High Stakes

by John McEvoy

  ***

  Ten miles away from Heartland on Willow Road, Doyle picked up his cell phone.

  “Have you heard?”

  He grimaced as he pulled into the left lane to pass a garishly decorated wide load monstrosity that was wavering back and forth over the center line of his two westbound lanes. In Doyle’s experience, any sentence beginning with “Have you heard?” too often meant trouble.

  “Heard what, Karen? Assuming that is you.”

  She said, “Sorry for being so abrupt, Jack. What you evidently have not heard is that another horse has been put to death.”

  “Aw, damn,” Doyle said. “Where and when?”

  She supplied the details.

  “Whoever the hell is doing this, Jack, it seems he just can’t be stopped the way we’re operating now.”

  “How do you know it’s a he?”

  “You know what I mean,” she barked. That’s five of these horse deaths so far. That’s just unacceptable!’

  Karen Engel’s frustration at the news of the latest killing was palpable. Doyle pulled off to the right at Shermer, drove two blocks, and parked.

  “What are you doing, Jack? Did you hear what I said?”

  “Karen, I’m attempting to avoid arrest. I just missed being sideswiped by a trailer home bigger than Donald Trump’s ego. And on this stretch of Willow, the local cops have been stopping and pulling over cell phone-using drivers like crazy. Court appearances required. Hundred-dollar fines. I heard it on the news. I don’t want to be their next victim.”

  He made a U-turn, parked, and resumed talking to the flustered FBI agent. “I know what you’re saying, Karen. But I don’t know what I can do about it. Unless somebody somehow spots this villain in action, I think we’re screwed.”

  “I don’t know how that is ever going to come about. This killer does his research, does his killing secretly, and leaves nothing but those damned ALWD cards. Damon is pulling his hair out. Our boss is yanking at his few remaining strands. And he’s leaning all over us. I don’t know what to do.”

  Doyle said, “Wait a minute.” He got out of the Accord and began to pace back and forth next to the car, cell phone in hand. “If you and your FBI forces don’t come up with a tip, an informer, I don’t see this ever ending. I’ll keep asking around. That’s the best I can do.”

  He heard Karen saying, “Damon, I’ve got Jack on the phone here. Do you want to talk to him?”

  Doyle groaned but knew he had to talk to Tirabassi. When he heard the phone transfer, he said, “Is this the voice of justice and truth?”

  “You know, Doyle, you make light of so many important things it’s almost enough to depress an optimist like me. But I don’t want to talk about your effect on your fellow humans. I want to ask you to do something for me. Us.”

  “I can hardly wait to hear this request.”

  “I am asking you, Jack, to meet with, and feel out, Esther Ness. Her name keeps coming up in all speculative reports about bleeding heart nutters and their attitudes toward horses. We know this woman has big money. Heck, she put up the fifty grand reward without batting an eye. But she’s got layers of lawyers and we don’t want to fight our way through them just to be able to talk to her. Maybe you could approach her. You, as a fellow horse person, yadda yadda. What we need to know is if she could be, out of some off-the-wall sense of responsibility, financing these horse killings. Or even be carrying them out herself. I know this sounds a little bit out of left field. But we don’t have any other irons in this fire. What do you say, Jack?”

  “Left field. Irons in the fire. Did the Bureau force you to enroll in a cliché school?”

  No answer. Doyle smiled at the thought of Damon seething on the other end. “Damon, my friend, your arm of our government has obviously descended to another new level of desperation. I went along with your request that I poke around in search of information. But, this? Sending me out under a surreptitious Bureau banner to interview a possible suspect? Man, this is new territory. Or, as a graduate of the Bureau Cliché School such as yourself might put it, ‘uncharted waters.’”

  In the ensuing silence, Doyle felt a tinge of regret. A tinge was usually the most he would allow himself. He recalled the heavy-handed, down-from-the-top pressure he knew was being applied to the Tirabassi-Engel team. A tandem with which he had a shared a frequently aggravating but somehow always rewarding history. These were good people in careers that must seem to them, he thought, to be laden with far more frustration than elation. Doyle liked and admired both agents. Foregoing one more yank on the simmering Tirabassi’s emotional chain, Doyle said, “E-mail me Ms. Ness’ address. I’ll try to see her as soon as I can.” He heard Karen Engel say, “Damon, tell him thanks” before the connection ended.

  ***

  Even before he parked his Accord next to Ralph Tenuta’s Heartland Downs barn, Jack knew something serious was up. Ingrid McGuire was there, work clothes on, accompanied by Marla McCarty, Ingrid’s summer intern from the University of Illinois’ Veterinary School of Medicine. This small, young person was bobbing her head and assiduously taking notes as she listened to Ingrid speak to Tenuta. Marla looked distressed. So did Ingrid and Ralph. Head groom Paul Albano stood off to the side, listening in as he applied saddle soap to the piece of bridle he was holding.

  They all looked up as Doyle approached.

  Tenuta said, “Jack, hi. As you can see, something’s going on here. Let me show you.”

  The trainer walked down the shedrow to the stall occupied by the Burkhardts’ pride and joy, Mr. Rhinelander. This ordinarily energetic two-year-old colt stood stock still in his stall, head dropped, eyes half-closed.

  Doyle leaned over the webbing stretched across the stall doorway. “Jesus, Ralph. What’s the matter with him? ”

  Ingrid moved next to Doyle to look more closely into the stall. Her usually cheerful, tanned face was a mask of concern. “The tests came back an hour ago. Mr. Rhinelander has EHV-1. It’s a virus that horses get, and it can be a bad one. Two other horses in the next barn over have been similarly diagnosed.”

  She reached over the webbing in attempt to touch Mr. Rhinelander’s head. But the miserable-looking horse dropped his head even lower and backed away a couple of steps.

  “He looks terrible,” Doyle said. “What is this disease? What do you do about it? I mean, what’s the treatment?”

  “EHV-1 is a contagious disease among horses,” Ingrid said. “The infection makes them uncoordinated, weak. They have trouble standing and urinating and defecating. It can be fatal. It’s spread through contact. But it’s puzzling as hell, because some horses can be exposed to it and not get it while others do. Unfortunately, Mr. Rhinelander has it.”

  “How do we deal with this?” Ingrid continued. “There is no one specific method. Treatment could include intravenous fluids, anti-inflammatory drugs, or both. I’ve got a call in to my old advisor prof at the U. to get his opinion on this. One thing is for sure. Mr. Rhinelander will have to be quarantined. That’s mandatory. There is no way to know how the virus is introduced. This stuff spreads by direct horse-to-horse contact, or contaminated hands, or tack equipment. He’s got a fever this morning of 105. In most cases, the infected horse will also have nasal discharge, which Mr. Rhinelander has plenty of. And, in most cases, they will go on to recover after a week or ten days or so.”

  “How many other cases of this are there here at Heartland?” Doyle said.

  “There are two in Buck Norman’s barn. I heard there was another in the barn beside his. So, four or five so far,” Tenuta said. “I heard one of Buck’s died.”

  Ingrid grimaced. “That’s true. Happened last night.” She reached in to give the lethargic Mr. Rhinelander a final look. “We’re going to keep the death toll to one, baby,” she said softly. “At least I hope so.”

  Paul Albano parked Tenuta’s truck and horse trailer ou
tside the barn. With Ralph on one side, Ingrid on the other, wide-eyed little Marla bringing up the rear, Mr. Rhinelander was led into the one-horse van.

  Doyle said, “Where’s he going?”

  “He’s going into Barn Fifteen, over on the far side of the backstretch,” Tenuta replied. “The quarantine barn. According to the new rules just put in by the state veterinarian here, he’ll have to stay there for at least two weeks. If he tests negative after that, then he’ll be taken out of there and returned to me here.”

  Mr. Rhinelander balked at the first step of the ramp. Ingrid waved Tenuta off and began talking softly to the nervous, sweating animal, finally leading him gently into the trailer. There was not much room for the two of them, but Ingrid said, “Ralph, I’ll ride with him over there.” Tenuta closed the trailer door. Albano waited until Marla jumped into the passenger seat next to him, then waved his left hand out the window as he steered the truck out onto the roadway.

  Doyle said, “Well, that’s a sorry sight. Have you told the Burkhardts about this?”

  “Of course, I have, Jack. They’re horrified. On their way driving down here from Dairy Land.”

  “What the hell can they do?”

  Tenuta stopped and turned to face Doyle. “There are some people, Jack, that become attached to their horses in a way most other people cannot understand. I’m one of those people. Always have been, ever since I was fourteen and part owner with my cousin Vince of an old riding stable plug called Molly. I loved that old spavined mare and cried when she died a couple of years later.

  “Horses can get to you that way, Jack. Look at the effect Mr. Rhinelander’s illness has on even such a trained person as Ingrid. You’d think she’d be used to things like that by now.”

  Tenuta looked at his watch. “The Burkhardts should be here in about ninety minutes. They’ll probably set up camp chairs and park outside the quarantine barn. Ridiculous, you think, but I won’t stop them. You got time for a coffee at the track kitchen?”

  “Naw, but thanks. I’ve got be somewhere. I’ll call you tonight to see how Mr. Rhinelander is doing.”

  Chapter Forty-four

  The smooth, tree-shaded country road wound past pastures dotted with horses of every shade that thoroughbreds come in. Frisky yearlings romped in fields separated by white fences from those occupied by their mothers, who were now occupied parenting this year’s foals. Doyle slowed the Accord and crossed a narrow, stone bridge over a slowly flowing creek. The directions he’d been given were precise and accurate. He turned off the highway and onto a long, curving drive that led up to an impressive white mansion. Gables, balconies, shutters, chimneys, tall wide windows. “Tara Midwest,” he said to himself.

  Doyle parked between a white Rolls-Royce and a red Jeep, both polished and gleaming in the afternoon sunshine. He tossed his car keys on the floor of the Accord, closed its door, and paused to look back and take in the array of flower beds that divided the long, wide, green lawn leading to the entrance.

  Up three marble steps to the broad oak door, he was met by a traditionally dressed maid, white pinafore over black outfit, who told him “Ms. Esther” could be found “down at the stables behind this house.”

  Walking down the gravel drive, Doyle heard a horse nicker nearby. The pleasant odor of new-mown hay hung in the warm summer air. The drive circled around an island of green grass. On each side of it there was a one-story white brick stable with six stalls. Watching him approach from in front of one of the wood-lined stalls was a diminutive woman wearing a white tee-shirt, brown jodhpurs, and dark glasses perched atop her head of auburn curls. She had large, brown eyes widely spaced in a narrow face. Her bare arms were tanned and taut. The long face of a chestnut horse rested on her right shoulder. She was nonchalantly massaging the horse’s nose with her left hand.

  “Ms. Ness? I’m Jack Doyle. Good afternoon.”

  She paused before answering, looking him up and down.

  “When Pat Caldwell called to tell me you wanted to speak with me, I was at first reluctant. Then I thought, what the hell? I haven’t met an interesting man in ages. By the way, how is the ‘Voice of Heartland Downs’?”

  “Mr. Caldwell is in fine fettle. He sends his regards. As for me, I don’t know how interesting you’re going to find me. I just need to ask you a few questions. As I think Pat Caldwell told you, I am helping authorities trying to find the person or persons killing thoroughbred horses at vet schools.”

  He saw her wince at his mention of the dead equines. She composed herself. Giving the obviously pleased horse a final pat, she said, “There’s a nice bench around the corner. It sits under a willow and overlooks our creek.”

  Doyle swatted at a buzzing mosquito near his right ear. “Damn. I’m a target for these damn things. Could we sit inside someplace instead?”

  Esther smiled. She had a confident look about her, Doyle thought, that would fend off any impertinent insects. “Let’s go to my office.”

  She strode rapidly slightly in front of him without saying anything. He glanced several times at her face, which seemed to him to be right on that interesting border between pretty and plain. It was an intriguing face, warranting repeated looks. She turned for a stride or two to glance back at him, apparently amused by his interest.

  The office was around the back of this barn in a long, wide, obviously added-on extension. An elderly, brown-skinned gardener looked up from his trimming of the thick hedges outside the building’s door.

  “Buenos tardes, Pedro.”

  The man doffed his wide-brimmed hat in response and moved to open the door, but Esther waved him off with a smile.

  Doyle said, “Dress Pedro in white shirt and pants, he’d look like one of the Mexican peasants in the old movie Viva Zapata.”

  She pushed open the door and walked in ahead of him. “Pedro is a valued employee, Mr. Doyle. He has been here since my father hired him more than thirty years ago. Still doing the same excellent work on our grounds as he always has. There’s nothing ‘peasant’ about him. His two children are both college graduates.”

  Doyle considered asking “if Pedro would thank Cesar Chavez for that, or just your beneficent daddy?” but refrained.

  ***

  The office air conditioner was a model of efficiency. Felt good to Doyle.

  Esther sat down behind her large, paper-littered desk and picked up the phone. She began to dial, saying, “I’ve got to make a quick call. Please relax for a minute, Mr. Doyle.”

  He used the time to eye the walls covered with photos of his hostess aboard horses in numerous equine competitions. He figured she must have been a young teenager in the early shots of her wearing white shirt, black coat, black helmet, aboard a succession of impressive looking horses. She was advancingly older in other frames, but still poised and sure on different steeds.

  This photographic panorama covered three walls of the paneled room. Along the forty-five-foot long fourth wall stretched glass cases packed with trophies. He heard her say, “Great, my darling. I’ll meet you there at seven,” before she hung up the phone. She sat back in her desk chair, placed her booted feet upon the desk top, and laced her hands across her waist. “Now, then, I know why you’re here, Mr. Doyle. It’s about those horses dying at vet schools.”

  “Call me Jack. Did Pat Caldwell mention to you that I was aiding the FBI in this matter?”

  “The Voice of Heartland Downs is not my sole source of information, Jack,” she said sharply. “I know very well why you are here.”

  Doyle sat back in his chair and turned to toss his sport coat up toward a nearby coat rack that sported a black porcelain horse head on its top. His coat covered it. “I’ll make this quick, Ms. Ness.”

  He leaned forward in his chair. “I think you, Esther Ness, ex-debutante, current socialite and equestrian and charity ball fixture, might well be involved in these murders of horses you claim t
o love so well. That’s why I’m here.”

  Esther yanked her boots off the desk and jerked forward in her chair. Her face was flushed beneath its tan. “Murders?” she hissed. “You call those events, those horse deaths, murders?”

  She caught herself and sat back in her chair, taking a deep breath. Her confident small smile reappeared. She waited.

  “I’ve never been a champion at semantics,” Doyle said. “Some animal dies involuntarily, it’s either disease, or accidental death, or murder as far as I’m concerned. Maybe somebody else would term them mercy killings. Maybe even somebody like you.

  “I’ve seen this impressive place of yours,” Doyle continued. “I’ve seen the evidence of your long and continuing involvement with horses. All I’m here for today is to find out if, perhaps, you know something about these ‘events’ as you term them. Or ‘horse fatalities.’ Maybe you could point me, and the FBI, in some kind of useful direction looking for the villain. Or villainess.”

  Other than the tightening of Esther’s lips, there was no reaction. He pressed on. “Look, I kind of understand the stated philosophy behind this ALWD movement. Nobody likes to see horses being hurt. But the ones in these vet school studies aren’t being harmed by the experimental treatments. They are well cared for animals. They’re not suffering. Until, that is, the mysterious killer sneaks up on them.”

  “Oh, really, Mr. Doyle. That’s your view?” She stood up and walked the few steps to a window overlooking the back paddock now occupied by a pair of her showhorses that were calmly grazing. Back turned to him, she took another deep breath. Then she pivoted to face him, brown eyes blazing.

  “You don’t think that the probing, prodding, of helpless, captive horses is intrusive and against nature? I don’t care what they say that the potential useful results of such research could be! It’s still something horses should not ever be subjected to. That’s my opinion.” Doyle saw she was fired up. He waited.