The Stars Shine Bright (8 page)

“She would.”

He glanced up at the screen, waiting for the race to start, and I bowed my head to give silent grace, then unwrapped the first sandwich. One hundred percent pure American grease, God bless it. I took my first bite as the starting bell rang and looked up to see the gates bursting open and horses leaping out.

“What the—?” The Polish Prince stood up.

Five horses splashed down the muddy track. But the camera flashed back to the starting gate. Three horses hadn't left, but one was jumping out. A bay horse. A second—black as night—reared inside its small space, then leaped like it was clearing a hurdle.

But the third horse . . .

I stood up.

The Polish Prince looked at me, pointing at the television. “Hey, ain't that your aunt's horse?”

Despite the wide-open gate, SunTzu refused to move. The jockey was whipping his crop, over and over. But the horse stood like a statue. Standing in the saddle, the jockey whipped some more. The horse stumbled forward.

But suddenly the camera returned to the race. The announcer was calling the front runners. When it returned to the gate, SunTzu had taken several steps, ponderous as a Clydesdale. His head was drooping and the jockey stood again, yanking on the reins. But the horse was already coming down fast, crumpling like a marionette whose strings had been slashed. And in one horrifying second I realized the jockey was stuck. He was trying to get his foot out of the stirrup. The animal listed to one side, going down, taking the rider with him. And pinning him underneath.

I ran for the door.

Chapter Eight

I
t's Brenna Beauty running ahead of—of—of—” The announcer stuttered through the race, and I ran down the backstretch, jumping over puddles. “In the back, far back, we have, uh, uh—”

A crowd was gathering at the white rail fence, streaming from the grandstands, pointing across the infield to the starting gate. At the front end of the backstretch, a security guard stood at the gate that led to the oval. His green rain poncho was soaked and he held a walkie-talkie to his ear. I lifted my owner's badge, panting.

“That horse.” Every breath feeling like a knife in my ribs. “That horse belongs to my aunt.”

He shook his head and pointed the radio's antenna over my shoulder.

I turned around. A white van careened down the backstretch, heading straight for the gate.

“Nobody gets out there before the vet.”

A dented fender hung from the van's grill like a drunken grin, and despite the rain, its side panel door was wide open. Behind the wheel, a man punched the horn, blasting people out of his way. Doc Madison. The vet.

Just before the van reached the gate, the guard pulled back the metal barrier. The van headed for the dirt oval.

And I jumped in front of it.

“Hey!” the guard yelled. “What're you doing?!”

Planting my Ferragamos, I stretched out both arms. The pain in my side almost doubled me over. But I heard the brakes squeal. The van skidded into a puddle. Whipped forward on its rollers, the side door slammed shut with a bang. I stared at the old man behind the cracked windshield. He looked murderous. I ran forward and placed one hand on the hood, gritty with dirt.

“That's a Hot Tin horse out there,” I hollered. “I need to go with you.”

The vet bared yellow teeth.

Keeping one hand on the hood, I scooted to the passenger side and jumped into the seat. It was covered with newspapers, so dry they crackled when I sat down. The vet hit the gas before my door was closed and shot past the guard, still holding the gate open. I felt a bump as we left the pavement. The vet clunked the gearshift into low. Wet soil splatted the undercarriage like strafing gunfire.

“You ever get in the way again,” the vet growled, “I'll euthanize you.”

He was a large man, in his late sixties, with a full head of pale curly hair that looked like it might once have been red. His fleshy face carried a small nose and mouth and lucent blue eyes. A Celtic face. And right now, a face that looked one beat away from an aneurysm. The meaty hands gripping the steering wheel jerked back and forth as he plowed down the turf.

“Radio!”

“Pardon?”

He took one hand off the wheel and pointed at the floor, at my feet. “Give me the radio!”

I didn't see it but kicked through another mound of newspapers and greasy paper bags from fast food restaurants until my foot touched something hard. I picked up the black radio. He yanked it out of my hand and pressed his thumb into the side button.

“This is Doc Madison. I want blue screens! On the track—pronto!”

He threw the radio to the dashboard, where it slid down to the cracked windshield. With each crooked swipe of the wipers, I saw more people streaming out of the grandstands. They stood two- and three-deep along the rail, oblivious to the rain, while the track's security force tried to contain them.

Swerving to a fishtailed stop, the vet jumped out. We were fifteen yards from the starting gate and the bay horse that had jumped out first now pranced in agitated circles. Two men tried to grab her dangling reins—the jockey and a tall, lanky guy who moved like a goofy rodeo clown.

The vet headed straight for SunTzu.

Climbing out of the van, I tried to take a mental photograph of the scene. It had a simple horrifying focus. Like a drawing by a traumatized child. A man riding a horse. But everything was happening in a one-dimensional plane. On the ground, the jockey's torso rose perpendicular to the colossal horse, while his legs disappeared under the saddle.

“Radio!” the vet yelled.

I turned back automatically, grabbing it from where it was wedged between dash and cracked glass. The vet snatched it from my hand again and pressed the button.

“Brent! Where are you? Get over to the starting gate—pronto!”

His barrel chest was heaving, his large face florid, as he waited for a reply. When I finally heard the assistant vet's reply, his voice sounded calm. Studiously calm. Like he knew the vet needed steadying.

“I'm getting my—”

The old man cut him off. “I don't care what you're doing. We need an ambulance. I don't see the track's EMT out here. Something must've happened in the stands. Call 911—now!”

Brent replied, something about the equine ambulance on its way, but the vet shoved the radio at me. And I wasn't listening either because the jockey was staring at the rain, unblinking.

His riding helmet was still clasped to his head, the chin strap cinched for a race that never came. But his head was rattling from side to side with the spasms in his neck. His Moorish skin was turning a sickly yellow.

“Son.” The vet moved toward him carefully, like somebody approaching a land mine. “Just hold still. Help is coming.
Ayuda
. Coming.”

The rain pinged the man's dark eyes. But the jockey didn't blink.

“Son?”

The lanky man resembling a rodeo clown rushed toward the vet. His emerald-green vest with the track's gold emblem hung askew. “I don't know what happened,” he said. “Everything looked normal. So I hit the buzzer. But the horses, the horses. They wouldn't—I couldn't—”

The vet pushed him aside and began waving his arms. Four green trucks tore down the turf from the backstretch. The vet pointed at the white rail and the trucks swerved toward the infield, coming to a stop. A dozen men wearing maintenance coveralls jumped out, then pulled long PVC pipes from the truck beds, carrying them to the rail and stabbing the spiked ends into the soil. Another pipe was attached, and when they drew it away, a blue curtain unfurled, at least twelve feet high. The grandstands disappeared from view.

Two men approached the vet, carrying a thick plank of plastic. It looked like a sled, with ropes on every side. The vet told them to place it in front of the horse. SunTzu's legs twitched, as though running the race in midair. His long face lay on the turf, a puddle forming under his nose. Every breath blew ripples over the muddy water.

“Ayuda!”
the vet called out to the jockey trying to restrain the bay horse.
“Ayuda nessessito!”

The jockey caught the leather straps and handed them to the man in the green vest. Then he ran to the vet.

“I need you to talk to him,” the vet said. “Make him feel
bueno
.”

The jockey kneeled beside the rider. He spoke soft words, but the pinned man didn't respond. With one hand, the jockey made the sign of the cross.
“Deo,”
he pleaded.
“Mi Deo.”

The vet looked at me. “Go back to my van, open the hatch. Pull out the second drawer and bring it here.”

“Bring what?”

“The drawer!”

I didn't understand but followed his orders, walking back to the battered vehicle. Sand and silt from the turf were filling the footbed of my sandals, and when I lifted the tailgate door, I saw a wooden bureau. It was secured to the wall with two-by-fours and its six drawers had handles made of rope. I yanked the second ligature. The drawer contained several dozen unmarked white boxes and wasn't heavy, but carrying it kicked another round of pain down my right side. I held my breath, and when I saw the jockey on the ground, I felt ashamed of complaining.

Doc Madison tore open four boxes and removed six glass vials, each marked with pharmaceutical labels. Stabbing the vials' rubber ends with needles, he filled two large syringes. As he was finishing the second, Brent Roth drove up in a truck and jumped out, running to the vet's side.

“I'm here,” he said.

“My grandmother could've walked here faster,” the vet said.

“I was busy with—”

The vet cut him off again. “Did you call for another ambulance?”

Brent nodded. His acne seemed to weep in the rain. “I just—”

“I don't care. Go hold the head.” The vet placed one syringe in the chest pocket of his shirt. Turning to the jockey who kneeled beside the rider, he said, “Tell him just a few minutes more.”

The jockey whispered in Spanish. The rider stared at the sky.

Brent dropped on his knees beside SunTzu. The horse was breathing faster now, that same locomotive panic I heard in Solo two nights ago. When Brent leaned forward, I felt a wave of nausea washing up my throat. He slid his hands down the animal's perspiring neck, wrapping his arms into an immobilizing hold that looked a lot like what FBI agents used on belligerent suspects. Only Brent's touch was tender, gentle. And the animal didn't protest. When the vet lifted the syringe, his assistant leaned even farther forward, shielding the horse so that it wouldn't see the needle.

“Son?” Doc Madison said, speaking to the pinned rider. “I'm going to get this horse off you now.”

The jockey translated, and Brent turned his head, looking back at the man under SunTzu. He squinted at him, as if noticing him for the first time. Then he turned around, watching as the vet pressed his thumb hard into the animal's jugular and stabbed the engorged vein with the needle. SunTzu twitched.

“It's okay,” Brent whispered. “Shh. It's okay.”

The Spanish jockey kept up a low murmur. His words were rhythmic, incantatory. After a minute I realized he was praying.

“Where's that ambulance?” the vet hissed.

“I told you,” Brent said. “It's coming.”

Emptying both syringes into the horse, the vet stood. His chest was heaving again. He turned to face the maintenance crew. Behind them the wall of blue curtains covered fifty feet of white rail, removing the entire grandstand from view. The men stood in a silent half circle around us, and except for the horse's breathing and the jockey's low, murmured prayers, the world seemed too quiet, almost aquatic, as though the rippling blue curtains were an ocean, hemming us onto the sandy bottom beneath gray cumulous waves, while the animal rode on its side like a sea horse, floating to its destination. But the rain told me this was real. I could hear the drops tapping on the maintenance crew's green baseball caps, the water rolling off the brims as the men stared down at the immobilized rider, their own faces slack with fear.

“That horse will be unconscious in ten seconds,” the vet told the crew. “I want two of you on each leg. When I give the word, pull the horse forward. Onto the board. Stop when I say stop.”

SunTzu was out cold before the vet finished speaking. Grabbing the ankles, the men dragged the horse forward, the weight heavy and awkward as a dead body.

Now the rider was exposed. His short legs splayed, thin as stilts. The jodhpurs were no longer white but stained with dirt and sweat and the thin contents of the man's bladder.

“Ayuda?”
the other jockey asked.

“It's coming,” the vet said. “Tell him not to move. Anything, don't move anything.”

His soft Spanish fluttered through the rain, intonations rising and falling like some bird of language. And finally the pinned man blinked.