Rockinghorse by William W. Johnstone Page B

one face. Jim Dooley. Lucas shifted his eyes and saw Deputy Burt Simmons towering over everybody. A state trooper stood to the deputy’s right, Tracy and the kids to his left.
    â€œWhat in the hell happened to me?” Lucas asked, his voice croaking out of his throat, pushing painfully past his lips. His upper right arm hurt, up close to the shoulder.
    â€œThat’s what we’d like for you to tell us,” the state trooper said.
    Lucas started to sit up, but Jim’s hand was on his chest. Lucas pushed the hand away. “No,” he said, “I don’t feel dizzy or sick. I just want to sit up.” He did, and felt better for it. He put his hand to the back of his head and gingerly fingered the knot there. He could feel no stickiness under his fingers. When he looked at his fingertips, he could see no evidence of blood.
    â€œLet me call for an ambulance,” Tracy said.
    â€œTake an hour to get here,” Jim said.
    â€œNo,” Lucas said. “Not just yet. If I don’t feel better in a couple of hours, we’ll drive into Rome and go to a hospital. Just let me sit here for a few minutes and collect my thoughts.” He rubbed his arm. Must have fallen on it when he was hit on the head.
    After a few seconds, Lucas gathered his thoughts and told the group what had happened, beginning with Jackie’s screaming and the kids’ stories. “. . . and just a few seconds after I saw the people—I don’t know whether they were men or women—something smashed into the back of my head and I had this sensation of falling. The next thing I know, I’m out here looking up at you people.”
    â€œAnd you hit someone with your stick?” the trooper asked.
    â€œOr some thing ,” Lucas said. “Yes. I’m sure I did. I felt it strike and heard . . . whatever it was cry out in pain. Where is my stick?” He rubbed his arm. He looked at the trooper. “Why did you place the emphasis on ‘you?’ ”
    â€œWhy do you want your stick?” the trooper asked.
    â€œBecause there might be blood on it from whomever it was I hit. If so, I’d like it typed and cross-matched. I’m AB. See what I’m getting at?”
    The trooper smiled. “You’re sure a lawyer, all right. We’ll do that. I’ve got the stick and it’s got blood on it. And some gray hair. You don’t have any gray hair, Mr. Bowers. Not of the length found on the stick. If I had to take a guess, I’d say you ran up on some of those damned survivalist people. Woods are full of them. Most of them are pretty decent people, but some of them are real yo-yos. And they can be dangerous. We’ve had reports of them practicing in this area. The dangerous ones are paranoid; think the whole world is out to get them. I’ll send the stick off to our lab and get back to you.”
    â€œI’d appreciate it,” Lucas replied, rubbing his arm.
    â€œI think the city boy lost hisself in the woods, panicked, and fell down, hit his head. I think he’s makin’ all this other crap up,” Deputy Simmons said.
    The trooper looked at Simmons, ill-disguised contempt in his eyes. “Simmons, you’re an idiot,” he said. Walking stick in hand, he nodded to the group and left.
    The big deputy bristled. He puffed out his chest and shouted to the back of the trooper. “You cain’t talk to me lak ’at!”
    The trooper laughed at him and kept on walking. Simmons walked after him, shouting this and that and what he thought of the Georgia Highway Patrol. It didn’t seem to bother the trooper. After one final cussing, the trooper stopped, turned around, and said, “Simmons, if you open your goddamned mouth to me again, I will personally stomp your guts out. You got all that, big boy?”
    Burt’s mouth snapped shut like a snapping turtle. Burt was stupid, but not crazy. Georgia State Trooper Kyle Cartier had