Rescue Me

by Toni Leland

  Twenty minutes later, he wound through the narrow streets of a housing development west of Rockville, remembering the last time he’d been there. Another brutal memory. The modest ranch homes were clones of each other in different colors. Nice enough, but nothing spectacular except the price. Anything in proximity to Washington was expensive. He slowed, looking for the large evergreen that stood in front of Sal’s house. A red bicycle lay on its side in the front yard, and a minivan sat under the carport. He blew out a long breath and headed toward the front door.

  An obese dark-haired woman with small eyes answered the door. She didn’t smile.

  Dillon hesitated. “Is Maria home?”

  The woman eyed him for a second. “You must be looking for the woman who lived here before. We bought this place about four months ago.”

  Dillon nodded. “I see. Do you know where she went?”

  The woman gave him a wry look. “Now, why would I know something like that?”

  He stepped back. “Just asking. Thanks.”

  He walked slowly back to the car, deep in thought, so distracted he almost bumped into a little girl on roller skates.

  She looked up at him with big blue eyes. “My best friend used to live there.”

  “Really? I’ll bet you miss her. Do you know where she went?”

  The child nodded. “She went to live with her grandma. Her daddy died.”

  Dillon’s voice cracked. “Yes, I know. Well, you be careful on those skates.”

  He climbed into the car and watched the girl struggle to stay upright as she skated toward the corner. Did he have any idea where Maria’s family lived? At some point, he’d have to get that information. If nothing else, he wanted to be able to tell Maria, face-to-face, that Sal’s killer had been arrested.

  He glanced back at the house just in time to see the drapes move. He pulled away from the curb and looked at the clock. It was only six—Tenner’s party started at seven. Just for the heck of it, he’d drive out to Olney to see his old house. Right, rub some more salt in the wound, idiot!

  Dillon’s inherent love of rural settings had driven his decision to buy property well away from D.C. The commute had sometimes been a bitch, but the rolling green hills and privacy had been worth it. He frowned, remembering an argument with a certain city girl over living in the sticks. He’d been so close to asking her to marry him. He’d also been sure they could compromise on living conditions. He hadn’t wanted to give up his gentleman’s farm, complete with pasture and a horse. She had grudgingly agreed to spend every other weekend there, as long as they could spend equal time in the city. But as Dillon’s career had taken him more and more into dangerous situations that kept him on the road for long periods of time, the relationship had cooled. Then Sal had died.

  The road wound through the wooded land and Dillon put those thoughts aside. Rounding a curve, he spotted his old place. It looked exactly the same and, in fact, even had a palomino horse standing at the fence. The horse was well groomed and wore a monogrammed blanket. Dillon thought of Ginger and how she’d love a place like this.

  “Holy cow, that’s enough of that!”

  He turned around in the driveway and headed back down the road, but thoughts of Ginger were now whirling through his head.

  He smiled. New Year, new start. Armpit, Illinois here I come.

  Cars lined both sides of the street and filled every driveway near Tenner’s townhouse in Germantown. Dillon parked three blocks away and strode through the crisp evening air, looking forward to a long visit with old friends.

  A tall blonde woman answered the door, her eyes growing wide. “Heck! Oh, it’s so good to see you.” She hugged him hard, then stepped back. “Come in, just about everyone’s here.”

  Dillon stepped through the door and inhaled the tantalizing aroma of barbeque sauce.

  “Tenner makin’ his famous ribs?”

  She grinned. “He has to, or no one would come.”

  Dillon shed his jacket and moved toward the loudest part of the house, a family room at the back. Laughter and hooting carried through the hallway, bringing back memories of other parties with these guys. He stepped into the room and Angel saw him first.

  “Look what the cat dragged in!”

  Nine guys mobbed him, pumping his hand, slapping him on the back, hugging him. It was as though they’d never been apart. He glanced around the room. Several women stood in a group, sipping drinks, talking and laughing. Tenner’s wife returned to the room with a platter of ribs and set it on the table amidst bowls of potato salad, baked beans, green salad, corn bread, and other assorted goodies. Someone pressed a cold bottle of beer into Dillon’s hand, and someone else yelled out, “To the Horse Soldiers!”

  Dillon relaxed and immersed himself in the camaraderie of the men he’d lived with for four long, gut-clenching years.

  Julia put her feet up on the ottoman and looked at Casey. “The chili was good, thanks.”

  Casey nodded. “I don’t cook much for just me. By the time I get into the house at the end of the day, I just don’t care what I eat.”

  Julia thought about offering to cook occasionally, then remembered she probably wouldn’t be around much longer. The thought saddened her and she pushed it away.

  “I don’t cook much either. Mostly I’ve lived on fast food, and my figure shows it.”

  Casey chuckled. “A couple of months working here and you’ll be skinny as a rail.”

  Julia didn’t respond, thinking about the precise reasons she’d worked hard at gaining so much weight. And now with her ID floating around somewhere, it was even more important she stay fat. That morning, she’d stopped at a drugstore and purchased hair color. She stared at a cracked fingernail, feeling like a lost soul.

  Casey’s voice interrupted. “Lookit that crowd. You couldn’t drag me there for anything!”

  Julia gazed at the throngs of people oozing through Times Square. It was the biggest mass of humanity she’d ever seen. A mob of people like that would make her feel claustrophobic. She’d take a ranch out in the country anytime. Or a cabin in the mountains.

  “Casey, how did you happen to start the rescue operation?”

  “About fifteen years ago, my husband and I bought this place ’cause we’d both always wanted to have some horses. We had three of ’em, and spent our spare time doing competitive trail-riding. Jerry didn’t ride much. He was more into motorcycles and really fast cars.”

  She fell silent for a moment and Julia felt her pain. How hard it must be, year after year, to face the holidays and birthdays and anniversaries with two empty places at the table.

  Casey spoke again. “When my husband died, I kinda lost interest in the riding, but I wanted to keep the horses. As you can see, it ain’t a cheap hobby, but my husband’s life insurance and pension kept me going. Then, one day about three years ago, a man called and asked if I had room to board a horse. It seemed like a way to get some extra cash, so I said yes.”

  A dark scowl deepened the lines in her leathery face. “When he brought that animal here, I wanted to kill him. The horse was a rack of bones and nearly dead. I asked him what the hell he was thinking, and he told me he’d lost his job and couldn’t feed the animal anymore. I realized right then he’d never intended to board the horse with me. He’d figured I would react the way I did. So I got in his face and told him, ‘you sign this horse over to me and get hell off my property.’ And he did!”

  Julia leaned forward, interested. “This all started with one horse?”

  “Yep, and before long—actually only about a month later—I heard about someone else who was in dire straights and had horses. I took myself over there and talked to them. I musta been out of my mind, but I couldn’t stand the thought of these animals suffering the way they do at the hands of ignorant or uncaring people.”

  Julia gazed at this sturdy, resilient woman as she told her story. She was the epitome of kindness and everything good in the world.

  By eleven o’clock, Case
y was snoring in the recliner and Julia had lost interest in the celebratory festivities on the television. She turned it off, covered Casey with a worn patchwork quilt, and went to the den to end the year alone.

  She fired up the old computer, then stepped to the window to wait while it booted. She gazed out into the dark. Where are you, Dillon? Had he seen the news about the truck accident in Pennsylvania? Would he be interested in her observations about the warehouse up the road? So many questions and decisions lay ahead. In two hours, the calendar would page forward and Julia Dorsey aka Ginger Green had no clue what it might bring.

  The blue computer screen cast a strange light in the dark room. Julia sat down and keyed in a search for horse rescues. Her eyes widened. Over a million hits in less than five seconds. She visited several sites in various states. Everyone was in the same situation—the disastrous economy was taking its toll on the horses, and rescue operations were frantically scrambling to accommodate the influx of animals. An article from TIME magazine caught her eye and she clicked on the title. A second later, she wished she hadn’t.

  Horses by the hundreds were being turned loose in deserts, plains, and mountains to fend for themselves. Animals that had spent their lives on grain and good hay were dying of starvation on a subsistence diet of scrub. Even a humane death by slaughter was no longer an option after the closure of the U.S. plants. The money crunch and rising gas prices colored the alternate decision to use Canadian or Mexican abattoirs. The plight of the rescue operations grew more dire by the day as the mostly volunteer programs on private land ran out of resources and room.

  A heavy, sick feeling churned through her gut and she sank back in the chair, struggling with the band tightening around her chest. Coquette was out there somewhere, in the hands of strangers.

  Her phone chimed softly and she smiled at the called ID on the screen.

  Dillon’s voice was low and intimate. “Happy New Year.”

  She closed her eyes, her chest trembling with pent-up emotion. “Happy New Year to you too.”

  “Did I wake you?”

  “No, I’m sitting here staring at the computer.” Trying not to cry.

  “Anything interesting?”

  How she wished she could tell him about Coquette. All that would have been part of her story, had she ever finished.

  “Horrifying is more like it. I just finished reading an article about horses being abandoned to starve to death.”

  “Oh man, I heard about that. It’s just god-awful…why in the world are you reading about something so morbid on this new day in a new year?”

  “It wasn’t my original intention. I was looking up horse rescues, trying to get an idea about what’s involved with running one. Casey just fell into it by chance, but I guess there are hundreds of these places around the country, all in the same situation.” She rose and walked to the window. “Where are you?”

  “Just outside Washington, D.C. I’m heading back in the morning. You busy tomorrow night?”

  Julia’s face almost hurt from smiling. “Absolutely not.”

  “I’ll call you when I get to the Illinois border.”

  “I’ll be here,” she whispered.

  Pocketing the phone, she returned to her seat in front of the computer. As she moved the cursor to close the window, an advertisement caught her eye and she looked closer. “Stolen Horse International” was an extensive website for posting descriptions of horses that had disappeared. The site was organized into two sections—missing animals and found animals. Each horse had its own story, and the success stories of the found horses were heart-warming. She searched all the links and discovered that some rescue operations registered their information with the site to receive updates on any news of missing horses. Why wouldn’t all of them do that? It was free, and an excellent way to expand the visibility of horses that might have been stolen. Casey should do that. First thing in the morning, Julia would suggest it.

  She clicked on a photograph of a pretty Appaloosa mare that had disappeared a month before. Her young owner was distraught over the loss. She’d raised the filly on a bottle and had spent two years training her as a trail horse. Julia’s heart ached, unable to imagine anything happening to her own Little Bit. She smiled. Her own…she’d better do something about that frame of mind. Either buy the horse or disentangle herself.

  Each story was sadder or happier than the last, and Julia lost herself in the world of missing horses. A handsome dark head appeared on the screen and she jumped.

  “Oh my God, that’s King!”

  She clicked to enlarge the picture, positive she was looking at the charming Thoroughbred outside in the corral. She quickly read through the description and her heart began to hammer against her ribs. “Registered Thoroughbred gelding; 16.2 hands, dark brown with one white stocking on the left hind leg; he has a distinctive white mark on his forehead, which looks like a crown. His name is Royal Acres Reginald and his barn name is Reggie. He was stolen from a schooling show in Missouri on October 12.”

  Julia’s lip trembled and she struggled with her emotions as she sent the page to the desktop printer. King Reggie could go home.

  Chapter 34

  Dillon cruised along the Pennsylvania Turnpike, thinking about the great evening he’d spent with his friends. There was something satisfying about having a network of people to connect to when times were tough, and he’d been isolated for too long. On awakening at about four that morning, his first thought had been about Ginger. She’d sounded so good on the phone, and he hadn’t picked up on any annoyance over the fact he’d dropped off the face of the earth for a few days. Taking advantage of the early hour and light traffic, he’d left immediately. Anticipation warmed his thoughts. Ginger had sounded genuinely happy to hear from him and he couldn’t wait to see her.

  Two hours later, he saw a sign for Bethel Park and made a snap decision. Grabbing his cell phone, he hit the call-back button and, a moment later, a woman’s voice came on the line.

  “Pittsburgh Mercy Hospital, how may I direct your call?”

  “Is Leon Jones still a patient there?”

  A small silence, then, “Yes, he’s in Room 210.”

  Dillon took the exit ramp and followed the blue “H” signs along the road. Twenty minutes later, he parked near the front of the hospital and headed inside.

  Leon was sitting in a chair, watching a ball game on television. His round face lit up when he saw Dillon.

  “Hey, your ears musta been burnin’.”

  Dillon grinned. “Why? You bad-mouthin’ me to the nurses?”

  Leon laughed. “Nah, they’re sick of me. Bootin’ me out this afternoon.” He muted the sound on the TV. “FBI guy was here lookin’ for you yesterday.” Leon shook his head. “I couldn’t figure out why he was askin’ me, except he knew you pulled me outta the truck.” Leon thought for a minute. “He had your name wrong, called you Frank, but he knew what you look like.”

  Dillon’s body had turned to stone and he had a hard time forming the question. “FBI? What for? Did he say?”

  “Nope, just that they were trying to hook up with you as a witness to the pile-up. I tol’ him I didn’t know where you lived, but I did tell him you worked for A to Z in St. Louis.” He frowned. “Didn’t the guy call ya?”

  Dillon chose his words carefully. “Leon, did this agent show you his ID?”

  “Yeah, he held up a badge of some kind, but I couldn’t see it without my glasses. Those ’er broke from the accident. I’m blind as a bat.”

  Dillon suppressed his irritation at Leon’s rambling. “You get a name?”

  “Um, Terrance something. Sorry. I’m not very good about remembering names, ’cept ones like Jones and Smith.” He thought for a moment. “He had an accent and looked like a Mexican, so his last name was probably something like Gonzales.”

  Dillon nodded. “Well, no big deal. I’m sure I’ll find out. Hey, gotta get going. I just wanted to see how you were doin’ and it looks like you’ll be fine.�
��

  He shook Leon’s hand and left the room, resisting the urge to stop and check the hallway for anyone lurking about. He’d be willing to bet any amount of money that Leon’s visitor had not been with the FBI. Hurrying across the hospital parking lot, he was intensely aware of his vulnerability. Whoever was looking for him might be waiting nearby to see if he’d come to visit Leon. He yanked open the car door and climbed in, then grabbed his old watch cap off the back seat, pulled it down over his ears and forehead, and put on sunglasses. A few minutes later, he approached the ramp to Interstate 70, wondering if the green car behind him was a tail, or just a coincidence. As he swung into the wide curve that fed onto the freeway, the green car continued on across the overpass and Dillon relaxed. Once he’d settled into the stream of traffic, he pulled out his phone. No one would be at the agency today, but he could call his main contact at home.

  The agent answered on the second ring and Dillon exhaled his relief.

  “Hey, it’s Dillon. Happy New Year.”

  “Same to you. What’s up that you’d interrupt a football game?”

  “Is anyone looking for me? From the agency or otherwise?

  “Not to my knowledge. We kinda wait for you to get in touch. Why?”

  “A supposed FBI agent was asking a friend about me, knew I was at the site where that casket truck went off the road.”

  A low whistle came through the phone. “You think you were made?”

  “I’m not sure, but if you read the office report tomorrow, you’ll see some peculiarities in the aftermath of the wreck. I’m on my way back to home base right now, so I’ll catch up to you first of the week.”