Chapter 2
Sunday afternoon, my doctor signed my release papers.
"You're not allergic to any medications, right?"
"Far as I know."
"You're employed?" I nodded, and he said, "Take off for a day or two, and when you go back, take it easy for a couple weeks." He pulled a prescription pad from a pocket in his lab coat and began to scribble. "Occupation?"
"Barn manager . . . at a horse farm."
He looked up, his pen hovering over his paperwork. "Better take off a full week, then start back slow. Give the ribs a chance to heal."
I didn't tell him I couldn't afford to, that there was just too much to be done, not to mention the fact that I needed every penny I earned.
He saw what I was thinking, tore up the prescription, and wrote a new one. "This will give you more relief. If you have any questions or problems, get in touch with your family physician." He tried to suppress a yawn as he initialed the chart. "You do have a family doctor?"
"Err, no, actually."
He shook his head. "Well, find one, will you?" He straightened and tucked the pen back into his breast pocket. "Have the police finished with their interviews?"
"Last night."
"Thought so. You weren't very coherent when they brought you in."
The entire police thing had been more tedious and involved than I ever would have imagined and something I would just as soon forget. Besides requiring a more detailed statement, they had taken my fingerprints--for elimination purposes, they'd said. And they had photographed my injuries. Need to have proof an assault happened, you know? The only thing they still needed, and were unlikely to get, were suspects.
He dropped the prescription on the bedside table. "Good luck." He grinned. "And stay out of trouble."
I watched him stroll out the door, then I called the farm and arranged for a ride home.
For the next two hours, I stared out the window at a dreary expanse of black rooftop, thinking unproductive thoughts while the relay switch in the heating unit clicked wildly. At a quarter to five, Marty slouched into the room, and it was only from long acquaintance that I noticed the brief hesitation in his face as he took in the bruising and the gown and the bandages around my wrists.
He called over his shoulder. "He's in here."
Dave, Foxdale's handyman, appeared in the doorway as Marty hitched a hip on the footboard.
"Tell all," Marty said.
Since I'd started at Foxdale, Marty and I had become best friends. An unlikely union as we were more opposite than alike. He was easygoing and coarse, vulgar at times, and seemingly without ambition. "You first," I said. "What's happening at Foxdale?"
Marty shrugged. "What you'd expect. Phone ringing off the hook. Outrage, paranoia, tears." He grinned. "On the boarders' part, that is. 'Cause the guys are thrilled to death having seven less stalls to muck out."
"That won't last."
"Suppose not. But some folks'll be afraid to trust their horses to us now that somebody's taken off with a trailer full. So give with the details. Whatju run into?"
I sighed. It was going to be a long week.
He waved his hand. "Come on, man. The cops were crawling all over the place yesterday. You'd of thought you were dead," he glanced around the room, "or dying."
"It's true," Dave muttered but kept his gaze on the floor. He'd been checking out the pattern in the tiles ever since he'd walked into the room.
"Anyway," Marty said, "the boys in blue had Mrs. Hill holed up in her office for about an hour, and when they finally hightailed it out of there, she was madder'n hell. But, Mrs. Hill being Mrs. Hill, she wouldn't tell us a goddamn thing. And, get this. A fucking reporter showed up this morning. Mrs. Hill sent him packing, though," Marty added, and it was clear the thought amused him.
I just stared.
"So, what happened? Rumor has it, the shits who took the horses took you, too."
"That's right."
"Fuck, man. How'd you get away?"
"I just did. So, why'd Mrs. Hill send both of you?"
Marty stood and stretched. "She thought you might be wantin' your truck, so we dropped it off at your place when we got the clothes you asked for."
"Oh," I mumbled.
"What were you--"
"Marty, shut up," Dave said. "Let Steve get dressed so we can get outta here." He handed me the paper bag he'd been holding which I saw contained a fresh change of clothes.
"I knew you were weird," Marty said. "But goin' to the barn naked?"
I grinned. "My clothes got soaked. The medics cut them off."
"How'd they get--" Marty said as Dave pushed him out of the room, "wet?" he finished as the door swung shut.
It was after six and dark by the time Marty swung his old Firebird round the parking lot behind the loft and jerked to a halt at the base of the steps. He looked over at my Chevy parked under the dusk-to-dawn light. "We couldn't find your keys. Hope you got a spare. And you'd better check your battery 'cause it was dead. You left the door open, and the dome light was on."
But I had closed it. I distinctly remembered how loud it had sounded. "Then how'd you get it over here?" I said.
"Jumped it."
"But--"
"He hot-wired it," Dave said from the back seat, and I thought I heard a hint of disapproval in his voice.
Marty turned in his seat and grinned at me.
"Well, who'd of thought." I levered myself out of his low-slung car, then watched Dave struggle out of the back seat and plop thankfully into my spot.
Marty ducked down so he could see me through the passenger window. "Need help with anything?"
I told him I'd be fine and waved him off, but by the time I made it to the landing, I was doubtful. By the time I reached the deck and walked into the kitchen, I knew I had lied. I was exhausted and hungry, but too tired to bother with it. I swallowed some pain pills, turned off the lights, and crawled into bed.