Full Mortality Read Free

Latrelle,” Jim called from his office. I went inside. He’d moved to his desk, still covered with charts, and Racing Forms , with the new addition of paper cups and an empty doughnut box. A hoof pick and some bandages littered the floor near his feet. The cap he always wore covered his graying hair but failed to hide the kindness in his eyes. “Got a race for you at Shepherds Town.”
    I hadn’t ridden a race for days and needed the extra cash. Rent was due, and an old fear of existing without money shadowed me, especially when times got rough. “Sure, I’ll take anything you’ve got.”
    Jim gave me the details and I stepped into the aisle to find Kenny studying the departure of Louis and Carla in the silver Jaguar convertible. Kenny handed me a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. “That blonde is hot. Louis is one lucky dude.”
    “Too much woman for Louis,” I said. “She deals in meat.” I loved Kenny’s startled expression. “Get too close she might grind you up and spit you out.”
    “God, I wish she would.”
    I got quiet. My hand holding the paper cup was dirty, the nails broken, the skin rough. This didn’t usually bother me. I pulled the band from my ponytail, and felt my hair hang in sweaty, helmet-head clumps.
    “You want to watch the Venus Stakes with me this afternoon?” Kenny asked. Then he remembered. “Sorry.”
    “It’s okay.” But I’d visualized gliding Gildy to the wire, far in front, so many times it seemed almost real. Only reality now was an image of her chestnut body spread motionless on the straw.
    I did a mental head shake and felt the creepy sensation of someone staring. I turned my head, panning the barn directly opposite, but saw no one. Wait, there, leaning on the painted railing of the barn catty-cornered to Jim’s. Black hair with dark eyes, and they were on me. Prominent cheekbones. His body echoed his face, thin and hard. I felt uneasy. The assessment wasn’t that of a man checking out a woman; it appeared more cold, calculating.
    I turned back to Kenny. “Who’s that guy over there?”
    “Where?”
    My hand rose, finger pointing. “Right . . .” But he was gone, leaving the little hairs on the back of my neck standing straight up.

Chapter 3
    Damn it, I was going to be late. I pushed the accelerator, willing the road to reel in faster beneath me, determined to make up time lost in a Washington Beltway backup. The dash clock said I had 15 minutes before check-in time at the jock’s room. My horse had a real shot to win, but if I was late, I’d lose the ride. And the $40 jockey fee. The race came by default, as the regular rider’s ego was too inflated to follow Ravinsky’s horse to a second-rate track like Shepherds Town. No such illusions here.
    Not so long ago, before Jim took me under his wing, I’d been a runaway in Baltimore. I still shoved away memories of stealing packaged snacks from gas stations and quick-stop food shops, of sleeping in stalls where my only comfort had been the warmth of the horses. I’d worked hard to boost my life up the ladder, and I’d never slide back, not ever.
    The aging Toyota shuddered and balked at my insistent pressure on the pedal. I eased back on the gas, crossing the Potomac River bridge. Far below white water surged over gray protruding rocks, and a lone kayaker struggled against the torrent. I crossed a second bridge over the Shenendoah River and climbed the steep hill past Harpers Ferry, West Virginia. Maybe I’d make it. I didn’t want to let Ravinsky down. A good guy, he hadn’t wasted time commiserating about me losing the stakes race on Gildy. Instead he’d found me this ride at Shepherds Town.
    The grandstand loomed ahead. Rubber burned as the Toyota slid to a stop in an illegal parking spot near the building. I ran in, flashed my badge at the ticket-seller, and flew up the steep, narrow steps to the jock’s room.
    A round-faced man, a wad of chewing tobacco tucked in his cheek, sat behind a desk in a cramped