“Aunt Eleanor wanted me to check on the horse.”
“Guess she wants you to learn something useful.” He turned back to the assistant vet. “Get the Lasix.”
But the younger man was now wearing a stethoscope, brushing the instrument’s metal bell down the horse’s side and pausing to listen. The animal’s chestnut coat looked shiny, unctuous with sweat, and when Brent palpitated her hairless belly, she only gazed at the plank wall, her brown eyes glassy with illness.
“Lasix,” I said into the silence. “What does that do?”
Brent glanced over his shoulder. “Opens the lungs.”
“And it’s safe?”
Neither man replied. I was almost getting used to that.
Like most places that revolved around money, Emerald Meadows was built on a libertine subculture. Every handshake made my radar quiver with questions. Gamblers and bookies and sharks. Narks and rats and foolish souls who plowed every ounce of faith into “luck.” Many of them were hiding secrets. Most were hatching plans. And all of them treated newcomers with suspicion—even the supposed niece of Eleanor Anderson.
“What did I tell you?” Cooper said. “Get the Lasix. Now.”
Brent Roth’s eyes nearly closed with his squint. He yanked off the stethoscope. A flush of color came up his neck, enflaming the acne, as he dug through a black medical bag sitting on the ground.
“That’s right,” Cooper said. “Do what you’re told.”
I decided to try using Cooper’s hostility to my advantage, since the assistant didn’t like him either. Leaning over the bottom half of the Dutch door, I said, “She looks really sick. Are you sure this stuff ’s a good idea?”
“Butt out,” Cooper said.
I saw the assistant turn his head, about to respond, when he was interrupted.
“You just don’t care,” she said.
The girl in the pink shirt stood three feet behind me, glaring at Cooper. But when she saw the horse, the disgust in her eyes shifted to sadness. Brent was wiping the horse’s neck with an alcohol swab, then pressing his thumb down until a thick vein bulged. The jugular, I guessed. He stabbed it with a syringe and pushed the plunger. The horse didn’t react. When he extracted the needle, he patted the spot gently, comforting her.
Cooper said, “Was that so hard?”
Brent still had his hand on the horse. Solo in Seattle turned her head, the fevered eyes gazing at him.
The girl’s voice almost broke. “You’re cruel, Bill Cooper.”
“And you’re outta line,” he replied. “Especially after Cuppa Joe destroyed her morale.”
When Solo in Seattle faltered in the third race today, a horse named Cuppa Joe flew past her to victory. He was the long shot. And he just so happened to belong to the Abbondanza barn. It was a big payday for Sal Gag.
“You should be ashamed.” The girl’s eyes were wet as she turned and walked back toward her stables.
Brent Roth sighed and began packing up his medical bag.
“Do you think it could be Emerald Fever?” I asked.
“What?” Cooper whirled. “You want to jinx my barn?”
“It’s my aunt’s barn,” I said, keeping my eyes on the assistant vet. I was a bad liar. “And she wants blood tests.”
“What?” Cooper repeated.
It wasn’t quite what Eleanor said, but she did hire me to find out what was going on. And blood tests might reveal something.
Cooper said, “How come she didn’t tell me?”
“You were busy,” I lied. “But she thinks something’s not right. Solo was winning. Now suddenly she’s sick.”
“Colic,” Cooper said. “It’s just colic.”
But Brent Roth had already swabbed the neck again and was pressing down to find the vein. As he filled an empty syringe with crimson ribbons of blood, the horse blinked her large brown eyes. Brent patted her side and deposited the full syringe in a Ziploc bag inside his medical kit.
“That 50 ccs of Lasix should hold her,” he said. “Doc Madison will come check her in the morning. But somebody should stay with her tonight. Just in case.”
“Juan,” Cooper said, referring to the barn’s groom. “Juan will watch her.”
Brent glanced at me, stepping out of the stall. I thought his squint looked skeptical. Cooper practically pushed him down the gallery, hustling him out. But he stopped when I didn’t follow them.
“What’re you doing?” he asked.
“I’ll watch her. Until Juan can take over.”
“Right.” He rolled his eyes. “Because you know so much about horses.”
He had a bandy-legged walk, and as he passed the third stall he rapped his knuckles on the plank wall.
“Hey, check on Solo when you get a chance!”
It was several minutes later when a man stepped from that stall. Cooper and Brent Roth were gone, and the man held a red bucket in one hand. The metal hasp was sunk deep into the flesh of his thick palm. His fingers were gray. As he closed the Dutch door’s bottom half, the brown horse inside leaned forward and fluttered her lips. KichaKoo, a four-year-old filly. Juan Morales gave her whiskered chin a soft chuck.
Here’s what I knew about him: Juan Morales came to the barn last year, when Eleanor hired Bill Cooper. He was taciturn and diligent, and his social security number belonged to a Native American from the Yakima Indian reservation who died seventeen years ago. Naturally, the bad trace bumped him up my list of suspects. I was also learning that grooms had the most access to the horses. Feeding, watering. Staying the night.
“Juan?” I walked toward him.
He was already stepping into the next stall, where a white horse tried to block his entrance.
“I want to stay with Solo tonight.”
He pushed the horse aside. Her name was Checkmate. “Your aunt,” he said, “she pay me to stay.”
“I’ll make sure you get paid for the night.”
“El’nor, she no want you sweet on the horses.”
“She doesn’t need to know I’m here.”
He glanced at me and set down the bucket inside the stall. The horse was rocking its head up and down, as if enthusiastically agreeing to something. A thin horse, she was shaped from neck to haunches like a silver blade. I waited while Juan reached inside the bucket and scooped out a handful of wet clay. It was gray and he worked the soil between his hands before leaning into the animal’s side and clicking his tongue. The groom took her weight into his shoulders and back, and Checkmate raised her left leg, allowing him to massage the clay into her knobby knee.
“I would really like to stay.”
“You know no-ting about horses.”
“All she needs is someone to watch her. How hard is that?”
Still bent at the waist, he glanced up at me. His skin was the texture of raisins. And his dark eyes held a strange expression, like an old man who suspected any peaceful Sunday drive with his children might someday end at a retirement home. “Why?”
“I feel bad for her. She’s suffering.”
He returned to his work, massaging the mud into the leg. The horse looked like she was wearing dingy socks.
“I promise to be gone before Cooper comes back in the morning.”
He said something in Spanish. The horse shook her mane.
“I’ll pay you triple wages for the night.”
He glanced up. “Tree-pull?”
“Guaranteed.”
He straightened his back and dug two fingers into the front pocket of his jeans. The mud was such a fine clay that it had already started drying on the backs of his hands, flaking and falling like ash into the sawdust. He offered me a small brass key.
“What’s this?” I leaned over the Dutch door to take it.
“Cold at night.” He scooped another lump of clay from the bucket. “Get a blanket.”
I rushed up the gallery, feeling hope swirl around my heart. But as I passed the stalls, the horses nickered. Like they were in on my secret. I walked to the end of
the barn, where the grooms lived in apartments. I keyed open Juan’s door. His room wasn’t much bigger than the horse stalls. No window. No bathroom. No closet. Just a thin cot pushed against the wall and a green blanket nubby from wear. Standing in the door, I glanced back at the stables, then closed the door.
By giving me the key, Juan had surrendered all his “expectations of privacy.” It was a legal term that basically meant any objects in plain sight were fair game for law enforcement. But nothing could be touched or moved without his permission. And I wasn’t tempted, not after making that mistake on the cruise ship.
A brown towel hung on a brass hook. The terrycloth looked rough as sandpaper. Below the towel, a pair of worn rubber sandals waited, probably for walking back and forth to the showers, which were in another building. A pile of dirty clothes slumped on the concrete floor, and a Spanish language newspaper lay next to a dented steel trunk at the foot of the bed. The trunk, unfortunately, was closed. I crouched down, checking under the bed. Inches from the metal frame, an aluminum pot sat on a hot plate and a scent rose from the simmering contents, earthy as tilled soil. Beans. Black beans, cooked down to the consistency of paste.
I stood up, looked around the room again, and saw the only thing resembling a spare blanket: a sleeping bag rolled up in the corner, with strands of hay protruding from the flannel like feathers in a cap. Picking up the bag, I headed back to the stables.
Juan had moved to the next stall and was working the clay into an equine warlord appropriately named SunTzu.
“Is this what you meant?” I lifted the sleeping bag.
He nodded, took his key back, and gave me a funny look. “You no tell?”
“As long as you don’t tell Aunt Eleanor, I won’t tell Cooper. And I’ll make sure the triple time is in your next check.”
He nodded but dropped his eyes, unable to hold my gaze. Was he ashamed of betraying Cooper? I wondered. Or was he calculating the resale, the amount Cooper would pay him to learn that I had stayed the night, against Eleanor’s wishes.
Right now, I didn’t care. I was in the barn for the night. Plenty of time to snoop while the grooms slept. But as I was heading for Solo’s stall, I once again heard someone talking inside it.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll make sure they take care of you.”
I stood at the half-door, watching them. The chestnut horse was still on the sawdust, but now the girl from Abbondanza was nuzzling the animal’s perspiring neck. Her long platinum hair blended with the mane like frosted extensions.
I opened the door.
“Oh!” She scrambled to her feet. “I’m sorry—I didn’t—”
“I’m staying with her.” I shifted the sleeping bag to my left hand and extended my right. “We haven’t really met. I’m Raleigh David.”
“Ashley.” She shook my hand. Her fingers were child-sized but strong, the skin coarse. “Ashley Trenner.”
I had so many questions for her, particularly about her employer, Salvatore Gagliardo. But she was nervously stuffing her small hands into the back pockets of her jeans and dragging the toe of her boot across the sawdust. I decided to hold my tongue. She seemed like the kind of girl who filled silences. I set down the sleeping bag.
“I just wanted, you know, to see how she was doing.”
I nodded.
“I heard Brent say somebody should stay with her tonight. And, well, no offense . . .”
“For what?”
She dragged her boot again. “Juan.”
“What about him?”
“He won’t stay. Not all night. So I was gonna . . .” She stopped. “You think I’m spying on your barn.”
“It is unusual that a groom from a competing barn wants to help.”
“I’m not spying.” Her voice rose, almost whiny. “Nobody gets it. I don’t care about winning. I care about the horses. And I have to, the way some people treat them around here. It’s inhuman.”
I let the literal meaning pass. “I appreciate your concern, Ashley.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Well, thanks. But don’t tell Cooper I was here. He’ll go ballistic.”
I was about to say, “You have my word,” when a thought wagged its finger at me. Your word? You’re living a total lie.
“How about we make a deal,” I said. “I won’t tell anyone you were here and you won’t tell anyone I stayed.”
Her smile looked wan, like she agreed with the proposal but wished an agreement never had to be made. When she stepped out of the stall, the horse’s glazed brown eyes followed her. A pang of guilt squeezed my heart. The horse would probably prefer her company tonight. But it was just one night. Ashley could stay tomorrow.
“Don’t leave her.” She gazed down at the sweating animal. “Promise, hope to die?”
“Promise,” I said.
But I didn’t hope to die.
Chapter Four
When my eyes opened, I didn’t know what it was. Lying under the sleeping bag, with the ailing horse at my back, I could feel my heart beating too fast.
Then I heard it again. A train whistle. And with it, the dream rushed back.
I had been standing on a cliff overlooking the James River. My fiancé, DeMott Fielding, stood beside me, and an Episcopal priest was reciting marriage vows. When it came my turn to repeat the words, a crowd of women in floral dresses pushed forward. I opened my mouth, but all that came out was a howl, like the cry of a lonely wolf.
And now I could hear how it harmonized with the train’s whistle.
I stared at the plank wall. No way could I ever tell my fiancé about that dream. Not unless I wanted another fight. Reaching back, I laid my hand on the horse, lying length-wise across the sawdust. Her breathing was labored, loud, filling the small space with a chugging sound that made it seem like the locomotive was coming through the barn. Beneath my palm her ribs expanded with each inhalation. I could feel the ligaments between the bones, vibrating, wet, and ragged.
Not good.
I raised my arm, trying to read my watch. 2:33 a.m.
“Oh rats,” I muttered.
Over the last two months, I hadn’t managed more than an hour or two of sleep at one time. Each night my startle reflex threw me awake, tossing me from dreams where I dropped through thin air and plunged over waterfalls and tumbled off cliffs. Like the cliff where I howled my marriage vows. On the one night I needed to stay awake, I’d fallen asleep. And the bustle here started every morning at 4:00 a.m. My opportunity to investigate the barn was almost gone. And now the horse needed help.
Terrific.
I kicked my boots from the flannel bag. The horse shifted and I glanced over. Her chestnut coat was shiny, like wet ocher paint.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m going for help now.”
The words burned at the back of my throat. Dry, hot. And the horse was drawing back her head. The deep brown eyes bulged. The whites were visible.
Fear.
“I’m sorry, I fell asleep.”
I stood up and started for the door. But it was closed. Both top and bottom. I felt a sudden disorientation, like all that sleep had made me stupid. I wondered if I’d closed it before going to sleep. But I didn’t. And I knew for a fact I didn’t pull the bolt shut. I couldn’t have locked the door from the outside.
The horse made a whimpering sound. When I looked over, her hooves were pawing the air. And greasy gray ribbons rose from the sawdust in the corner. Smoke.
Fire.
“Fire!”
The horse suddenly rocked back, shoving herself to a wobbly stand.
“Fire!”
I called again, but my voice was drowned out by the sudden scream of the smoke alarms. The horse staggered forward, blocking my path to the door. My eyes stung. I yanked off my jean jacket, holding it over my nose, and crouched in the sawdust. The flame was leaping inside the smoke, then dying, sparking and falling away like trick birthday candles. Flame retardant. On the sawdust. But no ret
ardant was fireproof. Not on dried wood shavings.
The horse turned and curled back her lips. Her scream sounded human. Female. Terrified. And in the small confined space her body looked monumental.
“Fire—” I coughed. “With Solo!”
I could see red veins in the white crescents of her eyes. She staggered backward. Her back bashed into the wall.
Juan—where is Juan?
She stumbled forward and lifted her back leg, kicking the wall. Hitting it again and again until the wood splintered. I could smell her fear, oily and bitter beneath the smoke. Adrenaline fear. Killing fear. She kicked again, harder, and the wooden planks shuddered against my back. Powered by fright, she was growing stronger, not weaker. And now the other horses were kicking too. The sound echoed like rock crushers, pounding through the alarm’s mechanical wail. I blinked at the sting in my eyes and watched her lungs. They were expanding like giant bellows and each breath sent out another high cry. She was punch-drunk with panic, staggering again. I crouched lower. Two steps to the right and she could pin me in the back corner. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.
She could kill me.
The horse stamped her hooves into the sawdust, some frightened dance, gearing up for the next blow. I shoved my hand down into my boot. The Glock’s barrel raked my skin. She turned her face to me. Her bulging eyes showed so much white she looked blind.
I lifted the gun.
She reared, raising her front legs. In the firelight I could see the metal shoes glinting, telegraphing the pain, the death she wouldn’t even notice. I heard another scream.
Hers or mine, I didn’t know.
But it was the last thing I remembered before squeezing the trigger.
Chapter Five
Miss David?”
My mother was smiling. Her cheeks rosy, pink, and happy.
“Miss David?”
She nodded and sighed. Oh, I miss David, she said. I miss him so much—
“Hey, Miss David. You in there?”
I opened my eyes. For several seconds I stared at the face leaning into mine. The eyes were teal blue. And they matched his shirt. I stared at him until something ripped across my heart.
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