A Moment in Time

by Judith Gould

  "I think I know Val," she finally said. "And furthermore, I don't think you know her very well at all." Colette clapped a hand over her mouth after her last statement and rolled her eyes. Oh, dear, she thought. Now, I've gone and done it. But I don't care. The little weasel deserves it.

  "You don't know what you're talking about," Teddy said. "Are you drunk or something?"

  "Not yet," Colette said in an amused voice.

  "Just crazy," Teddy said.

  "Maybe," Colette said, "for having this ridiculous conversation with you."

  "You . . . you . . . never mind," Teddy spat. "You'll be sorry." Then he slammed the telephone in her ear.

  Colette carefully replaced the receiver in its cradle. For a moment she felt a bit giddy. I guess I got that brat's goat, she thought. And a brat he most certainly is.

  Colette took a long swallow of wine and set the glass back down. I'm going to have to find out as much as I can about Teddy and what's going on with him. Yes, I need to stay on top of this if I'm going to be of any help to Val. And help, I'm afraid, she's definitely going to need.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Valerie clipped along the dark highway at a steady pace, driving fast but not recklessly, her mind torn between the conversation she'd had with Colette and the emergency call she was on. When she reached the gates to Stonelair, she pulled over to the intercom post and slammed on the brakes. She reached out the open window and pushed the intercom button.

  "Dr. Rochelle?" the man's voice asked. It was not Santo, of that she was certain. Was it Conrad himself?

  "Yes," she replied.

  "Through the gates and down to the stables, where the driveway veers off to the left," the man said. "I'll be there."

  "Okay," she said.

  The gates began opening at once, and when they had fully opened, she sped past the big stone piers and on down the drive until she could see the well-lit parking courtyard in the stable area. Racing to it, she pulled over and parked the Jeep. She gathered up her big canvas carryall and her heavy medical bag.

  No one had come out to greet her, so she headed toward the office where she'd been the first time she was here. She could see that lights were burning in there and in the stables, too. When she reached the office door, it was open, and she went on in. There was no one about.

  How strange, she thought, especially with an emergency going on. Often in an emergency situation, the whole family and staff, if there was one, would be on hand, letting her know what had happened, offering to help. But there was an unearthly quiet here, as if nothing were amiss at all.

  "Mr. Ducci?" she called.

  There was nothing but silence.

  "Mr. Ducci?" she called again, louder this time.

  Still there was no response.

  She walked on through to the tack room, where the lights were burning brightly, but there was nobody in there either. Must be in the stable, she thought. The main overhead lights in the stable weren't turned on, but she could see that the lanterns on the outside of each stall were lit, as was the small overhead in one of the stalls down toward the end of the stable. But she could see no one about in there, either.

  "Mr. Ducci?" she called out again.

  "He's not here, Doc." A man's voice, Conrad's obviously, answered from somewhere farther down the length of the stable. "You're going to have to deal with me."

  "Gladly," Valerie responded. "But who are you, and where are you?" She knew who it was, of course, but couldn't resist making him tell her.

  "It's Conrad," the voice replied, oddly quiet and noncombative, "and I'm down here at the tenth stall on your right. Where the light's on."

  "I'm on my way," she said, and began walking down the length of the stable. When she got to the tenth stall, she set her medical bag down, then her carryall, and stepped into the stall.

  "Oh, God," she whispered, looking at the horse that stood before her, tethered to the stall. The first thing that caught her eye was the horse's profusely bleeding nose. She very carefully felt its neck. It was quite obviously swollen, as if the horse had the mumps. She stroked all around the horse's neck, studying it.

  As she took her hands away, she looked down at them in consternation. They were covered with a secretion from the horse's coat, the likes of which she'd never seen. She wiped them off on her lab coat, wondering what on earth was going on.

  She looked down and noticed the horse's forelegs. "Ahhhh . . . no," she whispered to herself. She bent down on a knee for a closer look, then scooted around to examine all of the horse's legs. They were enormously swollen, and because they were white, she could clearly see hemorrhaging through the skin, up and down the length of the legs. Touching them delicately, she could feel the same secretion here as on the neck. She wiped her hand on her lab coat again and stood back up, a puzzled look on her face.

  She reached out and stroked the horse's body in various places. The secretion was everywhere, oozing from its pores. She stood back, her eyes still searching its body for clues. What is going on?

  Only then did she become aware of Conrad, leaning against the wall in a darkened corner of the stall, his arms crossed and his head down. He was in riding gear, even with his helmet still on, she noticed, its visor casting his face in darkness. All she could make out distinctly were his riding boots, the light reflecting off of their highly polished leather. She was startled, so intent had she been on examining the horse that she'd forgotten all about him. Now, his silence in the darkened corner perplexed her even further.

  "I didn't see you," she said.

  "I've just been watching," he said quietly. And he had been, appreciating her sensitivity to the animal and its condition. Marveling at her composure in the light of the horror story that the horse presented. Perhaps it was to be expected, he thought. She was a professional, after all, accustomed to the blood and guts that her work sometimes entailed.

  "Well, we've got a real problem here," she said.

  "I know we do," he replied. "I was going out for a ride and heard Layla here making some strange whinnying noises. The blood in her nose, I guess. So I called your office."

  "You found her like this?" Valerie asked, discomfited that she could see him only in shadow.

  "Exactly like this, Doc," he replied.

  "Okay," she said, thinking, still puzzled by the horse's condition. "What do you know about this horse's history?" she asked.

  "Nothing," he said. "Santo bought her for himself about a week ago from some people at a farm near Saratoga."

  "Do you have her medical records?" Valerie asked.

  "Uh . . . jeez," he said. "I really don't know. I'm sure Santo must've gotten them, but I don't really know anything about it."

  "Is he here?" she asked.

  "No," Conrad said somewhat testily, "and I haven't been able to get him on his cell phone. I don't know where the hell he is or why he isn't picking up."

  "I really need to see this horse's records," she said, "or at least get some idea of its history. I know you keep copies of medical records here," she went on, "because Santo told me you did since he does some of the vaccinating himself. Where would the medical records be?"

  "In the office," he replied.

  "Could you please show me?" she asked.

  "Well, I ... I could tell you where they might be," he said hesitantly.

  "Oh, come on, Mr. Conrad," she said angrily, irritated by his manner. "Layla is a very sick horse, and if you give a damn about your animals, you'll get those medical records for me. Or take me in there, and I'll help look for them. The answer to her problem may be in those records, and I've got to find out what's going on with her before it's too late."

  Wyn glowered at the stall's straw-covered floor. He hadn't given the horse's medical records any thought because he'd been in such a panic trying to get Santo or the Reinhardts on the telephone. When he couldn't get anybody, he'd finally decided he'd have to handle the problem himself. He couldn't under any circumstances let the horse suffer. But now—
this. What the hell was he going to do?

  "Come on, Mr. Conrad!" Valerie cajoled. "The sooner we get those records, the closer I'll be to solving Layla's problems. You don't want her to die, do you?"

  "No!" he said emphatically. "Aw, shit! Let's go get the records."

  What is his problem? Valerie asked herself. You'd think I was asking him to give me all his gold. She stepped back out of the stall and turned toward the office, waiting for him to join her.

  Wyn shoved himself out of the darkened corner, stalked around Layla and out the open stall doorway, then rushed past her in a blur. "Follow me," he said without further preamble.

  Valerie was taken aback by his abrupt behavior, but she followed along behind him, wondering what on earth could make a man so disagreeable and rude.

  When she reached the tack room, he had already passed through it, presumably, and had switched off the lights on his way. What a creep, she thought. Is he one of those filthy-rich misers who resents every kilowatt of electricity burned?

  She entered the office and saw that he'd turned off most of the lights in here, too, leaving only a small banker's lamp lit on the desk. His back was turned to her, and he was bent over a file cabinet searching through folders, virtually in the dark. Well, she thought, he can search in the dark if he wants to, but not me. She reached over and flipped on the wall switch, flooding the room in light from the ceiling fixtures.

  Conrad jerked up and turned around. Valerie started to tell him that she needed the light, even if he didn't. Then she glanced over at him and instantly started to scream.

  BOOK TWO

  The Beast

  Chapter Fourteen

  In the split second before he did an about-face, hiding his head away from the harsh overhead lights, she understood everything. His aversion to the outside world, his desire for complete privacy, and his unwillingness to interact with a stranger. No wonder he has Ducci act as his go-between, she thought.

  Her initial horror dissipated, and she felt sorry for him. She wanted to reach out and enfold him in her arms and tell him that it was okay. But she couldn't do that, of course, for she would only antagonize him. Some instinct told her that he was not a man who wanted to be pitied, that he was in fact a man who despised pity.

  Her mind reeled with what she should say now that she had learned his secret, and the only conclusion she could come to was to behave as naturally as possible. She swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and spoke. "Do you want to search for the file alone?" she asked, giving him an opportunity to be by himself, away from her outsider's eyes.

  "No," he said after a moment's hesitation. "It's . . . okay, Doc. You've got a job to do. I guess you need the operating room lights."

  She heard a note of irony in his voice. Apparently he had a sense of humor, even if macabre, about his situation.

  "All right," she said, "you want to show me where to look?"

  "Sure, Doc," he said. "Why not?" He slid a filing cabinet drawer open, then gestured toward it. "Ought to be in there," he said. "Help yourself. I'll be right here if you've got any questions." He sat down in a chair over in a corner, his head turned slightly sideways.

  Valerie quickly thumbed through the files to get an idea of how they were arranged. It was the simplest system possible, using each animal's name for a file folder, arranged in alphabetical order. It looked like the four dogs, the cat, and a number of horses were there, no more than twenty-five or thirty files. She searched for Layla's file, and found it exactly where it should be. She pulled the file out and began looking it over in silence.

  She saw that Santo Ducci had bought the horse only a week previously from a couple named Hurley. It listed their address and telephone number. Then she saw that Santo had vaccinated the horse himself only yesterday. It was the usual vaccination against multiple horse diseases, except rabies. Nothing unusual there at all. An owner was permitted to vaccinate against everything except rabies. She stood puzzling over the record, forgetting about Conrad, who remained silent.

  There was nothing in the record that could explain the horse's condition. Then suddenly it occurred to her that the problem might lie in that fact itself: there was nothing indicating any past vaccinations or diseases or conditions.

  Valerie put the file down. "I've got to call the previous owners," she said, thinking out loud.

  "What seems to be the problem?" Wyn asked.

  Valerie turned and looked at him, still preoccupied with thoughts of the horse. Her initial fright at his appearance had become almost like a distant memory as she'd become caught up in the mysterious nature of the horse's plight.

  "I don't know," she said frankly, "but there's no history in her file. So what I need to do is get in touch with the previous owners. They may have the key to her problem."

  "How so?" he asked, intrigued.

  "I'm not sure," she replied, shrugging her shoulders, "but the file contains absolutely nothing to go on except for the vaccinations."

  "It's strange," he said.

  "What?" she asked.

  "That Santo would've bought a horse like that," he replied. "I mean, without a lineage, let alone without any records at all."

  "I guess it is," she agreed, "especially when you consider the other horses. They all have impeccable bloodlines." She picked up the file and flipped it open. "It's getting late, but I'm going to try to call these people, the Hurleys, anyway. If I wake them up, so be it. I need to find out everything I can about this horse."

  She looked down at the telephone and saw that there were several lines, then glanced over at him. "Do I have to dial anything special on this telephone or just punch in the number?" she asked.

  He came over toward the desk and peered down at the telephone. "Just dial the number," he said. "A button is already pushed for an outside line."

  She looked at the file again, then keyed in the telephone number, all the while aware of the fact that Conrad was gradually becoming more comfortable in her presence. Maybe he realizes that I don't think he's some kind of a monster, she thought, even if the initial shock was disconcerting.

  The telephone rang several times but was finally picked up. "Hello?" It was a woman's voice, sleepy and annoyed.

  "Is this Mrs. Hurley?" Valerie asked.

  "Yes," she replied. "Who's this?"

  "This is Dr. Valerie Rochelle," she answered, "and I'm over at Stonelair examining a horse, Layla, that Mr. Santo Ducci purchased from you last week."

  "What's wrong with it?" the woman asked. "There wasn't anything the matter with her when he bought her. I wouldn't sell a man a sick horse."

  "No, of course not," Valerie said. "I didn't mean that. Anyway, I'm not really certain what's wrong with her, and that's why I'm calling you." She was making an effort to choose her words carefully. She might alarm the woman, especially if the horse hadn't been properly cared for, and then she would not find out anything.

  "Mr. Ducci failed to get any medical records for the horse at all," she went on, trying to shift the onus to

  Santo, "and I thought you might be able to fill me in on her history."

  "I'll tell you whatever I can," Mrs. Hurley said. There was the sound of relief in her voice now that she realized she wasn't being accused of anything.

  "Has Layla ever had any diseases or conditions that I should know about?" Valerie asked.

  "Well ..." The woman seemed to be thinking. "I can't think of—oh, wait a minute. I do remember something now. She got colicky on us once, but it wasn't anything serious. That was sometime back. I don't remember exactly when."

  "Can you think of anything else?" Valerie persisted. "It's really important. She's got a badly swollen neck and her legs are, too, and—"

  "A swollen neck?" the woman broke in.

  "Yes," Valerie said. "Why?"

  "I just remembered," the woman said. "She was the one that had strangle. Her neck was all swollen up then. She had abscesses in her throat."

  "You're certain about that?" Valerie asked excited
ly.

  "Sure," the woman said. "Had to call the vet."

  "Who saw her?" Valerie asked. "Which vet?"

  "Old Dr. Kramer," Mrs. Hurley said. "It was right before he retired."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Hurley," Valerie said. "I'll try to get hold of him. You've been a great help."

  "I hope so," the woman said. "She was healthy as could be when that man bought her."

  "I know," Valerie said, "and we want to get her back in good health. Thanks again. I'd better hurry and get hold of Dr. Kramer. Good night."

  " 'Night," Mrs. Hurley said.

  Valerie replaced the receiver in its cradle. Conrad was looking at her expectantly. He'd been listening to her every word, guessing at the other end of the conversation, but had remained silent, letting her handle the situation.

  "From the sound of things, you're on to some¬thing," he said. "What'd she have to say?"

  "I've got to call Dr. Kramer before I'm sure," Valerie said, "but I think I may know what's going on. Mrs. Hurley says that Layla had strangle sometime before Dr. Kramer retired. If that's the case, then we've got our culprit."

  Wyn nodded knowingly. "Because if the horse has had strangle and Santo vaccinated it against strangle disease ..."

  "Then the vaccination is what's caused the problem," Valerie finished for him. "The strangle vaccine would set off a chain reaction in the horse's system, causing the swelling and hemorrhaging."

  Strangle itself wasn't rare, Valerie knew. She'd seen it many times. It was caused by a bacterium, Streptococcus equip, which caused abscesses in a horse's neck. Layla's condition, however, was entirely new to her. She'd never seen a horse that had been vaccinated for the disease after it had already had the disease. Apparently, this was what had happened. Santo hadn't known the horse had once had the disease and gave it the vaccination.