Chapter Twenty
The Morning News
Thursday – Early
The morning newspaper lay on the carpet outside the door. Liz, still sleepy and bleary-eyed, barely awake, pulled her robe close around her, glanced up and down the hall to be sure no one could see her.
Before she could pick up the paper, she saw the headline. She paused, she bent down, and she read:
Lindy Hopped?
A Times Square Favorite Is Missing
A Times Square Favorite Is Missing
“Lindy?” She whispered the question into the empty hallway. “I recognize that name.”
She carried the paper into Annie’s bedroom, reading as she went.
“Wake up, honey.” She poked a bump in the blanket that was probably Annie’s shoulder. “There’s something here in the morning paper you should see.”
A muffled voice came from the folds of the pillow.
“What time is it?”
“Seven. You said to wake you at seven. And there’s something here you should see.”
Annie rolled out of bed and staggered to the bathroom.
Through the door, Liz read to her:
The mounted police unit on New York’s West Side was broken into last night, and Lindy, a Times Square favorite among New Yorkers and tourists alike for almost fifteen years, was taken from the stables at Troop B Headquarters. The officer on duty, Jess Yardley, reports that he was held at gunpoint by two masked men while a third man, also masked, mounted Lindy bareback and rode him out of the building and up 12th Avenue.
Annie came out of the bathroom. She was wide awake. “Let me see that,” she said. She took the paper out of Liz’s hand.
“Isn’t that your guy’s horse?” Liz said.
Annie nodded and kept reading.
Officer Antony Biello, who arrived to take over the next shift, found the officer in the stable, handcuffed to one of the steel posts that enclose Lindy’s stall. No other horse was taken and a source close to the investigation says a printed leaflet associated with a dissident group was found in Lindy’s stall. It is believed that the horse-napping may be the work of this group, which has been conducting protests outside the United Nations building. The group’s leader was arrested on Sunday and the police are not discounting the possibility that the horse is being held for ransom.
Annie looked up from the paper. “For ransom!”
“Is it your bunch? From Sunday?”
Annie nodded. “Probably. Wait. There’s more.”
On Sunday, Lindy was part of the mounted unit that conducted crowd control at the demonstration at the UN and was identified by name in TV coverage of the event. “We’ll find those men,” said Sergeant Bartlett Hardin, who is Lindy’s assigned rider. “But if they hurt that horse, if they do any harm to him at all, they’re going to be very, very sorry.”
Sergeant Hardin has a special attachment to Lindy. The horse’s previous rider was the sergeant’s father, Lieutenant Des Hardin, who was killed five years ago when gunfire broke out during a street demonstration, similar to the one last Sunday at the UN.
Police horses must meet very special specifications and are therefore generally acquired by Police Department purchase, but Lindy had originally belonged to the Hardin family, which owns the ranch in Wyoming that bred the Lindy strain. Although title to Lindy was transferred to the department, Lindy has always been regarded as the property of the Hardin family. Lieutenant Hardin’s son, Bartlett, had just completed training at the police academy at the time of his father’s death, so the department allowed Sergeant Hardin to replace his father as Lindy’s rider.
Annie folded the paper and put it on the bed.
“What time is it?”
“You just asked me. Now it’s 7:06.”
“Call room service. I need some coffee.” She went back into the bathroom. She called back to Liz as she turned on the shower, “Maybe there’s something I can do—I don’t know—something. I have to think.” She closed the door behind her.
By the time she came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a huge bath towel, with her wet hair turbaned in a smaller one, room service had already rolled in a cart with their breakfast.
“Lord, I could get used to this,” Liz said. She poured a cup of coffee and handed it to Annie. “Any ideas?”
Annie shook her head.
“Still thinking. Bart must be out of his mind right now. No wonder he ran out of here like that last night.”
“Will you call him?”
“I don’t know. I’m sure he has enough to think about without my bothering him. But I feel so bad for him. I know how he’s feeling right now.” She sipped at her coffee, put it down absentmindedly. She walked to the window, and looked out for a minute, then came back and sat on the bed. “Remember when my Paddywhack turned up missing?”
“I remember. That sweet little filly. Took us two days to find her.”
Annie was silent for a moment, staring at the floor. Then she said, “And all you found was what the cougar left.”
“Yes, I remember that, too. You were only eight years old then, just a little kid, and you tried to take Daddy’s rifle to go hunt down that animal yourself.”
“That’s how Bart is feeling now.”
Liz sat next to Annie on the bed and put an arm around her.
“Oh, honey. I’m so sorry.” Liz saw the beginning of tears in Annie’s eyes and she hugged her more closely. “Don’t cry, Annie, sweetie. Please don’t cry. They’ll find him. It’s going to be all right. Here.” She reached for the basket of hot muffins on the breakfast cart. “Have a muffin.”
“I don’t want a muffin. And I’m not crying.” She blinked her eyes to clear them and straightened up defiantly. “And of course it’s going to be all right. Bart will get those guys—whoever it was took Lindy. And I pity them when he does!” She picked up the paper and pointed to the story. “But think what this must mean to him? Lindy isn’t just Bart’s horse. He’s Bart’s dad’s horse. The paper said Bart’s dad was killed during a street demonstration, so he had to have been riding Lindy when he was killed. Bart didn’t tell me any of that. He just said his dad had died a few years ago. And that’s how Lindy came to be Bart’s horse. Like he was entrusted with this special animal—and look what happened. Along with everything else, he must be feeling such guilt—that Lindy was stolen on his watch!”
She picked up the phone. “I won’t call. I’ll just text him. If he’s too busy, he just won’t answer.” With thumbs working, Annie wrote:
I saw the paper. Is there anything I can do?
And an answer came back instantly.
I wish there were. It’s probably that Buljornia crowd. Forensics is working on it. I’ll call later. Too busy here.
“They think it’s that Buljornia group. The ones that mobbed me on Sunday.”
She walked to the window, drew the curtains aside, and looked out over the view, at the crowded mass of buildings, the tall stacks of human habitation jammed up against each other with the morning sun shining off the thousands of windows, and a separate life going on behind each window.
Eight million people out there. I wonder how many of them care that Sergeant Bart Hardin’s horse has been stolen.
And I wonder why I care so much.
“Honey, there isn’t anything you can do. This is a police problem. And we’re supposed to be enjoying ourselves on this trip. So let’s finish breakfast, get ourselves dressed, and let’s go out and enjoy ourselves. We could do that sightseeing boat tour around Manhattan.”
Annie said nothing for a minute or two—just kept staring out at the city.
She turned away from the window. “No, Liz. I’ve decided. I don’t have to be totally helpless. There is something I can do.”
“Uh oh.” Liz made a face. “I know that look. Here comes that stubborn streak of yours.”
“Number one. Only a few blocks from here is one of the greatest libraries in the world. A resource like no other. I’d planned to see it anyway during this trip—I wouldn’t come here and miss that, of all things. So here’s my perfect opportunity. I could find out something not forensic, something different from what the police would be looking for. I could make a different kind of search.”
She was back in the bathroom, brushing her hair.
“I’m going to go to the library. I’m going to find out about these people. Who are they? What are they about? You can’t fight an enemy if you don’t know who they are.”
“Couldn’t you just Google them?” Liz came to stand at the bathroom door, watching Annie dab on a bit of lipstick, a breath of blush. “Wouldn’t that be enough? Everything’s on the Internet these days. Why do you have to make a trip to the library?”
Annie brushed past Liz, who followed her into her bedroom.
“I’m surprised you said that. Information on the Internet is not always reliable. Everyone knows that.”
She got into her panties and pulled on a pair of skinny jeans. “Number two, I’m a librarian. I know how to use primary sources.” She pulled on a loose-fitting tee—pale pink—over her lacy bra. She stepped into a pair of moccasins. “And number three, I’ve got to do something to help. I can’t just sit here.”
“So, no boat tour around Manhattan?”
“You do it without me. Oh, Liz. Don’t be mad. I know I’ve been neglecting you. And I’m sorry. Really I am. But this trip is just not turning out the way we expected.”
“Annie, I knew from the moment Bart Hardin appeared on the scene, this trip was not going to turn out the way we’d expected. So I’ll just be a good big sister and try not to interfere with your adventure. For the time being. And don’t worry about me. Actually, I’m getting used to this big, bad New York and I’m kind of enjoying not having to deal with the usual—kids, Craig, ranch work. Just enjoying my own self, being on my own. This is my first vacation in ten years and I’m beginning to get that this really is ‘Fun City.’ So you just go ahead and do what you have to. I’ll be okay. But have your phone with you and keep in touch.”
“You really are the best sister—when you’re not being a watchdog. I’ll stay in touch and we’ll meet for dinner or something.”
“Or something. Don’t worry. I’m going to have breakfast and take a nice long bath. I might go out and buy a bathing suit and take a swim in that fancy pool they have up here on the top floor.” She took some toast off the breakfast tray. “Go. Go. Do what you have to.” She waved the toast at Annie. “I’ll be fine.”