by Sasscer Hill
An image of Butch appeared in my side-view mirror. He hadn’t seen me yet. Time to leave. I promised myself — any future race won, any windfall that came my way, a piece of it would go to one of those charities.
A last backward glance. Through the bars of the stock trailer the mournful eyes of the palomino seared me, branding my brain.
Chapter 14
Kenny Grimes and I rode back to Ravinsky’s barn. Our horses’ metal-shod hooves clip-clopped on the pavement, accompanied by the squeak of saddle leather. A horde of pigeons skittered along the roof ridge of a nearby building. Probably taking a breather after scrounging for grain. They liked to peck up anything spilled from a feed bucket, would land inside a bucket if a horse didn’t clean up. Management kept saying they’d do something about the birds, but as far as I could tell the population continued to explode.
Kenny hummed a Sting song. I looked for something besides pigeons to help block out images of Butch’s crowded stock trailer. Approaching Clements’ barn, my inner radar began to hum. Jack Farino stood talking to Dennis O’Brien outside the hard-eyed man’s section of shedrow. What brought Dennis here? I’d never seen him on the Laurel backside before. His presence irritated me, like a wad of gum that follows you around, stuck to the bottom of your shoe.
Kenny and I applied boot-heel pressure to urge our horses into Ravinsky’s barn. Who could blame their reluctance to leave the air and sunshine? Inside, I handed my gelding over to Ramon. He’d tuned the radio to the Spanish station, cranked it to a high decibel. Salsa music blared, and Ramon sang along, painfully off-key. When he disappeared around the corner with my horse, I eased over and twisted the volume knob to a less excruciating level.
Curious about Farino and Dennis, I turned to the catty-cornered barn. Had Farino been at the auction with Dennis? I hadn’t seen them together, just Farino skulking behind a news paper. Now he disappeared into one of his stalls, but Dennis remained, as if waiting for someone.
A flash of jagged white caught my attention. Helen’s Dream, her head over the stall gate, looking around, bright-eyed and curious. I’d gotten her settled in the night before and fed her a bucket of grain laced with chopped carrots and apples. Now she saw me staring and pinned her ears, withdrawing back into her stall. God forbid anyone should see her looking happy. I pictured her life, a long road paved over hard by ignorance and human error. It’d be a while before she came around.
Clements appeared across the way, clutching a bottle of eye drops. He spoke to Dennis, who jogged off toward the gravel lot where horse vans parked. Farino emerged from his stall, stood next to Clements, said something. Thick as thieves.
I turned back to Hellish. She’d get a day off before going to the track. I checked her water, hay, and bedding. Keeping her stall fell to me, not Ravinsky’s salaried grooms. Good horsemanship consumed time, took planning. I remembered I was supposed to give the filly a five-in-one shot. Who knew if Clements bothered to inoculate his horses against tetanus, flu viruses, rhino, or encephalomyelitis?
Only licenced veterinarians were allowed to give injections at the racetrack. Anyone else using a syringe broke racing commission rules and Maryland state law — a law seeking to keep Maryland free of doped horses and fixed races. But it didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize vaccinations could be purchased through a catalogue and administered “privately” for a fraction of the vet’s fee. Especially when talking upwards of 30 horses in a trainer’s barn.
Jim had asked earlier if I’d inject some of his horses for a free dose for Hellish. I didn’t have any problem with it since the inoculation wasn’t a prohibited substance. Besides, who was I to frown on the practice with my past history of stealing food from convenience stores?
Kenny’d volunteered to help and appeared now with a box of pre-loaded syringes. They hid under a couple of brushes inside a tack box. He held Hellish while I slid the needle into her neck muscle and depressed the plunger. She took it surprisingly well, and Kenny and I went around the shedrow with Jim’s list, Kenny holding and me sticking over a dozen horses. We finished up, and Kenny brought a half filled trash bag into the last stall, stuffed the box of empty syringes inside, and filled the top with an old newspaper and some 7-Eleven coffee cups.
The loud rumble of a diesel engine sounded on the pavement. Dennis pulled up in a four-horse rig, left the engine droning and climbed out. He dropped the ramp on the trailer. Clements joined him right about the time Kenny ambled by with his trash bag. Farino came out to give a hand. Then the three of them waited for Kenny to drive away in his Dodge truck.
They took three nondescript bay horses off the trailer and into the barn. I just knew they were those Dark Mountain horses, the ones supposedly sold as show horses. If so, Clements’ had brought three horses that couldn’t run worth a damn into his racing stable. What sense did that make? I was dying to hear any conversation, but fat chance with that diesel blasting. Besides, I had a race to ride later, needed to clean up and catch a nap.
* * *
I finished a good third, only a length off the pace that afternoon, in a maiden claimer. Afterwards a respected trainer asked if I’d ride one of his good horses in an allowance race the following week. Things were looking up.
On my way out, Martha Garner waved at me in the horsemen’s parking lot. I hadn’t seen her since my night out with Clay. She’d finished shaking that desolate expression that rode her after Gildy’s death. She wore a magenta Nike outfit and squinted at me through a cloud of cigarette smoke. A huge pink diamond grabbed my attention, winking through the haze, lying on her right ring finger. I tried not to gawk at it while we exchanged greetings. I wondered if tobacco companies shouldn’t roll out cigarettes in pastel papers. Women who liked their clothes and accessories to match wouldn’t be able to resist. Might be a lot of money in pastel cigarettes.
Then I remembered Clay and the horse with Destroyer in the pedigree. “Martha, you ever find a horse you liked?”
“Nah, Jim didn’t like that horse Reed was pushing.” She started to say more, but broke into a series of coughs. She glared at her cigarette, dropped it on the pavement and ground it under her heel. “I gotta give these things up.”
“I’m kinda glad you didn’t get that horse,” I said. “I’m not sure I trust Clay.”
Martha threw me a sharp look.
I hesitated a moment. “I think he might like money more than ethics.” Was I out of line?
Martha’s eyes danced with humor. “Lord, Nikki, I’ve got better sense than to trust a man that good-looking. What a charmer. You mark my words, honey, a man that charming’s hiding a snake in a basket somewhere.”
Her comment lit me up. I pictured Clay piping a tune for a big cobra and giggled.
Martha nodded. “We’d both do well to stay clear of him. Too bad he’s so damn good-looking.”
Wasn’t that the truth.
I left Martha and drove back to Jim’s barn. Though I’d set out a bucket of grain and flakes of hay for Ramon to give Hellish, I still had an itch to see my filly. Her stall probably could stand a little pitchfork work. Ramon had agreed to clean in the morning for six bucks a pop, but morning was a long way off.
Besides, curiosity about those three bays plagued me. Maybe I’d slip over to Clements’ barn later and have a look. The trainers and stable foremen were rarely around in the late afternoon, unless they had a horse racing. Clements didn’t. Of course, who knew when Farino might be lurking about, but I could always mumble something lame about searching for the barn cat.
The mindless work of tossing Hellish’s stall allowed my thoughts to roam without direction, and they settled on Gildy’s death. Seemed the apprehension of her killer lay low on the county law enforcement’s priority list. That bird-like insurance investigator Beamfelter had finally okayed Martha’s payout, and dropped me as a suspect. Clay Reed. He hadn’t given up — had left a couple of messages on my phone, but I’d avoided him, fearing my attraction for him would override good sense. I could almost hear that sexy
voice, feel those warm fingers.
I stabbed the pitchfork at a lump of manure.
Hellish avoided me by moving to whatever part of the stall I wasn’t cleaning. Apparently we’d reached some sort of truce, as she kept her head facing me. I had great respect for that other end. Those hindquarters could drive metal-shod hooves in multiple directions faster than speeding bullets.
I thought about Gildy, the man running from her stall, Dennis and his “show” horses. A snake-like presence slithered somewhere on the Laurel backstretch. I could sense its evil influence, just couldn’t see it. Probably coiled in somebody’s basket.
I finished my work, hung the pitchfork on its nail in the tackroom, and studied Clements’ barn for a moment. I sensed no movement, heard no voices. The place had a deserted feel. I slipped over there, ducked inside the narrow opening of a partially closed sliding door. Stood waiting for my eyes to adjust to the barn’s low light. Odd that Clements had fastened the shutters above the low cinderblock wall so early in the year. Most trainers waited until later to close up against the winter’s chill
To my left, Farino’s small section was raked and tidy. His horses munched hay and examined me with alert eyes. As I moved into Clements’ area looking for those three bays, I frowned in distaste at the heavy smell of dirty bedding. Horses skulked in the back of stalls, sour and uninterested in human contact.
After 10 minutes of creeping around Clements’ shedrow, I found only one of the horses. A horse I recognized instantly with that weird cowlick running down his neck. The whorl had been on the far side when they’d led him into the barn earlier, and I hadn’t seen it.
The bay wore a halter with a brand-new name plate that read “Noble Treasure.” Yeah, right. Horse probably couldn’t win a $2,500 claimer at Shepherds Town. Had I stumbled into the basket?
The metal frame shrieked as someone shoved the sliding door and moved into the barn. Overhead lights flicked on. I froze. Clements and Dennis O’Brien stared at me from the entrance.
“What the fuck?” Clements, loud, heading right for me. “What’re you doing in here?”
His pale eyes were moist and cold, like melting ice. An involuntary half-step away from him put the stall wall against my back. I’d never been this close to the man. Those eyes.
I swallowed some air. “Our barn cat’s been sick — he’s missing. Thought he might’ve crawled in here.”
“You’re full of shit.” Clements’ face so near I could smell his breath. Cough medicine.
Screw this guy. “I told you, I’m looking for our cat. He’s not here, so I’ll leave.”
“She was up at Dark Mountain,” Dennis said.
“Shut up,” Clements’ hissed at Dennis.
I eased sideways and stepped around Clements. Probably stupid, but I couldn’t resist pointing at the whorly bay. “Isn’t this one of the horses you bought at Dark Mountain, Dennis?”
Dennis adopted his sneering punk face. “You stupid bitch. You think you’re so smart.”
Clements’ low voice stopped Dennis like a wall of ice. “You don’t listen, O’Brien. I told you to shut the fuck up. You’re stupid as they come.” Then he turned on me. “I got no horse from Dark Mountain. This horse came down from New York. Mind your own damn business and stay the hell out of my barn!”
Seemed like a good time to leave.
Chapter 15
Had there been a noise, or only a sharp echo from a fading dream? My eyes cracked open, slid to the clock. Three-forty A.M. Too early to rise, but I could tell my brain was in full gear and on some level, disturbed. Memories of my last visit to Gilded Cage poured into my head. Finding an athlete with so much ability and heart, dead at the hands of a human. Though not my horse, her death had instilled me with a sense of guilt. Maybe I’d just go early and check on Hellish.
An odd connection to Hellish had driven me to rescue her from slaughter. Now her welfare lay in my hands. Though way too early to head for the track, some unknown fear for Hellish pushed me from my bed and into my riding clothes.
Outside the chill of a changing season tightened the air, bringing on a shiver. I buttoned my jean jacket, realizing Labor Day had come and gone, taking the August heat with it. The parking lot pavement glistened with dew. Drops of condensation clouded the Toyota windshield. l hit the wiper button, water sluicing left and right.
Ten minutes later I drove into the backstretch and slowed down to say good morning to Thelma, the security woman who stepped out of the guard house at the stable gate.
“Nikki, you’re here early,” she said.
“Couldn’t sleep. Wanted to check on a new horse, maybe organize Ravinsky’s tack room.”
“You go, girl.” She grinned at me, teeth white against her brown face. “And when you’re done you can go on over to my house and organize there.”
Waving, I drove into the dark, anxiety hurrying me to Ravinsky’s barn. Devoid of the bustling activity that would gear up in an hour, the grounds were silent and deserted as I left the Toyota on the dirt apron. To the west, dim clouds riding the horizon shifted to gun-metal gray. In the barn, I flipped the light switch outside Hellish’s stall. She was fine. What had spooked me so?
The warm, soothing scent of horses filled the building, and down the long shedrow glossy heads contentedly tugged bites of hay from rope nets that hung outside each stall. The speckled Bantam rooster who ruled the stable flew down from his roost in the rafters and scratched in the dirt for grain. Two hens, still perched above, craned their necks, beady eyes watching to see if he got lucky.
Hellish had about emptied her hay net, so I walked to the end of the barn and around to the opposite side, heading for the room where Jim stored hay. This side of the building faced Bill Burke’s barn. The darkness hid details, but Burke always kept a neat shedrow, his red buckets and feed tubs clean, his aisle way raked clean and smooth.
Since meeting the widow LeGrange and Clay in the Jockey Club, I’d noticed a number of race entries Burke had made for her. I still hadn’t seen her sparkly diamonds around, but she had four or five horses over there and a couple of ’em were pretty good. Did Janet still cling to Clay’s flattering ways? Did he deliver more than just compliments?
An odd popping noise sounded from Burke’s barn, and my body stilled, the only things moving, my heart and the hairs on the back of my neck. My eyes and ears strained, and I thought I heard the sound of a sliding barn door, though the one opposite me remained motionless. I heard several anxious whinnies and a commotion of hooves. Sounded like horses over there were whirling about in their stalls.
My frozen stance broke. I ran across the pavement between the barns, tripping over a coiled hose, before falling against the sliding door with a loud crash. I rubbed a smarting elbow, then hauled the door open and stood listening, but only heard the sounds of nervous animals. The horses halfway down the shedrow appeared the most disturbed. The harsh crack as an animal kicked the wall almost stopped my heart. I darted down the aisle, pausing outside a stall where a horse stood bug-eyed. Two doors down an animal spun, then snorted. But the space between them was quiet.
A dark premonition washed over me. My fingers stiff, and awkward, searched the wood wall between doors for a metal connector box. I hit a switch and light flickered on, while my hands fumbled with the stall latch. I swung the door open and stepped inside. A bay horse lay lifeless in the middle of the stall, lit by a single, naked ceiling bulb.
Sinking to my knees, my fingers reached for his head. An eye devoid of expression stared at the ceiling. I pressed my hand against his neck where the head joined. The skin was almost cold. Oh God, not again.
My eyes focused on another object behind the horse. A man sat on the floor, leaning against the back wall. My breath sucked in.
“Are you okay?” I stood, shaky legs carrying me forward. Recognition prickled me. “Dennis?”
He couldn’t answer. A small hole darkened Dennis’s forehead, a trickle of blood dripped down his face and leaked onto his blu
e denim shirt. On the wood boards above his head, a thick smear of red, as if he’d slid down the wall and left a trail behind. His eyes were wide but unseeing.
Heat welled up in me, yet I felt clammy. Then the blood smell reached me, and I stumbled sideways and threw up in the straw. Agitation spurred me to leave, to get out. Something whitish in the straw next to Dennis caught my peripheral vision. I tried to observe, and not see Dennis. A plastic syringe, like the ones I’d used that morning. I moved toward it, then got smart. I wasn’t going to touch anything, didn’t need my prints on any of this. I whirled to escape and shrieked.
A man stood outside the stall. He spoke, his voice sharp and authoritative. “Stay where you are, Latrelle.” Fred Rockston, the security guard who’d been around the night Gildy died, who’d been with Beamfelter when he’d questioned me in Jim’s office. Now he’d found me with something way worse than another dead horse — he’d found me with a corpse.
He told me to stand against the wall, not to move. He sidestepped the horse, took a good look at Dennis, and his face paled. I feared he’d lose his cookies, too, but he was made of tougher stuff than me. He pulled out his radio, called in to the security office, told them to get somebody over here, call an ambulance, call the Anne Arundel County cops. He took me out, told me to sit on a nearby bale of hay and stay put. He paced, I waited, then the parade started. Track security guards came pounding down the shedrow, sirens wailed, blue lights flashed, and beat cops arrived, their radios squawking and hissing. More revolving lights reflected on the walls as an ambulance pulled up outside.
Queasy and fighting a growing headache, I dropped my head in my hands. My fight with Dennis at Shepherds Town. Who knew about that? Oh, Christ, who didn’t? Had Dennis killed the horse, or had he surprised the killer and paid with his life? No, he wouldn’t be in this barn unless here to do the horse. He’d never think twice about killing a horse for money. Who’d shot Dennis?
