by Laura Crum
As I watched, the sound of cheering from the show ring caught my attention. It caught the attention of Casey's group, too, and they all looked in that direction.
The loudspeaker crackled and blared, "Gold Coin, ridden by Will George, marks a 75. As that was our last horse to work, ladies and gentlemen, Will wins the Novice class."
The voice had scarcely finished when Will George rode by us, flanked with chattering acolytes. His handsome face was serene, and he gave me a pleasant, meaningless smile as his eyes moved on to Casey. He smiled again and there was no mistaking it; this time his eyes held a triumphant, gloating expression. He rode on without a word.
I looked at Casey. He was staring after Will George, his emotions plainly readable for once.
"What've you got to do, kill the bastard to beat him?" Casey said it savagely, loud enough for all of us to hear, before wheeling Shiloh and trotting off, ignoring the second place that was being announced as his.
I watched his departing back and felt misgivings. Casey, volatile as a Roman candle, looked as if he might suddenly start showering sparks in all directions, regardless of the consequences.
Chapter EIGHT
Monday morning dawned with a more or less routine set of veterinary problems on the schedule. Horseshows and feuding trainers behind me, I forgot Casey Brooks and his troubles except for a brief moment when I mailed the blood samples from his horses off to the lab.
I had plenty else to occupy my mind. A first-class jumping horse with what looked like a bone chip in his knee had to be referred to the veterinary surgery center at Davis, a polo pony with a hind-leg lameness that turned out to be bone spavin-a type of arthritis-required that I reassure his owner for the better part of an hour, then two mild colic cases, and a recheck on a horse with a bowed tendon that hadn't improved as it should ... by the time I was done, it was well past dinner time.
The rest of the week passed with veterinary problems filling my time, much as usual, and it wasn't until Friday, when the lab tests came back, that Casey was recalled to my mind. I barely had time to look at the results before receiving my first patient of the day-an expensive two-year-old Thoroughbred jumping prospect-a cryptorchid who was scheduled to become a gelding. Removing a testicle that has not descended involves anesthetizing the horse and hooking it up to oxygen, and finding the testicle can be a longish, complicated procedure. I had my hands full, literally, for several hours, and no time to think about Casey.
By the time I'd finished with the colt, now a gelding, it was almost noon, and I decided to run out to Indian Gulch Ranch and stop for a sandwich on the way back. Summer was still hanging on; warm air rushed in through the open window of the truck, feeling almost balmy against my skin. Only the slant of the light, the tinge of yellow in the leaves, an undercurrent of wood fires and ripe fruit gave the game away. October was right around the corner.
Indian Gulch Ranch looked oddly deserted when I pulled up in front of the barn. A quick scan revealed that all the vehicles were gone; Ken's white Cadillac was missing from his driveway and Casey's beige pickup, the only thing I'd ever seen him or Melissa drive, was nowhere in evidence. It looked like my timing was bad.
I'd been sitting there a few minutes, hoping vainly that someone would emerge from the barn or one of the houses, when I noticed the horse standing at the pasture gate. I noticed it because it was a saddled horse. A saddled horse, I realized, that was loose, dragging its bridle reins and occasionally stepping on them as it paced back and forth beside the gate.
The horse was Shiloh, and it was a cinch she wasn't supposed to be running around like that. I got out of the truck and went over to catch her.
The closer I got the more puzzled I got. Casey would never have tied Shiloh up by the bridle reins and left her-that was asking for a broken bridle-therefore, he must have been riding her. Had he gotten off to do something, let go of the reins for a second and lost her?
I studied the hills around me-no Casey, no movement at all but the slight motion of the grass in the breeze.
Shiloh looked at me in friendly greeting; she was clearly relieved when I reached for her reins and didn't try to evade me.
"Hey, girl, what's the matter? Where's Casey?"
Shiloh, naturally, made no answer, and I stared at the plainly marked trail running up the nearest hill toward a ridge in the distance. Was Casey up there somewhere, maybe, God forbid, hurt?
I made a snap decision and, shortening the stirrup leathers to fit my legs, clambered up on Shiloh, who stood docilely for me, like the lady she was.
Clucking to her, I bumped her gently with my heels, and she moved off in a long swinging walk, taking the trail automatically, without my guidance. It was clear she'd been this way often.
We crested one hill, then the next, Shiloh moving sure-footedly on a loose rein as I took in the scenery and looked for Casey. Nothing. Just empty hills-washed-out yellow-gold against a deep blue sky-oak trees, an occasional ground squirrel, a flock of quail under some greasewood. High above me a hawk circled, drifting on the currents.
Two or three more hills later and we were climbing the ridge with me wondering if I was on a wild-goose chase. Occasionally I yelled, "Casey," my voice sounding forlorn, quickly swallowed up by the silence.
Shiloh's black-tipped ears moved forward and back, listening to me, looking in the direction of noises. The trail grew steeper, clinging to one side of the hill, and it seemed to me the mare was getting tense, her ears pointing rigidly forward, her eyes staring up the trail.
To my left the hill dropped off into a steep gully, thick with boulders, no doubt the channel of a bouncing stream after a rainfall. Now it was dry-a creekbed full of rocks.
On my right the bank rose sharply, also rocky, with clumps of young oak and brush between the rocks.
We rounded a corner where the hill grew even steeper, and Shiloh came to a dead stop. Her ears were up and I could feel her heart beating in great thuds. She was almost trembling, and I gripped the saddle horn tightly, praying she wouldn't jump off the edge.
Kicking gently with my feet, I urged her, "Come on, girl."
But Shiloh wouldn't move. She snorted, she trembled, and she stuck. It was obvious she would have liked to dive away from whatever was frightening her, but she was too well broke for that. She just refused to go forward.
"Casey," I called tentatively. "Casey."
No answer. After a minute, I slid carefully off Shiloh and wrapped her reins around an oak sapling. It wouldn't stop her if she was determined to leave, but tying her up wouldn't achieve anything; she'd only break the bridle if she pulled back.
"You stay here," I told her. She cocked an ear at me as if she understood, and she did seem more relaxed, now that I wasn't urging her forward.
Calling out Casey's name, I walked up the trail, around the corner, yelling and scanning the hills. It was red that caught my eye, red down in the gully. Casey's red shirt, I realized a split second later-Casey's or someone's; someone lying still, frighteningly unmoving.
"Casey!" I shouted, panic plain in my voice.
No response from the figure. Scrambling and slithering, clutching at roots and rocks, I made my way down into the gully, my eyes darting to the red shirt and the blue-jean-clad legs of the person, still unmoving.
It was Casey. I stood over him, feeling my heart lurch sickeningly. Everything seemed to blur except the stark reality of Casey's head, Casey's blood. Casey's head had a dent in it, high above the left ear, a baseball-sized crater in the light brown hair, bits of bone and blood showing. Oh God.
Crouching beside him, I took his hand and touched his wrist, feeling for the pulse, muttering snatches of prayer. Don't let this be real. Don't let this happen.
Casey's eyes were closed; his face looked white, waxen-fragile. The blood in the wound, though still damp, was already a little sticky, not wet, not oozing. Congealing. His hand was cool. I could feel no pulse.
Pressing my fingers under his jaw, along the side of his neck, I
felt for the artery-nothing. The hole in his skull gaped at me. He's dead, I thought numbly.
I took a deep breath. He was dead. What now?
Get somebody. Get help.
Gently I placed his hand on his stomach, patting it as if tenderness could bring him back to life. "I'll be back," I told him uselessly.
I climbed up the side of the gully blindly; it was only when I was stumbling at a half-run toward Shiloh and saw the alarm in her eyes that I came to my senses a little. No point in scaring off my horse.
Walking up to her quietly, I patted her shoulder, unwrapped the reins, climbed back on her and sent her down the hill, letting her choose the pace.
Once we were off the steep part I kicked her up to a lope, my mind screaming at me that I needed to do something, hurry, now, though nothing I could do would help Casey. Nothing would help Casey ever again.
Finally the barn was in sight and I urged Shiloh to go faster, against all logic. She stretched out eagerly, her black mane floating back to brush my hand, unaware of tragedy, taking only pleasure in the gallop now that the disturbing scent of blood and violence was gone.
I galloped her up to the pasture gate and opened it with one hand, guiding her with the other, and shut it behind me. The barn still looked deserted; I tethered Shiloh by wrapping her rein around a hitching rail and ran into the office, which was mercifully unlocked.
Dialing 911, I could feel my heart pounding with the adrenaline that was still pumping into my system.
The 911 operator was brisk and competent; ambulances and sheriffs would be on their way; I was to wait for them. I didn't argue. Hanging up the phone, I went back outside thinking that I'd unsaddle Shiloh, and found Melissa doing it.
"Hi, Gail. What're you doing here? And where's Casey?" Melissa's tone was friendly. Her pickup sat by mine in the driveway, where it had certainly not been when I'd galloped for the barn.
"I just got back from the grocery store," she added, following my glance.
"Melissa, I ..." Oh shit. I'd broken the news about beloved horses that had died or needed to be put down many times, but I'd never had to tell a woman her lover was dead. I tried to keep my voice steady. "I'm sorry, Melissa. Casey's dead."
Melissa looked more disbelieving than grief-stricken. "Casey can't be dead; he was just taking Shiloh for a ride this morning. How could he get hurt? Shiloh's gentle."
She looked at me as if I should know the answer. I shook my head helplessly and touched her arm, not sure what to say.
"What happened?" she demanded insistently.
"I don't know. I found him up in a gully. He'd hit his head on a rock, I think. I just called nine-one-one."
Melissa stared into my face, shock widening her eyes, and something else-suspicion. "Casey's been up to some weird stuff," she muttered, "he must've called about a million people last night. All that stuff about Gus being ..."
Suddenly she seemed to shut down, as if an inner voice had cautioned her. She looked away from me and I followed her eyes to where a sheriff's car was pulling in the driveway.
"They're here," she said dully.
Chapter NINE
The next few hours passed in a long, confusing jumble. I led the sheriffs and paramedics to Casey's body; they pronounced him dead and carried him in on a stretcher. Melissa was questioned briefly; when they found she knew nothing and hadn't been home at the time, they took her address and phone number and said they'd get back to her. I, on the other hand, as the discoverer of the body, was asked to come down to the Sheriffs' Department and make a statement.
Belatedly calling my office and canceling the rest of my appointments for that day with a brief "tell Jim I'll explain later," I got in an official car and was driven down to the Sheriffs' Department. Once there, my escort, a twentyish boy-he seemed like a boy to me, anyway-abandoned me in a bleak little waiting room to sit for another hour or so. All told I had plenty of time to think.
When the door finally opened, it revealed a woman of about my own age, with wavy blonde hair cut in a bob and a wheat-colored linen suit that had all kinds of class. She greeted me with a short nod and settled herself in a chair.
"I'm Detective Ward."
"Dr. McCarthy."
Detective Ward asked me the routine questions-name, address, occupation, how I had known the deceased, how I had happened to be on the scene-questions I expected. I watched her as I talked. Her features were boyish and rounded, the nose snub, the eyes of no particular color. She looked polished and very professional; the cream-colored raw silk blouse, discreet gold jewelry and light but effective make-up added to that impression. Mostly it was her demeanor; her face seemed to carefully contain itself in a quiet mask, her voice held no emotion.
As we talked, I found myself more and more conscious of her slight, almost reflexive glances at the disheveled strands of hair escaping from my braid, and my unfashionably faded and dirt-smudged Wrangler jeans. The chambray blouse I wore was one of my favorites, but there was no denying it looked like a work shirt and had several bloodstains on it. Next to Detective Ward's slick turnout, I looked like an unsophisticated country bumpkin-filthy to boot.
Despite my best intentions, I found this annoying. It was hard to put my finger on it, but Detective Ward had an aura of disdain. "I'm better than you" was communicated in the tone of every word, in the tilt of her head, the way she averted her eyes. It was a kind of defensive arrogance that I'd seen displayed before by some career-oriented women.
Detective Ward was already into a farewell spiel; her routine questions had elicited nothing that interested her. She'd clearly accepted Casey's death as accidental and was thanking me for my help when I interrupted.
"There's something you ought to know. Casey called me out to his place to look at a bunch of colicked horses about a week ago. He said they were poisoned; I didn't believe him at the time."
Detective Ward's face stayed professionally quiet. "Yes?" she queried.
"He was right; they were poisoned," I said bluntly. "I got the results from the lab this morning. I went out there to tell him. I'm wondering if his death could be connected."
Still no readable expression on the detective's face, but I sensed an inward eye roll. She clearly felt poisoned horses were just short of the ridiculous. "Do you know these horses were poisoned? Couldn't it have been an accident?"
Patiently I explained about the blood tests and how they had come up positive for atropine and no, it couldn't have been an accident.
"Atropine had to have been introduced artificially into the systems of all three of those horses, probably by injection. The drug would stop the normal processes of the digestive tract, and the result of that would be a whacking great colic. Bellyache," I explained for her benefit. "Those horses that didn't die of the colic recovered and were fine, which is what you'd expect with atropine."
"Why would someone poison these horses?" Detective Ward sounded skeptical.
"Casey thought someone in the horse business was out to get him," I said noncommittally, wondering if I should add that Casey was sure it was Will George.
As it turned out, I had no dilemma; Detective Ward didn't ask who it was. She dismissed my comments with a sniff and began trying to dismiss me once again. "As," she consulted her notes, "Casey Brooks was found in a ravine, where he had obviously been thrown from a horse which later came back to the barn without him, and the cause of his death was a head injury, apparently from one of the many rocks in that ravine, I think we can take it that his death was accidental. Thank you, Dr. McCarthy, for your time."
"Wait a minute," I interrupted again. "Did anybody explain that the horse that came in without Casey was Shiloh?"
"Shiloh?" Detective Ward looked blank.
"The horse. Shiloh was a broke horse-a very well-trained horse-and Casey was a tremendous hand. A very good rider," I added. "It's unlikely in the extreme that she would have thrown him. Possible, but very, very unlikely."
Detective Ward stared at me. "Are you suggesti
ng someone pushed him off the horse, or lassoed him?" Sarcasm was just a shade away.
I was getting more annoyed. "I'm suggesting this death looks very strange to me. Just a week ago Casey almost got in another bad wreck and he thought someone had cut his cinch."
"His cinch?" The detective clearly didn't want to ask what a cinch was and hurried on. "It seems extremely unlikely to me that this death was anything but accidental, Dr. McCarthy. If we do have any further questions, we'll call you."
I shut my mouth firmly. Detective Ward was obviously uninterested in cut cinches, poisoned horses, hostile trainers and any other weird horsey allegations complicating a nice, simple accidental death. This time I acquiesced in the farewell noises she was making, seething quietly under the surface.
As I got up to go, I let my temper get the better of me, something I'm a little too prone to do. Turning in the doorway, I addressed a parting shot. "I think somebody killed Casey Brooks, Detective. And if you're not interested in who, I am."
Chapter TEN
That was dumb, I chastised myself as I shut the door behind me. You have no idea if Casey was murdered or not; you just said that to provoke her, which makes you as big a jerk as she is.
I felt even dumber when Detective Ward followed me out the door and down the hall and requested at the desk that Bob drive me back to my truck. I'd forgotten I had no transportation.
The same baby-faced sheriff drove me back to Indian Gulch Ranch; on the way I thought of Casey. Hardheaded, wild-hearted Casey Brooks, who had never seemed to fit the modern age he was born in, was dead. Casey, who had loved cowhorses solely and completely, who had seemed wholly alive on Shiloh's back, so vital he sparkled. His sometimes abrasive, often entertaining, always unexpected personality was a memorable one, and my life would be dimmer without him.
Casey hadn't wanted to die; I knew that. He'd wanted to show Shiloh, train more horses, maybe find a colt that could be a futurity winner, like the Gus horse he'd lost. Gus ... my mind snapped sharply back into focus. What was it Melissa had said-"all that stuff about Gus"? Was it something about Gus that had caused Casey to call "about a million people"? And was it one of those people who had poisoned the horses and (possibly) cut the cinch? And what did all that have to do with the fact that Casey was dead?
