Simpatico's Gift

by Frank Martorana

  The first face he recognized was Elizabeth’s. She was seated on a gurney, and did her best to fend off nurses when she saw him.

  “Kent! It’s awful! Hector Figurante shot Emily,” she said. “She was trying to protect Maria and me.”

  Kent reeled with denial and confusion. “Where’s Emily now?”

  “They took her out,” Elizabeth said. “For emergency surgery, I think.”

  “I want to see her!”

  Elizabeth gestured to the huddle of hospital staff, partially concealed by the curtain.

  “I want to see my daughter,” he said, and it was not a request.

  A tall doctor placed a hand on Kent’s shoulder. “They’re taking her to surgery,” he explained in a firm but compassionate voice. “You can see her as soon as she comes out.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “She’s been shot.”

  “I know that. Where? How badly?”

  “I’m not sure of the exact nature of her injury, but I can take you over to the OR. The neurologist will be able to tell you more.”

  Kent followed the doctor down the hall. Suddenly, another terrifying thought entered in his mind.

  “Why a neurologist?” he asked the doctor, whom he could tell was appraising him out of the corner of his eye as they walked.

  “I’m not sure.”

  They pushed through a large set of swinging doors into the surgical section of the hospital.

  “There must be some nerve damage,” the doctor said, stating the obvious.

  Kent’s lungs discharged as if he’d been punched. Any doctor, veterinary or human, knew nerve damage was the worst — the most irreparable, the most permanent. And Emily with a spinal problem already — his knees felt like reeds.

  He was looking for a place to sit when the doctor with him hailed loudly to another.

  “Paige, this is Kent Stephenson, the victim’s father.”

  The woman, who looked as though she could hold her own in a game of racquetball, brushed a lock of blonde hair off her forehead and extended her hand. “I’m Paige Nelson.”

  Her handshake was strong, her eye contact direct. Kent liked that she felt no need to tack doctor, head neurologist, or some other title onto her introduction.

  She held up a large yellow envelope. “You’re a doctor. Right?”

  “A veterinarian.”

  “I have the radiographs we just got on Emily.” She pointed down the hall. “Right now there’s a team of surgeons getting the bleeding and soft tissue damage under control. Next, we go in to remove the bullet.”

  He managed to nod his head.

  “From the preliminary films, we know the bullet hit her spine,” Doctor Nelson said. “We’re going to see what these radiographs show us. You’re welcome to join us.”

  The unusual offer surprised Kent. Again he nodded dumbly, then followed Dr. Nelson into a room lighted only by a bank of rectangular white x-ray film viewers. She introduced other members of the team as she progressively darkened the room by snapping films of Emily’s lower back on to several of the viewers.

  Kent gasped the instant he saw the first film. The mushroom-shaped bullet, whiter than anything else on the film, was in the middle of a vertebrae.

  “Oh, my God! The bullet’s lodged in her spine.”

  He glanced over at the team, amazed that they showed no reaction to such a terrible finding. For a long time they remained silent, a half dozen faces illuminated by the screens like a coven of witches around a sacred fire.

  Out of pure frustration, he asked, “What do you think?”

  It was as if no one heard him. The team members continued to scrutinize the films without a word.

  Kent moaned softly, and drove the heels of his hands into his temples.

  Dr. Nelson, who was leaning forward, braced on her arms as she studied the films, turned to him. “Are you all right?” Her tone was that of a professional trying to do her job. Kent knew she was telling him to leave if he was going to be a distraction.

  He swallowed hard. “I’m okay.” He gestured toward the bank of x-rays. “It’s just — it looks so bad.”

  “Of course it’s bad. We knew that it would be, from the location of the entry hole, the quick neuro exam, and the films we did while they were prepping her. Then, on top of that, we have her pre-existing condition.” She ran her finger down the sigmoid curve of vertebrae that was Emily’s lower back. Kent had seen that lesion a hundred times.

  “What are her chances?”

  Dr. Nelson kept her eyes on the screen. “To survive? Pretty good. To walk?” She raised and lowered her shoulders. “I don’t know.”

  As she turned back to her team, Kent found his way to a bench in the hallway and sat, face in hands. He rocked in a slow, delirious rhythm. Tears trickled into his palms. “Emily, how could I let this happen?”

  A moment later, a hand touched gently on his shoulder. He turned and saw Dr. Nelson’s face — a very somber face.

  “Doctor Stephenson, we’ve decided it would be best to do the whole thing now.”

  “Whatever you think. What’s ‘the whole thing’?”

  “The bullet shattered Emily’s vertebrae right at her birth defect.

  “I saw that.”

  “Let me finish. The consensus of the team is that since the vertebrae will have to be rebuilt anyway, the best time to correct both problems is now.”

  “The consensus?”

  She nodded. “Yep, that’s all it is. No one knows for sure what we’ll find when we get in there. Maybe we can fix it. Maybe we can’t. But that’s the plan for now. As they say, ‘subject to change without notice.’”

  “That’s a lot of surgery.”

  “A huge amount.”

  “Will she be paralyzed?”

  “She already is. The question is, can we undo it?”

  Dr. Nelson gave him a moment to reply, but there were no words. She turned and disappeared back into the xray room.

  After a while, he raised his head and stared at the blank wall across from him. His eyes narrowed. Figurante. “Where is that son-of-a-bitch?”

  There was no one to answer, but it didn’t matter. He’d find him. He pushed himself to his feet and headed out of the hospital.

  CHAPTER 41

  Kent rolled through the possibilities. Figurante’s too smart to head for Kentucky tonight. He’s got to figure the police have an ID on his car, and they’ll be watching everywhere. Besides, he’s hurt. The CVC? Maybe he’ll try to get medical attention there. No. The place will be crawling with cops. Back to VinChaRo? Cops there, too. Kent drove and brooded. Then it hit him, as if a Clydesdale had kicked him. I bet he’ll head to Pine Holt. He knows Margaret is there alone. It’s the last place anyone would expect him to go.

  Kent turned his mobile unit toward Pine Holt and cursed the rain that coated the road with an oily sheen. The beam from the truck’s headlights danced off the highway. He squinted against the glare, then glance down at the speedometer. It read seventy. He roared through Jefferson, then on to the narrow backcountry roads. Each time he rounded a curve, he caught gravel, but managed to wrestle the tires off the shoulder and back onto the macadam.

  It was one of those swerves that caused the truck’s headlights to sweep across a field of freshly cut alfalfa and flash for a second on a car. Startled, Kent twisted for a better look as he sped past. It was a few yards into the field, resting on its roof, four wheels to the sky. His instinct to stop and investigate, make sure that there was no one in need of help, kicked in. He pushed it out of his head. Not this time, he couldn’t stop now. If the driver was still out there, he was on his own. He turned his attention back to the road. Then, a burst of recognition lit up his brain and he slammed on the brakes. The truck skidded a stop. That car looked like the Lincoln Figurante had been driving. The tir
es squealed for traction as he rammed the truck into reverse.

  He nosed the mobile unit just into the field so that its lights shown on the car. It was still rocking when he jumped out. No signs of life. He pulled a flashlight from behind the seat, and headed toward the car. He could smell the odor of smoke as he crossed into the field. He beamed his light onto the car. Yeah, it sure looked like Figurante’s Lincoln. He circled around to the driver’s side and heard a soft moan. He pointed his light in the direction of the sound, and the bean fell on a person, legs pinned beneath the wreckage.

  When Figurante’s blood-smeared face turned toward the light, Kent sent up a thank you to the gods of retribution.

  Figurante moaned again and swung a forearm to shield his eyes. “Help! I need help.”

  Kent stood holding the beam on Figurante, but did not speak.

  Figurante didn’t know who was behind the light, and didn’t care. “My legs are trapped. I can’t move. Help me. Please.”

  When there was no reply, Figurante strained to see the person in the darkness behind the light. “What’s the matter with you?” he shouted. “Get me out of here!”

  “You shot my daughter,” Kent said.

  Ignoring the condemnation, Figurante responded with elation at the sound of a familiar voice. “Kent? Kent Stephenson? Is that you?”

  “You killed Charles. And you shot Emily!”

  “Burton Bush killed Charles.” Figurante wailed. “Not me. Burton drowned the son of a bitch after he shot his mouth off and told Charles what happened to Simpatico.”

  “You gave Burton the orders. Then you killed him, too. I saw your cane mark on the side of his head.”

  Figurante looked deflated. He was silent for a few heartbeats, then, “I don’t know anything about your daughter.”

  “The girl at the hospital.”

  Figurante’s confusion transformed into enlightenment, then fear. “That crooked kid? The one that hit me? She is your daughter? Mierda.”

  Every organ, every cell, in Kent’s body roared, kill him, kill him, kill him!

  The light shifted in Kent’s hand just enough for Figurante to see a cold calmness sweep over Kent. It terrified Figurante and he struggled to pull himself free.

  Kent turned slowly and retreated to his truck.

  Figurante screamed, “Kent! Come back here. I can explain everything. You can’t leave me like this. Help me!”

  Still in a trance, Kent opened the mobile unit and retrieved a vial. In the flashlight’s white light, its contents reflected an unmistakable fluorescent blue — the same blue that had relieved the foal’s suffering when he was with Aubrey. Only now he wanted it to kill without mercy.

  He returned to Figurante and set his light on top of the car so that its beam spotlighted the trapped murderer.

  “Jesus, I thought you left,” Figurante said.

  Kent crouched close to him, syringe in hand, extracting fluid from the vial.

  “I don’t need any medicine,” Figurante said. “Just get me out of here.”

  Kent eased the vial closer so that its iridescence blue glowed in the spotlight. Horror washed across Figurante’s face. “That’s euthanasia solution!”

  “Uh-huh,” Kent said, without looking away from the vial.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Figurante reach for his cane that was in the grass next to him. Kent ripped it from his grasp and heaved it into the darkness. “You won’t be needing that.”

  Kent reached across, grabbed Figurante’s arm, and pulled it out straight. Figurante struggled and let out a cursing scream. Kent stepped hard on his wrist, pinning it against the ground. Another scream. Kent ignored it. He bent close, searched the arm for a likely vein, and aligned the syringe above the purple rivulet.

  Then, from behind him he heard Aubrey’s voice. In the tone she used to calm a frantic stallion, she said, “That will only make things harder for Emily.”

  Her voice in the night confused Kent for a second. Then his eyes returned to the syringe poised on Figurante’s arm. “I want to kill him. I want to see him die.”

  “Let the police have him, Kent. Don’t harness yourself with this.”

  Kent held his position.

  Figurante lay silent. His eyes, bulging with fear, were fixed on Kent. A mumbling pray for Kent to heed Aubrey’s words, gurgled up his throat.

  “I want him dead,” Kent said. “No trial, no lawyers, no prison. Dead!”

  “I want to be with you, Kent. Forever. This will ruin it. Please, don’t let him destroy our lives, too.”

  “He shot Emily!”

  “Make him pay, not us.”

  Kent held steady for an eternity, then he slowly released his grip and allowed the syringe to fall away.

  “We can call for help from my truck,” he said, and they were the most difficult words he’d ever spoken.

  Aubrey steadied him as they made their way back to the mobile unit. She was dialing when an electrical crackle broke the night silence, and a burst of sparks flashed like daylight. Kent and Aubrey spun reflexively toward the wreck. Their eyes burned, but neither looked away as they watched the nova explosion that knelled the fiery execution of Hector Figurante.

  CHAPTER 42

  Spring 1987

  In the early evening darkness, Chalk-Eye heaved his tired bones over the board fence, crossed the paddock, and eased open the door to VinChaRo’s foaling barn. Yeah, he’d sworn he’d never stay at this farm again after what happened last time, but that was a year ago. A year was an eternity for Chalk-Eye — or any other bum, for that matter. By now, the terrible memory of that night was lost in the fog of his past. Besides, bums were bums — they changed their minds all the time. He’d hitched and walked northward since sun up, and he was beat. He could make it work, that was what the booze was for. Last time he stayed in the stallion barn. He wasn’t going to do that again. That was for sure. This time he was going to hole-up in the barn where they kept the mares and foals.

  He crept in, then paused, watching and listening. When he was sure no one was around, he found a few bales of straw and built himself a cubby below a window facing east. The morning sun would feel good. He crawled in and nestled into the clean straw. He pulled a bottle out of his pocket, squinted to check the level, and took a swig for supper. He shuddered, partly from the wonderful burn of the whiskey and partly from the night chill. Man, spring was slow to come this far north. He pulled his fatigue jacket tight around his neck, curled up into a ball, and dropped to sleep, thinking about the long day he had tomorrow.

  Cool air blew in the window of Kent’s mobile unit and washed across his face as he and Lucinda drove familiar roads making his rounds through a countryside that was still mostly gray and silver. Each day, the few remaining patches of snow retreated farther into the hedgerows and shaded gullies. He breathed deeply of the fresh air, replenishing his lungs and his soul. Spring always arrived right when you wondered just how much more winter you could take.

  Today was Emily’s birthday. This morning she had showed him the card from Ecuador — Maria was doing well as the manager of her father’s horse farm in Quito. Emily made him promise someday soon they’d visit her. Tonight they would celebrate her birthday, but not the fact that it was one year ago today that he’d received Aubrey’s call with the terrible news about Simpatico, the call that had started the summer’s strange events.

  He was reminiscing about all that when the ring of his mobile phone jarred him. It was Sally.

  “Doc, I just got a call from Elizabeth St. Pierre. She’d like you to stop over.”

  Not again, Kent thought. “Did she say why?”

  “Something about a foal. She was kind of vague. She wouldn’t give me any details.”

  “Did she sound upset?”

  “Not really.”

  At least it wasn’t one of the stallions.
He let himself breathe again and slowed to make a turn that would head him toward VinChaRo. “All right. I’ll head over there now.”

  “She asked that you bring Emily.”

  “Elizabeth wants me to bring Emily over to see a foal?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Then it’s not a sick foal?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just telling you what she said.”

  Kent considered the request for a moment. “Okay, if that’s what she wants. Call her back, tell her we’re coming. Then call Pine Holt and tell Emily to be ready in ten minutes.”

  Elizabeth came out to greet them as he pulled into the lot in front of VinChaRo’s office. Aubrey was at her side.

  “Good morning,” Elizabeth said. She made a sweeping gesture toward the sky. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

  Kent gave Aubrey a peck on the cheek. Nowadays, he didn’t care who saw.

  When he noticed Barry trailing behind his mother, he knew something was up.

  “Not working at the CVC today?”

  “I was going to,” Barry said, and gestured toward Elizabeth. “But Mrs. St Pierre asked me to stop over. So here I am.”

  Kent gave Aubrey a questioning look.

  “Don’t look at me. I know nothing,” she said.

  “All right. That it is,” he said, suddenly suspicious of Elizabeth’s high mood. “What’s going on? Sally said you have a sick foal or something.”

  “Patience, Doctor. All in good time.” Elizabeth threaded her arm through Aubrey’s. “I want to be sure my soul mates are part of this.”

  “Part of what?”

  She ignored Kent’s question and pointed toward Emily. She beamed a smile as she watched Emily uncoil from the truck and stand, as straight as a soldier. Emily moved toward them with long, confident strides, then treated them to a pirouette.

  “I’m a walking miracle of modern medicine,” she said. “Doctor Nelson says in a few more months these legs of mine will be good as new. Actually better than new in my case.”