Dark Horse

10

Landry didn't sleep for shit, and it was Estes' fault. Her fault he'd been dragged out of bed in the first place. Her fault he couldn't get back to sleep once he'd finally gotten back home. Every time he closed his eyes he saw her back, crisscrossed with lines where new flesh had been stitched into old. The bruises just coming to the surface from her run-in at the equestrian center were insignificant, pale shadows beneath the old damage.

Damage. He thought of Estes and what he knew about her. Their paths hadn't crossed when she was on the job. Narcs ran their own way. They spent too much time undercover, as far as he was concerned. It made them edgy and unpredictable. An opinion borne out in the incident that had ended her career, and ended the life of Hector Ramirez. What he knew about that incident was what everybody knew: Estes had jumped the gun, gone against orders to make the bust herself, and all hell had broken loose.

He had never given any thought to Estes, beyond thinking she'd gotten what she deserved, losing her job. He knew she'd been wounded, hospitalized, was suing the SO for her disability pay-which seemed pretty damned nervy, considering-but it had nothing to do with him, and he didn't give a shit about her. She was trouble. He had figured it, and now he knew it for a fact.

Pushy bitch. Telling him how to do his job.

He wondered about what had happened to her at the equestrian center, wondered if it really did have anything to do with this girl she said was missing…

If the girl was missing, why would a twelve-year-old child be the only one to report it? Why not her parents? Why not her employer?

Her parents who maybe wanted to be rid of her.

Her boss who maybe had a major scam going, and maybe beat Estes across the back with a broom handle.

He saw her back, a patchwork of mismatched flesh stretched taut over bone.

At five-thirty he got out of bed, pulled on a pair of running shorts, stretched, did a hundred sit-ups and a hundred push-ups, and started his day. Again.

I stand at the side of the Golam brothers' trailer. I've been told to stay put, to wait, but I know that's not the right decision. If I go in first, if I go in now, I've got the brothers dead-bang. They think they know me. I've worked this case three months. I know what I'm doing. I know I'm right. I know the Golam brothers are already twitching. I know I want this bust and deserve it. I know Lieutenant Sikes is here for the show, to put a feather in his cap. He wants to look good when the news vans arrive. He wants to make the public think they should vote for him in the next election for sheriff.

He's stuck me on the side of the trailer and told me to wait. He doesn't know his ass. He didn't listen to me when I told him the side door is the door the brothers use most. While Sikes and Ramirez are watching the front, the brothers are dumping their money into duffel bags and getting ready to bolt out the side. Billy Golam's four-by-four is parked ten feet away, covered in mud. If they run, they'll take the truck, not the Corvette parked in front. The truck can go off-road.

Sikes is wasting precious time. The Golam brothers have two girls in the trailer with them. This could easily turn into a hostage situation. But if I go in now… They think they know me.

I key the button on my radio. "This is stupid. They're going to break for the truck. I'm going in."

"Goddammit, Estes-"

I drop the radio into the weeds growing beside the trailer. It's my case. It's my bust. I know what I'm doing.

I draw my weapon and hold it behind my back. I go to the side door and knock the way all the Golam brothers' customers knock: two knocks, one knock, two knocks. "Hey, Billy, it's Elle! I need some."

Billy Golam jerks open the door, wild-eyed, high on his own home cooking-crystal meth. He's breathing hard. He's got a gun in his hand.

Shit.

The front door explodes inward.

One of the girls screams.

Buddy Golam shouts: "Cops!"

Billy Golam swings the.357 up in my face. I suck in my last breath.

He turns abruptly and fires. The sound is deafening. The bullet hits Hector Ramirez in the face and blows out the back of his head, blood and brain matter spraying Sikes behind him.

I go for my weapon as Billy bolts out the door and knocks me off the stoop.

He's running for the truck as I scramble to get my feet under me.

The engine roars to life.

"Billy!" I scream, running for the truck.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" The cords in his neck stand out as he screams. He throws the truck into reverse and hits the gas.

I throw myself at the driver's door, grab hold of the side mirror and the window frame, and get one foot on the running board. I don't think what I'm doing. I just act.

I'm screaming. He's screaming.

He brings the gun up and points it in my face.

I hit the gun, hit his face.

He cranks the wheel around as the truck runs backward. One of my feet slips off the running board. He throws the truck into drive and gravel spews out behind it.

I struggle to keep from falling. I try to grab the wheel.

The truck catches hold of pavement. Golam cranks the wheel hard left. His face is a contorted mask, mouth wide, eyes wild. I try to grab for him. He shoves the door open as the truck spins around in the road.

I'm hanging in space.

I'm falling.

The road slams against my back.

My left cheekbone shatters like an egg.

Then the black shadow of Billy Golam's four-by-four sweeps over me, and I die.

And I wake.

Five-thirty A.M. After two hours of fitful dozing, waiting for a rib fragment to deflate one or both of my lungs, I oozed over the side of my bed and forced myself to attempt stretching.

I went into the bathroom, stood naked in front of the mirror, and looked at my body. Too thin. Rectangular marks on both thighs where the skin grafts were taken. Gouges into the meat of the left leg.

I turned and tried to look over my shoulder at my back in the mirror. I looked at what I had shown Landry, and called myself stupid.

The one useful thing my father had ever taught me: never show a weakness, never appear vulnerable.

The bruises from my beating were dark maroon stripes. It hurt when I breathed.

At 6:15-after I'd fed the horses-I drove myself to the ER. The X rays showed no broken bones. A bleary-eyed resident, who'd had even less sleep than I, questioned me, clearly not believing my story of having fallen down a flight of stairs. All the staff looked at me askance with jaded eyes. Twice I was asked if I wanted to talk to a cop. I thanked them and declined. No one forced the issue, which led me to wonder how many battered women were allowed to simply walk out of the place and back into their own private hell.

The resident vomited up a big load of medical terms, trying to intimidate me with his expensive education.

I looked at him, unimpressed, and said, "I have bruised ribs."

"You have bruised ribs. I'll give you a prescription for painkillers. Go home and rest. No significant physical activity for forty-eight hours."

"Yeah, right."

He gave me a scrip for Vicodin. I laughed when I looked at it. I stuffed it in the pocket of my windbreaker as I left the building. My arms worked, my legs worked, no bones were protruding, I wasn't bleeding. I was ambulatory, I was fine. As long as I knew I wouldn't die of it, I had places to go, people to see.

My first call was to Michael Berne, or rather, to Michael Berne's assistant-the phone number on the stall doors. Michael was a busy man.

"Ask him if he's too busy to speak to a potential client," I said. "I can always take my business to Don Jade, if that's the case."

Miraculously, Michael's time suddenly freed up and the assistant handed off the phone.

"This is Michael. How can I help you?"

"By dishing some dirt on your friend, Mr. Jade," I said quietly. "I'm a private investigator."