by Jean Chapman
‘Not like …’ Cannon began.
‘Not …’ Liz shook her head as she too realized what was meant.
‘Staked out, and scalped,’ he confirmed.
Cannon blasphemed quietly. ‘A Harvester speciality then,’ he said.
‘So many victims,’ Tom Beale said quietly, and for a moment he looked not just old but totally defeated, then he lifted his head, the line of his face hardening. ‘I must go and speak to Ken Garcia at once.’
‘We must get Austin out,’ Liz stated as they watched him go. ‘I couldn’t …’
‘There have been more killings,’ Betterson now told them, ‘a Valdes groom in the Churchill Down stables last night, and in the early hours of this morning, Spracks lost one of his heavies, he was left in front of a parked police car dealing with an incident in the suburbs.’
‘Maybe it’ll save a few innocent lives if they bump each other off,’ Charlie said.
In the silence that followed, Betterson cleared his throat, then went on.
‘I have to be at an official briefing later today, but we,’ he indicated the group of them, ‘we, with the exception of Geoff, are just concerned with Austin’s escape. Geoff is the link between Austin and the police – and us – as he has been all along.’
By the time Betterson left, wishing them good luck, Cannon felt they were going to need it. Betterson said they would not see him again until after the operation, but felt they were all as well prepared for the big day as anyone could be. They knew when, and where they should be at any given time, when to split up, and when and where they should be back together – with Austin.
‘Proper reunions we’ll arrange later,’ the DI concluded, gave a shrug, nodded, and turned to go.
‘After D-Day,’ Cannon said to no one in particular.
Lucas arrived with the suits well before breakfast was finished, reminded them the gates opened to the public at eight, in less than two hours’ time, when, he told them, they could buy their first mint julep of the day. His mother, a robust but kindly soul, installed for a stay that could be as long as she liked, shook her head at him.
‘Time and place for all things,’ she said.
‘I’d rather have one of your bourbons here later,’ Cannon said, ‘a celebratory one – hopefully.’
Cannon picked up his suit and handed Charlie his. ‘Time to get ready,’ he said.
‘The wagering windows open at ten,’ Lucas added.
‘How were you brought up?’ his mother reprimanded. ‘Drink and gambling, what these good folk must think!’
‘Know what, Mrs Lucas, he’s not turned out too bad really,’ Cannon said, ‘I think you’ve done a decent job.’
She tutted, shook her head vigorously.
In their bedroom Liz said, ‘Well, we’ve dressed down for a good few police stake-outs, but this is the first time I remember really dressing up.’
Cannon surveyed them both, put on large sunglasses to complete his outfit, and said, ‘Gee, honey, you look a million dollars.’
She spun around for a moment, exhibiting her pale cream dress, the slash of red scarf and the hat then she stood very still – sober.
‘I could wish I was in rags back at The Trap,’ she stated.
The spoken yearning for home, and the unspoken desire for the day to be over, safely over, took him unawares; he was so focussed on the plan, the action to come, the end result.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Tell you what, when we are all safely home, we’ll arrange one of those tramp suppers we used to have years ago.’
‘Tramp supper!’ she exclaimed. ‘What era are you living in?’
‘Hoskins’s probably,’ he admitted, ‘and he could come dressed as he usually is.’
‘Come on,’ Charlie said once they were inside the Churchill Downs, and he led the way to one of many wagering windows, which were already busy. He put down twenty dollars to win on Tom Beale’s horse, Lord Ebony. Cannon wagered ten dollars each way on it. Liz stood back.
‘Now let’s go to see the garland of roses – and Betterson – arrive,’ she said, ‘check he’s up to speed.’
He is, of course, Cannon thought, as standing back a little from the crowd around Gate 18, he glimpsed Betterson’s tall gangling figure in a pale linen suit, coming towards them. He was sporting a rose in his buttonhole, managing to look more American than the Americans, like an up-to-date version of Uncle Sam.
There was no hint of recognition as he passed within spitting distance. Not for the first time, Cannon thought that in his own unassuming way, Derek Betterson was quite a man, diplomatically getting things done, quietly achieving aims.
Now something was happening, a longish vehicle, almost like a hearse, had pulled up outside the gate. He was not sure how he expected this garland of roses to arrive, but not in a long glass case supported by four ladies, some of the florists, he supposed, all dressed in black and white striped outfits with red scarves. It was quite an event; they carried the garland, more like a horse blanket of perfect red roses, carefully through the cheering onlookers, who were busy trying to angle cameras and iPhones to take souvenir shots.
He noticed there were many in little groups who were dressed the same: three men in linen suits not unlike Betterson’s; women looking like twins in size and matching green outfits, with huge single red rose hats, and proud parents all in white, a father carrying a toddler, and all with red and white ribbons like epaulettes on their shoulders and rosettes on their hats. He need not have worried that the idea of dressing several men in the same suits as Austin might stand out just too much. Hopefully it would do exactly what he planned, deceive some into thinking one man was another, and give Austin extra seconds to slip away, disappear into the crowd, well before the police began the operation Spracks’s head security man had organized. He shuddered to think what would be done to Austin if the escape plan failed, and Spracks, or Valdes – or both – realized how they had been set up.
There was time now to locate the various facilities on Churchill Downs for members, owners and the general public; the private luxury viewing suites; the tier upon tier of seating in the multi-deck stands, and the standing areas. The three of them did this between the morning races. Several times they made their way back to the paddock to be sure they knew the whole ritual by heart, the routine of ‘riders up’ called ten minutes before the horses were released onto the track to go to the starting stalls.
They had been told that while Valdes preferred to have a luxury private viewing place for his party, Spracks would linger at the paddock to watch the riders take their horses out onto the dirt track, then he took himself to a preferred position near the finishing line.
The three of them familiarized themselves with the whole layout as the day’s fourteen races went on, noted how just before and after each race the crowd swirled like tides, flowing easily in some places, in others crossing, delaying each other’s progress.
They assessed timing, just when Cannon and Charlie were going to make their way to where Spracks would stand at the finish line, with Austin by his side. How they would edge nearer and how, just as the horses approached the finish line, Charlie would change places with Austin.
As if by mutual consent, Cannon and Charlie even practised the move as the thunder of the horses approached, the ground fairly shaking beneath the pounding hooves. Cannon thought it would be a cold man who did not, each and every time, thrill to the sounds, and be lifted by the excitement of the crowd.
He noted too how as soon as the first horses crossed the line, people turned immediately to those with them to share emotions, gauge each other’s reactions. Getting Austin away would need split second timing; in the last few strides before the winning post, the change must be made.
They all came to realize that exciting as these early races were, they were nothing compared to the build-up for the ONE BIG RACE; the words were on everyone’s lips.
All day there had been events in the arena in the middle of the two circling
tracks, the outer a dirt mile, the inner seven furlongs on grass. There had been a display of military splendour and marching; there were stalls, booths; all kinds of artwork were on sale, splendid pictures of horses of all kinds, with the highlight being an artist of international repute signing prints of his racing sketches.
At five, the strains of the ‘Stars and Stripes’ came over the loudspeakers, then the announcement that the Derby Day Fifty/Fifty Charitable Gaming Raffle – fifty per cent for the day’s winner and fifty per cent to the day’s charity – would be drawn on the Horseshoe Balcony near Gate 1.
All around, there was a patting of pockets and opening of handbags as tickets were sought, and the day’s number was announced, but they heard no whoop of success.
‘It’ll be a guy in Hong Kong or Dubai,’ some wit shouted, ‘nobody who’s here!’
‘Their loss then!’ a woman in an outrageous garden of a hat called.
The laughter, the comradeship of enjoyment, and the anticipation, all grew as many began to make their way towards the Winner’s Circle, where there would be a champagne toast to the Kentucky Derby.
Liz would be part of that crowd now, meeting Geoff where a white balustraded walkway circled up to a white tower, overlooking the winner’s circle. She would confirm the manoeuvres to extricate Austin had begun. From there, she and Geoff would act as partners, until the time came for Geoff to leave the racetrack. She would then take delivery of Austin from Betterson and guide him to Gate 10, by which time Geoff should have picked up the car from the parking lot – and they would be away to the airport. This was the plan.
Cannon had caught her hand before they parted, kissed her cheek. ‘See you back at the ranch then,’ he said.
‘Good luck,’ she had whispered as he and Charlie moved away to begin the first crucial step in the rescue.
CHAPTER 27
The walk out from the barn to the paddock was the first time Cannon and Charlie saw Tom Beale at the event. Lucas was at his elbow, as they accompanied Ken Garcia, leading Tom’s magnificent gelding, Lord Ebony.
The crowd pressed forward, looking for their favoured horses as all twenty filed into the paddock with their entourage of owners, riders, trainers. Cannon did not need the nudge Charlie gave him as Spracks and Austin walked in with his chestnut mare, Supremo. Not far behind came Valdes’s entry, a gelding sired by one of Tom Beale’s stallions and cynically named The Harvest. There seemed to be no one but the trainer and a couple of grooms with this horse.
Now they were literally on their toes as ‘riders up’ was called, followed almost immediately by an announcement asking everyone to stand as the university marching band led them in ‘My Old Kentucky Home.’
It was certainly impressive as 160,000 race-goers raised their voices. But Cannon, who had studied slavery at school and read Uncle Tom’s Cabin as a child, thought it was not quite the words to the original version with the black slaves bending their backs, toiling wherever they had been sold on to, and yearning for their old homes in Kentucky. He found himself looking over to the way Lucas had gone, and wondering what the song meant to him.
Then he realized that he in turn was being watched, he knew that strange unexplained feeling that eyes were focused on him. He half turned his head, and his lips parted in surprise, as not too distant from him stood the woman they had first seen on the Valdes ranch, by her side was another girl, younger. Leah nodded to him and mouthed, ‘This is my sister.’
Their showy bright yellow dresses, the yellow and white flowered hats seemed to emphasize their vulnerability, contrasting too strongly with their brown, dark-socketed, eyes pleading, hoping.
‘Our people are moving,’ Charlie warned, ‘ready?’
Cannon saw that just as they had been told, as soon as Supremo was mounted, Spracks was moving on, making his way out of the paddock with Austin, heading for his spot overlooking the finishing post.
‘You all right?’ Charlie asked.
Cannon felt suddenly alarmed, he was allowing himself to be sidetracked, losing focus what with the song, and these girls … He caught Charlie’s arm, drawing him towards the girls and stooped to whisper to them as they passed. ‘Go from here straight to White Picket Ranch, both of you, tell them Cannon sent you.’
He could do no more, but thought he saw in Leah’s eyes that she had perhaps hoped for more from him, that he would make time for them – but time he did not have.
Charlie nodded to the girls, then it was he who took Cannon’s elbow. ‘One thing at a time,’ he said.
‘Right,’ Cannon agreed, grateful to Charlie Brown, plain speaking, dealing with what life handed out to him.
He followed the man as he moved through the happy, elaborately dressed crowd, with the tannoy booming out information above the general hubbub.
Every aspect of every horse was given, it’s dam and sire, its form, where in the world it had travelled from; then it was the turn of the jockeys, where they hailed from, what horses they had ridden to victory. It was as the two of them neared where Spracks and Austin stood that the announcer went on with the information about the owners of the three favourites at the wagering windows.
Spracks was described as a landed English gentleman, whose horse Supremo had drawn number three; Valdes as a local entrepreneur, his horse had drawn a less advantageous number fifteen out of the twenty, and Tom Beale as ‘our local breeder of champion stallions. His horses, ladies and gentlemen, have won top races all around the world. Today his Lord Ebony is number eight. And, ladies and gentlemen, Mr Tom Beale has an impressive name board hung above his stables listing them all.’ The announcer made it clear he had been privileged to see this, by which time the horses had been led into their starting stalls.
There was no delay now. The last horse was in and just one breath-held second later, the announcer’s voice moved up an octave and he began the race commentary proper.
‘They’re off, this Derby is under way!’
The crowd watched the twenty horses surge out of their stalls, jockeys all looking for a clear run, an unhampered getaway.
Cannon and Charlie edged in immediately behind Spracks and Austin. Two minutes this race took, the most exciting two minutes racing in the world it was said. It might be the most important two minutes in quite a few lifetimes, Cannon thought.
‘Number three made a good start. Well placed. He fairly leapt out of his stall, looking to take the rail position from number one.’
Cannon calculated that if he took Austin’s sleeve and urged him over to the side and back, it would be easier for Charlie to slip into his place.
‘And now Supremo looks like he’s being boxed in. Number fifteen and sixteen. One each side, are moving across to the rail. They’re bunching up! And, my, this looks like being a fast Derby.’
Cannon’s hand reached forward towards Austin’s sleeve.
‘As they reach the back straight, Supremo is still there, but so is number eight. It’s Lord Ebony coming up between horses to the inside. Watch that black horse! As they reach the first turn, he’s a nose in front. A nose ahead!’
The noise and excitement was tremendous, fever-pitch. Cannon kept his eyes down even as the commentator screamed on about Tom Beale’s horse being in front.
‘We’re heading for a dramatic finish. Now number twelve, Devil’s Luck, is putting in an appearance, coming up on the outside, neck and neck with number eight. Now number seven, The Jaunt, an Irish entrant. The leaders have passed the last furlong mark.’
The commentator’s voice broke into a falsetto scream.
‘And it is still all in the balance!’
Cannon took his friend’s elbow, drew him back and Charlie moved in as Spracks shouted his horse on.
Cannon edged Austin back in the crowd, stooping, keeping out of the eye-line of the race enthusiasts and mouthing an emphatic “emergency” to any who glared as they pushed through.
‘And the winner is…’
Austin pulled his arm free and grabbed the ba
ck of Cannon’s jacket, more in tandem they moved a fraction quicker.
‘By a nose, by a nose! The winner is Devil’s Luck, with …’
Two rows of spectators further away, three, and by now Spracks must know the man by his side was not his security manager – was perhaps realizing he had never been just his security manager.
‘Number seven, The Jaunt, second, and number eight, Lord Ebony, third, and a photograph for the fourth place.’
‘No seconds, thirds or fourths in our game, mon ami,’ Austin said as he caught up and walked by Cannon’s side. The racegoers were relaxing, cursing their luck, or celebrating a win.
‘You OK?’ Cannon asked. ‘Long way to go yet.’
‘We’re still running!’ Austin said, and for no other reason than that they were together, they half grinned, half grimaced at each other.
The commentator finished his job with, ‘Fourth place has been taken by number three, Supremo, by the shortest of noses from number fifteen, The Harvest.’
Spracks and Valdes – ‘And both had expected to win,’ Cannon was saying, as he was suddenly barged aside by a woman intent on reaching a man who was standing stock-still a few paces in front of them.
The man turned as the woman shouted, and his face was a pale shade of green.
‘Lost,’ he gasped, ‘everything.’
‘One more bet!’ the woman screamed at him, snatching the hat from her head and throwing it at him. ‘One more! Always one more!’
Cannon thought of giving the man the advice his Cockney dad had given him as a teenager – if you can’t afford to lose, you can’t afford to gamble – but at that moment he caught sight of Betterson at the corner of a grandstand, as arranged, and quickly steered Austin that way. The plan to pass Austin to different escorts, hopefully confusing anyone trying to trace him, was entering stage three.
‘Good, you made it,’ Betterson said, ‘this way …’ and turned to lead Austin on to the next rendezvous with Liz.
Austin just had time to clench his fist, shake it towards his friend in a gesture that said be strong. ‘À bientôt,’ he mouthed, leaving Cannon feeling he had been cut adrift, words he had not said, hands not taken.