Full Mortality (11 page)
A pounding headache and anxiety chasing after too many beers awakened me at 4:40
A.M.
I lay there in bed like I was somebody else. Someone with no job, no place to go. A murder suspect, with fingerprints on a syringe found next to a dead horse. A horse that was probably poisoned.
How the hell had my fingerprints gotten on that thing? Something about hypodermics floated on the edge of my mind, just out of sight. I’d gone over it the night before, hitting dead end after dead end, each roadblock demanding an additional beer. I abandoned the bed. Time to make coffee, find some solutions.
I put some laundry away, then hauled the pieces coated with cat fur and the previous day’s clothes to the coin-operated machines at the end of my building. Got a load going, my mind flitting to other chores. Probably should get some cat food and other essentials at the all-night grocery on 198. I’d have to use my credit card.
The cold vinyl seat in my Toyota stung my skin right through the seat of my jeans. Condensation streaked the car’s windows, the drops colliding and running in rivulets on the windshield. The western horizon glowed pink, and the radio announced the day would be sunny, a high of 70. The forecast ended, and the DJ put on that old Creedence Clearwater song “Bad Moon Rising.”
The grocery was located in a strip mall, flanked by a darkened liquor store and a pizza parlor, still closed for the night. A pawn shop stood next to the liquor store. I might be forced to haul some things in there.
A man lay in the recessed doorway of the pawn shop asleep under a tattered blanket. His face had light brown skin. His head supported a mat of grizzled hair. Then I recognized a piece of red bow tie not covered by the blanket. That Mello Pinkney guy. Looked like he hadn’t taken the bus. Probably hadn’t made it past a bottle from the liquor store
. Lot of that going around.
I still wondered how he’d known my name
.
I bought my stuff in the grocery and came out with two bags. Mello was sitting up with the blanket covering his shoulders.
“Can I get you a coffee?” Why had I offered that?
“That be mighty fine, Miss Nikki.” His head nodding.
I dumped my grocery bags in the Toyota, slipped back into the store. Put two coffees in a cardboard carton. Threw in some cream and sugar packets and went outside. Mello had folded his blanket into a neat square, straightened his bow tie and moved to a bench in front of the pizza parlor. I handed him the carton and stood stirring cream and sugar in my coffee.
His hands were long-fingered and nimble as they opened packets and fixed up his brew. I noticed his eyes were pretty clear for an old guy who was probably a drunk. They had an almond-shaped tilt at the outside corners. That tilt and high cheekbones suggested a probability of Native American blood in his veins. Maybe Piscataway.
“You be needing a place to stay,” he said. His voice sounded thick but sweet, like chocolate.
“I have a place, an apartment.”
“Yes ma’am. But you have a horse.”
This guy knew too much. “Yeah, a filly,” I said, staring at him like I could divine the wellspring of his knowledge.
He took a sip of coffee, leaned back into the bench, stretching out his legs. “I has a nice place, barns and a training track. They even has a starting gate.”
Doubt was an understatement. “Where’s that?”
“Dimsboro.”
Ah, jeez. I’d heard of that place. It was for horsemen ruled off the main tracks. People stamped with felony convictions. An unacceptable last resort. It used to be one of Maryland’s racetracks until a previous governor got in trouble, some sort of scam with the place. Then the grandstand “mysteriously” burned to the ground.
Anyway, I was pretty sure with Jim’s help I could get a job at one of Maryland’s private farms up in the northern part of the state. There were some beautiful operations up there, and good exercise riders were hard to come buy. I drained my coffee.
“Mr. Pinkney . . .”
”Peoples call me Mello.”
“Okay, Mello. Why would I want to go there?”
The old man leaned forward. “Didn’t Mr. Jerry show you the way out? Down at Dimsboro we calls it ‘Jerry’s escort service.’ You a member now, jus like us Dimsboro folk.”
Right. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ve got a place in mind.”
“Sure you do,” he said. Then he cackled. Sounded like the brown hen that hung out in Burke’s barn.
“I knows things,” he said. “I’ll fix up a stall for that chestnut filly. I be waiting for you. Won’t let you down, Miss Nikki.”
I sketched a wave and beat it back to my car. Who’d told him my filly was chestnut?
Back at my apartment I fed Slippers, changed the litter box and attacked the bathroom with scrub cleanser. Finished that, and looked for more before I caught myself. Enough with the procrastination. I called Jim. He said he knew the managers at two farms. He’d get back to me. Yes, Hellish was fine.
Curious about Jack Farino, I punched in the number he’d left and got voice-mail. Didn’t leave a message. If he was involved in Dennis’s death, maybe better not to talk to him. But anything pointing a finger at someone else would only help me. Being ruled off, I couldn’t spy on him or Clements at the track. Not anymore. So where did they live? Dragged the phone book out, found an address for Clements. Nothing listed for Farino. I had nothing against tech but hadn’t spent the money on a computer. I was probably the last person I knew to get a cell phone. And that mostly stayed in my car on a charger.
Maybe Lorna could find a home address for Farino on that barn computer. Not sure what I’d do with the information, but it beat sitting in my apartment.
The phone rang. Jim. “Got a pen?”
I did and he gave me the name of two farms he’d contacted, and directions. I’d call, see if they needed a rider, see if they’d let me bring Hellish, and work off her board through the riding.
“What I can do, Nikki, if you make a connection, is load Hellish on my rig and meet you outside the stable gate, let you drive her up there. Sorry, but I need to get her out of here. I made up with Martha, but somebody told her Hellish belonged to you. So . . .”
I told him I understood, thanked him, and disconnected. I’d forgotten to ask about Kenny. I was beginning to wonder if he was dead.
The engine of Jim’s red Ford purred as the truck climbed an incline on the narrow country road. To my right the land rolled up a long gentle slope. A stone barn sat up there, topped by copper cupolas oxidized down to pale mint green. A stand of trees, their leaves still predominately green, protected the steepest part of the slope from erosion. A few bright spots of red and orange had begun to dapple the foliage.
Jim’s rig crested the top of the hill, and down to my left, through a sturdy post and rail fence, a dozen or so broodmares grazed. Most of them had foals nearby. Thoroughbreds. Maybe I’d ride one someday. Not a weed in sight. The grass was shamrock green, the sun bright, and I couldn’t imagine having the money to own such a place.
I reached over, my fingertips searching for the piece of paper with directions. “Poplar road/over the creek with wood bridge/ turn to left.” Okay. I swung downhill and below me trees crowded against the road. Massive trunks of an old-forest stand and the dark green of pine and holly. Ahead a wooden bridge with a “Single Lane” sign led over a large rushing creek strewn with smooth rocks. I slowed, making sure no one was approaching from the opposite end, slid the electric window down and listened to the water roar, inhaling damp earth and cedar. The rig rattled over the bridge, and I looked left.
There. A small sign. I made the turn and headed up a steep hill thick with timber and evergreen. A few moss-covered boulders lay along the edge of the road. At the top of the hill the ground opened sharply, the panorama ahead making me slow the truck. A sign with red lettering read “Balmora.”
Historic-looking Maryland brick home to the left. Box bushes, brick walk leading to the house. Horse barns ahead, vast fields of grass to the right, horses grazing, and in the distance on the left, a racetrack, maybe a half-mile around. Steeplechase jumps set up in the infield. Money, lots and lots of money. Could I get a job here?
I rolled down to what appeared to be the main barn and climbed out. Hellish knew we’d arrived somewhere and started stomping, impatient to be set free. She could smell the horses, and she’d been shut up in the trailer for almost two hours. I hoped she wouldn’t explode, and walked into the barn.
Wide center aisle. Clear solid wood-paneled stalls with black iron railing from shoulder height up to about 10 feet. The buckets, feed bins, and tack boxes shining in turquoise and red. Snappy. Glowing coats, bright eyes on the horses. A guy about 25 grooming a horse in a stall halfway down the aisle. Bales of sweet, dark-green alfalfa formed a neat stack to my right, the guy just ahead on the left.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m looking for Mr. Boucher?”
They guy paused, resting the hand holding the curry comb on the horse’s withers. Handsome, light brown hair, thin and very fit. “Senior or Junior?”
“Senior.” Like I had a clue.
“That would be my dad.” He gave me the once over. “Are you Nikki Latrelle?”
I said I was, and a kind of resistance settled on his features. He came out of the stall. “I’ll get him for you, but I don’t know how much good it will do you.” He walked away down the aisle and disappeared through a door on the far left.
Not encouraging. The horse he’d been grooming ambled over and shoved his head toward me over the stall door. I moved to him and stroked his neck without conscious thought.
An older version of Junior came quickly through the door and jogged toward me. He was lean, his face planed sharp from hard work.
“Miss Latrelle.” His accent clipped and British. He shook my hand rapidly, his face already negating my employment. “We agreed to help out, but Jim didn’t tell me you’re involved in a murder. Sorry, you’ve got too much notoriety attached. It wouldn’t do for us.”
He raised a brow and jutted his head forward.
Yeah, I got it. “Thank you. I won’t take any more of your time.” I turned and walked away. Could feel my face burning, hear his footsteps retreating. Figured he’d already forgotten me.
The second and last place on my list was another hour and a half away, near the West Virginia border. I’d better get going. Hellish already had the trailer swaying as she moved restlessly inside. She’d started whinnying. Other horses began answering, and she got more worked up by the second. I jumped in the cab, cranked the engine and pulled out, hoping the rhythm of movement would calm her down. At least she’d stop thinking it was time to unload.
The Robersons’ place wasn’t a movie-set like Balmora. Fences needed repair. The barnyard was littered with straw and bits of trash, and a number of pesky vines attempted to strangle the locust posts in a nearby paddock. To the west of this place the mountains near Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia, were gilded by the late afternoon sun sinking steadily into a dark cloud bank that stirred on the horizon. The radio had warned of a cold front, rain, heavy at times.
Sally Roberson was tall and thin, maybe 65. She looked tired. Her face suggested resignation — etched by the accumulation of too many disappointments.
I stepped away from Jim’s truck and headed toward her where she stood in the entrance to an old wooden barn, its red paint long overdue for a touchup. A short, round-bellied man stepped from the shadows behind her and stared at me. His mouth turned down.
“If you’re Nikki Latrelle, we’re not buying . . .”
The tall woman raised a sharp arm, her hand slicing the air near his face, fingers splayed. “I’ll handle this, Dundle,” she said, her eyes never leaving me.
“You tell Ravinsky he’s got some nerve sending you up here. We may live in the sticks, but I have connections. I graduated from the Madeira School in Virginia.” She pronounced it “Vah-ginia” and stood up a bit straighter.
Oh, right, that school where the head mistress murdered the Scarsdale Diet Doctor in 19-whatever.
Sally glared at me. “Same school as Janet LeGrange. I used to be somebody,” she said bitterly, her head whipping to stare at the round-bellied man. He retreated back into the shadows.
I pictured Janet with those big diamonds and designer duds. If they’d been social equals, Sally had suffered a long fall.
“She still calls me. Happens she called today, told me about you being a serial horse killer.”
This was going well.
“I know what you are. Get the hell off my land!”
“I’m gone,” I said.
“Sally, you want this?” Round-belly had reappeared with a shotgun.
“You just hold that right on her, Dundle, until she gets her ass in that truck and off our farm.”
Hellish was screaming at some other horses and the trailer was lurching from side to side.
Jesus Christ
. I jerked the handle on the cab door, threw myself inside and got the hell out of there.
A hard rain from the west struck Jim’s rig as I motored down the ramp from 270 where it connects with the Washington Beltway near Bethesda, Maryland. A sudden gust drove sheets of water sideways, causing the trailer to sway. Hellish fought back with a lurch that shoved the trailer into a fishtail. An 18-wheeler rode alongside us down the sharp curve, blinding me with spray from its big tires. I struggled with the wheel, correcting against the skid, pumping the brakes.
Through my left window, the right rear tires of the huge truck appeared, sliding toward me, an avalanche of water. Panic grabbed my stomach. Then Jim’s Ford steadied. Separated by inches, the big rig drew ahead as I continued dampening my speed.
Could this day get any worse? Don’t ask, I thought. By now I’d slowed to a crawl, gaining control over Jim’s rig, the tractor trailer barreling on ahead, finally out of spray range. The moment past, but my knees kept trembling.
I merged onto 495 and worked over to the slow lane. Hit the tape “play” button to see what Jim had on there, and Sinatra joined me in the cab. That was cool, he was an upbeat guy, kind of soothing.
I’d been putting off admitting it, but I was going to have to check out Dimsboro. I’d called Jim on my cell phone after leaving the Robersons’ place.
“You can’t bring her back here, Nikki. If Mello says he has a stall, he’s got one. He may be a drunk, but he keeps his word.”
Great.
“And he knows things,” Jim had said.
“What does that mean, exactly?” I asked, but must have hit a dead cell zone. Jim never answered, and I couldn’t get him back. Now I concentrated on the wall of rain, and the river on the highway. Rough enough that cars had pulled from the highway onto the shoulder. Under an overpass five or six of bikers sat on their Harleys, waiting it out.
I headed south into Prince George’s County, took the Route 4 exit and hydroplaned toward Pallboro. Funereal sounding name. I drove into the town, amazingly quaint for being so close to D.C. I passed an ancient brick church. Wet English box, hollies, and tombstones crowded the churchyard. The brick walk to the building was sunken and old. I crossed over Tavern Branch, the creek so swollen with rain it surged and splashed up through the bridge’s metal grating.
Some cops were at the crossing with sawhorses and battery-lit signs, getting ready to close it off. Figured I’d just made it. I’d heard that back in the 1800s this creek was so deep and wide, big ships could sail up from the Patuxent River and Chesapeake Bay. Cargo boats would navigate up Tavern Branch to deliver goods and pick up Southern Maryland tobacco in Pallboro.
Ahead, to the right, I could see an arena run by a division of the Maryland State Park. Along with the sports center they’d inherited the racetrack, which lay to the left. Rumor was the park service was doing everything possible to make the track fail. Probably wanted to use the land for some money-making scheme. Nothing like letting in a bunch of felons to help its demise. I couldn’t see too well in the deluge, but even in this torrent a well-maintained track shouldn’t look like a lake. Sharks could swim out there.
I followed the road along the track to the backside. It turned right and ran parallel with a row of barns. Their blank ends faced the road. The track stretched away in the gloom to my right. It was late, getting dark, becoming almost impossible to make anything out in the rain.
I heard, then felt a growing rumble. A speeding light approached from beyond the barns. When I recognized the long notes of a train whistle, I let go the breath I’d been holding. Probably just the moisture in the air, but the barns seemed to sway as the train lumbered through. I eased the Ford to a stop and cut the engine. Sat there a moment, feeling exhaustion sweep through me. Cold vapor from the rain seeped into the cab. The train whistle grew distant.
I let loose a scream as a face materialized outside my window. A Latino stared at me, his face streaked with water. The silver of a teardrop tattoo glistened beneath the corner of his right eye. A prison tattoo. He was naked to the waist. Maybe some drug kept him comfortable. The long ropy muscles of his arms were stained with reptilian tattoos.
I smashed my palm onto the lock next to my window and thought about firing up the Ford’s engine. The man pointed at me with a long fingernail. A flashlight approached, and with a mental sob I recognized the voice of Mello Pinkney.
“What you doing, Vipe? You’ll scare her to death.”
“Screw you, old man.” The Latino turned abruptly and moved away. A dark ponytail sprouted from his head and snaked between his shoulder blades. The night swallowed him.
“That you, Miss Nikki?” Mello shone the light in my face.
I raised a hand against the piercing beam and slid the window down a few inches. “Yeah. I got the horse back there. Is there a place for her?”
Mental prayer of supplication.
“Got a stall all fixed up. Don’t you worry about old Mello.” He was wearing a black rain hat. A see-through plastic-coat covered his threadbare jacket. A glint of red bow tie somehow brightened my night.
Hellish came off that trailer in a rage, her metal shoes crashing on the ramp, a deep, angry whinny erupting from her chest.
“Oh my lord,” said Mello. “We’d best get her in the barn.” He hurried away.
I followed him between two barns. Water sluiced along the pavement and gurgled down a drain. These barns, like Laurel, had a roof overhanging the open-sided shedrows running outside the stalls. Unlike Laurel, the roofs leaked. Water dripped on the covered dirt paths on either side of me. There weren’t enough buckets in Prince George’s County to catch the flow.
Mello stepped into the aisle on our left, ducked an ambitious leak and moved to the end of the barn. Water lay in the aisle way, and I splashed through with Hellish. The path inclined upward near the end, the dirt becoming dry.
Hellish bulled along, dragging me after Mello, like she was trying to catch up with him. He disappeared into a stall, Hellish hot on his heels. Inside, she stopped. I took the lead off and stepped back, astonished.
The stall was clean, dry, knee-deep in fresh yellow straw. A hay rack in the corner held a cornucopia of sweet-smelling alfalfa and timothy. Full water buckets hung on the wall, and a feed tub brimmed with grain. But it was Hellish’s deep interest in Mello that stunned me. She moved over to him, ignoring the amenities, and shoved her nose against his chest.
The old man stilled. His eyes lit with recognition. A mocha hand rose, trembling fingers traced the filly’s finely-made head. “Gallorette,” he whispered.