by Maggie Estep
I pick the pitchfork up. “Come out of there, Ariel,” I say.
“You’re dead,” she hisses, her face a tight mask as she unsteadily gets to her feet.
“What are you doing? Why?” I ask her.
“I’ve had enough of this,” she says evenly.
“Enough of what?” I stare at her, my mouth open.
“This is what my father left me,” she says, indicating Joe, “this and twenty-six others.”
“You own Joe?”
“Who’s Joe?”
“Joe. Raging Machete. Him.” I motion at the colt with my chin.
“Yes. I own Joe, then, or most of him,” she says, voice graveyard calm.
“And you’re going to kill him?”
“Kill is a strong word,” she says thoughtfully. For a moment she stares at me, dinner-plate eyes big and blue. Suddenly, she turns and reaches into a bag she has there in the straw. I bring the pitchfork down over the back of her head and there’s a thudding sound. She collapses forward—but she’s not out. I lift the pitchfork again and bring it down harder, spooking the poor horse, who rears again as Ariel lands face first in the straw.
“Joe, it’s okay,” I say to the colt numbly as I stare from my hands clasping the pitchfork to Ariel’s prone form.
I want to touch her, feel for a pulse, but I can’t. I can’t do anything but stand there, whispering to soothe the horse. Time freezes.
Eventually, I hear someone screaming outside the barn. A few seconds later the barn door is torn open and, in a blur of movement and blasphemy, Coleman appears.
He’s speaking gibberish and cradling one of the pitbulls in his arms. “How could you do this to Honey?” he says, coming toward me, his voice a low moan. He extends his arms, showing me the lifeless mass of honey-colored muscle, the head lolling unnaturally back.
I shake my own head and point at Ariel on the ground. “She must have done that. She’s a terrible woman. She tried to kill Joe,” I say, “and me.”
“Both my dogs,” Coleman says, oblivious. “Pokey too. He’s lying out there.” Coleman’s voice is acid with pain, “My dogs,” he says.
“I’m so sorry, Coleman.” I force myself to look at the inert dog, who at that instant twitches.
Coleman twitches in response. Feels for the dog’s pulse. “She’s alive,” he says triumphantly.
Illustrating just how alive she is, the dog lets out a small growl and stirs again. Coleman puts her down.
“Pokey!” he calls out, hopeful. He looks to the door, but he clearly doesn’t want to leave the barely revived Honey.
“I’ll go see,” I say, and still holding the pitchfork between my bound hands, come out of the stall.
“Put that down,” Coleman thunders.
I drop the makeshift weapon then go out to the yard, where I find a very much alive Pokey, leveling his murderous gaze at me. “He’s alive too,” I call back to Coleman.
I hear Coleman’s choked cry of relief.
I go back into the barn. I’m numb. I’ve never even hit anybody much less snuffed out a life. I come back to where Coleman is standing. Honey has gotten to her feet now and is busy truffling around Ariel’s head, familiarizing herself with the scent of her would-be assassin. Who, as it happens, is also alive.
“The bitch has a pulse,” Coleman says, disappointed. “Let’s get her out of the horse’s stall before she tries any more stupid shit.”
It’s hard with my hands bound, but while Coleman lifts her under the shoulders, I grab Ariel’s feet, clad in elegant taupe sandals. We lay her body in the aisle. Coleman goes back into the stall to retrieve Ariel’s bag and the gun she’d been reaching for when I beat her over the head with my pitchfork.
“Who is this female anyway?” Coleman asks, gingerly holding the gun.
“Ariel,” I tell him, “your friend Frank’s girlfriend. And one of Joe’s owners.”
“Huh?” Coleman blinks at me.
“She owns a big percentage of Joe. And some other horses. And I think Frank was supposed to off Joe—and maybe me too, but he didn’t, so she was gonna do her own dirty work.”
I am nauseated as I look down at Ariel’s face, hating myself for having been duped by her.
“Apparently her father left her a string of horses,” I explain. “She’s got a few loose screws, so I guess she got into financial trouble and hired Frank to kill her own horse for the insurance.”
Coleman frowns. “That’s a big accusation you making, miss.”
“He didn’t do it, though. I think maybe he’s killed some horses before but then he took up with this apprentice jockey, and I guess she was pressuring him to stop.”
“Tiny blond woman?” Coleman interjects.
“Yeah, Molly. Why, you know her?”
“He brought her by here once.”
“I think she talked him out of the horse killing. And then she got killed.”
“Huh?” Coleman says again, looking at me like I’m truly insane.
“I think our friend here is an accomplished murderess.” I point at Ariel’s prone form.
“Yeah?” Coleman doesn’t look convinced.
“Yeah,” I tell him. Then I tell him all I know. And it doesn’t make him happy.
“This lady is going to jail,” he says evenly. “Ain’t nobody gonna fuck with my dogs and not do time.” He’s evidently not fazed that she very possibly killed Little Molly and nearly killed Joe. And me. It’s the attempt on his dogs that has him riled.
“We ought to let the dogs at her for what she did,” Coleman adds. “Wake the bitch up and send her into the yard, let Pokey and Honey do their thing.”
I say nothing. I tend to agree.
“I gotta call the cops,” Coleman says now. “You got a phone?”
“Yeah, but it’s not working.”
“Then I’m leaving you here while I go across the way to use the phone.”
“You think you might take these handcuffs off first?”
Coleman shrugs. “I don’t have the key.”
“What if Ariel wakes up?”
“Shoot her,” Coleman says matter-of-factly, wedging her gun between my two bound hands.
“I need a smoke,” I say as I stare at the weapon.
“You need what?” Coleman scowls.
“A smoke.”
“I thought that’s what you said,” the cowboy grumbles. “No smoking in the barn.”
“I’m having a nicotine fit.”
“Builds character. Stay here. I’ll be back.” He walks off, Honey and Pokey at his heels. The dogs don’t seem much the worse for the wear. They calmly go back to their posts near the gate, ignoring me now that Coleman’s told them I’m okay.
I walk to the door and, wedging the gun under my arm, fish with my bound unihand for my pack of smokes. It takes some doing but I manage to extract one from the pack and light it, careful to exhale out into the yard. I glance around at my surroundings. I feel like I’ve walked into some remote corner of the Appalachians. To my left is a gargantuan manure pile. To my right, two trailers stacked on top of each other. Across the dirt road are a number of ramshackle constructions that look like chicken coops but are evidently stables. A tired purple school bus with the legend FEDERATION OF BLACK COWBOYS emblazoned on its side sits with its front end poking out of a driveway.
I stare up at a sky of uniform slate gray. A plane is flying low. I pull smoke deep into my lungs. And nearly jump out of my skin when someone comes up behind me and puts their hand on my shoulder.
The cigarette flies out of my mouth and I flip around, fumbling to get the gun from under my arm and into my hands and aim it at Ariel. Only it’s not Ariel. It’s Ned.
“What the fuck?” is all that comes out of my mouth.
“Hi,” he says, gently taking the gun from under my arm and pointing it down at the ground. “What’s up?” he asks conversationally.
“Ned,” I say numbly.
“Ruby,” he says. “I guess that would be our hors
e assassin?” He motions toward Ariel.
“What are you doing here?” I say.
“Oh, nothing. Guess you’re just doing my job for me,” he says, reaching into his pocket. I shrink away from him, expecting him to whip out a can of mace.
“I think it’s time for you to know who I am,” he says, flipping open a little protective case revealing an ID card with a picture of Ned, or Special Agent Edward Burke, according to the FBI badge. “Hey,” he says, noticing that my smoldering cigarette has fallen to the ground, “no smoking near the barn.” He smiles.
“What the fuck is this?”
“I’m sorry.” Ned shrugs, turning serious again, “I thought you were in on it.”
“You’re a cop?” I spit.
“FBI. I thought you knew that.”
“How the hell would I know that?”
“I thought that’s why you were avoiding me. Until I saw you at her apartment.” He motions at Ariel again. “Then I couldn’t afford to risk you blowing my cover. I’m sorry if I misled you. I feel badly.”
“You mean all this time you were an FBI guy?”
“Since 1993, yes.”
“What the hell were you doing at the racetrack?”
“Trying to catch horse assassins.”
“But you know all about horses.”
“Sure. What I told you was true. Started walking hots before school when I was a kid. Got out of high school and spent a summer at Belmont and Saratoga rubbing for Will Lott. Even got to be foreman. I could’ve been a lifer at the track. But then I ended up in the FBI.”
“Jesus.” I shake my head.
“You want to tell me what happened here?”
I don’t really feel like looking at the guy much less speaking to him, but of course I end up telling him all I know.
“We got her now,” Ned says eventually. “Attempted murder, never mind contracting to have her horses killed. I imagine we’re going to find she’s responsible for Molly Pedersen’s death as well. Murder and attempted murder.”
“Attempted murder? Me?”
“Frank.”
“Frank? When?”
“He showed up at the barn about an hour ago. She shot him. He’s in ICU as we speak.”
My jaw hangs open.
Ned reaches over and shuts it. I recoil. He looks wounded.
A cop car pulls up. Two uniformed black guys emerge from the cruiser. They’re both exceptionally tall and have to struggle to get out of the car.
“You’re the Ruby person?” asks Cop One, a light-skinned mustached man with a narrow face.
“Yeah,” I say, wondering at the turn of phrase.
Coleman comes to stand next to me and indicates the barn door to the cops. “The female inside the barn there tried to murder my dogs, Eric. And this lady here. And her horse.”
“He’s not my horse,” I clarify.
“Right. Tried to murder her own horse. She’s in there.” Coleman continues motioning at the barn door as Ned introduces himself to the officers. After a few exchanges they all go into the barn. I follow.
The cops both have to duck to get in.
“Oh yeah,” Coleman says, casually indicating Ariel’s supine form in the aisle. “Ruby hit her on the head with a pitchfork. You might need an ambulance.”
Both cops stop in their tracks and look at me like I’m dangerous.
“Call the lieutenant,” says Cop Two, the darker-skinned one, who has huge eyes that seem to be threatening to pop out of their sockets.
Cop One nods, then takes my elbow. “I need you to step outside with me, ma’am,” he tells me.
I look over at Ned for help, but he’s on his cell phone and paying no attention.
What had seemed surreal for the last fifteen or so minutes abruptly becomes reality.
“So this was self-defense?” Cop One asks.
“She was trying to electrocute the horse,” I say, “and possibly me too.”
“And what were you doing here? And whose horse is this, if it’s not yours?”
“I already told you, it’s her horse. She was trying to kill her own horse.”
I can see from the look on the cop’s face that he thinks I’m a total raving lunatic.
I go back, explaining the whole story from the beginning, slowly. By the time I get to the part where I smash Ariel over the head with the pitchfork, Ned comes to rescue me.
“It’s okay,” he tells the cop, “I’ve got a handle on this.” The cop glowers as Ned/Edward takes my elbow and guides me away. He’s gotten hold of some sort of handcuff skeleton key and he unlocks the cuffs. I rub my wrists.
Meanwhile, an ambulance has pulled up in front of the stable. Ned and I watch the cop direct the two paramedics—a stocky Latin woman and a chunky white guy—to Ariel.
A few moments later the Latin woman emerges. “Unconscious,” she tells us, in case we hadn’t noticed.
Cop One grunts. The Latin woman goes over to the ambulance and pulls out a stretcher and some gear. Soon, she and her partner are wheeling Ariel over to the ambulance.
After a quick tête-à-tête with his partner, Cop Two gets in the back of the ambulance, leaving Cop One behind.
The ambulance pulls out of the little yard, siren wailing away even though they’re not likely to encounter traffic in the short journey to Baptist Medical Center. Driving fast and making noise are probably the lone pleasures of paramedic life.
Cop One turns to Coleman and starts interrogating him as Ned leads me a little ways down the muddy path in front of the stable.
“You okay?” he asks as we take seats on two overturned milk crates.
“No,” I say, still not used to the idea of Ned’s new identity.
“Do you hate me?”
“I don’t know. I’m not thinking about it. My friend died.”
“What do you mean?”
“My friend. Oliver. The one who disabled you at Ariel’s place. He’s dead. Yesterday morning. Cancer. I didn’t get to say good-bye.”
“Dead? But he just kicked my ass.”
“He won’t be kicking anyone’s ass now.”
Ned looks at me gravely. He reaches over to put an arm around my shoulder. I pull away. Then look at him. His eyes are the same bright green they were when we first got each other’s clothes off. This gives me the creeps.
“Is the thought of me going to make you nervous forever?”
“I don’t know.”
We fall silent and watch a sleek dark car pull up. Two men in suits emerge. A short red-haired man and a tall gangly guy who looks like Lurch from the Addams Family. Ned introduces them as his FBI cronies.
“This is Agent Storace,” Ned indicates the redheaded man, “and his partner, Agent Osterberg.” Ned motions at Lurch, who nods.
“You’re Ruby Murphy?” Agent Storace fastens his small brown eyes on me. He looks suspicious and leering at once.
I nod. He takes my elbow—evidently a preferred contact point for law enforcement officers—and steers me to the far side of the stable yard. Ned quickly follows, relaying a few key facts to his associates.
Once they’ve sucked me dry—and told me I’m going to have to go to the police precinct and give a statement—they turn their attention to Coleman and leave me standing there.
I take my phone out and punch the On switch. Nothing. I shake it. Nothing. I bang it against the edge of the stable yard fence. It comes to life.
I call Jane.
“You’re out of your mind,” she says when I finally let her get a word in. “I don’t know how you could have gotten into something like this. This is it now, yes? You’re going to calm down. Come over. We’ll talk about Oliver.”
“I’m not ready to talk.”
“Then you’ll come over and be silent.”
“I have to go to the police station. Then go home. I’ll call from home. It might be a while.”
Jane doesn’t sound terribly thrilled but eventually we hang up.
I call Ramirez and ask him
to feed my cats. He’s got a lot of questions for me but I cut him short, promising that a full explanation is forthcoming.
I stare at the manure pile. At a horse with his nose over his stall door. At Pokey and Honey, both standing guard again, excited by the goings on. I realize I’m hungry. Or at least, I think I am. I think that’s what the unpleasant boiling sensation in my stomach is about.
More cops have arrived. Uniforms and homicide detectives. A pair of them fences off Coleman’s stable with ominous yellow crime scene tape.
Eventually, Cop One comes and takes my elbow again. Puts me and Coleman in the back of his car. Ned comes to poke his head in the window and assure me this will be a brief adventure. I shrug.
Coleman and I sit in silence as we’re driven to the cop shop.
Mark Baxter
34 / Movements of the Gods
I take a moment to stare up at the pockmarked drop ceiling of my room. I still fail to see gods there, though I sense they are hovering. Mind you, I am not schizophrenic. Lately, pop culture has made much of the alleged charms of schizophrenics. But I know the truth of this illness. My mother wanes in and out of it, as well as a multitude of other diseases carefully detailed in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, a copy of which I keep at my bedside. I myself do not hear the gods speaking to me. Though sometimes they move through my hands. And I’m certain most psychiatrists would consider my speaking to the spirit of JSB to be a strong indication that I’ll follow in my lovely mother’s footsteps. But they would be wrong.
“What are you looking at, Mark Baxter?”
“Oh,” I say, turning my attention from the ceiling to the cellist, “not much.”
“I’ve noticed this alarming predilection for ceiling gazing a number of times,” Julia says.
“Congratulations, my dear.”
“I suspect it’s time to eat,” she says, unfazed by sarcasm.
“You spend far too much time thinking of food. You will grow fat in your dotage.”