At Risk by Kit Ehrman Page A

the room's layout and how his
body had been strategically placed for maximum effect. I hadn't
seen him until I was right on top of him. Someone had a very sick,
twisted mind. Tack theft was all too prevalent, but this was cruel,
wicked. Designed to terrify. Judging by my physical state, it had
been, on the whole, entirely successful.
    I headed for the office. The buildings were
bathed in an early-morning wash of gray, and a ground-hugging mist
had settled in the swales that cut through the pastures. The farm
looked like a latent photograph come to life. As I walked down the
sidewalk, it occurred to me that the office and lounge weren't
immune to vandalism, either. I quickened my pace.
    I peered through the glass as I unlocked the
office door and saw that everything was secure. In the quiet room,
my footsteps echoed hollowly on the cheap linoleum. I snatched up
the phone and punched in the familiar number.
    Mrs. Hill answered in three rings, fast for
her. I glanced at the clock. Five-forty-three.
    "Yes?" An element of dread in her voice.
    "Mrs. Hill, this is Steve. . . ." When she
didn't respond, I said, "There's been more trouble at the
farm--"
    "Oh, no."
    I told her about the saddles and Boris and
the blood.
    She didn't say anything . . . not a word.
    "Mrs. Hill?"
    "I can't believe this. Are you okay?"
    "Yes, ma'am."
    "Are any of the horses missing?" Her voice
was tight.
    "No, ma'am."
    "Well, there's that at least. I'll be in as
soon as I can. It'll be a while, though. I have to wait until the
bus comes for the kids."
    She told me to notify the police, and I could
hear her yelling to her husband as she hung up the phone. I slumped
into her chair and rubbed my face. It was too much. Too damned
much. I sat up, tapped my fingers on the blotter, and looked at the
phone. Made another call.
    The voice at the other end said, "C.I.U.,
Ralston."
    "This is Stephen Cline from Foxdale Farm. You
interviewed me last week, about--"
    "What's up?"
    "Last night, someone broke into the tack
rooms on the farm. Most of the saddles are gone, and I think it
might be the same people who took the horses."
    He cleared his throat. "What makes you think
that?"
    "Well, whoever was here last night couldn't
keep it simple. They killed a barn cat and smeared its blood
around. Then they hung the body from the rafters." Christ, I had
walked into the damn thing.
    "How?"
    "How what?"
    "How was the cat killed?"
    "Oh. They slit its throat."
    After a pause, he said, "Did you see anyone
when you arrived?"
    "No, sir."
    "You're sure no one's there now that
shouldn't be?"
    I glanced reflexively at the door. "Yes."
    "Okay. I'll give Howard County a call." He
paused, and I could hear papers rustle in the background. "And I
think I'll drive over there myself. Do me a favor, Steve. Keep
everyone clear of the barns. Don't let anyone drive all the way
down there, okay?"
    "Sure."
    He disconnected, and I thought about the
exhaustion I'd heard in his voice and didn't envy him his job.
    I grained the horses early--they didn't
object--then lugged hay bales out of the storage area at the end of
the barn and spaced them down the center of the aisle. I slid my
hand into my pocket and wrapped my fingers around the knife that
was successfully wearing a hole through my jeans. The smooth
plastic sheath was warm from my own body heat. It wasn't until I
pulled the blade out that I thought how someone, just hours before,
had used a knife to slit the cat's throat.
    * * *
    Shortly before seven, a police car pulled
down the lane and jerked to a halt between the barns. As the
officer climbed out and grabbed a clipboard off the dash, a
dirt-streaked white Taurus parked alongside the grain bin. I
answered questions that had become increasingly familiar in the
past two weeks, while the driver of the Taurus popped the trunk and
levered himself out of his car. He wasn't in uniform, and judging
by the equipment he'd hefted onto the asphalt, I guessed he was a
technician of some sort. When he joined