The Blood of Patriots (19 page)

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Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: The Blood of Patriots
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C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-THREE
Seeing the Rocky Mountains from the foothills did not prepare John Ward for being among them. And nothing had prepared him for riding a horse.
Their first stop was Dunson Ranch. Matt Dunson was in the stables where he kept his dozen horses. Ten were recreational, one was a stud, and one was a ribboned participant in the Indian Relay competitions.
“That's more a celebration of the riders and their courage,” the white-mustachioed Dunson explained as he limped to the stall on the end to admire the Appaloosa. “It's bareback riding around a track. The rider demonstrates his skill by leaping from horse to horse during the race, against competitors. It takes a lot of training just to keep the horses from startling each other.”
“I don't think we'll be doing any of that,” Randolph laughed.
“I wouldn't let you,” Dunson explained. He pointed to his hip. “Caught between two horses seven years ago during a relay, mashed my hip. And
I
knew what I was doing.”
“Doc Stone wants him to get the hip replaced,” Randolph chuckled, “but Matt likes people asking about it. When they're too polite, like you, he tells 'em anyway.” He turned around, showed Dunson his bandaged neck. “I caught a tire iron across the vertebra. John had a boot in his ribs. You know what the difference is?”
Dunson frowned, shook his head.
“At least the horses didn't mean it,” Randolph said.
“No,” Dunson agreed, his voice grave. “You can't hate a horse.”
Ward stood a little apart from the two, leaning against a wooden upright to take the weight off his side. He was taking it in, quiet admiration in his expression. He appreciated the NYPD Mounted Officers who managed to keep their steeds under control in traffic and during protests. But this, out here, was an entirely different way of thinking, of living. Forty-second Street might well be the crossroads of the world but it clearly wasn't the world. That was easy to forget back there.
“You ever ridden?” Dunson asked Ward.
“Had a hobby horse when I was five.”
Dunson's mouth disappeared into his moustache. “Well, the good news is you won't have developed any bad habits. A first time rider is like a first time parachute jumper. You're careful because what you know is squat.”
“In my case, not even that,” Ward confessed.
“Good. It gets dangerous when you get cocky.”
Dunson motioned over his teenage son Garth and wife Tessa, who were shoeing a mare. He introduced them to Ward.
“I read about you on the FAOB,” Garth said admiringly as he yanked off his thick glove and shook Ward's hand.
“That's the For Americans Only Blog,” Tessa explained as she was introduced. “They write about injustice in the news.”
“Was I the perpetrator or victim?” Ward asked.
“I don't know about that, but you're a hero,” Garth replied.
“FAOB is not about Constitutional wiggle room,” the elder Dunson said. “It's about common sense. The worst attacks against America come under the guise of interpreting what the Founding Fathers meant.”
“Like the right to bear arms,” Garth Dunson said. “It's okay to attack the Constitution when it suits the left.”
“You raised him right,” Randolph said, chuckling at his own wordplay.
Dunson and Randolph put the pizza on a picnic table and went into the house for paper plates. Mrs. Dunson, a petite five-footer with chestnut hair and a big smile, led the horse to a small, fenced-in area beside the stables. Ward rested against the fence, figuring he would be there for maybe fifteen minutes as she showed him what to do.
He was wrong.
“The first thing you need to do is make sure your horse is comfortable, which means a quick grooming,” she began. “It gets mucky up there and you'll need to brush off any clods of mud or tangled hair that could bother the horse under the saddle.”
This reminded Ward of the kind of work his advance teams used to do. Before a stakeout, two men would case the places they were planning to use as a base of operation, make sure the bad guys hadn't gone there first to bug the apartment or hotel or office or slipped a man in as a night watchman or janitor. This wasn't as exciting but the horse seemed to like it, if contented neighing was any indication. During this process the woman cooed and repeated the horse's name, which was Scout.
“Named after Tonto's horse?” Ward asked.
The woman seemed puzzled. “No. His breed used to be popular with U.S. cavalry point riders.”
Oh
, Ward thought. How dude could he be?
The saddling itself was straightforward enough. Ward did it all while the woman talked him through. He shook out the saddle blanket and, standing on the left side, placed it precisely between withers and rear—careful to slide it so hair didn't clump. He flopped the right stirrup and cinch over the saddle seat so they wouldn't alarm the animal, then raised the saddle high for the same reason. He lowered it carefully onto Scout's back, leaving enough blanket up front so it did not crawl back during the ride.
Ward followed the step-by-step instructions that he doubted he would remember, running the tie strap through the cinch ring and rigging ring, tightening them just-so, making a cinch knot—he did not remember the rest clearly. There was more fastening and tightening and then he was walking the horse in a lazy circle to make sure the animal was relaxed. Ward wondered whose chest felt more constricted as they got accustomed to one another.
The detective left the animal tied to the fence while he had two slices of pizza. Randolph saddled his own horse during that time after which it was time to go. Once again, Ward took his instructions with a firm hope of remembering some of it. He was back on the left side of the horse—an old custom, he discovered, owing to the fact that most people were right-handed and men used to wear a sword—and after turning the stirrup out and putting his left foot into the stirrup he grabbed the back of the saddle with his right hand and swung himself up with a painful arc. The horse bucked a little because, due to his broken ribs, Ward had not distributed his weight evenly and the animal was trying to fix that.
Ward held tight and Mrs. Dunson quickly quieted the animal with her cooing while the detective settled in.
“You okay?” Matt Dunson asked, ambling over with his hands tucked in his deep pockets.
“I'm not sure these khakis are the best riding pants,” Ward told him. “I feeling like I should have more padding down there.”
“Walk her around again and sit as tall as you can so you're centered. You're putting all the pressure on your most sensitive parts.”
Ward made an effort to sit up but the bandages constricted him. He adopted a kind of rolling seat that at least shifted the pressure forward and back.
Randolph rode over after hitching a thick roll to the back of his own horse. The farmer was polite enough not to make a face that would reveal whatever he might be thinking about Ward's horsemanship
or
the delicate reference to his sensitive parts. He handed the detective a windbreaker.
“Slip this on,” Randolph said. “It's gonna get chilly before long.”
Ward struggled into the jacket while holding the reins. Miraculously, the horse stayed very still.
“You probably didn't realize you were just putting weight in the stirrups,” Randolph anticipated his question. “That tends to keep them in place.”
“Lesson learned,” the detective smiled. Picking up a skill by application was worth all the tutoring in the world.
Ward found that guiding the horse was easier than actually riding it. Scout tended to follow Randolph's horse, a roan named Busey. Ward thought it was strange to name a horse after the actor; he learned that the name came from Bucephalus, the name of Alexander the Great's horse.
The winds grew stronger the higher they rode. It picked up grit and scraped his flesh like those pumice soaps Joanne used to buy. He understood now why cowboys wore scarves. He couldn't remember a stakeout where he had been this uncomfortable. It didn't help that Ward was hurt, but that was only part of what left him feeling unsettled.
Scared?
he wondered.
He had never felt so out-of-his-element, so green, so dependent on others. As he and Randolph followed a winding stretch of dirt that appeared to be a trail, Ward realized then that so much of his adult life had been driven along gridlike roads toward hard-hitting goals that could take all the high-caliber energy he threw at them. Of course, there were always markers along the way that told him whether he was going in the right direction. Here, those goals were vague and distant along paths he couldn't begin to anticipate.
A shrink would probably tell you this was all good
, he thought.
He doubted this momentary vulnerability would make him a more rounded man, more social or diplomatic. John Ward liked who he was. A lot of people did, even if a couple of do-gooder rookie cops and his former wife didn't. And if he hadn't changed for her, he by God wasn't about to do it for a bunch of Muslims and a horse.
And with that settled, and the horse cooperating, Ward felt a little better about this adventure. All he had to do was all he ever did: customize the skills and instincts he already possessed.
As he thought that, it was those instincts, that awareness of surroundings near and far, that enabled him to hear the sound that was going to change whatever any of them had been planning.
C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-FOUR
Angie Dickson's contentment—thin as it was—was short-lived.
Though brief, the breakfast chat had been the first heartfelt talk she'd enjoyed with her father in over a year. It left her feeling good, like an adult, and it let her reconnect with a man who had been caught up in a problem he never wished to share. Angie felt she may have helped him a little too, letting him talk openly, allowing her to assure him that everything was okay.
She arrived at the dry cleaner's feeling upbeat, even smiling at Mrs. Fawaz. The owner's wife seemed suspicious rather than pleased by Angie's expression.
Angie dropped her family's bundle of laundry in the bin behind the counter then went to the nail where her clipboard always hung, the one with the printout of the morning deliveries. It wasn't there.
“Where's the route?” she asked innocently.
Mr. Fawaz's office was just beyond the nail. He heard her and came out.
“Hassan has it,” he said.
Nineteen-year-old Hassan Shatri emerged from the office just behind Fawaz. He came out slowly, holding the clipboard waist-high and looking down at it. The young man's eyes snapped up at her with such disapproval that she actually took an involuntary step back.
“He will be riding with you,” Fawaz said.
“What? Why?”
“I have asked him to see if there is a more efficient way we can serve our customers,” Fawaz told her.
“I don't understand,” she said. “I always take the most direct route.”
“Perhaps there are things that can be improved,” Fawaz said. “There is no harm in having fresh eyes on the operation.”
“No, of course not,” Angie said.
Angie's compliance seemed acceptable to Fawaz, if not to Shatri who still regarded her with disapproval. But her good humor had evaporated in that instant, replaced by dread. It wasn't that someone would be watching her; she had nothing to hide and, except for the run-in with Ward—which she assumed was past her—she did her job well. It was the young man's open disapproval that made her uneasy.
“Mr. Fawaz, can I talk to you?”
“Yes—”
“In your office, I mean,” she added hastily.
“I'm extremely busy,” he said. “I haven't told you this, but we're planning to open a new store in El Jebel.”
“Oh, nice,” she said. “When?”
“In three weeks.”
“Will you be working there?” she asked Shatri.
“My work is here,” he replied.
“Angie, is your question something that can wait?” Fawaz asked.
“Yes, of course,” she said, angry at her amiability.
“Oh, there is one more thing,” Fawaz said. “You will have additional bundles to deliver to your home.”
“Did my dad bring—” she started, then realized what Fawaz meant. More money. She had not yet embraced the idea that this delivery system was not just a convenience, it was part of an operation. The potential scope of it suddenly terrified her, like someone going down the Fryingpan River in an out-of-control raft. John Ward suddenly loomed very strong again, very kind, someone she suddenly, desperately wanted to be around.
“I'm sorry, was there something you wished to know?” Fawaz asked.
“No,” she said.
“Did your father bring ... ?” he coaxed.
“Nothing,” she said. “More shirts,” she added lamely.
“No,” Fawaz said. “He did not.”
The young woman's heart was thumping hard, her chest tight. She did not want any part of this, or them. Angie felt terrible for her father, afraid for him, and he
was
her father; but this was his work, not hers.
“Mr. Fawaz, I would ... I think ... I'd better give you my notice.”
“Your notice? Are you leaving us?”
“I am. Right now, in fact.” Angie began to turn away from him. “I don't feel well. I have to go home.”
“I think you'll feel better when you begin your route,” Fawaz told her.
She caught his eyes before she had finished turning and stopped. They were cold, unyielding.
“If you are unwell, Shatri will drive for a while.”
“Mr. Fawaz, I'd really like to go home.”
“And I would like you to make your deliveries, please,” Fawaz replied.
Angie stared at him. His “please” was the most sinister word she had ever heard. She was close to tears but refused to break down.
“Do you think you can manage this?” he asked.
“All right,” she said.
“That's better,” Fawaz said, his expression warming a little.
Shatri sidled by in the narrow corridor, brushing her with his hip as he passed. It was a hard, almost threatening bump. He looked at her with open contempt.
“You will continue to work with us for the next two weeks, I hope,” Fawaz said. “That is conventional, is it not? Two weeks' notice?”
Angie nodded limply.
“Then it is decided,” he said. “You will no doubt talk the matter over with your father. Perhaps he will have a different opinion? Should you change your mind, I will be happy to continue your employment.”
“Thank you,” she said, utterly deflated. All Angie wanted to do right now was escape the dimly lit hallway, get out into the sunlight.
Fawaz returned to his office and Angie turned. Shatri was still standing there, his expression unchanged. Beyond him, Mrs. Fawaz and her son Tariq were gathering the bundles for the boy to put in the van.
“Excuse me,” Angie said and started around him.
He blocked the way by bending toward the counter. There were two built-in shelves; on the topmost was a cardboard box. In it were black scarves. The dry cleaner did the laundry for the entire Muslim community in Basalt. Shatri drew one of the long, black head coverings from the box.
“Put this on.”
She glared at him. Outrage was overcoming her fear. “I am not Muslim.”
“You are immodest,” he said. “When you ride with me, you will wear it.”
Angie did not move. “No,” she said.
Shatri stepped toward her and draped it over her head, threw the ends around her throat to cover that as well. He pulled them tight.
“You
will
wear it.”
“She needs an undercap,” Mrs. Fawaz said.
“This will do for now,” Shatri replied as his hands relaxed. “Because of you I am missing important work,” he said to her as he folded the ends one around the other. “I will not also have my eye offended.”
His fingers felt foreign to Angie, intrusive on the nape of her neck. Now the tears came, though she struggled to remain very still. If the Muslim man had pulled off her blouse she could not have felt more violated. He tugged at the hems with rough little jerks so the garment covered her hair as much as possible. Then he stood back to admire his work with the same cold eye as before. What would people think when she went to their doors, saw her through the window of the van.
“I will see you in the van,” Shatri said. Satisfied, he turned away.
“I can't do this,” Angie sobbed, still standing where he had left her.
“It is long overdue,” Mrs. Fawaz said. “You will become accustomed to it.”
“I will not be here that long.”
“Whether you are in our employ or not doesn't matter,” the woman said as she finished checking off the laundry bundles. “Before you are very much older, this is the way the world will be.”
When Angie thought the moment could not have become worse, that remark turned her world on its side. She felt everything she knew, everything that was dear to her falling away. And for the first time in her young life she understood something that other people had been discovering for years.
The meaning of the word “terror.”

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