Coup D'Etat by Ben Coes

whispered to the unconscious girl, gently pressing his bearded face against her cheek. “I am. That’s usually a good sign.”
    He broke the horses left just as a furious smash of lightning hit. In front of him, he saw rolling valley for miles.
    “Here we go, Deravelle,” Dewey said, kicking his stallion’s side, pushing the horse into a healthy trot. Trusting his master, Deravelle began a slow but steady run into the dark unknown.
    “What’s your name, anyway?” Dewey whispered as they moved across the wet, muddy valley floor. “I bet it’s something sweet. In fact, I bet you’re sweet. Can you hold on for just a little while longer, sweetheart? We’ll be home soon. Just keep that big heart of yours beating, will you? Your mom’ll make you your favorite dinner. What do you think? Let me tell you a story about my mom. Okay, here goes. One time my brother Jack and I got in an apple fight. We were throwing apples at each other down in the McIntosh field…”
    Dewey spoke to her for the entire ride. By his own estimate, he said more words to the little girl that night than he’d said collectively the entire year he’d been in Australia. But the words kept coming, and he let them, stories about Castine, about his brother, stories about Boston College and the football team, the touchdown he scored sophomore year against Notre Dame, Rangers, even some stories about Delta, stories he was, technically, prohibited by law from telling anyone without top secret clearance. But he told them anyway. Eventually, when he ran out of stories, Dewey started singing to the small child.
    At some point, Dewey realized that he could see at least a horse length in front of him. He kicked Deravelle, urging him on faster. To the right, in the distance, he saw the faint glow of distant lights. He turned Deravelle toward the lights. As he got closer, Dewey knew that he had found Chasvur.
    After a last stand of elm trees, Dewey came into a meadow, fresh cut and wide, which swept down to a large, rambling barn.
    Next to the barn, he saw the back of a pretty stone mansion which he recognized from the photos. To the right, near the stables, overhead lights shone down on at least a dozen men, sitting atop horses or else standing in the drive. Umbrellas were scattered about as the rain continued to pour.
    Dewey moved across the grass meadow until, halfway across the open field, someone at the barn pointed at him. He heard yelling, and then a lone horse with a rider on top lurched from the gathered party, galloping on a brown mustang toward him.
    “Oh, thank God,” the man yelled as he came closer to Dewey. “You found her!”
    “She’s alive. But she’s in shock and her forehead is badly gashed. She needs a hospital.”
    “Mrs. Chasvur called an ambulance,” said the rider. “It’s waiting.”
    *   *   *
    In the pebble driveway between the Chasvur manor house and the barn, an ambulance, along with several police cars, awaited. Dewey moved into the bright lights. At least twenty people were gathered; EMTs, policemen, ranch hands. He saw Joe Sembler, standing next to one of the police officers.
    The crowd moved over and surrounded them. A door on the side of the stone mansion opened and a woman with long blond hair stepped through the door and began a sprint, in bare feet, toward them. As she got closer, Dewey saw that the beautiful woman’s face was red with grief. She pushed her way into the middle of the small group.
    Dewey untied the coat and opened it up.
    He handed the little girl down to the woman, who smiled through her tears. She took her child and embraced her tightly. She shut her eyes and rocked her limp daughter in her arms.
    Joe Sembler walked toward Dewey.
    “I knew you were looking for her,” he said calmly as he came to Deravelle’s side. “When you didn’t come back, I knew you was out there.”
    “Who is she?”
    “The Chasvur girl. Their only child.”
    Two EMTs stepped through the throng. One of them