“You like anyone today?” Dan said finally.
“Whaddaya think? I just come out here for my health? I like Gilbert’s horse in the third. Our boy TP’s got a shot with Emilio in the sixth. Should be at good odds, and the feature’s got a vulnerable heavy favorite. It’s a beautiful world. You know what else?”
“What?”
He stabbed Dan’s shoulder with his index finger. “My best friend has an undefeated stakes-winning filly. You going to the Breeders’ Cup?”
“I doubt it. She’s eligible under the ‘win and you’re in,’ but Jake wants to try her at a distance against softer company. Maybe Florida before the end of the year.
“The way she came back after being passed at the head of the stretch. That’s special, my friend. Can’t teach that. And she’ll get a distance of ground. Bred to. Her daddy nearly wired the best three-year-olds in the country at a mile and a quarter. Little race run on the first Saturday in May—maybe you’ve heard of it. Momma broke her maiden in a route race. Oh, she’ll get a distance of ground all right. Lots of money to be made with a good three-year-old filly. I smell Kentucky Oaks.” He referred to the filly version of the Kentucky Derby, run the day before the Derby each year. “But knowing your horse could be in the Breeders’ Cup and passing. Wow, that takes nerves.”
“Much as I’d love to, Jake’s job is to make sure we do the best thing for the animal.” Dan chuckled. “I guess he’s supposed to protect the horse from my ego.”
Dan looked up the racetrack. A line of grooms slowly walked horses from the backside toward the paddock for the first race.
Milt slapped him on the back as he slid past into the front row seats of the box. “Gonna roll ’em today, boys. I can just feel it.”
Lennie didn’t bother to look up from his sheets. He deadpanned, “I’ll make sure they have plenty of large bills, so you don’t hurt your back carrying home fives and tens, Milt.”
“I’d appreciate it, Lennie. I would appreciate it.”
With a hand on his forehead to shield the sun, Dan squinted hard as the line of horses approached. In his heart he searched for AJ. He strained to see that distinctive limp. Of course, he wasn’t there. He never would be.
Dan would never get over the loss of Ananias Jacob Kaine. And right now, even though it hurt, he was okay with that.
Ten horses in single file, heads down as they lumbered along the track’s outside railing. In a few short minutes they would run with all their hearts, bursting with adrenaline, striving to get to the wire.
Each appeared contemplative, like a solitary boxer in a deserted training room minutes before a championship bout.
Only one could win.
The rest went home defeated. That was the game. That was the life.
They existed simply and humbly. They waited for that one second. For that moment when they broke into the clear down the home stretch, and no one was going to catch them.
They lived for that one chance—the chance to get home first.
The End
Author’s Note
There is no racetrack in Northern Virginia, but there should be. Fairfax Park is an imaginary combination of racetracks and backsides I have had the privilege to visit. Primary among them is Ak-sar-ben Racetrack in Omaha, Nebraska. It is gone now, a victim of fierce competition for wagering dollars. I hated to see it go, but it lives on in my fondest memories. Those were simple days. All we had to do was pick the winner, and they’d actually give us money for that.
I have taken certain literary liberties with Aly Dancer’s preparation and training. Getting these athletes to peak performance takes time, care, and patience. When done right, it is a triumph of man and animal. Any errors or inconsistencies in protocols or procedures are solely mine. Hey, it’s a novel.
Finally, some may feel that AJ’s ability to communicate with horses is too extreme to be believable. Horse whispering was once thought to be an exaggeration also. Medical research has established that a small percentage of those afflicted with conditions on the autism spectrum have qualities of intellect that stagger the mind. AJ’s condition is of my own making, but I refer you to studies of synesthesia, the theory of multiple intelligences, and research on brainwave entrainment, particularly between autistic children and dolphins. Extreme? Perhaps. Impossible? Who’s to say? It may well be too early to tell.
I have always believed that what God takes way in one dimension, he repays with gusto in another. The only question is can we, as simple humans, comprehend and appreciate where God has doubled down.
We all have a gift.
Life’s challenge is to discover it, nurture it, and best of all, enjoy it.
Acknowledgements
first and foremost, I thank Becky who makes my world complete. So many people have provided encouragement for my writing. If I listed them all, it would double the length of the book. You know how much I value your support. My deepest appreciation to Mike Garrett for editorial direction and advice, to Dr. Noon Kampani, for insight and assistance with medical issues, to my favorite law enforcement personnel, P.B. and B.C., for help with protocols and procedures, to my single strongest advocate as a writer, Billie Caredis, to Don and Susan DeCarlo for the laughs, the friendship, and a great name for the protagonist’s love interest, to Harrison for tirelessly working to keep me humble, and to the McLean Mafia, for…well, because I have to.
Finally, to Our Buckwheat, Darla’s Charge, Pray, Oscar, and Fly Girl. You’ll never know how you made my heart sing.
Recognition for
Elijah’s Coin
By Steve O’Brien
BOOK OF THE YEAR, FICTION
Books and Authors
WINNER, NOVELLA
Next Generation Indie Book Awards
WINNER, TEEN-YOUNG ADULT FICTION
Reader Views Literary Awards
WINNER, FICTION AND LITERATURE, YOUNG ADULT FICTION
National Best Book Awards
SILVER MEDALIST, AUDIO BOOK AND SPOKEN WORD
Nautilus Book Awards
SILVER MEDALIST, MEN’S FICTION
Living Now Book Awards
SILVER MEDALIST, MID-ATLANTIC BEST REGIONAL FICTION
Independent Publisher Book Awards
FINALIST, BEST NEW FICTION
National Indie Excellence Awards
FINALIST, AUDIO BOOK OF THE YEAR
ForeWord magazine
Also by A&N Publishing
ELIJAH’S COIN
By
Steve O’Brien
So I chided the old man
’bout the truth that I had heard.
He just smiled and said—
“Reality is only just a word.”
—Harry Chapin, “Corey’s Coming”
Chapter 1
One hour from now I am going to change my life forever.
I am lying on my back with my fingers intertwined behind my head. I wait.
One hour from now I am going to be in charge of my life.
I glance to my left and my digital clock clicks from 12:59 to 1:00 a.m. I smile.
One hour from now I am going to do something I’ve never done before.
I’m going to take what I want, when I want it. I’m going to enrich myself. I’m going to set myself on the path to instant riches. The future will be mine. I will be in control.
You see, one hour from now I will be a criminal.
I am not one of those down-on-my-luck, need-a-break career criminals. No, I am more of a freelancer or hobbyist criminal. I’m a college freshman at Tech in Blacksburg, Virginia, with no real need to commit crimes. It is very simple: I am doing this because I can. That’s the only reason I need.
On the way to my prospective crime scene, I am dressed all in black. It is kind of an “in” thing for us criminal types. Adrenaline is surging through me as I contemplate going through with this or not. When the time comes, will I do it? Will I chicken out? I’m sure all criminals go through this self-doubt just before their first big
job.
I had “cased the joint” as they say. I had done my homework. Cashion’s Sporting Goods was going to be my first mark. It was about a mile and a half from my dorm, so about fifteen minutes by bike. No need to take my car as the bike will give me more options and be easier to hide. The drive-thru bank on the corner will be the perfect spot to stash my bike during the breakin. I had been in the store and viewed the exits. I had been outside during the day and at night. I knew how to get in and how to get out and, most importantly, there were no dogs, no watchmen, and no alarms.
I am on this mission alone. Come to think of it, everything I’ve done the last few years of my life has been alone. I’m not much of a joiner. For the most part, I’ve learned if you trust someone you’ll be disappointed. Anything I do, I do by myself. Anything I want, I get for myself. I’m my own rock. I can count on me; I can’t count on anyone else.
My dad called my cell phone earlier in the evening. I let the phone ring. He didn’t leave a message. He was finally getting the point.
Being away at college was the break I needed. Classes were mostly lame, filled with freshman overachievers. Many were so avid to make an impression on professors that it was embarrassing to watch. Some were actually pretty smart; others should avoid the expense and just move home to work in gas stations and beauty parlors. Homework was easy. Much of the assigned work was easier than high school. Humanities and writing? Boring. Accounting? Nearly indecipherable as the TA was Japanese or Chinese or something like that. Calculus? A re-run of senior year.
The only course that held my attention at all was something called “The Theory of Knowledge.” It was taught by an aged elf of a man named Dr. Summerlin. He started teaching here about the time the Appalachian Mountains were forming. The class was more about logic, thought, and debate than the title let on. He would state a problem. Half the class would write a short article to defend the stated position; the other half would attack the position. His classes were less like lectures and more like Socratic discussions. He would never answer a question or give evidence that he supported any particular opinion; he would only pose more questions.
Many of the “sheep freshmen” in my class were terrified. There was no textbook; there were only assigned readings, sometimes an op-ed piece in The New York Times, sometimes an article in the latest Rolling Stone. You couldn’t really take notes because it was a meandering conversation, not a lecture. One of the more courageous sheep asked how the class was going to be graded and whether there was a final exam or a term paper. Dr. Summerlin only smiled and said, “I will grade you on what you learn and how you apply yourself. This is ‘The Theory of Knowledge,’ not some mundane collection of facts that you can memorize and spew back on a test. This class is about learning to learn and understanding to understand.” About a quarter of the class bailed after that little announcement and dropped the class in favor of art appreciation or geography or some other “safe A.”
I really didn’t care what grade I got from him. I enjoyed the way he thought and the way he could move a discussion. He would listen to one student ardently defending a position and with a wave of his hand ask a question that so stumped and repudiated the advocate that it left others breathless. It was never done in an intimidating or threatening fashion. The counter was quick, efficient, and intellectually deadly. It was like a jujitsu move on a street thug. It was over before the thug knew what had happened, and there was no reason to think it would go differently if repeated. He would also praise original thought. In an odd way I think he enjoyed being surprised by random ideas and probing and pondering the extension of the ideas. This wasn’t a class with a lesson plan or a series of tidy lectures. It was free-form intelligence flowing through the room. Were it not for Dr. Summerlin’s class, I could have skipped the whole semester and never left my dorm room.
Speaking of my dorm room, I’m more than happy to have it to myself. It took me about six weeks to get my assigned roommate to move out. He was a nice enough guy, but I chose not to talk to him. Ever. I think it kind of freaked him out. I ignored him totally. He tried to build a relationship with me, even invited other guys on the floor to our room to try to get me to open up, but I would have none of it. I had my world; he had his. They didn’t need to intersect.
Eventually he couldn’t take it anymore. He went to the resident assistant and asked to be moved. The resident assistant asked me about our relationship, and I told him I thought there was something wrong with the guy. The guy was obviously laboring under some form of latent “attachment issues.” Moving him might be a good thing. The next day my roommate was moved to another floor. I think his name was Brandon or Brent—something like that. Doesn’t matter. It works out much better this way. I don’t need people asking me questions about classes, and I certainly don’t need someone nosing into what I will bring home from my burglaries. No, alone is the way I want it.
It hadn’t always been like this. Only since two years ago—September 28. My life had been a picture of normalcy. Junior year—on the varsity football team, not a starter, but, heck, I had a jersey with my name on it. Girlfriend—not the most attractive girl in school mind you, but she was smart, athletic, and well-liked. Classes were easy. College visits were on the horizon.
All that ended September 28. Coming home that crisp and clean fall evening, I coasted my bike up the driveway, slid to a stop, and headed toward the back door, like I’d done a thousand times before.
The back door was open, which was odd. That became a minor detail as I entered the kitchen. I knew something was wrong immediately. No sound. It was like entering a mausoleum. Then I knew instantly. We had been robbed. Everything disheveled in a random grope for valuables. It was hard to avoid the blood splatter in the hallway. I raced to the living room and found my mother curled into a ball on the floor. I guess the shape your body makes when it is resigned to death. A pool of blood surrounded her head. One arm was extended as if she were reaching out for something. Then I spotted it. Her arm was stretched out because the killer had stolen the wedding ring off her finger. I started to gag and raced to the kitchen, where the remains of my lunch hit the sink and counter.
A madman dialed 911 and screamed into the phone. Then I realized it was me. It took six minutes for the unit to respond. It seemed like seven years.
She wasn’t breathing. Her skin was cold and clammy. What should I have done? Hug her? Move her? Stay inside? I paced the floor. Where were they? It had been four seconds since I had hung up the phone.
I don’t remember crying. I’m sure I did. I know I did later. Doctors called it shock or traumatic stress disorder. I don’t care what it is; I just want to know when it ends.
The Washington Post called it a brutal killing. When you’re seventeen, and it involves the murder of your mother in your own home, is there another kind?
Blunt force trauma, the ME said. “Probably been dead since early afternoon.” Signs of B and E the policeman said.
My dad drove up. No one had to say a word. He collapsed on the front porch. The sight of that probably hurt me the most. He would never recover.
They say only children grow up fast. Only children whose mothers are killed in their homes on September 28 become adults instantly. Innocence, trust, kindness, and love are all stripped away and crushed under foot. You go from a devil-may-care adolescent to a hollow, emotionless human in a series of rapid heartbeats.
Never found the killer. Never found the ring or anything else for that matter. Never made an arrest. Why is it that the perfect crime is the one involving the murder of my mother on September 28?
People pulled back from me at that point, or maybe I pulled away from them. No more sports. Former friends didn’t know what to say or how to deal with this. They started avoiding me in the hallway. Who could blame them?
No girlfriend. She tried to weather it, but I couldn’t talk. It was a one-way relationship with her. She finally gave up. Who could blame her?
Dad starting drinking heavily.
We had nothing to talk about. We sold the home and moved into a two-bedroom apartment. Grades slipped. Visions of UVA or Ivy League educations turned sour. I was lucky that Tech took a chance on me. One of my dad’s friends pulled some strings, told them the story, and somehow got me an acceptance letter.
I couldn’t wait to move away to college. Not like the others who wanted the freedom, the partying, and the new life. I wanted to go away just so I could be alone. So people wouldn’t stare at me with sad eyes or shake their heads like “damn shame.” I just wanted to be anonymous. I wanted to disappear. So I didn’t have to talk to anyone, especially my dad. We hadn’t actually spoken in months. Who could blame us?
Maybe I’m bitter, maybe depressed, but I’m going to take what I want. Like the burglar who killed my mom in the process of stealing our stuff, I’m going to take what I want. I don’t want pity; I just want people to leave me alone. Who could blame me?
Bullet Work Page 24
