At Risk

  * * *

  At ten o'clock, I walked into the office and stood in front of Mrs. Hill's desk. I pulled the lists out of my back pocket, unfolded them, and handed her the wrinkled sheets.

  She glanced at them. "What's this?"

  I wiped my hands on my jeans. "Foxdale really needs to hire a night watchman. I'd say it's become a necessity."

  She started with the list of chronological events.

  "What's this? James Peters, murdered?"

  "Did you know him?"

  She shook her head. "No. But his name's familiar." She tapped her fingers on the desk blotter and stared at the office door as if she'd find the answer there. "Oh, yes. That detective asked about him, but I can't now remember. . . ."

  "He owned and operated a hunter/jumper facility in Carroll County." I paused. What happened to him was hard to think about, much less talk about, especially with someone who knew what had happened to me.

  "Stephen?"

  I cleared my throat. "Someone stole seven horses from his farm, and when they did . . . they murdered him."

  "Oh, no. But--"

  "The police believe his murder, the horse theft here, and possibly the tack theft, were committed by the same people."

  "But that . . . that means that you--"

  "Then there are those other incidents on the list, which may or may not be related."

  She stood and walked around the desk. "You could have been murdered," she gestured to my lists with a flap of her hand, "just like this man."

  A slight tremor worked at the corner of her mouth, and she wasn't telling me anything new. That depressing fact had been hovering in my subconscious for the past month and a half. I looked down at my feet, at the square of blue carpet in front of her desk. It needed to be hosed off. Too many muddy feet trudging in from the barns.

  She sighed. "I'll ask Mr. Ambrose about a night watchman again." She paused, then picked up my list of names. "I can't believe any of these people would do such a thing, Stephen. It's absurd."

  "I know, but I can't think of anyone else."

  "Leave it to the police. They'll find out who's behind it." She held my lists out to me and, mistaking my silence for agreement, switched to discussing preparations for the dressage clinic Foxdale was hosting over the weekend.

  I studied the wall alongside Mrs. Hill's desk which was, in effect, one gigantic calendar. She had covered it with white board, and every weekend for the next three months had some event or other scheduled. I felt tired just looking at it.

  "Stephen, are you listening?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "And you'll have to move all the school horses . . ."

  Last night, I had spent more time than I'd care to admit, lying awake, unable to sleep, which was ironic, considering how physically tired I'd been. Telling everyone about James Peters and the rig used in the horse theft was fine as far as it went, but inefficient. I could do better.

  "Stephen?"

  "Yes, ma'am. I'll make sure it gets done. Tonight, can I use the computer and printer?"

  "Of course, dear."

  "With your permission, I'd like to send a letter to everyone in the address files--boarders, suppliers, contractors, everyone on the show mailing list--all the individuals and organizations we deal with."

  "Whatever for? There are hundreds of them."

  I told her.

  "But that could be dangerous."

  "I'll use an anonymous post office box, then. Not Foxdale's, and I won't sign it."

  She shook her head but gave me permission in the end. She didn't seem concerned about what my letter might do to Foxdale's reputation. Maybe she saw, as I did, that if the attacks didn't stop, there might not be anything left worth saving.