by Kit Ehrman
Thinking that I wanted to go back, Chase bunched his hindquarters and lunged forward into a bouncy, agitated canter. The lead line was useless as far as brakes went. I yanked his head around, pointed him down the trail, and nailed him with my heels. He bolted into a frantic, disorganized gallop.
He was wound tight, snorting and blowing, every muscle in his body rigid with tension. I didn't fight him but let him go at his own pace. I gripped with my knees and prayed that his instincts would take us safely through the blackness. When he galloped down the section of trail that was little more than a ledge, I concentrated on keeping my balance and hoped he wouldn't step off into space.
Wet branches brushed against my arms and touched my hair as damp air, smelling richly of humus, buffeted my faced. I crouched lower onto his neck. The woods past by in a dizzying blur of dark shapes against black. I could not see the trail. Couldn't even see the ground beneath us. When we reached the stream crossing, he flew it, and I began to wonder if I would ever get him stopped.
Gradually, his stride evened out. When we hit the bottom land, I pulled him around to the left and headed west along the river bank. I sat up straighter, relaxed my lower back, and willed him to slow down. He dropped down to a trot, then to the walk, and I appreciated Anne's training skills more than ever.
My side ached. I lifted my arm and twisted around. My elbow and shirt were wet. I peeled the fabric off my waist. The air hit my skin, and the pain intensified. It felt like a burn, and I realized I'd been shot. Though I couldn't see the damage, I decided it wasn't serious. I was breathing okay, and the pain wasn't too bad.
I thought about Dorsett, then, and urged Chase into a canter. If there was a chance he was still alive, I had to get him help. The gelding's gait was strung out and rough. I used my seat and legs to collect his stride and asked him to go faster across the uneven terrain. The tall grass dragged at his legs. He wasn't a cross-country horse, but he was willing nonetheless. A sharp contrast to his manners on the ground where he was dangerous and unpredictable.
When we came to a wide drainage ditch that had deepened because of runoff from construction upslope, he slid awkwardly down the bank. I slipped forward, out of position, and when he heaved himself up the opposite bank and scrambled over the edge, I nearly came off.
Chase stopped.
The adrenaline rush had worn off, and my muscles trembled with fatigue and cold. I knotted the lead rope around my left wrist while, beneath me, the horse's body rocked with each ragged breath. Fear and exertion had taken a toll on both of us. I squeezed my calves and urged him forward.
It began to rain. A cold stinging rain.
I watched the terrain. An old trail, now unpopular because it dead-ended behind a newly-constructed housing development, snaked uphill on the left.
I almost missed it. I pulled Chase sharply to the left, kicked him in the ribs, and he plowed through the thick undergrowth and bounded up the hill. His hooves slipped on the rain-soaked leaves. I grabbed mane and clucked to him. As we neared the ridge, I felt him abruptly focus his attention. I squinted through the rain.
Directly ahead stood a four-foot-high picket fence, its white planks gleaming in the darkness. Chase pricked his ears and extended his stride with enthusiasm. I gritted my teeth and held on tighter.
The horse cleared it with a foot to spare and landed neatly in someone's backyard. I pushed myself back into position as he zeroed in on the next fence. I had no control. With zero encouragement from me, he crossed the grass in six strides and sailed the front fence. I managed to stay with him, but he shied at a hose reel propped against the house. He veered to the left and crashed through the bowed branches of an ornamental tree. I ducked at the last second. Wet limbs gouged my shoulders and back, and my shirt tore. His next stride took us across the sidewalk, and when he slipped on the asphalt, he dropped down to a walk.
We had ended up in a cul-de-sac. Judging by the houses--all brick, expensive, convoluted affairs--we were in the relatively new subdivision just west of Foxdale. Deceptive considering the ride we'd just had. Except for one house at the mouth of the circle, all the homes were dark. When we reached the curb on the far side, I hopped off the gelding and led him onto the sidewalk. Chase snaked his neck around and tried to get a piece of my skin between his teeth, and I realized I should I have stayed on his back.
I led him down the sidewalk and wondered how I would manage knocking on someone's door with Chase in tow.
As we turned toward the lighted house, where windows cast yellow squares onto an immaculate lawn, a car approached slowly from the main road. I looked over my shoulder and saw the lightbar on the roof and a shield on the door. I yanked Chase around and jogged toward the cruiser.
The gelding trotted sideways, back to his usual irritable self. It wasn't until we reached the length of sidewalk bordered by a decorative retaining wall that I was able to get him going in a straight line.
The cruiser angled across the road toward us and halted with its left front tire against the curb. The overhead lights flicked on. I glanced at Chase. He tensed his neck as the rotating blue and red lights flashed across his wide, liquid eyes. The driver turned on the spotlight and shone it in my face. I shaded my eyes and hoped Chase wouldn't bolt.
The wipers flicked across the windshield, flinging droplets through the glare of the spotlight. As the door creaked open, I noticed the cruiser's number painted on the front fender. Forty-six. Dorsett's number.
"Dorsett?" I squinted and stepped closer as he climbed from behind the wheel.
"Need some help, boy?"
Harrison leveled the barrel of his gun over the door frame and pulled the trigger as I spun away from him.
The impact slammed me into Chase's side.
A high-pitched whinny erupted from the horse's throat as I crashed onto the sidewalk. Chase wheeled around in the tight space. My arm jerked upward and the lead rope tightened on my wrist. When the gelding felt the tension on his halter, he lowered his head, bunched his hindquarters, and kicked out with both hind legs. A hind hoof exploded through the driver's side window, and Harrison screamed.
I frantically worked at the rope.
Chase bolted, jerking me toward the cruiser. My chest bumped against the horse's hind legs as the rope unwound from my wrist. He kicked out again. His lethal hooves sliced high over my head and tangled with the open door before he galloped down the sidewalk.
Harrison was down on one knee between the cruiser's door and body, and he was groaning. I pushed myself to my knees, twisted around, and saw his gun on the sidewalk just beyond my feet. I lunged toward it and wrapped my fingers around the grip, then rolled away from the car. I pushed myself upright and propped my back against the retaining wall.
Harrison grunted to his feet and walked out from behind the car door, cradling his left arm against his ribs.
I raised the gun with both hands and pointed it at him.
I stared down the long black barrel and concentrated on the sight as it jumped wildly. Couldn't stop my hands from shaking. He turned sideways, and I forced myself to focus beyond the gun's sight. To focus on him.
His right arm moved.
When he turned back around, he held his hand behind his leg. I glanced at the leather sheath strapped to his belt. It was empty.
"You don't have the guts to use that," he said. "Do you, boy?"
"Don't." It came out a whisper.
He took a step forward. In my peripheral vision, I saw the flash of steel as he brought the knife around.
I squeezed the trigger.
Harrison staggered backward and collapsed against the cruiser. The door clicked shut as he slid to the ground, smearing a swath of red across the Howard County shield.
"Yes," I whispered. "I do."
I lowered my hand, and the gun clattered on the cement. Wetness soaked through my shirt. I looked at my side. Looked dispassionately at the blood seeping down a crack in the sidewalk.
Burning pain cut through me as if the thou
ght created the reality. I leaned my head against the wall and listened to the monotonous whine as the wipers swept across the windshield. Listened to the low-pitched drone of the engine. It began to rain harder then, the drops pinging loudly on the hood. It soaked into my clothes and trickled through my hair.
I watched the rain move in sheets through the glare from the spotlight and became dizzy. Though I was sweating, I shook from the cold.
Each breath was more difficult than the last. I closed my eyes and couldn't hear anything except my pulse banging in my ears. I wondered if I would hear the last beat and realize it.
Chapter 21
I had been drifting in and out of consciousness for what seemed a very long time. I had no idea what the time was, wasn't even certain of the day.
Someone cleared his throat. I opened my eyes. Detective Ralston was standing at the foot of the bed. His suit was wrinkled, and he'd loosened his tie.
"How's Dorsett?" I said.
"Better. He regained consciousness yesterday morning."
"What about brain . . ."
"He'll be fine. The bullet grazed his skull. He has one hell of a headache and bruised ribs where his vest stopped the other slug, but all in all, he was damn lucky."
"Hmm." My mouth felt like cotton.
Ralston gripped the footboard with both hands. His fingers were splayed and his skin looked pale against the industrial-steel gray. He gestured to the bed and medical gadgetry. "Sorry about this."
"It wasn't your fault."
"I should have handled it differently." He glanced at the ceiling, then rubbed his face. "I shouldn't have let another night go by without setting up a detail."
I shook my head. "If I hadn't left my new number with the . . . guard," I blinked, "I'd be downing some Millers and watching the Orioles."
Ralston grunted.
I fingered the cotton blanket that was draped across my lap. The damn thing must have been washed about a million times.
If I had only stayed in the loft that February night. An hour earlier, an hour later, would have made all the difference in the world. Harrison might still have targeted Foxdale, but he wouldn't have cared about me. Wouldn't have become fixated.
My lungs felt as if they had collapsed into a tight ball in the center of my chest.
Ralston straightened and walked around the room. He looked at the IV bag, the monitors mounted on a trolley, the curtains that provided privacy. He briefly looked at my chart, then he dragged a chair closer to the bed and sat down. Light brown bristles darkened his chin, and his eyes were bloodshot behind his wire-rimmed glasses.
"Are you up to giving me a statement," he said, "start to finish?"
I nodded.
He had a tape recorder with him that I hadn't noticed. He checked the cassette and switched it on. "Did you see who shot Richard Harper?"
"Yes." My voice was hoarse. "Harrison did."
"Which one?"
"Oh, John."
He hesitated. "Do you know which one of them killed the guard?"
"No. Harrison," I shook my head, "I mean, John Harrison said that Robby cut the guard's throat." I swallowed. "Any word on Robby, yet?"
"No. His car's been recovered. The Virginia State Police found it disabled on 211, just west of Warrenton. What happened after you went to your friend's house?"
I told Ralston about the phone call and the rest of it, and when I was finished, I was exhausted. "I was thinking," I said. "Something Mrs. Peters mentioned. I think her husband reported Harrison. Maybe to the AHSA or--"
"The what?" Ralston said.
"American Horse Show Association. Maybe Harrison was scamming insurance companies, too, and Peters caught on. Or maybe Peters reported him to the Humane Society." I told him what Nick had said about Harrison whipping a horse.
Ralston scribbled the information down and closed his notebook. "I'll let you get some rest."
"Wait," I said as he turned to leave. "Did the horse make it back okay?"
He shook his head. "He slipped as he turned onto Rocky Ford and broke his hip. Had to be destroyed."
"Damn," I mumbled.
"I'm sorry, Steve." Ralston turned toward the door and said, more to himself than to me, "About everything."
The door swung shut and, in a moment, the resultant current of air swirl across my skin. I stared at the faded pattern in the curtain and remembered the thrill I'd felt when Chase had caught sight of that white, picket fence. I thought about the joy I'd felt flowing from his mind when faced with a fence and the torment he'd lived with otherwise. A sad, screwed up horse.
I leaned back on the pillow. More than anything, I wanted to go back to sleep. But Harrison kept getting in the way, and a hundred other things I would have just as soon forgotten.
On the sidewalk that night, as I had lain against the cold block wall, I had looked at Harrison's face after he'd died. His mouth had hung slackly open, his eyes staring blankly toward the sky. Raindrops fell on his face and trickled into his mouth, but what I remembered most was that his expression had been one of pure astonishment . His sick, perverted mind had driven him to take that last, his final, risk.
* * *
The next day, they removed another tube and moved me into a regular room. I pressed them about a release date, but they said it was still too soon to tell, so instead, I wondered when they would allow visitors. Rachel in particular.
My next visitor was not Rachel, however, but Detective Ralston.
He snagged a chair and dragged it over to the bed. "You're looking a damn sight better than the last time I saw you."
"Yeah. I can hardly wait to get out of here."
"Your doctor says you're doing well, all things considered."
"Did he say when I'd be getting out?"
He chuckled. "No. Dorsett's out of ICU."
"I know. When they wheeled him down the hall, they let him stop in for a minute."
Ralston swung the chair around backward and straddled it. "The investigation's moving along nicely. Besides what happened at Foxdale, we've linked John Harrison to the murder of James Peters and to your abduction in February. It's also looking good for connecting him with the murders of David Rowe and Larry Jacob, the two I mentioned the other night."
I shut my mouth with a snap. "How'd you do that?"
"When we searched their farm, we found some interesting things. Your wallet, for one. The older brother, John, kept something from each victim in a bedroom dresser."
"Jesus." I swallowed and closed my eyes. "What about Pennsylvania?"
"The boyfriend confessed. They'd been arguing all weekend, and apparently it escalated into a physical confrontation. He struck her hard enough that it killed her. Afterwards, he remembered reading about the Peter's case in the newspaper and pretended his girlfriend was victim number two."
"What about the stolen horses?" I said.
"There wasn't a theft. They'd sold the horses a month earlier, and apparently that's what they were arguing about." Ralston pulled a plastic evidence bag out of his jacket pocket and tossed it on the bed. "You might be interested in this."
Inside was an envelope addressed to my Post Office box and a wrinkled sheet of white, lined paper. I smoothed the plastic on my thigh, flattened the paper with my fingers, and squinted at the small script. Although the note was unsigned, whoever had written it had identified John Harrison as someone who used a rig that matched the description of the one I'd been looking for. I looked up at Ralston.
"It came in yesterday's mail," he said. "We impounded the truck owned by T&T Industries and compared the tire tread with the casts taken in the Rowe case." Ralston smiled briefly. "They matched."
"Good."
"As soon as we confronted Timbrook with that bit of information, we couldn't shut him up. It seems that John Harrison had tipped him off about the Peters farm being for sale, but he had no idea Harrison had been involved in Peters disappearance and death. Because the land butted up against Piney Run Park, T&T Industries made m
ore on the deal than they'd expected, so Timbrook actively began pursuing land bordering the state park system."
"Which led him to the Ritter farm," I said.
Ralston nodded. "That deal went through smoothly, but Timbrook was greedy. Like you suspected, when he couldn't persuade Foxdale's owner to sell, he asked John and Robert to make trouble for the farm, but he swears up, down, and sideways that he never meant for anyone to get hurt."
I handed the letter back to Ralston and thought about Elsa. Had she known what was going on? Was that why she had warned me about Robby?
"And you were right about something else. "June of last year, Peters reported Harrison to the Montgomery County Humane Society for cruelty."
"God." After a while, I said, "How could it happen? How could two people become so . . . twisted?"
Detective Ralston rubbed his chin. There was more color to his face, and he was freshly shaven. He wasn't wearing the wire-rims of the day before, and I wondered if he wore contacts. "Maybe they learned by example. The father's done time for sexual battery, assault with a deadly weapon, aggravated assault. Right now, he's in for statutory rape. John had a few minor brushes with the law when he was younger, all misdemeanors--"
"He got smarter."
"What? Oh, yeah. Robert managed to stay clean until now."
The florescent tube above my head hummed softly. "What about Elsa?"
Ralston shrugged. "There's nothing to indicate she knew what her husband and brothers were up to, but the fact that she warned you implies otherwise. As far as the cousin's concerned, the one who owns the trailer, I don't think he knew they were using it for anything illegal. Oh, and the District Attorney's office is investigating Sanders. So far, they've found claims on four different horses "
"Wow." I shifted my pillow. "Heard anything about Robby?"
Ralston shook his head. "Nothing."
* * *
After lunch, I fell asleep. Sometime during my nap, the pain medication wore off. I floated upward on a rising wave of pain and jerked awake with a start. Rachel was sitting beside my bed, her fingers entwined in mine, and she looked scared. Her face looked stiff, and a tremor worked at the corner of her mouth. I could only guess how my face must have looked before I'd come fully awake.
