I got there. But if it had been rolling around in its stall because it was colicky with gas pain and had gotten itself jammed in the angle between the stall wall and the floor, it was an emergency. Even if the horse managed to get to its feet, colic didn't just go away by itself.
I pulled on my socks and yanked my jeans off the back of the sofa. Something thunked onto the floor between the sofa and wall. I checked that my wallet hadn't fallen out, then finished getting dressed. When I walked over to the bedroom door to tell Marty where I was going, he was snoring over the drone of the fan. I left him alone and headed for the front door.
It was pouring, and my truck was parked halfway down the block. I borrowed Marty's poncho off his coat tree and sped down rain-slicked streets with only a moderate try at caution. When I got to Foxdale, the gate was locked. It would be. I had locked it myself. I left it standing open and parked between the guard's car and office door. The clock on the dash read one-thirty. I hadn't been asleep long. No wonder my brain felt fuzzy.
Barn B's lights blazed in the night, and a shaft of fluorescent light streamed through the office door, laying a wide rectangular patch across the wet ground. I walked into the office, but the guard wasn't there. The lights in the lounge were off, the room still. I crossed over to the desk. A half-empty coffee cup sat on the blotter alongside a yellow legal pad. The guard had listed his rounds. The first one was at ten o'clock, and he'd noted my name alongside the time. The next round was at eleven. At 11:55, he'd printed my name and phone number-Marty's phone number, actually-from when I'd called to tell him how he could get in touch with me. The last entry read 12:25 a.m.
There was no mention of his call about the colic. I touched the side of the Styrofoam cup. It was room temperature.
I went back outside and ran down the lane to barn B, avoiding the largest puddles on the way. He wasn't in the aisle. I switched on all the lights and walked quickly down the aisle one. None of the horses looked upset. Some were even dozing. They wouldn't be. Not if one of their own was in trouble. They'd be wide awake and excited. I'd seen it often enough. I cut through the arena and checked aisle two just to make sure. No one there, either. I flicked on the lights on my way out and decided to call Ralston. I jogged toward the office.
I slowed to a walk at the sidewalk, and when I did, I noticed that the light was on in the men's room. That explained it.
I pushed open the door and stepped inside.
'Anybody here?' My voice echoed off the bare walls as a thought nagged at the edge of my consciousness. Something that wasn't right. Something the guard had said, but I couldn't think what.
As I turned to leave, the curtain to the shower stall moved and Robby Harrison stepped into the room.
He lunged toward me, and I briefly glimpsed another figure behind him. My muscles tensed as I grabbed the handle and pulled the door inward.
I stopped. There was nowhere to go.
At the threshold stood Mr. John Harrison, hay dealer, horse trader, and, according to our farrier, 'a creepy bastard.' He had severely beaten a horse with a whip, and he'd gotten away with it. His arm was outstretched, pointed at my face, and in his hand, he held a gun. Rain drops glistened on the black metal.
Harrison took a step forward. I had no choice but to back up. He directed me backward until my shoulder blades hit the first stall.
I had only glimpsed his face. What held my undivided attention was the small, round hole at the end of his gun. As black and final as death itself.
He latched his fingers around my throat and pressed the muzzle into my scalp above my left ear. Pressure began to build across the bridge of my nose, and the veins in my neck throbbed. It wasn't until then that I clearly saw Harrison's face. His lips were pulled back from his teeth like an animal's, and his eyes were stretched wide and unblinking. In the fluorescent light, they looked black.
I didn't have a chance.
I slid my fingers into my pocket and felt for my knife. It wasn't there. I remembered the thud as something had dropped behind Marty's couch.
Harrison licked his lips. 'It's about time you and I got together, Mr. Stephen fucking Cline. You got away from me once, but you damn well won't this time.'
He was leaning on my neck so hard, I thought I was going to pass out.
'How's that feel Steve? Huh?'
He tightened his grip, and I tried to move.
'Uh-uh.' He pressed the gun's muzzle harder against my skin. 'Don't try anything. You ain't goin' nowhere. What you are gonna do is learn. You're gonna fucking learn about it tonight. About fear and pain.' He laughed. 'And I'm gonna teach you.'
Bastard.
Without taking his gaze off me, Harrison spoke over his shoulder to the man I thought I recognized from that night back in February. 'Rich, hand over the rope.'
The guy held the rope out to Harrison.
'Not me, you idiot. Give it to Robby.' He gestured to his brother. 'Now, go back outside and stand guard.'
The guy was nervous, not as comfortable with the job as his buddies, and most ominous of all, he wouldn't look me in the eye.
The door thumped closed, leaving the room suddenly quiet. Harrison turned back to me. 'All I hear is Foxdale this and Foxdale that, and I was getting damn sick of it. People leaving my place and comin' here. Saying 'Steve Cline's done this, and he's done that, and isn't the place nice.' Enough to make you puke.' He clenched his teeth. 'So when somebody wanted me to mess with your precious Foxdale, you think I needed askin' twice?'
No one answered.
He moved his face closer to mine. I could smell his sweat. His breath stank of cigarettes and beer as it slid across my skin. I looked past his face to the door.
'Shit, no,' Harrison continued. 'I didn't need askin'. Hell, he didn't even have to pay me, you being such a prick and all, checking the hay like it was your own damn money you was partin' with. And if that wasn't enough,' his voice vibrated with anger, 'I see your stupid little announcement stuck up on the bulletin board like you're some kinda Dick Tracy, and I can't use my truck and trailer no more, and all because of you, you fucking piece of shit. Imagine what I thought,' he coughed and choked on his spit, 'when I get your fucking stupid letter in the mail.'
I didn't say anything.
'I decided, then and there, that I was gonna kill you. Kill you and make you pay. Make you suffer.'
Behind him, Robby stood in a wide-legged stance, jiggling the coins in his pocket as he watched me with interest.
'Every day that went by,' Harrison said, 'it was all I could think of. Getting my hands on your scrawny neck and making you pay.'
He let go of my throat and backed up. I could still feel his fingers on my neck.
'Lie on the floor, face down.'
I took a shaky breath as Robby coiled the rope in his hands. He was wearing gloves. They both were. No fingerprints. No clues. I wondered if I'd end up in the woods, too.
'I said, 'lie down,' damn it!'
I wouldn't have a chance, not tied up.
'Lie down, or I'll shoot you right now.' He raised the gun and pointed it at my face.
I got on the floor.
'Robby, make it tight,' Harrison said. 'I don't want him getting out of it this time.'
Robby… Robert. Same as my father, same as my brother. Ironic. If they killed me-when they killed me-I wondered if the old man would somehow blame me. 'He should have stayed in school, gotten an education and a good job, then none of this would have happened.'
Robby was going to make sure this time. He yanked the poncho off and roughly tied my hands. When he was finished, he stood up and rubbed his hands together.
Harrison jammed his knee into the small of my back, grabbed a handful of my hair, and pulled my head off the floor.
Something touched my throat. It was cold and thin and sharp. I hadn't seen it coming. Maybe it was just as
