Kit Ehrman: At Risk

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.

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."