Secretariat Reborn (26 page)

Mystery surged ahead and left the other chestnut in the dust. “It’s going to be Clever Chris,” said the announcer. “Clever Chris coming to the wire, and they’re not going catch him today.”

The small group at the bar erupted with cheers as Mystery sailed across the finish line six lengths ahead of the second horse.

Christian stood at the bar, not remembering when he had left his seat. His mouth gaped open in awe, and he stared silently at the TV screen.

The old man patted Christian’s shoulder, snapping him out of his trance. “Great race, son, great horse,” he said. The other bar patrons came over and also congratulated him on the win.

Christian grinned. “He is a great horse.”

At the farm, Christian stood in the stall and talked softly to Mystery while brushing him. “You like that rubbing, boy?” Ten days ago, Mystery ran his second race and came out of it not tired, but raring to go again. On the farm exercise track, Allie had to use all her strength to hold him back.

She leaned against the outside stall door and thumbed through the racing form. She glanced up from the paper when Christian began working on the colt’s rump. “Be careful,” she said. “He’s so full of himself he’s gone to kicking sometimes back there. He needs another race to burn off that energy.”

Christian stroked the horse’s neck. “You wouldn’t kick me, would you, Mystery?” The colt nickered.

Allie laughed. “You do have a way with horses. You should have been a trainer.”

“My father said that a few months before he died.” He shrugged. “But I’m happy to be the lowly groom.”

She leaned her chin on the stall door and looked at Mystery and Christian. “Never underestimate the groom. They clean the stall and wash, brush, feed, and handle the horse. They spend more time and get closer to the animal than the trainer or owner. A good groom knows when his horse is a little off. That knowledge can make or break a Thoroughbred. Ironically, grooms are the most overlooked, overworked, and least paid in this business. A horse can win the Triple Crown, and everyone gets rich except the groom. He can still walk away a pauper.”

“Hardly seems fair.”

“It isn’t,” she said and returned to her reading. “Next Tuesday, there’s an allowance race at Calder for eighteen thousand for two-year-olds, winners of one race, seven furlongs. I think we should enter Mystery in it.”

“Eighteen thousand? We’re going down in purse money. At this rate, I’ll never pay Vince off.”

“It’s July, and the purses are cheap down here. Besides, Mystery needs to get the experience and build his confidence. This time he’ll face serious competition and won’t be running against a bunch of sorry-ass maidens who’ve never won a race. If he wins it, I’ll start looking for a bigger purse and race. We might have to take him north. But let’s not count our chickens before they hatch. We’ll see how he does.”

“That works for me,” he said. “I’m taking Vince and his friends fishing again Sunday night, so I can go with you on Monday.”

Saturday morning at the marina, Christian sat at a shady picnic table with a book on Secretariat open in front of him. Occasionally, he glanced up and scanned the bay for his WaveRunner, skeptical of the renter. He also checked on some kids in his sailboats. His cell rang, and he saw it was his mother and answered.

“I got your message, Christian,” she said. “You can’t make Sunday’s dinner?”

“No, Mom, I’m taking some people fishing Sunday.” He rolled
his eyes with the fib. “Besides, Allie and I are leaving early Monday for the track. She’ll be packing up the gear Sunday night.”

“We’ll plan for the following weekend. By the way, another package came for you.”

“It’s probably a racing tape I ordered on eBay. I’ll come by after work and get it.”

“I won’t be here, but I’ll leave it on the kitchen counter.”

In the afternoon, Christian read the last page in the biography on Secretariat. “Jesus,” he whispered, overwhelmed. “Damn horse was a phenomenon.”

He read that Secretariat had not only won the Triple Crown, but also still held the track record for the Kentucky Derby and Belmont Stakes. In the Man o’ War Stakes, a mile-and-a-half turf race, he had run with little effort against the wind in 2.24 4/5, matching the world record for that distance on
any
track.

Christian also learned that the horse made the cover of
News-week, Vogue, Time
, and other magazines. The articles were filled with praise, hailing him as the greatest racehorse of the twentieth century and, basically, the greatest animal of all time.

What moved Christian the most was the way Secretariat affected the nation. The horse was a shining star during the time of Watergate and the Vietnam War. This single creature uplifted an entire country. Everyone considered him a true American hero. He did not run for money, power, or praise. He ran for the pure joy of running.

Christian packed up at work and drove to his mother’s house to get the old tape. ESPN had produced a show of the century’s fifty greatest athletes. Secretariat, the only animal, came in at number thirty-five.

At his mother’s house, Christian opened the package, grabbed a soda, and strolled into the family room with the tape. Luckily, their old VCR was still hooked up and working. In the empty quiet room, he leaned back on the couch, got comfortable, and pushed the remote key, expecting to watch a series of horse races.

Halfway through the tape, Christian found himself on the edge
of his seat with goose bumps and a shiver going up his spine as he watched the super-horse.

In the Belmont, Secretariat was charging toward the finish line, an outstanding thirty-one lengths ahead of the field. Christian fell on the floor to get closer to the TV. “Oh, my God; oh, my God.” He breathed hard, and his eyes watered while his heart pounded with euphoria. He knew the horse had won the race, a race that had captivated the entire country, but it was so long ago and he was ill prepared. He wiped the tears from his eyes, trying to recover from witnessing such perfection, such raw grit and speed, such magnificence. He recalled his father had said that he had cried, watching this race. No wonder. The tape scanned the crowd, moved, many spectators also were weeping.

Christian covered his mouth, sniffled, and stared at the blank screen. Is this what he had? Was Mystery, his clone, destined to shape history and touch every soul in the nation?

Barbaro, the injured Derby winner, was a sampling. The horse had captured everyone’s interest and concern, but his fame was nothing like Secretariat’s. The horse had raced in 1972 and had died in 1989, but his legend lived on, his name immortal. If polled, people might not know the name of the current vice president of the U.S., but the majority—rich, poor, young, or old, and horse lover or not—would know Secretariat, the name of the illustrious Thoroughbred. Christian’s father had said that people who saw Secretariat win the Belmont could recall exactly where they were when they watched this race. The event was so huge, historical, and unforgettable.

Christian collapsed against the couch, grasping for the first time that his colt, if truly like Secretariat, was way bigger than his own little life with its goals and problems. His colt would steal every heart, influence millions of people, but when the racing was over, what then? They might discover it was all a lie, a hoax—an unregistered horse, illegally raced, a clone whose genes had been manipulated by science and men.

He stood and felt weak in the knees. Maybe Mystery is just a nice racehorse, and he’ll win enough to get me out of hock, he thought, but he did not believe it. After reading everything about Secretariat, he knew Mystery looked, ran, and behaved identical to his remarkable donor. Being raised in a different environment had not altered Mystery or his course. It was only the beginning, and his colt was racing down the path of fame.

Several days later, Christian leaned against the rail at Calder, chewed his nails, and watched Mystery walk past in the post parade, led by the pony rider. Allie stood nearby with her gaze fixed on the colt.

Christian thought about two days earlier when he and Vito had taken the Scarab and made their second run in the gulf. The pickup and delivery of goods went as planned. While waiting for the freighter’s arrival, Vito confessed that he hated boats and feared the water. Perhaps it might partly explain the man’s disagreeable attitude. Every time Vito saw Christian, the man had to climb into a boat. Christian had hoped to see Vince and talk about the length of his employment, but Vince was in New York, leaving Sal, his second in command, in charge.

Christian’s thoughts returned to the present as the horses had reached the starting gate and began to load.

Allie glanced at Christian. “You’ve been awfully distracted. Is something bothering you?”

“No, I’m fine.” He winced, not having known his dejected mood had been obvious. Besides his other problems, he was dogged with a growing guilt concerning Mystery and whether the colt should be raced. He pointed at the gate, getting Allie’s concerned eyes off him. “He’s going in.”

She turned and watched Mystery load.

The starting gate opened and, once again, Mystery was the last to leave. “Come on, Mystery,” Allie shouted. “Get your act together.”

“He will,” Christian whispered, no longer doubting the ability of his colt.

Mystery hung back, trailing the other horses and, in the turn, he made up the distance with an explosion of speed. The other two-year-olds appeared to barely move as Mystery, big and mature for his age, stampeded past them. Allie yelled and bounced up and down as the chestnut colt dashed, unchallenged, toward the finish line.

Christian stood still, bit his lip, and watched. “Big Red,” he said, unsure if he had mumbled or thought it. Mystery breezed by them, hardly breaking a sweat.

“Clever Chris, taking it by eight lengths,” said the announcer.

Allie looked up at Christian. “Are you excited now?”

“Yes,” he said with a smile. He felt like a kid in school who received an A on a test, but had cheated to get it, guilt hindering his joy.

Allie clasped his hand. “Let’s go.” She pulled him toward the winner circle. He stood next to Allie as she held Mystery’s bridle with Jeffrey in the saddle while the photo was snapped. Christian took over, holding the colt while Allie removed the saddle and handed it to the jockey for the weigh in.

“Good, boy,” Christian cooed and rubbed his colt’s head while Allie talked to Jeffrey and ordered the picture from the photographer.

Christian heard a man’s voice over his shoulder. “Nice colt. Would you be interested in selling him?”

Christian grinned and turned, but frowned upon seeing Price. “He’s not for sale, especially to you.”

“Well, think about it,” said Price. “The sheik is offering a fair amount of money.”

“Fair?” Christian glared. “What would you two know about fair? Speaking of it, what became of Hunter?”

Allie walked up. “Get the hell away from us, Price.” She grabbed Mystery’s lead from Christian and sharply swung the colt around,
hoping to knock the trainer down with the horse’s rump.

“Watch out!” Price yelled, jumping clear. Allie smirked and sauntered out onto the track with Mystery, heading toward the barns.

Price grumbled, “I see you’re still with that little bitch.”

“Yeah, I am.” Christian glared. “What about Glade Hunter?”

Price ran his fingers over his mustache. “He was injured in a grade-three stake race last year.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No,” Price frowned, acting offended. “It was a hairline fracture. He was gelded and sold to a Miami woman who deals with polo ponies.”

Christian picked up the bucket and remaining gear. He started to follow Allie and the colt who were fifty yards down the track.

“Christian,” Price called. “Keep my offer in mind.”

Christian sat on the couch and stared at the TV. The weather forecaster pointed to the yellow, orange, and red swirls created by radar that represented a tropical depression named Blanche. She had swept through the Caribbean, crossed Cuba, and was headed for the Gulf of Mexico. With the warm gulf waters, Blanche was expected to pick up speed and turn into a hurricane overnight. Storm warnings had gone up from the Florida Keys to Tampa.

The colorful computer-generated spaghetti lines across the screen predicted the storm’s path. Most lines had Blanche skirting the Florida coast and making landfall north in the state’s panhandle, Alabama or Mississippi. As a native who had seen his share of storms, Christian knew not to completely trust the forecasts of computers, radar, and weathermen. A hurricane was an erratic and volatile creature with a mind of its own and could easily alter its course.

Although June was the start of the hurricane season, Christian did not start watching the weather until August when storms were the most active and destructive. It was August first. Christian wasn’t overly concerned. Hurricanes, like mosquitoes, rain, and the sweltering heat, were part of a Florida summer.

He turned off the TV and walked into the kitchen. Allie stood at the counter and tossed a salad. He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Need help?” he asked, kissing and nuzzling her neck.