Venom (7 page)

I refasten my helmet strap and pick up my whip. Em and I spin in place as she gives me a leg up and the filly turns in a tight circle around us.

“Jeez, this horse is a pain!” Em says, holding onto the bridle a moment longer as I pick up the reins and nudge my boots into the stirrups.

Twitter dances all the way down the aisle and out the door at the end of the barn. She walks sideways as we reach the end of the building. She flips her head and lets out a couple of huge snorts.

“Easy, easy...” I draw the words out and keep my voice low and calm. She hardly seems to notice. Her coat glistens with a sheen of sweat as we reach the entrance to the track.

I let her trot and then canter a slow couple of laps. Then we make our way to where the starting gate stands ready at the end of the track. Several other horses walk circles in the area behind the gate, waiting their turns to load.

The starting-gate crew works quickly and calmly to load one horse into the gate. The starter makes notes on a clipboard. Horses that don't load safely aren't allowed to race.

When it's our turn, one of the assistants at the gate slides a length of webbing through the bit ring and leads us forward. Two others link arms behind Twitter. She tosses her head, but doesn't make too much of a fuss until the padded doors are pushed closed behind her. We're trapped inside a narrow chute barely wide enough for a horse and rider. We can't go forward until the starter opens the doors at the front. We can't back out after the guys lock us in from behind.

Without warning, a thousand pounds of pent-up racehorse energy explodes. There's nowhere to go but straight up. On both sides of me, the guys scramble to help calm the filly.

Twitter's sides heave, and she thrashes back and forth. Then, it seems like she has settled. I count to three and nod at the starter, who releases the front barrier. In that exact moment Twitter goes nuts again. She launches herself up and forward. Off balance, she plunges out of the gate and loses her footing.

Her shoulder drops. The dirt rises to meet my face. I have a crazy flash of my nightmare, of my head drilling into the track. The next thing I know, I'm flat on my back, staring up into a blazing-hot blue sky.

“Spencer! Jeez, you gave us a scare.” Scampy kneels in the dirt beside me. There's a paramedic on my other side.

Spencer. Yes. That would be my name. My head feels like someone split it open with an axe. I reach up and my fingers touch my helmet.

“Lie still, son,” the paramedic says.

“I'm fine,” I mumble.

Scampy unsnaps my helmet. Someone else takes it off while another person holds my neck still. I realize there are actually two paramedics.

They put a stiff collar around my neck and slide me onto something that's more like a board than a stretcher.

“Hey, I'm fine, really.” I wiggle my toes to prove it.

“Better safe than sorry, Spencer,” Scampy says. “They'll take you to the emergency
clinic and check you over. You'll be back at work in no time.”

The paramedics slide me and my board into the back of the ambulance.

“I'll call your grandmother. She'll catch up with you there.”

“Is Twitter okay?”

Scampy nods. “That's just what your dad would have said. Raymond always worried about the horse first. She's fine.” The ambulance door clicks shut. Scampy's words about my dad are strangely comforting during the short drive to the clinic.

Grandma arrives right after I get back from having my head X-rayed.

“Spencer,” she says. “What were you thinking?” She smiles and kisses my cheek. “The idea is to keep the filly on her feet. She'll never win a race coming out of the gate like that!”

“Scampy told you what happened?”

“Do I need to call your mother?” Grandma asks.

“No.” I hope Grandma agrees.

“I didn't think so. At least, not just now. I saw the doctor out front. You haven't broken anything.”

“Well, hallelujah!” Scampy says, pushing his head through the curtains. “Good help is hard to find!”

Grandma seems to bring out the best in Scampy.

“How's the patient?” Em asks, crowding into the cubicle after Scampy.

“Shouldn't you be feeding some horse?” I ask.

“You want me to leave?”

“Looks like Stretch is feeling better,” Scampy jokes. “How long do you have to stay here?”

“They want to watch me for a little longer. But they don't want me here overnight.”

“When can you come back to work?” Em asks. Scampy gives her a little shove.

“Get your priorities straight,” Scampy says.

Grandma looks from me to Em and back to me. “I think her priorities are straight
enough.” She looks at her watch and then at Scampy. “I tell you, I'm losing it.” She laughs. “In the time it took to walk from the car to here I almost forgot about the parking out there! Do you have change for a twenty?”

Scampy raises an eyebrow and takes a break in his gum chewing.

“I'm in the short-term emergency spot,” Grandma explains. “I have to move the car, and the meters only take change.”

Scampy's cheeks puff out and he starts chewing again. “It's all wrong, charging for parking at a hospital.” He digs in his pockets and gives Grandma a handful of coins.

The curtain swings shut behind Grandma. Em plunks herself down on the bed. Em and Scampy look at me like I'm supposed to say something. So I do.

“Scampy—”

“That's my name. Don't wear it out.”

“You know what you said about my dad thinking about the horse first?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it's true. I do try to do that.”

“I know. I like that about you. The filly is fine. Not a mark on her. Stop worrying about her. Worry about getting better.”

“Yeah,” Em pipes up. “So you can get back to work.”

I swallow hard and push on. “I'm not talking about Twitter...”

“Then what?”

“Oh, Spencer!” Em says.

Surely even Scampy wouldn't fire me in the emergency room.

“I need to know what you and Tony are giving Lordy.”

Scampy's jaw drops like I punched him in the mouth.

“Is this about that day you saw me coming out of Lordy's stall?”

I nod. I've caught him by surprise. Maybe he'll confess.

“Spencer, it's lucky you are lying in a hospital bed or I'd smack you upside the head right about now.”

Em's back stiffens.

“I would
never—
I repeat—
never
give a horse an illegal drug. Is that clear?”

This doesn't sound like a confession.

“When you get back to the barn, I'll show you exactly what every one of my horses has ever received. I have no secrets. You can check the list. Every last Lasix injection and tube of wormer is written down. And, for your information, that day when you saw me I was taking Lordy's temperature. Is that okay with you?” Scampy has turned a brilliant shade of red. “Jeez, Spencer, what makes you think—”

Then he stops, pulls off his ballcap and runs his fingers through the thinning gray fuzz that passes for hair. He places his hat carefully back where it belongs. “What did you say about Tony giving something to Lordy?”

“The other day he took a syringe into Lordy's stall. I was in the stall with Bing Bang Bong—”

“Stretch likes to listen to the horses
eat
,” Em says.

Why, oh, why did I ever mention that?

Scampy doesn't seem to care.

“So Tony didn't see you?”

“No.”

“When was this?”

“Wednesday. The Wednesday before Lordy's last race.”

Scampy shoves his hands deep into his pockets. He stares at the bed railing. “Hmm.”

“What's
hmm
mean?” Em asks.

“Nobody but me or the vet gives the horses medication.”

Em's eyes widen. “You won't even let
me
give them anything other than wormer.” Em looks at me when she says the last part. I really must have banged my head hard.
Wormer
almost sounds romantic.

“I'll kill him,” Scampy says softly.

“No, you won't,” Em says.

“Fine. It's just an expression. But I'll fire his ass faster than—”

“Wait,” I say. “If you fire him, he'll just do whatever it is he's doing to someone else's horse.”

“I'm not going to just stand around and let him dope up my horses!”

I shake my head and immediately wish I hadn't. A wave of nausea washes over me.

“Are you okay?” Em asks, touching my ankle through the sheet. It feels like a jolt of electricity shoots from her hand, through my leg and into my heart. Via my groin.

I shake my head again, hard, to distract myself. The stabbing pain works wonders.

“Please don't do anything until I get back,” I say weakly. “Give me a chance to get back to the barn. We can figure out how to get to the bottom of this.”

“Get to the bottom of what?” Grandma asks, pushing through the curtain.

“That filly's problem in the gate,” Scampy says without skipping a beat. He winks at me. “Stretch here has some interesting training ideas. I'm looking forward to seeing him back at work.”

Em checks her watch, and Scampy holds the curtain open. “We've got to run,” he says. “Call me when you're ready to come back.”

Even though I only have a mild concussion, Grandma won't let me go anywhere near the track for five days! The first day, all I want to do is sleep. The next day, I only notice a bit of headache when I really think about it. The next three days are the pure agony that comes with total boredom.

Grandma makes me go back-to-school shopping. We meet the counselor at Em's school, who says I seem like an excellent
candidate for their program. Grandma makes me get a haircut.

With all the time off, I have lots of opportunity to think of ways to catch Tony. But when my first day back at work arrives, I'm not exactly sure how to proceed.

When I finally get back to the barn, there's no chance to talk to Em and Scampy. It's crazy busy, and Tony seems to be everywhere all the time.

It's obvious Scampy isn't going to baby me. Don't Mess With Mo is the first horse on my list. He's coming back from an injury. We have to be careful not to put too much pressure on the leg by going too fast too soon. He's doing great, but is taking a little longer than Scampy had hoped to make a full recovery. At this rate, he'll be lucky to race at all this month.

The July sun blazes, and sweat pours down my sides as I fight to hold the tall colt in check. He seems to have other ideas about slow gallops. Even though I hold him well to the outside, he pulls when the other horses roar past along the rail. Around and
around we go until we are both drenched and good and ready to call it quits. He's happy and tired and—as far as I can tell, anyway—not in any pain when we make our way to the gate.

I ride four more horses before I'm done and pull off my riding helmet.

“Nice!” Em says with a smirk.

Dragging my butt off the truck seat, I check out my reflection in the cracked mirror on the back of the tack-room door.

“Yikes!”

My hair looks like it's been painted onto my skull. I brush my fingers through my hair, unsticking it from my head. All attempts at fluffing it up fail miserably. A shower here would be so handy.

I settle for the wash rack outside, where I turn on the hose. When the blast of ice-cold water hits my head, I bite back a shout. Frosty, yes, but man, it feels good to drench myself with the cold water. I scrub my fingers through my hair and let the water run over my back, soaking my T-shirt.

When I straighten up, I shake the excess water from my hair and squeegee my face with my hands.

“Whoa! Brain freeze!”

Em, whose face is flushed, looks jealous. I wave the hose in her general direction, and she jumps back. “Don't you dare!” Instead of staying back, though, she marches over, takes the hose, and bends over the stream of water, taking a huge drink. Water dribbles everywhere, and she doesn't make much of an effort to stay dry.

“You coming to the retirement party tonight?” she asks between swigs.

“Bing's retirement party? Is that tonight?”

“Yup. Bing Bang Bong. Going, going, gone!”

“No surprise, I guess.”

“Dr. Conrad is coming down to pick him up. She's bringing in a new filly.”

“What time is the party?”

“Seven thirty over in the pit. It's a potluck. I'm surprised your grandma didn't remind you. She's bringing pie.”

If the party is in the pit, the big barbecue area over near the river, then it won't just be Scampy's barn attending. Chances are, this could develop into quite a big bash. It's strange to be chatting about parties with Em when what we both want to talk about is Tony. I can tell by the way her eyes follow him and then meet mine.

Tony has been lurking around all day. I don't want to tip him off. I try to treat him exactly as I always do. I'm polite, but not exactly friendly.

“I know it's last minute,” Em says suddenly. “But if there's anyone you want to invite, that would be okay, I guess.”

It suddenly dawns on me that she is thinking I might like to bring a girl. I almost say something, but stop myself. Maybe she's telling me to bring a date because that's what she is planning to do. Maybe she doesn't want me to feel awkward.

“Could you help us get the barbecues fired up and carry stuff over there?”

Now it's my turn to give Em a hard look. If Em is asking me to help get things ready,
that doesn't sound like she's got anyone else, like a date, lined up for the job. On the other hand, maybe that's not the sort of thing you get a date to do. Maybe that's the sort of thing you'd get someone who works for your uncle to do. Maybe Scampy asked her to ask me to come early. Em's suggestion that I bring a date might be her way of making sure I know that she isn't asking me to come to the barbecue in anything like a date capacity.