Page 23

As we exit the property, I can’t help thinking that my situation just went from not-good to very, very bad. I mean, I’m a Latvian citizen without any identification, communication device, or money, and I’ve now stolen a horse. The stolen horse is literally my only means of transportation, and I have no way to feed or clothe myself, much less a mighty beast who could be rendered utterly useless by a tummy ache or a crack in his toenail at any time. And there’s a magical villain who apparently has at least one cop in his pocket who’s now on my tail. No matter how fast this insane grey stallion is, this is not the beginning of a fairy tale.

It’s clearly the start of an epic tragedy.

While we’re racing alongside a road—luckily a very rural road—I start to think. What’s my plan here? If I just run around, I’m bound to generate some attention. Someone will call the cops. Then I’ll be caught.

I need money.

I need identification.

I need a place to hide.

And eventually, I need a way out of Russia.

I could call Gustav. He doesn’t really like me, but we were raised together until his mom died. He ran away and never looked back after that. The problem is that I don’t know his phone number, but I could probably look up his family’s business. I bet someone could get him a message. I would need a phone or reliable access to one to make that feasible.

It’s a definite back burner idea.

But for now, there’s really only one person I could call who might be able to help with all those things. Or rather, if I call Mirdza, she might enlist the aid of Kristiana and her Russian boyfriend. I know Mirdza’s boyfriend is Russian too, and he allegedly has money as well, but they’ve been together for twelve and a half minutes, and in my experience, the fastest way to break a new couple up is for family to start making crazy demands.

At least if I wreck Kristiana’s relationship, I won’t feel as lousy for it.

And I have her number memorized.

If I can only get my hands on a phone. . .and make an international call. Why is everything so hard when you’re penniless and in a strange country? “Phone. Phone. Where can I find a phone?” I spent so many days talking to Quicksilver all the time that I think I just do it now our of habit.

Quicksilver slows a hair and turns back to look at me, as if I was actually asking for his input. It makes me smile.

“You’re doing great, boy. You just keep on going a little farther and. . .”

There’s a sign for the Ropsha Racetrack up ahead.

It’s a crazy thought, but it almost feels like God’s intervening. I know exactly one person in Russia, and they work there. At that racetrack. Plus, a woman on a horse that’s galloping full tilt down the road? The only place that won’t cause people to call the cops is probably near a racetrack.

Of course, they may have to call a vet if he doesn’t slow down pretty soon. He may drop dead. Ha. How far have we been running? Four miles? Five?

Looking up ahead, if I just leave this path and head up the ridge toward the road, I notice that there’s a man sitting on the side of the road by his car. It probably has a flat tire. The fact that he doesn’t have a working car is probably a good thing. He can’t get in his car and follow me if he turns out to be a jerk. And since he’s broken down, he might take pity on someone else who’s also somewhat stranded.

In this day and age, everyone has a phone, right?

I take a gamble and ask Quicksilver to slow down, and then I guide him up, through the brambles, and toward the road. “I know this sounds a little crazy, but I need to get to that man up there. I’m hoping he’ll have a phone, and that he’ll let me borrow it.”

Quicksilver stops.

No matter how hard I try to urge him forward, he won’t budge.

Finally, I swing off, drop the reins, knot them so they won’t get caught if he bolts, and walk away.

“Stupid horse,” I mutter. “Thinks if he acts tough, he can decide where we go? What a lunatic.”

As I get closer, I walk more carefully, hoping not to alarm this poor guy. That backfires a bit, because when I finally step out onto the road ahead of him, he shoots to his feet, swears loudly, and drops his phone.

“I’m so sorry,” I say in the best Russian I can manage. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I got stranded on my way to the racetrack, and there wasn’t anyone around. Then I saw you, and I thought you might have a phone I can borrow.”

I don’t mention that it’s to make an international call. What idiot would agree to that?

“Oh.” He brushes his phone off. “Well, okay. A friend of mine’s coming to pick me up. He could probably drop you off. That race track is close.” He points and then holds his phone out.

I’ve stepped closer and I’m reaching for it when Quicksilver comes racing up behind me. We both turn just as he slams into me from behind, knocking me forward. I land in the dirt, which rips my already hand-me-down men’s pants in the knee.