Spiral of Hooves

by Roland Clarke

  The Cevennes was so magical that a part of her wished she could stay. This time away was just an enforced break, while she recovered, except this place drew her to its heart. It was special, so precious that she wanted to explore this world. Was a new home here another option?

  Loup had even tempted her by saying, “You know you said Dido had incredible stamina like her dad, so how about trying Endurance with her?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Well, there’s a major race up here, Les 24 Heures de Florac.”

  “Sounds like you want to move back.”

  “Why not? Our jobs at Hazelmead end in three months, and the mas—the farm—belonged to my parents. When they retired, my siblings and I just rented it out for grazing.”

  She was now as confused as when the chance to ride for France had become a reality. Her mother would approve, and for her, France had always been her first home. But Carly was an eventer, and England had been home all her life and it was where her father was—if he was ever at the farm. But still, France was an eventing force that rivalled Great Britain.

  However, despite the idyllic surroundings of the mas and the Cevennes, she couldn’t stop remembering that whoever wanted her dead was being lured to the valley, and she was the bait.

  FIFTY-TWO

  As the early morning sun washed the valley, Carly reached the grass school that the Zoos had created from the pasture, clearing away any treacherous boulders and tussocks. Not a long stretch, but enough to keep the mares fit without risking her shoulder. Guinness was enjoying his change of scenery, exploring every corner and tracking every scent. She looked forward to schooling over the fences that the Zoos had built near the path through the chestnut grove.

  Accustomed to a yard of horses to ride, Carly had found other chores around the mas to compensate. There was plenty to do on the land beyond securing it. From sheep that needed tending to repairs demanding attention, the Sabatier family home was as abandoned as Hazelmead had been when she had left—for a dream job, and Gilles.

  Now, she had found someone that cherished her, and Armand had taught her some basic self-defence moves, which might have been useful if the intruders at Hazelmead had turned on her.

  “Loup to Zoos, all systems working. Renarde in manège; no sign of intruders.”

  Armand’s voice in the headset that she had been given to wear reminded her of the weirdness of being watched by invisible eyes. She had accepted the call sign that the Zoos had given her, realising the need to use them. She had adapted to calling Natalie and Jean-Pierre by their names, Ouistiti and Faucon; and to speaking French all the time. The Zoos made her feel welcomed into their family, and it seemed the comrades had laid Odette to rest. However, she sometimes wondered whether she was being judged and compared with Odette. How much of the preparation was for Loup and Cygne—like the rebuilding of the mas?

  This loyal handful of Loup’s comrades had taken time off from their daily lives to help protect her. The Duchesnes had reasons, but why the others? They had moved on from the army, some into security like Oreillard and Furet, but what brought a sports therapist like the woman nicknamed Blanculet back? The camaraderie, or the adrenaline? The Zoos had become a unit again, an efficient team, rekindled like Loup rescuing her and Torc.

  Loup’s confidence grew once the narrow choke points into the secluded south-facing valley were being watched by both electronic and human eyes. However, the Zoos needed the advance warning from Ireland, but he had reassured her saying, “When anyone uninvited arrives, this secluded valley will appear to be a working mas and not a monitored trap.”

  Armand would never live down his fur-foiled attempt to pierce the defences, especially with his Zoo friend Mouflon around to embellish the tale. She could spot a lecturer anywhere, even when displaying his considerable shepherding skills. She realised why Loup knew Captain Blavet; Mouflon was his identical twin.

  When they met on her first morning run up the valley, they had exchanged the usual greetings, and then Mouflon said, “What they’ve done to your mare is wrong, it’s an insult. Rest assured we will ensure that your horse and you can compete again soon, maybe for La France.”

  “I would be honoured,” said Carly, although as yet she had not abandoned the British alternative, even if Captain Blavet had implied he would push hard to get her French application accepted.

  “This might be difficult to answer, but would you ever compete on a cloned horse, if it was allowed?” asked Mouflon.

  “I couldn’t, knowing the number of embryos it had probably taken. Even if it was perfected, the cost in lives would have been too high. I just know the natural way is best.”

  “I understand and agree. Sometimes I feel the wastage of farm livestock is unacceptable, and then there are the defects.”

  Mouflon advised the Duchesnes on breeding advances, and like them, he was a firm advocate of the benefits of using embryo transfers. When Wanda’s foals had been transferred into a surrogate dam to carry to term, Wanda had continued competing.

  Would they ever be back competing? The dressage at Bramham was in three days, maybe four if she was lucky and her test was on the second day. She and Wanda would be fit and ready, but the window for departure was closing.

  Even with the Zoos protecting her, and all the additional security measures, she was scared. Armand had given her a ballistic vest, and the mares had similar overlapping circular discs-like scale armour worked into their summer rugs. The Zoos had even attached steel plates to the stable doors. It didn’t feel like it was enough, but Loup was confident that the stratagem would work.

  Except Wanda and I are still the targets.

  FIFTY-THREE

  “So, Bête has found them, Loup?”

  “From a well-laid trail and enough clues. Oreillard and Furet say he’s easy to detect, too obvious. Not what I expected, Mouflon.”

  Armand was surprised after the lack of evidence when Odette Fédon and Gilles were the victims. The Zoos had given Mick the call sign Bête after the local wolf-creature of Gévaudan, although that beast had eluded people for years.

  Am I right to assume Mick is the killer? Carly fears it may be Lina, which could be intuition—or jealousy.

  “He’s getting careless,” he said to Mouflon, “the road accident was messy, but perhaps that’s his weakness. Getting desperate and rushing into it, and yet he has been stealthy and invisible.”

  His friend sat beside him humming a shepherd’s tune, happy to be tending sheep again.

  If we hadn’t joined the Chasseurs, would we have returned home and farmed? We always said we would, from those childhood days chasing through trees and splashing in the water, to dusty, sleepless nights on alert.

  The sheep grazed along the brook that skittered down the pasture into the stream. Mouflon claimed he had no lectures to fret about while scanning the valley from the stone hut. The cazelle above the cliff gave him space and time for his thoughts, although he joined his comrades for meals and work details.

  “Now Bête knows he’s been tricked, he’ll trace us here. Although he could backtrack to Stroud, I think he’ll realise that we’ve headed over to France.”

  “Shame then, that you hid your past here, Loup. Did removing the name Sabatier from the land deeds ease your loss?”

  “Looking back, no. I was running away, from anything that reminded me of Cygne.”

  “And now?”

  “I know it was wrong, I hurt you all more, and you all wanted to help. Even after all that, Ouistiti and Faucon still ensured there were no clues on the stud pages.”

  “But you’re home, and with your comrades again, which feels right. Even if we’ve all moved on, we’re willing to put our lives as lecturers, horse breeders, farmers and builders aside to stand as Zoos again.”

  Armand smiled.

  “Never again will I abandon you all. Anyway, Bête was at Saumur, so he’ll fly to France and go straight to Des Saules, then be directed here. He should be in the valley by
morning.”

  “We’re warned and prepared, and my brother masks our identity.”

  “Blanculet to Zoos, Renarde leaving mas towards the manège.”

  Alerted on his headset by their latest volunteer, Armand watched the mas through his binoculars. Carly rode out of the farmstead, zigzagging through the chestnut trees to the grass school, Guinness loping along behind.

  Am I right using Carly and Wanda to bait the trap?

  “She’s such a natural rider,” said Mouflon. “And she’s facing this bravely. Again, you’ve done well, my friend.”

  “She’s learnt to live with adversity and risk,” said Armand.

  “She’s stronger than she looks. Never thought she’d beat me at arm wrestling last night. Reminds me of...”

  “Cygne. Don’t worry. The memories are all good ones now—thanks to Vix. And for the arm wrestling, their trick is holding six hundred kilos of horse, at speed.”

  *

  Judging from past observations of Loup, they would be alert in the morning, despite the cask of cider. At least they had eaten a meal to match, starting with his special variation on his mother’s aligot recipe, followed by truite aux crepes with locally grown vegetables. The flavours that he had blended with care kept teasing her as she tried to identify the familiar tastes, like the intense garlic of the starter, to the subtle hints of wine in the sauce; but there was plenty to savour and remain mystified over.

  She wondered if, under the laughter, the Zoos were as nervous as her about the arrival of the killer. Or was their adrenaline stirring? Wasn’t this celebration premature? Or was this the eve of battle feast?

  “You’ve surpassed yourself this time,” called Faucon when Loup produced bowls of bilberries, grapes and chestnuts. “Or did you have some help from my wife?”

  Loup put his arm around Carly and kissed her.

  “Maybe it was someone else. Feeding you lot is a real chore. Be glad I’m not giving you army rations tonight, even if you work best hungry. From tomorrow, you’ll be back to the usual lack of sleep and meals—comes with volunteering.”

  They laughed but then the boisterous mood switched to steely determination, as Loup drained his glass then put his elbows on the table and clasped his hands together.

  “Mouflon, you’re on guard tonight until Blanculet relieves you at 05:00. At 00:00, Oreillard and Furet return from Ireland—as of that time, we are on full alert. Our target could be here any time after 01:00, given the alert from Des Saules.”

  “Our friends locally should give us advance warning,” said Faucon. “They are looking out for anyone asking all the correct questions.”

  Mouflon grinned.

  “You mean about picturesque remote valleys to hike into, hunting licences and secluded riding centres. Or, maybe Bête’s careless and will ask where Loup’s family live by claiming to know him.”

  “Unlikely, Mick’s reckless, but not stupid. What about someone sounding like a Spaniard?” asked Carly.

  “You mean Lina, they know about her as well. We've told the mairie as much as they need to know, they’re trusting us.”

  Ouistiti brought a pot of coffee from the stove and poured out six mugs.

  “You’ve studied the profiles of our three main suspects,” said Armand, “the Irish operation indicates that we should expect Mick Roper. All previous incidents suggest he acts alone without a spotter. But expect two infiltrators as he may change under pressure. According to our research, none have trained with an elite unit, but Bête can still be stealthy and invisible.”

  Faucon took over and pointed at a map of the farmstead, pinned to a wall where a rural landscape painting had hung.

  “Bête will use the half-light to make his move, probably at dusk when he’s spied out the valley. We want him to find that the best and only line of fire is above the designated target area.”

  “He’ll have to use the same route as me,” said Armand, “west through the old larch plantation and along the ridge. He can get down the cliff. It’s easier than it looks from below. How else do you think I made it down that drop?”

  They laughed, and Faucon said, “Ouistiti has added a monitor up there. Remember, Bête is nervous of witnesses so once he's detected, we melt into the landscape. Then, we present him with a clear shot, before closing the net.”

  Carly winced knowing what the words meant to her and Wanda. She prayed the Zoos had all eventualities covered.

  “Never forget that Bête may not be alone. We have to be prepared to neutralise other hostiles within the valley.”

  The Zoos nodded, then stood and raised their glasses.

  “Fallen comrades.”

  Carly drank with them and saw the tears in their eyes. Were the tears just for Cygne or had other Zoos died? The Chasseurs had a distinguished service in the line of duty. After that fateful patrol, the Zoos had been in Afghanistan for the Battle of Alasay.

  As one, they saluted, saying, “Si vous avez des couilles, il faudra le montrer!”

  This was camaraderie melded with the desire for justice. Moved, Carly tried to follow the words as they started singing.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  “Faucon to Ouistiti, any sign on the monitors? Bête should be out there. Watch for other hostiles too, over.”

  “Ouistiti to Faucon, nothing all night. He’s lying low even if the gendarmerie spotted him around 01:13. As soon as he moves into the valley, the cameras will detect him. I’ll keep watching on the screens in the barn, over.”

  “Faucon to Zoos, time to take up work stations before the sun’s up. Just remember we’re farm workers. I’ll be by the woodshed. Confirm positions, over.”

  “Oreillard, working in the chestnut grove with Furet, within easy reach of the lower pastures, over.”

  “Loup, Blanculet and I are concealed on the cliff. We can tackle Bête once he has implicated himself, over.”

  “Mouflon, on ridge tending sheep, over.”

  “Merci Zoos. Bonne chasse.”

  Carly followed every word of the walkie-talkie exchange in French, and her stomach flipped with the apprehension over her role as the decoy for her hunters.

  An hour after she had exercised Dido, a twisted sensation grew, and she failed to pretend it was pre-competition nerves; this dread wasn’t the exhilarating adrenaline building before the cross-country.

  As she untacked the mare, the warning echoed in her head mike. “Mouflon to Zoos, Bête entering outer zone, same route as Loup. Moving upstream onto south flank. Letting him recce for a position.”

  As he moved deeper into the valley, the other Zoos locked onto their quarry.

  Ouistiti had picked up the masked figure on her monitors and was tracking the intruder. Carly looked over the shoulder of the gendarme beside her and studied the skulking figure. The dawn warmth trickling into the barn couldn’t ease the feeling of something wrong, but putting words to her new fear was useless. Whatever lay ahead had to be confronted.

  *

  From his camouflaged vantage, Armand observed as Bête, clad in fatigues, sprouting twigs, leaves, and a green mask, moved along the escarpment studying the terrain. He must have checked out relief maps online, and the promotional material about local drailles that Ouistiti had ensured was on the town hall’s website. This animal would use the implied route.

  “Loup to Zoos, he’s climbing down to my position—should be on the cliff monitor shortly. Time to start Renarde, over.”

  “Ouistiti to Zoos, Bête on upper left camera at eleven, but upper right twelve inactive. Will remain in sight down chute to cliff, over.”

  As the sun began climbing above the valley, Armand watched as horse and rider flickered through the trees, walking down to the arena.

  I trust the troupe. This trap will work. The risk is justified to remove the threat.

  A momentary shudder as the alternative flashed through his mind. Not this time, they were ready. The past was buried, even though this was the next test.

  Bête clambered down th
e cliff onto the ledge overlooking the arena with unexpected difficulty, unlike Armand’s careful hike to the same spot. The figure made a scrape position among the scree, shaded by scrubby plants. He unstrapped a mottled green rifle from his back and attached a telescopic sight.

  Merde, this isn't Mick. He's taller, less agile. I’ve been an idiot.

  “Loup to Zoos, quarry not Bête. Wrong suspect. Possible decoy. This bogie is either alone or has backup that may be Bête. Re-check for other incursions, over.”

  “Mouflon to Zoos, possible signs of alternate intrusion behind lead quarry. Investigating, over.”

  Armand studied the figure now lying down facing the arena and watching his target with binoculars. Roman. It was clear he knew about Ireland, so he was checking if this Carly was another double. A scan of the weapon told Armand that the rifle was a dart gun, yet Roman’s lack of stealth didn't match the killer’s modus operandi.

  Where was Mick, Bête? Armand scanned the rocks and bushes around Roman. Nothing visible except for a swarm of midges around some foliage. Drawn by an animal or a person? A spotter or backup?

  “Ouistiti to Loup, camera twelve is still out. It’s interference, a jammer. Can still see key areas. No sign of other intruders, over.''

  The area that the camera covered was too far out. An intruder couldn’t see the arena from there but could see the ledge.

  “Loup to Zoos, presume we have three hostiles. Report other aberrations ASAP, over.”

  If the second intruder is Bête, who is the third? Not backup. A watcher? Like Lina? Merde. She’s invisible, like an elite, but what?

  He re-scoped Roman. The rifle was ready, once the ideal shot presented itself.

  The pattern of dressage movements began again, and Roman raised the gun. Armand suppressed the pain at seeing Carly shot at; she would feel it more.

  The first muffled thunk ran up the cliff, but the recoil didn't register in his head or shoulder. The dart hit the grass just behind the horse at its extended canter, dust leaping into the air. Roman, frustrated and stung by his failure, fiddled with his sights.