by Ron Fisher
And that’s what happened. The earth churned around me, dirt and grassy divots kicking up and flying into my eyes and mouth. I tried to make myself as small as I could, waiting to see if there were other horses to follow. But there was only the one, and luckily, I survived it.
The rider must have seen me crouching there, because he stopped a short way down the track, turned the horse around and rode slowly back. What the hell was this jerk doing riding out here in the dead of night? He could have killed me. My anger boiled over, and I wanted to drag the idiot off his horse and pound him into the ground like he almost did to me.
But something was weird here. The rider wore a mask. It was one of those creepy “Anonymous” masks the Occupy protesters wore, a stylized portrayal of a face with an oversized smile and red cheeks, a wide mustache upturned at both ends, and a thin vertical pointed chin-beard.
He carried what looked like a polo mallet in his right hand, and as he neared, he raised it and swung it at my head. I went down like a felled tree.
I regained consciousness in the back of an ambulance on the move, the siren going at full volume and a worried Natasha Ladd holding my hand. A young paramedic looked on but seemed to be paying more attention to Natasha than me. I had a terrible headache, dizziness, and no memory of why I was there.
I reached up with my free hand to find a cervical collar around my neck and a bandage on my head. The paramedic grabbed my wrist and pulled my hand down.
“Don’t touch the bandage, sir,” he said. “It’s there to stop the bleeding, but loosely applied so as not to put pressure on the injury. If there are any bone fragments in there, we don’t want them pushed down into your brain. They’ll check that out at the hospital, but in the meantime, don’t put your hands there.”
“Thank God you’re awake,” Natasha said, squeezing my hand tightly. She was red-eyed from crying.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Some fool was out jumping in the dark. You were walking on the track by a hedge as he came over it, and you got hit in the head by a hoof. It was probably some kid on a dare, or with too much drink. We called the police.”
Somehow that scenario was all wrong, but I didn't know why. A hundred images like pieces of a scattered jig-saw puzzle filled my head, but they were only incomplete glimpses of some bigger picture I couldn’t seem to construct.
“Dr. Whitmore was the one who found you,” Natasha continued. “He was in the barn examining one of Saturday’s horses that has a bit of colic. He heard a horse running on the track and went to see who would be doing such a thing at night, and that’s when he saw you. He sent word up to the USEC Club, and when we heard a jumper hit a man down at the track, it practically put an end to the party. I was afraid it might be you. Doctor Whitmore called the paramedics, and here we are. So, hang on, we’re five minutes from the hospital.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
At the hospital, my memory returned. As the doctors poked, probed, scanned, and looked deeply into my eyes and pronounced only a scalp wound and a slight concussion, my recall of the incident crystalized. The pieces of the puzzle fell together to create a bizarre scene. A horse’s hoof didn't hurt me. A man on horseback, wearing an “Anonymous” mask and dressed like Teddy Crane hit me with a polo mallet.
In fact, it was Teddy Crane. I was sure of it. Teddy wanted me to stop asking questions about him, and so did Wilson Kroll. But while Kroll may have been behind it, It was Teddy’s slim build, not short and stocky Wilson Kroll on that horse. Had Teddy made his jump a split second sooner, I would have been pummeled into the ground by his horse’s hooves, and would never have seen what the rider was wearing—or what his physical characteristics were.
When they wheeled me out of ICU and into a regular room, Kelly was waiting. Once settled in bed, Kelly came over, took my hand, and squeezed it.
There’s something about a near-death experience that makes you see the world in a brand new, optimistic light. Dodging such a close call was like a rebirth of the spirit. I held Kelly’s hand tightly and couldn’t stop looking at her. There were no words for how beautiful she looked at this moment.
“You didn’t have to come,” I said. “I was going to call. I’m fine.”
“You may be a fine specimen of a man, but you’re far from fine,” Kelly said. “That horse could have killed you. Natasha called and said you were going to be okay, but I wanted to see with my own eyes.”
Natasha came in wearing a smile, a big change from our ambulance ride. “You’re looking better,” she said. “A little,” she added, looking at the stitches in my head.
“Look,” I said, “there’s something I haven’t told anyone yet. You both need to listen.”
Natasha walked over and stood by Kelly, apprehension on their faces.
“My brain has been too scrambled to process what happened,” I said, “but it’s finally clear. The horse didn’t hit me. The rider did. After he jumped the hedge and missed me, he came back and hit me in the head with what looked like a polo mallet—which tells me I’m getting too close to something by asking questions, and someone wants me to stop.”
“Did you see his face?” Natasha asked.
“He was wearing a mask. One of those Anonymous masks, like the Occupy Wall Street protesters on TV.”
Both Kelly and Natasha were looking at me like my brain was still scrambled.
“Natasha,” I said, speaking directly to her, “This guy wore a long coat with split coat-tails. They were flapping behind him off the horse’s rump when he jumped over my head. It was Teddy in that cowboy duster he wears.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she said. “You said the rider wore a mask. And Teddy isn’t the only person around who wears a long coat like that.”
“Name one,” I said.
She couldn’t.
Natasha turned to Kelly. “J.D. doesn’t like my friend, Teddy Crane. He thinks he’s capable of the most awful things. But he isn’t. I’ve known him since we were kids. He’s just trying to deal with some heavy personal problems, and not doing very well with it.”
I would tell Kelly what I thought about Teddy later.
“You’ve really got it in for him, don’t you?” Natasha said. “This is so not like Teddy. Doesn’t it sound like some crazy teenager like the police think? Or maybe someone protesting the race or something, someone who thinks it’s cruel to put horses through things like that, or that it’s a sport that typifies the rich ugly American, or whatever. People are protesting everything these days, and they can get violent. Look at the tree huggers who drive iron spikes into trees to hurt loggers, or some of the ‘black lives matter’ bunch who burn and loot.”
“Did Teddy return to that little group I left you with?” I asked.
“No, but that doesn’t mean he was down at the track trying to kill you. He was angrier with me than you. He thinks I’ve stabbed him in the back talking about him. He’s hurt. He probably went home.”
“We’ll just have to agree to disagree about Teddy,” I said. “Time will prove who’s right.”
That didn’t seem to mollify Natasha, and she was about to say something else when Kelly interrupted. “You shouldn’t be talking about this right now, J.D. You need to rest. I’m going to spend the night with Natasha, but I’ll be back early in the morning to take you home. You can stay with me and get well, and you won’t be around for this crazy person, whoever he is, to try something like this again.”
She gave me a quick kiss on the lips, and patted my cheek. “There’s a policeman outside waiting to see you. Make it quick and as soon as he leaves, get some sleep.”
“Natasha looked at me, the things she still wanted to say pooled in her eyes, but she didn’t say them. She followed Kelly out, both waving goodbyes.
No sooner had they left, a stocky guy with a thin mustache wearing a dark-green uniform with a large gold badge on the shirt came in. He was carrying a campaign hat and a small notebook and a pen. He introduced himself as Deputy Howard from th
e Polk County Sheriff’s Department, took a seat in the chair by my bed, and gave me an earnest look.
“Your lady friend said to make it brief,” he said, “and I will. “I just need to know your side of things and if you recognized the rider of the horse that ran over you.”
He clicked the ballpoint pen, ready to write.
“In the first place,” I said, “the horse didn’t run over me.”
“What?” he said, surprised. “Everybody else says . . .”
“Everybody else is wrong,” I said and retold the story.
When I’d finished, Officer Howard was looking around the hospital room as if he was trying to find a doctor to tell him I was still suffering the effects of the blow I took.
“Have you found the horse yet?” I asked. “Obviously, you haven’t found the rider.”
“We found the horse wandering loose at the north end of the track. It was taken from one of the stalls up at the barn by the USEC clubhouse—without the owner’s knowledge or permission. The horse was a jumper used by the man’s 12-year-old daughter, who takes lessons at the Center. And no, we haven’t found who did it. Based on what everyone has said, I assumed it was someone horsing around—excuse the pun—maybe from the party up at the clubhouse.”
If he was talking about Teddy, he would be right, I thought.
The cop looked at me a little longer.
“Mr. Bragg, you must know what you’re saying is a little strange, to say the least. No one else reported the incident happening like that.”
“No one else saw it,” I said. “I was out of it when they found me, and a little too dazed to talk when they brought me in.”
“Don’t take this as an insult, but are you sure you aren’t still a bit dazed?”
I laughed. “Believe me, it’s as weird to me as it is to you, but that’s how it happened.”
He gave me another look and began writing things down in his notebook.
“And you have no idea why this person did this to you?” he asked. “I know you’re from Atlanta, but have you made any enemies while you’ve been up here? Somebody who may have it in for you?”
Without more proof, I wasn’t going to tell him that. “None that I know of,” I lied.
Officer Howard wrote more in his notebook then stood up. “I’ll make a report on this and get back to you if anything turns up. But it looks like the perpetrator, no matter what his reason for hitting you, has gotten away, and we may never find him unless something unexpected comes along. If you learn anything yourself, get in touch.”
He laid his card on my bedside table and left.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I woke up Thursday morning when they brought my breakfast. It was still dark out. I was tired and groggy, and my head ached. I felt like I hadn’t slept at all, which was mostly true. All night long it seemed like every few minutes a nurse would wake me up, shine a penlight in my eyes, and ask how I felt. I started answering, “pissed off that you keep waking me up,” but nobody took the hint, and they kept coming.
Kelly showed up a few minutes later and finished off my terrible cup of coffee and a piece of dry toast. “You look tired,” she said. “How do you feel?”
“Like I’ve been hit in the head with a polo mallet,” I said. “But I’m okay.”
“I stopped at the desk, and the nurse said you were fine,” Kelly said. “They’re letting you go this morning. I’ll wait. I don’t think you should be driving yet, so we’ll leave your car at Natasha’s, and I’ll bring you back in a couple of days to get it. Right now, you’re going home with me and into my bed until you’re fit as a fiddle.”
“Why are fiddles fit?” I said, “I have never understood that.”
She stopped and looked at me.
“You’re doing that thing you do to change the subject,” she said.
“What thing?” I asked.
“Saying something silly. So, what is it? What’s wrong?”
“I’m going to stay at Natasha’s, at least through the race Saturday,” I said. “I need to keep at this story, especially since I’ve got their attention. Something is rotten here, and I’ve got to get to the bottom of it. There’s more I need to do, and I can’t do it from a bed in Pickens County, even if it is the best bed in the world.”
“You’re hurt,” she said.
“I’m okay,” I said.
“I’m not going to win this argument, am I?” she said. “Will you at least promise to be careful? Not only with this creep who tried to kill you, but with that injury to your head? Aren’t you aware of all the bad effects of concussions that have been surfacing lately?”
“Look,” I said, “I know you’re trying to do what you think is best, and I love you for it. But I’m working a story here, and you, of all people, should know I won’t quit.”
She sighed a great sigh and looked at me. “Okay,” she finally said. “But don’t go walking in the dark alone again.”
“I won’t,” I said, grinning. “I’ll take Natasha with me.”
“How would you like a knot on the other side of your head?” she said. “But I’ll even agree to that if her company will keep you safer.”
“Come over here,” I patted the corner of my bed.
She did, and I took her hand. “That guy Natasha stole from you back in college? He must have been a complete idiot. Natasha Ladd can’t hold a candle to you.”
She gave me a kiss on the lips.
“I’ll call you every day,” I said. “And keep you posted on things.”
“Just take care of yourself, that’s all I want.”
“I promise. So, let’s get me out of here.”
Kelly went to speed up my checkout and I lay thinking maybe I could use some help. Somebody to watch my back. I was a threat to someone, and would only become more threatening the longer I poked my nose into things. I thought of Alvin ‘Big Hurt’ Brown, Mrs. Johnson’s scary nephew. He wanted to help, so why not let him?
After Kelly dropped me off at Natasha’s and headed home to the Clarion, I called Millie Johnson’s house. Alvin Brown was still there, and she handed the phone off to him.
“Somebody tried to kill me last night,” I said. “Can you meet me somewhere?”
“Name the place,” Alvin said.
I gave him the name of the ‘Hare and Hound,’ the restaurant where Natasha and I had lunch with Teddy Crane and Chuck Norman.
“I can be there in fifteen minutes,” I said.
“Give me thirty,” Alvin said. “I just finished my morning workout. I need to shower.”
“See you there,” I said. “It’s on Main Street in Landrum. You can’t miss it.”
I was seated at a table in back when Big Hurt showed up. The restaurant was half-full with the lunch crowd, and still filling. It might have been my imagination, but an audible hush fell over them as Alvin came through the door. He stood for a second or two looking things over, his gaze like a laser slicing a path through the room, assessing everything and everyone in it. I thought I saw a couple of people flinch as his look passed over them. It was as if he approached all things with his defensive antenna up. He was dressed in all black again, wearing a black t-shirt with a large logo for “Chi-town Marshal Arts” on the front. It fit him like a second skin, and emphasized his chiseled biceps, pecs, and broad shoulders. Although I couldn’t see his abs through the shirt, I knew they would resemble a washboard. He spotted me and came over.
“With a name like Hare and Hound,” he said as he sat down, “I’m guessing this ain’t no soul-food restaurant.”
I caught him looking at the stitches in my head.
“I think I just figured out why you need me,” he said.
“I guess I do need somebody to watch my back,” I said. “I don’t seem to be making too many friends up here. There are also two guys that need watching. I can’t cover them both.”
I brought him up to date on things as quickly as I could: Wilson Kroll and my ever-growing suspicion he killed his prize
stud horse and blamed it on Jamal; that Jamal may have known things Kroll didn’t want known—like the horse’s infertility—and the insurance making it worth more dead than alive. I told him about Kroll’s underworld friends, the parties Kroll threw them, and the drugs Teddy Crane supplied, and how Teddy might be doing other dirty work for Kroll. I described the mask-wearing mallet-wielding guy who tried to kill me, coattails flapping, and how Teddy often wore a cowboy duster, an affectation of trying to look cool. I told him about Eddie Smoke, and how he was probably Teddy’s drug connection. Alvin was staring at me when I’d finished. “You surely have popped the top off a whole can of shit, haven’t you?” he said. So, what do we do?”
“We need to gather some real evidence. Most of what I’ve got is supposition.”
“You’re thinking this Wilson Kroll and Teddy Crane are responsible for Jamal’s disappearance?” he asked. He’d stopped grinning.
I could read his thoughts. “You’re not going to go all kung fu on anybody, are you? I’m in this to find out who did what—and if we find them, we turn them over to the authorities. You need to promise me that.”
He sat turning the proposition over in his mind, and not looking too happy.
“I’ll promise you this,” he finally said. “I won’t start anything, but I’m not going to take anything, either. And the cops get one chance to do their job.”
I guess I’d have to live with that, whatever it meant. I gave a hesitant nod.
“What do I call you?” I asked. “Alvin? Al? Big Hurt? Sir?”
“My friends call me Alvin. ‘Big Hurt’ is from another life.”
“Are we friends?” I asked.
“If you a friend of the Johnson’s, you a friend of mine . . . until you do something to piss me off,” he added, and grinned at me again.
“Alright, Alvin, I said. Let’s get something to eat, then go for a drive. I’ll give you the lay of the land.”
