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
