Simpatico's Gift Read online

  Simpatico’s Gift

  Copyright 2019 by Francis S. Martorana

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without the prior written permission of the publisher:

  VinChaRo Ventures

  3300 Judd Road

  Cazenovia, NY 13035

  [email protected]

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-99893-262-0 (print)

  ISBN: 978-0-99893-263-7 (ebook)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019901389

  Cover designed and illustrated by Amanda and Sebastian Martorana

  Sebastianworks.com

  Author photo by Rosemary C. Martorana

  Printed in the United States of America

  Also in the Kent Stephenson Thriller Series

  Taking on Lucinda

  In memory of

  Richard A. White

  Rich loved his family and friends above all.

  After that, it’s too close to call between

  hunting, skiing, and Lynyrd Skynyrd

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  Acknowledgments

  Over the years that it took to write this series, countless clients, friends, and acquaintances, close and casual, have contributed when, often unbeknownst to them, I picked their brains. I can’t possibly name them all without embarrassing errors of omission, so I won’t try, but I do thank them all deeply. There are some I just have to give special acknowledgment because they contributed so much and in ways that, if they had not, this book would never have been written, much less published. Thanks to Garda Parker, Rhoda Lerman, and S. V. Martorana, all three world-class authors, for neither laughing nor rolling their eyes when they first read my manuscripts. Thanks to Alicia Bazan-Jemenez, Sylvia Bakker-Moss, Deborah Fallon, Mark Andrews, Felicia Lalomia, Andy Olson, and Jeannine Gallo for assorted advice and technical support. Marlene Westcott, you are truly the Word Wizard. Sebastian and Amanda Martorana, what you do with the covers is amazing. Editors, Celia Johnson and Mona Dunn, I thank you for finding my many errors and doing the polishing. Rosemary Martorana, you get special thanks for always smiling and showing great patience while solving my many logistics issues. Last, but never least, there is my wife, Ann Marie. I don’t know how you put up with me through it all, honey, but I’m sure glad you do.

  CHAPTER 1

  Spring 1986

  Just after dark, Chalk-eye took cover in the stallion barn at VinChaRo Farm. His clothes were soaked. His shoes sloshed with each step. Water the temperature of snow ran down the back of his neck, pasting his mousy brown hair to his shoulders. Another wet, lonely night. It reminded him of Vietnam — night patrols near Khe Sanh.

  He was working his way north toward Ottawa for the summer. He panhandled in Canada during the summer and Florida all winter. Simple. He liked simple. Simple was right for a bum, and Chalkeye knew he was a bum.

  He’d used this VinChaRo barn before when he needed a night place. It was safe, and clean, and near a town whose folks didn’t roust him. They were pretty generous with handouts, too.

  He glanced down the long alleyway. Stalls on both sides. Not a sound. It reminded him of the farm where he grew up in Wisconsin, except way fancier. Just about everything reminded him of something these days. The problem was it all blended into a strange, illogical fog.

  He pulled the door shut against the wind and used the orange glow of the security light to find a stack of hay bales in an alcove. He rearranged them to form a cubbyhole where he could hide and sleep. It reminded him of the forts he and his cousins used to make in the haymow back home. He left just enough of a crack between the bales that he could keep an eye out for a night watchman.

  Chalk-eye keeping an eye out — that was a laugh.

  Ol’ Chalk-eye. He’d gotten that name when he bet his eye patch in a crap game behind the VFW in St. Louis. He lost, as usual. That was twenty-two years ago and he never bothered to wear one since. Nowadays, hell, he didn’t even notice when clerks at the hundreds of liquor stores he stumbled into struggled to avoid fixing on his bad eye while he dug into his pockets for change to buy whatever bottle he could afford. He ignored children’s stares or parents’ terse whispers as they led their kids away. To Chalk-eye’s blurred way of thinking, being blemished with what looked like a tiny egg where his left eye should have been wasn’t so bad. It was a lot smaller price than a lot of his buddies had paid to get out of Vietnam.

  With great reverence, he drew a halfempty bottle of cheap vodka from the pocket of his fatigue jacket, wet his lips while he unscrewed the cap, and took a long pull. Squinting his good eye, he held the bottle toward the light checking how much was left for breakfast. Just enough to ward off the headache he fully expected. He screwed the cap back on. From another pocket he pulled a wad of waxed paper, teased it open and grimaced at the sight of a half-eaten cold-cut sandwich. He lifted a corner of the soggy bread, grunted, then stuffed the whole works back in his coat without taking a bite.

  He yawned, bent slowly to his hands and knees, and crawled into his den. The hay smelled sweet. He thought again of his home in Wisconsin and wished he were there. He pulled his collar tight around his neck, tucked it up under his beard, and closed his eyes. The sound of raindrops and the warmth of the booze brought sleep, but not peace. Nightmares of killing fields and hopeless years wandering around America wedged their way between pleasant dreams of the farm and family he still missed after half a lifetime away.

  Sometime later, much later — he knew because he woke up shivering and he needed to empty his bladder — he heard the muffled rumble of the door at the other end of the barn as it rolled open. He was pretty sure it was really happening because he doubted he would dream the part about having to piss.

  Soft, tentative footsteps in the alleyway worked through a blur of sleep and alcohol. He knew the night sounds of a horse barn — straw rustling as thousand-pound bodies rolled to get comfortable, feed tubs rattling when explored by velvet muzzles, occasional fluttering sighs through giant nostrils. These were the nocturnal murmurings he usually heard whispered over the soft purr of the fans. The sound he heard now was not right.

  Chalkeye rolled up onto one elbow and aligned his eye for the best view through the crack between the bales.

  Movement and inquisitive snorts came from the horses
in their stalls. They, too, were aroused by the footsteps, but they didn’t seem alarmed.

  A shadowy figure, illuminated amber by the security lights, crept to a stall across the alleyway from Chalkeye’s den and peered between the bars. The horse within inhaled softly — an identifying whiff — but like the others, seemed calm. Chalkeye heard the latch slide back with a metallic snap and watched the stall door roll open.

  He rubbed his spider-veined face, pinched the dryness out of his nose, and tried to focus. No flashlight or key ring jingling, no talking to himself or brash gestures to ward off the loneliness of night duty. This person was not a watchman.

  The shadow whispered, “Hey there, Simpatico. How ya doin’, big guy?”

  With one hand the shadow patted the stallion’s muzzle as his other raised a leather halter. Even from his hiding place, Chalkeye thought he caught the scent of its neatsfoot oil.

  The stallion sidestepped to the right, and then directed his head into one of the back corners of the stall. His massive haunches that could lay a man out pivoted toward the intruder like cannons on a turret.

  A faint whistle of admiration escaped Chalkeye’s lips as he watched the shadow ignore the stallion’s warning.

  “Come on, man. Don’t give me a hard time,” the shadow cooed. He placed a hand on the stallion’s rump, nudged the beast aside, and slid up to the horse’s head. “Easy now, it’s just a halter. You’ve worn one a million times. It’s just a halter.”

  The shadow continued his horseman’s calming chatter as he slipped the halter over the stallion’s muzzle and fitted its leather strap behind his ears. A brass snap clicked, and the stallion was secured.

  Chalk-eye watched the intruder teased a plastic bag from a hip pocket and slid it over the stallion’s nostrils and mouth. The majestic equine accepted it without resistance.

  Deft fingers pulled a drawstring through the halter rings securing the bag over the stallion’s face just below his eyes. Then, with one smooth motion, they drew the string snug and tied it. The leadshank was unfastened and the stallion freed.

  “Hey, man. This what you get for being the best of the best,” the clandestine figure said, and then slipped out of the stall, bolting the door behind.

  Chalkeye continued watching, mesmerized, as the stallion held his breath for a long minute. Then, as the air in his lungs was consumed, the horse began to breathe slowly, tentatively. He could exhale without difficulty, but when he inhaled, the bag sucked tight against his nostrils. Gradually, the carbon dioxide began to rise in his blood. The bag kept him from breathing deeper.

  “What the hell . . .?” Chalk-eye whispered, but it was lost into the hay.

  Another minute passed. The stallion began to tread. He grunted as he strained harder to breathe.

  Chalkeye covered his ears, but couldn’t make himself stop watching.

  The stallion’s huge head began to swing from side to side in giant arcs. He dropped his muzzle to his fetlock and pawed at the bag in a vain attempt to remove it. He pitched wildly, reeled, then crashed his muscular shoulder into the hardwood wall with a force that shook the barn. He rebounded onto his hind legs. His poll smashed the ceiling light overhead, sending shards of glass raining down.

  The stallion’s magnificent brown eyes bulged from their sockets like huge wet marbles and Chalkeye began to cry. Why would anyone hurt such a beautiful animal? He’d seen too much irrational cruelty in his lifetime. The tears descended his cheeks. He hated the shadow-man for what he was doing. He hated himself for doing nothing to stop him.

  The stallion careened into the wall one last time, then slid down onto his knees. A shutter waved across his massive body, he stiffened, and melted away from the wall onto his side.

  A moment later, the great stallion was dead, and Chalkeye, still frozen with fear, only watched.

  The stall door latch snapped again, and the shadow figure crept in. He hesitated a moment over the stallion’s lifeless body, then snipped the drawstring, removed the bag and halter, rolled the door shut, and was gone.

  Chalkeye knew he couldn’t stay. Rain or not, he couldn’t sleep in this barn tonight. Not in the presence of death.

  He pushed his way out of his haybale lair and, without taking time to brush away the sprigs that clung to his damp clothes, he slipped back out into the night.

  As he closed the barn door, he stared out into the rain, pulled the vodka bottle from his jacket and emptied it down his throat. Who could kill such a beautiful horse? Death follows me, he thought. He stared at the bottle in his hand. It’s why I need this. Now I can never, never come back to this town.

  He slogged north toward Ottawa.

  CHAPTER 2

  Kent Stephenson drew in a deep breath of spring air as it blew in through the window of his mobile veterinary unit. He straightened his arms against the steering wheel, and stretched back into the seat. After last night’s rain, the weather was perfect — warm and sunny, with the sweet smell of soil and emerging vegetation. Any day was a good day to be a large animal veterinarian, but springtime was special, when the sun was getting higher each day, and the mares were foaling.

  “Today is Emily’s birthday,” he said to Lucinda, the Redbone hound on the seat beside him. “Don’t let me forget.”

  Lucinda pulled her nose back in through the window, gave him her usual expression of infinite loyalty, and wagged her tail.

  Emily was Kent’s daughter. Cake and ice cream tonight. Fourteen years old! How could that have happened so quickly?

  He leaned over and inspected himself in the mirror — not too worn for having a teenage daughter. Thankfully. If anything ever happened to him, Emily might have to go back to her mother. That prospect gave him a chill. He knew it chilled Emily, too. Mary had divorced him and bailed out of their lives years ago. It was the low point of his life — it was what drove him into the darkness — but he had survived. Neither he nor Emily cared to have her mother a part of their lives again.

  The half-ring half-buzz of his mobile phone snapped him out of his musing.

  “Just finished the swollen fetlock at Fowlers. Heading up to Lark Ridge to check out the sore eye,” he said, anticipating his dispatcher’s standard first question. Instead, he was surprised to hear Aubrey Fairbank’s voice. She was one of only a few clients who had his mobile number — because she was much more than a client. Even so, it was unusual for her to interrupt him while he was working.

  A few years back, Aubrey had shown up in Jefferson with a bevy of animal rights activists protesting the use of live animals to test products at the local cosmetic company — which happened to be the town’s largest employer. A warm, comfortable feeling wafted over Kent as he recalled how their relationship, a small town vet and a high profile Hollywood actress, had gone from blood enemies to respect and commitment. When the dust settled, Aubrey had parlayed her knowledge of horses, gleaned from her childhood years on an Iowa farm and later turning in the Hollywood horse set, into a position as farm manager at VinChaRo. In no time at all, she, along with her teenage son, Barry, had become a permanent fixture in Jefferson.

  He could hear her breathing hard into the phone as if she had been running.

  “Kent, we need you over here right now.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Simpatico. We just found him. In his stall. Dead.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “I’m not kidding.”

  “Jesus. What happened?”

  “We don’t know. He’s just lying there. Can you come right now?”

  “I’m on my way.” And just like that, his comfortable feeling vanished.

  Kent slapped the phone onto its dashboard bracket and pulled his truck to the shoulder. He glanced for traffic and was about to pull a U-turn when he had a second thought. He let the truck sit on the side of the road, grabbed the mobile phone again, and punched ‘on
e’ into its memory. His housekeeper/stand-in grandmother to Emily answered.

  “Margaret. Tell Emily I’ll be there in five minutes. I’ve got a call at VinChaRo. I know she’ll want to come along. Pack her a lunch, too, will you? We’ll be out for a while.”

  “Sure,” Margaret said. She was accustomed to the urgencies of her boss’s dual role as single father and veterinarian, and took such requests in stride. “I’ll have her ready, lunch in hand.”

  Kent reached over and ruffed the hair on Lucinda’s back.

  “The person who can make my day with the sound of her voice just ruined a perfectly good morning.”

  Lucinda looked up at him, trying to fathom why she caught agitation in his voice. Any day spent doing horse calls with Kent was a good day as far as she was concerned.

  Kent’s mobile unit was one of five in the Compassion Veterinary Center’s fleet. Each was a sleek, white fiberglass body mounted on a pick-up truck frame and stocked with state-of-the-art veterinary equipment and medicines. He ground his teeth at his helplessness. In spite of all the supplies he had on board, he had nothing that could help Simpatico. He stomped the accelerator and headed to pick up Emily.

  Simpatico gone. The thought was like a kick in the gut from a draft horse. Simpatico, The King, the standard bearer of all New York Breds was dead.

  “Long live the king,” Kent said, under his breath.

  Lucinda turned to him and whined softly.

  Kent had always felt a sense of pride in being Simpatico’s personal veterinarian, but suddenly he felt an irrational anger toward the great horse. “You picked a great day to die,” he said. “Happy birthday, Emily.”

  Kent eyed the familiar sign that read PINE HOLT FARM where his driveway retreated into a grove of white pines. The thought of naming his home had been way over the top to his way of thinking, but in time he had accepted the sign, and maybe even liked it, because it had been Emily’s idea.

  His ranch-style house was nestled among the trees to disguise its size. There was a clear, green pond surrounded by lawn out back and to one side. Beyond that was a barn, the kind we remember from our childhood stories. A half dozen Polled Herefords loafed near it inside a board fence.