Death by Equine Annette Dashofy (black authors fiction txt) 📖

the shedrow. A gray with soft, dark eyes and a black with a wide blaze down his face hung their heads over the stall webbings and eyed him warily as he passed. He noted the numbers above each door. Twenty-four, twenty-three, twenty-two. Twenty-two. That was it. A lone, naked bulb lit the twelve-by-twelve box stall. Inside, the angular chestnut stallion cringed against the far wall. The stall reeked of sweat and manure.

This didn’t smell right. Literally. “Hello?” he called out again. Again, no answer, except for Clown, whose explosive snort sounded like the detonation of a small bomb.

“Whoa, boy.” Doc’s voice usually soothed the horse, but not tonight. Clown tossed his head. One front leg struck out, the hoof pounding into the stall’s bedding, digging a hole in the straw.

Clown had a knack for pawing. His stall had been victim to it for so long the dirt floor sloped toward the center, like a crater. No, it wasn’t the pawing that triggered Doc’s internal alarm. It was the smell. Fresh manure...something he certainly didn’t expect to find in the stall of a colicky horse.

Doc lifted a lead shank from a hook on the open top half of the stall door and unlatched the lower half. He stepped into the stall and pulled the door closed behind him, too hard. Clown flinched. Doc studied the horse as it paced back and forth along the back wall, head low, ears pinned. He caught a glimpse of white-ringed eyes.

“Easy, fella,” he cooed. “What’s wrong there, old boy?”

The horse had a tendency to act aggressive, but Doc knew it was all for show. Clown believed if he scared you off, you might leave him alone. When the ploy didn’t work, he’d give up and behave more gentlemanly.

Doc stepped toward Clown, keeping up an easy patter to relax the horse. Clown stopped pacing and tipped his head toward Doc. Good. But when he reached for the horse’s head, Clown squatted back onto his haunches and reared. The animal struck out with one front foot. Doc tried to dodge the blow, but it came too quick and grazed the side of his skull. Stunned, he staggered back. Pain seared his head. He raised a hand to his ear. Touched a chunk of loose cartilage where the appendage had once been. The hand came away warm and sticky. And red.

“Damn—” He stared at the big horse. Tried to think. Entering the stall alone had been a huge mistake. He prayed he had time to correct it. “Easy, big guy. No one’s gonna hurt you. Steady there.” He drew the words out, keeping his voice soft. One small step back. No quick movements.

Clown flung his head, showing Doc his teeth. With a ferocious, deep-throated roar, the stallion again went up on his hind legs, lashing out with both front feet. The aluminum racing plates he wore slammed into Doc’s chest, driving him down in the straw. The syringe sailed from his pocket in one direction. His straw hat flew the other.

Doc struggled for breath. A million flashbulbs burst behind his eyes. “Son of a bitch,” he wheezed through the pain and the panic. He lay there for a moment, clutching at his chest, his gaze riveted on Clown. Doc had to get out of the stall and do it quickly, but without further aggravating the stallion. When he was finally able to catch his breath, he began to crawl backwards on his elbows, propelling himself with the heels of his work boots, in one last effort to reach the stall door.

Head lowered, the horse advanced on him. Teeth gleamed between curled lips. He raised one front leg and rammed the hoof down on Doc’s thigh. The bone snapped. The sound of it screamed through Doc’s head, meeting with the explosion of pain that raced up from his leg to nearly push him into the encroaching darkness. A shriek tore from his throat.

“Help! Someone!” He wasn’t sure if his thoughts formed words or if the words made sound. As he sprawled in the crater in the center of the stall, it occurred to him that Clown had dug Doc’s grave.

The horse retreated for a moment against the back wall. Doc looked toward the stall door, searching for some sign of rescue. Was that movement he saw? A shadow? Or was he hallucinating? He called again for help. Believed he saw the shadow move. His heart leaped. But imagined or not, the source of the shadow was not coming to his aid. A rustle from the back of the stall drew his attention once more to Clown. Something—some one—had driven the horse to react this way. Doc had only seen such rage in this animal’s eyes once before. He should have recognized the signs sooner. Now it was too late. Clown went up on his hind legs, and Doc knew the last thing he would ever see was the underbelly of this chestnut stallion.

Clown’s front feet thrust down on him and all went silent and still.

Two

Dr. Jessie Cameron’s first inkling of something amiss was the abandoned guard shack and the raised gate at the stable entrance. Even at three o’clock in the morning, security never left the place unattended. Never. The red and blue flashing lights of several police vehicles, including two Pennsylvania State Police SUVs, and an ambulance positioned in the roadway between barns confirmed her sense of foreboding. A swarm of uniforms around the stall to which she’d been summoned completed the trifecta of bad vibes.

She left her Chevy pickup next to one of the state trooper’s vehicles and struggled to maintain a calm exterior. Don’t spook the horses. It was a lesson drilled into her from as far back as she could remember, but at the same time, her gut prodded her into a run for the barn.

She recognized the trooper who cut her off before she reached the first stall. “Greg, what’s going on?” Any other time, the sight of the man who’d ripped