High Stakes (18 page)
Authors: John McEvoy
The publicized notice of the fifty-thousand-dollar reward made her smile. It was being talked about throughout the horse world. “Stop the killer of these valuable, contributing horses” pretty much summed up the outcries. “But what about the crimes being committed against these innocent, unrepresented horses?” she muttered. “What they are being put through in the cause of arrogant science?”
A humidity-ridden August afternoon in southwest Michigan. She'd started early in the morning and curved around the southern border of the great lake that glistened in the sunlight like the bottom of a giant, watery paper clip. Her drive there had been easy. Her research about Washtena College and the routines of its veterinary school indicated promise and possibility.
She stopped at a Dairy Queen drive-in on the outskirts of South Haven for an iced coffee and a grilled chicken sandwich. Kept her ball cap low on her face as she ordered, then paid the teen-aged car hop. Checked her watch. If the vet school's published schedule was accurate, her target should by now be having her late afternoon grazing session in a field farthest away from the school's buildings.
Thirty-two miles later she pulled off the black-topped county highway onto a graveled side road, parked, and picked up her equipment bag. Got out and stood for a moment, breathing in the delightful air of a rural summer, the silence broken only by some treetop bird chattering.
The old black mare was alone in the lush, green pasture, some twenty yards away from the fence. Her head was down, lips working slowly as she nibbled. Flies were nearby and she flicked them away with both her tail and her ears, not looking up.
Standing quietly in the advancing dusk, shadowed by the thick branches of a tall chestnut tree, she whistled softly. Just enough to make the horse's ears come all the way up as she raised her head.
Leaning over the wooden fence, she reached into her kit. Extracted a package of peppermint mints. She confidently crinkled the cellophane wrapper. She'd never known a horse that didn't love peppermint. This one was no exception.
The old mare clopped eagerly toward the fence, head up, ears still pricked, a picture of expectancy. For a moment, the hand holding the syringe trembled. How she disliked doing this. But it had
to be done if the message would ever be understood that these innocent, four-legged creatures should never
be subjected to physical intrusions, that such treatment no matter how “well intentioned” violated nature's law.
The old mare stopped at the fence. Regarded the visitor, looked away, then looked back. And stepped closer to the outstretched hand.
That hand delivered the candies and its owner smiled at the familiar feeling of soft horse lips on her palm, the grateful snorting sound the horse produced. Her eyes began to tear as she watched the trusting mare's large eyes shift up to her face.
It was with even more reluctance than usual on this sweet-smelling early evening that she gave a final caress to the right side of the old mare's neck, stepped forward, reached across the fence, and plunged the needle into the other side of that neck.
She turned away. Leaned down to pick up the empty cellophane package. Heard the sound of the thousand-pound suddenly dead body hit the grass on the other side of the fence.
Not looking back, she ran, reaching for the keys with her right hand, brushing the tears from her face with her left.
An overcast August morning. Doyle, restless and unable to sleep soundly, had taken a dawn run along the lakefront. He was back in his condo, showered and dressed before seven, when he decided to drive out to Heartland Downs and watch the workouts with Ralph Tenuta.
It was one of his favorite things to do. Mornings at the racetrack were Doyle's favorite times in that setting. Stands empty but for a dozen clockers, numerous trainers and owners sipping coffee, eyes on the action in front of them. The racing strip with dozens of horses going through a variety of training exercises. The sounds they made, as well as the bright voices of the amazingly physically fit little men and women riding them, darting through the early morning air. Hoofbeats pounding into the loam, equine snorts and whinnies, riders chirping to their mounts or cajoling them, meanwhile exchanging good-natured greetings or barbs. The sounds of a world unto itself.
***
Ten miles away from Heartland on Willow Road, Doyle picked up his cell phone.
“Have you heard?”
He grimaced as he pulled into the left lane to pass a garishly decorated wide load monstrosity that was wavering back and forth over the center line of his two westbound lanes. In Doyle's experience, any sentence beginning with “Have you heard?” too often meant trouble.
“Heard what, Karen? Assuming that is you.”
She said, “Sorry for being so abrupt, Jack. What you evidently have not heard is that another horse has been put to death.”
“Aw, damn,” Doyle said. “Where and when?”
She supplied the details.
“Whoever the hell is doing this, Jack, it seems he just can't be stopped the way we're operating now.”
“How do you know it's a he?”
“You know what I mean,” she barked. That's
five
of these horse deaths so far. That's just unacceptable!'
Karen Engel's frustration at the news of the latest killing was palpable. Doyle pulled off to the right at Shermer, drove two blocks, and parked.
“What are you doing, Jack? Did you hear what I said?”
“Karen, I'm attempting to avoid arrest. I just missed being sideswiped by a trailer home bigger than Donald Trump's ego. And on this stretch of Willow, the local cops have been stopping and pulling over cell phone-using drivers like crazy. Court appearances required. Hundred-dollar fines. I heard it on the news. I don't want to be their next victim.”
He made a U-turn, parked, and resumed talking to the flustered FBI agent. “I know what you're saying, Karen. But I don't know what I can do about it. Unless somebody somehow spots this villain in action, I think we're screwed.”
“I don't know how that is ever going to come about. This killer does his research, does his killing secretly, and leaves nothing but those damned ALWD cards. Damon is pulling his hair out. Our boss is yanking at his few remaining strands. And he's leaning all over us. I don't know what to do.”
Doyle said, “Wait a minute.” He got out of the Accord and began to pace back and forth next to the car, cell phone in hand. “If you and your FBI forces don't come up with a tip, an informer, I don't see this ever ending. I'll keep asking around. That's the best I can do.”
He heard Karen saying, “Damon, I've got Jack on the phone here. Do you want to talk to him?”
Doyle groaned but knew he had to talk to Tirabassi. When he heard the phone transfer, he said, “Is this the voice of justice and truth?”
“You know, Doyle, you make light of so many important things it's almost enough to depress an optimist like me. But I don't want to talk about your effect on your fellow humans. I want to ask you to do something for me. Us.”
“I can hardly wait to hear this request.”
“I am asking you, Jack, to meet with, and feel out, Esther Ness. Her name keeps coming up in all speculative reports about bleeding heart nutters and their attitudes toward horses. We know this woman has big money. Heck, she put up the fifty grand reward without batting an eye. But she's got layers of lawyers and we don't want to fight our way through them just to be able to talk to her. Maybe you could approach her. You, as a fellow horse person, yadda yadda. What we need to know is if she
could
be, out of some off-the-wall sense of responsibility, financing these horse killings. Or even be carrying them out herself. I know this sounds a little bit out of left field. But we don't have any other irons in this fire. What do you say, Jack?”
“Left field. Irons in the fire. Did the Bureau force you to enroll in a cliché school?”
No answer. Doyle smiled at the thought of Damon seething on the other end. “Damon, my friend, your arm of our government has obviously descended to another new level of desperation. I went along with your request that I poke around in search of information. But, this? Sending me out under a surreptitious Bureau banner to interview a possible suspect? Man, this is new territory. Or, as a graduate of the Bureau Cliché School such as yourself might put it, âuncharted waters.'”
In the ensuing silence, Doyle felt a tinge of regret. A tinge was usually the most he would allow himself. He recalled the heavy-handed, down-from-the-top pressure he knew was being applied to the Tirabassi-Engel team. A tandem with which he had a shared a frequently aggravating but somehow always rewarding history. These were good people in careers that must seem to them, he thought, to be laden with far more frustration than elation. Doyle liked and admired both agents. Foregoing one more yank on the simmering Tirabassi's emotional chain, Doyle said, “E-mail me Ms. Ness' address. I'll try to see her as soon as I can.” He heard Karen Engel say, “Damon, tell him thanks” before the connection ended.
***
Even before he parked his Accord next to Ralph Tenuta's Heartland Downs barn, Jack knew something serious was up. Ingrid McGuire was there, work clothes on, accompanied by Marla McCarty, Ingrid's summer intern from the University of Illinois' Veterinary School of Medicine. This small, young person was bobbing her head and assiduously taking notes as she listened to Ingrid speak to Tenuta. Marla looked distressed. So did Ingrid and Ralph. Head groom Paul Albano stood off to the side, listening in as he applied saddle soap to the piece of bridle he was holding.
They all looked up as Doyle approached.
Tenuta said, “Jack, hi. As you can see, something's going on here. Let me show you.”
The trainer walked down the shedrow to the stall occupied by the Burkhardts' pride and joy, Mr. Rhinelander. This ordinarily energetic two-year-old colt stood stock still in his stall, head dropped, eyes half-closed.
Doyle leaned over the webbing stretched across the stall doorway. “Jesus, Ralph. What's the matter with him? ”
Ingrid moved next to Doyle to look more closely into the stall. Her usually cheerful, tanned face was a mask of concern. “The tests came back an hour ago. Mr. Rhinelander has EHV-1. It's a virus that horses get, and it can be a bad one. Two other horses in the next barn over have been similarly diagnosed.”
She reached over the webbing in attempt to touch Mr. Rhinelander's head. But the miserable-looking horse dropped his head even lower and backed away a couple of steps.
“He looks terrible,” Doyle said. “What is this disease? What do you do about it? I mean, what's the treatment?”
“EHV-1 is a contagious disease among horses,” Ingrid said. “The infection makes them uncoordinated, weak. They have trouble standing and urinating and defecating. It can be fatal. It's spread through contact. But it's puzzling as hell, because some horses can be exposed to it and not get it while others do. Unfortunately, Mr. Rhinelander has it.”
“How do we deal with this?” Ingrid continued. “There is no one specific method. Treatment could include intravenous fluids, anti-inflammatory drugs, or both. I've got a call in to my old advisor prof at the U. to get his opinion on this. One thing is for sure. Mr. Rhinelander will have to be quarantined. That's mandatory. There is no way to know how the virus is introduced. This stuff spreads by direct horse-to-horse contact, or contaminated hands, or tack equipment. He's got a fever this morning of 105. In most cases, the infected horse will also have nasal discharge, which Mr. Rhinelander has plenty of. And, in most cases, they will go on to recover after a week or ten days or so.”
“How many other cases of this are there here at Heartland?” Doyle said.
“There are two in Buck Norman's barn. I heard there was another in the barn beside his. So, four or five so far,” Tenuta said. “I heard one of Buck's died.”
Ingrid grimaced. “That's true. Happened last night.” She reached in to give the lethargic Mr. Rhinelander a final look. “We're going to keep the death toll to one, baby,” she said softly. “At least I hope so.”
Paul Albano parked Tenuta's truck and horse trailer outside the barn. With Ralph on one side, Ingrid on the other, wide-eyed little Marla bringing up the rear, Mr. Rhinelander was led into the one-horse van.
Doyle said, “Where's he going?”
“He's going into Barn Fifteen, over on the far side of the backstretch,” Tenuta replied. “The quarantine barn. According to the new rules just put in by the state veterinarian here, he'll have to stay there for at least two weeks. If he tests negative after that, then he'll be taken out of there and returned to me here.”
Mr. Rhinelander balked at the first step of the ramp. Ingrid waved Tenuta off and began talking softly to the nervous, sweating animal, finally leading him gently into the trailer. There was not much room for the two of them, but Ingrid said, “Ralph, I'll ride with him over there.” Tenuta closed the trailer door. Albano waited until Marla jumped into the passenger seat next to him, then waved his left hand out the window as he steered the truck out onto the roadway.
Doyle said, “Well, that's a sorry sight. Have you told the Burkhardts about this?”
“Of course, I have, Jack. They're horrified. On their way driving down here from Dairy Land.”
“What the hell can they do?”
Tenuta stopped and turned to face Doyle. “There are some people, Jack, that become attached to their horses in a way most other people cannot understand. I'm one of those people. Always have been, ever since I was fourteen and part owner with my cousin Vince of an old riding stable plug called Molly. I loved that old spavined mare and cried when she died a couple of years later.
“Horses can get to you that way, Jack. Look at the effect Mr. Rhinelander's illness has on even such a trained person as Ingrid. You'd think she'd be used to things like that by now.”
Tenuta looked at his watch. “The Burkhardts should be here in about ninety minutes. They'll probably set up camp chairs and park outside the quarantine barn. Ridiculous, you think, but I won't stop them. You got time for a coffee at the track kitchen?”
“Naw, but thanks. I've got be somewhere. I'll call you tonight to see how Mr. Rhinelander is doing.”
