by Kit Ehrman
Chapter 20
Harrison spun me around to face the wall, then cut through the rope that bound my wrists.
"Now," he said, "get rid of him. If I even think he's getting suspicious, I'll kill you both. Got it?"
I nodded.
"Good. Don't move out of my line of sight, or you're dead."
I concentrated on keeping my legs steady and stepped out of the barn.
Officer Walter Dorsett, tall, lean, and muscular, was headed straight for me. Fifteen yards separated us. He stopped when I did, and his hand moved instinctively to his gun.
I cleared my throat. "Hi, Harry. Nice night." My voice was hoarse.
Dorsett removed his gun from its holster and held it at his side. He looked toward the barn door and, without looking at me, said, "What are you doing here?"
"Just checking on a horse."
"Everything all right?"
"Couldn't be better, Harry."
He signaled for me to approach him. When I didn't move, he raised the gun with both hands and sighted on the barn door.
"I'll catch up with you tomorrow, Steve," he said loudly, then jerked his head toward the door. "What time?"
What time? What was he talking about? Oh . . . "Three . . . three o'clock."
Dorsett glanced at me, and in that instant, I saw movement in my peripheral vision. I turned toward the barn door in time to see Harrison squeeze off three shots. The muzzle flash was brilliant in the dark.
"No!" I screamed and spun around.
The force of the bullet slamming into Dorsett's chest knocked him off his feet. The gun slipped from his hand and clattered onto the asphalt.
"God, no," I sobbed. "No-o-o."
Harrison yanked me back into the barn. In my mind, I could still see Dorsett's lifeless form, dark and silent on the asphalt, his hand empty, palm face up, fingers curled toward the black sky.
"You killed a cop!" Rich screamed. "I can't believe it! You killed a fucking cop!"
"Shut up." Harrison shoved me against the wall.
"What are we gonna do now? We don't have a chance. They hunt--"
"Shut the fuck up." Harrison's voice cracked. "It's all your fault we're in this mess--"
"What?" Rich whined.
"If you hadn't done such a lousy job tying him up last time, he wouldn't of got away from us, and I wouldn't be here right now, finishing the job. A job you screwed up."
"It wasn't my fault. I did what you said. No one thought he'd get loose. At least I didn't do something stupid," Rich flailed his arms, "like kill a cop."
"Yeah, and I'd be stupider if I let you continue to fuck us up, wouldn't I?"
"Yeah," Rich suddenly became very still, "eh, I mean no."
Harrison casually pointed the gun at Rich and pulled the trigger.
The sound in the confines of the barn was deafening. The horse behind Rich crashed against the back wall of his stall. All of the horses near us shied and whinnied. I hardly noticed. Rich slid down the wall and crumpled onto the floor.
The bullet had shattered the ridge of bone above his right eye. The other eye was wide open, seeing nothing. His head lolled to the side, and a stream of watery blood trickled from his nose and mouth. There was blood spatter on the grillwork of the stall front and on the horse that stood trembling at the back of his stall.
I swallowed. The bitter smell of burnt gunpowder hung so thickly in the air around us, I could taste it at the back of my throat.
"Damn it, Johnny. You shouldn't have popped him here. The police might be able to connect him with us. And you shouldn't have used your gun."
"So what? I'll dump it when we're done."
"Well, we can't leave him here," Robby said.
"You!" Harrison grabbed my arm. "Drag him down past the hay barn."
I thought about the old abandoned fire road and the gate Dave and I had never gotten around to installing.
"Good idea." Robby studied my face. "We'll put 'em both in the trunk. That oughta make for an interesting ride, huh lover-boy?"
Asshole. I looked down at Rich and couldn't imagine it.
"Go ahead." Harrison shoved me toward Rich's body. "Get movin'. We ain't got all night."
I gulped a lungful of air and gripped Rich's ankles. When I lifted his legs and stepped backward, his body slid the rest of the way down the stall front, and his head hit the asphalt with a sickening thud. My stomach churned. I leaned against the stall.
The gun's barrel butted against my shoulder. "Get movin', boy."
I kept my gaze on Rich's legs, tightened my grip on his ankles, and dragged him toward the end of the barn.
"Robby, go switch off the lights," Harrison said. "We can make the rest of the aisle in the dark."
I watched Robby saunter toward the doorway, then as unobtrusively as possible, I glanced behind me. I had forty-eight feet to go--the length of four stalls--before I was level with the cut-through to the arena. If I timed it right . . .
I slowed my pace. Robby was almost to the bank of light switches. He paused and peeked out the doorway. Hurry it up, I thought. I slowed even more.
Twenty-four feet to go.
Robby's hand moved down over the switches and plummeted the barn into darkness. I continued backward more slowly and forced myself to wait until the timing was in my favor.
Robby and Harrison were silhouetted by the sodium vapor light, and I hoped the lighting would work to my advantage. Hoped they couldn't see me as easily as I could them. I watched Robby move down the aisle toward us. I drew level with the cut-through as he reached the halfway mark between the lights and us. I quietly lowered Rich's legs to the asphalt, then bolted into the arena. I figured I had about eight seconds before Robby made it back to the light switch.
Harrison didn't wait for the lights. He bellowed and shot wildly. The bullet cracked harmlessly into the arena wall to my left as I neared the opposite cut-through that led into aisle two. As I turned the corner into the aisle, I grabbed a lead rope off its hook and thanked God that someone had hung it where it belonged for a change. Another gunshot. Wood splitting. Closer this time.
The lights in aisle one flashed on. I skidded to a halt in front of the third stall from the end and threw open the door. Chase stood in the center of the stall, legs splayed, eyes wide with fear. The only horse in the barn who wore a halter twenty-four hours a day. I clipped on the lead, grabbed a handful of mane, and vaulted onto his back.
I kicked him out of the stall and leaned to my right, knowing he would move to stay balanced under my weight. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Harrison step into the aisle behind us. His arm came up. Almost fifty yards separated us, but it didn't much matter. Not with that gun of his. I ignored the fact that Chase's shoes were slipping on the asphalt and kicked him into a canter.
When Harrison fired again, Chase didn't need any encouragement. As we crossed the threshold, a bullet splintered the doorjamb at shoulder level. Only a foot away.
But it was enough.
In another second, we would be out of his line of sight. I leaned to my right, signaling to Chase that I wanted him to head down the corridor between the paddocks, when something hit my left side. I tipped forward over the horse's shoulder.
I had a clear view of his hooves skidding on the asphalt as he floundered under my shifting weight, uncertain what I wanted, and I nearly came off. I anchored my right hand in his mane, pressed my left hand against his shoulder, and pushed myself back into position. He had slowed to a trot. I kicked him into a gallop, and we sailed down the hill and slipped into darkness.
As we neared the woods, I straightened, weighted my seat, and brought him back to the trot. Where the lane emptied onto the trails, I spun him around and looked up the hill toward the barn.
Thinking that I wanted to go back, Chase bunched his hindquarters and lunged forward into a bouncy, agitated canter. The lead line was useless as far as brakes went. I yanked his head around, pointed him down the trail, and nailed him with my heels. He bolted into a
frantic, disorganized gallop.
He was wound tight, snorting and blowing, every muscle in his body rigid with tension. I didn't fight him but let him go at his own pace. I gripped with my knees and prayed that his instincts would take us safely through the blackness. When he galloped down the section of trail that was little more than a ledge, I concentrated on keeping my balance and hoped he wouldn't step off into space.
Wet branches brushed against my arms and touched my hair as damp air, smelling richly of humus, buffeted my faced. I crouched lower onto his neck. The woods past by in a dizzying blur of dark shapes against black. I could not see the trail. Couldn't even see the ground beneath us. When we reached the stream crossing, he flew it, and I began to wonder if I would ever get him stopped.
Gradually, his stride evened out. When we hit the bottom land, I pulled him around to the left and headed west along the river bank. I sat up straighter, relaxed my lower back, and willed him to slow down. He dropped down to a trot, then to the walk, and I appreciated Anne's training skills more than ever.
My side ached. I lifted my arm and twisted around. My elbow and shirt were wet. I peeled the fabric off my waist. The air hit my skin, and the pain intensified. It felt like a burn, and I realized I'd been shot. Though I couldn't see the damage, I decided it wasn't serious. I was breathing okay, and the pain wasn't too bad.
I thought about Dorsett, then, and urged Chase into a canter. If there was a chance he was still alive, I had to get him help. The gelding's gait was strung out and rough. I used my seat and legs to collect his stride and asked him to go faster across the uneven terrain. The tall grass dragged at his legs. He wasn't a cross-country horse, but he was willing nonetheless. A sharp contrast to his manners on the ground where he was dangerous and unpredictable.
When we came to a wide drainage ditch that had deepened because of runoff from construction upslope, he slid awkwardly down the bank. I slipped forward, out of position, and when he heaved himself up the opposite bank and scrambled over the edge, I nearly came off.
Chase stopped.
The adrenaline rush had worn off, and my muscles trembled with fatigue and cold. I knotted the lead rope around my left wrist while, beneath me, the horse's body rocked with each ragged breath. Fear and exertion had taken a toll on both of us. I squeezed my calves and urged him forward.
It began to rain. A cold stinging rain.
I watched the terrain. An old trail, now unpopular because it dead-ended behind a newly-constructed housing development, snaked uphill on the left.
I almost missed it. I pulled Chase sharply to the left, kicked him in the ribs, and he plowed through the thick undergrowth and bounded up the hill. His hooves slipped on the rain-soaked leaves. I grabbed mane and clucked to him. As we neared the ridge, I felt him abruptly focus his attention. I squinted through the rain.
Directly ahead stood a four-foot-high picket fence, its white planks gleaming in the darkness. Chase pricked his ears and extended his stride with enthusiasm. I gritted my teeth and held on tighter.
The horse cleared it with a foot to spare and landed neatly in someone's backyard. I pushed myself back into position as he zeroed in on the next fence. I had no control. With zero encouragement from me, he crossed the grass in six strides and sailed the front fence. I managed to stay with him, but he shied at a hose reel propped against the house. He veered to the left and crashed through the bowed branches of an ornamental tree. I ducked at the last second. Wet limbs gouged my shoulders and back, and my shirt tore. His next stride took us across the sidewalk, and when he slipped on the asphalt, he dropped down to a walk.
We had ended up in a cul-de-sac. Judging by the houses--all brick, expensive, convoluted affairs--we were in the relatively new subdivision just west of Foxdale. Deceptive considering the ride we'd just had. Except for one house at the mouth of the circle, all the homes were dark. When we reached the curb on the far side, I hopped off the gelding and led him onto the sidewalk. Chase snaked his neck around and tried to get a piece of my skin between his teeth, and I realized I should I have stayed on his back.
I led him down the sidewalk and wondered how I would manage knocking on someone's door with Chase in tow.
As we turned toward the lighted house, where windows cast yellow squares onto an immaculate lawn, a car approached slowly from the main road. I looked over my shoulder and saw the lightbar on the roof and a shield on the door. I yanked Chase around and jogged toward the cruiser.
The gelding trotted sideways, back to his usual irritable self. It wasn't until we reached the length of sidewalk bordered by a decorative retaining wall that I was able to get him going in a straight line.
The cruiser angled across the road toward us and halted with its left front tire against the curb. The overhead lights flicked on. I glanced at Chase. He tensed his neck as the rotating blue and red lights flashed across his wide, liquid eyes. The driver turned on the spotlight and shone it in my face. I shaded my eyes and hoped Chase wouldn't bolt.
The wipers flicked across the windshield, flinging droplets through the glare of the spotlight. As the door creaked open, I noticed the cruiser's number painted on the front fender. Forty-six. Dorsett's number.
"Dorsett?" I squinted and stepped closer as he climbed from behind the wheel.
"Need some help, boy?"
Harrison leveled the barrel of his gun over the door frame and pulled the trigger as I spun away from him.
The impact slammed me into Chase's side.
A high-pitched whinny erupted from the horse's throat as I crashed onto the sidewalk. Chase wheeled around in the tight space. My arm jerked upward and the lead rope tightened on my wrist. When the gelding felt the tension on his halter, he lowered his head, bunched his hindquarters, and kicked out with both hind legs. A hind hoof exploded through the driver's side window, and Harrison screamed.
I frantically worked at the rope.
Chase bolted, jerking me toward the cruiser. My chest bumped against the horse's hind legs as the rope unwound from my wrist. He kicked out again. His lethal hooves sliced high over my head and tangled with the open door before he galloped down the sidewalk.
Harrison was down on one knee between the cruiser's door and body, and he was groaning. I pushed myself to my knees, twisted around, and saw his gun on the sidewalk just beyond my feet. I lunged toward it and wrapped my fingers around the grip, then rolled away from the car. I pushed myself upright and propped my back against the retaining wall.
Harrison grunted to his feet and walked out from behind the car door, cradling his left arm against his ribs.
I raised the gun with both hands and pointed it at him.
I stared down the long black barrel and concentrated on the sight as it jumped wildly. Couldn't stop my hands from shaking. He turned sideways, and I forced myself to focus beyond the gun's sight. To focus on him.
His right arm moved.
When he turned back around, he held his hand behind his leg. I glanced at the leather sheath strapped to his belt. It was empty.
"You don't have the guts to use that," he said. "Do you, boy?"
"Don't." It came out a whisper.
He took a step forward. In my peripheral vision, I saw the flash of steel as he brought the knife around.
I squeezed the trigger.
Harrison staggered backward and collapsed against the cruiser. The door clicked shut as he slid to the ground, smearing a swath of red across the Howard County shield.
"Yes," I whispered. "I do."
I lowered my hand, and the gun clattered on the cement. Wetness soaked through my shirt. I looked at my side. Looked dispassionately at the blood seeping down a crack in the sidewalk.
Burning pain cut through me as if the thought created the reality. I leaned my head against the wall and listened to the monotonous whine as the wipers swept across the windshield. Listened to the low-pitched drone of the engine. It began to rain harder then, the drops pinging loudly on the hood. It soaked into my clothes and t
rickled through my hair.
I watched the rain move in sheets through the glare from the spotlight and became dizzy. Though I was sweating, I shook from the cold.
Each breath was more difficult than the last. I closed my eyes and couldn't hear anything except my pulse banging in my ears. I wondered if I would hear the last beat and realize it.