by Sam O'Brien
“Good. When are you going home?”
“In a few minutes. I’ll cook, if you give the injections at the farm.”
“Deal.”
Oliver made a final tour of the sales complex. He wandered about and took the place in one last time. In his early twenties, he had always imagined that he would spend a lifetime in places like this, buying and selling horses for large sums. But now everything was different. He bid goodbye to Keeneland and drove home.
He rang Mike, who called back ten minutes later as Oliver was peeling onions, weeping.
“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” asked Mike, as Oliver sniffled on the line.
“Onions. We’ll be good to go in three weeks. How do you want to do this?”
“Couriers. They’ll call you. Then you bring ‘em wherever you want.”
“The same place. It’ll be early morning, before anyone shows up.”
“OK, call me again the day before you need it.”
“OK.”
“Good luck.” The line went dead.
“I’ll bloody well need it,” Oliver muttered, as the knife nicked his thumb and blood stained the chopping board.
* * *
Oliver waited in the car park of a popular restaurant near Fayette Mall. Looking at his watch, he swore at them for their tardiness. It was nearly one am and the place was closing up; the lot was emptying of cars, but there were no grey sedans around.
Ten minutes later, a green Chevrolet station-wagon pulled up opposite him, and the driver lit a cigarette and let his arm dangle out of the window between drags. Oliver recognised the man and the signal. He started up the SUV and inched out of his place towards the new arrival.
“You looking for a horse farm?” he said to Tomo.
The hard features broke into a sarcastic smile, then Tomo flicked his smoke onto the ground and started up the engine. They crossed Lexington in convoy and slid up the avenue of Four Oaks.
Rebecca opened the barn doors, and Tomo reversed into the barn. Oliver parked the SUV and jumped out to help Rebecca close the large wooden doors. In the barn, one or two of the mares made snorting sounds and stuck their heads over their doors, curious, eyes blinking in the bright glare from the headlights.
Oliver could see the two little thugs checking out Rebecca as she walked through the headlight beam towards the rear of the car. “Turn the lights out,” he ordered. “You’ll frighten the horses.”
They did so without a word, but the looks on their faces told another story. Rebecca opened the trunk and flicked back the blanket covering the merchandise, whistling when she saw the fifty canisters.
“That’s a lot of coke,” she said to nobody in particular.
Oliver appeared beside her, equally impressed and dismayed. The delivery men stayed in their seats.
“Can you give us a hand to unload?” said Oliver.
Tomo shrugged and punched his accomplice on the shoulder. Grumbling, Tito got out to lend a hand.
“OK, we’re going to need them all over there, on that large sheet of plastic.” Rebecca indicated to the work station she had laid out near the stocks. It was a larger, more elaborate version of what she had set up to impregnate Painter. To the delivery men, it looked like a field hospital in a war zone. Green sheets and plastic were draped everywhere, in addition to four open containers of iodine solution.
Oliver and his reluctant helper unloaded the car, while Rebecca began dipping the canisters in the iodine solution. She put five into each container and let them soak. Then she emptied five gallons of lubricant into a large tub.
When the car was empty, Tomo nodded at Oliver and started up the engine. Oliver ran to the doors and threw them open. The car eased out into the brisk night air and Oliver watched it disappear down the avenue.
“Assholes,” he said.
He closed the doors and got the first mare from her stable. It was going to be a long night.
It was nearly seven and dawn was creeping over central Kentucky when Rebecca finally finished the last mare. All ten were now loaded up with cocaine, and all on antibiotics. She had not bothered with any sedatives. Instead Oliver had restrained the old horses by squeezing an ear if any of them objected to the impregnation procedure. Most of these old girls had been around the block and seen it all before. To them, this was just another desperate veterinary procedure to try to coax one last pregnancy out of them. It was only when they were filled up that symptoms of discomfort became visible on some of them.
Oliver rubbed the forehead of the mare nearest him. “I’m sorry, old girl. You’ve done nothing to anybody,” he whispered.
“Don’t beat yourself up, hon,” said Rebecca. “They’ve had a long life and the end’ll be quick and painless, I promise.”
He let his hand drop and glanced at another mare. “Hmm. Will they hold out?” he asked, watching the horse paw the ground.
“Should do. I gave them all a large shot of painkiller. Enough to get us there and loaded. Then we’ll hit ‘em with the cocktail. Then we let the flying grooms panic,” she said, winking.
Oliver nodded thoughtfully. “Like I said, not just a pretty face.”
She punched him on the arm playfully, then they set about tidying up the evidence.
A few minutes later, Pat poked his head into the barn. “How’re you? Jaysus, but you’re at it early.”
“No rest for the wicked, Pat,” said Oliver, rolling his eyes.
Pat scanned the barn and the stocks, looking for something to question them about, but the sound of the lorry pulling into to the yard provided a welcome distraction.
Oliver tapped Pat on the shoulder. “Help them back up to the ramp, will you? We’ll get the bags ready.”
“Yes, Boss, right you be,” he said, with just a touch of sarcasm.
They loaded the old mares onto the truck and were trundling up the interstate highway half an hour later. Rebecca passed out into a deep sleep.
Having triple-checked that all the mares were now the registered property of Robert Romano in their passports, he stowed the documents in his bag, tried to settle his mind, and eventually closed his eyes. When he woke with a start several hours later, he looked out the window and saw they were stopped at the cargo entrance of O’Hare Airport. The driver showed his shipping papers to the guards and was ushered inside. Oliver nudged Rebecca awake.
“Oh boy, did I sleep the whole way?” she said, stretching her arms.
“We both did.”
She smiled groggily.
“Back to business, I’m afraid,” he said.
Rebecca rubbed her eyes. “Right, a shot of oxytocin to the first two mares now. Intramuscular – two ccs. We want a delay before it starts to work.”
“Sure thing,” he said, drawing up the injections.
Rebecca rummaged in the bag and drew two large fifty cc syringes of a clear liquid. “Keep that with the big shots of oxy. When I give you the signal, get it done fast and clean.”
Oliver grimaced, his heart was thumping against his chest. He placed the four syringes in the inside pocket of his jacket and zipped it up.
“I mean it,” she said sternly. “You have to be quick.”
He stared at the floor, like he hadn’t heard her.
“You OK, hon?”
“Up till now, this was all words: a plan. Now I’ve actually got to put a horse down. I haven’t had to do that since Gorman’s place. And back then, I didn’t have much choice.” He slumped onto the seat.
She took his face in her hands. “We don’t have much choice now. I’m not thrilled about this either, but they’re all old and, well, if someone else had bought them at that sale and got them pregnant again, they’d probably suffer in some other way from the stress of it all. This way, they won’t feel a thing and the ones you give oxy to will just think they’re in labour. It’ll be OK, hon.”
Oliver hugged her.
“I’ll do it if you want.”
“No, Bec. My idea, my job. I’ll be OK.” He c
hewed his lip. “Marco’s going down for this; the fucker.”
She kissed him on the cheek.
He squeezed through the partitions and gave the first injections.
The plane was a horses-only flight. Inside, it was divided up into twenty-five individual stalls and there was a long ramp extending from the rear cargo doors to the ground. The truck was allowed to pull up to just a few yards outside the wingspan of the 757. Oliver leapt out and let the ramp down directly onto the tarmac.
Two figures approached, one carrying a large sack of wood shavings.
The taller man spoke to Oliver with a thick Irish accent. “Well, Oliver McMahon, is it? How’re ya doin’? Tom Callaghan, a fellow Limerick man.” He extended a large hand.
“Hi, Tom.” Oliver shook his hand vigorously. “Your reputation precedes you.”
Tom was one of a community of professional flying grooms who spent their lives escorting horses around the world on planes. He was a sprightly, teetotal man in his early fifties, and was known for being the best there was.
“Cathal.” He clicked his fingers at his short, pimply sidekick. “Look lively, scatter a bit o’ shavings on the ramp.” He shook his head at Oliver. “Young fellas. I’m trying to show him the ropes, but God love him, he’s wicked dopey.”
Oliver eyed the plane. “Are yours already loaded?”
“They are. I always like to get here in plenty of time.” He looked at his watch. “You’re cuttin’ it fine. We’d better kick on. Cathal, get back on the plane and watch the horses. I’ll help this lot load up.”
The young guy scurried up the ramp and disappeared into the belly of the plane.
Tom took a look inside the plane and was surprised to see Rebecca. “Oh, are you the vet?”
“Sure am.”
“Grand, well you wait here and we’ll start loading.”
Oliver tossed him a lead rope, they grabbed a horse each and the driver opened the partitions.
“Fockin’ hell, this lot’ve seen better days,” said Tom. “They look shooker than my auld mother.”
Oliver didn’t reply.
The two old mares clambered stiffly up the ramp into the plane, without even so much as a snort or whinny.
When Tom returned to the truck ahead of Oliver, he cast an appraising eye over the remaining horses and was not best pleased. “Jaysus,” he said. “There’s a couple there don’t look too fockin’ happy at all.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Oliver dismissively. “They’ll be grand. They’re just old, is all.”
Tom crouched down and shuffled up through the partitions, inspecting each horse individually. Oliver watched him in silence. Rebecca hopped down from the truck and arranged their bags on the tarmac.
Tom called after her. “Listen, young one, I don’t know what you’re like as a vet, but you want to get back in here and have a look at these last few. One looks sweaty and the other colicky. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear she was having contractions.”
“I’ll deal with it,” she said, climbing back into the truck. “You guys get the next two loaded.”
They led the next two off, and Rebecca stood watching the mares.
When Tom returned, he looked quizzically at the vet.
“They’re fine. Just a bit upset by the road. Heart rates are normal, but I gave one a shot of fenadine just in case.”
She could see Tom wondering where her stethoscope was. “Look, I’ve been at this for donkey’s years, and I’m telling you, those two don’t look right.”
“They’re fine,” she said again, in a stern voice.
He shook his head. “Well, you’re the vet, but I’m not happy about this. If those mares start to colic or thrash about when we’re up over the Atlantic, then we’re focked, you know that?”
Oliver appeared behind him and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “They’ll be fine, Tom, chill out. You worry about your own horses, we’ll take care of ours, OK?”
The man led the next mare into the plane, muttering to himself disapprovingly about young people and standards of work.
They finished loading, then the Customs officers conducted a final check of the plane and the passports. Tom grumbled to them about Rebecca, but they simply stated that, as a groom, he should listen to her veterinary opinion and leave it at that.
Shortly afterwards, the doors were closed. Tom and Cathal stood at strategic positions between the partitions of the fifteen horses they were officially escorting. Rebecca watched the first few of theirs, obstructing Tom’s view of Oliver, who stood at the rear of the plane, beside the second last horse. The two filled with oxytocin were near Rebecca. They were looking confused and uncomfortable.
The engines fired up and, as they began taxiing, the cabin attendant informed them they were second in line for take-off.
Oliver produced the two large syringes from his jacket and gripped them in his left hand, then inched down to stand beside the head of the last horse. The plane ambled along the taxiway. Rebecca nodded and mouthed, “Go, go.”
They felt the plane swing onto the runway. Oliver jabbed the syringe into the neck of the animal beside him, pulled back to confirm he was in the vein and swiftly pushed the contents into the horse’s jugular. The effect was instantaneous: the animal dropped to the ground. Dead.
The massive dose of potassium had been enough to induce instant cardiac arrest, but wouldn’t show up on any autopsy. Rebecca had been adamant that they could not use normal T61 humane killer, because it had to look like an accident.
The plane was gathering speed at an alarming rate; the noise was deafening. Rebecca shouted to Tom, “We’ve got a problem! Tell the pilot!”
The older man swore. “I fockin’ knew it! Cathal, sprint, tell them to abort. NOW!”
The young guy went deathly pale. The plane was starting to climb. In his panic to move, Cathal was thrown back, and he crashed to the floor banging his head.
Rebecca braced herself and swore. “Fuck, fuck. We have to land.”
“Mother of God,” Tom said to her. “You fockin’ stupid yoke, you’re not cut out for this job.”
Oliver euthanised the second horse and pulled himself towards the next two, whom he gave more oxytocin. Then he bound all four syringes together with a rubber band and slipped them into his pocket. Only then did he realize, through the fog of adrenaline coursing through his veins, that they were airborne. He braced himself against the partition and shot a panicked look at Rebecca.
“What the fuck?” he shouted above the engines.
The plane climbed steadily, and he inched along the aisleway to Rebecca and made a show of telling her that two were dead and two looking dodgy.
Tom swore again. “McMahon, get your fockin’ hole up there and tell the crew we’re turning back. You come with me, Missy, I want to see what kinda shit you’ve got us into.”
Rebecca remained silent, and they groped their way rearwards. Oliver pulled himself towards Cathal, who sat on the floor rubbing his head. He was in tears. “Jesus, I’m awful sorry. T’was too late when Tom shouted.”
“Don’t worry about it. Your head OK?”
“Bit sore, but I’ll be grand.”
Oliver stepped over him until he reached the jumpseat. Tapping the dozing shipping agency representative on his shoulder, he roared into his ear, “Tell the captain we have to abort. A horse has died, and another looks pretty sick.”
The man’s eyes flicked open. “Goddamn!” He reached for the intercom and repeated it all for the cockpit crew.
In a minute, Oliver could feel the plane even out and slow down. The cockpit door opened and a concerned-looking pilot stepped out.
“What’s going on?” asked the Captain.
“Some of the horses are down. One’s dead, I think. It looks like we’ll have to turn back.”
The pilot took in what he said, then walked to the rear.
Tom took delight in informing him that, due to Rebecca’s neglect, they had put everyone at r
isk.
“And that’s not all. Get a load of this.” He grabbed the Captain by the elbow and made him look over the partition.
The mare was thrown down awkwardly in the stall, wedged in the bottom of it, straining like she was giving birth. But the only thing emerging from her vagina was a tubular object.
The Captain said nothing, but returned to the cockpit and locked the door.
Tom was livid. He took stock of the situation and bellowed at Rebecca and Oliver. “I don’t know what the fock you lot are trying to get away with, but you’re in some deep shit now. There’s two dead ones, another colicking, and this one.” He jabbed his finger at the animal nearest him. “She’s fockin’ spitting some kind of contraption out of her, and all you two can do is stand there looking stupid.”
He poked Oliver in the chest. “I expected more of you, McMahon. I thought you were a proper horseman. I shoulda known when I heard those rumours about your boss, and then that whole thing with your brother. Oh, yeah. It all comes out in the end.”
Oliver rolled his eyes at Rebecca. They let him rant and rave. There was nothing to be gained from saying anything.
Agents Rosen and Kimble were waiting patiently in the artificial light of a windowless office in the bowels of O’Hare Airport, under the pretext of doing a special inspection of a flight due in from Istanbul in an hour.
The only other occupant of the pokey office space was a portly Customs officer, who sat at his desk trying to pass off computer solitaire as engrossing paperwork, and sipping a coke from the can.
Rosen tried not to look at his watch too often, but he was sure the call should have come by now. Had something gone wrong?
Eventually, the desk phone throbbed and buzzed. The officer minimized his game and sighed as he picked up.
“Yeah?” he said, in a thick local accent.
The voice barked an order at him. He kept the receiver wedged under his chin, ended the call, and dialled for help. “Yeah, it’s Johnson. We got flight aborted after take-off. Tower requests Customs and local PD. Can you call up a car?” He listened to the reply. “I’m on my way.” He dropped the receiver into its cradle with a bang.