Kit Ehrman: At Risk

"God, no," I sobbed. "No-o-o."

Harrison yanked me back into the barn. In my mind, I could still see Dorsett's lifeless form, dark and silent on the asphalt, his hand empty, palm face up, fingers curled toward the black sky.

"You killed a cop!" Rich screamed. "I can't believe it! You killed a fucking cop!"

"Shut up." Harrison shoved me against the wall.

"What are we gonna do now? We don't have a chance. They hunt-"

"Shut the fuck up." Harrison's voice cracked. "It's all your fault we're in this mess-"

"What?" Rich whined.

"If you hadn't done such a lousy job tying him up last time, he wouldn't of got away from us, and I wouldn't be here right now, finishing the job. A job you screwed up."

"It wasn't my fault. I did what you said. No one thought he'd get loose. At least I didn't do something stupid," Rich flailed his arms, "like kill a cop."

"Yeah, and I'd be stupider if I let you continue to fuck us up, wouldn't I?"

"Yeah," Rich suddenly became very still, "eh, I mean no."

Harrison casually pointed the gun at Rich and pulled the trigger.

The sound in the confines of the barn was deafening. The horse behind Rich crashed against the back wall of his stall. All of the horses near us shied and whinnied. I hardly noticed. Rich slid down the wall and crumpled onto the floor.

The bullet had shattered the ridge of bone above his right eye. The other eye was wide open, seeing nothing. His head lolled to the side, and a stream of watery blood trickled from his nose and mouth. There was blood spatter on the grillwork of the stall front and on the horse that stood trembling at the back of his stall.

I swallowed. The bitter smell of burnt gunpowder hung so thickly in the air around us, I could taste it at the back of my throat.

"Damn it, Johnny. You shouldn't have popped him here. The police might be able to connect him with us. And you shouldn't have used your gun."

"So what? I'll dump it when we're done."

"Well, we can't leave him here," Robby said.

"You!" Harrison grabbed my arm. "Drag him down past the hay barn."

I thought about the old abandoned fire road and the gate Dave and I had never gotten around to installing.

"Good idea." Robby studied my face. "We'll put 'em both in the trunk. That oughta make for an interesting ride, huh lover-boy?"

Asshole. I looked down at Rich and couldn't imagine it.

"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.