Secretariat Reborn (14 page)

Allie stood nearby. “This isn’t a good idea. I can see it in your eyes. You’re ready to lose it. Let’s just go.”

He didn’t answer and stayed focused on Price. Allie was probably right. Confronting Price wasn’t a good idea in Christian’s present state, when his anger outweighed reason. Losing his boat and now Hunter seemed minor, compared to disappointing and losing his father.

The last horse and jockey filed out of the riders-up area, and Christian made his move. “I want to talk to you, Price,” he shouted and marched across the grass with Allie trailing. The surrounding
spectators stopped to watch as he met the trainer, sheik, and his entourage head-on.

Christian straightened, puffed up, his fists like loaded guns resting on his hips. “I know what you did, Price!” he yelled. “You fucked us. You switched our horses’ workout times and lied to the clockers so you could sell Allie a slow horse for good money and talk me into a claimer, where the sheik got my colt cheap.”

“That’s a lie,” Price retorted.

“You’re a goddamn liar and a crook,” Christian barked. “I can live without the horse and money, but cheating my dying father—I can’t live with that.”

Price moved closer to the sheik’s men, obviously sensing that Christian’s ranting and manner suggested violence. “You’re full of crap,” Price said. “I didn’t switch any times. And you got no proof I did. You, that bitch,” he nodded toward Allie “and your sorry-ass old man can go to hell.”

With the blinding rage, Christian could barely breathe. “You son of a bitch!” He sprang past the group of men to Price and grabbed the front of the trainer’s sport shirt, slamming his back and head hard against an oak tree. With his victim stunned, he raised his fist, planning to give Price the beating of his life. But before he could strike, the sheik’s four men rushed in and wrestled his arms down. They punched him as Price scrambled away. Under a hail of blows to his stomach, ribs, and back, Christian collapsed on the ground and curled up into a defensive ball. The assault continued with the men kicking him.

“Get away from him,” Allie screamed and jumped on the back of the biggest man. She pounded his back and shoulders with her clenched fist.

The hefty, bearded man reached back and swatted her off like an annoying fly. She landed on her bottom in the grass. “American women,” he seethed, “they know not their place.”

“Chauvinist pig,” she lashed out and clambered to rise.

Two security guards dashed onto the scene, and the sheik raised his hand, signaling his men to stop the attack on Christian.

Allie scuttled across the grass on her hands and knees to Christian. “Christian, Christian, are you all right?” she asked and cradled his head.

He coughed and uncurled his body. “I think so.” He puffed.

“He attacked me,” Price screeched at the guards, his high-pitched voice cracking. “Get the police.”

After several minutes, Christian held his bruised ribs and managed to stand, but the guards clasped his arms. The police, always stationed around the track, arrived shortly.

“I want to press charges,” Price said to the officers. “He threw me against the tree and cracked my head. He nearly knocked me out. And he threatened me.”

The officers cuffed Christian’s wrists behind his back. When they started to escort him away, he pulled against their hold toward the trainer and Arabs. “If it’s the last thing I do,” he shouted, “I’m going to get you—you and your fucking sheik buddy.”

“Did you hear that, officer?” Price said. “He threatened me again.”

“It’s no threat,” Christian said. “It’s a promise.”

Christian was loaded into the back of a squad car and taken to the police station. He was charged with battery, fingerprinted, and placed in a jail cell that held several other men. He paced the bars, waiting to bond out on the misdemeanor charge. He had a few hundred on him plus his winning ticket money from Hunter’s race, but it still wasn’t enough. The bond turned out to be fifteen hundred dollars.

He called Allie’s cell phone and told her he was a few hundred short of bonding himself out. He asked if she could help out. An hour later, an officer came to the jail and told Christian, “A little lady out front says she’s here to post your bail.”

He walked toward the front of the police station where Allie waited. They plunked down their cash, and he bailed out without the use of a bondsman. He signed the papers for a hearing date and glanced up at Allie. “I promise I’ll pay you back.”

“You better.” Her smile dissolved into a frown, and she pushed
his locks away from his face. “Jesus, you’re a mess. Those dickheads really worked you over.” She took a tissue from her purse and dabbed at the dried blood on his forehead and chin.

“Lately, I’ve been finding myself in more scraps.”

Allie drove Christian back to his SUV in the grandstand parking lot and, by the time they hooked up his old horse trailer for the trip home, night had fallen on Miami. Towing the trailer, he followed Allie back to Myakka, making sure her worn-out pickup would make it. Rather than take the hectic I-75, she drove up the middle of the state on the rarely used Highway 27. Before Lake Placid, they turned off on State Road 7O and stopped in Arcadia for a quick bite. At midnight they arrived at her farm.

In the driveway, she got out of her truck, unfastened the gate, and walked back to him while he sat in his idling vehicle on the quiet country road. “I’d ask you to come in,” she said, “but I know you need to get to your father’s.”

“Yeah,” he said and exhaled. “He expected me hours ago.”

“Don’t be worried, your dad will understand about the horse when he hears what the trainer pulled. Losing the colt wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes it was. Dad wanted Hunter in a maiden special weight. I should’ve followed his advice. I’m afraid that losing Hunter—” He rubbed his forehead. “I’m afraid this will finish my father.”

“I’m so sorry.” She reached in the cab and brushed the locks out of his eyes.

“I don’t have a horse anymore, but I’d like to see you again.”

“Well, you certainly know how to show a girl an interesting time. You’ve got my card and number and know where I live.” She climbed into her pickup, drove onto the property, and hopped out. Shutting the gate behind her, she waved to him.

He raised his hand slightly from the steering wheel and then watched her pickup travel down the long drive leading to the house. He put his SUV in gear and continued his journey to Ocala.

•   •   •

At three in the morning, he pulled up to his father’s house and saw his mother’s parked Lexus. Rather than go in and wake them, he leaned his head against the cab window and shut his eyes.

Several hours later, Juan tapped the window, and Christian stirred. “Good morning, Mr. Christian,” Juan said quietly.

Christian eased out of the vehicle and noticed for the first time that Juan wasn’t smiling. “Dad learned I lost Hunter in the claimer?”

Juan nodded. “I had to tell him when I came back from OBS.”

“Shit,” Christian said and rubbed his sleepy eyes and stubbly face with the heel of his hand. “Guess I’d better go in and try to explain.”

“Mr. Christian, you should know that your father is not well. He took to his bed five days ago, and I do not think he will ever leave it. Your mother has called in the hospice nurses. His time soon comes.”

Juan’s words hit Christian like he had been doused with ice water, snapping him to full alertness. He hurried inside the house and found Rosa in the kitchen. “Is he awake?” he whispered.

“No, but go in,” she said. “All night he asked for you.”

Christian pushed open the bedroom door and slipped inside. His father lay on the bed, so colorless he blended into the white sheets. With each rise of his chest, his breathing was rattled like a rock tossing around in a can. “Dad?”

His father opened his eyes. “Christian, is that you?” he murmured into the oxygen mask.

“Yes, Dad, I’m back.” He swiveled a straight chair near the bed and sat astride with his crossed arms resting on the chair back. “I’m sorry about Hunter. Price switched his workout times with a slower horse and lied to the clockers. Then he talked me into the claimer. But I should’ve called you.”

Hank slowly shook his head, too weak to show much emotion, but managed to pull down the mask. “You did call, said you had a bad feeling about Price. I should’ve trusted your instincts and switched trainers. I’m just as much to blame. And when Juan showed me the racing catalogue with the colt’s times, I knew why you had him in a claimer. I don’t want you fretting and carrying this around,
boy. What’s done is done.” He pointed toward his dresser. “Top drawer. There’s a box. Get it.”

Christian retrieved an old cigar box and sat down again. He took out The Jockey Club registration papers on a horse called Clever Chris. Also in the box were the horse’s Florida-Bred and Breeders’ Cup certificates. “Who is he?”

“I got the Jockey papers back a few weeks ago. He’s a five-month-old colt in Texas,” Hank said. “I still owe two hundred and fifty thousand on him. I’d hoped Hunter’s purse earnings would pay him off so you could bring him home.”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand.” Christian whistled. “My God, Dad, how much did the colt cost?”

“Three hundred and fifty, and worth every penny.” He pointed toward the side table. “Get me a drink. My mouth is dry.”

Christian brought the glass of water to his father’s lips and held it while his father took a few sips.

“That’s better,” Hank said. “Two years ago, when I found out I had cancer, I mortgaged the farm and made a down payment on the colt. I used the farm as collateral for the rest.”

“Two years? You bought the colt before he was born?” Christian asked, studying the papers. “And Dad, these papers say he’s by Chris and the old mare out back. He’s a full brother to Glade Hunter. Why would you have to buy him?”

“He’s not by Chris. I plucked Glade Hunter’s mane and sent off his hairs for the DNA test and had the guy in Texas take pictures of the colt so I could fake the breeding and get him registered.”

“You paid three hundred and fifty thousand for an unregistered horse?” Stunned, Christian stood and walked around the bed. “I don’t understand.”

“Sit down, Christian. This colt is really by Bold Ruler and out of a mare called Somethingroyal.”

Christian had no sooner sat than he was on his feet again. “Bold Ruler? He died decades ago.”

“That’s right,” said Hank. “This colt,
your
colt—he’s a clone.”

Christian became breathless. “Who is he? Who’s the donor?”

Hank’s lips turned upward, forming a slight grin. “The greatest racehorse I’ve ever seen. Secretariat.”

“Secretariat. How’s that possible?” Christian asked.

There was a knock on the bedroom door, and Hank whispered, “We’ll get to that later.”

Christian’s mother opened the door and peeked in. “Rosa said you were here. Maybe you can convince your father into going to a hospital.”

“Not a chance,” Hank said. “I’ll be damned if I’ll go out in a strange bed, drugged up, and stuck with tubes. I’m dying right here.”

Her eyes filled with disapproval, but she said nothing. She turned to leave and added, “Hank, the nurse will be here in an hour.”

After she had gone, Hank said, “Been alone fifteen years and now that I’m kicking the bucket, I got women hovering all around me.” He glanced at Christian. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy Angie’s here. I look at her and the pain ain’t so bad. Back to this colt. With Hunter gone, somehow you’ll have to raise the money and pay off the cloning bill. The colt has to be picked up next month.”

Christian’s eyes went wide. “Next month?”

“This is the dream, Christian, my son owning the fastest horse in the world. I can go to my grave content, knowing this horse will make up for the past—make things right between us. Promise me you’ll get this colt, son. Promise you’ll do it.”

Christian took his father’s hand, and not even thinking it through, he said, “I promise. Whatever it takes, I’ll raise the money and bring the colt home.”

“Good, good.”

Christian stood and paced the room, his head spun with figures while he did the math. Minus the trainer’s and jockey’s ten percent, he should get roughly twelve thousand from Hunter’s purse, adding in a few thousand for Florida-Bred awards, and another twenty-five thousand from the claiming sale. He would also get thirty thousand from the insurance company when they settled the claim on
The Princess
. If he sold everything else he owned, it wouldn’t amount to another ten, and the total would still be a long way from two hundred fifty grand.

Christian stopped, a thought occurring to him. “This colt can’t be raced. He’s illegally registered.”

“He can be raced. The Jockey Club won’t check his DNA again until he goes to stud. By then you’ll have a cool ten million in winnings in your pocket. That colt will make you a rich man.”

Christian straddled the chair again. “Okay, so I race the colt, but if the truth comes out he’s a clone, I could face fraud charges.”

“Help me sit up,” said Hank.

Christian gently pulled him forward and stuffed pillows between him and the headboard. His father eased back, and said, “That’s better. You wouldn’t face charges. You’re an innocent kid who got a horse and his papers from his father. I’m the guilty party. I falsified the DNA and his registration papers, and I’m listed as the breeder.” Hank grinned. “That’s the beauty of it. They can’t come after me, because I’ll be dead.”