That was why he was relieved to hear from Mortvedt, who had stopped silently gazing at him, “Shit, man. You ain’t got to worry no more about that stuff. I got a new way of doin’ them, won’t bother you at all.”
“What is it? How does it work?” Repke asked.
“You’ll see,” replied Mortvedt. “It’s fuckin’ foolproof, man. Don’t leave a mark on ’em, and it makes it look like they colicked.”
“Colicked? What’s that mean?”
“Horses die of it all time. They get sick and their intestines get twisted up, it’s called getting the colic,” Mortvedt said. “But the way I kill ’em now, they don’t hardly feel nothin’ and, bang, it’s over.”
Repke nodded his head slowly, looking at Mortvedt with renewed respect. He thought to himself again how lucky he was to have met old Ronnie down there in Oakdale.
Aldous Bolger, never a heavy sleeper, was awakened by the sound of a rain-bearing wind coming in from the west. The wind ebbed and flowed, then was followed by the sound of the raindrops arriving in a steady tip-tap against his bedroom window. When Bolger cocked an eye at the electric clock, it read 1:47 a.m.
Bolger lay there for some three minutes, unsuccessfully trying to burrow his way back into sleep. Then he got up, dressed quietly so as not to awaken Caroline and the children where they slept in the two other bedrooms, and sat briefly on the screened porch of the house, enjoying the sweet smell and discreet sound of the soft night rain. Finally, growing restless, he donned his green windbreaker with the Willowdale logo above the left breast pocket. After he’d put on a cap and stepped off the porch, he decided to inspect the barn area. There was nothing to arouse his suspicions, nothing he was consciously aware of; rather, his decision to patrol the grounds and visit the stud barn was prompted purely by restlessness.
At first Bolger lowered his head as he walked down the gravel drive toward the stallion barn. But the smell and feel of the warm rain on his face was pleasant, spurring memory. For a few moments, he raised his face to the night sky, eyes closed, relishing the sensation of the drops falling, remembering how he’d done this so many times as a boy back in the hills of New Zealand.
The first thing Bolger noticed as he neared the stallion barn was a briefly flashed beam of light that raked across the window near the broad doorway. He wiped the rain off his forehead. He wondered if he might have imagined seeing the light.
Then he heard one of the horses whinny loudly, and the sound of a human voice responding in a harsh, low tone, saying something he could not discern.
Bolger felt his heart rate accelerate. There was a surge of adrenaline, a welcome feeling that coursed its way through his body and into his big hands. He wondered briefly where Alan Henry, the night watchman, was; probably on patrol near the broodmare paddocks. That must be it, because the Ford pickup normally parked near the stallion barn entrance was absent.
Bolger ran silently forward. After flattening himself against the wall of the barn, he moved carefully toward the open doorway.
There was another small sound, followed by other movements by several of the obviously disturbed horses. An odor of fear emanated from them. They were shuffling their feet, their big bodies banging against the sides of their stalls.
Bolger felt a surge of anger: that these harmless creatures should be frightened and trembling at the obviously unwanted presence of strangers infuriated him. Before slipping through the doorway, he took off his boots. Although the floor of the barn was covered with expensive rubber bricks, he didn’t want to risk making any sound. He crouched down and moved inside, knowing someone was in there with his horses.
The bastards are here and I’ve found them, finally, Aldous thought. Don’t go wobbly now, man, he said to himself, stay cool, stay cool. He slipped into an empty stall across the broad aisle from where he’d heard the noises, then dropped to his knees and peered out carefully past the wooden partition. What he saw then both astonished and enraged him further.
Unaware of Bolger’s hidden presence only yards away, Ronald Mortvedt was preparing to employ his new, improved method of horse murder: death by electrocution. He had run an extension cord from the outlet near the far doorway to the stall in which lived an aged, no longer very productive stallion named Burlington Boy. With his back to Bolger, Mortvedt was whispering to the horse as he approached him, electrical cord in hand.
From where he crouched across the way, all Bolger could see was a small man, dressed all in black and wearing a black mask. He couldn’t see that the extension cord Mortvedt carried had been sliced down the middle, or that Mortvedt had fastened alligator clips to the ends of the exposed wire strands that were now ready to deliver a jolt of electricity, one that would surge from the horse’s nose to tail. All Aldous could discern was that the little man was talking softly to Burlington Boy, who was shifting restlessly about even though Mortvedt had a good grip on his halter. Mortvedt then reached up and clamped one of the alligator clips to the horse’s left ear. He then began to move to the rear of the stall. There, he placed the other clip in the horse’s rectum.
Horrified, Bolger realized what he was witnessing; realized that, once the two clips were in place, what was coming next was for the extension cord to be plugged into the wall socket. Burlington Boy would be instantly electrocuted.
Bolger had but an instant to regret that there was no weapon at hand for him to use, that he had left his house without picking up his otherwise ever-present cell phone that Rexroth demanded that he carry during work hours.
Briefly Bolger debated whether to slip back out of the barn and get help. He could summon the absent Alan Henry by phone. He could even call the big house, ask for the bodyguard, Kauffman, to come down.
But if he did that, Bolger knew, the gallant old horse Burlington Bob would surely be dead before he could return. Aldous Bolger, horseman through and through from the days of his New Zealand youth, made his decision. He moved quickly from his hiding place and across the barn’s broad aisle.
As Bolger hollered toward the little man, “You bastard, drop that cord,” he thought he heard a sound behind him. He couldn’t be sure, for his concentration was on Burlington Boy and the little man dressed in black. The little man dropped the cord. Bending down, he yanked a knife from inside his right boot. He turned quickly, glaring at Bolger from behind his mask.
Bolger saw the knife but moved forward anyway. There was another sound behind him. He had just begun to turn to look over his shoulder when Jud Repke struck. The last thing Bolger heard was the whistling sound of a heavy pitchfork handle cutting through the air, its handle leveled at him in a high, flat swing.
That thwacking blow rendered Bolger instantly unconscious. Blood began trickling from his right ear, which was now flattened against his skull.
“Bastard’s breathing,” Repke said. He looked wildly around the barn. His chest was heaving and his hands were awash with sweat. It was easy for Mortvedt to take the pitchfork from him.
“Can’t do this horse now,” Mortvedt said, his mouth twisted with anger. “Who the fuck is this motherfucker coming in here on us? Goddam, the old man won’t pay us for this fuck-up.
“We got to get out of here,” he added.
“What about this fella?” Repke asked. He didn’t want to look down at the man he’d just attacked so violently. He wanted to get away from this place as quickly as he could. But Jud found he couldn’t move his feet; it was as if they were locked in quicksand. Part of it was Mortvedt, standing there coiled up with fury at what had developed, this blown job, the first they’d ever had.