Simpatico's Gift

by Frank Martorana

  As he pulled to a stop in front of the house, the door opened, and Emily emerged. Glancing down to fix the position of the top step, she started toward her dad, keeping a grip on the railing and placing her foot carefully on each step. Once she had reached the flagstone walk, her pace quickened. Kent leaned on the fender. Lucinda leaned on Kent. Both observed Emily’s approach.

  She was tall for her age, but the bend in her knees made her appear more average in height. She had big blue eyes, a little nose, freckled across the bridge, and a smile that was warmed by her habit of cocking her head when she flashed it.

  Emily had been born with a spinal deformity that bent her lower back and affected the nerves to her legs. Like most girls her age, she was aware of her appearance and tried hard to improve her posture by forcing her shoulders back and swinging her legs straight through as she walked. Despite her efforts, the sharp curve in her lower back forced a bend in her knees. Her walk may have been awkward, but when Kent looked at Emily, all he saw was a wonderfully bright young mind peering alertly out of those brilliant blue eyes. It delighted him to no end that everyone else who knew Emily saw her the same way he did.

  How unfair nature could be, Kent thought. Simpatico, a horse — a special one, admittedly, but just a horse really, and having no more sense than one — was the picture of physical perfection. While Emily, the essences of warmth and loving intelligence, was trapped in a crippled body. He pushed the thoughts out of his mind. He learned long ago, that dwelling on such things accomplished nothing.

  “Happy birthday, Em,”, Kent said. “Fourteen, huh? Almost a grown-up.”

  “Thanks. I thought you’d forget.” She gave him a peck on the cheek, and Lucinda a pat on the head.

  “Never. Margaret was supposed to tell you we’d have a birthday cake at dinner tonight.”

  “She did. I get to open my gifts then.”

  “If you get any.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Big problems at VinChaRo,” Kent said, his tone serious. “I figured you’d want to come along.”

  “Yeah, Mrs. M told me. Thanks, I do,” Emily said, picking up on her father’s tone. “What happened?”

  He opened the passenger door of his mobile unit, and Lucinda, right on cue, hopped over into the back, while Emily pulled herself up and in.

  “I’ll tell you while we drive. Do you have a lunch?”

  She held up a brown bag. Kent took it and waved to his housekeeper who watched from the porch. “Thanks, Margaret.”

  “See you for supper. You two be careful.”

  Emily gave Margaret a don’t-be-ridiculous scowl.

  “Catch you later, Mrs. M.”

  As they headed down the driveway, she asked, “So, what’s happening at VinChaRo, Doc?”

  Kent knew Emily was way beyond the sugar-coated version. “They found Simpatico dead in his stall.”

  Emily turned to her father, a stunned look on her face. “Simpatico is dead? No way!” Her voice trembled.

  “Aubrey found him this morning. They want us to see if we can figure out what happened.”

  “Jesus. What’s next?” Emily said.

  Kent glanced at Emily, and saw her face blanch. He wondered what connection she was making? Did she sense some evil god was, once again, bearing down on her? The one who had created her infirmity, now had taken Simpatico, too? Kent knew Simpatico was Emily’s favorite. And, he knew Emily drew strength from Simpatico’s physical perfection.

  They had taken her to doctor after doctor when she was young. None could come up with a cause, or treatment plan, for her spine. Surgery, yes, but what type? The doctors did agree on two things, however. One, that any surgery would be extremely risky. Attempting to straighten her back could make it worse, even leave Emily paralyzed. And two, that any attempt at correction should be held off until she finished growing. Kent admired her for the way she had not let her physical challenges define her. Instead, they seemed to fuel her personality, make her plucky, mature beyond her years.

  “Honey, I’m sorry. I should have asked. Maybe you don’t want to go with me. It’s just that...”

  “Of course I want to come along,” Emily said, drawing herself up. “I’ve seen dead animals before. It’s not that. It’s just that it’s Simpatico. He is so...special. Thinking of him gone is...” Her voice trailed off. Then she asked, “Now what are we going to do?”

  CHAPTER 3

  VinChaRo Farm was a short ride outside of Jefferson, around the west side of Heron Lake. Within minutes, Kent, Emily, and Lucinda were turning on to its macadam lane. The entry was a wrought iron gate surrounded by splashes of spring flowers and emerald shrubs. On the gate, a sign with gold lettering read simply:

  VinChaRo Farm

  Thoroughbred Horses

  Ancient maples formed a canopy over the driveway, and beyond the trees, on each side, were rolling pastures enclosed by white board fences. On the left, chestnut and bay brood mares dotted a sea of green. Next to the dark bulk of each mare was a smaller, leggy replication. To Kent, they were more than beautiful little creatures that he had helped bring into the world, they were living testimonials to the New York State Thoroughbred Breeding and Racing program’s success.

  The New York bred program, as it was usually referred to, was near and dear to Kent. Back when it was dreamed up by lawmakers as a way to stimulate the state’s sagging Thoroughbred industry, Kent had fought hard for the breeders. He realized that it was vital to insure that racehorse breeding, not just racing, was kept profitable in New York. In the end, his victory guaranteed that a percent of the winner’s purse would go to the owner of the winner’s dam. That meant serious money for the breeders.

  Kent was the longest sitting member of the program’s board of governors, and he considered it to be his contribution to his profession and his community. All of New York benefited from the program, and so did the state’s veterinarians. Big time.

  In less than a decade, the program’s infusion of cash had resulted in New York’s Thoroughbred breeding industry growing and flourishing beyond all expectations. New York breds were winning major stakes races, and farms were selling stock throughout the United States and even in the lucrative Japanese and Middle East markets.

  As they drove up the lane, Kent watched the foals nuzzle under their mothers, and then buck and run with their playmates. Life is smoke and mirrors, he thought. Those little creatures don’t even know their father, Simpatico, is dead. They don’t realize what a blow has been struck against the New York bred program.

  On the other side of the driveway, yearlings looked up from their grazing and, anxious for any excuse to run, bolted across the pasture in a tight group, more like a school of fish than a band of horses.

  Lucinda fixed her laser stare on the running horses and trembled with excitement. What a blast it would be to chase them.

  Emily’s stare carried right through them, as if she didn’t even notice them. Then, in a soft voice, she said, ”Boy, what I wouldn’t give to be able to run like that.”

  They drove past VinChaRo’s stone mansion and headed to the barns. There were three in all, each a long rectangular building with outside Dutch doors for the twenty or so stalls it contained. One barn held mares for breeding. One was for foaling. VinChaRo’s business office was in the third barn, which was also home to the six mature stallions that stood at the farm. It resembled the other barns, except for a cavernous center pavilion, the breeding shed.

  They pulled to a stop in front of a door labeled office. “You stay, girl,” Kent said to Lucinda, as they got out of the truck.

  Horses, especially mares with foals, tended to be wary of strange dogs. Hence, Kent’s rule: When he went into a horse barn, Lucinda stayed in the truck. She knew the rule, but just to make sure Kent knew she wasn’t happy about it, she let out a half-whine half-grunt sound. Then she turned herself around on
the seat, flopped down, and resigned herself to wait.

  Aubrey came out to greet them. She was nearly six feet tall, and slender. Her thick, black hair was pulled back into a ponytail that fell down her back. Her skin was smooth and dark, partly from Native American ancestry, and partly from long hours on a horse farm. She radiated a poise and confidence that made it easy to imagine her in her previous life as an actress. But today her eyes pooled with tears as she gave Kent and Emily a sad smile.

  “Hi,” was all she said.

  “Anything new since we talked?” Kent asked.

  She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. “Nothing.”

  He searched her face for more clues as to how she was handling the catastrophe. All he could read was deep sadness.

  “We’ll get through this,” he said. It sounded awkward and inadequate.

  Her lips narrowed and she nodded, eyes cast down. But when she remembered Emily, she forced a brighter smile.

  “I know this sounds sort of weird at the moment, Em, but happy birthday.”

  Instantly tears filled Emily’s eyes and spilled over. They hugged, and let the tears fall.

  A few years ago when Emily had asked to take riding lessons, the doctors were aghast that her father would even consider such a thing. But Emily had argued fiercely that she could handle it. Aubrey had come to her rescue by agreeing to take time out from her role as farm manager at VinChaRo to be Emily’s personal riding instructor. Reluctantly, the doctors agreed, admitting that as long as she was under close supervision, riding probably would do no harm. They reasoned that if straddling a horse caused her too much discomfort, she would decide to quit on her own.

  But riding changed Emily’s life. She rode every free moment, and there was no discomfort. When she was on a horse she was like everyone else, the same four powerful legs beneath, no awkwardness, no looks from strangers.

  Aubrey was a patient but demanding teacher. When Emily’s frustration boiled over, Aubrey knew just how, and how hard, to push. “Are you a wannabe or a gonnabe, girl?” she’d say, and Emily would sigh deeply, mumble the teenage equivalent of you ol’ battle-axe under her breath, and then try again. Kent knew it was a mutual thing — Aubrey drew strength from her young student’s fierce determination.

  “Elizabeth is waiting for us in the office,” Aubrey said. As she led them that way, she said, “Simpatico gone. It’s surreal.”

  “No kidding. I can’t believe it. What could have killed him?” Emily said.

  Aubrey nodded toward Kent. “We’re hoping your dad can tell us that.”

  Elizabeth St. Pierre’s office was a large, comfortable room naturally lit by floor-to-ceiling windows. It was decorated with antique furnishings and a lifetime of horse racing memorabilia. There were matching walnut desks for herself and her son, Charles. A conference table stood to one side and a leather couch was across from it.

  Elizabeth was standing in front of her desk. The sleeves of her blue cotton blouse were rolled up, and her khakis had a few sprigs of straw clinging at the knees, no doubt from kneeling next to Simpatico. A coil of silver hair on the back of her head was more disheveled than usual, but as always, she wore just enough jewelry to assure any observer that this hardworking woman was also a lady. She looked distraught.

  Charles sat behind his desk, surrounded by his shadow, Burton Bush, and several other hirelings. Burton’s shepherd dog, Ninja, lay curled at his feet.

  In recent years, advancing age and the sheer volume of work had forced Elizabeth to relinquished much of VinChaRo’s management responsibilities to Charles, a small man with wavy black hair, combed straight back. His trademark was his open-necked shirt and gold chain around his neck.

  “Anybody got any ideas as to what happened to our guy?” Kent said.

  Heads shook, glances went to the floor. No one spoke.

  Kent could see further questioning was going to get him nowhere. He cleared his throat, “All right then, let’s go see what we’ve got.”

  As Aubrey led the group into the stallion barn, Kent caught Charles studying the sway of her hips. Instinctively, Kent stepped in front of him, blocking the view.

  Burton Bush cursed and swung a foot at Ninja, who had exploited the moment to sneak into the barn. The dog was infinitely loyal to Burton for reasons no one could fathom, except perhaps for their mutual unfriendliness and ill tempers. Ninja retreated back into the office.

  “Did he seem sick to anyone?” Kent asked the group.

  A general negative murmur.

  “Who saw him last?”

  “I did,” said Osvaldo, VinChaRo’s chief hand. His Hispanic voice was surprisingly strong for his slight build. “I did late check last night. He was fine then. They were all fine.”

  Kent knew VinChaRo’s protocol. “That would have been about two o’clock, right, Osvaldo?”

  “Yes. Exactly two o’clock.”

  “Who did the ten o’clock?”

  “Me. It was my night,” Osvaldo said. “The same person does ten and two checks, and gets to sleep in the next morning.” He scanned the group for accusatory glances, but none appeared.

  Kent studied the barn as they walked. Immaculate, as always. “Was there any change in Simpatico’s routine yesterday?”

  “No,” Aubrey said, her lips drawn tight in an expression of frustration. “We’ve all been wracking our brains about that while we were waiting for you. He bred two mares yesterday afternoon, but nothing unusual happened. He handled same as usual. His attitude was good. He ate all his feed last night.”

  When they reached Simpatico’s stall there was a momentary hush as each person braced for the sight to come. Osvaldo rolled back the door, and Kent surveyed the scene. Someone had covered the body with a tarp. It gave the stall an eerie blue hue as it reflected morning sunlight that entered through a window above. Four black hooves and the brush of a black tail protruded from under the tarp.

  “Nothing much I can do here,” said Charles, queasiness apparent in his voice. He turned and headed back to the office.

  Burton rubbed the mayonnaise-colored crescent of skin that showed between his jeans and T-shirt. “Yeah, I’m outta here too.”

  Several others in the group uttered lame excuses and departed.

  Simpatico lay close to the back wall. By the contour of the tarp, Kent could tell the horse was on his left side, and the head was facing away from him. He noticed that the ceiling light was broken and two of the hardwood wall planks had been broken and pushed completely through into the next stall.

  “Definitely looks like he was violent. Maybe he colicked. Osvaldo, you didn’t hear him rolling or pawing last night?”

  “No, sir, Doc. I looked in each stall. Everybody was quiet.”

  “He got the same thing to eat he always gets, right?”

  “Yes,” Aubrey said. “We haven’t changed a thing in weeks. No new deliveries of grain. Same hay.”

  “Well, he sure trashed this stall. All the other horses are okay?”

  “For the most part. We gave them all a good look over. Hubris was pretty freaked-out, but that’s understandable, him being next door. I mean, he did get his stall wall pushed in.”

  Kent set down his black leather grip and looked over at Emily who stood quietly to one side. She seemed to be holding up under what would have crushed an average kid.

  “Emily, in the back of the truck there’s a tray with some specimen bottles. Would you get it for me, please? And a pail of water with disinfectant.”

  Emily nodded and slipped out of the stall.

  Kent turned back to the tarp, lifted a corner, and peered beneath. The odor of body fluids and death had already accumulated under it. Simpatico’s eyes, always animated in life, full of personality, wonderfully devious, were now devoid of expression. Kent stepped back, leaned against the wall, and waited for his knees to stop quiveri
ng.

  Elizabeth noticed and stepped to him, threaded her arm through his. “Kent, are you sure you can do this?”

  “No. But I’m going to try like hell.”

  He stepped into a pair of coveralls that he pulled from his grip, rolled the sleeves to above his elbows, and slipped on a pair of rubber gloves. He took the tray and pail from Emily, and set them next to the corpse. “You can stay and watch if you want,” he said, as a warning to the few remaining onlookers

  “Step in at the office when you’re finished, Kent,” Elizabeth said, over her shoulder as she turned to leave. Others followed until only Emily and Aubrey remained.

  As Kent withdrew a large postmortem knife from his grip and knelt next to Simpatico, his face collapsed into a look of utter sadness. He gently patted the horse’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, buddy,” he said. “If there was any possible way I could avoid doing this to you, I would.”

  CHAPTER 4

  The barn was quiet except for the occasional rustle or snort from horses in nearby stalls as Kent knelt next to Simpatico’s body, meticulously dissecting it, and carefully searching for clues to how he died. Within minutes a dark band of sweat appeared across the back of his coveralls.

  Emily rested against the wall at a good angle for observation — but she looked away. Aubrey donned a pair of gloves. Over time spent with Kent, she had become an able assistant — Yet another of her traits he found amazing.

  “Remember the day we confirmed Lady in Linen was pregnant to Ever Up?” Kent said. “Remember what it was like?”

  Aubrey angled so Kent could see her face, but Emily could not.

  “I think we celebrated with a bottle of chardonnay, and a roll in the grass,” she whispered, letting her eyes dance.

  Kent flashed Aubrey a soft scowl, and a nod toward Emily.

  She returned him a like-she-doesn’t-know-about-such-things look.