At Risk (21 page)

She looked at me as if she'd never seen me
before, and I wondered if I'd forgotten to pull up my zipper or
something. I glanced down. Nope. I hoped I didn't look as if I'd
just been rolling around on the floor and suddenly felt
transparent.

"What are you still doing here?" Karen asked.
"I thought you'd left a long time ago."

"No, eh . . . just doing a few things."

She crossed her hands over he chest, and her
eyebrows bunched together the way they do when she's pissed off
about something, which is just about all the time. I felt my face
getting hot.

"Would you check everything then . . . since
you're still here?"

"Sure." It came out a whisper.

She gave me a sideways glance, then
departed.

* * *

By late-afternoon Wednesday, Dave had put his
wizardry into effect. A formidable gate stretched across the lane
to the main road, and I had spent the better part of two days in
the implement building, cleaning paint off every conceivable
surface (no one's idea of fun) while my thoughts swayed between
Elsa and Rachel, between ecstasy and guilt. As Marty liked to put
it, I'd given control to someone else and gone along for the ride.
I didn't particularly like it, but hell, I hadn't minded the ride,
had I? No. I'd jumped right on.

Earlier that afternoon, I had avoided Rachel
by graining the horses when she was riding, because I had this
uncomfortable feeling that she would know what I had done just by
looking at me. Now, I was finally finished with the cleanup. I
gathered together the filthy rags, brushes, and cans and tossed
everything into the trash. Dave wouldn't approve, but I couldn't
care less. I gave the work area one last cursory glance and walked
outside into sunlight and air not laden with fumes. I headed to the
men's room, bent over the sink, and turned on the tap.

I was waiting for the water to get hot when
someone opened the door.

"Finished with the paint removal yet?"

I glanced over my shoulder as Marty strolled
into the room. "Yeah," I said. "Finally."

"What did the inspector say?"

"That horse barns were almost always a total
loss if a fire breaks out." I soaped my hands and looked at Marty's
reflection in the mirror. "Shit. There's so many horses in one
barn, just the thought of it makes me sick."

"Jesus." Marty leaned against the wall and
crossed his arms over his chest. "Did he have any suggestions?"

"Not really. We've done everything we can
short of installing an overhead sprinkler system, and--"

"That'll be the day."

"Got that right. No way in hell will Ambrose
shell out that kind of money. He said no to hiring a night
watchman, too."

"I heard."

"Mrs. Hill did talk the local cops into
driving by after-hours to give the farm a once over. Who knows how
long that'll last."

"Or how open their eyes'll be."

I rinsed my hands and splashed water on my
face. "Well, I'm finally caught up." I yanked some paper towels out
of the dispenser and started to dry my face.

"Er . . . maybe not."

I paused. "What do you mean, maybe not?"

"Whitcombe's added two more horses to your
list."

"Shit."

"And he's in a foul mood. Motherfucker needs
to get laid."

I wadded the towels into a ball and hooked
them into the trash bin that stood in the corner of the room.
"Damn. Would you do one for me?"

"Sure."

"Thanks."

"Speakin' of needin' a good lay," Marty said.
"You've been awfully tense lately."

I made a noncommittal noise in my throat and
turned for the door, not trusting my expression. "See ya," I said
over my shoulder.

I was heading for the lounge to get a Coke
when Whitcombe called after me. He had already jumped off the horse
he'd been riding and was leading it across the ring. I glanced at
my watch. He'd quit early.

I wound my way through a bunch of kids who
were waiting for the three-thirty lesson to begin and stood by the
arena gate. The horse's sides were heaving, and despite the chilly
air, he was damp with sweat.

"Got lead up your ass, Cline?" Whitcombe
said. "I don't have all day."

I glanced over my shoulder. Everyone was
watching and no wonder. The man was hard to ignore. But, it was his
grave he was digging if Mrs. Hill caught him talking like that. I
reached out to take the horse's reins. Whitcombe didn't let them
go, so I dropped my hand to my side.

"You don't know jack shit about horses do
you?" he said. "I asked for a figure-eight noseband, and I get a
flash attachment."

"Your figure-eight was--"

"And I wanted a Dr. Bristol, and you can't
figure that out, either."

I clenched my fists. I hadn't messed up, and
he knew it.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Cline.
You have no business working here. You're an incompetent, ignorant,
lazy"--and then he lowered his voice so only I could hear--"son of
a bitch who wouldn't be able to find your own fucking asshole
without a map." He continued again with increasing decibels. "That
you're barn manager blows me away. You're too damn stupid."

What a goddamned jerk.

He was down to a whisper again. "What'd you
have to do, screw Mrs. Hill to get the job?"

I felt my face getting hot. I snatched the
reins out of his hands. "What's wrong, Lawrence?" I whispered.
"Can't find any boys to fuck?"

He narrowed his eyes and clamped his mouth
shut. A film of sweat glistened on his skin, and he glared at me
with such hatred, I felt as if a cold ball of ice had settled in my
gut.

I turned away from him and led the horse back
to the barn.

Damn it. I'd crossed that line, and worse, I
had let him push me over it. I should have known better. Should
have kept my damn mouth shut.

After Razz had cooled down, I tied him in his
stall and began the tedious job of brushing the sweat out of his
coat. I was working on the matted hair along his stifle when I
heard someone stop in the aisle outside Razz's stall. I looked over
the horse's rump.

Marty took note of my expression and grinned.
"Expecting somebody, Steve?"

"You could say that."

He came into the stall. "I hear Whitcombe's
at it again."

"Got that right. And shit, Marty. I let the
asshole get to me."

"Damn . . . you're human after all. What'd
you do?"

"It's not what I did, it's what I said."

"Well?"

"I called him a fag, more or less."

Marty snorted. "When you lose it, you do it
with style. Anyway, thought I'd better warn ya. He's in the office,
whinin' to Mrs. Hill."

I swiped the brush down the horse's rump.
"He's prob--"

Mrs. Hill's voice came over the PA system
loud and clear, calling me to the office. Marty chuckled.

"Here, Marty." I tossed the brush at him.
"You think it's so funny, you finish Razz."

"Give 'em hell, Steve."

"Damn it, Marty. Don't look so happy."

"I'm not. It's just that you're so damned
serious."

I walked into the office. Mrs. Hill was
sitting behind her desk, and what surprised me was that she didn't
look angry. I glanced at the door to the lounge. It was locked.

Whitcombe had claimed the one and only
comfortable chair in the room. He crossed his legs and brushed the
horsehair off his britches. His own hair was freshly combed, and I
could have sworn he'd changed his shirt.

I crossed the room and stood facing him with
my back to a row of filing cabinets. Leaning against the cool
metal, I hooked my thumbs in my pockets and crossed my ankles.

"Stephen," Mrs. Hill said. "I want you to
apologize to Larry for what you said."

I looked at her and tried to keep anything
from showing in my face. She was watching me with calm eyes,
certain that I would do as she asked.

I turned back to Whitcombe. His blue eyes
glimmered, and the corners of his mouth twitched. He was enjoying
himself. Gloating. I felt like wringing his scrawny neck. But if
and when I left the job, I wouldn't let Whitcombe have the
satisfaction of thinking he'd had a hand it in.

I unclenched my jaw and took a deep breath.
"I'm sorry I lost my temper," I mumbled. It wasn't exactly what
Mrs. Hill had in mind, but it was all she was going to get.

A small smile crept across his fat-lipped
mouth. "That's more like it, Cline. Remember who's--"

"And, Larry," Mrs. Hill interrupted. "I want
you to apologize to Stephen for the way you've been treating
him."

"But--"

"In the past month, more than one person's
complained to me about your actions. Stephen's the best barn
manager we've ever had, and you don't give him the respect he
deserves."

Whitcombe's, or should I say "Larry's," face
deflated like a punctured balloon. His smug, self-satisfied smile
dissolved and his eyes widened with astonishment. His mouth hung
open, and when I realized I was mirroring him, I snapped my mouth
shut.

Whitcombe jumped to his feet. "Mrs. Hill, I
beg to differ. I owe Cline nothing. He's insubordinate and insolent
and disrespectful, and I will do nothing of the sort."

He started for the door, spun back around,
and whisked his coat off the back of the chair. He raised a finger
and pointed in my direction. "They make fun of me."

His eyes were moist, and I wondered if he was
going to cry. He turned around abruptly and slammed the door on his
way out.

I stared after him. As much as I disliked the
guy, I'd never intended for him to overhear the things Marty and I
said.

"Stephen," Mrs. Hill said.

I pulled my gaze away from the empty
doorway.

"In the future, please keep your opinions of
Larry to yourself."

"Yes, ma'am."

"You may go."

"Thank you." I walked outside, half expecting
to find Whitcombe waiting for me. But he was nowhere in sight.

I didn't see Whitcombe for the rest of the
day, and when I opened the door to the loft, the phone was ringing.
I dumped my notebook and mail on the counter and snatched up the
receiver.

"Aren't you ever home?" Kenneth Newlin said
before I'd gotten two words out.

He'd gone by Kenneth ever since I'd known
him. No one in his right mind would have called him Kenny. Kenneth
was, pure and simple, a geek. Until we'd met during fifth period
Physics class in tenth grade, I'd never thought anyone actually
wore a pocket protector. The only thing he lacked was tape on his
glasses, and for all I knew, he could have lowered himself to that
by now.

"No," I said. "Not much."

Kenneth grunted. "Well, you were right about
the tax write-off. Farpoint Industries has been listing Foxdale as
a liability ever since they broke ground on the place, but they
won't be able to this year. Foxdale's now in the black by a narrow
margin. But I don't see how losing the write-off 's gonna make any
difference whatsoever in FI's end-of-year balance sheet."

"Why's that."

"The company's making money hand over foot.
Losing the write-off 's penny-ante stuff to them."

"What about money laundering?" I said.

"Well, I'm no accountant, but based on the
files I accessed, I didn't see any indication of that."

"How'd you get into them?"

"The files?" Kenneth said.

"Yeah."

"You don't want to know. Oh, and even though
they've lost the write-off, FI's still getting a hefty tax break
because of the Green Space Act."

"The what?"

"Some bleeding heart liberals in the Senate
and EPA are promoting it. In certain parts of the country--and your
Foxdale just so happens to be smack in the middle of one of their
grids--the government's granting landowners a hefty tax break for
every acre they leave undeveloped in a futile effort to slow urban
sprawl. At five-hundred-and-seven acres, FI's doing itself some
good just by owning the land."

"So you don't see any way Ambrose would
benefit from Foxdale losing money?"

"Nope. If someone wants the place to go belly
up, it's not him."

"Okay. Thanks, Kenneth."

"No sweat."

"What're you up to these days?" I asked.

"I'm starting at NASA in May."

"Don't you have two more years before you
graduate?"

"Nah. I crammed the four into two. Hell, I
could have taught the classes I've been taking in my sleep, they're
so basic."

I chuckled.

Kenneth told me about the artificial
intelligence project he'd soon be cutting his teeth on, and by the
time we said goodbye, the dull ache behind my eyes that I'd been
nursing all evening had turned into a full-blown headache.

I knocked the cap off a bottle of beer and
swallowed some ibuprophen. After I'd opened a box of Cheez-Its, I
flipped through the pages in my notebook until I came to the
scribbled notes I'd made at the library, where I'd stayed until
closing time. I was fast becoming a pro at scanning microfiche, but
I'd come away empty-handed as far as news coverage on horse and
tack theft went. More depressing, however, were the lack of details
on James Peters' death.

I unfolded the photocopies, smoothed them out
on the counter, and read the blurred print for the third time.

STABLE OWNER MISSING ALONG WITH SEVEN
HORSES

Berrett: Police were called to Hunters Ridge
Farm on Martz Road shortly after seven a.m. Saturday morning, when
Gwendolyn Peters discovered that seven of the farm's horses were
missing from their stalls and presumed stolen. Police could not
locate her husband, James S. Peters, though it is unclear at this
time whether the events are related.

BODY FOUND IN PATUXENT RIVER STATE PARK

Damascus: The partially decomposed body of an
unidentified adult male was found in the Patuxent River State Park
just south of Long Corner Road early Friday morning. Two
fourteen-year-old boys from Dorsett, Maryland discovered the body
while hiking along a trail west of the Patuxent River. Police
determined that the body had been buried, but recent heavy rains
had washed away the loose soil. The cause of death was not
immediately known.