfield
Estates," it read. "Luxury homes on one to three acre lots." It
went on to list details, options, a 1-800 number, and in the lower
right hand corner, "T&T Industries" was printed in blue and
gold.

First Elsa's bag, now this. Yet, I was
certain I'd seen it before. But where?

After work, I made it to the library five
minutes before they locked the doors for the night. When I got
home, I picked up the phone and flipped through the pages of my
notebook until I found the number for James Peters' nephew. I
punched in his number.

When he answered, I told him who I was and
said, "Do you remember the name of the company that's developing
the land that used to belong to your uncle?"

"No. Not offhand. Some kind of initials. Oh,
wait a sec. There was something about the name, made me think of .
. . Oh, yeah. Something to do with explosives. Something like
that."

I exhaled through my mouth. "T&T
Industries?"

"Yeah." I could almost see him nod. "That's
it."

* * *

Despite having been up all of Saturday night,
I spent most of Sunday night lying awake in the dark. Around three
in the morning, I woke from a restless sleep and remembered where
I'd first seen T&T Industries.

When I called Detective Ralston at seven
o'clock Monday morning, I was told he was unavailable. I left a
message for him to call me ASAP and got through the morning's work
on auto pilot. During my lunch break, the phone rang in the office,
and the answering machine picked up. I half-listened to a voice I
didn't recognize. It took me a second to realize the message was
for me and that the voice belonged to Ralston. I swallowed the last
bite of my ham and cheese sandwich and snatched up the phone.