He paused and thought he heard Irene gently say his name, but he wasn’t looking at her, he just stared into Bradbury’s black eye. If he didn’t finish his story now, then he never would.
“Two of them were beautiful white mares that the soldiers were apparently taking directly to Hitler,” he continued. “The men were quite proud of their find and kept throwing the word 'Lipizzaner' around. I wanted to correct them and say that they’d found only one Lipizzaner, and it was a mixed breed at that. The other mare was a thoroughbred. But I didn’t dare utter a word. My job was to keep the horses fed and healthy and free of ticks until we met up with that caravan. They were horrible to my companion and me. They were disgusted with my red hair and decided to shave my head one day to give me a break from the beatings, because I wasn't listening to their orders. I listened to every word, but I didn’t speak German. I learned the language quick, though, if only to survive. Half the time I couldn’t even do what they asked, like force a horse to crouch down to hide, or stop swishing its tail at flies.
“There were times when they were beating me, that I couldn’t tell what part they were hitting because my whole body was numb from starvation and constant neglect. After more than a month of travelling, we made it to the crossroads and waited for the convoy to arrive. Those six weeks were hell. By this time, the fighting had descended into chaos, every side scrambling to gain some sort of ground. We ran into soldiers advancing and retreating within the same unit. Every German platoon we passed, whether they were fighting or retreating, took the opportunity to mistreat us or threatened to shoot us on sight. Our only saving grace was that we tended to those horses.”
He let out a ragged breath, the memories playing in his head like a projector. The shouting and cursing, the bombs and gunfire, a constant presence, either right beside him or in the distance, like rolling thunder. Keeping the horses from rearing in fear and fleeing, while keeping them from grenade shrapnel. Their horrible cries of confusion.
“Little did we know that the Americans had advanced and overtook the entire region we were in. They saw our little band as a threat and must’ve seen the trailer coming for the horses and thought it was something more sinister. Either way, the crossroads we dumbly sat idle at were bombed and we scattered. I grabbed the two mares and ran, trying to escape the explosions.”
Joe paused again and realized his voice had become so quiet that Irene had moved forward to hear him. He didn’t dare look at her. He didn’t want to know if she approved or disapproved of his story, he just needed to keep speaking. His chest was tight, but something told him that if he kept going, the knot would work itself out.
“The aftermath was horrendous,” he said, a large lump forming in his throat, threatening to crack his voice and produce tears in his eyes. “Whoever bombed us didn’t come for us immediately, so we regrouped and planned to carry on to some other point on the map. All that remained of my original party were myself and an older doctor from Glasgow. The two mares survived, but the other three horses were scattered everywhere. I was to gather the remains and put them on a makeshift cart tied to one of the mares. We ate horse meat for the next two days. Well, they did. I couldn’t stomach it. A German scout car managed to find us and we were given orders to meet up with their main unit and they’d escort the other doctor and myself to a POW camp.
“We’d somehow wandered into a kind of no man’s land between British and American units, and found an American from a recon unit, unarmed and bloodied. He was captured along with us. Him being a soldier, though, meant he was a bit bolder than us and he wasn’t going to stand for being captured by so few of the enemy. He informed us that the six Germans were low ranking and were probably only gathering POWs to impress high-ranking officers. To veterinarians and doctors, though, six men aiming their guns at us, no matter what their rank, was as intimidating as it got.
“That night, with barely any warning to us, the American jumped our captors. He managed to secure a Luger from one and started firing. They fired back, but could barely see anything. My priority was the horses, but there was so much damn chaos. One of the Germans fell at my feet and I grabbed his rifle. We were at a standoff now, and new our position had been given away to whoever was around, whether that was Germans, Americans, or Brits I had no clue. I shot one of the Germans just as he aimed at me, and he crumpled to the ground. I felt so sick after that, and I slung the gun on my back and grabbed the halter of the Lipizzaner mare that stuck right beside me. I leapt on her back and galloped like hell.
“Eventually, I ran right into a group of British troops. They looked utterly perplexed at my state and lack of any equipment on the horse. I managed to tell them quickly what happened and they shared what little food they had with me. I rested with them for a few hours, then two of them escorted me to a road that I could take back to their headquarters.”
Joe’s hands shook and he felt cold and sweaty at the same time. The story brought up so many emotions and they battled inside him, rocking his mind, making him queasy. That same anger that he felt as he recovered at his parent’s house once he returned home, reared up in him. He still felt the horse’s hooves thudding on the ground beneath him, the bombs overhead, the gunfire surrounding him, as he galloped through the woods. Running away. Leaving the Glaswegian doctor and the American soldier...
“The Brit captain called me a brave man,” he said, failing to keep the frustration from his voice. “Why? What the hell did I do? I was on my way to deliver horses to Hitler. There were four of us and not one of us jumped the soldiers? We were under their control for weeks, and in one night one man helps us all escape?”
He realized he’d asked her a question, forcing her to participate and that made him a whole other kind of nervous. He was on the verge of tears and now that his story was out, it felt like a small weight had been lifted from his chest, but his emotions didn’t seem to realize that they could still stay tucked away. He felt angry and sad and stupid all at once.
“Joe...” Irene’s voice floated to him and surrounding him like a soft breeze. She didn’t say anything more and this was the first time he’d seen her speechless. That started up a whole new ball of anxiety in him.
“I just wanted to do my part,” he snapped, anger and embarrassment creeping over him. “I just wanted to help, but I failed. I failed those horses, I failed that doctor and the American. I ran away –no, I rode away on a damn horse.”
He pressed his forehead to Bradbury’s cheek, taking in the horses smell, letting it remind him of that night, no matter how much it turned his stomach. He suddenly regretted telling Irene anything at all. He felt cowardice and was sure she thought the same.
“You must think me a coward,” Joe muttered.
She stepped forward and grabbed his wrist, startling him.
“I think no such thing,” Irene promised. “You’re a medical man, Joe. A healer, not a fighter.”
Joe scoffed. “They have medics in the army, Irene.”
His words came out stiff and mean, but it didn’t seem to affect her.
“Soldiers, Joe,” she said. “Soldiers trained in medicine.”
She was right, and he knew that, but it was difficult to change how he felt about himself. He let her continue to hold his wrist, keeping him grounded in reality and preventing his mind from wandering again. He avoided looking at her, though. He couldn’t handle her big doe eyes, boring into his soul, so he stared out at the shallow pond instead.
He didn’t know how long he studied the murky water and he didn’t notice Irene come closer to him either. Keeping hold of his wrist, she pushed his sleeve up.
“That’s where you got this.” She traced the square silver scar on his arm.
Her touch gave him goosebumps, and a shiver went down his spine.
“They don’t like when you disobey them,” he said quietly, finally dragging his eyes from the pond. “They wanted me to starve the other horses and overfeed the mares. I refused. They held me down and pinned me with a
cart to teach me a lesson.”
Tears welled in his eyes and Irene looked up at him. He was so gutted and embarrassed and regretted every word he’d just spoke. She seemed to care, but his whole story made him sound weak. She was the strongest person he knew and here he was, practically blubbering in front of her because some animals he cared for died.
“I’m fine,” he insisted. “I really am.”
“You’re not.”
She was right, he wasn’t okay, but he had no idea what to do now other than stew in his own regret or try to deny that anything was wrong and let her get back to this case.
Before he could try to deny his feelings again, she wrapped both of her arms around his bicep and squeezed. She kept holding on, and rested her head on his shoulder, tucking up next to him while gazing out at the pond.
“Trust me,” she said. “I know what it’s like to be not okay and sometimes it’s fine to be not okay in front of some people. I’m not good at exchanges like these, but you can be not okay in front of me, Joe.”
That statement brought a new wave of tears to his eyes and he quickly blinked them away. He needed to lighten the mood, or he’d end up sharing his whole life story whether she wanted to hear it or not. Just the invitation to drop his guard every now and then was such a welcome gesture. She always told him he wore his heart on his sleeve, but perhaps there was this wall he kept putting up in front of everyone. He didn’t try to hide his episodes from her anymore, but he did try to conceal the effects it had on him, lest she not understand or judge him.
“The war was terrible for everyone,” she continued. “It changed us all by force and took people away and altered the landscape of the entire country. You were brave for wanting to help, and with me, you’re brave in a different way. I’ve thrown you into scenarios that you wouldn’t have been in had you not come to know me. And yet, you stay and keep helping me while facing these horrid thoughts. That’s bravery if I’ve ever seen it.”
He didn’t know what to say to her, because those were the kindest words she’d ever spoken to him. He never responded to compliments at the best of times, let alone a statement like this. He reached across his chest and tucked his fingers under hers, still wrapped around his arm.
“I still don’t know how I came to know you, Irene.”
He felt her giggle against his arm. “Fate?”
“You don’t believe in fate. Only logic and reason.”
“Then perhaps there was a reason, then.”
They stood together for a moment, and Joe’s insides finally started to calm. His ribs released his lungs and he could breathe again. He craned his neck and looked at Snowball, expecting the tightness to return. It did only slightly, as if by habit, but it was quick to go away. Perhaps Irene was the cure to his ailments, or at least the start of some treatment.
Her grip tightened on his arm and she leaned forward, looking at something across the shallow end of the pond.
“Joe!” she exclaimed. “Oh goodness, there it is!”
He jumped, startled. “You’ve got to stop doing that. What is it?”
She released his arm and took off around the pond. The horses snorted and Joe grabbed both their reins.
“You have a horse!” he called, but she was already halfway around the pond, feet flinging water and mud behind her.
Joe started around the pond as well, opting to walk, the horses trudging behind him. His mind was exhausted, but he felt a surge of adrenaline, perhaps the last bit of energy his body conjured just to finish this case.
By the time he made it to Irene, she was crouched to the ground. A few logs sat haphazardly in a pile, barbed wire wrapped around them.
“A broken fence?” Joe said. “Mr. Richardson said Canadian soldiers stayed with them during the war. Perhaps they formed a makeshift training ground and this was what remained.”
Irene brought out her magnifying glass and plucked something small from one of the prongs.
“Grey fur.” She waddled along the ground, still crouched, studying the grass. “Something caught this fence and dragged it up the hill. Footprints, or hoofprints, were washed away, but the mark from a log is still here.”
Joe found the divot. It was shallow, and partially eroded from the rain, but unmistakable in the damp grass. It ran right up the hill, as far as he could see.
“Joe.” Irene looked at him. “Do something for me. Hop on that horse and wade into the water.”
He handed Snowball’s reins to her and climbed up onto Bradbury. He urged the horse into the pond, the water making hollow splashing sounds as as Bradbury picked his way through the muck. The water just reached the horse’s knees and Bradbury had no trouble wading through it. They made it almost halfway across before Irene hollered at him to come back. Joe swung Bradbury around and the horse snorted in confusion but obliged.
“Excellent,” Irene clapped when Joe hopped to the ground. “It’s only a few feet deep if that.”
Joe attempted to guess the angle she was taking. “Meaning it probably wasn’t there, or barely there, before that huge night of rainfall.”
“Precisely, which means?” She looked at him, eyes wild with excitement as she waited for his answer.
“Maximus would’ve run right through this area,” Joe realized. “He would’ve kept running without the water to slow him. Which meant he ran right into this pile of logs because it was dark and he couldn’t see it.”
Irene took off up the hill, jogging parallel to the divot. Joe followed, dragging the poor confused horses behind him as he did.
Irene made it to the top and practically threw herself on the ground.
“Here,” she said, now out of breath. “The tip-top of the hill barely holds any water because it all runs down the side. Hoofprints are much easier spotted. As are footprints.”
Joe crouched beside her and found very faint U-shaped marks. The grass was tamped down, and Joe also discovered a heel mark of a boot. He attempted to find more prints, but Irene stood and surveyed the land with a suspicious gaze.
“Well, well,” she spoke through a triumphant grin. “Hello, neighbour.”
Joe straightened and looked down the hill. A house with a small stable was visible at the bottom.
“We’ve got the last piece of our puzzle and we'd better return.” She made shooing motions with her hands, urging Joe and the horses back down the hill. “Quickly, now.”
She started down the hill, back towards the Richardson farm, but Joe grabbed her arm.
“Please tell me you are not running all the way back,” he said.
“We must get back quickly.”
“We have horses, Irene,” Joe said, holding up the reins.
“Oh.” Irene paused for a moment before shaking her head. “I cannot go faster than a walk on him.”
“Climb up with me and I’ll gallop us back to the farm.”
She hesitated, looking first at Bradbury, then at the small saddle.
“Unless you want to gallop beside me on Snowball,” Joe added.
“I don’t know how to gallop,” she said.
Joe mounted Bradbury before extending a hand down to Irene. “Then climb up.”
She still hesitated, looking up at the farm, then back at him. “You won’t let me fall?”
“No,” he promised. “Trust me.”
Irene grabbed his hand and swung up behind him in the saddle. She wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her body to his back. Joe was used to her in his personal space, but having her cling to him like this was much more intimate than they’d ever been and he worried that it would bother her. He found his worry was all for naught when she pressed her cheek to his shoulder and mumbled into his jacket.
“If I fall, I’m never speaking to you again.”
Joe laughed, a grin spreading across his face. “Then hold on.”
He reached over and grabbed Snowball’s reins, before squeezing with his legs, prompting Bradbury into a fast trot. Irene clutched his chest tighter and he c
oughed.
“I still need to breath, Irene,” Joe wheezed, causing her to loosen her grip ever so slightly.
He urged the horse into a gallop, with Snowball running obediently beside them. For a moment, Joe felt like a hero from one of his American Western novels. One riding across an open field atop a mighty steed, damsel in distress at his side, off to save the day.
Though, he wasn’t much saving the day as providing transportation. And Irene was far from a damsel in distress.
Chapter VII
Chasing a Suspect
Irene clung to Joe for dear life as they rode into the courtyard of the farm. Bradbury was fast, and Irene hadn’t realized just how much of her body would move on a galloping horse. Her bottom would be sore tomorrow, she just knew it.
Joe stopped the horse at the house, and she slid out of the saddle. As soon as her feet touched the cobblestones, her knees buckled and she stumbled forward, legs turning to jelly on the solid ground.
“You alright, miss?” George called from the stables. He had a mop in his hands, busily washing blood off the floors.
Irene straightened and waved to him with what she hoped was a reassuring smile, then marched up the front steps. She heard Joe mumble something to him before he caught up beside her.
The Impossible Murderer Page 8
