Randy White - Dead Silence

Sudderram sighed. “My apologies,” he said, but with a false deference that told me he and the trainer hadn’t gotten along earlier in the day and their relationship wasn’t going to improve.

“We wouldn’t of sold Cazzy for a million dollars, and that there’s an accurate dollars-and-cents figure. How many folks can claim they’re worth half as much? FBI agents, doctors, politicians”-the trainer glanced at me and Tomlinson-“I’d take ol’ Cazzy back alive before any of ’em.”

Tomlinson spoke for the first time. “It’s got to be a pain in the butt for an old hand like you, Fred, dealing with summer people in January.” He glanced at the agent, then me, to confirm he’d surprised us calling Frederick Fred. “Winter’s the only time this man gets a break from dealing with outsiders. I don’t blame him for being upset.”

It was obviously meant to be ingratiating, but it meant something to the horse trainer. “You hit the nail on the head with that one, bub. First night since Christmas I went up-street for beers and the place goes all catty-fucked. When the nine-one-one woman called, I should’a known and come home right away. Vandals, is what did this. City-idiot kids looking for drugs. Rich little fucks with nothin’ better to do than cause a workingman more work.”

Tomlinson, who looked respectable but cold in jeans and a black sports coat I’d loaned him, said, “Summer people! Like the old saying, huh? Some are people, summer not,” his shrug adding What’re you gonna do?

Gardiner liked that but didn’t want to show it. “You’re from Florida, someone said?” Talking as if Sudderram wasn’t there.

“West Coast, not Palm Beach.”

“Not all summer people goes to Palm Beach nowadays,” Gardiner told him. “Sarasota, that’s become big with the money families.”

“I’m about an hour south,” Tomlinson said as if I’d vanished, too. Local knowledge. He had it and was making the most of it.

On the plane, I had asked Tomlinson about growing up in the nearby Hamptons, which may have fueled his irrational rant. It wasn’t the first time I had asked and it wasn’t the first time he’d dodged the question, switching subjects after a long silence spent twisting and tugging at his hair. Just before landing, though, he’d tried to explain, telling me, “I have friends in the Hamptons who’d be very bummed if they heard I was hanging with cops. You mind introducing me as Thomas?”

If he wanted to keep his past a secret, I didn’t mind. He knew the area and understood how to interact with locals. That was obvious when Gardiner began speaking only to Tomlinson.

“I’d think even people who didn’t know nothin’ about horses would see it’s more likely Cazzy would jump a fence with a rider than without.”

“Seems obvious, when you think about it,” Tomlinson said.

“Yes… yes, sure does. But that doesn’t mean there weren’t something else that caused him to do it. He wouldn’t have jumped just to leave what he knew was his home.”

“That’s the way you trained him,” Tomlinson offered.

“Damn right, I trained him! Like you said, I shouldn’t have to explain what’s pretty goddamn obvious.”

Tomlinson told him, “Well, Fred, I don’t know much about horses, but I know the best way to learn from an expert is keep my ears open and my mouth closed.”

“By God, ain’t that the truth? Pay attention, don’t make me do twice the work. You said your name was Thomas?”

“Call me Tom. I don’t like all the formal crap.”

When Sudderram saw that Tomlinson had bridged some invisible social barrier, his relief was apparent. He took a step back, content to let Tom serve as interpreter. Maybe we would learn more.

Gardiner looked at the dead horse and spit. “Cazzy was one of the country’s finest hunters and jumpers. It’s the rare horse that can do both. He was a prime actor in the dressage ring, too. A warm-blood, just full of music.”

When I said, “He looks like an Appaloosa,” the old trainer made a sound of irritation, then continued talking as if he hadn’t heard me.

“Eight years back, maybe you saw Cazzy in the Olympics-a bitch from the Jerseys, a woman whose name I won’t say, she leased him for the trials, then again for the Games. He was on the television ten, fifteen times. We figured he could win the next Olympics. Age didn’t bother him. Sorta like that mare Fein Cera. Hell, she won the World Championship when she was sixteen!”

As Gardiner explained why Cazzy hadn’t retired even though he’d been put out to stud, I was trying to auger my heel into the frozen pasture. I had a question but wanted to time it right. In January, how do you bury a valued horse… or an abducted teenager of great value?

I ducked through an unbroken section of fence, but only after Tomlinson, then Sudderram, gave me private nods telling me it was okay.

I waded through the grass, then cleaned my glasses before taking a close look. Big horse, with a back as long and broad as a couch. His coat was the same dappled gray as the horse in the painting of Robert E. Lee, the Confederate general, on his gelding, Traveller.

A backhoe would have to be brought in-no problem punching through the frozen ground or digging a hole big enough for more than just the horse.

Alacazar-Alacazam had been shot at least twice. There was a pock hole the size of a quarter on the rib cage, another on the neck just below the ear. Blood had coagulated into patches of ragged amber, a carpet of red on the bloated belly, probably because the bullet had punctured a lung.

Otherwise, the body was unmarked. The mane was articulately braided, as was a portion of the tail. The horse had been recently shod, the farrier’s nails still shiny.

I had more questions now but waited for Gardiner to finish talking about the horse’s stud fee. “A hundred thousand dollars a shot,” he said, sounding proud and giving it a bawdy edge as if he’d been in on the fun. But there wasn’t much fun involved because the horse was so valuable. His owners seldom allowed natural cover. When they did allow it, Cazzy and the mare were released into a padded stall floored with rubber brick. Video cameras recorded it all.

I said, “It looks like he was ready for a show: the braids, fresh shoes. Or was he always groomed this way?”

“One of the summer girls who takes lessons does the braiding. Cazzy enjoyed the attention, and it was good practice for her. He wasn’t scheduled for another show until spring.”

All outsiders were summer people, I realized, even if they lived in the Hamptons year-round. The potential for resentment on both sides was implicit.

Gardiner resumed talking with Tomlinson as I circled the body. My wild-tempered uncle, Tucker Gatrell, had kept horses. Preferred his gelding, Roscoe, over a pickup truck for short trips. I had mucked enough stalls and done enough riding to distrust the animals-they were moody and manipulative-especially stallions. But I could also appreciate the marvel that is a horse with superb conformation. I had never seen one as heavily muscled or as well proportioned.

There was no bridle or saddle to hang on to. I couldn’t have handled a stallion like this, never mind trying to make him jump a fence. I paused, waiting to ask another question, then realized that Gardiner was in the process of answering it.

“The thing about jumping horses is, they don’t jump fences just to jump. It doesn’t come natural, not like deer or dogs. If there’s no rider, something’s gotta be chasing ’em. Or scaring the hell out of ’em. Fire a gun a couple of times and even a great one like Cazzy would jump. That’s what I think happened. Some of those rich city assholes got drunk and came out here because I was uptown.” The man’s voice faltered, getting emotional.