At Risk

At Risk

by

Kit Ehrman

Copyright 2011 Kit Ehrman

Smashwords Edition

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Chapter 1

Some mornings, before darkness gives way to
light and a cold wind howls across the pasture and presses against
the barn like a giant hand, I wonder what in the hell I'm doing
working on a horse farm.

A week earlier, the jet stream had ferried a
wall of Canadian air down the eastern edge of the Allegheny
Mountains, and the mercury hadn't crawled out of the single digits
ever since. I yanked a second sweatshirt over my head and walked
into the kitchen.

The barn's crossbeams and joists creaked and
groaned like a Spanish galleon on the open seas while familiar
sounds filtered up through the floorboards. Rustling straw, the
hollow thump of a hoof knocking against a wooden plank, a bucket
rattling.

I opened the drawer next to the kitchen sink.
Buried among a Phillips screwdriver, a past due Gas and Electric
bill and a stack of old bank statements, rubber bands, paper clips,
and everything else that cluttered the junk drawer, I found a dirty
manila envelope with the flap crimped shut. I turned it over in my
palm. My boss had printed Stephen in bold black letters on one side
along with the horse's name and detailed instructions that I knew
by heart. Inside, were tubes of ophthalmic ointment that couldn't
be left in a cold barn. I tucked the envelope in my pocket and
shrugged into my coat.

Fronds of ice feathered across the inside of
the windowpanes like a crystal-growing experiment gone wrong. They
might have been pretty if they didn't mean I'd be freezing my ass
off in a minute or two. I scratched at the frost with my
fingernails, then squinted through the glass. The thermometer read
two below zero.

There were a half dozen better ways to spend
my time at three o'clock in the morning, and this wasn't one of
them. But corneal ulcers had to be treated aggressively, because a
horse that can't see, can't jump. And at Foxdale Farm, jumping's
the name of the game. Hunters, jumpers, three-day eventers. Only
the dressage horses kept their feet on the ground.

Outside, I took the steps two at a time,
swiped the ice scraper across the windshield, then slid behind the
wheel. The vinyl creaked under my weight, and the duct tape I'd
plastered over a rip in the seat shifted and stuck to the seat of
my pants. I huddled over the steering wheel and cranked the engine.
Listening to the starter grind, I wondered what I would have been
doing if I'd stayed at college. Sleeping more than likely. Better
yet, I'd probably be in Florida on spring break where the locals
would be inclined to think two below zero was the name of a rock
group.

When the Chevy finally coughed to life, I
coaxed the truck onto the road and, ten minutes later, pulled onto
Foxdale's long gravel drive. The headlights cut across the metal
walls of the indoor riding arena as I swung around into my usual
parking space. To the casual observer, the arena and two huge barns
farther down the lane might have looked like warehouses if not for
the warren's nest of paddocks radiating outward like the spokes of
a wheel.

I cut the engine, and Bach's Brandenburg
Concerto Number 3 in G Major died at the start of the second
movement. The sudden quiet was overwhelming. So was the dark. High
above me, the sodium vapor lamp was an indistinct shape against the
bulk of the building. I made a mental note to have Dave replace the
bulb, then I grabbed my flashlight from under the driver's seat and
climbed out.

My boots scrunched on the gravel as I rounded
the southwest corner of the indoor arena. When I switched on the
flashlight, nothing happened. I slipped off my gloves, tightened
the housing, and fiddled with the switch. Still no luck. I glanced
toward the barns and froze.

A pickup and horse trailer were parked
farther down the lane where they had no business being, not at
three in the morning. A broad shaft of light poured from the
truck's cab and reflected off the barn's metal siding, but what
sent a shiver down my spine was the overall absence of light. Both
sodium vapors were out.

I stood still in the cold air and shifted my
weight from one foot to the other. Mrs. Hill was too efficient to
have forgotten to tell me that someone was going to pick up a
horse. And it was the off season. No one was showing. Certainly not
in Maryland.

Besides, no one loaded horses in the dark.
Not if they could help it.

There was a pay phone in the arena by the
bleachers. A call to the police seemed like a good idea. Prudent
anyway. I opened the door and peered inside. Couldn't see a damn
thing. I stepped over the threshold and ran my hand along the wall,
feeling for the phone. When my fingers touched the receiver, I
heard a muffled noise behind me.

Something heavy glanced off the back of my
head and crashed into my shoulder. A searing pain slammed into my
brain as specks of light flashed in a dizzying arc behind my eyes.
Someone grabbed my wrist and wrenched my arm behind my back. He
shoved me face-first into the arena wall, into dust and dirt and
cobwebs. The door slammed shut.

"Shit." I clenched my teeth.

He leaned into me and readjusted his grip.
"Got that right, punk. And you just stepped in it."

"What are you gonna do?" someone behind us
said. A male voice, high-pitched and tense. "You ain't gonna pop
'im, are ya?"

The guy holding me felt my muscles tense and
yanked my wrist higher between my shoulder blades.

Farther back in the building, a flashlight
switched on. "No. Not yet, anyway." His voice was ordinary, calm,
as if he were discussing what to do with a stray piece of
equipment. The beam moved down the wall and focused on our backs.
"I know. Get the keys to his truck."

Iron Grip twisted my wrist and increased his
leverage, then the tense guy stepped around us and clumsily
searched my pockets. When he leaned forward to check my left front
pocket, I got a look at him. He'd pulled his ball cap low on his
forehead, but judging from what I could see of his face, I'd never
seen him before.

"They ain't on him," he said.

"All right, then. Turn him around."

They yanked me off the wall. The one with the
flashlight shone the beam in my eyes as he adjusted something on
his face, and I realized he was wearing a ski mask. I glanced at
the guy on my right. His mask's eye holes were circled in red, and
the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled as if he were
smiling.

I stood there stiffly, feeling heat seep from
beneath my coat collar. Except for my breathing, I could hear no
sound. Not even a car on the road.

The guy with the flashlight stepped closer.
"You got lousy timing, kid," he whispered. "Lousy for you, that is.
For me, now, it's a whole different ball game." He paused. "I ain't
got my workout today."

The guy on my right sniggered.

The blast of light shifted as he crossed over
to the bleachers and balanced the flashlight on one of the planks,
bathing the wall behind us in a dull wash. When he turned around,
the skin on the back of my head contracted. There was nothing but
malice in his eyes, his intent all too clear.

I briefly considered asking them what they
wanted or telling them to let me go but knew I would get nowhere
with either line. I kept my mouth shut.

He took off his gloves. As he methodically
folded them and stuck them one at a time into his coat pockets, it
occurred to me that he was dragging it out, trying to make me
sweat. And it pissed me off. He shoved his right hand into his
jeans pocket and pulled out something metallic. I couldn't tell
what it was until he slid it down over his fingers and made a fist.
He clenched his hand, and light glinted off the top edge of the
brass knuckles.

I tried to yank my right arm free and got my
wrist wrenched behind my back for my trouble. Iron Grip had a way
of applying leverage that told me he knew what he was doing, that I
was out of my league.

The leader stepped closer and rolled his
shoulders. "You interrupted me, boy, and you're gonna pay."

I aimed a kick at his groin. It took him by
surprise, and I would have done some serious damage, except the
asshole on my right pulled me off target at the last second. I must
have gotten the leader pretty good, though, because he groaned and
doubled over as I slipped my left arm free. Before I could get away
from Iron Grip, he latched onto my coat collar and flung me into
the bleachers. My head hit one of the metal supports, and I slumped
to the ground.

Iron Grip was on top of me almost before I'd
hit the ground. He jammed his knee into my lower back and twisted
my arm around. Pain stabbed through my shoulder and radiated toward
my elbow. He increased the tension, and after a while, I was aware
of little else. When they finally yanked me to my feet, the
talkative guy wasn't talking.

Before I could react, he hit me in the
stomach . . . hard.

He landed two more punches. I doubled over,
and the only thing that kept me from falling flat on my face was
the hold they had on my arms.

I gritted my teeth. "Bastard."

After what seemed like forever, I
straightened up.

A mistake.

He clipped me with a backhand I didn't see
coming. Before I could regain my balance, he punched me in the
nose. Blood flowed down my face and dripped off my chin.

I spit a mouthful at him. "Goddamn
bastard."

He nailed me with another backhand that
landed above my eye. The ground tilted suddenly and slammed into my
face, and I heard his voice, faint in the background.

"That'll learn ya," he said.

* * *

I was rolling downhill in a clanging metal
drum, and my head was spinning. When I opened my eyes, memory
returned along with a flood of pain. I was half-sitting, half-lying
in a horse trailer, and I wasn't alone. Seven horses were crammed
into a trailer designed for six, and I was in danger of being
stepped on.

I shifted. Pain splintered through my side
and snatched the breath from my lungs. Busted ribs. I'd done it
before and knew the drill. I closed my eyes. I couldn't move
anyway. My hands had been tied behind my back, latched together
around the metal post that formed the lower portion of the stall
divider.

The metal was cold. I was cold, stiff.

I pushed myself into a sitting position and
rested my head against the post. The horse behind me snorted, and I
realized that the big gray was Gulf Coast. One of my favorites.
Lines of worry crinkled the skin above his eyes, and he was
standing so close, his warm breath trickled through my hair.

"That's a good boy, Shrimpy. Everything's
going to be all right," I whispered. He lowered his head in
response to my voice and fluttered his nostrils. In the next stall,
Steel, an open jumper, leaned against the stall partition. A good
bit of white shone round his eyes--never a good sign--and his skin
was stretched taut over tense muscles. His coat was patchy with
sweat. Steam curled off his chest and neck and rose toward the
ceiling, back lit by the only overhead light fixture in the trailer
that wasn't broken.

As I listened to the whine of tires on smooth
asphalt, I realized I hurt in more places than I should have. More
places than I recalled taking a hit. Then I remembered the crack
about getting in a workout.