The Kill (34 page)

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 felt 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.”

“Thank you,” Michelle said, keeping her grip on Abigale’s arm as they slipped through the opening.

The officer pointed to a nearby bench beneath a shady oak tree. “Take her over there. Do you need me to call the paramedics?”

“No!” Abigale said.

“I think she just needs to sit for a minute,” Michelle said, steering Abigale to the bench.

Abigale dropped down on the hard wood, turning her back toward the stream of people. “How embarrassing!”

“Don’t be silly,” Michelle said, sitting beside her. “I hate crowds too.”

“Crowds don’t usually bother me. I just lost it when I saw that injured horse. It felt like everything closed in around me.”

“I know, it was terrible. I think the horse is going to be okay, though. They put up a screen, so I couldn’t really see what was going on, but the horse got up and walked onto the trailer.”

Abigale sucked in a slow breath, then eased it out. Despite the cool afternoon air, perspiration prickled her scalp. She lifted the clasp that held back her hair and felt cool air whisper across the back of her neck.

“You’ve got a little more color in your cheeks,” Michelle said. “Feeling better?”

Abigale nodded. “You’ve come to my rescue twice now. Thank you.”

“Just lucky timing, I guess,” Michelle replied. “Hey, I saw your Prince Charming earlier. He apologized for seeming ungrateful for my assistance the other day. Said you gave him hell after I’d left.”

Abigale thought back to that afternoon. “I guess I did.”

Michelle smiled. “How long have the two of you been together?”

Eighteen years? Two days? “It’s complicated,” Abigale said.

“The good ones usually are.” Michelle turned, looked at the thinning crowd on the pathway. “It looks like things have eased up. Feel up to making a go of it?”

“Can I ask you something first?” Abigale asked.

“Sure.”

“Are you familiar with Foxhunters Online?”

Michelle’s eyes slid away. She bit her bottom lip, as if considering what to say, then finally replied, “I got your email.”

Abigale’s heart lurched. Her hunch had been right! Michelle de Becque was
chiencheval112
.

Michelle said, “I know someone—this is all off the record, by the way—who knows someone, who knows someone who knows Dario Reyes. My friend told me Dario says he didn’t murder your uncle. But he’s afraid to come forward because he knows he’s already as good as convicted.”

Disappointment tumbled down on Abigale. Was that the only reason Michelle had posted the comment online? Because Dario said he didn’t do it? Of course Dario Reyes would proclaim his innocence!

“But it gets more complicated,” Michelle continued. “According to my friend, Dario was there, on the road, when the murder happened. He heard the shot.”

“
What?”

Michelle nodded, giving her a
see what I mean
look. “He’s a witness, not a suspect.”

Abigale asked, “Did he see who did it?”

“I’m not sure. He saw a vehicle drive out of the racecourse after he heard the shot. That’s all I know. I don’t know if he saw who was in the vehicle, the license plate, whatever.”

“He saw the killer’s car?”

“That’s what my friend told me.”

“He has to come forward!” Abigale exclaimed.

“I hear you. That’s what I told my friend. But Dario’s afraid.”

“But if what your friend says is true, and Dario tells that to the authorities, he’ll clear his name. And possibly help them find the person who murdered my uncle.” He would also lift the cloud of suspicion hanging over Manning, but Abigale didn’t say that.

“I know,” Michelle said, nodding. “But you have to look at it from his perspective. Dario’s lived his whole life as a victim of racial profiling. He doesn’t trust the cops. He’s afraid they’ll lock him up first, ask questions later.”

“Doesn’t he know they’ll find him eventually? That the fact he’s gone into hiding makes it look worse for him?” Abigale asked.

“Probably. But he’s still not going to turn himself in.”

Abigale thought for a moment. “Okay. What about talking to me?”

“What do you mean?”

“Ask your friend to convince Dario to talk to me.”

“You?”

“Yes. He can dictate where and when. I’ll come alone. I just want to talk to him. Ask him what he saw. Maybe I can help him. We can help each other.”

“You’d go alone to meet with the person who’s accused of murdering your uncle?”

“Yes, if that’s what it takes to hear what he has to say,” Abigale said.

Michelle stared at her, as if trying to decide how much she could trust her. “You have to swear you won’t tell anyone about our conversation.”

“I swear.”

“
No one
. Not even Manning.”

Abigale gave a quick nod.

“All right. I’ll ask.”