watch them.
It was going to be more difficult than he’d thought. There were at least two or three hundred yards of empty land between the highway and the house, and most of it was covered with snow. He couldn’t drive it and he couldn’t afford to leave footprints. And it was cold out there: the ground would be frozen solid. But there had to be a way. He’d come too far to give up.
He drove past the farm and thought about the problem. There was only one way to do it, and he knew he had to accept that. But it wasn’t going to be pleasant. He turned the car around and drove back into Saratoga Springs. It took him a half hour to find a store that was open. It was a supermarket that seemed at this hour to deal mainly in beer, but he found what he needed—a pair of gloves, a knitted watch cap, a package of heavy plastic trash bags, and a roll of thick adhesive tape.
He parked the car a mile down the road from the farm in a closed gas station and made his preparations. He sawed the handle of the shovel off to the length of a foot and a half, then went around to the trunk. He shook out four of his plastic trash bags and placed them one inside of the other for extra strength, then opened the cooler. “Come on, Edgar,” he said, “last stop.” The walk was cold, but he knew it had to be done this way. Whoever Bala had to take care of his horses would be alarmed by a strange car parked close to the farm, and a car would be of no use to him now anyway.
When he reached the farm he walked along the white fence until he came to a point where another rail fence intersected it, dividing the two pastures. He was glad he’d bought the hat and gloves. He had to take off the gloves to fish out the adhesive tape. He put the shovel and gun inside one plastic bag, and taped the two bags together to form a sling, which he threw over his shoulder.
He climbed up on the fence, his feet on the bottom rail and his hands clinging to the top rail. He began to sidestep along the fence between the two pastures, moving in the direction of the farm buildings. He inched along, slowly at first, but before long he found he could make good progress by keeping as much weight as possible on his feet. The pastures were empty, but now he could see horse tracks in the snow. They must let them out sometimes during the day, he thought. He wondered how the horses felt about it.
It took him over ten minutes to reach the place where the fence intersected with the section that ran along Balacontano’s private road. He stopped to rest and read his watch in the moonlight. It was already after midnight, and there was no telling how long this was going to take. If only it weren’t so cold. As he approached the house, he realized something was wrong. From the pasture side it looked as though every light were on. Cautiously, he sidestepped closer along the rail. Balacontano’s caretaker wouldn’t have all those lights on, and grooms and stableboys wouldn’t be inside the main house. In spite of the cold he began to sweat. He leaned over the fence and stared at the snow on the driveway. It was crossed with what looked like a dozen treadmark patterns. There were the thick jagged impressions of truck tires, at least two different patterns of studded snow tires, and a few ruts made by the smoother treads of road tires. Shit, he thought, he’s here right now, and he’s got some of his people with him. Of course he’d be here. Nobody can get within three hundred yards of the house without being seen. He looked at the house again and thought, there might be twenty or thirty of them sitting around in there to protect him. In New York City he’d have to make do with two or three.
He bent his knees and hung down behind the fence to keep from showing a silhouette. The area around the house was impossible. It had to be another way. He inched along the fence, with his body away from the house. It would have to be the stables. It was another ten minutes before he made it to the fence beside the long, low stable building. He studied the ground inside the exercise yard. There were only a few patches of snow, and the rest looked like mud. He cautiously tested the earth with one foot and smiled. It was mud all right but it was frozen solid into an uneven mold of hoofprints and footprints, ruts where wheelbarrows had passed, and tire tracks from what must have been a tractor. He set both feet on the ground and stood erect.
He walked along the fence across the yard to the stable. He could smell the strong acidic scent of the animals; he could feel their presence. He walked around the building and the scent grew stronger, almost overpowering in the cold, still, night air. He heard a horse’s hoof clop on a wooden surface somewhere inside, and then a low neigh. They can smell me too, he thought. It’s because I don’t smell like horseshit.
He stood still for a moment to let the animals quiet down. As he waited he looked around. A few feet away was a mound of earth about ten feet high. No, he realized suddenly. That’s not dirt. It’s horseshit. That’s why the smell is so strong on this side of the stable. It’s a compost heap.
He moved away from the building to the other side of the mound. As he came near he sensed a very slight steam coming from the mound. He took off his glove and held his hand six inches above the mound. It was actually warm. Keeping low, he took out the shovel and began to dig. The manure wasn’t frozen, nor was the ground under it. He dug down about two feet before he hit the frost. He thought, sorry, Edgar. This is it. He put the pistol inside the other plastic bag, tossed in Orloff’s checkbook, and buried the bundle. He took the shovel and headed back the way he’d come.
When he reached the corner of the stable, he heard a horse neigh again, and then something else. He stood perfectly still. It was footsteps. A man. Suddenly, above his head, a light came on. The whole yard was bathed in brightness. He moved back into the shadow of the stable and waited. If only he’d brought a second pistol, he thought. I’m here, half a mile from the road, with a shovel, and the bastards are awake.
Suddenly he heard other footsteps behind him, coming along the back of the stable. He opened a door, stepped into the stable, and found himself standing next to a horse. The animal seemed gigantic. The horse turned its long, wise face to stare at him, its eyes rolling to fix him in its gaze. Outside, footsteps scraped on the frozen ground. They passed and he could hear voices. One of them said, “I don’t give a shit what he thinks. If Toscanzio sends somebody it won’t be through the stable. If he’s so worried he should come out here and slide around on the horseshit himself.”
“Relax,” said the other one. “We’ll just make the rounds and go back inside.”
Guards, he thought. Balacontano has them doing regular patrols. The horse seemed to be getting nervous. It blew out a sputtering sigh and edged away from him in the stall. Just a few more minutes and I won’t trouble you, he thought. Just a few more minutes and I’ll be out of here, you big dumb son of a bitch. He thought, you’re supposed to talk to them to calm them down. I can’t risk it. He decided that patting the horse would help. It seemed so huge, looming beside him in the dark. He reached out and patted the horse’s flank gently. He felt the skin quiver beneath his hand, then settle, but it was too late. The horse in the next stall seemed to sense his fear or the nervousness of the horse beside him. It whinnied and kicked the wall behind it. The noise was like a shot in the still night air.
He heard one of the voices say, “What the hell was that?”
The other said, “We’d better look in the stalls. Something’s bothering them.”
He had no time to think. He opened the stable door and watched the horse turn and make its decision to go outside. As it passed him he leaped astride it and it trotted out into the yard. He was high in the air now, bouncing on the animal’s back. Behind him he heard one of the men shout, “Look.” He didn’t know what to do, but he had to do something. He leaned forward. With his left hand he grabbed the horse’s mane, and with his right he smacked the horse’s flank with the flat of the shovel. “Go,” he hissed. Before he was prepared for the response, he felt the animal’s massive muscles tense as it leaped forward, almost unseating him. He clung to its mane with a grip that wrenched the muscles in his hand, and his legs hugged the horse’s sides.
The men had left the gate open and the horse headed for it. He hung on with all his strength as it galloped through the opening and out across the pasture. Behind him he heard a shot, and the horse, terrified at the sound, dashed forward still faster, out into the darkness. He didn’t dare look back for fear he’d fall off. At the far side of the pasture he saw the fence looming before him, a white barrier getting closer and closer. He said to the horse, “Calm down, you bastard. Stop.” But the horse seemed to pick up speed as it neared the fence.
He thought, if I jump off I’ll be hurt and they’ll find me. He thought of hitting the horse over the head with the shovel, but there was no way to know what the horse would do, so he just hung on. And then suddenly he was airborne, and the fence floated past beneath him. He braced for the shock, but the horse landed easily and kept going, out across the second pasture at full speed.
When he saw the second fence he thought, I’m in for it again. But this time the horse ran up to the fence, slowed down, and trotted along it toward the far corner of the pasture. It doesn’t like the road, he thought. It just wants to be away from the lights and noise. When it reached the corner the horse stopped. He jumped off and climbed the fence. His legs were sore, and for some reason his rib cage hurt almost as much, but he managed to bring himself to a run.
