Chaos Theory (20 page)

Uncle Charlie backs up like live dinner in front of a mountain lion.

Thirty-five

The new man's shiny leather shoes reflect the headlights—that's about all I can see except he's big, really big. I lift my eyes to Daniel and Trish in the hayloft. His face is revealed by the odd lighting. He looks scared, like me. Trish? She's praying—at least her lips are moving silently. Fiona's back presses against the stall partition, her eyes closed.

Ponytail's words echo in my head: innocent bodies, unintended consequences, innocent bodies, unintended consequences…

“Second thoughts, Charles?” The giant's voice is deep and he gives the word “thoughts” three beats—th—oug—ghts. Like a PBS special, his words clash like giant boulders carried along in a volcano's lava flow. Great, Mrs. F's ice counterbalances his molten lava.

In further contrast, Uncle Charlie's voice warbles like a tiny insignificant songbird. “I didn't count on what happened to Julia. I want out.”

Fiona fidgets, probably looking for a more comfortable position. I whisper, “Don't move.” But my legs are aching too.

Uncle Charlie whispers, “I want out.”

Lava Voice says, “Really. Maybe you forget—you're the one who insisted your brother's family be dragged through the muck. Pay him back for firing you. We did that.”

I dip back down into the dark stall and recheck my phone's recorder function. It's good. I don't call the cavalry. Not yet.

Uncle Charlie dances from foot to foot and his voice squeaks—from songbird to mouse. I'm starting to hate him again. “But not Julia! I didn't know Greg would seduce her—a fifteen-year-old girl. Or that he'd hook her on drugs. I didn't know she'd commit suicide!” The mouse roars. “I am stopping this.”

And with my recording, that is the prosecutor's coffin nail for Ink.

“No, you're not.” Lava Voice continues to roll and clash. This time the “no” gets the three-beat treatment. The giant's got an accent too, but I can't place it.

Uncle Charlie sticks to his plan, but he's wobbling a bit on his feet—probably from drinking before the meeting. “Well, I'm getting out.”

Molten Lava's voice rolls again. “No, you're go-ing to keep do-ing what you're do-ing now.” The –ing syllables are like bell gongs. “There's nothing you can do about it.

“Our O'Neal connections are profitable. No one is stopping anything. Still, if a threat clarifies matters…”

Charles Jamison lets out a terrified gasp. I pop my head up over the wood paneling as Ink pulls a gun. A gun. Like a freaking cartoon—it's multiplied a hundred times in the fractured-beam light and shadows. Even Mrs. F grabs her chest. Ducking down and frantic, I make my hand look like a gun for Daniel overhead. His lips move, probably swearing under his breath. No more waiting. It's cavalry time. I hit the text SEND button. The bat signal goes out.

Those boulders roll again. “The gun isn't necessary, Greg. Put it away.”

Ink doesn't put it away. Instead he moves it to his left hand and his right forms a fist. His shoulder braces for business as Molten Lava continues, “You see, Charles, when your niece inconveniently died, we made other arrangements. Your daughter recently returned home from her second drug rehabilitation stay. She's doing remarkably well. Greg met her online. They've become quite…close.”

Daniel's uncle sways a bit.

Molten Lava picks at his coat like he's found a horse hair on it and flicks it away, watching it fall. “She's not back on drugs yet, but we can arrange for that to happen. Greg is very good at that, as you know.”

All in silhouette, Drunk Uncle Charlie screams and charges—or more accurately stumbles—across the aisle toward Lava Mouth. Ink, with his gun in his flaying left hand, uses the right to punch him in the stomach. Uncle Charlie drops, sprawled across the aisle way. Mrs. F screams.

Again the boulders clunk as he turns to leave the barn, “Mrs. Foster, you might want to come with me.” The woman huddles, afraid.

“Leave your grandson to his business.” He takes the older woman by her elbow and guides her out. “Warn him, Greg, but don't kill him.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Garcia,” Ink says with gross satisfaction.

“Greg?” Mrs. F's voice isn't ice anymore. It's pudding soft and well shaken.

“Get out of here, Grams.”

She flees to the SUV, climbs in, leaving behind the mess behind her.

Uncle Charlie rises to his hands and knees, vomiting. Memories flash of Daniel in the same vulnerable position. There's another hollow squishy thump as Ink kicks him. Uncle Charlie screams.

Fiona covers her ears and whispers, “Do something! Stop this!”

There's another hollow squishy thump and another scream. Do what? Ink has a gun.

I reach for the stall's door-chain. “When I signal, spook Tracker out of the stall.”

Fiona's nod is a frantic, terrified motion. I give a heads-up signal to Daniel. He responds with a violent head shaking. He wants me to stay put. I unhook the chain and step out. Greg doesn't see me. He's too busy landing another kick into Charles' stomach, which is followed by another blood-curdling scream.

Things happen fast. I nod at Fiona. She slaps Tracker's rump, and her loud rebel yell sends the frightened horse after me. His injury doesn't slow him up. He leaps out of the stall, veering away from me. He charges full speed toward the silhouettes and the open trailer doors.

Daniel's long body drops through the trap, rolling as he hits the stall's soft shavings, while I duck into the tie stall under Diamond's belly. I see Tracker leap over Uncle Charles' body, knocking Greg hard against a stall. Ink crumples. The gun fires into the air.

At the gunshot, Diamond rears back, breaking one of her reins. Blood from her mouth, where the bridle bit cut her, sprays across my chest. Both Trish and Fiona are screaming now, the sound joining that of several frightened horses.

Between Diamond's legs, I see Greg getting up from the shavings. I plaster myself back against the stall partition. I don't have anywhere to hide if he comes after me.

Ink lurches unsteady on his feet, but my fear disappears as Greg weaves wildly back and forth on unsteady feet—disoriented. He turns toward the parking lot and Mr. Garcia who is backing his car with Mrs. F beside him.

No. No. NO! NO! Those jerks will not drive off to freedom. My backup cavalry is a good five minutes away. “Daniel—the main entry roller gates. We have to close them!”

I unhook Diamond's remaining tie and toss the only rein left around her neck. Diamond rears back again. Her powerful back legs take her weight with her forelegs pawing the air. Free, her flight instinct takes over and she springs forward. Gripping her mane and using it as a pivot point, I let her forward momentum lift me into her saddle. I don't take the time to use the stirrups.

We miss Daniel by inches as he races toward Henry in his tie stall. The old reliable school horse has been remarkably unexcited through the whole craziness. Looking back over my shoulder, I see Daniel unsnap Henry's bridle. Still, an accomplished rider he isn't. Fiona hollers at him, “Left leg. Left leg, Dufus! Use your left leg to mount!” Then Diamond and I are gone, running full blast down the stable aisle toward the still-disoriented Greg.

Uncle Charlie rolls to the side as we streak past. Avoiding him, Diamond's shoulder bashes Ink against a stall once more, and he goes down. Another gunshot goes off. We burst through the open stable door into the cold night air.

Daniel! OMG, what if he was shot? I pull the frightened horse up with the one rein and she rolls back over her hocks. Behind me, Daniel and Henry burst through the open stable door; the sound of Henry's hooves pound upon the gravel.

I yell, “The gun?”

Daniel yells back, “He dropped it!”

The full moon streams through the canopy of snow-covered branches and lights the area. Small solar accent lights make the curving drive look like it's lined with twinkling fairies. Across the parking lot, Garcia's car tires squeal, spitting gravel as he heads toward the front gates and freedom.

Cursing and angry that I hadn't called for backup sooner, I spin Diamond in place. The drive curves through trees in gentle scenic bends. The direct route is over the one section with a missing top rail, through the frozen pasture, and then a jump over the unbroken fence near the front gates. They automatically lock if closed. With luck, I can make it there before them, but I can't close both sliding panel gates alone. Daniel has to help me.

I yell. It seems to be a night for it. “Trust Henry. Keep balanced and off his mouth. And for God's sake stay on his back, no matter what.” With that, I aim Diamond at the broken top rail of the fence. Four. Five long strides. Her powerful legs lift beneath me, rising, and then her rear takes the same path—and we fly.

From behind, I hear the awkward but by-miracle-still-on-horseback Daniel swear as he and Henry land with far less finesse in the frozen pasture. Then Diamond's running full out. Henry takes up the challenge. With his long legs he catches up. In the moonlight, a quick glance shows Daniel's whitewashed face. He sways on the horse's back, then finds the rhythm of Henry's stride and settles in.

To our left, the SUV's headlights slash a path through the trees like a knife, strobe lighting our route.

“Faster!” I scream toward Daniel and lean forward over Diamond's neck. “Come on girl.” Diamond's sides heave, her stride lengthens, and her legs eat up pasture. Icy dirt clods fly, striking the back of my head. We weave through a copse of trees and, by some miracle, the swearing Daniel is still on Henry's back.

Diamond takes the top pasture fence like Pegasus just as the SUV hits the bottom of the driveway's rise to freedom. Molten Lava guns it. The headlights angle up toward the gate. I push my lower back and butt into the saddle. Gravel and snow flies as Diamond drops into a sliding stop. Then I cue her with my legs and a rein pressure on her neck. She spins, ending up against the farthest panel gate. She stops, frozen in time as I reach down, grab the top bar of the rolling gate, and shove the barb and chain-link panel closed with a heave. Daniel appears, on the ground sans Henry. He slides his side shut as well. The lock gear engages with a metallic clink. Then someone—probably me—screams as the big SUV, without breaking, tears toward the gate and us.

In the glare of the oncoming headlights, Diamond's flight instincts are in full gear again. She spins on her back legs and leaps away, but I'm still hanging on, off balance. I fly out of the saddle and over the gate, hitting the ground moments before the SUV careens into it and me. Steel poles rip and tear as the deafening sound roars around me. Barbed-wire snaps and recoils toward my face. I thrust my hands up and pray the barbs will be kind.

Thirty-six

When I come to, the ground beneath me is hard and frozen. The tiny barbs have riddled my body. My eyelids are plastered against my eyes, dried shut or something. Someone covers me with a blanket, but I'm still so cold. Asphalt, I smell asphalt. And God, I can taste it.

“Her blood pressure looks fine. Stay with her while we check on the man at the barn.”

A hand squeezes mine beneath the blanket. I shiver and groan. Irish spring and pine, Daniel must be hovering over me and know it's his hand. I squeeze back.

“Kami?”

I force my eyes open. Colored lights flash everywhere. There's an ambulance, police cars, and the Fire Department rescue unit, even a tow truck. Lightheaded, I say, “How many badges now?”

“What?”

Badge envy. “Nothing.” It's spooky how the flashing lights reflect off the undersides of the trees. Around my neck is one of those restraining things; I try to pull it away.

“Leave it be.” He says.

I don't answer; I'd have to yell anyway and that would hurt. A second ambulance with siren wailing pulls up and goes silent. It stops clear of the fence. Gravel Voice is directing traffic, waving the tow truck up to the shattered gates where the SUV remains tangled up in wire.

The gates held, thank God, or I'd be smeared cherry jelly on the roadway.

A second ambulance? One of them is mine. Daniel! “Are you okay?”

He leans down close to my face so I can hear him. “Bumps and bruises, but not from the SUV.”

“You jumped the second fence?”

“If you call going head-first without the horse jumping it, then yeah. Landed right by the gate, closed it when the SUV engine gunned it.” He squeezes my hand again. “I got out of the way, but saw you thrown off Diamond just before the SUV hit. I lost sight of you, I thought…” His hand shakes holding mine.

“I'm okay.”

“Only because that gate stopped the SUV. If it hadn't…”

“Daniel, I'm okay.” Change topic. “Your uncle?”

“He'll survive. Second ambulance is for him.”

“Ink?”

He grins. “Fiona jumped on him, kicked away the gun, and sat on him while Trish tied him up with baling twine. That Fiona can handle herself. I think she kicked him in the balls first.”

Then I remember. “Oh God. My smartphone. Where is it? I recorded everything.” I spit out tiny bits of gravel and sand, hoping they aren't my teeth.

“DEA has it.”

“What about Moulton Lava?”

“Who?”

I start to laugh, but it hurts like hell. I gasp for air and whisper, “The big boss?”

“Ever notice how you never use real names? It's weird, Kami.”

“Psychoanalyze later.” He's right, though. Names bring human connections. Up until I trust them, they're just interesting data.

“DEA says he's Anthony Garcia, a regional crime boss from Chicago. He's still trapped in the barb and steel wrapped around the SUV with Mrs. F. You were wrapped in it too, but they cut yours away first. Police and DEA agents are watching the two of them with their guns out like a shooting gallery. Garcia threw out his gun, but no one's trusting that he or Mrs. F doesn't have another.”

“Diamond? Did Diamond get hurt?”

“She's moving and inside the fenced stable grounds. Trish and Fiona went after her. They probably have her by now.”

I reach up again to pull at the irritating neck brace. That's when the EMTs came back. “Hey, I'm okay.” I kick my feet free of the blankets. No shoes. Wonder where those landed. “See my fingers and toes are moving.” I waggle them.

“She hit her head.” Daniel tells the EMT.

If it wouldn't hurt so much, I'd punch him. “Wrong. Hit my shoulder. It hurts like hell, but it's not broken or I wouldn't be able to do this.” I lift my arm and tug again at the neck brace.

“Kami. Stop fighting them,” Ponytail says from outside the ring of EMTs. “You're going to the hospital. Your Mom and Dad will meet you there. Let the doctors take off the brace when the doctors say it's all right.”

The EMTs lift me onto a carrier and into the first ambulance. It hurts. Daniel's hand never leaves mine as he climbs in too.

“For a little girl, she swears a lot.” This comes from Rugby, now standing in the ambulance door opening. Behind him, Sam, Sandy, Gavin, and Frisbee-pacified Brute come through the police cars and flashing lights. He says, “And look here. It's the whole Beanie Bopper Crew.”

Daniel drops out of the ambulance and rounds on Rugby with a punch to the agent's head. Rugby blocks it, but Daniel's seamless MA kick follow-through blasts into the jerk's chest. Rugby goes down for the count. Daniel leaps back into the ambulance, and Sandy laughs a-little-bit-too-loud and a little-bit-too-stressed-out. “He said he'd deck the next guy who called us Beanie Boppers.”

EMTs close the door as my BFF shouts out, “We'll meet you at the hospital!”

***

After x-rays—and given the number of visitors and lack of puking, seeing double, or having trouble moving body parts other than incredible shoulder pain—Mrs. Cabot convinces staff to transfer me directly to a private room and spare the ER the confusion. It's a given that I'm staying overnight for observation. The view from the sixth floor room overlooks Band Shell Park and the heating plant beyond that. I look at it while the doctor painfully pokes and prods. Every Thursday summer night the municipal band plays there. I could play with them since high school band's history. That has appeal. Sherlock Holmes had his violin and then there's me and my flute. Of course, he was a virtuoso; I'm a hack.

I say, “Get out of here, Daniel. Go home.”

He has some butterfly stitches on his forehead. He wasn't kidding about going head-first over the fence.

“Go home and take some aspirin.”

He leans over to kiss my forehead, but at the last minute he shifts to my lips for a quick brushing. As he pulls away, he whispers, “See you tomorrow.” And isn't that sweet, not earth-shattering like Gavin's, but nice.

“K.”

Mom and Dad share a parent look. They've forgiven me for putting myself in danger, but Mom has an appointment with every sweet and bready thing she has in the kitchen. “You guys go too. I'm fine. Let me sleep.” As they head out the door, I say. “Mom, did you cancel Dr. Bartlett's appointment tomorrow?” Technically, it's today given it's three in the morning.

She says, “I'll do it first thing in the morning.”

“No.” I worry the fabric of my open-in-the-back fashion statement. “I want to talk to her about Grandma.”

Mom and Dad share another teary-eyed parent look and then both come back to hug me tight, making my bruised shoulder scream in pain. I tell myself not to cry. It's painkillers that make my eyes watery. I tried to duke it out without them, but thirty minutes after the nurse left them in my room, I had Mom cut one in half to give me. I'm not going down Julia's path.

They leave. A short time later, Trish is there, standing in the doorway. She must have been waiting for hours. She hesitates like the innocent lamb before the slaughter. That look has probably always been there. I hadn't wanted to see it, or if I did, I ignored it to get what I wanted. Yep, Daniel's right, people are data sets to me for recording and evaluating.

“How's Diamond?” I ask.

Trish says, “She's fine. Some barbed-wire caught her hip, but it's okay. It isn't any worse than if I turned her out with another horse.”

“And Fiona and Tracker?”

This time, Trish's smile fills her face with natural ease. “Fiona's still buzzed about what happened. No problems with Tracker either, but he might be a little touchy if you raise your arm suddenly. Fiona popped him a wicked one to make him run out like that. And, my God, that rebel yell!” She shuffles her boot across the floor. “Peggy showed up later. She's in shock about all this drug stuff happening under her nose.”

“Trish, thank you for everything—helping, not asking questions, just being there.”

She smiles, looking through her bangs at me.

I hate to break her happy moment. “Trish…I know.”

The smile vanishes. “Know what?”

“I counted the pills the first time and the second time. Some were missing.”

Trish wraps her arms around her shoulders like they're some magic protection shield, but there's no magic against facts.

I ask, “How long, how many, and when did it start?”

“Not often. Julia said stimulants help on tests. I took two of them for the ACTs. I'm not hooked. Without a college scholarship, everything in my life falls apart. I can't do both—the horses and college. Heck, even with a scholarship, I don't know how I'll afford it.”

She paces by my bed to look down at Band Shell Park. “Will you tell the police?”

“No, but you need to. Tell Detective Bob. He's a nice guy. He'll help you.”

She shuffles for the door to escape.

I stop her, saying, “You were going to ride with Fiona? That's why Henry and Diamond were saddled?”

“Yeah. Daniel told me it was okay if I give Diamond exercise. His dad will even pay me to keep her in shape. You did that for me, didn't you?”

I say, “It's more than that. They want you to compete with her. Trish, they'll pay for everything. It'll be like she's your horse, but they're going to foot the bill. You can give up your stable job. Maybe with the extra time, you can get your grades higher and earn a scholarship. But you have to do one thing first…”

Her dreams dangle there in front of her, and she's not dumb. “I'll do it. I'll call this Detective Bob.”

After she leaves, I stare out the window. Heating plant steam billows up behind Band Shell Park, making the stars flit in and out of artificial clouds. I think about Trish and the lies she's told. She knew about the drugs and she hadn't told anyone. And how many times, without permission, had she ridden Diamond late at night after everyone headed home and her chores were done? How many times had she taken drugs from Julia's grooming bucket to get over sleepy-eyed mornings?

***

When I get home from Dr. Bartlett's long-awaited appointment, Daniel is there. After my talk with the counselor, Grandma's there too—in memory. I'm an emotional mess and he wants to help—no, he wants to
fix
it.

“Back off, Daniel. Just back off!”

Then we argue. Mom and Dad disappear upstairs, but I'm loud enough they can hear every word. There are some things you can't fix for someone else, no matter how much you care. Sometimes you have to handle things on their own: experience the memories, absorb them, and grieve over them. That's what Dr. Bartlett says.

He lifts his arms up like he's blocking a power hit. “Hey, I'm here for you.”

“No, you WANT to make it better or make it go away. You WANT to protect me! You can't. This is MY problem. You can support my grief, but you can't fix it. Dr. Bartlett told me that.”

“I'm not!”

I snort. “Yeah, right.”

“Okay, maybe I do. I want to help.”

Yeah, he does. Julia's death will always be a part of him like Grandma's death is part of me. Angry flies away. “I know.”

“But I can't?”

“Just tell me. I can handle it.”

“Okay…You can handle it.”

I laugh at his parrot mimicking.

“I'm serious Kami. You can handle it.”

After the argument, we sit side-by-side on the sofa like Tolkien's Two Towers—big and immovable—neither speaking. Maybe he sort of gets what I'm saying, but not really. We'll probably argue about it for a long time—maybe forever.

Finally, I ask him. “How did you manage to stay on Henry over those fences?”

Relieved at the change of topic, he says, “One jump. Managed the first one because I hung on like a monkey. It wasn't pretty. And then Henry ran to catch up with you. Thank God for that saddle horn. Without it, I never would have made it. I did what you said about the reins, though. Kept them loose and let Henry do his thing.”

“So the second jump? You were right there closing your side while I did the other?”

“When Henry put on the brakes, it was slow motion—me flying over his head, over the fence, and then rolling on the ground. He dumped me right at the gate and I slammed it shut. Hurt like hell.”

He reaches his hand out in little starts and stops toward me. “Seeing you fly off Diamond as I jumped out of the way…and then you disappeared under the SUV—that was the hardest. I thought it ran over you. Scared me shitless, Kami.”

I look at his strong, capable hand on the sofa beside me. If I take it, it's backing away from my independence, but if I don't take what he's offering? What will I have then? Data sets can't hug you. I take the middle road and lay mine on top of his, not clasping it, not stroking it. Our hands just touch. I don't understand what's happening between us, any more than I do why my wild hormonal side wants to be wrapped up in Gavin's arms.

I say, “Dr. Bartlett says life is a shithouse of stuff like my chaos locker. Well, she didn't say shithouse.”

“I can believe that.”

Dr. Bartlett and I talked for two hours. I went through a full Kleenex box. She'd asked me a lot about my chaos locker. She thinks it's time I face that sweet honeysuckle and earthy sage.

***

Daniel had the long and terrible talk with his dad the day after the stable incident. Detective Bob went with him to diffuse any anger. They'd taken along Julia's hair toxicology report to prove Daniel's innocence. I didn't go. My anger at Daniel's parents is too close and personal.

We'll never know for sure if Julia took her own life. From his jail cell Ink swears that he didn't kill her, and there's no evidence against him. He made a decent argument in statements, claiming that her death screwed up his plans.