The Stars Shine Bright (18 page)

“Stop!” Ashley cried. “Stop—you're scaring the horses!”

But Bello only pressed down harder. Mr. Yuck's face was changing colors, the droopy eyes bulging. When his lieutenant raced forward, I heard that distinctive rip of Velcro, the nylon hooks ripping apart. He held a small black can in his hands and I shut my eyes. I didn't open them again until Bello started howling.

He was no longer choking Mr. Yuck but clawing at his own face, stumbling across the gallery, blind from the Mace. His left foot kicked a metal bucket, tripping him. When he fell to the ground, nobody moved to help him up.

The lieutenant looked at Mr. Yuck. “Are you all right?”

The bitter eyes were watering. He coughed, once, and reached down to pick up his BlackBerry that had fallen into the sawdust.

Bello cried, “I'm blind!”

Mr. Yuck took a wide path around the trainer and marched into an empty stall. The lieutenant stayed, keeping the Mace can's red nozzle pointed at Bello. His other hand lifted a radio from his belt.

“Problem at Abbondanza,” he said into the receiver.

The reply came quick: “Now what?”

“Trainer. What else.”

Bello lifted one hand from his face. The eyelid was swelling shut, but he looked up at the lieutenant and flexed his middle finger.

The lieutenant spoke into his radio again. “Bring Mike and Keith. With the restraints.”

“10-4!”

Mr. Yuck stepped out of the stall. His dour smile looked almost beatific as he lifted a small bag. The brown paper was crumpled and covered with sawdust. “No wonder Mr. Bello didn't want me to go in there,” he said. “I just found buried treasure.”

The lieutenant clicked the radio once more. “Bring a property box. With a lock.”

Mr. Yuck shook the bag, sending the sawdust falling to the ground like snow. “Yes, my Christmas in August.”

Bello kept shifting his face, trying to see, but the left eye was almost completely closed and the right eye was so bloodshot no white remained. His mouth, however, managed a hard sneer. “You know what you are, Yuck?”

“Yes, lucky.” He lifted the bag as if toasting a good friend. “I believe we have snake venom. How wonderful.”

Bello said, “It ain't mine.”

“Of course not. The horse went out and bought it.” He turned to the lieutenant. “Shut it down.”

Bello tried to push himself up. “What—? You can't shut us down!”

Mr. Yuck ignored him. “And call the state police. We're reporting this contraband. I want every one of these horses gone. ASAP.”

“I'll sue you!” Bello cried. “I'll sue this whole place!”

“Certainly, Mr. Bello.” The sour smile crept across the doughy face. “But you'll need to wait your turn. I'll be suing you first. For assault. And I have witnesses.”

The trainer wiped at his eyes. He seemed to want to scowl but the tears kept ruining it. He only looked distraught. “You got no search warrant. You can't do this without a search warrant.”

“Read your contract.” Mr. Yuck passed the bag to the lieutenant. “The track reserves the right to inspect any barns for any suspicion of illegal activity. No search warrant necessary. Your little bag of treasure means you are closed for the season. Perhaps for good.”

Bello sank back into the sawdust. But a moment later, he glanced up again, as though remembering something. The bloodshot eye roamed until it found Ashley. She held one small hand to Cuppa Joe, brushing down the ripples of tension in his black neck. He flared his nostrils and his ears flicked back and forth, then suddenly froze. A split second later, I heard a high whine, like an insect, and an electric golf cart zipped up to the barn.

Three security officers jumped out. The lieutenant kept the Mace poised while the three men grabbed Bello and dragged him forward. When the trainer fought back, I closed my eyes again. All those FBI training exercises meant I had an almost instinctive response when it came to Mace. When Bello cried out again, I opened my eyes. His dragging feet carved a trail through the sawdust. Mr. Yuck and his lieutenant turned in the other direction, heading for the next barn. The security chief tap-tap-tapped on his BlackBerry.

Ashley buried her face in the animal's coat. He looked as shiny as spilled oil, flanks quivering as Bill Cooper took a step closer. The trainer's cold eyes held a strange expression. A light, but the kind of light refracted through an icicle.

“Ashley?” he said.

She lifted her face. Her cheeks were scalloped with color, the skin mottled with rushing blood. “Cuppa Joe woke up sick.” Her mouth quivered. “He's not himself. I'm not leaving him, even if they shut down this barn.”

Cooper nodded, using his tongue to shift the plug of tobacco in his cheek. Then he spit. “We got a stable open.”

But she didn't look at him. She gazed down the line of horses, leaning over their Dutch doors like town gossips.

He said, “SunTzu's stable is empty. You want it?”

“I don't know.”

“You don't know? You need a job, don't you?”

She nodded.

“And I need some help.” He glared at me. “Real help. Somebody who knows what they're doing. Stella Luna's running today. KichaKoo is in the sixth. Go on. Go help Juan.”

Her hand stayed on the big black horse.

Cooper said, “He can come, I just told you.”

“Like, now?”

“What, you think Yuck's gonna change his mind? Okay. Go ahead, stay. But I live in reality. And right now reality says your barn is officially toast.”

She stole another glance at the horses. I didn't believe in telepathy, but her adoration for those animals felt tangible, like something filling the air. Tears welling in her eyes, she dropped her head and led Cuppa Joe by his bridle. They walked down the connecting gallery to Hot Tin, looking like a small pink girl with her gigantic black balloon.

“And you,” Cooper said, whirling on me. “I'm so onto you. Where did you hide while Yuck tore up our barn?”

“Pardon?”

“Pardon
.” He spat. “You go talking to that fire dude—then as Yuck shows up for inspection, you're gone. Poof. Like magic. What, afraid we'll figure out what you're up to?”

He was close enough that I could see the ragged scar on his nose. And a bump. Broken nose. Healed wrong.

“I went to get breakfast,” I said. “Birdie told me he was going through the barns. I came back and happened to—”

“Yeah.” He laughed, cold. “Like you just
happened
to spend the night with Solo. And just
happened
to see that tube in the dirt.”

“What's your point?”

“Keep outta my way. I don't care if you are Eleanor's niece. I'm running this barn. Not you.”

I stayed where I was, watching his bandy-legged walk back to Hot Tin. There was no point in following. And there was no point in explaining myself. Whatever I said would only dig a deeper hole.

And after this morning, I could already see China.

Chapter Twenty

T
he faint scent of Mace lingered in the air, that peculiar spicy aroma that came from its source—the outer layer of nutmeg seeds. But the barn was so quiet I could hear the horses breathing, their rhythms as uncertain as the feeling that wound through my heart. All my life, I'd managed to muscle through trouble, always fighting. And winning. But lately I was realizing that my problems were getting bigger and my self-sufficiency smaller. I needed help. Real help. And standing among the snorting animals, when I closed my eyes to pray, my mind felt fuzzy from last night's crying jag. From this morning's blitzkrieg by an arson inspector and Hurricane Yuck. There was nobody to talk to about it, except an invisible element that was more real than what I could see or touch. It was the one who rescued me, who redeemed me, who saw each loose end, every question, all my worries—and knew every answer. I would never be able to explain it in rational terms, but when I was at my worst, that was when I clearly saw Jesus. The greatest inverse relationship in the universe: when I was weak, He was strong.

But He wasn't a piñata. He was a mystery. And for all my pleading, the dots still refused to connect. When I opened my eyes, the horses were staring at me. And my stomach was growling. My breakfast sandwiches were inside my Coach bag. The foil was still warm. Unfortunately, the food had also warmed up the can of Coca-Cola I stashed in there, for emergencies, in spite of a long lecture from my wardrobe buyer Lucia Lutini. I turned my body to shield the expensive leather and popped the can's aluminum tab.

One of the horses smacked his lips. He was cinnamon colored, and his long tongue swabbed over his whiskers. Then he smacked again, stretching out for the can.

“No way,” I told him. “Y'all are in enough trouble already.”

“Who's in trouble?”

I jumped.

Ashley Trenner came around the corner. Her head was once again tilted with curiosity, draping the long platinum hair. “Who are you talking to?”

I lifted the Coke sheepishly. “I think that horse wanted some.”

“Oh, Henry.” She laughed and walked over to him. “This guy is Henry the Ate. All he thinks about is food.”

She reached out to pet him. The horse flicked her hands away, lunging for her neck. He knocked her off balance, but she only laughed. Gathering her hair with one hand, she presented the golden strands like a sheaf of wheat. Henry drew back his whiskery lips and started chewing.

Apparently my thoughts were written on my face.

“I know, crazy, huh?” she said. “It's my strawberry shampoo. Drives him crazy.”

After Henry had finished grazing on her hair, Ashley wiped his saliva on her jeans. She gave him a pat on the nose, then picked up the bucket that Bello had tripped over. Henry eyed her hungrily as she filled the bucket at a spigot. She poured cold water into the deep hanging basins beside each stall. And she made a point of touching each horse. Brushing necks, scratching softly, murmuring words. I stood back, eating my breakfast and enjoying that vicarious pleasure that comes from seeing someone enjoy their work. Doing what they felt born to do. She was breathing hard but moving efficiently, now pulling hay from rectangular bales stacked against the wall, stuffing it into small nets. The horses gazed at her adoringly, like children watching for a favorite teacher. Except Henry. Having finished his water, he torqued his brown neck, snuck his nose under the empty metal basin, and flung it. The tin clattered across the barn floor.

Ashley turned, smiling. “Oh, Henry. You are such a handful.”

Grabbing the nets, she carried the hay down the gallery. But just like that first night, when I saw her struggling to make the hooks, she seemed surprised that her jumps didn't make the hooks. She was breathing harder, her face flushed with effort. And I noticed a small potbelly that didn't go with the rest of her lean physique.

I said, “You want me to help?”

She startled and turned suddenly. Transported by work and love, she had forgotten about me. But it was even more than that. She seemed woozy and put a hand on the wall to steady herself. I rushed over. Her pupils were dilating, black ink seeping into the blue ocean.

I took the nets from her hands. “Are you all right?”

“I just . . . need to sit down.” She sagged against the wall. Henry turned, licking his lips, but Ashley was out of his reach. I watched her carefully. She looked tired, weary, but otherwise all right. I took the nets and began hooking them beside the stalls. They didn't weigh much, but the alfalfa scent of the hay was as green and cruciferous as broccoli. One of the horses, dark brown with a white spot on his forehead, nodded, as if thanking me before he bit at the net, pulling out the stiff stalks and chewing.

“I hate being this short,” Ashley said. “And I'm getting fat.”

“You look plenty healthy.” I hooked another net and wondered if she was one of those girls who tortured themselves to be skinny. I hoped not.

She reached over, picking up Henry's basin. She walked over to the spigot, filled the water bucket, and gave Henry another full drink. She brushed his nose. “You can finally get rid of your thirst, Henry. That's the good news. You can drink all the water you want.”

I hooked another net. “He couldn't before?”

She shook her head. “Ever run on a full stomach?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Exactly.” She looked over her shoulder, down the gallery, waiting a moment. Then: “But Jimmy used to do mean stuff to them too. Like restrict their water for days, then let them drink until their stomachs were almost bursting. Right before a race.”

I phrased my next question carefully. “Wouldn't that slow them down?”

She nodded.

Only two nets remained. I moved slowly. One subtle way to fix a race was to water-log a horse. No drugs, no evidence. Just a lot of urine. “Ashley, can I ask you something? What was in that brown bag?”