The horses were at the gate. The gun let out a crack! and they were off!
The blaring loudspeakers kept up a fast-paced, nonstop patter of unfamiliar names, though Gunny could pick out Red Robin in the buzzing announcements.
“Come on, come on, come on,” the friendly man chanted, becoming more and more tense. “What are you doing?”
Gunny could see that the lead horse was dropping back. Another horse surged steadily ahead, its legs a blur of motion and mud. How could it move so fast? Gunny wondered.
Within moments the new horse crossed the finish line.
“No!” The friendly man threw his hands up in the air. “Not possible!”
“In a surprise upset,” the announcer’s voice blared from the speakers, “Gladiator took the field and won the race!” The announcer sounded as stunned as the friendly man beside Gunny.
“He’s not as good a horse?” Gunny asked.
“Nowhere near!” the friendly man said. “Gladiator was the long shot. You wouldn’t even bet on that horse to place in the top three, much less win.” He stared back down at the form again. “Gotta figure all the percentages differently now,” he was muttering as Gunny walked away.
With the first race over, Gunny went back to searching for Marvin. There was a large crowd near the windows where the gamblers placed bets and collected winnings. Mostly he saw grim expressions.
He saw one smiling face though: Ambrose! He had just turned away from the teller’s window with a big grin on his face. So Ambrose was the one lucky guy to bet on the winning horse?
Or, Gunny thought, he has inside information.
Which meant Gunny had to find himself an insider.
Horse trailers, grooms, horses, jockeys, and owners crowded the grounds in the busy stable area. It was easy to spot the differences: The owners were dressed in their Sunday best, the jockeys were little fellas in brightly colored silks, some of the grooms wore the same colors as the jockeys, while still others wore regular work clothes. There were also folks who seemed to work for the track who were the least gussied-up of all. Gunny figured with his bruised face, mud-spattered coat from standing ringside, and rumpled shirt, he’d have his best shot at pretending to be with the track.
He spotted a groom unloading a bale of hay from a trailer.
“Let me help you there, sonny,” Gunny said.
“Thanks!” The groom smiled gratefully. He looked about eighteen. “I need to get this into King Rex’s stall, but Mr. Sheffield wants me to walk King Rex around in front of some photographers.”
“Owners!” Gunny snorted knowingly. “Can’t seem to understand you can’t be in two places at once.”
The groom laughed as they lowered the bale to the ground. “Why don’t I bring this to King Rex’s stall,” Gunny offered. “Your owner won’t care who makes the delivery. If he’s like most owners, he’s far more interested in the bright lights.”
“Really?” The groom looked up at Gunny with a grateful expression.
“Gotta do a check inside anyway,” Gunny said.
“Thanks! I owe you!” The groom helped Gunny load the bale onto a dolly, explained which stall King Rex was in, and took off.
Gunny dragged the dolly inside, dropped off the hay at King Rex’s empty stall, then went in search of the winning horse and his jockey.
“Gladiator, Gladiator,” Gunny muttered, looking at the names posted on the stall doors. He moved deeper and deeper into the stable. There were fewer people in this area; with the races now under way, most of the horses had been brought outside for exercise.
But Gunny didn’t want to talk to the jockey or groom of a horse that was about to race; he was after the people associated with the horse that had just won Ambrose big money.
He heard stomping and whinnying a few rows down. Gunny hurried over and looked at the sign on the door. Gladiator. The long shot.
The horse was in the stall alone. It looked odd—agitated. Not that Gunny knew much about horses, but there was definitely something wrong with the animal.
“You’re worried over nothing,” a nearby voice said.
Ambrose, Gunny realized. Heading this way.
Gunny dragged a stack of hay away from the back wall and slipped behind it.
“What if we get caught?” another voice said.
Gunny peeked through a gap in the hay bales. Ambrose was with a jockey.
“Doping a horse is a serious offense,” the jockey said.
“So we have to make sure no one finds out, don’t we?” Ambrose said.
“What if they test the horse? Or Randall squeals?” the jockey asked, his voice rising in panic. “What if people find out that he threw the race?”
“What if? What if?” Ambrose repeated in a singsong imitation of the jockey. Then his voice grew cold. “Randall won’t be talking. Neither will the horse. Or you!”
In a single swift blow, Ambrose knocked out the jockey and shoved him into the stall with the drugged horse.
“People really shouldn’t smoke with all this straw and wood around,” Ambrose said, pulling a cigarette and a box of matches from his pocket. “Filthy habit.”
He dropped the lit cigarette and match into the dry straw. In moments there was a fast-growing blaze.
Ambrose shut the stall door and left, his cackle rising above the horse’s terrified whinnying and the roar of the flames.
ELEVEN
Smoke made Gunny’s eyes tear. He covered his nose and mouth with his arm and dragged the unconscious jockey into a corner. The horse was going crazy; Gunny didn’t want the jockey crushed under its pounding hooves.
He yanked off his coat and grabbed a horse blanket and tossed them onto the nearest flames. He flung himself down and rolled back and forth, feeling the heat from the burning hay under him while desperately trying to avoid the terrified horse. Luckily, the horse was intent on trying to break down the stall door.
Flames licked up the wooden sides of the stall. Gunny leaped up and grabbed the blanket, but it fell apart in his hands. He tried to call for help, but the smoke made him cough and choke.
Foam and spittle dripped from Gladiator’s mouth, and its eyes rolled in terror. The drugs Ambrose doped the horse with made its panic worse—but it also made it powerful. The wooden door began to splinter.
Could Gunny use the fire to help weaken the door? It was a terrible risk—making the fire worse—but it might be the only way out.
He picked up a flaming bundle of hay and shoved it into the slats at the top of the stall. He leaped out of the way just in time to avoid being kicked in the head by Gladiator.
The wooden door caught fire. The horse surrounded on all sides by flames, let out a terrified shriek. It spun around, searching for a way out. It reared up.
“The door!” Gunny yelled at the horse as he flung himself away from Gladiator’s landing hooves. “Kick the door!”
Gunny’s shouts panicked the horse more, but as it bucked, its back hooves kicked out.
And the door fell off its hinges.
Gladiator let out a whinny. Gunny flattened into the corner as the horse twisted and thundered away.
Most of the hay was on fire. Gunny grabbed what was left of his coat and stomped out the fabric that was burning, then threw it over the jockey, patting him down. He lifted the unconscious jockey with a grunt. If the jockey had been the size of an ordinary man, Gunny would never have been able to stumble out of the smoke-filled space. But jockeys were small, and Gunny managed to get them both out of the stall.
Grooms and workers streamed into the stable with buckets of water. At some point an alarm must have sounded, but Gunny had been too intent on escape to hear it.
He brought the jockey outside into the fresh air, where someone could attend him. Gasping for breath, woozy, and coughing, Gunny stumbled to a nearby tree. He slid down the trunk to the ground and shut his eyes.
When he opened them again, he was confronted by the terrible sight of Gladiator, down on the ground. Not mo
ving. Not breathing.
The drugs, Gunny thought. That’s what killed that poor animal. But now everyone would assume it was smoke inhalation and panic. Ambrose got away with it. And the jockey would be much too terrified to say a word. Or to back up Gunny’s accusation.
He still had no proof, but Gunny knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Ambrose was up to his eyeballs in gambling and fixing events.
And he also knew just how far Ambrose was willing to go to get what he wanted.
TWELVE
Things were finally looking up. Chubby himself contributed to the bail fund and Gunny was able to spring Jed. Tonight Gunny and Jed were going to spend time together as if they didn’t have a care in the world. And they were going to do it at Chubby’s nightclub, watching Junior fight.
Every night that week, Gunny went to Chubby Malloy’s Paradise to watch Junior fight. The kid was good, and had quickly become a favorite. Even better, the boy had steered clear of Ambrose.
At least until now! Gunny did a double take when he saw Junior enter accompanied by Ambrose. Ambrose had his arm slung casually over Junior’s shoulder and was grinning his usual irritating smile, but Junior looked…Gunny couldn’t actually read the boy’s expression. Something was wrong, though. Could Junior have confronted Ambrose about shooting Jeffrey?
Not likely, Gunny decided. If such a showdown had taken place, Gunny didn’t think Junior would still be around to fight this fight. And there’d be evidence of a much bigger problem than the obvious tension he saw between them.
The bell sounded and Junior shook off Ambrose’s arm. He stepped into the ring. Gunny craned his neck, searching for Jed. He was missing the first fight!
No matter. He’ll be here when he gets here, Gunny decided, and concentrated on Junior in the ring.
Junior was well matched with another featherweight. Gunny had seen the two fight before. Each had their strengths. Only, tonight Junior’s strengths were not in evidence. He seemed…distracted.
Gunny had only ever seen Junior fight with passion and intense focus. The kid was still landing his punches, still avoiding the hits, but he was off. Like his heart wasn’t in it.
Maybe he’s getting tired of the game, Gunny observed. But Gunny wouldn’t have expected that from Junior. He seemed truly dedicated.
The lackluster fight bored the crowd as well. They grew restless, and people began having conversations rather than staying focused on the ring. Junior managed to wear down his opponent to a technical knockout. Well, it might not have been the most exciting fight, but at least Junior won. And didn’t get hurt.
Junior stalked out of the ring. Ambrose approached him and whispered something into his ear. From Junior’s reaction, it didn’t look like Ambrose was giving him words of encouragement.
“Sorry I’m late,” Jed said, dropping into the seat beside Gunny.
“What’s wrong?” Gunny asked. For a man just released from jail, Jed was tense, agitated. “Did something happen with your case?”
“No, nothing like that. Mrs. Wright called just before I left. Delia’s gone missing.”
Gunny smiled. “Delia’s done that before.”
“Mrs. Wright hasn’t seen her all day. And it’s getting late.”
Now Gunny grew concerned. “You’re right. Delia wouldn’t stay out so late. She knows not to worry her mother that way.”
“Besides, where would a young girl want to be at this time of night?” Jed asked.
Gunny looked back to the ring. “Come on, she may be at my apartment. She’s done that before.”
The two men stood to leave just as the bell sounded for the next bout. Gunny glanced at Junior as he re-entered the ring. Now his face was full of fury. Whatever had been bothering him was going to be expressed through his gloves. Even the crowd sensed this was going to be a much more intense, more exciting fight.
The two fighters touched gloves. Junior held his hands in front of his face but didn’t move. His opponent’s fist flung out and Junior fell off balance. He landed in the ropes. The crowd went wild.
“Coming?” Jed pressed.
“Hang on.” Something was wrong. Why wasn’t Junior fighting back?
Junior pulled himself back up but barely defended himself. He allowed the other fighter to pummel him, smack him, dominate him. It was as if Junior didn’t care. As if—
It locked into Gunny’s brain like tumblers in a combination lock. Junior is throwing the fight, just like the jockey.
This fight had Ambrose’s dirty fingers all over it.
But how could Ambrose get Junior to throw a fight? The kid loved the game. Losing wasn’t going to help him reach his dream of going pro.
Junior landed flat on his back. The referee began the count.
Gunny’s blood ran cold.
Delia.
THIRTEEN
Delia isn’t at my hotel,” Gunny told Jed. “Ambrose has her.”
Jed stared at Gunny. “What?”
“No time to explain! We have to follow Junior.”
“Which way did he go?” Jed asked.
Gunny was relieved Jed simply trusted him and didn’t stop to ask questions. “Through that door,” Gunny said. “Where does it lead?”
“The alley,” Jed said. “Come on!”
Outside, clouds passed in front of the moon, making the night dark and moody. Gunny could just make out a shadowy figure running quickly up the street. “There!” Gunny hissed.
Jed and Gunny raced after Junior. He took a sharp turn around the corner up ahead.
Jed and Gunny arrived at the corner a moment later. Junior had vanished.
“How could we have lost him?” Jed panted. He bent over, hands on his knees to catch his breath.
Gunny also felt winded from the sprint, but he turned in a slow circle, searching for any sign of Junior. Then he realized where they were standing: in front of Ambrose Jackson’s building site.
“I don’t think we did.” He pointed to the chicken wire that kept the neighborhood kids from sneaking into the site. It was pulled away from its posts. Just enough for a teenage boy to slip through.
“Ambrose had to stop work until he could pay his bills,” Gunny told Jed. “This would make a perfect place to stash a hostage.”
Gunny pried the chicken wire farther away from the post. He held it out so that Jed could squeeze in. Jed skidded on the rubble that covered the unfinished floor, sending bits of plaster and rock skittering as he went down. “Yeow!” Jed cried.
Gunny pushed through the small gap and found Jed on the ground, wincing in pain and clutching his ankle.
“What happened?” Gunny whispered.
Suddenly a movement in the corner caught Gunny’s attention.
The dim glow from the streetlights outside lit an unwelcome sight: Junior holding a gun aimed straight at him.
“Stay back or I’ll shoot you!” Junior shouted.
Gunny put his hands in the air. “We’re not here to hurt you, Junior. You know that.”
Junior’s hand was shaking. “No, you’re here to stop me, and that’s not going to happen.”
Gunny took a step forward. “Stop you from doing what?”
“I mean it! Stay back!”
“We just want to understand what’s going on,” Gunny said.
Junior looked at Jed on the ground, then back to Gunny. He licked his lips nervously.
“It was Ambrose, wasn’t it?” Gunny asked. “He forced you to throw that fight so he could make a lot of money.”
Junior nodded, looking miserable. “He took Delia. He said he’d kill her if I didn’t throw the fight.”
“We know.”
Junior swallowed and seemed to renew his strength. “But I realized—he’s not going to keep his promise. So I’m here to kill him.”
“Nobody is killing nobody!” Gunny shouted. “Give me the gun, Junior!”
A sound from above made both Junior and Gunny look up.
Gunny tensed. Was that Ambrose and his goons? They cou
ld have been up there all along.
The knocking sound came again.
“That’s Delia!” Junior cried. “Our code!”
“Go get her,” Jed said from the floor.
“Let’s get you into a hiding place,” Gunny said. “Help me, Junior.”
Junior slipped the gun into the back of his pants and helped move Jed out of sight. As soon as they’d pulled him behind a pallet of stacked pipes, they dashed up a nearby set of cement stairs to a level that was partly completed. Floors were laid radiating outward from the stairs, but in many places only the supports were in place. Steel girders led out to beams that extended past the building’s walls. Piles of tile, tubs of plaster, sacks of cement, and sheets of drywall were stacked around.
One area seemed more finished than most. It had real walls and even a door. Junior and Gunny looked at each other, and both knew to run straight to it.
Before Gunny could stop him, Junior flung open the door.
“Delia!” he cried.
Delia sat tied to a chair, her mouth covered with tape, but luckily, she was alone.
Junior ripped the tape from her mouth. “Yeow!” she yelped.
“Are you all right?” Gunny asked as he untied her.
Delia nodded. “I heard you shouting so I knew there couldn’t be any of the bad guys around. So I knocked out our code with the chair legs.”
Junior grabbed her in a bear hug.
“You are one smart little lady,” Gunny said.
“I’m so glad you’re all right,” Junior said. “I’d never forgive myself—”
They all froze.
They were no longer alone. Someone—several someones—were downstairs.
FOURTEEN
We’re trapped,” Junior said.
“We have to get out of this room, or we will be,” Gunny said.
Gunny, Junior, and Delia dashed out of the room. “How will we get down?” Delia whispered. “They’ll see us if we use the stairs.”
“The elevator shaft!” Gunny said.
“But there’s no elevator,” Junior hissed.
Book One of the Travelers Page 10
