Secretariat Reborn (32 page)

Christian and Allie drove to the track office where he listed Price as his new trainer, giving him access to Mystery’s Jockey Club papers. Price could then hand them over to the sheik.

Christian dropped Allie off at the hotel so she could pack and
check out, and he headed to the closest bank and deposited the certified check for twenty million. Back at the hotel lobby, he picked up Allie. They stopped by the track and hitched up the empty horse trailer, exchanging only a few words.

During the first half hour of the trip to Myakka, the agonizing quiet continued with Christian looking straight ahead and driving while Allie stared out the passenger window.

She finally spoke up. “Now that you’re rich, I guess you’ll be moving out and taking off on that sailboat you’ve always wanted.”

He puckered his brows in surprise. “I hadn’t planned on moving out.”

“Well, people and situations change with money. Your dream or scheme is over. You don’t have Mystery anymore, so you certainly don’t need me or my little farm. I just want to know where we stand.”

Christian shook his locks and chuckled. “You sure don’t beat around the bush. That’s why I love you. If it’s okay, I’d like to stick around.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he said with a smile. “I know the money might be a problem, but I was thinking we could spend some, fix up your place, and maybe build a small house on the back of the property for Juan and his mother. That way we’ll have someone to take care of the horses when we sail the Caribbean in that new boat.”

“Really?” she said.

“Yeah, really.”

A few weeks passed after the colt’s sale, and Christian sat in the kitchen drinking coffee before going to work. Despite his millions, he liked his work and never considered retiring. He figured that he would also grow antsy, sitting around the farm, and get on Allie’s nerves.

He had called Juan and offered him a permanent job, helping Allie with the horses. Christian explained about a small house he would build for Juan and Rosa. Juan happily accepted.

Christian sat down with Frank and mapped out wise investments for his money after he finished fixing up the farm and buying the boat of his dreams.

There had been no word from the sheik, and Christian relied on the old saying, “No news was good news.” The man was apparently pleased with Mystery. Christian just waited, waited for Price and the sheik to commit the crime and race the illegally registered horse.

Allie walked into the kitchen and slid a computer printout under his nose. “They’ve entered Mystery in a big stake race at Churchill.”

Christian looked at the paper. “It’s in two days. Guess it’s getting close to pulling the rug out.”

“You know this might come back and bite you.”

“No way. I’m covered. The Jockey Club will be pointing the finger at Price, the sheik, or the breeder, my father, who’s dead. I’m an innocent middleman who received a horse from his dying father. I had nothing to do with falsifying the breeding of the stallion and mare, sending in the wrong DNA, or registering the colt with illegal Jockey papers. And there’s no proof whether or when Clever Chris was switched with the horse that the sheik now owns.”

“What about the cloning trail?”

“I told you. All those contracts are in Hank Jones’s name, even the pickup order. The scientists and vets were in the dark and had no idea that they had cloned Secretariat. They assured my father that they would destroy all DNA once the cloning was completed and paid for. They believed they cloned a good barrel horse. Even if everything came out, it’s the same deal. With the DNA gone, there’s no proof that the foal I picked up in Texas and the colt we raced are the same horse.”

She sat down at the table. “So, you’ve got this all planned out.”

“I do.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Allie. I just couldn’t keep racing Mystery. For the rest of my life, I’d have to lie to everyone I met. The guilt would eat me alive. I’ve learned that what a person needs and what one wants are two different things. I have everything
I need right here with you. I didn’t want a famous horse bad enough.”

He shrugged. “Maybe my father did. Maybe if he had lived, he would have taken Mystery all the way and been content to live the lie. That’s not me. I took Hunter and Mystery and went down a crazy path, hoping to prove to a dead man—prove to myself—that I wasn’t a lousy son. Turns out I’m okay. If you can’t face yourself in the mirror, nothing else matters. God, nature, and luck created Secretariat. There should be only one. Cloning and racing Mystery was cheating.”

She rose, slipped behind Christian’s chair, and hugged his neck. “I think you’re more than okay,” she said and softly kissed his cheek. “You’re just a little guilty of doing foolish things.”

He breathed deeply and nodded. “I agree. Damn list of boners is endless.”

“Nobody’s perfect, except for me, of course.” She giggled and stepped to the kitchen counter. Leaning against it, she faced him. “While on the computer, I pulled up some horse cloning articles. The dilemma you faced has become quite a controversy. The purebred horse registries are against cloning, saying man shouldn’t be allowed to create a champion, whereas some breeders and owners want to register and compete with their clones. I can see both sides. Cigar won the Breeders’ Cup but turned out to be sterile. Funny Side took the Derby, but was a gelding, and Barbaro won the Derby but had to be destroyed. Unless cloned, their bloodlines are lost.”

She lifted an eyebrow and smiled. “And then there’s the thrill factor, cloning dead champions so they can compete again. You have to admit watching Mystery, seeing Secretariat run again, was astounding. I’m glad I didn’t have to make the decision, whether to race the fastest horse on the planet or pull him. I’d probably be like your father, deal with the lies, and let the world have another Secretariat, another Triple Crown winner. If nothing else, it’ll be sweet when Price and the sheik take the heat.”

•   •   •

A few days later, Allie and Christian drove to the Sarasota dog track, sat at the bar, and watched the TV screen. Mystery walked down the Churchill Downs track with other horses as they prepared to run a hundred-thousand-dollar grade-one stake race on turf. The catalogue listed Mystery as the favorite in the mile-long race, going off with two-to-one odds.

“I know it wouldn’t be smart,” said Allie, “but I still wish we had flown up for this race.”

“Wish we had gone or wished we still had him?” Christian asked.

“Both,” she said, pursing her lips.

The horses entered the gate and a few minutes later, the doors opened. Like in the allowance race, Mystery gamely leaped out with the other horses and quickly took the lead. His jockey never looked back.

Halfway through the race, Mystery pounded across the turf grass, continuing to widen the distance between him and the other horses. “Secretariat usually stalked the field and came up from behind,” said Christian.

“Mystery might be the spitting image of Secretariat, but he’s developed his own style of running. Come on, boy.” She yelled out at the TV.

Again, Mystery cruised across the finish line all alone, the field of horses dozens of lengths behind. The TV announcers went crazy. “Clever Chris is the real deal. He has just broken Churchill’s track record, going 1.34.63 for a mile on the turf. What a horse! What a horse!”

Christian said, “He is as good as Secretariat.”

Allie sighed. “Christian, I think he’s better.”

Before going home, they stopped at a store. With cash, Christian purchased a disposable cell phone so his name would not show up on caller ID.

A few days later, he sat on the couch at home and picked up the
throwaway, untraceable phone, knowing the sheik had received the purse money from the stake race. He hit the keys and made his anonymous call to The Jockey Club.

“Hi, I’m a groom for Ed Price who represents Sheik Abdul,” he said to the woman. “Their horse, Clever Chris, just won a stake race at Churchill a few days ago. I don’t want to get involved, but I think you should know that the real Clever Chris died, and Mr. Price and Sheik Abdul switched horses.”

“How do you know?” she asked.

“I saw them cart off Clever Chris’s body, plus that colt had a scar under his jaw. The horse they raced doesn’t have a scar and scars don’t just vanish. If you don’t believe me, take another DNA test,” he said and hung up.

Mystery never had a scar. He didn’t even have a cowlick, a group of raised hairs commonly used to identify a Thoroughbred for registration.

The next day a man called Christian, saying he was from The Jockey Club. “Mr. Roberts, the Churchill Downs officials and I are investigating an inquiry made against Ed Price and Sheik Abdul concerning your formerly owned colt, Clever Chris. Did your colt have any scars?”

“Sure,” Christian lied. “He got cut under his jaw as a yearling in a barn fire, although the scar is hardly noticeable unless you’re brushing him. What this all about?”

“We were tipped off that Ed Price and Sheik Abdul might have switched horses and raced an illegal horse.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Christian. “A few years back I had a horse named Glade Hunter that had good times on the farm. Price got him and suddenly the colt’s morning workouts were slow, and Price talked me into a cheap claiming race. The colt was fast again, wins the race, but he was claimed by Sheik Abdul. I know Price switched my horse’s workout times with a slower horse and lied to the clockers so I’d lose my colt. Unfortunately, I can’t prove it. I’ve also heard rumors that Price injures horses so he can collect
on their insurance. Might want to question some of his grooms, especially the ones he’s fired.”

“That’s terrible. I’ll contact those grooms,” said the man. “This inquiry on Clever Chris might come down to a question of DNA. I would also like to speak to Hank Roberts, the colt’s breeder. Are you related to him?”

“He’s my father, and I’d also love to talk to him, but he’s dead. My parents were divorced, so I’m kinda ignorant about this horse business, but before Dad died he gave me Glade Hunter and Clever Chris. Since then, I’ve been learning.”

“I believe I have enough information to start an investigation. Churchill’s officials have already checked the colt claimed to be Clever Chris and found no jaw scar. We’ll next pull the colt’s DNA. Since you’re not the breeder of Clever Chris, I doubt we’ll need further information from you, but you might have to sign a statement confirming your colt had a scar.”

“No problem. Happy to help,” Christian said. He hung up and took a deep breath, glancing up at Allie. “I believe the shit is about to hit the fan.”

The following week, Christian got the first call.

“Mr. Roberts, what horse did you sell me?” asked an exasperated Sheik Abdul. “This colt’s DNA does not match his sire and dam. Where are his correct Jockey papers?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Christian. “You got the right horse from me. Ask Price. As you well know, he’s notorious for switching horses. Regardless, I owe you no explanations or additional papers. If you reread our contract I only agreed to sell you a healthy two-year-old horse.”

“Yes, yes, the bloody contract,” the sheik grumbled. “Without the correct papers, I cannot race this colt. Not only that, The Jockey Club is accusing me of falsifying the papers and tattoos and racing an illegal horse. Churchill Downs has taken my racing license. I cannot race any horse in my stable until this matter is resolved. If it
is not, I shall be forced to sell my horses or move them to Arabia so they can race.”

“Gee, that’s too bad. Well, good luck, sheik.”

The next day a second call came from Price. “What the devil did you do, Christian,” he raged. “You sold the sheik a colt with the wrong DNA. Since I’m its trainer, my license has been suspended while The Jockey Club investigates. It might become permanent. Plus, the cops have been called in. I could face criminal charges. The sheik is blaming me for this mess. All my clients have pulled their horses, since I can’t race them. Your damn colt is putting me out of business.”

“Some people shouldn’t be in the horse business.”

“Look, you son of a bitch, you better come up with the right horse papers and straighten this mess out or—”

“Or what?” Christian said. “Maybe finish that little business when I shoved you against a tree?”

Price was quiet for several moments. “You threatened me, said you’d get even. Goddamn it, you planned this, planned to ruin me! You fucker, you—”

“I am a fucker, Price, the kind you shouldn’t have screwed.” He closed the phone.

The still bay mirrored the rising sun, taking on a golden hue as Christian’s Boston Whaler glided past the mangroves on Longboat Key. Only the boat’s wake and an occasional splash from a jumping mullet disrupted the glassy surface. Christian maneuvered the boat up the small channel, and a great white heron squawked in protest at the intruder before taking flight. Up ahead, Vince stood on the empty dock with his fishing pole in hand.

Christian cut the engine, and the Whaler coasted up alongside the dock. “Hey, Vince.”

Vince stepped aboard. “It’s good to see you again, Christian.”