At Risk (36 page)

"Go ahead." Harrison shoved me toward Rich's
body. "Get movin'. We ain't got all night."

I gulped a lungful of air and gripped Rich's
ankles. When I lifted his legs and stepped backward, his body slid
the rest of the way down the stall front, and his head hit the
asphalt with a sickening thud. My stomach churned. I leaned against
the stall.

The gun's barrel butted against my shoulder.
"Get movin', boy."

I kept my gaze on Rich's legs, tightened my
grip on his ankles, and dragged him toward the end of the barn.

"Robby, go switch off the lights," Harrison
said. "We can make the rest of the aisle in the dark."

I watched Robby saunter toward the doorway,
then as unobtrusively as possible, I glanced behind me. I had
forty-eight feet to go--the length of four stalls--before I was
level with the cut-through to the arena. If I timed it right . .
.

I slowed my pace. Robby was almost to the
bank of light switches. He paused and peeked out the doorway. Hurry
it up, I thought. I slowed even more.

Twenty-four feet to go.

Robby's hand moved down over the switches and
plummeted the barn into darkness. I continued backward more slowly
and forced myself to wait until the timing was in my favor.

Robby and Harrison were silhouetted by the
sodium vapor light, and I hoped the lighting would work to my
advantage. Hoped they couldn't see me as easily as I could them. I
watched Robby move down the aisle toward us. I drew level with the
cut-through as he reached the halfway mark between the lights and
us. I quietly lowered Rich's legs to the asphalt, then bolted into
the arena. I figured I had about eight seconds before Robby made it
back to the light switch.

Harrison didn't wait for the lights. He
bellowed and shot wildly. The bullet cracked harmlessly into the
arena wall to my left as I neared the opposite cut-through that led
into aisle two. As I turned the corner into the aisle, I grabbed a
lead rope off its hook and thanked God that someone had hung it
where it belonged for a change. Another gunshot. Wood splitting.
Closer this time.

The lights in aisle one flashed on. I skidded
to a halt in front of the third stall from the end and threw open
the door. Chase stood in the center of the stall, legs splayed,
eyes wide with fear. The only horse in the barn who wore a halter
twenty-four hours a day. I clipped on the lead, grabbed a handful
of mane, and vaulted onto his back.

I kicked him out of the stall and leaned to
my right, knowing he would move to stay balanced under my weight.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Harrison step into the aisle
behind us. His arm came up. Almost fifty yards separated us, but it
didn't much matter. Not with that gun of his. I ignored the fact
that Chase's shoes were slipping on the asphalt and kicked him into
a canter.

When Harrison fired again, Chase didn't need
any encouragement. As we crossed the threshold, a bullet splintered
the doorjamb at shoulder level. Only a foot away.

But it was enough.

In another second, we would be out of his
line of sight. I leaned to my right, signaling to Chase that I
wanted him to head down the corridor between the paddocks, when
something hit my left side. I tipped forward over the horse's
shoulder.

I had a clear view of his hooves skidding on
the asphalt as he floundered under my shifting weight, uncertain
what I wanted, and I nearly came off. I anchored my right hand in
his mane, pressed my left hand against his shoulder, and pushed
myself back into position. He had slowed to a trot. I kicked him
into a gallop, and we sailed down the hill and slipped into
darkness.

As we neared the woods, I straightened,
weighted my seat, and brought him back to the trot. Where the lane
emptied onto the trails, I spun him around and looked up the hill
toward the barn.

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 thought
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."