I climb out of the car, glance down at the deep and slippery mud, and reposition my feet on little islands of rotting leaves.
The house is small and weathered with a dilapidated porch. It was white at some point, but the color is now merely suggested by streaks of paint embedded in the grain. There's a small paddock on one side, and its fence is a mess; some of the boards are missing entirely. Others are broken in half, their splintered ends resting on the ground. There's no way it could contain a horse.
I look around with widened eyes, wondering where the hell he is. There are a few small outbuildings, but nothing that looks like it could house a horse. It dawns on me that if he's not in one of the buildings, he must be wandering free. I'm starting to seriously regret not making a detour to get Mutti's pickup and trailer.
I approach the house, taking in the broken windows and toothless blinds with growing trepidation.
A little girl sits on the front porch. She's no more than three, with dark curly hair, a yellow dress, and a bleached-out blue snow jacket that is unzipped. She has shoes on, but no socks. She's manipulating a Barbie doll with a crew cut. More disturbingly, Barbie has no clothes. The peach-colored body, with its wasp-waist and oh-so-perky breasts, is covered with ballpoint pen marks that look like varicose veins. Upon closer examination, Barbie is not entirely naked--she's wearing pink rhinestone-encrusted high heels.
The girl looks up at me, startled.
I lean over. "Hi, sweetie," I say, conjuring up my warmest smile. "Is your mommy home?"
She clambers to her feet and runs past me into the house. The screen door, with a two-foot rip in it, slams shut behind her. Its springs hang free from the hinges, which are crisp with rust.
A moment later a woman comes out the front door. She is small, with dark hair pulled back into a messy knot. She looks frail and wan, nothing like I expected.
"Hi," I say, stepping forward and sticking my hand out. "I'm Annemarie Zimmer. From Day Break."
"Hi," she says. All bravado is gone. She offers me a limp-fish hand and stares at the floorboards of her porch. "Eugenie Alcott."
"So," I say, putting my hands on my waist and looking around for something positive to comment on. "Is that your little girl?"
"Yes."
"She's adorable," I say.
"Thank you." There is no proud smile, no cute anecdote, no offering up of a name. "So I suppose you want to see Squire."
"Um...sure," I say. I look in alarm toward the house, wondering if I can stall a bit because now I'm at least as concerned about the child as I am about the horse.
"Hang on," Eugenie says before turning and disappearing inside the house. When she returns, a man's flannel shirt hangs around her shoulders.
"He's this way," she says, walking past me and down the stairs.
She leads me around the side of the house toward a white cement-brick building that looks like a garage. I limp behind, as quickly as my hip will allow.
She comes to a stop outside the garage. It's even more dilapidated than the house--surely the horse isn't in here?
I glance at her with wide eyes and step up to the doorway. That's when the smell hits me.
"Sweet Jesus!" I exclaim, stepping back and gagging. And it's not just that I've been primed by Fear Factor--the interior reeks so fiercely of ammonia my eyes and nostrils sting.
"I know it's not the cleanest," she says.
"Not the cleanest?" I stare in disbelief. She gazes at the ground in either indifference or defiance.
I throw her one final look of incredulity, take a deep breath, and step inside.
There's one window at the very back of the cement brick structure. By its dim light I make out an enclosure and step closer.
It's a makeshift stall set up in the corner, the boards nailed haphazardly to a wooden post. I catch sight of white hide and a single shining eye. I'm almost out of oxygen, but I lean forward and peer through the slats.
Inside is a tiny creature, no more than thirteen hands high, bedraggled, and clearly skeletal despite his hugely distended belly. His feet are completely obscured by slimy muck. It's at least a foot deep.
I've run out of breath without noticing and gasp in a lungful of contaminated air. I turn back to the doorway, toward the woman who lets him live like this. "Get him out of here."
"What?"
"Please. Just get him out," I say, staggering past her to the fresh air. I stand doubled over, hands on my thighs, struggling for breath.
Eugenie disappears around the side of the building and returns with a piece of knotted twine.
"What's that?" I say, pointing at it.
"It's a halter."
"No it's not."
"It's all I've got," she says.
She approaches the stall slowly, timidly even. She fumbles with the latch, which appears to be stuck. The second she gets it open, the pony blasts through the door and out of the building. His parting gesture is to shoot a hind hoof at my face--I fall back against the outside wall to avoid being hit.
Despite his initial steam, he comes to a stop about thirty feet away, at the first clump of sorry grass.
His legs are wet and dark almost up to his knees. His hipbones stick out like wings behind a belly as grossly swollen as Maisie's. He eyes us warily, swirling his ropy tail in circles. Out in the open, he looks so much worse I realize I can't possibly leave him here tonight. The paddock wouldn't hold him, and there's no way I can allow him to go back into that garage.
I spin around to Eugenie. She's scowling into the wind, hugging the flannel shirt against herself.
"What?" she says, as though she has no idea.
The second I get out of here, I'm calling Child Protective Services.
I turn away from her and step toward the pony, carefully, approaching from the side. He keeps working the tuft of grass, but his left pupil is aimed right at me. When I get within eight feet his ears fall back.
"Easy, boy," I say, stopping. "Easy."
I take a few tentative steps forward, holding out my hand.
He lifts his muzzle a few inches from the ground and holds it there, pinning his ears. Then WHOOSH! A hind leg snaps out, narrowly missing my ear.
"Whoa!" I take a long step backward and look over my shoulder at Eugenie, who is still scowling. "Got any grain?" I ask.
"No."
"Why am I not surprised?"
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
I sigh and walk back to her. "Let's just go inside and draw up a bill of sale. I'm going to need to borrow your phone to call for a trailer. Will you take a check?"
"Cash only," she says quickly.
I throw her a murderous glance.
"I can't do it through a bank account," she says. "My husband would get at it."
"Okay. Fine. I'll get cash. Let's just get this over with, okay?"
She leads the way to the house in silence. I follow, limping like Quasimodo and glancing back at the starving pony to make sure he's staying put, although I'm not sure what, exactly, I would do about it if he didn't.
Once we're inside the house's dismal interior, Eugenie waves me at the phone and climbs the stairs with hunched shoulders.
I glance around the living room. A single bulb is suspended from three wires in what was once an ornate ceiling fixture. The wallpaper hangs off in shreds, revealing crumbling plaster and strips of lath. There's a couch and matching chair, with ornate woodwork and red upholstery. At one time it was glorious. Now it's tattered and lumpy, with springs sticking through the seat. Loose garbage and stacks of newspaper tied with twine line the walls.
The little girl sits at the very bottom of the stairs playing with her Barbie. She gives no indication of being aware of my presence. Her dark hair is greasy, and flattened at the back. I watch her for a moment, fingers pressed to my mouth in thought.
Then I turn back to the phone and dial our number.
Eva answers immediately, so quickly that from this end it didn't even sound like it rang.
"Hello?" she says breathlessly. Obviously she's hoping I'm her boyfriend Luis.
"Eva, it's me," I say. "Get Oma."
"Can you call back later?" Eva hisses. "I'm expecting a call."
"Honey, please--this is important."
She sighs dramatically. "Okay. Fine. But I really do need a cell phone."
"Point noted. Now get Oma."
"So I'm getting a cell phone?"
"Get Oma!"
She slams the receiver down and her footsteps recede. "Oma," she calls in the distance, "it's Mom. Says it's...'important.'" There's a clear pause before the final word.
Hurried footsteps approach the phone.
"What is it? Is everything all right?" says Mutti in clipped Teutonic. She can't help it. Her accent gets stronger when she's worried. "Is it the mare?"
"No. But I do need help."
"What? What is it? Are you all right?"
"Not really. I need you to come out to Gum Neck with the horse trailer. And four hundred in cash. And a pony halter. And a bucket of grain."
There is silence at the end of the line as she takes this in. "I will come. Where are you?"
I'm just getting to the part about the burnt maple when I hear heavy footsteps on the porch. I turn just as a huge man crashes through the front door. He throws it open with such force that its knob lodges in the wall behind it, and then he stands in the doorway, wild-eyed and panting. He's at least six foot three, and well over two hundred pounds.
The little girl looks up and screams. He trips over her in his rush to mount the stairs, which he takes three at a time. The child scrambles over to me on all fours and grabs me by the legs, shrieking into the back of Dan's sweatpants.
Eugenie appears at the top of the stairs and opens her mouth, but before she can make a sound, the man cups her throat in one hand, claps his other over her mouth, and throws her back against the wall.
"Hey, Buddy!" I bellow. "Yo! Buddy!"
He freezes and does a double take down the stairs. He passed right by me on his way up the stairs, but apparently failed to notice my presence.
"I've got nine-one-one on the line here!" I say, still pressing the receiver to my ear.
"Mein Gott, Annemarie! What is going on?" cries Mutti.
"Hang it up!" he roars. "Hang it up or so help me God--"
"You'll what?" I scream back at him. "The second I dialed it, they traced the call. They're already on their way and they're listening to every damned word you say!"
"Eva! Eva! Get my cell phone! Schnell! Schnell!" screams Mutti from the other end of the phone. "Annemarie," she continues, her voice an urgent whisper, "I'm calling nine-one-one on my cell phone. I've got your instructions. They are coming. They are coming! Do not hang up!" Then again, her mouth away from the receiver, "Schnell, Eva! Schnell!"
The man drops Eugenie, who crumples to the floor like a rag doll. He turns and stares at me, his expression frighteningly blank. He takes a step toward the top of the stairs. Then another.
The little girl whimpers, her face still buried in the back of my legs. I reach around and press her against me.
The man comes to the top of stairs, slowly, his eyes locked on mine, his massive hand gripping the banister.
"They're listening to the whole thing," I say, forcing myself to meet his gaze. My voice is hollow and deep, fueled by God only knows what. "The dispatcher confirmed your address. It's all over," I say.
He stares at me for what seems an eternity. Then his face falls, his shoulders slump, and he comes down the stairs slowly, one at a time. When he reaches the bottom, I take a couple of steps backward, still pressing the child against me.
But we might as well not be in his world anymore. He passes right on through the open door, which is still impaled in the wall, and takes a seat on the top step of the porch.
"Mutti," I whisper into the phone. "I'm hanging up now. I'm calling nine-one-one for real."
"I already have, Schatzlein," she hisses. "They are already coming, and so am I."
Twenty minutes later, the police arrive. I'm sitting on the tattered couch with both arms wrapped around the child. She's curled into a ball on my lap, sucking her thumb. She still hasn't said a word, but her little body is relaxed. Her head is tucked beneath my chin, and I stroke her hair even though the scent of unwashed scalp is overwhelming.
Eugenie is still upstairs, crouching against the wall where she fell. She appears catatonic. The man is still on the top step of the porch and has dropped his head into his hands. Because of the open door, I have a clear view of him and I wouldn't have it any other way. His shoulders are rounded, and he may be crying. I don't know and I don't care.
At first there are two cruisers, but before long other vehicles start to arrive. The man is handcuffed and bundled into the back of a car. Kindly women in plain clothes pry the little girl off me--it takes some doing, since she seems to have associated me with safety--and take her into another room. Others go upstairs and kneel beside Eugenie. I am taken to the kitchen by two uniformed officers to fill out a statement.
When I've added every last detail I can think of, I sign it and push it across the table at the officer sitting opposite me.
"What's going to happen to them?" I ask as he picks it up.
"He'll be cooling his heels for a while, that's for sure." He runs his eyes across my handwritten statement. "What's this say?" he asks, leaning forward and pointing at a word.
"Sockless."
"And this?"
"Unwashed. Sorry. My writing's not great at the best of times, and I'm still a bit shaky."
"That's understandable," he says. He clicks his pen open and prints both words above my loopy handwriting. Then he hands the sheet back to me. "Here. Initial both places."
"What's going to happen to the little girl?" I say, taking the pen.
"Child Protective Services is evaluating the situation now."
"And Eugenie?" I say.
The other officer, who is filling out a form, sets his pen down and looks at me. His stark gaze is accusatory. "Why do you want to know?"
"No reason. Just curious," I say quickly, looking from officer to officer. "I mean, I did kind of get thrown into the middle of the whole thing."
"So you're taking that horse, right?" says the nice one, giving me an opportunity to look back at him--which I do, gratefully.
"Yeah. I guess so," I say. "My, uh, boyfriend runs the Day Break Horse Sanctuary."
Boyfriend. That word becomes troublesome when you're nearly forty.
"Is it registered?" he says.
"Yes. He gets called out to cases like this all the time."
"Good. Then I won't have to--"
"Annemarie!" cries a hoarse female voice.
I twist in my chair and see Mutti cross the kitchen at a near-run. When she reaches me, she puts a hand on the back of my chair and runs her eyes frantically over my body. "Mein Gott, what is going on here? What happened?"
"A 'ten-sixteen,'" I say, reading from the top of the evil officer's report. "A domestic disturbance," I continue.
Understanding dawns on her face. "That brute out front? Did he touch you? Because so help me God, I will rip out his spleen!"
The eyebrows of both officers shoot up.
"Mutti! I'm fine. He never touched me."
Mutti halts, presses her lips together, and continues investigating me with her eyes. When she's finally satisfied that I'm fine, the lines disappear from her forehead. She makes the sign of the cross and takes a seat in the only remaining chair.
The men exchange glances.
I sigh. "Officer Pitts, Officer Ewing; my mother, Ursula Zimmer."
Mutti nods at each of them. "It is very nice to meet you."
"Likewise," Pitts says unsurely. His eyes dart sideways.
"Are we finished here?" I ask. "Because that pony's chariot just arrived, and I'd like to catch him before he wanders off."
"I think we've got everything we need. I assume we can call? I'm pre
tty sure we'll be laying charges about the animal as well."
"I should hope you would. And yes, by all means, call anytime," I say, pushing my chair back and rising. I grimace and grab my hip.
"He hurt you! I knew it!" cries Mutti. "I'll kill him!"
"No he didn't!" I hiss. "I slipped in the mud. In the rain. Back at Dan's place." I add each detail separately, watching her fury deflate in stages. "Really," I say firmly.
She stares at me for a moment longer. When she's finally sure she believes me, she rises and places her hands on her hips. "So, where is this horse?"
"God only knows at this point," I say. "With any luck, not out on the highway."
"He's still out back," says Officer Ewing. "And he's got a bit of a temper from the looks of it."
"Yeah, well, you would too if you'd been living like him," I say grimly. Then I turn and limp from the kitchen.
Mutti follows me, watching my progress carefully--I can feel her eyes all over me. When we get to the living room I lean back and whisper, "Mutti, could you please refrain from threatening to kill people in front of police officers?"
"Hrrmph," she snorts, raising her chin and making it pointier.
I've never known how she manages that.
When we round the corner and the bedraggled little horse comes into view, she stops in her tracks.
"Mein Gott. He is full of parasites."
"I know. He's a mess."
"Go get in the car. I will catch him."
"No, I'll help."
"With that leg? Get in the car."
"It's my hip. Besides, he's full of piss and vineg--"
Her arm shoots straight out, index finger pointing through the house. "In the car, Annemarie!"
I make my way carefully around to the front yard. It's full of vehicles, the porch buzzing with activity.
As I climb obediently into my car, Mutti marches back to her truck. She opens the passenger door, removes a bucket, halter, and lead rope, and disappears behind the house. Moments later she reappears with the pony plodding beside her, stretching his nose out toward the grain. He follows her straight into the trailer without so much as a moment's hesitation.
I shouldn't be surprised. Everybody obeys Mutti.
In a few minutes, we're on our way. When we get back to Day Break, Mutti stops, opens her window, and beckons me forward with her hand. I pull up beside her and run my passenger window down, leaning over so I can see her.