Racing the Devil Read online

  When I spoke, he startled briefly and swung his good eye toward me. The other was clouded. A jagged scar slashed from the center of his forehead to the middle of his cheek.

  His muscles tightened, but he didn’t turn his hindquarters to me. His head was cocked, his ears held out to the sides.

  Wary.

  I slid back the bolt and tugged open the stall door. His ears twitched as the door rumbled on its runners, but since he neither panicked nor charged, I stepped inside and pulled the stall door closed behind me.

  After a few minutes, his ears pricked forward and he edged closer.

  I gave him my hand to smell, and his nostrils flared, blowing a warm breath onto the back of my wrist. Gently, I blew back.

  It took awhile, but he let me run my hands over him, rub his ears, and pick up all four feet. None of his legs seemed sore or swollen, and his hooves were smooth and well shod. When I bent over to look at his front hooves, he nudged my hat off and nibbled at my hair.

  It was a gentle gesture, but I knew I needed to put a stop to it before it evolved into something dangerous. Horses are big, and they’re powerful, and even the sweetest ones can kill you if you aren’t careful.

  I straightened up too suddenly, and he shied away from me and pressed himself into the corner of his stall, tail clamped tight to his hindquarters.

  Behind me, a voice said, “He needs a lot of work.”

  The horse’s skin twitched, and his good eye rolled back so I could see the white.

  I said, “What happened to him?”

  “I had a trainer, Asa Majors. Went after Dakota with his belt. Nearly took his eye out with the buckle.” She slid the door open and stepped in beside me. She smelled of horse sweat and vanilla perfume. “Drinking, I guess. So now, like I said, I’m between trainers.”

  A violent man in an alcoholic rage. I made a mental note to call on Asa as soon as I could manage it.

  I looked at the colt, stretched my hand out, and stroked his flank. Again, his muscles tensed, but he made no move to bite or strike. Nice. But like the lady said, he’d take a lot of work.

  “I like him,” I said. “But I need to think it over. And I’ll want my vet to check him out.”

  She shrugged. “He’s had his vaccinations and his Coggins. I have the paperwork in the office. But if you want your guy to check him out, sure. He colicked a little over a week ago and I spent most of the night monitoring him, but he’s fine now.” Her lower lip quivered. “That was the night my sister died. Somebody murdered her.”

  “My God.”

  She sucked at her lip and nodded. “I can’t believe something like that could have been happening to her, and I didn’t even know anything was wrong. You’d think I would have felt something.”

  “You must have been close.”

  “Since we were little. We used to glue sequins and feathers to old clothes to make costumes. Then we’d dance and sing, do comedy. Drama. Everything. I’m singing at her memorial service on Thursday. I hope I can make it through the song. Channel 3 is planning to televise it.”

  “Was she a singer too?”

  She gave me a bemused smile. “She could barely carry a tune. And she wasn’t much of an actress, either. But we had a good time.”

  “It must have been a shock when she died.”

  “You can’t believe how I felt when Cal told me. Cal’s—he was her husband. But you know, I kind of thought . . . I was afraid something like this might happen.”

  “Really. What made you think that?”

  She rolled her lower lip under her teeth. “I don’t know if I should say anything. You might think I was speaking ill of the dead. But you can love someone and not agree with everything they do.”

  “I think I read about it in the paper. Some guy she was seeing . . .”

  “Exactly. There was a man she was working with, too. I knew she wasn’t happy in her marriage, but . . .” She gave a little laugh that sounded more like a sob. “My God, why am I telling you this? You come to buy a horse, and I unload all this on you.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, ignoring the pang of guilt that told me I was being a shit. “Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger.”

  “Sometimes it is.”

  I scratched the colt’s withers and eased into a massaging stroke. His eyes rolled back again, his muscles bunched, and then he gave a long shuddering sigh and relaxed under my hand. “You want to tell me about these guys your sister was seeing?” It was too early in the conversation to use Amy’s name.

  “Jared McKean. That prick.” She wiped at her eyes with the flat of her hand. “I’m sorry. We haven’t even buried her yet. Damned autopsy.”

  “It’s all right. Cry if you want to.”

  “No. I’m fine. See?” She drew in a quivering breath. “You want to know what I think? I think this Jared found out she was seeing Ben, from work. And I think he went berserk and killed her.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and gestured toward the horse. “You want to work him?”

  She brought me a halter and a lunge line and whip. Then she parked herself at one end of the arena to watch.

  I led the colt into the arena and started him at a slow jog, starting in close and then playing out the line. He danced a little at first, but finally fell into a steady pace. When he seemed calmer, I moved the whip back and forth behind him. Low to the ground, and he slowed; higher, and he went faster. When I cracked it in the air behind him, he spooked briefly and broke into a lope. A lot of people think a lunge whip is used to beat the horse. In truth, you never touch him with it.

  While I worked the horse, I tried to think of a way to get back onto the subject of Amy. I didn’t want to seem morbid, or worse, raise suspicions. Part of my mind toyed with that problem. The other part noted that Dakota was a supple mover, though a little less flexible on the right. He was shy of the whip, not surprising in light of his past.

  “You handle him pretty well,” Valerie said, when I led him back to her. “He likes the massage.”

  “I learned it about four years ago, when my quarter horse started getting a little stiff. Seemed like a good thing to do for him. I do a little TTouch, too.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t figure you for all that New Age touchy-feely bullshit.”

  TTouch stood for Tellington Touch, a method of therapeutic touch adapted from the Feldenkrais method of working with humans with neurological disorders. It was supposed to make the horses more balanced, more comfortable, and easier to work with. Valerie was right; it did sound like a load of New Age bullshit. I gave her a sheepish grin. “Figured it couldn’t hurt to give it a try. I didn’t expect much at first, but it seems to work for my guys.”

  “I guess that’s what matters. Anyway, it’s probably cheaper than paying somebody else to come out and do it for you.” She handed me a rubber curry. “Here. You want to put him away?”

  I brushed the colt until he shone, then put him back into the stall and slipped the halter off. She watched while I worked.

  “Can I get you a Coke?” I asked when I had closed the stall door.

  “It’s Pepsi, but sure. Diet.”

  I fished in my pocket for some change, got a Pepsi and a Diet Pepsi from the machine, and handed the Diet to her.

  I followed her to her office area, where she gestured for me to join her on the leather sofa. On a shelf beside the couch was a television with a built-in VCR and a line of videotapes. Fun Show 1999; Miss Rodeo, age 19; Patches Foaling #4; Dakota Colic, July. She noticed me looking and gestured to the tapes. “I have a video system set up so I can monitor the horses when they need it. I can hook it up and see from here when they need attention.”

  “Convenient.” I ran a finger along the labels. “You going to be all right?”

  She looked puzzled for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll be fine. It’s hard, but then, life is hard, right?”

  I thought about telling her about my parents, but then decided it would be cheap, using them to make he
r open up to me.

  We sipped at our sodas, an uncomfortable silence between us. Then she reached over and ran her fingers lightly over my face. “What happened to you?”

  “Mechanical bull,” I said, and she laughed.

  “I think you’d better stick with horses.” She took my left hand, turned the palm upward, and traced my lifeline with her thumb.

  “So,” I said at last, “is there a Mister Shepherd?”

  She gave a bitter laugh. “There used to be. He died a couple of years ago. Penniless, in a homeless shelter. Sometimes I think he did it on purpose, so I wouldn’t get anything when he died.”

  I wondered what would make a man lose everything he had to spite a woman he hadn’t lived with in years, and what would make a woman think he might. “He wasn’t living with you, then?”

  “We were divorced. But he stopped paying alimony three years ago. He owed me quite a lot in back payments.”

  “Looks like you did okay for yourself.”

  A smile flitted across her lips. “I guess so. But it’s the principle of the thing.”

  “Must have been a hell of a marriage.”

  “Oh, it was.” She swirled her Pepsi and watched as a glistening bead of cola rolled along the inside of the rim. “I’d rather not talk about Tony. It’s been a long time, but some wounds heal slow.”

  She crumpled her Diet Pepsi can in one hand and pitched it into the trash.

  “Two points,” she said, her voice flat.

  The time for revelation was over. I started to get up, and she grabbed the front of my shirt and stopped me with a kiss. A hard kiss, almost angry. Her tongue flicked across my lips, then darted between them.

  For a long moment, I kissed her back. Then my senses returned, and I pulled away.

  “What’s the matter?” Her right hand toyed with the buttons on my shirt, but her eyes were suddenly cold. “Don’t tell me you don’t want to.”

  “I don’t want to take advantage.”

  “Bullshit.” She twisted the front of my shirt into her fist and thumped my chest. “Don’t you go and get all noble on me. Don’t you dare.”

  “It’s not nobility. It’s—”

  “Damn straight it’s not. You think I don’t know what I want?” She scooted in close against me and pressed her left palm against my crotch. “Poor, grieving Valerie, right? Got to pwotect poor widdle Valerie, right? If you’re so damn righteous, why can I feel your hard-on?”

  The fingers of her left hand tightened, kneaded. I stifled a gasp. Pleasure, yes, and a touch of pain. I didn’t want her to stop. I pushed her hand away gently but firmly, slid out of her grasp, and got to my feet. “I won’t say I’m not tempted.”

  Her laugh was mocking. “Tempted. Yeah, I’ll bet you are. Well, have it your way. But I could have rocked your world, my friend.”

  “Probably.”

  I jotted down my cell phone number on one of her cards, told her I’d send my vet by sometime next week, thanked her for her time, and told her I was sorry for her loss.

  “Sure,” she said. “You never even told me your name.”

  “Ian,” I said. “Ian Callahan.”

  “Right. Well, goodbye, Ian Callahan. Maybe I’ll give you another chance sometime.”

  God, I hoped not.

  A man can only be so strong.

  I POPPED A COUPLE of dry aspirins from the bottle I kept in the glove compartment, then eased out of Valerie’s driveway and headed north. A few minutes later, I pulled into the Food Lion parking lot, took the spirit gum remover out of my theatrical makeup kit, and got rid of that damned mustache. There was a red rash above my upper lip that was tender to the touch, so I picked up some aloe vera cream from the grocery store and smoothed it into the irritated skin.

  It helped some.

  While I waited for my lip to stop stinging, I changed my voicemail message to a number-you-have-reached, no name. If Valerie called, the message wouldn’t blow my cover. Then I drove back to the office, wondering what exactly had happened back at the stables. There had been real passion in Valerie’s kiss, but there had been anger in it too.

  Anger at me? At Amy?

  Or maybe at death itself?

  Back at the office, I rinsed out the hair color. Then I stopped by the hardware store and picked up the parts for the peephole I’d promised Birdie. When I went by her place to put it in, she gave me another glass of lemonade and told me stories about Henry. I asked her what she knew about Valerie Shepherd.

  “Not much, to tell the truth,” she admitted. “I’ve never actually met her. But I saw her over at the Hartwells’ several times. Christmases, the occasional random visit.” She topped off my lemonade, set the pitcher down, and rubbed at her gnarled knuckles. “Something’s been weighing on me since the last time you were here.”

  “What’s that, Ms. Birdie?”

  “It’s about Calvin. I know I told you he was a cold man. But he’s always treated me polite-like, and he’s mowed my lawn most every week in summer since Henry died. I don’t care for the man, but I don’t want you to think he doesn’t have his good points. I may have been too harsh on him before.”

  “Everybody has some good points. Must’ve been some reason Amy married him.”

  “Honey,” Birdie said, “love chooses who it chooses. I think she was looking for a daddy, if you want to know the truth. I don’t think those girls had much of a father figure, and I think Amy was just wanting somebody like Cal to come along and tell her what to do.”

  “I reckon she found that.”

  Ms. Birdie’s marmoset face grew still and sad. “I reckon she did. And it must have been a harsh blow for both of them when she realized she’d grown up and didn’t want to be told what to do anymore.”

  I wondered if that was what had gotten her killed.

  “Ms. Birdie,” I said. “Do you know if Cal was at home the night she died?”

  She tapped at her front teeth with a fingernail and frowned. “Actually, he worked late that night. I know, because Amy sent the girls over here after supper. She’d gotten a phone call, and she had to go out and meet someone. So she sent them over here with a note asking if I’d keep them until she or Cal got home. I wish . . .”

  I knew what she wished. That she’d somehow known, that she could have warned Amy to stay home with her daughters that night instead of rushing out to meet Death.

  “Did she say who she was going to meet?”

  “If she’d said, I would’ve told you.”

  “And she never came home.”

  “No,” Ms. Birdie said, softly. “She never did.”

  THE NEXT MORNING, when I went out to the barn, I found Tex on his back, cast against the wall of his stall, his eyes half closed and his sides heaving from exertion. He lifted his head and whickered when I said his name.

  “Easy, boy.” I knelt beside him, stroked his neck. “What have you gotten yourself into?” I’d banked his bedding along the walls to keep this very thing from happening, but somehow he’d managed it anyway. His position and the scattered bedding meant he’d been thrashing, trying to push himself to his feet. One foreleg looked swollen. Injured tendon, maybe. Or something worse.

  Damn.

  I was six when Mom bought the palomino quarter horse for my brother and me. We climbed over him like lemurs, scrambled under his belly, rode him bareback, practiced trick riding, ran poles and barrels, and roped each other from his back. He never put a foot wrong, never bucked, never kicked, never so much as laid his ears back. He was as close to bombproof as a horse could get, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t crush my skull by accident.

  A steady stream of soothing nonsense kept him calm as I reached across him, grasped his far legs, and gently rolled him toward me onto his side. There were safer ways to do it, and I should probably have used one of them, but I didn’t want to leave him there any longer than I had to. Besides, we’d trusted each other for a long time.

  He gave me time to get out of his way before struggling
to his feet. Then, breathing hard, he hobbled forward on three legs and rested his head on my shoulder.

  I stroked his neck, led him to the wash bay, and hosed his leg with cold water. Then, while I was waiting for the vet, I called Information and got a number for Asa Majors.

  His answering machine picked up, and I left my number and a message saying I was interested in a horse he’d worked with and wanted his opinion on it.

  I knew the morning was a wash.

  At one o’clock, after the vet had come and gone and the injured leg had been iced and bandaged, Jay brought out a couple of sandwiches and a pitcher of tea. We sat in the tack room and ate while Tex stood munching hay in his stall.

  “How is he?” Jay asked.

  “He’s damaged two tendons and the suspensory ligament in his right foreleg.”

  “Will he be okay?”

  “Maybe. But it’ll take time.” Time and work. Icing and bandaging twice a day. A couple of months of stall rest with hand-walking. Months more of limited turnout and gradually increasing exercise. And still no guarantees. “He may never be completely sound.”

  Jay nodded, nibbled at the edge of his sandwich. After awhile, he said, “I’ve put out a few feelers on that insurance thing. Something should shake loose soon.”

  “Good. Because I have a new assignment for you.”

  He looked interested, so I went on.

  “Hartwell’s first wife did a vanishing act. It’d be interesting to know if she’s alive and well somewhere or if she’s in an unmarked grave.”

  “You do have a mind for the morbid.”

  “I know,” I said. “It’s a gift.”

  In his stall, Tex snorted, rattled his feed bucket.

  “He’ll be all right,” Jay said, reading my mind. “Just give him time.”

  Time. I hoped I had time. If I went to prison, who would hose down Tex’s leg and change his bandages? Who would hand-walk him twice a day? Who would keep Crockett trim and fit? Jay would be willing, but he was in and out of the hospital himself. Some days he was fine; others, he was weak as a kitten.