Mr. Yuck’s security staff was woven discreetly throughout the backstretch, with half of them disguised as guys who picked up litter. I only noticed them because as I passed they lifted radios to signal my progress toward the chief’s office.
When I reached the grandstands, the final man was planted beside a steel door. A video camera hung above it, like a vulture.
“Where is he?” I asked.
He pointed at the door with his radio’s rubber antenna. The moment I touched the knob, the lock buzzed. Behind it was a concrete-lined hallway that descended into the ground by about five degrees. The air felt chilly, dank, and another camera waited over the next door. Again, the lock buzzed when I touched the door handle.
Charles Babbitt, aka Mr. Yuck, was pacing a windowless room that was not much larger than my cell at the Selah Police Department. It felt like a bunker furnished with one desk and no chairs. And no windows, though it had plenty of views. Dozens of flat-screen monitors blinked with images of the track. Entrances. Bleachers. Guard stations. The Quarterchute. And eight views of the dirt oval, dividing the mile loop from starting gate to finish line.
“I knew you were lying,” he said.
In the dim light of his hovel, his olive clothing looked more gray than green. His paddle hands reminded me of a mole. And the ghoulish complexion suddenly made sense.
“You must see a lot of lying,” I said.
“That’s all I see. And you’re not particularly good at it.”
“Thank you.”
I meant it. But he wrinkled his nose and turned back to the monitors.
“Eleanor explained that I’m no longer with the FBI?”
The paddle hands took hold of each other. “She claims you’re working for her.”
I nodded. “Do you still have the note?”
“I turned it over to the police.”
“But you kept a copy.”
The nose wrinkled again. So I began describing my trip to Yakima, tracking the license plate and the trailer to Paul Handler’s property. I even told him about the problems caused by me taking—okay, stealing—the tubing, and how the horse got stuck. His eerie hazel eyes remained on the monitors while I spoke. The horses walked in a line toward the winner’s circle, single file. It was the last race of the day. And I held nothing back. Because all I had was the truth.
“The note talked about ‘killing,’ ” I said, “but they don’t mean the horse.”
“Of course not.”
“You knew?”
He gave me his dolorous smile. “The same way I knew you weren’t Eleanor’s niece. Nobody steals a horse from Sal Gagliardo and kills it. Not unless they want to die, and that’s too much effort for suicide.” He bent forward, peering at the view of the Quarterchute entrance. A black-haired man stood in the sun, smoking a cigarette. He gazed amiably at the backstretch. “The note was another bad lie.”
A jockey strolled past the smoker. His helmet was tucked under one elbow. Mr. Yuck leaned in closer, his lashless eyes widening on the image.
“Have you heard of ELF?” I asked. “Equine Liberation Front?”
The jockey spoke to the black-haired man, who offered him his cigarettes. But instead of taking one cigarette, the jockey walked away with the entire pack. A sound rose in Mr. Yuck’s throat, a vibrating bug sound, like cicadas in the South. He watched the black-haired man step back inside the café. Only then did he turn to me.
“ELF losers picketed the track’s opening last year. But they left. Moving on to bother someone else.”
“Maybe. But SunTzu is dead, and I think they made a mistake. They intended to hurt the jockeys.” It was difficult to tell if he was listening because the bulging eyes were fixed on a teller unlocking a safe. As she placed the money inside the bin, his blunt nose nearly touched the screen.
“We’re past the forty-eight-hour mark,” I said. “ELF has been known to plant bombs.”
“And I have extra security stationed at every entrance. And elsewhere.”
“It’s somebody on the inside. There’s no other way they could have buried that tube. And you know that.” Ashley was my first suspect. But she had an alibi. When Cuppa Joe was taken, she was vomiting in the shower. That didn’t completely eliminate her from my suspicions, but I also couldn’t imagine her doing anything to hurt a horse. “I’m not sure who it is, but somebody’s helping them.”
“The problem is the barns. Privacy!” His rotund body seethed. “Owners and their privacy.”
“I can look around the barns.”
He turned, evaluating me with those tunneling eyes. “If you’re so sure we’re in danger, why isn’t the FBI here?”
My turn to stare at the monitors. “The FBI isn’t prepared to take action at this point.” A familiar figure crossed the screen. Pale hair. Long. “But I think the FBI is making a mistake.”
Ashley Trenner stepped into the women’s showers, disappearing from view.
“And what is it you expect from me?” he asked.
“The truth.”
His smile was even stranger.
“I know, I lied to you. And everyone else. But I promise to level with you from this point forward. And I’d appreciate it if you did the same. We can start with you telling me what information you have.”
He turned, watching a boozy crowd that milled around the beer garden. The grandstands were thinning. A hot dog vendor counted bills. But the flickering views gave me vertigo. I wanted to close my eyes. And sleep. And wake up to find none of this had ever happened.
But Mr. Yuck continued to watch the images, unblinking.
“You can leave now,” he said.
“What about my offer?”
“It’s under advisement,” he said.