Hayburner (A Gail McCarthy Mystery)

For Andy and Zachariah. You make my life a happy one.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to:

Sue Crocker, Wally Evans, Brian Peters, and Todd Brown, who helped train the real Danny; Craig Evans, DVM, Lieutenant Patty Sapone, and Ray Zachau, who consulted on technical details; Alycia Weber, who watched Z while I wrote; Marlies Cocheret, my teacher and friend; and Andi Rivers, my sister, who has given generous help in many areas over the years.

Grateful thanks also to Henry David Thoreau, always a guide.

Finally and especially, thanks to my grandmother, Jane Richardson Brown, a spirited individual, and my father, Barclay Brown, an equally iconoclastic spirit. I'm glad I inherited your genes.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

This book is a work of fiction. Like all fiction, it borrows from reality. Santa Cruz County is a real place; Harkins Valley is not. And though all the human characters in this book are imaginary, the central crime on which the plot is based did, in fact, take place on my family's ranch, many years ago.

HAYBURNER

Table of Contents

Chapters:

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

EPILOGUE

ONE

The old barn was a torch. Flames roiled and billowed from the roof, filling the night sky with an orange glow. In the smoky light, human figures ran and shouted, leading and driving shadowy horses. Through the roar of the fire, I could hear loud neighs and shriller equine screams, the crash of shod hooves on asphalt. Fire trucks sat in a row in the drive, and men in yellow suits played hoses in what looked like a futile attempt to douse the inferno. The biggest boarding and training barn in Santa Cruz County was burning.

My God. I had time only for a split second of nightmarish recognition through the windshield before I launched myself out of my pickup truck. Pushing through the crowd in my way, I ducked roughly under the arm of an overweight man who was staring at the blaze with a rapt expression. "Excuse me," I said, "I'm a vet."

I'd taken two fast steps in the direction of the barn when a voice halted me. "Gail, over here."

Turning, I headed toward Clay Bishop, one of the Bishop family-the folks who owned the Bishop Ranch Boarding Stable. Tall, attractive, easygoing, Clay was normally a quiet-spoken, reserved man; he was also a personal friend of mine. I barely recognized his voice, sharp-edged with strain. "There're a couple of horses in real trouble in the arena. Could you go have a look at them?" Before I could say yes, he was off in the direction of the barn, long legs shoving him into a run.

Horses in the arena-I took a deep breath. This could be bad. Even as I pushed my way past a group of firefighters with a crisp, "I'm a veterinarian," my mind chanted a repetitive refrain. Take it easy, Gail. Hold it together. Stay calm. Just do what you can do.

"Dr. McCarthy, please, come quick!" A female voice, shrill and panicky. Angie Madison, one of my clients.

I went through the arena gate at a half run; Angie was leading a horse toward me, or trying to. The mare on the end of the lead rope kept planting her feet and coughing violently-deep, wrenching explosions that shook her whole body.

Damn. My mind rapidly catalogued everything I knew about smoke inhalation in horses, which wasn't a whole hell of a lot. This was the first barn fire of my seven-year veterinary career. The big problem, as far as I could remember, was pneumonia. Antibiotics, then.

"She was trapped in there. Bart barely got her out." Tears in Angie's voice. Bart was Bart Bishop, Clay's brother, and the resident trainer here.

I took a closer look at the mare, and even in the strange orangey half dark, recognized the neat diamond-shaped star on her forehead. Sugar-Angie's horse.

"Will she be okay?" Angie asked, as the mare coughed again.

"Probably." I said it firmly, trying to sound more confident than I felt. "We need to make sure she doesn't get pneumonia."

Even as I checked the mare's vital signs, my eyes roamed the arena. Lots of horses, some loose, some tied, some led by people. All milling about. Whom to help?

Sugar's pulse and respiration were elevated but acceptable under the circumstances, her gum color normal as far as I could tell in the dim light. "Clay said there were a couple of horses here that were in real trouble?" I asked Angie.

"Oh, yeah. There's two down at the other end of the arena that got burned, I think." Angie's eyes stayed on her mare as she spoke. In her early twenties, she had the egocentricity of youth. Though not unkind, or so I thought, she was incapable of feeling much but the extent of her own tragedy.

"We're supposed to run the barrels at the Cow Palace in another month." Angie watched Sugar heave out another cough. "I guess I'll have to draw out."

"Probably," I said again. "I need to go look at those other horses. Your mare's in no immediate danger. I'll be back to treat her when I can."

"Will she be all right?" Angie asked me anxiously once more. The perennial question.

"I think so," I said. "I'll put her on some antibiotics."

I was moving off as I spoke, headed toward the far end of the arena where two horses were standing. Two human figures held them; another seemed to be applying something to one horse's neck. At a guess, these were my burn victims.

In the periphery of my vision, I was aware of pandemonium around me-smoke and flames bellowing from the barn, choking miasma in the air, a churning mass of people and horses. My mind chattered strange, disconnected asides-damn, it's been a hot and dry autumn; hope this doesn't start another brush fire; let these horses not be too bad.

Still, I kept my eyes focused, ignoring both the turmoil and random thoughts as best I could, moving steadily toward the far end of the arena. I was a vet; this was my job.

"I'm a vet," I said out loud to the woman holding the nearest horse.

"Thank God," she responded.

In the dim light I couldn't see very clearly, but I could smell. The horse smelled of charred hair and burned meat. It stood calmly as another woman applied what appeared to be salve to its neck and withers; I couldn't assess its expression very well, but I knew by the overall demeanor what it would be. Stoic.

I had seen this before in horses with broken legs and other major injuries. Once the initial trauma and panic were past, the horse seemed to withdraw into himself and quietly endure. Nature's way of making the wait for the end more bearable.

"How bad is he hurt?" I said to the woman applying the salve.

"I can't really tell. He's burned pretty bad, I think. He just barely got out. Bart said a burning rafter came down next to him, basically caught his mane on fire." Her voice was calm, almost detached.

"Is he your horse?"

"Yes."

"Would you like me to have a look? I'm Dr. McCarthy from Santa Cruz Equine Practice."

"Of course." The woman glanced at me as she spoke. She was a stranger to me, and I could only guess at her feelings, but despite her apparent detachment, I thought she was on the edge of overwhelm.

I checked the horse's pulse and respiration; both were elevated but not exceptionally so, given the circumstances. He didn't appear to be shocky. His burns, though extensive, seemed less severe than I had expected.

"He's not burned too badly; I think it's mostly superficial," I said to the woman, using the flashlight she handed me to peer at the charred flesh. "That salve is fine to use on him."

"We're lucky," she said flatly. "Two other horses that were right next to him in the barn didn't make it out."

"Oh no," I said.

She merely nodded. "This one," she gestured at the horse next to us, "is burned, too, but not as bad."

I swiveled the flashlight beam onto the horse behind me. The burn marks weren't as extensive here, and mostly over the horse's rump. Once again I did the routine checks and directed the horse's owner to apply dressings and give prophylactic antibiotics.

When I was done, someone led another horse up, and then another. Most were coughing; I saw a few more burns. I was just starting to examine horse number six when I heard a familiar voice.

"It is criminal, I tell you, criminal to keep horses like this. See what comes of it."

The voice had a pronounced German accent; I knew to whom it belonged. Hans Schmidt, the new horse vet in town, and a truly flamboyant character. Even a background of smoke and flames couldn't seem to dim his overly charismatic aura. As far as I could tell, he was lecturing the woman next to me on the evils of keeping horses in confinement-a pet peeve of his-while she held a coughing pony who waited for his attention.