The Horse Whisperer (6 page)

“Must have tried crossing over or something,” said Koopman, trying to be helpful. But the hunter shook his head. The opposite bank was steep and there were no tracks going up it.

They walked along the bank, nobody speaking. Then the hunter stopped and put his hand out for them to do the same.

“There,” he said, in a low voice, nodding up ahead.

They were about twenty yards from the old railroad bridge. Logan peered, shielding his eyes against the sun. He couldn’t see a thing. Then there was a movement under the bridge and at last Logan saw him. The horse
was on the far side, in the shadows, looking right at them. His face was wet and there was a steady dark dripping from his chest into the water. There seemed to be something stuck to his front, just below the base of the neck, though from here Logan couldn’t make out what it was. Every so often the horse jerked his head down and to the side and blew out a strand of pink froth that floated quickly away downstream and dissolved. The hunter swung the gun bag off his shoulder and started unzipping it.

“Sorry pal, they’re out of season,” Logan said, casual as he could, pushing past. The hunter didn’t even look up, just pulled the rifle out, a sleek Winchester .308 with a telescopic sight as fat as a bottle. Koopman looked on admiringly. The hunter took some bullets from a pocket and calmly started loading the rifle.

“Thing’s bleedin’ to death,” he said.

“Yeah?” said Logan. “You’re a vet too, huh?”

The guy gave a scornful little laugh. He went on slotting bullets into the magazine with the infuriating air of someone who knew he would be proven right. Logan wanted to strangle him. He turned back toward the bridge and took a careful step forward. Immediately the horse backed away and now he was in the sunlight on the far side of the bridge and Logan could see there wasn’t anything stuck to the animal’s chest. It was a flap of pink skin hanging loose from a terrible L-shaped gash, about two feet long. Blood was pulsing out of the exposed flesh and streaming down his breast into the water. Logan could now see that the wetness on the horse’s face was blood too. Even from here he could tell the nasal bone had been smashed in.

Logan had a sinking feeling in his stomach. This was one hell of a beautiful horse and he hated the idea of putting him down. But even if he could get near enough
to control the bleeding, the damage looked so severe, it was odds on the animal would die. He took another step toward him and Pilgrim backed off again, turning to check out the escape upstream. There was a sharp sound behind him, the hunter racking the bolt of his rifle. Logan turned on him.

“Will you shut the fuck up?”

The hunter didn’t respond, just gave Koopman a knowing look. There was a rapport developing here that Logan was keen to break. He put his bag down and squatted to get some things out of it, talking to Koopman now.

“I want to see if I can get to him. Could you loop over to the far side of the bridge there and block him off?”

“Yes sir.”

“Maybe get yourself a branch or something and wave it at him if he looks like he’s heading your way. You might have to get your feet wet.”

“Yes sir.” He was already going back up into the trees. Logan called after him.

“Holler when you’re ready. And don’t get too close!”

Logan loaded a syringe with sedative and stuffed some other things he thought he might need into the pockets of his parka. He was aware of the hunter’s eyes on him but ignored him and stood up. Pilgrim’s head was low but he was watching every move they made. They waited, the rush of water loud about them. Then Koopman called and as the horse turned to see, Logan stepped carefully down into the river, concealing the syringe in his hand as best he could.

Here and there among the torrent were slabs of exposed rock, washed clean of snow, and he tried to use them as stepping-stones. Pilgrim turned back and saw him. He was getting agitated now, not knowing which
way to run and he pawed the water and snorted out another slick of bloody froth. Logan had run out of stepping-stones and knew the moment had come to get wet. He lowered one foot into the current and felt the icy surge over the top of his boot. It was so cold, it made him gasp.

Koopman appeared in the bend of the river beyond the bridge. He too was up to his knees in the water and he had a big birch branch in his hand. The horse was looking from one of them to the other. Logan could see the fear in the animal’s eye and there was something else there too which scared him a little. But he spoke to him in a soft, soothing lilt.

“It’s okay fella. It’s okay now.”

He was within twenty feet of the horse now and was trying to figure out how he was going to do this. If he could get hold of the bridle, he might have a chance of giving the shot in the neck. In case something went wrong, he had loaded more sedative into the syringe than he would need. If he could get it into a vein in the neck, he would have to inject less than if he shot into a muscle. In either case, he would have to take care not to give too much. A horse in as bad a state as this couldn’t be allowed to fall unconscious. He would have to try and inject just enough to calm him so they could lead him out of the river and get him somewhere safer.

Now that he was this close, Logan could see the chest wound. It was as bad as anything he’d ever seen and he knew they didn’t have long. From the way the blood was pumping, he figured that the horse had already lost maybe up to a gallon of it.

“It’s okay young fella. No one’s going to hurt you.”

Pilgrim snorted and wheeled away from him, taking a few steps toward Koopman, stumbling and sending up a flash of water that rainbowed in the sun.

“Shake your branch!” Logan yelled.

Koopman did and Pilgrim stopped. Logan used the flurry to lunge nearer, stepping into a hole as he did and wetting himself up to the crotch. Sweet Jesus, it was cold. The horse’s white-rimmed eyes saw him come and he started off again toward Koopman.

“And again!”

The shake of the branch stopped him and Logan dived forward and made a grab. He got the reins, taking a turn in them and felt the horse brace and twist against him. He tried to step into the shoulder, keeping as clear as he could from the hind feet that were coming around to get him and he reached up quickly and managed to get the needle into the horse’s neck. At the touch of the needle, Pilgrim exploded. He reared up, screaming in alarm and Logan had a fraction of a moment to push the plunger. But as he did so, the horse knocked him sideways, driving into him so that Logan lost all balance and control. Without meaning to, he injected the entire contents of the syringe into Pilgrim’s neck.

The horse knew now who was the more dangerous of these men and he leapt away toward Koopman. Logan still had the reins twisted over his left hand, and so he was whipped off his feet and pulled headfirst into the water. He felt the icy water streaming through his clothes as he was dragged along like a tangled waterskier. All he could see was surf. The reins bit into the flesh of his hand and his shoulder hit a rock and he cried out in pain. Then the reins came free and he was able to lift his head and take a lungful of air. He could see Koopman now, diving out of the way and the horse splashing past him and scrambling up the bank. The syringe was still hanging from his neck. Logan stood up
and Watched the horse disappearing up through the trees.

“Shit,” he said.

“You alright?” Koopman asked.

Logan just nodded and started to wring the water from his parka. Something caught his eye up on the bridge and he looked up to see the hunter, leaning on the parapet. He’d been watching and was grinning from ear to ear.

“Why don’t you get the fuck out of here,” said Logan.

   She saw Robert as soon as she came through the swing doors. At the end of the corridor there was a waiting area with pale gray sofas and a low table with flowers on it and he was standing there looking out of a tall window, the sun streaming in about him. He turned at the sound of her footsteps and had to screw his eyes up to see into the relative dark of the corridor. Annie was touched by how vulnerable he looked in this moment before he saw her, with half his face lit by the sun and his skin so pale it was all but translucent. Then he found her and came walking toward her, with a grim little smile. They put their arms around each other and stayed like that for a while, saying nothing.

“Where is she?” Annie asked at last.

He took hold of her arms and held her away from him a little so he could look at her.

“They’ve taken her downstairs. They’re operating on her now.” He saw her frown and went on quickly before she could say anything. “They said she’s going to be okay. She’s still unconscious but they’ve done all these checks and scans and it doesn’t look like there’s any brain damage.”

He stopped and swallowed and Annie waited, watching his face. She knew from the way he was trying so hard to keep his voice steady that of course there was something else.

“Go on.”

But he couldn’t. He started to cry. Just hung his head and stood there with his shoulders shaking. He was still holding Annie’s arms and she gently disengaged herself and held him the same way.

“Go on. Tell me.”

He took a long breath and tilted his head back, looking at the ceiling before he could look at her again. He made one false start then managed to say it.

“They’re taking her leg off.”

Annie would later come to feel both wonder and shame at her reaction that afternoon. She had never thought herself particularly stalwart in moments of crisis, except at work where she positively relished them. Nor did she normally find it difficult to show her emotions. Perhaps it was simply that Robert made the decision for her by breaking down. He cried, so she didn’t. Someone had to hold on or they would all be swept away.

But Annie had no doubt that it could easily have gone the other way. As it was, the news of what they were doing to her daughter in that building at that very moment entered her like a shaft of ice. Apart from a quickly suppressed urge to scream, all that came into her head was a string of questions, so objective and practical that they seemed callous.

“How much of it?”

He frowned, lost. “What?”

“Her leg. How much of it are they taking off?”

“From above the—” He broke off, having to summon
control. The detail seemed so shocking. “Above the knee.”

“Which leg?”

“The right.”

“How far above the knee?”

“Jesus Christ Annie! What the hell does it matter?”

He pulled away from her, freeing himself, wiping his wet face with the back of a hand.

“Well, it matters quite a lot I think.” She was astonishing even herself. He was right, of course it didn’t matter. It was academic, ghoulish even, to pursue it but she wasn’t going to stop now. “Is it just above the knee or is she losing the top of her leg as well?”

“Just above the knee. I haven’t got the exact measurements but why don’t you just go on down and I’m sure they’ll let you have a look.”

He turned away to the window and Annie stood watching as he took out a handkerchief and did a proper job on the mucus and tears, angry at himself now for having wept. There were footsteps in the corridor behind her.

“Mrs. Maclean?”

Annie turned. A young nurse, all in white, darted a look at Robert and decided Annie was the one to talk to.

“There’s a call for you.”

The nurse led the way, walking in small rapid steps, her white shoes making no sound on the shining tiled floor of the corridor so that she seemed to Annie to be gliding. She showed Annie to a phone near the reception desk and put the call through from the office.

It was Joan Dyer from the stables. She apologized for calling and asked nervously after Grace. Annie said she was still in a coma. She didn’t mention the leg. Mrs. Dyer didn’t linger. The reason she had called was Pilgrim.
They’d found him and Harry Logan had been on the phone asking what they should do.

“What do you mean?” Annie asked.

“The horse is in a very bad way. There are broken bones, deep flesh wounds and he’s lost a lot of blood. Even if they do all they can to save him and he survives, he’s never going to be the same.”

“Where’s Liz? Can’t we get her down there?”

Liz Hammond was the vet who looked after Pilgrim and was also a family friend. It was she who had gone down to Kentucky for them last summer to check Pilgrim out before they bought him. She’d been equally smitten.

“She’s away on some conference,” Mrs. Dyer said. “She’s not back till next weekend.”

“Logan wants to put him down?”

“Yes. I’m sorry Annie. Pilgrim’s under sedation now and Harry says he may not even come around. He’d like your authority to put him down.”

“You mean shoot him?” She heard herself doing it again, hammering away at irrelevant detail as she had just now with Robert. What the hell did it matter how they were going to kill the horse?

“By injection I imagine.”

“And what if I say no?”

There was a pause at the other end.

“Well, I suppose they’d have to try and get him somewhere they could operate on him. Cornell maybe.” She paused again. “Apart from anything else Annie, it would end up costing you a lot more than he’s insured for.”

It was the mention of money that clinched it for Annie, for the thought had yet to coalesce that there might be some connection between the life of this horse and the life of her daughter.

“I don’t care what the hell it costs,” she snapped and she could feel the older woman flinch. “You tell Logan if he kills that horse, I’ll sue him.”

She hung up.

   “Come on. You’re okay, come on.”

Koopman was walking backward down the slope, waving the truck on with both arms. It reversed slowly down after him into the trees and the chains hanging from the hoist on its rear end swung and clinked as it came. It was the truck that the mill people had standing by to unload their new turbines and Koopman had commandeered it, and them, for this new purpose. Following close behind it was a big Ford pickup hitched to an open-top trailer. Koopman looked over his shoulder to where Logan and a small crowd of helpers were kneeling around the horse.