Free Cutter's Run by William G. Tapply

then I saw Susannah Hollingsworth leaning against the side of my Wrangler. She was wearing jeans and sneakers without socks and a man’s blue cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up past her elbows and the tails knotted over her belly. Her blond hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, and big silver hoops hung from her ears.
    She held up her hand, and I waved. When I was close enough to speak without shouting, I said, “I thought your horse was a moose.”
    “His name is Arlo,” she said. “We do worry about Arlo during hunting season. A lot of out-of-staters carrying thirty-ought-sixes don’t know the difference between a horse and a moose. Some of them,” she added with a shrug, “don’t care.”
    “I know the difference,” I said.
    She smiled and patted the side of my car, inviting me to lean beside her.
    I accepted and lit a cigarette.
    “So what are you doing here?” she said.
    “I was going to ask you the same question.”
    “I came to see the swastika,” she said. “It’s hateful, isn’t it?”
    I nodded. “There’s another one on her outhouse.”
    She touched my arm. “No,” she whispered.
    “Yes.” I told Susannah how I’d searched the outhouse and the cabin, looking for a dead body. I told her about the burned-out candle, the paperback book, and the glass of sour milk.
    She peered into my eyes. “Do you think…?”
    I nodded. “It feels bad.”
    “What’re you going to do?”
    “Call the sheriff. I talked to him this morning. He said he was interested in swastikas.”
    Susannah pushed herself away from the car. “Let’s go for a ride.”
    “Where?”
    “I want you to show me that swastika. We’ll take Arlo. He can hold both of us.”
    “I really want to get home and call the sheriff,” I said. “I’m very concerned about Charlotte.”
    “Me, too,” she said. “Maybe I’ll notice something you missed. Come on. It’ll only take a couple minutes.”
    I nodded. “Okay. Maybe you can tell me I’m crazy to be worried about her.”
    Arlo had no saddle. Susannah slithered up on his back. I handed the reins up to her and then took her hand and managed to scramble awkwardly up behind her.
    “Hold on,” she said over her shoulder.
    There was nothing except Susannah Hollingsworth to hold on to. I placed my hands tentatively on her hips.
    “If you don’t want to fall off and break your neck,” she said, “you’d better put your arms around me.”
    I realized she was right. I was a long way from the ground up there on Arlo’s back. So I circled Susannah’s waist with my arms and hitched myself forward until I was pressing against her back. I could smell her hair in my face. Violets.
    She laughed. “Don’t be afraid of me. I can’t bite from this position. Relax and hold tight. Arlo’s a good old horse, but it’s a bumpy ride.”
    Arlo picked his way back up the sloping rutted road that I had just walked down. Every time he took a step, I bounced. I noticed that Susannah seemed to roll her butt in synchrony with Arlo. I couldn’t quite find Arlo’s rhythm. So I embraced Susannah from behind and concentrated on not getting bumped off.
    “What did the sheriff say?” she said over her shoulder.
    “Nothing, really. Just that he considers painting swastikas on other people’s property more than vandalism. I had the feeling that he wouldn’t blow it off.”
    We came to the clearing and circled behind the house. Susannah reined in Arlo by the outhouse, gazed at the swastika on the door for a moment, muttered, “Jesus,” then turned Arlo back toward the meadow, where we stopped. I let my hands slip down so they rested lightly on her hips, and we sat there that way up on Arlo’s back, looking across the meadow toward the hillside beyond.
    “You went into the house?” she said.
    “Yes.” I summarized what I’d seen.
    “I don’t think I want to go in there,” she said. She breathed out a long sigh. “What a world.” She pointed across the meadow. “That’s