Bill Cooper stood outside Stella Luna’s stall with his cowboy boots splayed in the sawdust. As I came up behind him, I heard his cell phone ring. He snatched it from his belt clip like a gunslinger in a shootout.
“He’s still here,” he said. “Probably another five minutes.”
He closed the phone, then turned. As if sensing my presence.
“Hi,” I said.
“What’re you, spying on me?”
“You’re standing in the middle of the barn.”
The expression in his pale eyes sent a shiver down my spine. Turning his face to the side, he spit a black stream of tobacco juice into the sawdust. “I know your game.”
“Really?” I said. “Because I don’t know what’s going on.”
“Play dumb. Go ahead. Nobody’s buying it.”
Juan came out of KichaKoo’s stall, leading the horse. He was followed by Mr. Yuck, who held a BlackBerry in his pudgy palm, tapping the screen with one finger. A delicate tap, like a guest at a cocktail party choosing the tiniest hors d’oeuvre.
Cooper headed toward him. “Did you comb the sawdust, you pathetic excuse of a—”
“Your groom’s hot plate,” Mr. Yuck said, not looking up, “it won’t be returned.”
“You’ll starve my groom so you can pretend you’re actually doing something around here. It’s pathetic. How do you sleep at night?”
“Like a baby on whiskey.” Mr. Yuck gave a dolorous smile. “And considering that fire, you should be thanking me for confiscating the hot plate.”
The lieutenant who had guarded the conference room door yesterday was striding toward us, holding a sheaf of white paper and waving it like a surrender flag. Only surrender wasn’t on Mr. Yuck’s face. Removing one sheet from the stack, he handed the page to Cooper. Then smiled, bitterly. I moved to the side, reading over Cooper’s shoulder.
FORMAL COMPLAINT was typed across the top. It mentioned “contraband,” which I assumed was the hot plate, and offered numbered steps for appeal and remediation. Cooper clutched the paper in both hands, but suddenly the words disappeared under a spatter of tobacco juice.
Cooper held out the paper to Mr. Yuck. “Here you go.”
The security chief gave a smile as dark and acidic as the trainer’s spit. “Have a nice day, Mr. Cooper.”
He pivoted and walked toward the gallery that connected the next stable, his small feet churning through the sawdust. Lieutenant Campbell hurried after him. But Cooper stood rooted to the spot. Crumpling the paper, he threw it to the ground. His hands were opening and closing, the rough fingers flexing as if preparing to take a swing. I stepped back and Juan turned away, leading KichaKoo to the hot walker. The groom kept his eyes down, but something about his stooped posture made me wonder. How did I convince him to let me stay with Solo in Seattle that night? Money. Just money. I glanced at Cooper. How much did the trainer have to pay, to cover anything covered up?
So many guilty consciences, I thought, so little time.
And then, as if punctuating my thought, a scream shot to the barn rafters. High-pitched and horrified, it sent Cooper running down the gallery toward the sound. I took off after him, but my girly shoes were slipping on the sawdust. He turned down the same path where Mr. Yuck had gone, but he was a good fifteen yards ahead of me. But I saw a flash of pink.
Ashley Trenner was struggling to hold on to the black beast named Cuppa Joe. The horse was stamping its hooves, bucking around a tight circle, as the girl clung to the bridle and jumped out of his way. And that wasn’t even the real problem.
Two men staggered over the sawdust, locked in battle. Jimmy Bello’s elbows were raised high, with his hands wrapped around the thick neck of Mr. Yuck. He drove the security chief into the plank wall. They hit with a thud that sounded like a clap of thunder. Cuppa Joe gave a high whinny.
“Stop!” Ashley cried. “Stop—you’re scaring the horses!”
But Bello only pressed down harder. Mr. Yuck’s face was changing colors, the droopy eyes bulging. When his lieutenant raced forward, I heard that distinctive rip of Velcro, the nylon hooks ripping apart. He held a small black can in his hands and I shut my eyes. I didn’t open them again until Bello started howling.
He was no longer choking Mr. Yuck but clawing at his own face, stumbling across the gallery, blind from the Mace. His left foot kicked a metal bucket, tripping him. When he fell to the ground, nobody moved to help him up.
The lieutenant looked at Mr. Yuck. “Are you all right?”
The bitter eyes were watering. He coughed, once, and reached down to pick up his BlackBerry that had fallen into the sawdust.
Bello cried, “I’m blind!”
Mr. Yuck took a wide path around the trainer and marched into an empty stall. The lieutenant stayed, keeping the Mace can’s red nozzle pointed at Bello. His other hand lifted a radio from his belt.
“Problem at Abbondanza,” he said into the receiver.
The reply came quick: “Now what?”
“Trainer. What else.”
Bello lifted one hand from his face. The eyelid was swelling shut, but he looked up at the lieutenant and flexed his middle finger.
The lieutenant spoke into his radio again. “Bring Mike and Keith. With the restraints.”
“10-4!”
Mr. Yuck stepped out of the stall. His dour smile looked almost beatific as he lifted a small bag. The brown paper was crumpled and covered with sawdust. “No wonder Mr. Bello didn’t want me to go in there,” he said. “I just found buried treasure.”
The lieutenant clicked the radio once more. “Bring a property box. With a lock.”
Mr. Yuck shook the bag, sending the sawdust falling to the ground like snow. “Yes, my Christmas in August.”
Bello kept shifting his face, trying to see, but the left eye was almost completely closed and the right eye was so bloodshot no white remained. His mouth, however, managed a hard sneer. “You know what you are, Yuck?”
“Yes, lucky.” He lifted the bag as if toasting a good friend. “I believe we have snake venom. How wonderful.”
Bello said, “It ain’t mine.”
“Of course not. The horse went out and bought it.” He turned to the lieutenant. “Shut it down.”
Bello tried to push himself up. “What—? You can’t shut us down!”
Mr. Yuck ignored him. “And call the state police. We’re reporting this contraband. I want every one of these horses gone. ASAP.”
“I’ll sue you!” Bello cried. “I’ll sue this whole place!”
“Certainly, Mr. Bello.” The sour smile crept across the doughy face. “But you’ll need to wait your turn. I’ll be suing you first. For assault. And I have witnesses.”
The trainer wiped at his eyes. He seemed to want to scowl but the tears kept ruining it. He only looked distraught. “You got no search warrant. You can’t do this without a search warrant.”
“Read your contract.” Mr. Yuck passed the bag to the lieutenant. “The track reserves the right to inspect any barns for any suspicion of illegal activity. No search warrant necessary. Your little bag of treasure means you are closed for the season. Perhaps for good.”
Bello sank back into the sawdust. But a moment later, he glanced up again, as though remembering something. The bloodshot eye roamed until it found Ashley. She held one small hand to Cuppa Joe, brushing down the ripples of tension in his black neck. He flared his nostrils and his ears flicked back and forth, then suddenly froze. A split second later, I heard a high whine, like an insect, and an electric golf cart zipped up to the barn.
Three security officers jumped out. The lieutenant kept the Mace poised while the three men grabbed Bello and dragged him forward. When the trainer fought back, I closed my eyes again. All those FBI training exercises meant I had an almost instinctive response when it came to Mace. When Bello cried out again, I opened my eyes. His dragging feet carved a trail through the sawdust. Mr. Yuck and his lieutenant turned in the other direction, heading for the next barn. The security chief tap-tap-tapped on his BlackBerry.
Ashley buried her face in the animal’s coat. He looked as shiny as spilled oil, flanks quivering as Bill Cooper took a step closer. The trainer’s cold eyes held a strange expression. A light, but the kind of light refracted through an icicle.
“Ashley?” he said.
She lifted her face. Her cheeks were scalloped with color, the skin mottled with rushing blood. “Cuppa Joe woke up sick.” Her mouth quivered. “He’s not himself. I’m not leaving him, even if they shut down this barn.”
Cooper nodded, using his tongue to shift the plug of tobacco in his cheek. Then he spit. “We got a stable open.”
But she didn’t look at him. She gazed down the line of horses, leaning over their Dutch doors like town gossips.
He said, “SunTzu’s stable is empty. You want it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? You need a job, don’t you?”
She nodded.
“And I need some help.” He glared at me. “Real help. Somebody who knows what they’re doing. Stella Luna’s running today. KichaKoo is in the sixth. Go on. Go help Juan.”
Her hand stayed on the big black horse.
Cooper said, “He can come, I just told you.”
“Like, now?”
“What, you think Yuck’s gonna change his mind? Okay. Go ahead, stay. But I live in reality. And right now reality says your barn is officially toast.”
She stole another glance at the horses. I didn’t believe in telepathy, but her adoration for those animals felt tangible, like something filling the air. Tears welling in her eyes, she dropped her head and led Cuppa Joe by his bridle. They walked down the connecting gallery to Hot Tin, looking like a small pink girl with her gigantic black balloon.
“And you,” Cooper said, whirling on me. “I’m so onto you. Where did you hide while Yuck tore up our barn?”
“Pardon?”
“Pardon.” He spat. “You go talking to that fire dude—then as Yuck shows up for inspection, you’re gone. Poof. Like magic. What, afraid we’ll figure out what you’re up to?”
He was close enough that I could see the ragged scar on his nose. And a bump. Broken nose. Healed wrong.
“I went to get breakfast,” I said. “Birdie told me he was going through the barns. I came back and happened to—”
“Yeah.” He laughed, cold. “Like you just happened to spend the night with Solo. And just happened to see that tube in the dirt.”
“What’s your point?”
“Keep outta my way. I don’t care if you are Eleanor’s niece. I’m running this barn. Not you.”
I stayed where I was, watching his bandy-legged walk back to Hot Tin. There was no point in following. And there was no point in explaining myself. Whatever I said would only dig a deeper hole.
And after this morning, I could already see China.