Secretariat Reborn (13 page)

Price spoke. “Just keep him out of trouble, Carlos.”

Christian jumped in with his father’s words. “My colt tends to back off if he’s crowded or gets dirt in his face, so run him on the outside. Take him wide, if you have to.” The jockey nodded.

Price produced a toothy grin beneath his mustache. “Guess you do know a little bit about your horse.”

The groom stopped Hunter long enough for Price to give Carlos a quick leg up into the saddle. The horses and jockeys filed out onto the track, where the pony riders took their leads for the post parade.

“Come with me, Christian,” said Price. “I have box seats in front of the finish line.”

“No thanks,” said Christian. “I’d rather be on the rail near the winner’s circle. Despite what you think, Price, Hunter’s going to take this race.”

“I hope you’re right.” Price cackled and left the riders-up area.

Allie came alongside Christian. “That bastard,” she said, watching Price walk toward the grandstand. “So, getting nervous?”

“I actually feel butterflies in my stomach,” he said as Hunter moved down the track.

She giggled. “His odds have dropped to twenty-to-one. Let’s put some money on him.”

They hurried to an outside betting window. “Thirty to win on the third horse in the fourth race,” Allie said and handed the clerk the money. After getting her ticket, Christian handed the clerk a hundred dollar bill. “Same horse and race, but make it a hundred to win.”

They reached the rail as the horses approached the starting gate. Allie glanced at the big tote board next to the finish line. “That’s strange. Look at the odds on your colt now,” she said. “He’s going off at eight to one. Somebody likes him. They dropped several grand on him to win.”

Christian barely heard her as Hunter was loaded into the chute.
Minutes later, the last horse was in the gate. The bell sounded, the doors flew open, and the horses lunged out. “And they’re off,” called the announcer.

Christian’s heart sank when Hunter stumbled leaving the gate. By the time he recovered, he was dead last going into the first turn, a good eight lengths behind the pack.

“Damn, got a bad start,” Allie said, “but it’s a mile. He’s got time to catch up.”

“Come on, boy,” Christian whispered. “Please don’t let Dad down.” The colt was coasting along the back stretch and still trailing the field. At the half-mile pole, he shifted gears and began passing horses on the outside.

“Come on, Hunter!” Allie screamed. “He’s making his move!”

Christian froze. The lump in his throat prevented him from yelling. His eyes became moist as his colt gave the race all he had. Rounding the final turn, Hunter had moved into third place.

“And here comes Glade Hunter,” said the announcer on the PA. Hunter was neck and neck with the front-runner on the rail when they charged down the homestretch toward the finish line.

Christian held his breath. Hunter blew past the other colt and took the lead. He continued to gain ground, leaving the field of horses in his dust.

“Jesus, he’s flying,” Allie cried.

Hunter crossed the finish line and won by five lengths.

Christian clung to the rail for balance, his heart pounding, and closed his eyes. “He did it,” he whispered. “He did it for Dad.”

After the race, Christian was in a daze. All the tension, excitement, and fear had been compacted into the two short minutes. Allie hugged his neck and said, “Congratulations, Christian!”

“Did you see him?” he mumbled. “He was unbelievable.”

“I saw him.” She laughed. “If he hadn’t had that bad start, he would have never seen another horse. You got yourself a good colt. Come on. It’s the winner’s circle for you.” She led him through the
crowd toward a circular, red-brick wall with a flowered hedge. Allie stood back.

He turned and grabbed her hand. “I want you in this picture, too.”

“I don’t think Price will approve.”

“Like I really care.” Christian pulled Allie next to him. Soon Hunter and the jockey came in from the track. Price and his barn staff joined them.

“Congratulations,” said Price. “You were right about your colt. He does have talent.” The winning crew lined up and the groom held Hunter’s head while the photo was taken.

The jockey hopped off Hunter and shook Christian’s hand. “Nice colt, nice colt,” he said.

Christian hugged the colt’s neck and patted him while the tack was removed. He was more elated than he could remember. His horse had won and validated his and his father’s blind faith.

Allie, however, was grim. “Christian, that man over there, talking to Price,” she whispered. “He’s the clerk of scales.” Price gave Christian a quick glance and walked toward the administrative office.

“Oh, shit,” she said.

“What? What’s wrong?” Christian asked. “Who is the clerk of scales?”

Before she could answer, the loudspeaker announced, “Glade Hunter, the winner in the fourth race, has been claimed.”

Christian stood by the rail in silence, too shocked to speak. He watched the red colt walk down the track and out of his life. So devastated, he hardly heard Allie say she was sorry. He had gone from euphoria to sorrow in minutes. “How could this happen?”

Allie rubbed his arm. “Horse racing is a tough business. It’s all about winning and losing, and I’m not talking about money.”

He turned to her. “But Price said no one would want him, with his history of workouts.”

“It’s surprising, but I should’ve guessed something was up when I saw his odds jump from twenty to eight. Someone had the inside track and knew you had a damn nice colt, despite his workouts. Unfortunately, there’s no recourse. If you tried to buy Hunter back, you’d pay at least double, and while he’s winning, he won’t see another claimer.”

“What am I going to tell my dad? He trusted me and I lost his horse.”

“Show your father the catalogue and Hunter’s times. He’ll understand why your colt was in the claimer,” she said. “I’m going back to the stables and find Jorge. That groom might know something about my gelding. Do you want to come along?”

“Why not?” Christian shrugged. “I’m dreading the trip to Ocala.”

They climbed into Christian’s SUV and drove past the barns to the stable where Jorge worked. He was walking a horse around the shed row, cooling him down after the race.

“Hey, Jorge,” Christian said.

Jorge stopped walking the horse. “Mr. Roberts, I am so happy your colt won.”

“Yes, but he was claimed,” said Christian.

“I am very sorry.”

“When you’re done, we’d like to talk to you.”

“Sure, Mr. Roberts, sure, I am almost done.” After Jorge put the horse back in his stall, he walked to the shade tree by the parking lot where Christian and Allie waited.

“Jorge, if you don’t mind my asking, why did Price fire you?” Christian said. “I thought you were doing a good job.”

Jorge lowered his head. “I saw something and complained, but it is not wise for a groom to speak badly about a trainer, especially when the groom is trying to become a citizen here.” He looked up with tormented eyes at Christian. “But I trust you, Mr. Roberts.”

Jorge went on to explain that he had only worked for Price a few months and became distressed by the high percentage of horse injuries. Horses that had been broken and trained on soft slow farm track were never given time to adjust to the hard, fast racetrack. Far too many never saw a race and were lucky to walk away maimed but still alive.

“Sounds like Price,” Allie fumed.

Christian frowned. “Why would Price do this?”

“Because he’s got a big name and loads of rich clients,” she said. “He has horses waiting to fill his stalls, so why waste time bringing one along? He works them hard to find out which ones will hold up. What else, Jorge?”

Jorge looked at Christian. “Do you remember the gray filly I was icing down before a race?”

“I remember, your sweetheart,” said Christian. “You said she was a winning little filly.”

“Yes, my poor sweetheart. She bowed a tendon in a morning gallop and the following day I saw Mr. Price give her a shot in the tendon and take off her front shoe. He told me to get her ready for the
track. I argued and said she should not go out. That is when he fired me. Later I learned she broke her leg during the workout and had to be destroyed.”

“Ah, shit,” Christian moaned. “Why would that son of bitch work an injured filly?”

Allie walked in a circle, kicking at the dirt and cursing under her breath. She stopped and said, “Because of the insurance, Christian. The filly was probably a stake horse and insured for at least a hundred thousand. A bowed tendon usually ends a horse’s race career, but it’s not a life-threatening injury. The insurance will pay the vet bills but not the value of the horse. Price probably shot up her tendon with Carbocaine. Like Novocain, it numbs the pain, and taking off the filly’s front shoe throws a horse off balance. That sucker killed her for the money.”

Christian swept back his hair. “How can he get away with this shit?”

“Easy,” said Allie. “A vet confirms the broken leg, puts the horse down right on the track, and fills out a report. By the time the insurance company is notified, the horse’s body has been hauled to an African wildlife park and fed to the animals. Any proof ends up in the stomach of a lion.” She turned to Jorge. “Do you remember the chestnut gelding that I bought from Price? You helped me load him.”

“Yes, he was a friendly horse.”

“Did anything happen to him before I got him? Maybe he got cast in the stall, wrenched a back muscle, something that might not show up on an X-ray but would slow him down?”

“I know of nothing about your gelding,” Jorge said and turned to Christian, “but your colt, Mr. Roberts, I am not surprised he was claimed. The last time you were here, Mr. Price told me to take your colt out after you had left and show him to the sheik. Mr. Price told the sheik that your colt was very fast.”

“So I was set up,” Christian said. “Price knew Hunter didn’t belong in that claimer. I should’ve listened to my father. Damn it, I should’ve called him.”

“I must go back to work,” said Jorge. “I am sorry about your colt,
Mr. Roberts, but glad you have found this nice lady. Your horses, they, too, were friends.” He started toward the barn.

“Wait a minute, Jorge,” Allie called. “What do you mean our horses were friends?”

“Your gelding and Mr. Roberts’s colt went to the track together.”

Allie walked to Jorge, determination in her stride. “Are you telling me that our horses worked in company with each other? They breezed together?”

Jorge nodded.

“That’s it!” she said, “That’s how Price cheated the track clock on the times.”

Christian scowled. “I don’t get it.”

“Think about it,” she said. “Two chestnuts breezing together in the darkness before dawn. The clocker can’t tell which red horse is which. He relies on the trainer for that information. Price switched the horses’ times. My gelding got your colt’s fast time. Your colt got my gelding’s slow time. That’s how Price screwed us.”

Christian began to pace under the tree, boiling. After a minute, he growled, “Give me your catalogue, Allie.”

She handed it to him. “What are you thinking?”

He flipped to the back pages listing the trainers and numbers that represented the races they had entered horses that day. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Back to the track,” Christian said. “Price has a horse in the ninth race. He’ll be at the paddock before the race.”

“You can’t prove that Price switched our horses’ times, and if you accuse him of cheating us, you might get Jorge in trouble.”

“I won’t mention Jorge, but I do want to talk to Price,” Christian said as they walked to his vehicle and got in.

“You don’t look like you’re just going to talk.”

They drove back to the grandstands and, while waiting for the ninth race and Price, they cashed their winning tickets and went to the bookkeeper’s office. Christian signed off on the purse and claiming
checks so they would be mailed to him. They then went to an outside table near a snack bar with a view of the riders-up area.

“You’re wasting your time, confronting that lying prick,” Allie said, “He’ll just deny everything.”

“It didn’t stop you.” Christian’s cell phone chimed. Not recognizing the number and fearing it might concern his father, he took the call. “Hello.”

“Hey, baby, I’ve missed you,” said Kate. “I figured about now, you’re missing me. If you come back to me, I’ll buy you a new boat, any kind you want. I promise I’ll be good to you. Don’t you see we belong—”

“Goddamn it, Kate. It’s over,” he growled. “I don’t want your fucking boat. I don’t want to be with you. Now leave me alone!” He closed his cell and shuddered, trying to throw off the additional irritation. He glanced at Allie. Over lunch she had said he was a nice guy. That nice guy was fast disappearing.

“Ex-girlfriend?” asked Allie.

“Don’t want to talk about it.” Christian rose from the bench, seeing the horses for the ninth race file into the paddock. He scanned the area for Price.

After a few minutes, Price strolled past the jockey door on the open corridor leading to the paddock. Next to him was the sheik. Four Arab men followed them. Christian walked to the riders-up area and leaned against a wall, waiting until the horses were saddled and had gone to the track.