A small smile crept across his fat-lipped mouth. "That's more like it, Cline. Remember who's-"
"And, Larry," Mrs. Hill interrupted. "I want you to apologize to Stephen for the way you've been treating him."
"But-"
"In the past month, more than one person's complained to me about your actions. Stephen's the best barn manager we've ever had, and you don't give him the respect he deserves."
Whitcombe's, or should I say "Larry's," face deflated like a punctured balloon. His smug, self-satisfied smile dissolved and his eyes widened with astonishment. His mouth hung open, and when I realized I was mirroring him, I snapped my mouth shut.
Whitcombe jumped to his feet. "Mrs. Hill, I beg to differ. I owe Cline nothing. He's insubordinate and insolent and disrespectful, and I will do nothing of the sort."
He started for the door, spun back around, and whisked his coat off the back of the chair. He raised a finger and pointed in my direction. "They make fun of me."
His eyes were moist, and I wondered if he was going to cry. He turned around abruptly and slammed the door on his way out.
I stared after him. As much as I disliked the guy, I'd never intended for him to overhear the things Marty and I said.
"Stephen," Mrs. Hill said.
I pulled my gaze away from the empty doorway.
"In the future, please keep your opinions of Larry to yourself."
"Yes, ma'am."
"You may go."
"Thank you." I walked outside, half expecting to find Whitcombe waiting for me. But he was nowhere in sight.
I didn't see Whitcombe for the rest of the day, and when I opened the door to the loft, the phone was ringing. I dumped my notebook and mail on the counter and snatched up the receiver.
"Aren't you ever home?" Kenneth Newlin said before I'd gotten two words out.
He'd gone by Kenneth ever since I'd known him. No one in his right mind would have called him Kenny. Kenneth was, pure and simple, a geek. Until we'd met during fifth period Physics class in tenth grade, I'd never thought anyone actually wore a pocket protector. The only thing he lacked was tape on his glasses, and for all I knew, he could have lowered himself to that by now.
"No," I said. "Not much."
Kenneth grunted. "Well, you were right about the tax write-off. Farpoint Industries has been listing Foxdale as a liability ever since they broke ground on the place, but they won't be able to this year. Foxdale's now in the black by a narrow margin. But I don't see how losing the write-off 's gonna make any difference whatsoever in FI's end-of-year balance sheet."
"Why's that."
"The company's making money hand over foot. Losing the write-off 's penny-ante stuff to them."
"What about money laundering?" I said.
"Well, I'm no accountant, but based on the files I accessed, I didn't see any indication of that."
"How'd you get into them?"
"The files?" Kenneth said.
"Yeah."
"You don't want to know. Oh, and even though they've lost the write-off, FI's still getting a hefty tax break because of the Green Space Act."
"The what?"
"Some bleeding heart liberals in the Senate and EPA are promoting it. In certain parts of the country-and your Foxdale just so happens to be smack in the middle of one of their grids-the government's granting landowners a hefty tax break for every acre they leave undeveloped in a futile effort to slow urban sprawl. At five-hundred-and-seven acres, FI's doing itself some good just by owning the land."
"So you don't see any way Ambrose would benefit from Foxdale losing money?"
"Nope. If someone wants the place to go belly up, it's not him."
"Okay. Thanks, Kenneth."
"No sweat."
"What're you up to these days?" I asked.
"I'm starting at NASA in May."
"Don't you have two more years before you graduate?"
"Nah. I crammed the four into two. Hell, I could have taught the classes I've been taking in my sleep, they're so basic."
I chuckled.
Kenneth told me about the artificial intelligence project he'd soon be cutting his teeth on, and by the time we said goodbye, the dull ache behind my eyes that I'd been nursing all evening had turned into a full-blown headache.
I knocked the cap off a bottle of beer and swallowed some ibuprophen. After I'd opened a box of Cheez-Its, I flipped through the pages in my notebook until I came to the scribbled notes I'd made at the library, where I'd stayed until closing time. I was fast becoming a pro at scanning microfiche, but I'd come away empty-handed as far as news coverage on horse and tack theft went. More depressing, however, were the lack of details on James Peters' death.
I unfolded the photocopies, smoothed them out on the counter, and read the blurred print for the third time.
STABLE OWNER MISSING ALONG WITH SEVEN HORSES
Berrett: Police were called to Hunters Ridge Farm on Martz Road shortly after seven a.m. Saturday morning, when Gwendolyn Peters discovered that seven of the farm's horses were missing from their stalls and presumed stolen. Police could not locate her husband, James S. Peters, though it is unclear at this time whether the events are related.
Damascus: The partially decomposed body of an unidentified adult male was found in the Patuxent River State Park just south of Long Corner Road early Friday morning. Two fourteen-year-old boys from Dorsett, Maryland discovered the body while hiking along a trail west of the Patuxent River. Police determined that the body had been buried, but recent heavy rains had washed away the loose soil. The cause of death was not immediately known.
Damascus: A body found in the Patuxent River State Park early Friday morning has been identified as that of James S. Peters of Berrett, Maryland. Peters, 64, who owned and operated a horse facility near Piney Run Park, disappeared August 4th, the same day seven horses were stolen from the farm.
Detective James Ralston, who is heading the investigation, said preliminary findings indicate that Peters interrupted the intruders and was murdered. Ralston refused to comment on other details of the investigation except to say that cause of death was determined to be blunt force trauma to the head. Peters is survived by his wife.
Those three clippings, combined with a brief write-up in the obituary column, were, as far as I could determine, the total coverage devoted to the life and death of James S. Peters. I downed the last of the beer and threw the empty into the trash.
Chapter 12
Thursday morning, I visited Gwendolyn Peters.
The only other living relative mentioned in Peters' obituary had been a nephew, and after a bit of detective work with the phone book the night before, I'd tracked him down. He knew little about the events surrounding August fourth and next to nothing about Hunters Ridge. He did, however, point me in the right direction as far as his aunt was concerned. Shortly after her husband's death, Mrs. Peters had suffered a nervous breakdown and seemed destined to live out the remainder of her days in a nursing home.
"What about the farm?" I'd said. "Do you think anyone still works or boards there who knew your uncle?"
"You're outta luck there, pal. Place got sold and is being bulldozed as we speak."
"Bulldozed into what?"
"A housing development, what else? Nice, too. The land backs right up to Piney Run."
Shortly after eight, I pointed the Chevy's nose northward. After a few wrong turns, I found the town of Wards Chapel and, on Eighth Street, Shady Grove Nursing Home.
They must have recently polished the floor, because my shoes squeaked with each step I took down the long, depressing corridor. I had always hated hospitals, and nursing homes were close enough to elicit the same adversionary response. I turned a corner and nearly walked into an elderly man with disheveled yellow-gray hair. His back was so stooped, he reminded me of a tree limb, ready to snap. Even his skin looked like bark. I continued on.