Lucky Stiff

by Annelise Ryan

  By the time I arrive at the farm, I see a couple of cop cars, along with our evidence van, parked by the barn. Izzy, Hurley, a couple of unis, and two other people I don’t know are all standing beside the barn in front of a large fenced-in corral, which contains eight horses. The animals are staring wide-eyed at the humans. Their ears prick back and forth; their nostrils flare; their tails swish nervously as if they sense something is up. I wonder if they can smell the body, and that makes me wonder if I can. As I get out of my car, I pull a big breath in through my nose, testing the air. I smell mud, manure, hay, and a warm, sweaty scent that may be the horses’ fears, but not much else.

  “This is my assistant, Mattie Winston,” Izzy says to the duo I don’t recognize. “This is Troy Littleton and his wife, Jan, the owners of this farm.”

  We exchange murmured greetings, and then I turn my focus to my surroundings, looking for the river, where the body supposedly washed up. Izzy reads my mind and says, “The river runs along a field out behind the corral, about a mile or so. There isn’t any road to access it, and they said the body is close to shore in a small inlet that would make using a boat awkward. We’re going to take Troy’s Gator to get there.”

  I look over at the ATV parked nearby, which has been customized with lights at the top and an extra-long bed at the rear, bordered by six-inch-high panels. The front portion has two seats inside a metal frame, topped off with a roll bar and a retractable plastic windshield.

  “Either that, or I can saddle up the horses for you,” Troy says.

  Hurley, who has been quiet up until now, says, “Actually, I don’t see how we can fit all of the people and the equipment we need, not to mention the body, on the Gator. It will mean taking multiple trips. So if saddling up a couple of horses isn’t too much trouble, it might not be a bad idea.”

  “Not a problem at all,” Troy says. “How many?”

  “I’ll take the Gator,” Izzy says quickly.

  Hurley nods toward the horses and says, “I’d love the chance to ride one of those beauties.”

  Jan Littleton looks at me and says, “How about you, Mattie? Are you up for it? It’s every girl’s dream, isn’t it? The sun warming your face, muscled flesh between your thighs, riding the wind like no one cares.”

  I swallow hard, wondering if she is talking about horses or if she’s able to read some of the more lascivious thoughts in my mind. I’m guessing Hurley’s thoughts are running along similar lines because he looks over at me with a grin and wiggles his eyebrows. Izzy coughs nervously and tries unsuccessfully to suppress a smile.

  The pressure is on. I’m a little leery of riding out to the river on horseback. I’ve ridden before; in fact, I took lessons for a summer when I was eight or nine. But I haven’t been on a horse since, and back then the horse was confined to a fenced-in arena. With a wide-open field to play in, I’m worried. Yet, there is something to what Jan Littleton just said. I remember the exhilarating sense of freedom and adventure I felt when I took hold of those reins so many years ago. I had that little-girl dream she spoke of, and the memory pulls at me now.

  “I’m game for riding a horse out to the site,” I announce. “But please make sure it’s a well-behaved one. It’s been a very long time since I rode.”

  “No problem,” Jan says. “You can have Ellie, the chestnut over there by the gate. She’s a sweetheart.”

  The uniformed guys both opt for horses, too. While we’re waiting for the animals to get saddled up, Izzy and I load our gear onto the Gator. We’re about ten minutes into this when we hear a car approaching. I turn to see Alison Miller pulling up in her SUV. She climbs out of her car, her ubiquitous camera hanging around her neck.

  “I heard you found a body out here by the river,” she says, looking around for some sign of the waterway.

  I lean over and speak to Izzy, sotto voce. “How the hell does she always find out about this stuff?”

  “Police scanner,” Izzy says.

  Seeing the Gator and the horses, it doesn’t take Alison long to figure out what’s going on. “Can I come along?”

  Hurley looks annoyed, but he and I both know from past experience that Alison won’t give up easily. Sometimes it’s better to keep her on a short leash in hopes of having some control over what she sees, shoots, and writes about. “Fine,” Hurley says, “but no pictures of the body.”

  “No problem,” Alison says.

  After a bit of discussion, it’s decided that only one of the uniformed cops will ride out to the site with us. The second one will stay behind to wait for the funeral home Izzy called to come and transport the body for us. Alison opts to ride out on the fifth horse; and after another ten minutes, we are ready to roll. I spend a moment feeding Ellie some carrot bits Jan gives me, trying to make friends. Ellie’s big brown eyes certainly look gentle, and her soft lips feel like velvet on my open palm as she takes the treats I offer. However, her demeanor is a little skittish, enough so to make me skittish as well. After Ellie is done with the carrots, I stroke her nose and talk to her in a low whisper, hoping to calm her. She responds by rearing her head back and letting forth with a gigantic sneeze, blowing carrot bits and horse snot onto my face and hair.

  “I think she likes you,” Jan says, chuckling.

  “She has a funny way of showing it,” I say, wiping loo-gies off my forehead. I hear the click of a camera and look over to see Alison already mounted on her horse, holding her camera, and sneering at me. I give her a dirty look just before Jan helps me mount Ellie.

  After I get settled into the saddle, the horse seems to calm a bit. I take the reins, give a little kick to her sides, and practice riding her around the arena once while Jan and the uniformed cop get mounted. Hurley is already on his horse, a huge, beautiful jet-black stallion. He looks like the cover for a romance novel.

  Troy starts the Gator and heads off across the field with Izzy in the seat beside him and our gear in the rear, leaving just enough room for us to load the body onto the bed once we get to it. Jan leads the rest of us, with Hurley, Alison, the uniformed cop, and me following in a line behind her.

  The field is uneven and very muddy, thanks to the massive snowmelt, and the heavy Gator has to work to get through it. Troy takes a serpentine path, searching for areas where the mud isn’t as deep or wet. Jan steers our little group along in the packed-down tracks the Gator leaves behind, giving the horses a more solid footing. The sun is shining warm on my shoulders and Ellie lives up to her reputation, following dutifully along behind Jan’s horse for the first half mile or so. But as we draw close enough to the river to hear it splashing along its banks, the horses all start whinnying and snorting—evidence they are growing more nervous. At one point, Ellie stops dead in her tracks, raises her head, and sniffs the air with her nostrils flaring. I give her a little kick in her ribs to try and urge her on, but she jerks her head to the side and looks back at me with a wide-eyed, are-you-kidding expression.

  Hurley trots up beside me. “Need a hand?”

  “I think she can smell the body and it’s making her nervous,” I say.

  “Kick her a little harder,” Hurley suggests.

  I do so, and Ellie takes the hint by turning sharply right and breaking into a run. I nearly lose my seating as she takes off, but I manage to grab the saddle horn and hang on. Her footing is tentative in the loose, muddy field. I tighten my thighs and hang on for all I’m worth as she gallops across the field. Panicked, I pull back on the reins, yelling, “Whoa!” but all it seems to do is spur Ellie on. And then my worst fear comes true. Ellie stumbles, her front legs buckle, her shoulders drop, and her momentum comes to a dead halt. My momentum, on the other hand, continues unabated. I go flying ass over teakettle, over her head, and into the mud.

  I roll a couple of times and end up flat on my back, with my legs sprawled. I’m staring up at the blue sky, trying to catch my breath, when I become aware of a commotion behind me. A second later, I watch stunned as Ellie gallops past me heading back toward
the barn. I hear more activity behind me; then Hurley appears, followed by Jan. Hurley jumps off his horse and sloshes through the mud toward me, his horse in tow.

  “Jesus, Winston, are you okay?” he says, looking down at me with a concerned expression. He squats beside me and gives me a quick head-to-toe visual exam. Jan appears behind Hurley and echoes his concerns.

  “I’m so sorry, Mattie,” she says. “Are you okay?”

  “Just got the wind knocked out of me,” I manage to say. “Give me a sec and I think I’ll be fine.”

  Alison appears as well, looking smug and comfortable atop her steed. I glare at her as she lifts the camera and aims it my way, but she’s not the least bit intimidated. I hear clicking sounds and whirs as she snaps off a couple of shots, making me want to snap off her head. I should have slipped a bur beneath her saddle back at the barn.

  “I’ve never seen Ellie behave like that before,” Jan says, sounding worried. “I swear she’s the gentlest horse we’ve ever had.”

  I try to sit up and can’t. At first, I’m convinced I’m paralyzed. Then I realize it’s just the suction created by the gooey mud that’s hampering my efforts. I finally manage to shake each arm loose with a wet, sucking sound. I roll my head slowly from one side to the other and say to Hurley, “Help me sit up.”

  He offers a hand, which I take. After a bit of a struggle, I manage to break loose from my muddy shackles and sit up. I look around me and realize I dug out a path in the mud when I hit, sliding a good eight feet. There is a huge heap of wet, soggy mud piled up between my legs. The stuff is clinging to every inch of my backside and a good portion of my front. After a tentative test of my legs, Hurley helps me to a standing position, a task made that much harder by the several pounds of mud clinging to me. My scrub pants threaten to fall down from the sheer weight of the mess. I hoist them up, pull the drawstring around my waist tighter, and tie it.

  Troy and Izzy arrive in the Gator, stopping a few feet away. I give them a thumbs-up and a smile—a sentiment I’m not convinced I feel.

  “I seem to have lost my ride,” I say, turning to see Ellie off in the distance, back by the farm buildings.

  “She’ll be fine,” Jan says. “I can go and bring her back, if you want.”

  I shake my head. “No, that’s okay. I’d rather walk than get on that beast again. Maybe I can hitch a ride on the Gator the rest of the way.” Izzy and Troy both stare at me, looking horrified at the suggestion.

  “Why don’t you ride with me,” Hurley suggests.

  I eye him skeptically. “You mean two of us on one horse?”

  “Sure,” he says. “It will be tight, but we can do it.”

  “I don’t think I want to get back on a horse again. Ever.”

  “Which is why you should do it now,” Hurley says. “You need to face your fear head-on before it gets a chance to overwhelm you. There’s a reason for that saying about getting back in the saddle.”

  “I don’t know, Hurley.”

  “He’s right,” Jan says.

  “I promise I won’t let you fall again,” Hurley says. “Besides, there won’t be room for all of you on the Gator once we pick up the body. Someone’s going to have to ride double on a horse, or ride in the back of the Gator with the corpse.”

  This argument settles it for me. Given my current mud-covered state, I’m pretty sure I know who will get to ride with the corpse, and I’ve done the riding-with-the-corpse thing before. It wasn’t much fun. Plus it’s obvious from the glare on Alison’s face that she hates the idea of me riding double with Hurley, which means I have to do it. “Fine,” I say, eyeing Hurley’s horse skeptically. “How do we do this?”

  Hurley helps me climb up into the saddle. After I scoot myself as far forward as I can—a task made easier by the fact that his saddle is an English one, without a horn—Hurley climbs up and settles in behind me. He wraps an arm around my waist and takes the reins. Slowly we make our way over to the Gator and everyone falls into line again as we continue toward the river.

  About fifteen minutes later, we arrive at the far edge of the field. The river is babbling along at a rapid clip, its currents enhanced by the extra water flowing into it from the snowmelt. When we reach the bank, I can see where a tree has fallen into the water, its roots loosened by the wet ground. There, tangled in the branches about ten feet from shore, is a body floating facedown in the water.

  Chapter 11

  We dismount from our horses and everyone stands on the bank for a few minutes sizing up our situation. The body is too far out to reach from land. Since we don’t have a boat, I realize someone will have to wade out into the water to haul it in.

  “The water out there is about four and a half feet deep,” Troy tells us, reading my mind. I realize this rules Izzy out, since the water will be up to his chin.

  “I’ll go in,” I say. It’s a no-brainer, given my height.

  “I’ll help,” Hurley says. His front side is covered with mud from my backside. While I suspect I look like a spa appointment gone horribly wrong, he looks like a hunky mud wrestler.

  Troy produces a rope from the Gator; and after Hurley and I strip off our jackets and shoes and don Tyvek bodysuits, gloves, and waders from Izzy’s site kit, we venture out into the water. We are carrying one end of the rope, while Troy hangs on to the other. The air may be uncharacteristically warm for this time of year, but the water hasn’t followed suit. Despite the protection offered by the waders, I can feel the cold seeping through to my body. It’s slow going because the river bottom is muddy, making for precarious footing.

  As we inch our way along, I hear Alison’s camera at work back on shore.

  “Remember what I said, Alison,” Hurley hollers over his shoulder.

  “I’m doing scene shots,” Alison yells back. “Nothing with the victim showing.”

  Within a few minutes, we reach the body. I expect to detect the nasty smell of decomp, but all I pick up, instead, is a brackish, muddy smell, like the river bottom. Hurley and I work together to loop our end of the rope around the man’s waist and tie it. It’s not easy. The medical-type gloves we are wearing provide little protection against the elements and the cold water has numbed our fingers to the point where neither of us has much dexterity left. We manage to bump both of the man’s arms in the process, sending them floating to the surface. Though the skin on his bare hands has a wrinkly, waterlogged look to it, I don’t see any evidence of decomposition. Apparently, the cold water has forestalled the process. Once Hurley and I are done fumbling through the rope business, Hurley yells, “Okay, haul him in.”

  Troy and Izzy both start reeling in the rope from shore and the body slowly makes its way toward the riverbank. Hurley and I follow along behind it. When the body hits the shoreline, Troy ties his end of the rope to the Gator. He, Izzy, and the uniformed cop come down to help Hurley and me out of the water.

  Click, whir, click, whir.

  As soon as I’m out of the water, my body starts shivering uncontrollably. My Tyvek suit, which normally has me sweating like a pig, does little to warm me.

  “You okay, Winston?” Hurley asks. He grabs one of the blankets on the Gator and walks over to drape it over my shoulders as I step out of my waders.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “But damn, that water was cold!”

  “Yes, it was,” he says, grinning and looking pointedly at my chest.

  I glance down and see that beneath my suit, which is strained to its limits across my ample chest, my nipples are standing at attention.

  “Speaking of which,” Hurley says, leaning in close to my ear, “when are you going to tell me about this nipple incident I keep hearing about?”

  “When hell freezes over.”

  “I think it has,” he says, winking.

  I stand beneath my blanket, shaking, while Izzy and Hurley lay out a tarp on the shore by the body. Hurley steps out into the water and rolls the body onto the tarp, turning it faceup. It’s our first glimpse of the victim’s
face, and it’s a bit of a shocker. The body isn’t in as good a shape as I thought. Part of the man’s nose is gone, exposing the bony ridge beneath, and one eyeball is missing. The other eyeball is clouded over but wide open, its upper lid gone. The skin on the man’s cheeks is abraded and pale white, like the underbelly of a fish.

  “Looks like the fish started on him,” Izzy says, grimacing.

  The man’s bare hands strike me as odd. When he went missing, the temperatures were in the 30-degree range—not enough to freeze all the water, but still cold enough that I would have expected him to be wearing gloves. The rest of his body is clothed appropriately with a heavy jacket, jeans, and boots. He has a full head of hair plastered close to his skull. As I look at it, something catches my eye. I take a step closer and see what appears to be a depression just behind his right temple.

  “Is that a head wound?” I ask, pointing to the area.

  Izzy bends down and moves the hair aside to examine the area. “It appears to be. Could be he fell out of the boat and hit his head.” He probes the area and I see the skull move beneath his fingers. “His skull is fractured. It could be the cause of death, or maybe the blow rendered him unconscious and he drowned. Though it’s odd there isn’t any discoloration on the skin.” He looks thoughtful a moment and then shrugs. “I’ll be able to tell more once I get him back to the lab and open him up.”

  We get the body wrapped up, placed in a body bag, and loaded onto the back of the Gator. After rounding up our supplies, Hurley strips out of his waders and Tyvek suit. After helping me mount his horse, he climbs up behind me and I can feel his body heat radiating onto my back. I let myself sink into it gratefully, relishing the warmth. The gentle rocking of our bodies in the saddle is surprisingly erotic. With Hurley’s arm wrapped around my waist, his breath warm in my ear, and the hard expanse of his chest against my back, I can’t help but imagine what life might be like if we could be this close on a regular basis. Every fiber of my being wants to be snuggled up next to him any chance I get. How on earth am I going to be able to continue working with him this way, side by side, parrying his flirtatious comments, longing to feel his touch, wanting to be with him?