Racing From Death: A Nikki Latrelle Mystery

by Sasscer Hill

  "Nicky," Amarilla's low voice in my ear, her breath smoky. I turned to find the defiance that usually flared from her eyes had dimmed, leaving her expression almost humble. "You a very good horsewoman. I let you decide. You want Daffodil on the turf, is okay." Then she walked away.

  "She changed her mind just like that?" Lorna stared after Amarilla. "What got into her?"

  "That woman," Carla said, "is upset about Susan's death, isn't she?"

  "That's part of it." I searched mentally for a change of subject.

  Jim sat across from me sipping his beer. His shaggy grey eyebrows knitted together as he studied the Colonial Downs condition book.

  "Jim, what's the deadline for entries on that Princess stake?"

  He stared at me. "You want to nominate Daffodil to the stake?"

  "Yeah. I mean, don't you think we should?”

  His mouth curved into a smile as he thumbed through the book. He turned the corner of one page down and handed it over. "Filly should be good in there, but you’d better step on it," he said.

  I grabbed the book, stared at the print. It listed The Virginia Princess Stake, the race's conditions, nomination fees, and weights. The race wasn't that far away. Had I missed the deadline? Then I found it, "Entries close October 28." Wasn't today . . .?

  "What time is it?" I asked, my words almost a shriek.

  "They'll be taking entries another hour yet," Jim said.

  I shoved my chair back and hopped up. "I better get over to the racing secretary's office." Jeez, if Amarilla had waited any longer to make up her mind, I would have missed the entry.

  Before I turned to dash out, I spotted Cormack's hankie, crumpled and damp on the table. I'd managed to forget about Susan's death for a moment. The memory of her limp form on the racetrack rushed back, hard and sharp. I scooped up the rumpled linen and stuffed it in my pocket, before bolting from the room.

  Chapter 31

  That evening, a gentle drizzle left the asphalt wet and slippery with fallen leaves. As I drove Lorna to the cottage, an emotional seesaw lifted me high on the thrill of Hellish's win, before plunging me back to the tragedy of Susan's death

  I'd squeaked under the wire with Daffodil's nomination to the Princess Stake, given Hellish a thorough once over, and fed eight horses. Now, the day's events overwhelmed me. I wanted to retreat to the cottage and bar the door.

  We bumped along the Cheswick's gravel road, approaching Bunny's workshop, where from inside, lights glowed dimly into the darkness. I slowed the Toyota. Through the shop's rain streaked windows, we could see Bunny sitting at her work table, her shoulders sagging, her eyes closed.

  "That woman's in a world of hurt," Lorna said. "Losing her sons like that."

  "Not to mention that nasty piece-of-work she has for a husband."

  "Wonder how she stands living with him?"

  "Maybe, she doesn't have a choice." I hit the gas, speeding away from Bunny's workshop. I pushed away the image of those broken dolls, thinking a hot bath would be nice. Then I’d just pull the covers over my head.

  As we climbed from the car, the scent of pine hung heavy in the air, the evergreens glistening with moisture. An unidentifiable heap on the cottage's stone step turned out to be Slippers and Mr. Chicken, waiting to be let inside.

  "That McNugget is confused," muttered Lorna. But in the porch light her eyes were bright with amusement.

  Inside we performed the evening pet ritual, spreading newspaper behind the rooster's chair, and filling two ceramic dishes decorated with blue letters that said, "Kitty." I'd picked up some chicken feed at the local Southern States store, and the rooster had finally stopped eating the Iams cat food. Lorna appreciated this, as watching Mr. Chicken gobbling feed from a bag labeled "ground-poultry" usually produced comments like, "Dude, you're so gross."

  We heated some tomato soup, made toast with melted cheese, and sat at the kitchen table eating off mismatched crockery. The bright expectant eyes of the two animals watched our every move.

  "These two are, like, so spoiled. What's this chicken gonna do when we leave?"

  "Maybe we'll take him with us," I said. I didn't know how to help Bunny, but at least we could rescue the poor rooster.

  "Nuh uh.” Lorna shook her head. "Why would we do that?"

  "Cheswick might put that bird's head on a chopping block, or something." A chill nudged through me. I pushed from the table, taking my plates to the sink, running hot water over my cold hands.

  #

  For almost a week the barn's training went according to schedule. Lorna and Bobby kept a low profile, Mello stayed off the booze, and I waited for the results of Susan's autopsy. The Princess Stake was set to run as the under-card for the Virginia’s King Stakes the following Saturday, only a few days away.

  That afternoon, the sun shone bright in an Indian summer sky outside Hellish's stall, the air dry and warm. I knelt in the yellow straw next to my filly's left front leg, my fingers reading the residual heat in her ankle. Cold hosing and poultices hadn't been able to remove it, and I might have to spring for the cost of some X-rays. This was not a problem. I felt giddy as I pulled a check from my pocket for about the tenth time. The Colonial Downs bookkeeper had handed it over that morning.

  "What are you grinning about?" The sun silhouetted Will's lean figure where he stood at the entrance to Hellish's stall.

  "I've never held this much money in my life." I stared at the sharp black ink on crisp green paper. "Six thousand, eight-hundred and forty dollars!"

  "Wanna take me to dinner?" Will's green eyes lit with laughter.

  "Are you kidding?" I said. "After I pay off my partners, there won't even be enough to cover my debts." I suddenly hoped he'd offer to take me out, then realized it wasn't necessarily for the free meal.

  "What's going on with her ankle?" he said.

  I hid my disappointment. Our conversation moved on to joint injuries and track gossip. But when Will put his hands on Hellish's ankle, the hard strength of his long fingers seemed to brush against me. I felt heat blossom in my cheeks and was relieved when I heard Lorna bang the feed room door.

  "Nikki, you ready to feed, or what?"

  Will took this as a cue to leave, and as Lorna and I got on with the evening chores I tried to shake the sense of a lost opportunity.

  Bobby drove Lorna away in his Cobra about the time I finished filling the last water bucket. The heavy rubber hose I dragged back to the hydrant left snakelike patterns in the dirt. The aisle fell deep in shadow as the sun sank toward the horizon. I sat on a hay bale, my back against the barn's brick wall, and watched the sunset gild the canopy of the nearby forest. When the treetops darkened, I roused myself and headed to the track kitchen for dinner.

  When I came out, night had settled in, but instead of going home, I went back to our barn to rub Daffodil. Anything I could do to make her happy, I would. I strongly believed in the old track adage, "A happy horse is a winning horse."

  I grabbed a rubber curry comb, its flat rectangular surface stippled with hard little knobs, able to massage and clean simultaneously. Mello appeared outside the stall gate and began to hum "Camptown Races," as I set to work.

  Like most horses, Daffodil bobbed her head in blissful appreciation as I curried the front of her neck and chest.

  "How you doing, Mello?" I asked.

  "Ain't dead yet, so I guess I be just fine. You be wanting to use a dandy brush now," he said, studying my progress.

  I grabbed the soft bristled brush and whisked away the dust raised by the currycomb. Last, I picked up a clean rub rag and began to polish.

  "Gimme that rag, Miss Nikki. I shows you how to rub that horse." I handed it over and watched him perform his magic. The filly seemed to vibrate with energy under his touch and in the dim light from the overhead bulb, her long elegant body gleamed with a soft luster.

  When we were finished, I put the tools away in a small wooden grooming box, set the kit in the tack room and locked up. Mello and I stepped from the shedro
w into the dark. An almost full moon climbed the eastern sky, and more stars appeared as the dim glow in the far west hardened to midnight-blue.

  "Moon be full by Saturday," Mello said.

  I wondered what effect, if any, it would have on Daffodil's performance. Many horse people followed "The Sign," a zodiacal tracking of the moon's path through the constellations. Calenders tracing the moon's journey could be found in publications like The Farmer's Almanac and The Blood Horse. Some breeders religiously used the position of the moon to guide them as to when, or when not, to perform such stressful events as weaning a foal from his mama.

  "You believe in astrological stuff like ‘The Sign,' I asked.

  "Yes indeedy. You don't be ignoring The Sign. The moon be a powerful force."

  "Huh." I stared at the silver disk. The word "lunatic" flitted through my head. I hoped the full moon wouldn't stir up that lost soul, Talbot, again.

  "Gettin' late, Miss Nikki. I be turnin' in." He headed toward the gravel drive that would take him to the groom's quarters.

  I should have left too, offered him a lift down the road, but the clear night, the moon, and the stars that seemed to swirl around it, kept me rooted in place, my eyes fixed on the lights in the sky.

  When I first heard the noise in the woods, I told myself it was deer or some other wildlife rustling through the undergrowth. Only it kept heading toward me, the noise growing, until I heard a pattern – a slow progress forward, punctuated by pauses. As the source drew nearer, I heard labored breathing and a sound like an animal in pain.

  "Who's there?" I backed into the shedrow, my hand closing on the handle of a rake. Probably only Talbot. Even Mello said he was harmless. A moan, distinctly human, seemed to stir the cool air. Someone hurt, hunching toward me. My gut told me it wasn't Talbot.

  Movement at the edge of the forest. I clutched the rake and rushed closer to the form that appeared to crawl from the underbrush. A man lifted his face in the moonlight. His features contorted with pain. Filthy, shirtless and smeared with blood, I could see he'd wadded his shirt into a ball, one hand pressing it to his stomach. The fabric appeared darkened and wet.

  "Stop moving," I said. "I'll get help." Jesus, where was my cell?

  "Nuh," he mumbled. "Tell," he closed his eyes against a rush of pain or weakness, then rolled to his side.

  I dropped to my knees, put my face close to his. He smelled like sweat, blood, and fear. I knew this guy. The stretch-Hummer gang. I remembered a whiny voice . . . Philly Whine.

  "What is it?" I asked.

  "Dead . . . girl. Tell, meh . . .”

  What was he saying? I had to get help. I started to rise, but a hand shot out and gripped my wrist – the hand that had clutched his bundled shirt. The cloth pealed away, revealing a dark hole in his abdomen.

  He grimaced hard, his hand losing its grip on me. He seized up, then collapsed loosely into the ground.

  "No," I heard a voice moan, realized it was my own.

  From somewhere in the woods a dim light appeared, as if it were a flashlight and a hand kept the beam covered. Then a bright flash played over me, momentarily blinding me.

  Chapter 32

  I rolled away from the searching light, sprang up and ran a wild zigzagging path to my car.

  "Help!" I screamed. "Somebody help!"

  Reaching the car, I crouched next to the side away from the woods. I kept low, opened the Toyota's door and snatched my phone. Slammed the door shut again. I wanted as much metal as possible between me and that person with the light. They probably had a gun!

  In the distance, the beam flicked off. Twigs and branches snapped as someone rapidly retreated into the forest.

  I hit 911 and babbled to a dispatcher about the injured man. The words "murder victim" burned my throat, but I didn't voice them. My hands shook so bad I kept missing the disconnect button. When I finally cleared the line, I punched in Cormack's number. The relief I felt when I heard his voice disintegrated what little control I had left.

  "He's dying! You gotta come to my barn."

  "Slow down, Nikki. Who's dying?"

  "Philly Whine." I could hear my voice rise in a wail, but had no ability to control it.

  "Is this person still alive?"

  "I don't know."

  You call 911?"

  "Yes, but –”

  "Stay put," he said. "I'll send a guard down from the gate. Be there in ten."

  He ended the connection, and I stared toward the woods. I should go back to that man, help him. I didn't want to.

  The deep thrum of Bobby's Cobra vibrated in the distance, heading in my direction. I ran toward the sound of the tires spewing gravel as the car swept alongside my barn. Before Bobby could cut the engine, I yanked his door open and he and Lorna listened open mouthed to my disjointed recounting of the wounded man. The three of us ran back to the spot where the stranger still lay. He seemed to have shrunken into the ground, to almost be a part of it.

  Bobby knelt, feeling for a pulse on Philly Whine's neck. "Oh, man . . . wait, I feel something!"

  A moan escaped Lorna as she pressed the knuckles of one hand against her teeth.

  The moonlight revealed one side of Philly Man's face. Though smeared with dirt and covered with a three-day-stubble, I could see the cheekbones and jaw formed a strong profile. It was a face that didn't go with a whining personality. Would help get here in time?

  A faintness washed over me as my mind absorbed the violence done to this man. His abdominal wound exerted an almost gravitational pull. I averted my gaze, afraid to look.

  "Someone's out there!" Next to me, Lorna's voice sounded unnaturally high. Her eyes, round and terrified, were fixed on the woods, maybe a hundred feet to the left of us.

  The murderer? I didn't see anything in the woods, but heard sirens piercing the dark air. Thank God. I turned to the sound, willing them to hurry, but they were still some distance away. Where was the security guard Cormack promised to send down?

  Moonlight glinted on metal, causing Lorna to shriek. Mike Talbot pushed brambles aside with his shovel as he emerged from the woods. He shuffled close, his attention fixing on the dead man. Talbot mumbled some words I couldn't make out. His eyes rose to Lorna and me, finally coming to rest on Bobby, who still knelt on the ground next to the man I hoped was still alive.

  Below me, Bobby's long hair had fallen forward, partially covering his face. His features, revealed in the murky light, were beautiful, almost feminine.

  Talbot's mouth went slack, his expression changing to dazed recognition.

  "Catherine?" Talbot's voice barely whispered. A tremor shook his body, while his face blanched as if he'd seen a ghost. "Catherine," he repeated, his voice growing urgent. He rushed the few steps to Bobby, jerking to a stop when the younger man screamed.

  "Get away from me, you crazy old man!" Bobby rose swiftly to his feet, clenched a fist in Talbot's face. There was nothing feminine about the wide shoulders, narrow hips and bunched muscles outlined beneath Bobby's tight clothes.

  Talbot shook his head, as if trying to clear his vision, then emitted an anguished cry, almost a keening sound. He spun, ran across the grass, and stumbled into the woods.

  "Jesus." Lorna stared after his retreating figure.

  Catherine. He must mean Catherine Tasker, Bobby's mother. I felt dizzy, suddenly nauseous, and staggered a few steps before dropping to my knees. I vomited up dinner as cop cars and an ambulance careened around the edge of our barn.

  #

  I sat in an unmarked Kent County police cruiser, my hands grasping a Styrofoam cup of coffee someone had given me. Detective Greg Anderson glanced at me with eyes devoid of kindness, before he continued typing something into the computer sitting on his lap. He had a narrow face, bladed with sharp bones, his lips tight and thin. Outside the cruiser, crime scene technicians flooded the area with bright light and yellow tape. Uniformed officers and technicians with various types of equipment swarmed the immediate area, while flashlights glimmered de
ep in the woods.

  The injured man had been rushed away in the ambulance – on a stretcher not in a bag.

  Cormack stood to one side talking to some cops. Bobby had been driven away in a sheriff's car. Was he a prime suspect? Lorna spoke with a second detective. They stood next to a white squad car. Large dark letters spelling "Sheriff," outlined in gold were painted on the side of the car. I studied these things, not wanting to revisit mental tapes of Philly Whine’s near death. Would he make it?

  I sipped the hot coffee, remembering instead the expression on Cormack's face when he'd first seen Philly Wine – the horror of recognition, transforming into anger. No question he knew the guy, but when I'd asked about it, Cormack didn't answer. The county detective who sat next to me now had taken over, steering me away, saying I needed to answer questions.

  Anderson's hard face turned back to me. "Tell me again where you'd seen this man before."

  I took a breath, stared at my knees, ran through the story again. "He was with a group of guys came in a stretch-Hummer. I got the impression they worked at the baron's bottling plant."

  "Did the victim appear to be under any duress?"

  Duress? No, he was just one of the guys."

  "Sounds like Atkins," he said, but like he was talking to himself.

  "Was that his name?" Weird, putting a name to the guy.

  "Yeah, Rick Atkins."

  "Who is he?" I asked.

  "Never mind, Miss Latrelle. You think someone was pursuing Atkins?"

  "What I already told you. I saw this light flicker. Kind of glowed a little, like maybe the guy shielded it."

  "Why do you say, ‘guy?'"

  "I don't know. I just assumed . . ."

  "Tell me what you know, not what you assume." His eyes held no warmth, but maybe he was just reacting to the attempted murder.

  I told him again how I must have shrieked. How the light shined on me, then shut off before the person retreated.