Racing From Evil: A Nikki Latrelle Mystery Novella; The Prequel by Hill Sasscer

Author:Hill, Sasscer [Hill, Sasscer]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Wild Spirit Press
Published: 2016-05-24T16:00:00+00:00

8

About an hour later, the tractor trailer wheeled through the security gates of Laurel and labored through the backstretch, before finally stopping. When the van door opened, we were parked next to another dirt platform where the grooms unloaded their horses.

Walking down the sandy ramp behind Silver Punch, I could see the racetrack’s final turn curving before me. In the distance, the grandstand where I’d watched so many races with Mom, loomed against the sky. Barns, sheds, and outbuildings filled the rest of the grounds as far as I could see.

The euphoria of escaping Baltimore and Stanley faded as renewed apprehension raced through me. What would I do now?

Tucking in behind Silver Punch, I followed him onto a paved section. The road wound past a building set so it overlooked Laurel’s final turn. Exhaust fans blew the smell of fried food into the air, telling me the building must be the track kitchen. I may have had the burger and fries at Pimlico, but as the winter daylight faded and an icy breeze kicked up, I was hungry again.

The door to the kitchen opened and a figure emerged. Mostly hidden by a parka, the man’s face was hard to see. He turned my way briefly. Pale, colorless skin, white eyebrows, and black eyes. I forgot about food and hurried to catch up with Silver Punch. I thought I’d left the albino at Pimlico, but my knotted insides told me he was here.

Carlos ignored several barns we passed on our left, staying on the path that followed the curve of the track’s rail. The massive oval and infield spread into the distance to our right. As we reached what appeared to be the last two barns, a woman called out sharply and ran toward Carlos.

She had the short waist and sturdy body often seen in Mexican women. Her round face was torn by anxiety.

“No puedo en contrar a Pedro!” Her voice rose to a shriek on the name Pedro.

Carlos responded in a rapid stream of Spanish. I had no idea what they were saying, but it was obvious that something about this Pedro disturbed them greatly. I heard the word “policia” more than once and Carlos called the woman “Maria.”

Their anxious voices and Maria’s waving arms were making Silver Punch nervous. Carlos finally realized it, and urged the horse toward one of the last two barns, quickly getting the animal inside the shedrow railing and leading him into a stall.

The woman remained outside the rail, her palms pressed together before her mouth, tears running down her cheeks. Carlos left the stall in a rush, one hand clenched in a fist. When he saw me standing in his shedrow, he frowned.

Before he could tell me to get lost, I asked, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

He made an impatient noise and started to speak, but Silver Punch snorted, whirled, and slammed his chest into the stall gate. Instinctively, I spoke soft, reassuring nonsense. The horse paused, pricked his hears, and stared at me.

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