Bullet Work

by Steve O'Brien

  When Dan got to the track and moved toward the scene, he could see Dancett and Kimbrough talking. The vet van had been parked to block the view of the grandstand. Kimbrough put his hands to his face, pushing his cowboy hat back on his head. He was shaking his head side to side slightly. Dancett stared at him directly and put a hand on his shoulder. Kimbrough brought his hands down and nodded.

  Dancett moved quickly to the vet van and rummaged through a side panel. He quickly drew out two long, slender boxes and cracked the casings to remove the hypodermic needles. Dancett skillfully pierced the small medicine bottle with one of the needles and drew in the fluid. He handed the hypo to a man standing near him and filled the second needle with the same liquid.

  In the trade it was called “the pink” because of the tinged color to the substance. In the lab it was called sodium pentobarbitol. For this filly it would simply be the end of suffering.

  AJ was kicking out wildly with his legs and was on his belly, shaking and convulsing. He wouldn’t remove his hands from the horse. All stood back a step as Dancett approached.

  AJ was oblivious to all that was around him. Arestie was still. That made Dancett’s job easier. He wouldn’t need to administer a tranquilizer.

  Dancett knelt next to the horse and found a bulging vein in Arestie’s neck. He deftly injected the barbiturate from the first needle, then threw that one aside and held his hand out to the man holding the other needle. Each injection was 60 ccs of the pink and would depress the respiratory system until death quickly ensued.

  All was quiet with the exception of the engines of the vet van and ambulance and the sounds coming from AJ. Dancett leaned forward.

  Dan suddenly had a sickening feeling. He couldn’t define it. He rushed forward. “AJ, get away!” Dancett plunged the second needle to the hilt. “Get the boy’s hands off the horse,” Dan screamed. “AJ, let go!”

  Dan ran forward, trying to get through the group of men standing near the horse. “Get his hands off.” Dancett’s needle was empty, and he withdrew it. Dan dove toward AJ and tried to pull him off the horse.

  AJ had collapsed onto the horse. Dan pulled and tried to roll his small, sweaty body near him. AJ flopped over and was unresponsive. Dan put his hand on his chest and could feel no heartbeat. He wasn’t breathing.

  “Get a doctor over here,” Dan shouted. He put his fingers on AJ’s neck as he’d seen done in television programs. He couldn’t feel a pulse. “God damn it, get a doctor over here.”

  Dancett stared at him. He was on his knees, still holding the needle, and looked at Dan like I didn’t do that. Dancett jumped up and came to where Dan was, on the other side of the horse. “We need to give him CPR.”

  Vic cleared AJ’s mouth and smeared blood away from his nose. He pressed the nostrils closed and put his mouth on AJ’s. Dan waited for three breaths, then compressed AJ’s chest for five beats. Vic repeated, then Dan repeated. Vic repeated; Dan repeated. They checked for a pulse. They repeated and repeated and checked for a pulse, for a breath, anything.

  “Don’t stop,” Dan said, wheezing from the exertion.

  Vic repeated; Dan repeated. The men, who moments before had formed a fortress around them, sagged and shuffled away, heads hanging. Finally, Vic looked across and shook his head. Dan kept going, exhausted, breathless, but relentless. He gave CPR and pressed on the boy’s chest. His motions were ragged and choppy. Vic sat silent. There were no right words. Dan looked pleadingly at Vic. Blood covered Dan’s chin and ran down the side of his face. Vic’s eyes told all.

  Dan collapsed back on his haunches. Vic slowly got to his feet and walked past Dan, pausing to squeeze his shoulder lightly.

  Somewhere, sixty yards away from Dan, they were taking the picture of Aly Dancer in the winner’s circle—his baby, the winner of the My Lassie Stakes, his undefeated two-year-old filly. The picture would show only Jake, Beth, and Jorge standing in the winner’s circle. When the photo was snapped, Kyle was sitting, looking up the track toward the commotion. No one was smiling. A tear could be seen glistening on Beth’s cheek.

  Dan put one arm underneath AJ’s neck and one under his knees. He carried him to the ambulance. They had Dagens on a bed inside the ambulance, and there was a flurry of medical activity around him.

  One of the EMTs met Dan outside the back door of the ambulance. He reached forward, took AJ from him, and lifted the boy into the ambulance.

  Dan collapsed backward onto the seat of his pants. He put his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands.

  And he cried.

  Chapter 54

  the drive home was interminable. The stop lights seemed to last hours—so long one’s life could flash before his eyes while waiting for a green light. He slogged forward through the traffic like rancid water through a plugged pipe.

  All thoughts turned to what he should have done. Why he failed to act? How he could have changed the outcome?

  He visualized himself lunging for AJ and pulling his hands free from Arestie. The boy was dazed, sobbing, and resistant but still alive. Then reality would crack him between the eyes like an axe handle.

  He just stood there and watched his friend die. How could he have known? He knew. Yes, he knew. He had just failed to act.

  Why do people leave me? he thought. His dad, Vickie, now Ananias. What caused these people to turn from him, to desert him? Or did he desert them?

  Maybe that’s why his relationship with horses was better. No emotional baggage—just property, just an investment. The emotional baggage was there all the same; it was just temporary. And if he controlled how long “temporary” was, everything was fine. Horses were better. You owned them for three years, maybe four, then they moved on. Or maybe Dan moved on—he wasn’t sure.

  He eased forward and stopped at the intersection as the light flashed from yellow to red. Loud honking erupted behind him. Only in Virginia were drivers chastised for failing to run a red light. He shook his head and replayed the events again. Darkness had shrouded the highway, and pin oak trees adjoining the highway leaned forward like a jury eager to convict him of cowardice.

  The honking returned as he failed to move the instant the light flashed green. He didn’t go to the barn following the race. He didn’t go anywhere. He sat in the middle of the racetrack as the ambulance pulled away with Dagens and his dead friend. After a while, Doc Dancett extended an arm and helped him to his feet. He said something, but Dan couldn’t hear him and couldn’t remember what it was.

  He staggered back to the grandstand, turned, and looked back to where Arestie had lain on the track. Everything was gone, except for the ghosts that taunted him. After several minutes he made his way to the parking lot. The winning tickets in his pocket were un-cashed and long forgotten.

  He sat in his car with his head on the steering wheel and his fingers laced behind his neck until he was the last car in the section. He’d driven home alone all his life. He never felt more alone than now. The weight in his chest pulled him farther down into the car seat as if he were going to fall through the bottom of the car onto the asphalt.

  At last he turned into the parking complex by his building. He eased down to the last open parking space at the far end of the building. He opened the door and was awash in humidity and the smell of freshly cut grass. His suit coat that had been freshly pressed ten hours before was like a year-old dishrag as he pulled it from the backseat.

  He cast it over his shoulder just as the body crushed into him from behind. He flew several steps forward and slammed onto the asphalt like a rookie quarterback blindsided by a blitzing safety. His hands fell under him, and he slid forward on his chest and the backs of his hands. He couldn’t gather his breath, facedown with a large body on his back. He tried to move but couldn’t.

  His arms were ripped behind his back despite his efforts to wedge his hands under him. He tried to look over his shoulder but could only see the cowboy boots and jeans of the man who knelt on his back. His hands were quickly secured with a pla
stic handcuff.

  Dan tried to scream, but a calloused and powerful hand enveloped his mouth and nostrils.

  “Don’t yell.”

  He knew the voice. It was Ginny Perino.

  Chapter 55

  dan tried to look out the sliver of window. It was all that was available from this angle. He tried to pick up any kind of landmark. He noticed a gas station sign and knew which direction they were headed. Then he realized that, from this angle, all gas station signs looked the same. They could be heading anywhere.

  Several turns quickly made the process random. The left-hand turns were particularly noteworthy as they would throw his head into the side of the pickup, and he would crunch up into a ball as they rolled that direction. His hands were bleeding yet felt cool because of the loss of circulation.

  Apparently believing that Dan would yell if given a chance, Ginny had fastened a silver piece of duct tape over Dan’s mouth. Ginny swooped Dan off the ground like a man picking up a sack of jelly beans and tossed him into the back of the crew cap pickup. Once in the vehicle he became truly terrified.

  Ginny pulled out his cell phone. The conversation was short. “Got him.” Followed by “Where?” and “Thirty minutes.” The phone slapped shut.

  They drove in silence—no radio, no conversation, just the sound of rubber moving over the cement. Ginny’s instructions to Dan were “Don’t move.” Even if he did move, there was nothing he could do. Ginny could lay a beating on Dan from his position and never be distracted in driving the vehicle.

  After a long stint on a straight highway, Ginny made a right turn, a left turn, another quick right, and pulled up to a weathered red brick warehouse. Dan could see the blackened and pock-marked bricks along with the one boarded up window. It was a place that, unfortunately, would ensure extreme privacy. Ginny honked the horn, and the overhead door went up. After a few seconds the pickup pulled forward. The door came back down behind them.

  “Dan Morgan—long time, no see,” said Belker. Ginny pushed Dan forward and made it apparent that he was to sit on the lone chair in the middle of the warehouse. Belker was full of himself as he chuckled. “Nice win today. Too bad you’ll never see her race again.”

  Dan winced as Ginny ripped the tape off his mouth. He spat and said, “You make me sick.”

  Ginny unfolded a knife, walked behind Dan, and in one motion sliced off the handcuffs.

  Belker shot a puzzled look at Ginny. “Yeah, I guess we don’t need a dead body in handcuffs,” said Belker as he pulled the handgun tucked into his belt. Dan rubbed his wrists and shook his fingers. They were blue and cold.

  “Appreciate the help, Ginny,” Belker said.

  Ginny just glared at Belker. The look made Belker step back and reach for a package on the stack of boxes behind him. “As agreed. Twenty Gs.” He tossed the package to Ginny. It hit Ginny in the chest and fell to the ground. Ginny kept moving forward.

  “What?” Belker pleaded. “That was our deal. What are you doing? What do you want?” He moved backward against a wall of boxes. Then apparently remembering that he was holding a gun, Belker shook it at Ginny as if to say, Look, I have a gun. Ginny kept moving.

  “Don’t make me do it, Ginny.”

  “You won’t do it,” said Ginny.

  “Wha-what do you mean?”

  “You won’t shoot me.”

  Dan had seen him shoot a man already. He knew Belker could do it.

  “How do you know?” said Belker.

  “’Cause you’re a coward.”

  Belker extended the gun just as Ginny leapt toward him. Ginny knocked Belker’s arm to the side. The gun fired. Cement dust splashed up from the floor a foot in front of Dan. He lunged from the chair and dove behind the edge of Ginny’s truck.

  Ginny was on Belker. He grabbed the gun from Belker’s hands like he was taking a rattle from a baby, except he crushed Belker’s hand in the process.

  “What are you doing?” Belker squealed. Ginny grabbed the front of Belker’s shirt and slammed him against the boxes, then he slammed his fist into the side of Belker’s face. The sound was like a bat hitting a melon. “What are you doing? We had a deal.”

  Ginny hit him again and again. Belker’s legs went wobbly, and Ginny let him fall to the ground. Then he got down on one knee and hit him again and again.

  Dan jumped up. “Ginny. Stop. You’re going to kill him.” He wanted to run but couldn’t bring himself to move.

  Belker was beyond providing resistance. Ginny hit him again, then gave him two downward shots to the ribs. “Ginny. That’s enough,” Dan yelled.

  Ginny looked over, slipped another plastic cuff from his back pocket, and quickly bound Belker’s limp arms together. Then he stood. He wasn’t even breathing hard.

  Dan raised his hands and backed away. “Ginny, come on now. I got no beef with you.”

  Ginny swept his hair back into place with his left hand. “Guy pissed me off.” He walked past Dan without looking at him. He walked past the pickup and hit the button to open the garage door. Dan stammered for something to say. Nothing came out. “No need to hurt those horses,” Ginny said. “Guy pissed me off.”

  “Ginny, I don’t get it. Why’d you rough me up and tie my hands? I would have gone along.”

  “Needed you to be believable.”

  “Believable?”

  “Hard to fake bein’ scared.” Ginny opened the pickup door and pointed at Dan. “You were scared.”

  “Jesus, I guess.”

  Ginny smirked as he started to get into the truck. The first expression of any emotion Dan had ever witnessed in Ginny. Dan pointed at the package on the floor. “What about the money? Ginny, take the money.”

  “Not my money. Didn’t earn it.”

  Ginny backed out of the warehouse and into the street. He shifted into drive and pulled away without looking back.

  Dan walked over to where Belker laid on the floor. He was moaning and wheezing, his cheek bone damaged and nose busted. Dan kicked the gun, and it skittered across the floor, hitting the far wall. Dan walked outside and dialed his cell phone.

  “Detective Manning, this is Dan Morgan. I’ve got Belker. Come by and pick him up.”

  “Where are you?”

  Dan looked up at the street signs at the intersection. “Warehouse at Collins and Simmons.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Bring along medical assistance.” Then he hung up.

  Manning arrived by squad car twenty minutes later. The ambulance arrived a few minutes earlier. The EMTs stood outside despite the fact that Belker was again conscious. They didn’t want to contaminate a crime scene.

  “What do we got here?” said Manning as he approached.

  “He grabbed me at my place, tied me up, and brought me here.” Dan waved toward the chair where the cut handcuff and duct tape were. Manning motioned to the techs to assist Belker, who was rolling side to side on the floor. Dan continued, “He cut the cuffs off me, which was a mistake. He was going to shoot me, but I created a diversion. The weapon was fired. Nobody hit.”

  Manning looked down at Belker’s battered and bloodied face, then back at Dan. “You did this?”

  Dan locked eyes with Belker. They’d had a little conversation about that before the EMTs arrived. Belker didn’t do much talking. Dan wasn’t sure Belker understood anything, the way his brain was rattled. With all he faced right now, round two with Ginny Perino wasn’t something Belker would want any part of.

  Dan glanced down to his bleeding hands and back to Belker. “Yep.” Belker nodded slightly, or maybe it was just a twitch that Dan saw. “Guess I had a little surge of adrenaline.”

  “No shit, you think?” Manning waved to the other officer and motioned him to bag up the gun, cuff, and tape. “What’s the package?”

  “Cash. From the extortion scam.”

  “What? He brought it in from his jeep just to—what? Brag about it?”

  “Something like that,” Dan said.

  “You car
ry around spare sets of plasti-cuffs?” Manning asked, looking around the warehouse, studying everything but Dan.

  “He had them in his pocket. I guess his failsafe.”

  “Damn convenient.”

  “Self-defense, detective,” Dan said.

  Manning stared straight at Dan. “Let’s see. Guy nabs you off the street, has you bound and gagged, drags you all the way to Back Ass, Virginia, to kill you, then decides to cut you free—you know, so it’s a fair fight, I guess. Let’s you get close enough to jump him, misses you with a pistol shot; you overpower him, beat the living crap out of him, and tie his hands with the man’s fail safe, spare set of plasti-cuffs. Am I tracking you so far?”

  Dan just stared back.

  “It’s either a crock of bull, or you’re the luckiest son of a bitch to walk the earth.”

  Dan didn’t laugh or change expression. “It was self-defense.”

  Manning pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. “Unbelievable. This from the guy who rode a freaking horse through the wall of a burning barn. Jesus.” He opened his eyes and watched as the techs rolled Belker toward the ambulance. “I suppose Belker will confirm all that. That is, after they pull the feeding tube out of the guy.”

  “He will, unless he decides to lie about it. He’s done a little of that already.”

  Manning squinted at Dan, shook his head, and scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, what the hell, looks like self-defense to me.”

  Chapter 56

  the phone rang early. It was John O’Kelly, the backside pastor. They were holding a memorial ceremony for AJ at Crok’s following Monday’s morning works. He wanted to know whether Dan would say a few words. Latimer mentioned to O’Kelly that he’d known the kid. Dan didn’t know what he could say but agreed anyway.

  Crok’s was jammed with folks holding their hats in their hands. A makeshift podium was at the far end of the kitchen. All the seats were filled, and people were lined up against every wall. This wasn’t a typical religious crowd. These were just people looking for some kind of answer and a way to reconcile what they had witnessed with what they knew. Dan had no idea what he would say to the group.