Dark Horse

by J. Carson Black

  And then something happened that crystallized her fear.

  The headlights behind advanced until they were hidden by the bulk of the pickup in front. There was a muffled thump, and the pickup weaved back and forth before shooting forward again.

  “Billy!” Her voice was a tiny wail.

  The other truck hung on its tail like a terrier. In the glare of the pursuing vehicle’s beams, Trish could tell that the truck in front was white.

  Fear gripped her in its sweaty fist. Where the hell was Billy?

  They were closing fast now. The truck behind was actually pushing the other one! Their engines rent the air, screaming like wild animals in a fight to the death.

  Their lights blanched the interior of the Valiant. Trish’s first instinct was to bolt, but she was paralyzed with fear. They’d never make the curve. They’d come right up here, and she’d be found the next day in Billy’s car, miles from where she should have been, smashed and bloody—

  Almost to the bend.

  The truck in the lead accelerated. With a scream of rubber, he slalomed into the turn, back end fishtailing. Dust showered the air like fireworks.

  He’d made it!

  Relief washed over her. The pickups hurtled through the night, disappearing over a hill. Trish fumbled with the door handle and bolted out of the car, looking for Billy.

  It was so dark, she couldn’t see anything. And cold. Now it was really cold. Rubbing her arms, she jogged through the tall grass. “Billy?”

  “Over here.” He was up on the hill.

  She ran as fast as she could, her breath coming in short gasps. As she reached the top, Billy stepped forward and gathered her into his arms.

  The banshee scream of engines seized the night. Thump. Squeal.

  “Jeez! That guy’s fucking crazy!” Billy said.

  Below them the two trucks arrowed down the straight part of the road. Their lights were only pinpoints now in the hanging dust: white, red, white, red. Billy held her close, the fingers of one hand rubbing her scalp through the ribbons of her hair in a rhythmic, comforting motion. Trish wasn’t so afraid now. She’d accepted the impossible, that one guy was trying to run the other off the road. She felt an odd air of detachment creep over her. It looked like a video game from here.

  The back headlights eased up. Wham! Dropped back.

  “Jesus!” muttered Billy. “They’re headed toward Dead Man’s Curve!”

  Trish knew Dead Man’s Curve was up the road somewhere. A lot of kids had wiped out there; one man had even died, giving the curve its name.

  But this wasn’t real. They’d slow down before then, wouldn’t they? Trish squeezed Billy’s hand, and he squeezed back. The simple action comforted her. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. These guys were just playing chicken.

  Playing. Chicken.

  Wham! This time the white pickup veered to the side, out of control. Its headlights lit up a shiny yellow diamond: a curving arrow and the number below it—fifteen. Fifteen miles per hour.

  A video game, she told herself sternly. Her teeth gritted together so tight her jaw ached.

  Did she imagine she saw the figure in the truck was fighting the wheel?

  Just like a video game.

  The pickup skidded, hurtled across the road—

  Not real.

  —and slammed sideways into an oak tree.

  The sound of the impact carried up the hill, a loud smack, and then there was the tinny sound of loose metal scraping as the truck rolled over, once, twice, and landed upright on its wheels. It coasted down the slope into another tree.

  The second truck had slowed for the turn, but not enough. It fishtailed, tires slewing out of control, and sideswiped the sign. The driver managed to straighten out and accelerated, engine screaming.

  Then there was quiet.

  The smashed truck’s hood looked like an accordion. Steam rose into the cold night. There was a tinkle of glass. It didn’t look all that bad, though. At any minute Trish expected the driver to open the door, jump out and wave at her, like the NASCAR drivers did. It’s all right!

  No one jumped out. No one waved.

  She could hear something hissing. The truck’s lights were still on, and that was the spookiest thing of all. The headlights bathed the tree, etched the lacy oak leaves silver.

  Takes a licking, but keeps on ticking.

  That little bit of black humor shook her out of her apathy. The man needed help, if he wasn’t already dead.

  “Jesus Christ,” Billy said.

  “We’ve got to go down there,” Trish heard herself say.

  “We can’t!”

  “We have to.” She was quaking now, her limbs energized. She started to run down the hill. “He might be hurt!”

  He caught up with her, grabbed her arm. “No, Trish! We’ll get in trouble!”

  “You stay here then. I’ll go.” The rage she felt for him was icy hot.

  “You’re crazy!” But he followed, then passed her. They ran down the hill, across a broad stretch of field, up another smaller rise, and down the last slope that angled to the road below. Her breath came in harsh gasps, but her legs felt strong.

  They were halfway down the slope when she heard the drone of an engine. Instinctively she edged over to the oak tree to her right.

  “Hear that?” Billy demanded. “There’s a car. They’ll see him—”

  “Shhh!” Her heart had forgotten to beat. She recognized the sound of the engine, although it was choppier.

  The truck cruised slowly into view.

  “Is that—?”

  “Quiet!” she whispered savagely. Fear slithered through her extremities like mercury, silvery and toxic.

  There was something wrong with the truck. The engine kept missing. It shuddered to a halt, backed up, and turned so that its headlights fixed on the wreck.

  “Holy shit!” Billy muttered.

  Trish couldn’t swallow the lump that had formed in her throat like a dry pill. Her heart thumped in her chest.

  The truck idled. White exhaust burbled into the air. Trish could feel her foot going to sleep.

  “What’s he doing?”

  The door squeaked open, and a dark figure walked over to the wreck, silhouetted against the white light. The figure gave the impression of heft, but that could be deceiving; the bulky vest and billed cap he wore were a kind of uniform around here.

  He stood there for what seemed like centuries. He rubbed his arms as if he were cold.

  Trish’s foot writhed with pins and needles, but she dared not move.

  The driver turned, walked back toward the truck.

  Unconsciously, Trish shifted her feet.

  A rock, dislodged by her shoe, trickled down the slope. To her ears, it sounded like an avalanche.

  The figure below glanced up.

  Looked right at her.

  She felt like a rabbit pinned in the headlights.

  The figure swiveled his head to the left, then the right, as if listening. Then walked with slow deliberation to the truck.

  He got in, slammed the door. Backed up, turned around, and drove away.

  The chugging engine was gradually lost to the hum of the night.

  “It’s eleven-thirty,” Billy said at last. His voice was an octave higher. “If I don’t get back soon, we’ll be in deep shit.”

  “We’re gonna be in deep shit anyway.”

  His eyes caught hers. They were unreadable.

  “We’ve got to report it,” she said.

  “No we don’t.”

  “What do you mean, no we don’t?”

  “What did you see exactly?”

  “A murder!” She could hear her voice, high and frightened. She sounded like a little girl.

  “Exactly? You saw some guy run the other guy off the road. Did you get a good look at the guy? I didn’t.”

  “No, but—”

  “So what’s the point? We didn’t see enough to help anybody.” He reached out and tipped her chin up w
ith his fingers, “You know how your parents feel about me. If they know we were together that’ll be it. They won’t let you near me.”

  “But he killed—”

  He touched a finger to her lips. “They’ll know. They’ll be able to tell just by looking at you—everything you feel shows on your face. If they know we were out here, they’ll know what you and I did.”

  She saw her father’s face in her mind’s eye, and that did it. Billy was right. Nothing they had seen would help the sheriff, but it could hurt her real bad.

  But Billy wasn’t through, “If that guy ever finds out we saw him, you know what would happen, don’t you?”

  “He didn’t see us,” she whispered.

  “No, he didn’t. But if we told . . .” Billy let the answer hang in the air.

  She thought of the man staring up into the darkness, right at her. Wondered if he’d seen their car. Maybe he already knew who they were.

  But if he didn’t . .

  Billy was right. It would be suicide to tell anyone what they saw.

  “You can’t tell anyone about this,” Billy said firmly. “Anyone.”

  FOUR

  As Dakota hunched her shoulders inside the fringed, suede jacket and pulled her black Stetson lower over her ears, she reflected that the phrase “morning after” was remarkably apt. But how many people suffered from a twenty-five-thousand-dollar hangover? It was a sure bet that if she stayed here much longer, she wouldn’t have any savings left.

  Dakota doubted she’d see a check on her father’s life insurance policy anytime soon—when they billed for the premium, they wanted it right away, but she knew they’d keep their money as long as they could now that it was their turn to pay up. If she cashed in a couple of CDs, she’d have enough money to juggle Black Oak’s finances for a while, if nothing unforeseen happened.

  What am I thinking? This is the horse business. Something unforeseen always happens!

  Cold wind harried streamers of dirt and clear plastic cups across the lot, where only yesterday, trucks and horse trailers had been crammed together like RVs on a Mexican beach. The voices were stilled now; only the wind rang hollowly through the metal-pipe corrals. Most of the Black Oak horses were gone. Even though there would be mares coming in to be bred to Something Wicked, by summer they would be gone, too, and then the barns would take on the staleness of structures that had outlived their purpose.

  She had to get away from the oppressive emptiness. There was only one thing that would soothe her: a ride in the hills.

  Dakota tucked her ponytail into her collar for added warmth, donned her gloves, and strode across the drive toward the barn. A retinue of ranch dogs trotted at her heels. The two golden retrievers belonged to her. She’d named them Affirmed and Alydar after the great rivals who had swept the thoroughbred Triple Crown in 1978. Like their namesakes, the dogs were big strapping animals with reddish-gold coats and generous hearts.

  Dakota was glad she’d brought them with her. She had planned to fly out for the dispersal, but there just happened to be an audition in Yuma last week for a location film. Since Yuma was halfway to Sonoita, Dakota had decided to drive. It worked out well—she had room in her Toyota 4Runner for a few of her father’s things, and she had transportation while she was here. Dakota preferred driving her 4Runner to Coke’s new Ford monster truck, which she would probably sell.

  He’d been driving the old farm pickup at the time of the accident. It, of course, had been totaled.

  As she reached the barn, Dakota heard a laboring engine coming her way and shielded her eyes against the bright sun.

  A fifties-era turquoise pickup with an Al Jolson grin wheezed up the dirt road and parked nose-down on the small grade near the barn. Its occupant was a thin man, wearing a flannel shirt and goose-down vest. A lumpish teenage girl slid out of the passenger side.

  As he approached, Dakota realized that her impression of middle age had to be adjusted upward. The man must be sixty. His hair was as black as an Apache’s—probably dyed—and his face was scored and weatherbeaten from the wind and sun. She wondered if his bloodshot eyes were a result of the cold wind or if he drank.

  “You must be Coke’s daughter.” He put out a hand. “Name’s Jerry Tanner.”

  She noticed his handshake was anything but firm and was surprised. Horsemen usually had a good grip.

  “Sorry about Coke.” She could smell his breakfast on his breath. “He and I went way back. This here’s my daughter, Lucy.”

  The girl wore a plum-colored, goose-down jacket, dark blue jeans, and scuffed work boots. Brown hair sheathed her head like an ill-fitting helmet. The hairstyle was meant to appear elfin, and would have, on a petite person.

  “Lucy.” Dakota smiled at the girl, who squinted at her from colorless eyes sunk into a complexion like uncooked dough. Baby fat, Dakota thought sympathetically. “What can I do for you, Mr. Tanner?”

  He grinned. “It’s what I can do for you. Did Coke ever mention me?”

  “I’ve heard your name,” she said, although she couldn’t remember where.

  “I worked with him for the last couple of years. Training his horses.”

  “I thought he trained them all himself.”

  “I had his Ruidoso string when he was in California,” he said. “Up until about a year ago. He and I didn’t agree on whether or not to race a horse. I decided to resign.” There was a hint of smugness in his voice. Suddenly, Dakota remembered the newspaper photo she’d come across in her father’s papers. A horse running on three legs, broken leg flopping, eyes bulging with pain and terror.

  “You heard of Blue Kite?”

  Blue Kite. That was the horse’s name. Dakota nodded, feeling ill. Another one of her father’s mistakes in judgment?

  “I thought he wasn’t up to snuff, an’ I told Coke so. Turns out the colt broke his leg. ‘Course,” he hastened to add, “it was bad luck. Could’ve happened to anybody.”

  But it had happened to her father. And there were plenty of other accidents, too.

  “I’d like to work for you,” Jerry Tanner said. “I heard you’re keeping the bay filly, and I was the one who first put a halter on her. She works real kind for me.”

  Dakota stared at him. Yesterday, when she bought Shameless, she hadn’t even thought about who would train her. Coke had always been more interested in the racehorses than the breeding operation, and so he had left Dan Bolin in charge of the ranch, while he took care of the racing stable. No doubt there was a big hole in the filly’s training, and she’d need a trainer soon if she was to be ready for the Ruidoso Futurity. Still, Dakota didn’t really know anything about this man.

  “I hear you’re gonna run Shameless in the Ruidoso. It’ll be tight, but I can get her ready.” He dug into his pocket, pulled out a cheap wallet, and produced a curled photograph. It showed her father and Jerry Tanner smiling at the camera. “There we are, in happier times.”

  He knew the filly. He knew her father. The part of her that thrived on reassurance wanted to jump at his offer, but her instincts told her to go slowly.

  “Know why he called her Shameless, don’t you?” Tanner pocketed the wallet and retrieved a crumpled pack of Luckies from his breast pocket, shook one out, and lit up. “Named her after Garth Brooks’s song. Really liked it—said it described how he felt about the people he loved and let down. He was always talking about how he wished he could make it up to you . . . for not being there.”

  Icing on the cake. Thick and gooey, the kind that made you gag. Not that she didn’t believe him. It was just like Coke to name a horse after a song. He’d named her after the place where she’d been conceived, a town in North Dakota where he’d been rodeoing. But Dakota couldn’t see Coke confiding in anyone, and it wasn’t in him to blame himself for the deterioration of their relationship. Unless he’d changed a lot in the last few years.

  Tanner laughed shortly, waxing reminiscent. “He played Garth Brooks over and over on that old cassette player of his. Like a br
oken record.”

  Dakota’s own taste ran from Bonnie Raitt to Puccini. She didn’t like country-western, perhaps because Coke had played it so often when she was younger.

  “So . . . what do you say?” he asked hopefully.

  “I’ll have to think about it.” She knew her father had mentioned his name, a long time ago. It was something important—and favorable—although Tanner certainly hadn’t impressed her so far. “What do you charge?”

  “I’ll be taking my own string up to Ruidoso, so I could just put the filly in with them. Shouldn’t be too expensive. Coke’s cabin’s up there. I’d like me and my daughter to stay there, if it’s all right with you. We can get by with a small salary and living expenses. And of course I’ll be getting a good percentage when the filly comes home a winner. We could negotiate that.”

  “I don’t know,” Dakota said at last. She didn’t want to be rushed. Already, she’d paid a small fortune for Shameless, and she didn’t want to make a mistake now.

  Tanner came one step closer, and she got another whiff of coffee, cigarettes and ham. “You’re wondering if I’m any good,” he said, motioning to the rust-mottled truck. “It sure don’t look like I got rich training horses. Thing is, it’s tough out there with the recession an’ all. If you ain’t one of the top guys, nobody wants to know you. Your dad believed in me, though. I’m sure he must’ve mentioned me.” He paused, looking like a gambler about to play his trump card. “We were in the army together. If it wasn’t for me, he wouldn’t have had any horses to train.”

  Everything fell into place. Tanner had been the man who saved Coke’s life in the Korean War.

  The trainer was looking at her, his expression hopeful. “He never told you how I saved his life?”

  “Yes. Yes he did. I’m sorry I—”

  “It’s all right. It was a long time ago. It was Coke who got me to come out here. He was the best friend I ever had, aside from that little setback we had over Blue Kite. I think if he’d lived, we would’ve ended up friends again.”

  Suddenly, Dakota wanted to ask him about that incident and a host of other things. Wanted to see her father through his friend’s eyes. Maybe then she could understand him more, know why he had treated her mother the way he had. And why he had been such a stranger to her.