The Night is Forever

“Okay, here was my day. I got up, had my coffee. Came by the Horse Farm. I love this time of year—not cold yet, not hot like summer. Sammy was playful. I was going to go for a ride and then I decided on a walk so I could take him along. Suddenly, not far from the ravine, Sammy starts wagging his tail, then barking like crazy. He raced off toward the grove of trees west of the ravine and he didn’t come back. So I called out to him and followed him, and the next thing I knew I was on the ground. I didn’t feel pain. I was just...on the ground.” He paused as if taking a deep breath.

He couldn’t have been taking a breath. He wasn’t alive. Olivia took another sip of her tea. She’d be heading into her kitchen for the brandy in a minute.

“You were on the ground,” she said, encouraging him to continue.

“I don’t know if I was hit in the head, if... I just don’t know. At first, there was nothing. And then...then I was on a high like you wouldn’t believe, and I knew I was in trouble. I got up and started walking and then...I felt a shove at my back and I fell and you know the rest of it!”

“So you believe that someone intentionally drugged you?”

“Yes. Not to mention the part about killing me.”

“I told the police you would never have intentionally relapsed, Marcus. I’ve sworn it, I’ve defended you, I...I called my cousin.”

“Malachi?”

“He’s an FBI agent, Marcus.”

“And he’s coming out here?”

“Ah, no. But he’s working on something. After I talked to Malachi and he promised to get someone here, I found out that we have a federal agent showing up as a client tomorrow. I’m sure he’s the help Malachi’s sending.”

“Why doesn’t Malachi come himself? Why doesn’t he tell you things directly?”

“He’s with the government. Those guys are all paranoid, I think,” Olivia muttered. “Anyway, it’s complicated, Marcus. People in this area know that we’re cousins. Some of them know Malachi. Like you. Sorry, I mean, you knew him—”

“It’s all right. Go on.”

“You can’t just step on the toes of the local police. So Malachi’s managed to get a big shot to believe that something’s wrong here, and they’re sending someone out. Under the guise of a client.”

Marcus remained somber but he nodded and looked at her with hope in his eyes. “Thanks, Liv. You have to solve this. The Horse Farm is a one-of-a-kind place. We work with addicts, with autistic and Down syndrome kids, with burned-out adults, the severely depressed.... But you know all that. And you know that it was always my way to make amends and to help others live quality lives and...you love the Horse Farm, too,” he finished.

“I’ll do everything I can, Marcus,” she promised. She closed her eyes for a minute.

When she opened them, Marcus was gone.

Great. In death, Marcus—always the most polite of men—had suddenly decided to be rude.

3

Dustin arrived at the Horse Farm. There was a massive sign on the narrow paved road that led to a long dirt drive, a sign announcing that he’d reached the Horse Farm.

It was an impressive place. Acres of rolling fields surrounded it, gorgeous hills crested in the background and rich forests stood beyond the pastures and meadows. When he got there, he saw that to the right of the drive were the massive stables, painted a cheerful bright red. To the left was the office and rec building; it, too, was large, but built ranch-style with only one story. Parking in the dusty drive out front, he headed for the office. Opening the door, he found old western furniture, walls covered with prints, paintings and newspaper clippings of horses, and overstuffed leather sofas. He saw a games room with people playing Ping-Pong and heard the whack, whack, whack of the ball going back and forth. A young woman breezed by him with a quick “Hello!” and hurried on to the back. “I’m challenging the winner!” she called.

A woman in her mid-or late thirties stepped aside to allow the young blonde to move past, to the games room. She shook her head but smiled tolerantly.

“Sorry, Mama Cheever!” the younger woman said.

“It’s fine, Liz. Go save your spot.” There was something both matronly and businesslike about her. She wore western-style boots, jeans and a colorful cotton shirt. She’d seen Dustin arrive and was coming toward him. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun. Maybe that was it. She had a long, sharp-featured face that rather resembled a giraffe’s.

“Agent Blake?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Sandra, Sandra Cheever. Or Mama Cheever, as you heard, which I still don’t get. I don’t cuddle patients, don’t tuck them in—I don’t even brew tea, for God’s sake. But I do handle the paperwork and the scheduling around here. We have everything we need except your signature for the files. These days—especially working with animals—we have to get waivers. But your office took care of everything else.”

“That’s great. What do I do? Where do I start? I’m ready to sign.”

Hands on her hips, she cast her head at an angle to study him.

“It’s good to hear your enthusiasm,” she told him. “I was afraid you’d be hostile to the situation—that it was a ‘come here or lose your job’ scenario.”

“I’m from Nashville, but you know that. You probably know everything about me,” Dustin said. “And I love horses. This sounded better than any other offer I’ve had, so yep. I’m enthusiastic.”

“Excellent. Then I’ll just bring you in to see Aaron. He’s our managing director.”

She lifted a hand to point at a door with a placard that read Aaron Bentley.

“Just tap and go on in,” Sandra said, grimacing as they heard a loud squeal from the back. “I’m going to go supervise. They’re good kids. When they’re here, anyway. But...they can get a bit crazy.”

Sandra hurried to the back. Dustin watched her go as he tapped on the door.

“Come in, it’s open!”

Dustin stepped into the office. It was old-fashioned, to say the least. While the desk bore a laptop computer and a printer, an old blotter still sat on it, too, along with a memo tray piled high with papers. The room had two big leather-covered chairs in front of the desk and a worn couch to the rear. Windows looked out over one of the pastures.

The man standing behind the desk was about six feet tall, bearded and balding. His beard was neatly clipped; he seemed far better organized in his personal appearance than he did in his office management skills. Thin gold-rimmed glasses sat on his nose. He smiled seeing Dustin and walked around the desk, offering his hand.

“You must be Agent Blake. I’m sorry. One of us should have been out there to greet you.”

“Oh, a nice woman named Sandra did greet me. And yes, I am. But please call me Dustin.”

“We go by first names here, so that’s great. I’m Aaron. Aaron Bentley. We’re glad to have you here, Dustin. We’ve broken ground with many different groups, you know. About ten years ago, we started working with veterans—the physically wounded, and those who have wounded minds. We help children with disabilities, addicts of all ages, you name it—horse therapy can work wonders. But you’re our first law enforcement official. Let’s sit down for a moment.”

Aaron returned to the swivel chair behind his desk, while Dustin sank into one of the old leather armchairs. It was comfortable. As messy as the office might look, that apparent chaos actually contributed to a sense of ease.

“I spoke with your supervisor, a Mr. Jackson Crow,” Aaron said, folding his hands in front of him. He didn’t glance at papers or fiddle with anything on his desk. He gave his absolute attention to Dustin. “He said you were having nightmares and that he believes you’re—”

“Burned out?” Dustin suggested.

“No. Experiencing one of those spells where you’re having trouble weighing the good you’re able to provide against the horrors you have to see. I admit, when I first got the call, I suspected you’d been involved in some dreadful situation where innocents had been killed. But he tells me you’re one of his best agents and that he wants you to take some time off. He also said you don’t do well with traditional psychiatrists or therapy and that he hopes this will work for you.”

“Ah, did he tell you that?” Dustin murmured. He’d had a general idea of what Jackson Crow had planned on saying; he didn’t know how close to home it might be.

“I smoked once, Aaron. Years ago. Cigarettes, I mean. I went to a hypnotist to stop. Thinking about water and staring at a bull’s-eye on the wall did nothing for me. I merely wanted to kill the hypnotist.”

“Well, this isn’t like that, but...we do have group and individual therapy. We also do camping trips to the little brook a couple miles from here. You don’t have to think about the water—you can walk right into it if you choose. Frankly, I’m not sure we’ll be what you’re looking for, but we’re anxious to see if we can help men and women in your situation. If nothing else, a little R & R is always good for someone who is constantly under life-or-death tension.”

“I’m glad to be here. You know I live in northern Virginia—D.C. area, really—and I love it. But Nashville and these hills—well, this is home.”