Hayburner (A Gail McCarthy Mystery) Read online

  "What happened?" I asked her.

  "The lead rope broke and he went over backward," she said. "He got right up and seemed fine, so I never thought about it again. But ..."

  "That could have done it," I said. "Horses can hurt their spinal cords that way."

  "If that's the cause," she asked, "what's the diagnosis?"

  "I'm not sure," I said honestly. "Back injury, to be glib. Just like in humans, backs are difficult to diagnose. I'd give him two weeks' complete rest, and if he's not better we may need to x-ray his back. We'll have to sedate him for that and lay him out flat; it's not an easy procedure with a horse. Another possibility is a chiropractor."

  "They have those for horses?" She laughed.

  "Yeah, they sure do. And acupuncturists and homeopathic practitioners, too. I can give you the names of a couple of equine chiropractors who have good reputations," I said.

  "Do you believe in that stuff?"

  "I don't know enough about it to make a judgment," I told her. "I have seen some horses with chronic problems that did seem to get better under some of these alternative therapies. Those horses might have gotten better anyway, I don't know. But if I had a horse with an obscure back problem, I'd probably consult both a chiropractor and an acupuncturist before I tried anything too invasive in the way of Western medicine."

  "Really?"

  "Sure, Western medicine is great for acute conditions; it has no peer, in my opinion. But long-term chronic conditions can be problematic. Allergies, back pain, that sort of thing. I think alternative therapies are definitely worth looking at there."

  "All right. I'll consider that."

  I finished up my exam, drew some blood, and gave the woman the numbers of the two equine chiropractors I thought well of. My cell phone rang as she was writing them down.

  "Judith Rainier has a colic," Nancy said. "Can you go?"

  "I can leave right now," I said. "Tell her I'll be there in twenty minutes."

  Taking my leave of Reddy and his owner, I headed for Harkins Valley and Judith's place. Sandwiched between two fancy horse operations, the Rainier family ranch was decidedly humble in comparison. Both the old barn and the little house looked worn down and weary, and the pastures were fenced with sagging strands of less-than-desirable barbed wire fence. The whole place had the look of one that nobody had put any money into for twenty years.

  This might be true, as far as I knew. Judith had inherited the place from her parents long ago, and I didn't think she had any spare cash to use on ranch improvements. A single mom with two daughters, she held down a full-time job and seemed to put most of her income into her children's various horsey pursuits.

  I drove along the narrow, bumpy, deeply rutted driveway to find Judith and her daughters waiting for me out at the barn. "It's Mabel. She's colicked," the older one said, as I got out of the cab.

  I knew the two girls apart by sight, but could never remember their names. The older daughter had a long blond braid and was deeply attached to her horses. However, I couldn't remember who Mabel was. I looked to Judith for enlightenment.

  "Jamie's old barrel racing horse," Judith said. "She's twenty-two. We found her out in the field this morning, lying down. We think she's colicked."

  "Let's go have a look," I said.

  Following the girls out through a wire gate, I noticed at least a dozen horses peering over the fences at us. "Are these all yours?" I asked Judith.

  "No. I board some for the girls' friends. Some of these kids are really into high school rodeo, but they live in town and have no place to keep a horse. So I keep their horses out here. It brings in a little income, and that way they can practice here in our arena with Jamie and Jodie."

  "What events do you do?" I asked the girls.

  "Barrels and goat tying," they answered. Almost in unison.

  "We've got a rodeo this evening in Merced," the younger one added.

  Jamie pointed to a horse lying flat on its side ahead of us. "Oh my God," she said. "Is she dead?"

  She wasn't. The horse lifted her head as we approached, then got to her feet. Snorting, she pawed the ground twice and settled back down on her belly.

  "Looks like a colic to me," I said. "Let's check her out."

  Jamie caught the mare, who was a pale, creamy color, like buttermilk. Technically a palomino, Mabel was what most western horsemen describe as a "yellow" horse. Plain headed, with no withers to speak of and a round, barrel-shaped look to her, she was not what I would call a prepossessing animal.

  Judith caught my expression and smiled. "I know she doesn't look like much, but she was actually a great barrel horse. Jamie won a lot on her. She was competitive until she was twenty, too."

  "What stopped her?" I asked, as I checked the mare's vital signs.

  Judith pointed at the mare's right front foot. "Ringbone," she said succinctly.

  I could see the calcified joint easily. Ringbone, an arthritic condition of the pastern joint, was almost always crippling in the end.

  Finishing my exam, I said, "She seems to have some sort of mild to moderate colic going on. Her pulse and respiration are elevated, but not a lot, and she has some gut sounds. Again, not a lot. She clearly has some distress. I'll give her some painkillers and pump some mineral oil into her, and we'll see how she does.

  "Keep a good eye on her. The painkillers will wear off in about four to six hours. If she shows signs of getting painful again, I ought to have a look at her."

  "That's the problem," Judith said, with a worried look on her face. Both the girls looked miserable.

  "What's that?" I asked.

  "We need to leave at noon to get to Merced on time," Judith answered, looking at her watch. "That's one hour from now. I wasn't planning to be home until tomorrow night. I don't know what to do about this horse."

  "Can you have someone else check on her?" I asked.

  "Everybody's going," Judith said simply. "I'm hauling six horses and six teenagers. One of the kids' moms will be hauling another four horses and two more girls. All that will be left here is this old mare and one other retired gelding."

  Jamie was stroking the yellow mare's neck, tears running quietly down her face.

  "Hey, it's not a problem," I told her. "I'll come back here later and have a look at your horse."

  It was more than worth it to see her face light up.

  "Gail," Judith said dubiously, "I appreciate your offering, but this horse is just a pet now. I don't mind paying for one call, but I'm not sure about two."

  "That's okay," I said. "This will be on my time. I have some scheduled calls in the south county this afternoon, and I'll just stop here on my way home. It's right on my way. No trouble." I smiled at Jamie. ''I'll take good care of her. Don't worry."

  Jamie smiled back at me, a little tremulously.

  "Do you think she'll be okay?" she asked.

  "I think so," I said honestly. "She doesn't seem to be that badly colicked. Of course, you never know."

  "I know," Jamie said quietly. "And thank you."

  "You're welcome," I told her.

  "I really appreciate this," Judith added, as we all walked back out to my truck.

  "No problem." I smiled at Jamie. "Win the barrel race for me."

  And then I was on the way to my next call, a pre-purchase soundness exam in San Juan Bautista. This was followed by a sole abscess in Salinas, quite a bit south of my usual territory, but the woman was a loyal client who had moved. A puncture wound, an eye injury, and a bowed tendon completed my day, or so I thought.

  Nancy called me at six o'clock as I was driving toward home. "I've got a horse in Aromas who caught his leg between two pipe panels and was hung up there. The owner found him that way when she got home. His pastern is cut very deeply, he's really bleeding."

  "I'll head on out there," I told her, knowing that Jim had been completely booked up since he got back. And I was not, I was damn well not, going to ask John Romero for any more favors.

  Aromas was half a
n hour south of me, and the cut turned out to be a bad one. It was eight o'clock and black-dark by the time I finished the stitching. Eager to get home, I jumped on the freeway, only to recall my promise to Jamie Rainier.

  "Damn," I said out loud.

  Not only was one more call the last thing I wanted, but I had really left the old mare unchecked for much longer than I'd intended. I hoped she would be fine.

  I took the first exit I came to, and headed inland to Harkins Valley, my mind fixed on getting through this errand as quickly as possible. I wanted food and rest and a glass of wine, not necessarily in that order.

  Judith Rainier's place was dark and quiet, as I expected. Grabbing my flashlight, a halter, and my stethoscope, I hopped out of my truck and went to look for Mabel. Fortunately, her light color made her easy to spot in the dark, and I found her right away.

  She looked fine, I was relieved to see, and a quick check showed that all vital signs were normal. Good enough.

  Pulling the wire gate to the pasture closed behind me, I was headed for my truck at a brisk clip when I slowed to a stop, halted by a sense of something not right.

  What? I scanned. Judith's house lay quiet under the night sky; an owl hooted softly in the big oak in her barnyard. The barn was silent, too, and the shed beyond. But ...

  I froze and my eyes scooted back to the barn. I'd caught it on the periphery of my vision-light. Light in the barn, and not electric lights either. This was the faint, orangey flickering glow of firelight.

  I stared at the black square that was the big open doorway in the center of the barn. It was there. Barely perceptible, but there. As if, I caught my breath, there was candlelight somewhere deep inside.

  Candlelight. Candles. Shit. In a rush I remembered the arsonist and all the speculation that the work day had driven out of my mind.

  In a second I'd shifted direction from my truck to the barn. Damn. Maybe I'd catch the arsonist myself. At the thought, I paused. I had no weapon, unless I counted that heavy metal flashlight in my hand, which might double as a billy club in an emergency. Still, I did have something.

  I dug my phone out of my pocket and dialed Jeri Ward's cell, thanking God I had a good memory for numbers, phone numbers in particular.

  Jeri answered on the first ring. "Ward here."

  "Jeri, this is Gail McCarthy. Where are you?"

  "Cruising down Harkins Valley Road, looking for trouble. Why?"

  "I'm at 2620 Harkins Valley," I said. "Judith Rainier's place. I was checking on a colic. No one's home and I think I see firelight in the barn."

  "We'll be right there," Jeri affirmed.

  "Okay."

  "Gail," Jeri said, "wait where you are."

  "Right," I said, and hung up.

  Staring at the barn, I gave a moment's thought to this course of action. The flickering light deep within the doorway seemed to grow brighter as I watched. Shit. I was not going to stand here waiting while Judith's barn caught on fire. Gripping the flashlight in my right hand, I headed for the doorway.

  Like many old barns, the central cavity beyond the big open double doors was large and airy, meant for hay storage. I could see the quavering glow deep within; all else was blackness. I clicked my flashlight on.

  Swinging the beam about, I saw a haystack in front of me, box stalls along the sides, it looked like. And alongside the stack of baled hay were half a dozen candles, surrounded by chaff and crumpled papers.

  I stared. The candles flickered and guttered, looking fragile and insubstantial in the dark night. Nothing else was burning, yet.

  Stepping through the doorway, I moved toward the tiny merciless flames. In that moment I heard a rustle to my right. I turned in that direction and blackness came rushing in.

  TWENTY

  I came to slowly, like a fish swimming up through dark water. Concerned faces peered down at me as I rose to the surface. Strangers' faces. Male. I stared blankly at them with a rush of fear.

  Who were these people? Who was I? Tears rose up in my eyes and rolled down my cheeks. A female face joined the male ones. Blond hair, somehow familiar. I could feel a warm hand holding mine.

  "Gail. It's Jeri," the voice said.

  Slowly, slowly, it seemed, memory returned. I was a vet; I was here on a call. This was Jeri Ward. My head pounded with pain.

  "What happened?" I asked.

  "Someone hit you over the head," Jeri answered. "The arsonist, we think. Did you see him?"

  I closed my eyes. The pounding pain in my head was getting worse. "I don't remember," I said slowly. I could hear sirens wailing in the background.

  "Don't worry," Jeri said. "The ambulance is here. They'll take you to the hospital; we'll get you checked out. I think you have a concussion. Do you want me to call anyone?"

  "No," I said dully.

  "I'll be down there as soon as I'm done here," she said. "I'll drive you home, if they'll let you go, and I'll have one of the boys bring your truck home."

  "Thanks." There were more faces now. Firm hands were loading me onto a stretcher. I felt passive, an inert bundle. My head hurt.

  My first-ever ambulance ride passed in a blur. I was aware of machines and lights, reassuring voices, strangers in charge. I lay on my back and let go. Events had gone beyond my control. The throbbing pain inside my head was my only concern.

  I arrived at the emergency room of the hospital in a way that reminded me of baggage at an airport. Attendants carried me inside and decanted me, gently and professionally, onto a hospital bed. A curtain was drawn around me; medical professionals checked on my well-being and assured me that a doctor would see me soon.

  I waited. My head pounded. After what seemed to me a good long while, I asked for painkillers and was told a doctor would have to prescribe them. I was reassured that said doctor would be here soon.

  It wasn't soon, but eventually a doctor did appear. Indian or Pakistani, by the look of her, her nametag proclaimed her as one Gita Smith. She examined me quickly and competently, told me I had a concussion, ordered a CAT scan, and wrote me a prescription for pain pills.

  "Can I go?" I asked.

  "If that CAT scan shows nothing amiss," she agreed.

  An hour later, the CAT scan confirming me as relatively normal, merely concussed, Dr. Smith told me I could leave. "If you have someone to drive you home and stay with you. You should not be alone."

  "Right," I agreed, though I hadn't the faintest idea how I would manage this. The pain pills had diminished my headache considerably, but I felt as though I was operating in a fog.

  As I was struggling to come up with some kind of coherent plan, Jeri Ward made an appearance. Brushing into my curtained cubicle with the brisk assurance of a policewoman, she assured the medical minions that she, Detective Jeri Ward, would take personal responsibility for Dr. McCarthy.

  I watched her manage my exit from the hospital and marveled at her appearance. Despite the fact that it was well after midnight and her evening had no doubt been nearly as stressful as mine, she looked amazingly clean, neat, and elegant, in a flax-colored linen suit that was as miraculously unwrinkled as her wavy blond hair was crisp and unmussed.

  Just how did she do that? I looked relatively disheveled an hour after I'd combed my hair and dressed myself, even if I was only sitting in an armchair, reading a book.

  Jeri's actions were as deft and polished as her appearance. In five minutes or less, I was loaded into a wheelchair and rolled out of the bustling confines of the emergency room and into the dark parking lot, Jeri at the helm and a hospital orderly trotting alongside.

  Once I'd been helped into the passenger side of the sheriff's sedan, Jeri dismissed the orderly and climbed into the driver's seat. Shutting the door behind her, she gave me a long look.

  "How are you?"

  "Groggy," I said. "Like I've had one too many drinks. And my head still hurts. Though whatever they gave me made it better. What happened?"

  Jeri started the car. "What do you remember?"

&n
bsp; "I've been thinking about it," I said slowly. "My mind doesn't seem to be working too well, but I remember I was out at Judith's place to check on her daughter's old mare, who had colicked this morning. The mare was fine; I remember that.

  "Then, I think, I saw light in the barn, what looked like firelight. And I called you, right?"

  "Right," Jeri confirmed, her eyes on the road.

  "The rest is pretty vague. I think I walked into the barn, though I don't really remember doing it. After that, there's nothing."

  "You don't remember seeing anything?"

  "No." I spread my hands in frustration. "I don't even remember stepping through the doorway. Where did you find me?"

  "About twenty feet inside the barn."

  "So I must have gone in."

  "Yes, your footprints indicate that. And there's no indication that you were moved."

  "So, what happened?" I asked again.

  Jeri sighed. "I got your call at eight-thirty when I was on Harkins Valley Road, less than two miles from the Rainier place. We were pulling in the driveway, lights flashing, sirens going, about five minutes after I spoke to you.

  "I jumped out of the car and ran straight to the barn; there you were, lying on the ground, no sign of the arsonist. But there were a dozen lit candles with little piles of hay and paper around them. Do you remember that?"

  "No," I said.

  "You must have seen the candles, though, judging by where you were lying. We think the arsonist must have hit you over the head, just as we were pulling in the driveway. Then he ran."

  "On foot?"

  "Yes. Apparently he came and went on foot. There's no sign he used any other mode of transportation. By the time we sorted out what was going on, he was long gone. Tomorrow we'll look for tracks."

  "Uh-huh." I was thinking about it, in my foggy way. "I wonder if he would have killed me," I said. "If he hadn't heard you coming."

  Jeri said nothing. We drove in silence for a while. I found the dark and quiet soothing; the background pain in my head seemed to ease.