Dark Horse (2 page)

Three

“Hank! Get out of the way!” Dad yells. He’s dousing me with water from his hose.

Only I can’t get out of the way. If Cleo runs back into the barn this time, that’s it. She’ll be burned alive.

I explode into action. “You get! Shoo!” I wave my arms at Cleo like a madman. “Go on!” I stamp my feet. I scream. I make noises I didn’t know I had in me.

Dad turns the hose on Cleo. “Yeeehaw! Move!”

Cleo slows but keeps coming.

Dad moves the hose to spray her face.

“Get!” I scream. I run at her, arms flailing. I’m whooping and jumping and stamping. The horse rears, then pivots and takes off away from the barn at a full gallop.

Dad grabs my arm and pulls me clear of the barn. Something crashes behind me. “Hank, get away! You’re too close. It’s going to go!”

I feel him drag me away. I hear the creaking and groaning of the barn behind me. But all I can see is beautiful Cleopatra, her tail held high as she races away, zigzagging through the pasture. I can’t take my eyes off her. She doesn’t slow as she nears the fence. I think she’s going to run straight into it.

Then she jumps. She sails. She flies. Without missing a stride, she lands and keeps on galloping.

“You saved her, Son.” Dad’s arm is around my bare shoulder. It hurts like I’ve been sunburned. I’m hot, then cold. Dad pulls me farther away from the fire-engulfed barn. “You saved that horse’s life.”

Saved her for what? What kind of a life can that horse possibly have now? Cleo will never understand what I did. She’ll never trust anybody. Not after this.

“They’re coming! Hear that?” Dad shouts.

Then I hear the sirens.

“Hank?” He points to the road. He slips out of his fire jacket, takes off his flannel shirt underneath, and holds it out to me. When I don’t take it, he puts it on me himself.

Four fire trucks are speeding down our dirt road. They’re barely visible in the clouds of dust they’re stirring up. Sirens blare, getting louder and louder.

I feel like I’m watching the trucks on TV. And I’m thinking—as if the whole scene has nothing to do with me—
Nice has only two fire trucks. Wonder where they got the other trucks.

But it’s not television. The trucks are real. They’re turning up our drive and bringing their sirens with them.

One of Wes’s dogs breaks loose and races, barking, at the lead red fire truck.

Dad waves his arms like we’re waiting to be rescued from a desert island. “We’re here!” he cries. Like they can’t see the flames. Like they can’t see the black smoke covering our little piece of earth.

“Hank, that’s your mother’s van!”

My eyes are blurry. I have to blink several times before I can see her. She’s driving close behind the last truck. I cough again, convulsing with the force of the coughs. It feels like my throat is on fire. And it’s hot, so hot.

“Kat must have called my Annie at the hospital,” Dad says, waving at Mom.

I can tell he wants to run and meet her van. But he’s still holding that little hose on the fire. And that makes me want to laugh. The water trickles onto ashes now. How does that saying go? “It’s like closing the barn door after the horse is out.”

“What did you say?” Dad asks.

“Nothing.” My mind is numb. My fingers tingle. I look down at my left hand, and my fingertips are black.

“I need to see my Annie,” Dad says. “I should tell her what’s going on.”

“I think she knows, Dad.” Again, I feel like laughing. It’s the strangest sensation, like I’m caught between crying and laughter with no room in between. I watch the flames like we watch fireworks on the Fourth of July. Fire is beautiful. How could I not have known that?

“Still,” Dad says, “I need to talk to your mother.” He glances to the end of the driveway, where the van stops. The fire engines keep plowing up the drive, past the house, over the leaf-covered lawn to us.

Dad stares at the pitiful stream of water from the garden hose. Then he lays it down, finally seeing what I see.

It’s no use.

“You’re still too close to the barn, Hank.” Dad grabs my arm and pulls.

I stumble backwards, unable to take my gaze off the flames.

“Will you be all right if I go to your mother?” Dad asks.

“I’m all right.” My voice is calm, warm. My throat is still on fire. My stomach feels like flames are jumping back and forth inside of me.

“Just stay out of the way!” Dad shouts. He’s already jogging around the barn, heading for Mom.

I hear the firemen shouting instructions at each other, but I can’t see them through the bank of smoke.

I’m here alone with the fire.

And God.

Because God is everywhere. I’ve believed that since I was five years old and maybe before that.

“Why did You let this happen?” I whisper. I’m talking to God, but it doesn’t feel like prayer. “Why?” I say it louder. “Why couldn’t You have caught that circus on fire? Or all those barns where people abuse Your creatures? Why us? Why did You let this happen to the Rescue?”

There’s no answer.

I’ve known Jesus since I was five too. I’ve never doubted that He hears me when I pray.

Only I’m doubting it now.

I hear a whinny, long and loud.

Starlight.

I hear the whinny again, filled with terror.

For a second my heart leaps, and I’m ready to race into the barn again. Only then I remember. My horse is not in the barn. I move around to the side of the barn until I can see Starlight through the smoke and confusion.

Dakota hasn’t stayed where I told her to, but she’s still on her horse and holding mine. She’s talking to a man I can’t make out. Another man stands behind them, and I think he’s got a camera. Behind Mom’s van is a white van with
WXNJ News
on the side.

Are we news?

The firemen have closed in on the barn like locusts. Like termites. Thick streams of water crisscross over the roof. The sizzles and swooshes mix with the crackling of the fire. It’s a sound and light show, only with water and fire.

“Hey! There’s a kid back here!” One of the firemen I’ve never seen before runs up to me. “You! Get out of here!”

When I don’t move—I can’t move—he charges at me.

“Lou! That’s Hank. Chester’s boy.” Mr. McCarthy jogs toward me. I’ve known “Mac” for as long as I can remember.

“I don’t care who he is!” the other guy shouts. “Get him out of here!”

Mac puts his arm around my shoulder just like Dad did.

I wonder if they teach them that in firefighter’s school. I don’t think I’m thinking straight. But I have to. I’m Hank Coolidge, the logical one. I should be able to think straight. Maybe my logic got burned in the fire.

“Come on, Hank,” Mac pleads. “I’m real sorry about all this. But you can’t stay here. I  think we’ve got the fire under control. But it could spark up on us again.” Mac waits for me to say something.

I have nothing to say.

“Are you okay?” he asks, squinting up at me.

I’m taller than him. I’m taller than Dad. I’m taller than everybody.

“Did you get burned?” He steps back and looks me over, up and down. “Why don’t you go in the house, son? Let us take it from here.”

I frown at Mac. I think he and Dad joined the volunteer fire department the same day.

“Hank, are you okay?” He gives up on an answer. “I need you to move.” He’s talking like a fireman now, not an old friend or neighbor. He pulls out a roll of yellow tape and steps toward the barn.

Another fireman—I know him, but I can’t think of his name—takes the end of the yellow tape. Together they wind it around a tree and run it to the next tree.

And I get it. This is crime scene tape.

This is a crime scene.

Four

Winnie Willis

Ashland, Ohio

“Winnie! Calvin! Oh no! Come here. Oh my! This is terrible! I can’t believe—!” Claire Coolidge, Catman’s mother, yells out the window at us.

Catman and I have just ridden double up to the house on my horse, Nickers. I’ve known Mrs. Coolidge for five years, and she gets excited about a lot of things. But never like this.

Without a word, Catman slides off Nickers’s rump and dashes into the house. I jump off, tell my horse to stay, then run inside after Catman.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” I ask Mrs. Coolidge.

Her hair looks like she’s been in a tornado. She’s wringing her hands in front of their tiny black-and-white TV, the only black-and-white television I’ve ever seen. Her eyes are wide and filled with tears. “That’s Chester’s farm,” she says. “I know it is.”

Catman drops cross-legged in front of the screen. “Oh, man,” he mutters.

I don’t think I know a single Chester. I squint at the tiny figures on the television, but I don’t recognize anybody. The camera moves from a burning barn to a farmhouse, then to a girl on a black horse. Fire trucks and firemen are everywhere.

“Chester who?” I ask.

“Uncle Chester,” Catman answers. His face is inches from the TV. Images on the screen are reflected on his wire-rimmed glasses. Light splashes shadows over his broad forehead and long nose. “I’ll bet that’s Dakota.” He points to the dark-haired girl on the black horse.

And I get it. I gasp and sink to my knees next to Catman. Chester Coolidge. Dakota. This is Starlight Animal Rescue, and it’s on fire.

The newsman is sticking a microphone in the girl’s face. I recognize Dakota too, from the way Kat’s described her in e-mails. No wonder the camera moves in for a close-up. Dakota is beautiful, with long dark hair. She reminds me of Hawk, a Native American friend of mine who used to live in Ashland.

Mrs. Coolidge is sobbing behind me. Catman turns up the volume on the TV.

Dakota’s crying, but her voice is steady. “I thought I smelled smoke. And when I looked out the window, the whole barn was in flames. Popeye was asleep on the couch in front of—”

“Popeye?” the young reporter interrupts.

“I mean, Chester Coolidge. My father. My foster father. He’s a fireman—”

Catman’s mother gasps. “See? I knew it! I have to call Mr. Coolidge! I have to tell him his brother’s whole life is going up in flames!” They’ve been married at least 20 years, and they still call each other Mr. and Mrs. Coolidge.

“Shhh.” Catman turns the sound all the way up.

His mother shuffles to the kitchen, to the only phone in the house.

The top corner of the TV screen says, “LIVE.” Below, it says, “Horrific barn fire in rural Illinois.”

Horrific barn fire.

My stomach aches reading the words. I feel dizzy. Choked up. I know what happens to horses in barn fires.

Dakota’s still talking to the reporter. “I got two of the horses out and locked in the back pasture. But Cleo ran right back into the flames.” Dakota finally breaks into sobs. A woman rushes up to them and shoves the interviewer away from the horse, away from Dakota. She’s short and stocky, about the size of Catman’s mom.

“Right on, Aunt Annie!” Catman cheers.

But the reporter isn’t giving up that easily. He holds out the mike and catches Dakota pouring out her heart to Aunt Annie.

“We have to do something!” Dakota cries. “Hank ran to the barn to get Cleo out, and I don’t—I don’t know if he made it! I haven’t seen Cleo, and I haven’t seen Hank!”

Five

Hank Coolidge

Nice, Illinois

“Wait! Mr. McCarthy!” My eyes are still watering from the smoke, and I stumble trying to catch up with him. Mac is rolling out the yellow tape, boxing off black ash and smoldering wood. “You think somebody set this fire, don’t you?” I demand.

“Hank, you can’t be here,” he says.

But my mind has snapped out of shock, and it won’t stop racing. “That fire didn’t start itself. How could it? You know Dad. He’s too careful. We’ve done everything we could to make the barn safe, to make sure nothing like this ever happened. Dad had you guys do inspections twice a year, even though we didn’t have to!”

“I know, but—”

“We don’t park anything in the barn—not the truck, not lawn mowers. No oil or aerosols, no clutter. We put in the best wiring and electric we could get when we built this place. And we’re not stupid! We’d never bale wet hay. None of us would let wet straw in here.” My throat burns. I don’t know if it’s the smoke or the tears. “Somebody must have set our barn on fire!”

“Now, we can’t know if—”

“Who would do that? You have to find out. They almost burned our horses alive.”

“Get him out of here!” the other fireman hollers.

“You have to go,” Mac pleads. “Talk to your dad. Or to Brady, the fire marshal. They know more than I do about it. Brady’s handled arson cases before.”

Arson.
The word sinks into the pit of my stomach.

“Hank!” Mom rushes up and throws her arms around me. “You’re all right! Dakota said you ran into the burning barn after that horse! You could have been killed!”

I wrap my arms around her. She’s shaking. “I’m okay. We’re all okay.” But my mind is spinning out plots and people and possibilities.
Arson.
What if somebody had it in for my mom? She’s an oncologist. What if one of her patients died and the family blames Mom instead of the cancer?

Or Dad? People whose houses burn down end up angry. I already feel more anger than I’ve ever felt. What if one of the victims of a fire blamed Dad for not getting there fast enough? For not doing enough to put out their fire?

Or me? Do I have enemies? Could somebody have done this because of
me
?

Mom hasn’t stopped talking, muttering. I think she’s even praying, thanking God for keeping us safe, for protecting the house.

I pry myself free from her. “Mom, you should be with Kat. She’s really upset.”

“I know. Dad’s with her. She’s going to be okay,” Mom says, “except she can’t find her cat.”

“Which one?” Kat rescues as many cats at Starlight Animal Rescue as I rescue horses or Wes rescues dogs. We must have a dozen cats on the property, and they all hang out in the barn.

“Kitten,” Mom replies.

Kitten is the only cat my sister keeps as her own. And Princess, but she’s sort of unofficially adopted Dakota. The others come and go when Kat finds homes for them.

A policeman, or maybe a deputy, his hat in his hands, strides toward us. “Excuse me. Do you own a large reddish horse?”

“Cleo.” Bile rises in my throat and mixes with smoke and ash. I think I’m going to be sick. “What? What happened to her?”

“She jumped my patrol car, for openers,” he says. “Came tearing straight at us—me and another squad car. We tried to block the road. You know, like a roadblock?”

“What happened?” I snap. “Why did you try to trap her?” As if that horse’s life could get any worse.

Mom puts her hand on my arm and squeezes. It hurts, like touching a sunburn.

“We thought we ought to contain her,” he says defensively. “That horse looks dangerous. Is she?”

“If you try to trap her, she will be.” As soon as I say it, I want to take it back. I don’t know what the police do to dangerous horses. “Where is she now?”

“A couple miles that way.” He points northeast. “We can’t leave her roaming out there. There might be kids around.”

I take a deep breath to get control of myself. But the air, or the smoke, catches in my lungs. I can’t stop coughing.

Mom pats my back. “Hank? You need to get out of this smoke. Come to the house with me, and—”

I turn to the police officer. My eyes are watering. There’s fire in my throat and chest. “Take me to the horse. Please?” I have to try to help her or at least keep them from hurting her more than I already have. Cleo must be beyond terror. Maybe I could coax her in with feed. “Let me get some oats, and I’ll—” I don’t finish because I don’t have oats. Not anymore. Everything I had was in the barn. How are we going to feed the horses?

I can’t think about that now. I have to think about Cleo. “Will you take me to her?”

“Sure. Come on.” He leads me toward his squad car.

I turn back to Mom. “Tell Dakota to put Starlight and Blackfire in the south pasture with the others.” It’s the pasture that’s farthest from the barn.

She nods. “Be careful!” She wraps her arms around herself like she’s trying to keep warm, like it’s not a thousand degrees out here, like the whole world isn’t on fire.

The police officer opens the back door of his squad car and motions for me to climb in. I do, wondering if this is what it feels like to be arrested. I imagine grabbing the person who started this fire and shoving
him
into the back of this car, sending him on his way to prison. That’s where he belongs.

The policeman gets behind the wheel and starts the car. Then he turns to me. “I’m Deputy Hendren.”

“Hank,” I return.

“I figured. Sorry about you riding in back and all. Regulations.”

“It’s okay. I don’t care. I just want to get to the horse.”

He nods, and we back away from the barn.

I try not to look at it, but I can’t help myself. The flames have all but died out now, leaving a sickly wash of smoldering black and gray. I turn away.

We bounce over the lawn, skirting the driveway, the fire trucks, the news van. We pass Dakota and the horses, but I don’t think she notices me in the car.

Once out on the road, Deputy Hendren steps on it, and we’re flying. Dust rises to the windows.

We don’t talk. I want to ask him if there have been other fires around here, if he has any idea who could have set our barn on fire. But there’s a screen between me and the front seat, and I can’t bring myself to shout through it.

I know we’ve driven more than two miles when we come to a squad car parked on the shoulder of County Road 175. We slow down, but two cops wave us on, motioning us around the corner. We take the turn, and I see more squad cars, three of them. My heart’s pounding. Why so many cars? Cleo’s only one horse.

Then I see her. She’s rearing, pitted against four policemen, each with a rope hooked to her halter or looped around her neck. She rears straight up, pulling two big men off their feet. Cleo stands on her haunches so long I’m afraid she’ll fall over backwards.

“Stop the car!” I yell. I try to get out of the patrol car, but there’s no door handle on the inside. My ears hurt from Cleo’s squeals. The shrill cries pierce my eardrums and travel through my nerves.

I can’t take it. It’s worse than I thought. Cleo. The fire. Everything. Everything is worse than I thought.