The Kill

by Jan Neuharth

  “You mean if I lead the field on Monday.”

  “Why wouldn’t you?”

  “Mother may have other plans.”

  “Hogwash. You’re the master, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, so I hear. Obviously in name only.”

  Smitty’s eyes crinkled into a kind smile. “Margaret’s just trying to keep things together right now. Once we get past the races and Richard’s service she’ll step back.”

  “We both know that’s not true, Smitty. Mother doesn’t trust me enough to back off an inch. Maybe I can’t blame her. But I don’t know how long I’ll be able to stand this benign dictatorship. I don’t mind riding a difficult horse, but I’d rather not do it with someone else holding the reins.”

  “I hear ya,” Smitty said, his head jiggling up and down like a bobble-head doll’s. “I’ve been in your shoes and it ain’t much fun. But she’ll come around. In the meantime, just keep reminding yourself that Richard believed in you enough to leave the hunt to you. That ought to count for something.”

  Yeah, it would, Manning thought, if Mother hadn’t told me Richard was about to change his will.

  CHAPTER

  62

  Margaret barely gave Manning a fleeting glance when he opened the passenger door of her truck and climbed in. Her attention was on Thompson, who stood outside the open driver’s window, one arm braced against the door.

  “Make sure you bring the checkbook tomorrow,” she said.

  “I’ve already written the checks.” Thompson patted his breast pocket. “I’ve got them right here.”

  “That’s fine, but bring the checkbook anyway. I’d like to present the donation check to the environmental council at the conclusion of the races tomorrow.”

  Thompson gaped at Margaret. “We never write the check to the charity until we’ve done a final accounting of revenue and expenses.”

  “I know that’s how we’ve done it in the past, but I’d like to present a check tomorrow in honor of Richard. Surely you already have a pretty good feel for the bottom line.”

  “Yes,” Thompson said slowly. “But I’m not sure all the online payments have been credited to our account. This is the first time we’ve used this merchant services vendor. Besides, you know the gate proceeds can vary wildly depending on the weather.”

  “It won’t vary that much. We have a good forecast for tomorrow.”

  “I don’t want to argue with you, Margaret, but that’s not best accounting practices.”

  “To hell with best accounting principles. We’re not some Fortune 500 company. You know Richard always made up the difference if there was a shortfall in race revenue and the numbers didn’t justify the amount of donation we wanted to make. So I’m saying that this year we should go ahead and write the check. We’ve got plenty of money in the bank. We’ll sort out the accounting later.”

  “Okay,” Thompson said coolly. His expression made it obvious that it clearly was not. He took a step back from the truck. “I’ll bring the checkbook. See you in the morning.”

  Margaret rolled up the window and cranked down on the gearshift. She eased off the brake, glancing at Manning as she turned to look out the rear window to back up. “What’s so amusing?” she asked.

  Manning shook his head. “Nothing.”

  She pursed her lips as she stomped on the brake and threw the truck into drive. “Do you find it humorous that Thompson takes his position as treasurer so seriously?”

  “No, Mother. I was just wondering when you’re going to start including me in conversations about the future of the hunt.”

  “I didn’t realize I wasn’t. Or that you cared, for that matter.”

  “How could I not care?”

  She arched an eyebrow, as if that was a question that didn’t need to be answered.

  He said, “The board elected me master, right?”

  “You know it did.”

  “Right. And Richard left the hunt assets to me. With the challenge to see if I could make a go of it.”

  She shoved the gearshift into park and turned to face him, her expression a mixture of confusion and curiosity. “Go on.”

  “How can I do that if no one lets me make decisions?”

  “You can make deci—”

  “No.” He shook his head. “You haven’t asked my opinion about a single thing. No one has. You decide everything like I’m not even there. Like I inherited some title that doesn’t really mean anything.”

  A faint smile tugged at Margaret’s lips. “It hasn’t even been forty-eight hours since the reading of Richard’s will.”

  “Yeah, I know that.”

  “So, what did you expect? Would you rather we’d just dumped the hunt, the races, everything, in your lap? Left you to sink or swim? When you have no experience running anything?”

  Anger gripped Manning’s chest and pounded in his temples. She didn’t get it. Probably never would. He looked out the window. “Forget it. Sorry I brought it up.”

  “No, I will not forget it,” she snapped. “You started the conversation, so let’s finish it. Tell me how I should handle it?”

  “Just give me a chance, Mother. At least act like my opinion matters.”

  “It isn’t just about you, Manning. It’s about honoring Richard’s memory. About ensuring that the hunt and the races live on long after him, in a manner that would make him proud.”

  “Despite his bad judgment in leaving the hunt assets to me.”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “You didn’t have to,” he replied quietly.

  CHAPTER

  63

  “Your mother was uncharacteristically quiet this evening,” Abigale said as she drove the Subaru away from Margaret’s house. “Is everything all right?”

  Manning shrugged. “We had a slight difference of opinion this afternoon.”

  “About?”

  A hollow laugh caught in his throat. “Me.”

  Damn it. Why couldn’t Margaret cut Manning some slack? Abigale glanced over at him. “You okay?”

  “Better now that I’m with you.” Manning knocked his knuckles against the passenger window. “Hey, pull over here.”

  “Into the orchard?”

  “Yeah.”

  Abigale stopped the car but didn’t pull off the gravel drive. “It’s late, Manning. You should go home and get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

  “No way I’d be able to sleep right now.” He ducked his head and looked at the sky through the front windshield. “Come on. There’s a full moon.”

  Manning opened the door before she could object and grabbed an armful of polar-fleece horse coolers from the backseat. “Just pull off the drive.”

  He waited for her by the edge of the orchard. When she reached his side, Manning laced his fingers through hers and tugged her into the first row of trees. The full moon bathed the orchard in a soft glow. Neither of them spoke as they stumbled over roots and dodged low-hanging branches. They both knew where they were heading.

  “It’s a little overgrown,” Manning said when they reached their spot. “But it still has a clear view of the sky.”

  He dropped the coolers on the ground and shook one to unfold it. Abigale grabbed the other end and helped him spread it across the high grass. “Margaret just had these all washed for tomorrow, you know,” she said.

  “Good, then we won’t get covered with horse hair,” Manning replied, grinning. He pulled her down beside him on the blanket, grabbed a folded cooler and propped it under her head as a pillow, then flung the remaining one over them as a cover. He slid his left arm under her neck and drew her close to him, gently encircling her with his cast. “There.”

  Abigale nestled her cheek against his solid chest muscles and gazed at the stars in the washed-out sky. She’d always liked the orchard best when there was a mere sliver of a moon. When the stars twinkled like diamonds against a velvet heaven. But tonight she loved the way the moonlight spilled down on them. She tilted
her head so she could see Manning’s face and traced her fingers along his jaw. The stubble of his whiskers tingled along her fingertips. She closed her eyes, inhaling fresh air, overripe apples and musky leaves, and listened to the beat of his heart.

  “Are you warm enough?” Manning asked.

  “It’s perfect,” she whispered.

  Manning looked down at her, his eyes dark as the night sky. “Yeah, it is,” he murmured, tangling his fingers in her hair as he pulled her lips to his. His kiss was insistent, demanding, as if he needed to lose himself in her. She felt the world sink away until there was nothing left but his mouth on hers, his body, hungry, pressing her against the ground.

  CHAPTER

  64

  “And the flag is up!” the race announcer barked. Eight sleek, prancing, well-muscled thoroughbreds lunged forward, like arrows shot from a bow, and thundered past the stewards’ stand.

  Manning leaned close to Abigale and removed a pair of binoculars from around his neck. He raised them so she could look through them. She adjusted the focus, fixing the lenses on the turquoise and yellow silks of the jockey atop What A Day, the horse she’d picked to win. Manning slid his left arm around her waist and kept his right hand on the binoculars.

  The loudspeaker above their heads blared with the announcer’s quick drawl. “Executive Girl leads over the first of thirteen fences, followed by Silent Song. What A Day moves into third place as they round the first turn.”

  Abigale pulled back from the binoculars. “Do you want a look?” she asked Manning.

  He shook his head. “Nah, I’m just holding them as an excuse.”

  “For what?”

  “To be near you,” he murmured, his mouth close to her ear.

  Abigale smiled, losing all interest in the race. It was the first time she’d been alone with Manning since arriving at the racecourse. He’d been going nonstop, schmoozing the VIPs, shepherding sponsors to trophy presentations, keeping things on schedule. She handed the binoculars to him, noting how handsome he looked in his tweed sport coat and silk tie patterned with running foxes. A Virginia gentleman. “Last race of the day. How are you holding up?”

  “It actually hasn’t been as bad as I thought it would be, once I figured out most of the sponsors really don’t give a damn about the races. They’re just here to have a good time.”

  As if on cue, a middle-aged man nearby clinked glassed with the fellow next to him, grinned, and said, “Hey, Victor, who in the hell invited all these horses to our cocktail party?”

  Manning gave her a wry smile. “See what I mean?”

  Abigale observed the dozen or more people on the top deck of the stewards’ stand and realized only a handful appeared to be watching the race. “Do you know all these people?” she asked.

  “About half of them.” Manning tipped his head toward Percy, who stood a few feet away, his back to the racecourse, deep in conversation with a tall bear of a man who had blue VIP and yellow Paddock passes strung around his neck. The man’s gut threatened to pop the button on his expensive-looking tweed sport coat, and a thick lock that had sprung loose from his slicked-back salt-and-pepper hair dangled in front of one eye, bouncing every time he blinked.

  “The man Percy’s talking to is Charles Jenner. Tiffanie’s husband. He’s sponsoring this race.”

  “Oh, interesting. That’s not how I pictured him.” Abigale eyed the man, trying not to be obvious.

  Charles glanced over and caught them looking at him, and raised his glass in a toast. “Good afternoon, Master,” he called in a deep baritone, paying no mind to the bourbon that sloshed on his hand, staining the monogrammed cuff of his white dress shirt.

  Manning nodded a return greeting. “How’d you picture him?”

  “I don’t know. More pulled together, I guess. Like Tiffanie.”

  A gasp murmured through the crowd and Manning’s head jerked toward the racecourse. He peered through the binoculars. “Shit,” he said, shoving the binoculars at her. He unclipped a walkie-talkie from his belt and shouted into it as he dashed for the stairs. “Horse and jockey down at the hurdle on the far turn.”

  Abigale pushed her way to the rail of the stewards’ stand. A horse lay flat on its side, the jockey crumpled in a heap a few yards away. Neither moved. An outrider galloped along the back side of the course toward the injured pair, his red coat blazing like a splash of paint on a faded green canvas. She heard the roar of an engine and saw Manning shoot across the track in the Gator with Margaret in the passenger seat, a man she recognized as the course physician crouched in the bed of the vehicle. A vet truck pulled onto the racecourse near the far turn, followed by a truck hauling the horse ambulance.

  The remaining seven horses flew around the turn toward the finish line and a cheer roared from the spectators. “It’s Silent Song by three lengths as they approach the wire,” the announcer called, “followed by What A Day and Goodnight Moon. Goodnight Moon makes a move, and it’s Silent Song by two, with Goodnight Moon in second. Silent Song and Goodnight Moon are neck-and-neck as they come to the finish with Goodnight Moon pulling in front, and it’s Goodnight Moon by a head! Goodnight Moon wins the Jenner Development Maiden Hurdle!”

  Abigale’s eyes were glued to the far turn. The jockey was on his feet, limping, pacing as if trying to walk off pain. The horse still lay motionless. She clutched the binoculars, wanting to look through them but afraid of what she’d see. The Gator jerked to a stop. Manning, Margaret, and the course physician spilled out like ants from an anthill. The doctor clutched a black bag.

  Abigale raised the glasses and focused on Manning as he dropped to his knees next to the horse’s head. She zoomed in and saw the horse’s eyes were open. Manning turned to look at the approaching vet truck and ambulance, still a hundred yards away, and shouted something as he unbuckled the girth. Margaret bent down to help Manning tug the saddle off the horse.

  The doctor said something to the jockey, who nodded and waved a hand at the horse. The doctor knelt next to Manning, probing the horse’s chest in front of the girth area. The horse raised his head and jerked his front legs as if trying to get up. The doctor barely escaped being nailed by the horse’s front hoof. He jumped back, his hand smeared with blood.

  Manning grabbed the horse’s head and forced it back down. Margaret scrambled to the other side of the horse and knelt against its neck. Abigale held her breath, then blew it out in a rush as she saw the horse stop struggling. She knew as long as they were able to restrain the horse’s head and neck he wouldn’t be able to get up.

  The doctor grabbed a fistful of gauze from his bag and packed it against the horse’s chest. Blood instantly soaked the snow-white dressing. He grabbed another handful. Then another.

  Manning stroked the horse’s head. His lips moved slowly and she knew he was talking to the horse. She could almost hear his voice, murmuring, reassuring. Ice seemed to flow through her veins, wrenching her back to a moonlit night, another injured horse. She yanked the glasses away and tried to erase the memory, to block out the sound of Manning’s voice, reassuring Scarlet, calming the mare, even though he knew there was no hope. An ache swelled in Abigale’s chest like the whine of a teakettle until she felt she couldn’t breathe.

  “Hey, can I borrow your binoculars?” Percy asked.

  Abigale thrust the binoculars at Percy, spun from the rail, and wove her way through the crowd to the stairs. “Excuse me,” she murmured repeatedly, dashing past people until she reached the ground level, where she was pressed up against a sea of humanity. Words and laughter buzzed all around her, smothering her. Abigale was jostled by two young men carrying a cooler and bumped up against something rubbery—a trash can, swarming with bees. The stench of rotting food and beer roiled her stomach, and she pushed her way into the swell of the crowd.

  The throng of people snaked along a bluestone path, barricaded on each side by a snow fence. There was no pushing or shoving; no one seemed in a hurry, which only fueled Abigale’s distress. She fe
lt as though she was on the Autobahn, stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic with no exit ramp in sight. She’d never considered herself claustrophobic, but she had to call upon every ounce of self-control not to elbow her way to freedom. She forced herself to breathe, counting the plaid squares on the tweed jacket of the man in front of her. Slowly, she inched forward.

  A woman’s voice called Abigale’s name. She turned to see Michelle de Becque wave over the wide-brimmed hat of the woman behind her. Abigale let the people behind her slip forward until she was next to Michelle.

  “Hi,” Michelle said, smiling broadly. “We meet again, under slightly better circumstances this time—hey, are you okay?” Her green eyes narrowed with concern. “You’re pale as a ghost.”

  “I need to get out of this crowd,” Abigale said.

  “Oh, my God. All right.” Michelle grabbed her arm and drew her to the right side of the path. “There’s a gate into the paddock area up ahead. We can exit there.”

  They shuffled with the mob until they reached the entrance to the paddock enclosure. A uniformed officer stood behind a closed gate with a white cardboard sign that read PADDOCK BADGE HOLDERS ONLY. A yellow Paddock badge was stapled to the sign.

  “Excuse me, we need to get through here,” Michelle said to the officer.

  The officer’s thumbs remained hooked in his belt. His eyes roamed down to their badges. “Sorry, this is for Paddock badge holders only.” He tipped his head. “The exit gate is farther along.”

  “Please, she’s not feeling well,” Michelle insisted. “I think she might pass out. She needs to get out of the crowd.”

  Abigale could see people staring at them and felt like a fool. “I’m—”

  Michelle’s fingers dug into her arm, silencing her.

  The officer’s eyes settled on Abigale’s face, then flickered back to Michelle. He released the gate. “Okay, bring her through.”