Fenced-In Felix

by Cheyenne Blue

Her face shuttered over, wiped clean of laughter, so that it was a blank sheet. “Right. The horse is still between us. Trust—or lack of—is still an issue.”

  “Josie, I—”

  She reached back again and this time her fingers clenched briefly on my thigh. “Felix, please. Just for today, just until we see this horse up the road, can we go back to being friends again? Can we flirt, can we imagine the possibilities there might be between us? You’re such a straightforward, honest sort of person that I know this is difficult for you. But I wish you’d believe in me again. Just a little.”

  She stared back at the road, swinging the car around a bend with skill.

  I could do that. In truth, I missed the ease between us. I opened my mouth to say that I could, when her phone beeped and the robotic voice of the GPS said, “In eight hundred metres, turn left onto Bluegum Range Road.”

  Josie slowed. “Not far to go now. Excited?”

  “Nervous,” I admitted. “We also haven’t discussed how we’re going to go about this. We can’t just waltz in and demand to see Flame and run the chip reader down her neck. They’ll be people about, wondering what we’re doing.”

  “Hopefully, we can say we’re tourists from Queensland and are thinking of booking a ride, and can we have a look around. It might be as simple as that.”

  “As long as she’s actually there. As long as we can find her.”

  “Don’t overthink it. Sit back and try and look like a tourist who’s come to explore the famous Yarra Valley wineries.”

  “That’s not difficult. I’ve never been here before.”

  “No? I lived in central Victoria for a while a few years back. Picked grapes. Then I moved up to the Murray River and worked in a dried-fruit factory.” She swung left onto a dirt road, following the GPS’s directions.

  The little car fishtailed slightly as its tyres lost grip. I grabbed the doorhandle to steady myself. Josie slowed, and we bounced over the rougher road. Another right turn, and we drove along a flat-bottomed valley.

  “There.” I pointed to a sign that said Trail Rides. We turned through the gate and came to a stop.

  The yard was tidy, although it was somewhat muddy. In the summer heat, it probably turned to dust. There were two lines of six looseboxes facing each other across a yard. A handpainted sign pointed to the office at the end of the rows. There was nobody about, but someone was whistling in one of the boxes.

  I gripped my bag, and the blocky shape of the microchip reader dug into my hand through the canvas. Without discussion, Josie took one side of the yard, and I took the other. Walking quietly, I peered into each box in turn. The first three were empty, the fourth held the round shaggy rump of a plump Shetland, and the fifth held a thoroughbred, but it was black, not chestnut. Across the yard, Josie gave me a thumbs down and pointed to the path that led alongside the office to some paddocks where horses grazed. I followed her, but as we passed the office, someone noticed us.

  “Hello. Can I help you?” A gangly youth appeared in the doorway. His hair hung over one eye, but his smile was friendly.

  I stopped. “Hi. We were just passing on our way to the Yarra Valley wineries, when we saw your sign. We’re visiting from Queensland. Do you mind if we have a look around? We’re staying locally, and it might be nice to book a ride in the next couple of days.”

  “Sure.” He gestured at the yard. “Some of the horses are out, but you’ll find a few there, and there’s more in the paddock. Have you ridden before?”

  Josie came up beside me and slipped her hand into mine. “A bit,” she said. “We went trail riding in South Australia, and on the beach in Queensland.”

  The boy’s eyes flicked over our joined hands, and he smiled. “I’m sure we have horses that will suit you. Have a look around and come and see me when you’re done. I can book you in.”

  “Thanks.” I forced myself to saunter down the path, resisting the impulse to tighten my grip on Josie’s hand and make a dash for it. Once around the corner and out of sight, she grinned at me. “See? That was easy.”

  Green paddocks stretched in front of us. I could see three horses in one, and by squinting into the bright light, I could see they were two chestnuts and a grey. A second paddock to our left also held a couple more horses, one of which was a chestnut. I gestured to the second paddock. “Those are closer. Let’s go there first.”

  The horses in the second paddock crowded to the rail when they saw us coming, jostling for position in the hope of attention.

  “No go,” said Josie. “The chestnut’s a gelding.”

  In case anyone was watching, we made a show of petting the two horses.

  Josie tugged my hand. “Look, there’s a path there that will take us closer to the other horses.

  We set off, but the path stopped at a water trough. The horses were closer, but still too far away to make out if either of the chestnuts was a mare with Flame’s markings. Josie twitched her head to indicate we should keep going, and we ducked between the strands of barbed wire and walked across the field. It was hot in the sun, and anyone looking from the office would see us. Hopefully, they would think that we were city dwellers who were ignorant of horse etiquette.

  The horses saw us approach and walked towards us.

  There was a shout from behind. “Hey, wait up. You shouldn’t be in this paddock with strange horses.”

  “Pretend you didn’t hear.” Josie grabbed my hand again and swung it, to make it look like we were just loved up.

  The horses came closer and her fingers tightened on mine. “Look at the one on the left.”

  It was Flame. At least, it was a chestnut mare who was the spitting image of Flame. Same thoroughbred fine lines, same white stripe. Same way of flaring her nostrils, ears pricked as she approached, neck stretched out in the hope of a pat.

  I freed my hand from Josie’s and fumbled in my bag for the microchip reader.

  “Go around the far side of the horse,” Josie muttered. “There’s a woman coming up fast. Hurry.” The last word was said with some urgency. “I’ll try and hold her off.”

  I ducked around the horses so that the chestnut was between me and the woman.

  “Hey,” I heard her say. “I’m sorry, but you really shouldn’t be in here. It’s an insurance thing.”

  “Hi,” Josie said. “We’re sorry, we didn’t realise we were doing anything wrong. We just wanted to see these three beauties closer. We’re thinking of booking a trail ride.”

  I got the chip reader out of my bag and fumbled with the leather case. Nerves turned my fingers clumsy, and it took three tries to undo the strap. Finally, I freed it and turned it on, waiting impatiently for the digital display to show that it was ready.

  “They are lovely,” said the woman who had approached. “But these three aren’t used for the trail rides. They’re all agistments.”

  “Are they racehorses?” Josie asked. “They look gorgeous enough.”

  “Thoroughbreds,” the woman replied, “but not actively racing. Come with me back to the gate now. I can show you the other horses in the yard.”

  I aimed the reader at the chestnut’s neck. For an agonising moment nothing happened.

  Josie started to amble back to the yard.

  “Your friend too,” said the woman.

  The reader beeped as it picked up the presence of a microchip. I left the reader in place for as long as I dared, hoping that it would secure the reading, then I raised my voice to the woman. “I’m coming.”

  Behind me, a branch on one of the tall gum trees cracked like a pistol, and abruptly crashed to the ground. There was a split second of silence, and then all three horses wheeled as one and took off at a fast canter, snorting and prancing, nostrils wide and eyes apprehensive. I was left standing with no cover, the microchip reader visible in my hand as I fumbled it back into my canvas bag. The case dropped to the ground, and I bent to retrieve it.

  “Oh look, is that the trail riders coming back?” Josie’s attempt to distra
ct the woman failed. She flicked a glance at the returning riders, then directed her gaze back to me.

  “Is that a microchip reader?” Her voice was flinty and hard, and her expression shuttered. “You mind telling me what you’re doing?”

  Was there any possible reason for being in the middle of a paddock with strange horses other than the actual one? I couldn’t think of one, and neither, it seemed, could Josie. I’d never seen her lost for words before.

  “It’s not a… What did you call it?” she said.

  The woman’s gaze hardened. “I’m not a bloody idiot. Unless you’re checkout chicks who for some bizarre reason have brought the supermarket barcode scanner on your riding holiday, that’s a microchip reader. For reading microchips,” she added, when we both continued to stare at her. “I can wait all day,” she said, when neither of us answered.

  I took a deep breath. “Is this horse called Flame, by any chance?”

  She nodded, her face still mired with suspicion.

  “And she’s on agistment here?”

  The woman folded her arms. “This is an agistment yard as well as a trail-riding place. What’s it to you?”

  Josie gave me a slight nod. I guess despite the antagonism coming from the woman, the fact that the horse was also on agistment put the yard in the same place that we were: potentially in deep shit.

  “We’re from outback Queensland,” I said. “This is going to sound strange, but we have a horse that has been left with us for agistment, also called Flame. Our Flame is uncannily similar to your Flame. And both Flames bear a strong resemblance to a racehorse that’s gone missing. Stolen. That horse is called—”

  “Fiery Lights.” The women’s face relaxed somewhat. “Which one of you is Ripper?”

  CHAPTER 19

  “I’m Ripper,” I said. “Which means you must be Penny Dreadful.”

  “My user name.” She uncrossed her arms and stuck out a hand. “I’m Pen.”

  “I’m Felix, and this is Josie. Ripper is the name of my friend’s dog.”

  “I nearly didn’t answer your message. The name sounded a bit serial killerish.”

  “He’s a little ripper of a dog; that’s how he got his name. It was the first thing that came to mind when I registered for the forum.”

  “Let’s get out of the paddock before the owner here comes chasing. She doesn’t like people roaming the paddocks. It really is an insurance thing.”

  With a final glance over my shoulder at Flame, now grazing peacefully again, I walked with the others back to the yard. Pen skirted the office and led us back around to our car.

  “I think we need to talk, and I’d rather not be overheard. My ride was earlier; I was just hanging around the horses, so why don’t we go and get a coffee? There’s a teashop about five minutes away. My car’s the blue one by the gate. Will you follow me?”

  I nodded and Josie slid into the driver’s seat of our car and opened the door for me.

  We were silent as we followed Pen’s car, and soon we pulled up outside a café built of bluestone. Pen paused to point out the path of last year’s bushfire which had narrowly missed the community, only destroying two houses on the next ridge. Then we went inside and ordered mugs of coffee and scones.

  Pen waited until the coffee arrived. Then, cradling her mug with both hands, she leant forwards.

  “I think it’s a bit of a leap of faith for us to trust each other. After all, we’re strangers.”

  Josie and I nodded.

  “You’ve already told me a bit of your interest in this, so I’ll start.” She sipped her coffee before continuing. “I live in one of Melbourne’s outer suburbs, about fifteen minutes from here. I ride at Casey’s place on the weekends—that’s the yard we’ve just come from—and spend a fair bit of time there. Casey knows me well now, and I basically work in exchange for rides. I’m sure you know the drill: I help with the beginners, get horses ready, often ride as Tail-End Charlie at the back of a string of new riders. Casey has a dozen horses of her own, plus another eight or nine on agistment. Those horses aren’t ridden by the trail riders, they’re purely boarded for their owners. They tend to come and go. Flame came a few weeks ago. I don’t know who her owner is. One day she was there, and Casey told me she was spelling.”

  I nodded. It was common to turn a competition horse out into a paddock for a few weeks to let it rest and put on weight.

  “I didn’t ask, as we often get horses for this, but I presumed she was a racehorse or maybe an ex-racehorse, now eventing or the like. Haven’t seen the owner, but that’s not unusual.”

  Beside me, Josie opened her mouth as if to ask a question, but then she shut it again. Pen glanced at her but continued.

  “I didn’t think anything of it until last week, when I saw an article in The Age. It talked about the missing racehorse, Fiery Lights, and how she had totally vanished. It compared her disappearance to that of Shergar, the Irish racehorse that disappeared in the 80s.”

  “That horse was kidnapped.” Josie watched Pen carefully.

  “So was Fiery Lights. Never proven, but she vanished from the one area of her paddock not covered by CCTV.”

  Exactly as I’d discovered.

  “There was a photo of Fiery Lights in the paper. It struck me how similar to Flame she was. And the dates more or less matched. Flame arrived at Casey’s place only a few days after she disappeared. So I hunted down more photos of Fiery Lights. And every photo I found made me more and more convinced that Flame was Fiery Lights. I became a little obsessed with it, and then made that offhand post on the trail riding forum—the post you saw—just to see if anyone bit.”

  “Did anyone bite apart from Felix?” Josie watched Pen over the rim of her mug.

  “Yeah. Two other people told me about horses they had seen that were identical to Fiery Lights. One in New South Wales, not far from where she was stolen. The other is about two hours up the road in central Victoria.”

  The scones arrived at that moment, and we paused the conversation long enough for the waitress to put the plate down, long enough to spread the scones with butter and raspberry jam. Pen took a bite of her scone, swallowed and continued.

  “Obviously, they can’t all be Fiery Lights. That’s four different horses, including yours.”

  “Five,” I said. “There’s one in Western Australia too.”

  “I was on the verge of going to the police,” Pen continued, “but I wanted to be sure. Have more proof. I didn’t want to drag my friend in. It’s hard enough for her making a go of her yard as it is.”

  I nodded. That had been part of my thinking too. I could understand.

  Pen spread more jam on her scone and added a dollop of cream. “When I found out there were more horses, to be honest, I thought I probably was seeing a crime where none existed. Obviously they can’t all be Fiery Lights. It’s probably just that she’s in the media eye at present, and people are jumping to conclusions. Or wanting a bit of reflected glory.” She paused to take another bite of scone. “When I was a kid, someone in my town thought they saw a UFO. The next thing, every low flying plane brought more reported UFO sightings. The herd mentality, I guess.” She smiled slightly. “We’re all horse people; we should know about that.

  “But there’s a couple of things that keep me thinking there might be something in all of this. The first is that Casey said to me last week, just before I made that post, that she thought Flame’s owner was strange. Evasive. He booked Flame’s agistment over the phone. As far as we know, he’s never visited the yard. Flame arrived in a cattle truck with nothing with her. No tack, no rugs, no grooming kit, nothing except the halter used to tie her to the truck. She was in pretty poor condition. Now I don’t know about you, but if I cared about my horse, I’d send her with a lot more than that. And if she is a racehorse, I’d take more care of her. Special feed. Rugs. And in the weeks that she’s been here, no one has visited her.”

  “Do you think your Flame is Fiery Lights?” My coffee had co
oled while Pen was talking. I took a big gulp.

  “I don’t know. Sometimes I’m sure she must be. The next minute, I think I’m an idiot and there’s no way she is. But then what’s with all the other horses?” Pen shrugged. “Well, the two of you arriving here from Queensland with a microchip reader means that I’m not the only one with suspicions. Do you also have a lookalike horse, or is that bullshit? Maybe you’re reporters.” She ran a hand through her short hair. “I guess I should have asked that first. You can tell I’m no good at espionage.”

  Somewhere in her story, I’d decided I trusted Pen. Her face, her gestures, her lack of subterfuge or evasion meant I believed her. I pushed down the little kernel of doubt that was reminding me I’d trusted Josie too.

  “What we told you before is true. We have an identical horse who is also called Flame.” I glanced at Josie, unsure how much of her involvement she wanted to relate.

  Josie seemed to have no hesitation, and she quickly relayed to Pen the story of how she came to have Flame.

  “Flame arrived at Jayboro—my place,” I added. “I run a camping and trail riding place in outback Queensland. She, too, came in a truck with nothing except a torn rug and old halter. As if she’d come from some sale yard or something. A friend’s brother picked the similarity between her and Fiery Lights. I didn’t think anything of it, until…”

  I hesitated. Until I’d begun to suspect Josie, until I’d wondered if she were truthful.

  Pen didn’t seem to notice my pause.

  “But something made you suspect enough to read her microchip.” She nodded at my bag on the floor at my feet. “What did it say? I’m guessing your horse isn’t Fiery Lights, but something made you investigate further. It must be major, if you’ve come all the way from Queensland.”

  Josie’s gaze focussed on a picture on the opposite wall. Her face was fallen in lines of sadness. She had picked up on what I hadn’t said, even if Pen hadn’t. “Our Flame’s microchip identifies her as Fiery Lights,” she said. “But she can’t be. Felix rode her. She’s broken down.”

  “I think she’s got a cardiac condition, almost certainly longstanding. She couldn’t have won the Jackson Plate, not as she is. If our thinking is correct, your horse will have a microchip that identifies her as Flame—the real Flame, our horse, who supposedly is an ex-racehorse from South Australia. We think that your horse is the real Fiery Lights, misidentified as Flame. And that someone is going to enter her in a middling race sometime soon, where she will cavort home by many lengths.”