Rick Shaw grabbed Cynthia Cooper's arm as they ran out from the tailgate section.
"I should have seen it coming. Damn me!" He cursed. "You stay here. You know what to do. I'll ride in the ambulance.
"I'll finish up at Hampstead Farm."
"Right." He flashed his badge at a shocked track official and sprinted out to the ambulance, where Addie's unconscious form was being carefully slid into the back. Chark, tears in his eyes, hopped in with her.
Arthur reached the ambulance the same time Rick did. "Sheriff." Rick opened his badge for the ambulance attendants. "Arthur, go back to the booth and get me a video of this race. Now!"
"Yes, of course." Arthur turned and ran back to the grandstand, passing the two slow-moving Camden police.
"Jim, get her saddle. See that no one touches it but you. Hurry before some do-gooder gets there first," Rick commanded.
Jim, without comment, lurched toward the next to last jump.
"Mickey, go find Deputy Cooper. She'll be in the paddock . . . help her. You know these people. They'll talk to you."
"You got it." Mickey peeled off toward the paddock, jumping the track rail in his hurry.
"Chark, I'm coming with you." He hoisted himself into the back of the ambulance.
The driver's assistant closed the heavy door behind them. With its flashers turned on, the vehicle rolled along the side of the track. The driver, savvy about horses, would save his siren until they reached the highway.
"Who saddled the horse?" Rick waved to the gesticulating policemen.
"I did." Chark held his sister's hand.
"Where do you keep your tack?"
"At the stalls."
"Hampstead Farm?"
"No, no—the stalls at the track. We pick up the saddle pad number, we draw for position first, then we saddle up."
"Wouldn't be hard for someone to mess with the saddle or the—'' Rick stopped to think of the term.
"Girth," Chark said.
"Girth, yes."
"Yes, but I saddled Bazooka. I'd have seen it." He squeezed his sister's hand, the tears coming down his face. He reached over and touched the St. Christopher's medal, turning it over. "What in God's name . . ." he whispered.
"What is it?"
"This is Mother's. We haven't seen it since the day she disappeared." He stared, uncomprehending, at Rick.
The emergency rescue worker held Adelia's head firmly between her hands. If Addie's neck were broken, one bump could make a bad situation very much worse.
Rick, on his knees, bent over. He read aloud the inscription: He's my stand-in. Love, Charley
"Dad gave that to Mom the year they were married."
"And you haven't seen this since your Mother disappeared?"
"No."
Rick sat back on his haunches as the ambulance sped to the hospital.
"Sheriff."
"Huh?" Rick's mind was miles away.
"Whoever had this killed my mother."
Rick reached over and put his hand on Chark's shoulder. He said nothing, but he was praying hard, praying that Adelia would live, praying she wouldn't be paralyzed, and praying he could persuade Camden's police to provide twenty-four-hour protection until she could be moved to Albemarle County.
"Charles, you understand that my job forces me to ask unseemly questions."
"I do, sir."
"Could your sister have killed your mother?"
"Never." Chark's voice was level even as the tears kept flowing.
"Adelia comes into her majority tomorrow. Did you want her dead?"
"No," Chark whispered, shaking his head.
"What about Arthur Tetrick? Would he gain by your sister's death?"
Chark regained his voice, "No. His term as executor expires tomorrow at midnight. Even if"—he choked—"she doesn't make it, he has nothing to gain."
"Do you have any idea who would do this?"
"I can only think of one person. Linda Forloines. Because of the cocaine."
"We thought she might show up. Disguised. It's a bit farfetched, but"—he squeezed Chark's shoulder—"we were worried."
"She could have paid someone to do this."
"Yes. Deputy Cooper is working over the officials and jockeys pretty hard right about now."
"Sheriff, I had a stupid fight with Addie. If anything should happen—" he covered his eyes, "I couldn't live. I couldn't."
"She's going to be okay." Rick lied, for he couldn't know. "You'll have plenty of time to mend your fences."
Rick looked imploringly at the rescue-squad woman, who looked down at Addie.
A small incident occurred during the questioning of track personnel, owners, trainers, and jockeys.
When Jim Sanburne brought Addie's light, small racing saddle to Deputy Cooper, Mickey Townsend reached for it and Arthur Tetrick slammed him across the chest with a forearm.
They slapped each other around until the men in the paddock quickly separated them.
"He's trying to smear the prints," Arthur protested.
"No, I wasn't!" Mickey shouted from the other side of the paddock.
After they quieted down, Cynthia resumed her questioning. Harry and Miranda helped by organizing people in a line and by quickly drawing up a checklist of who was in the paddock area.
Fair turned Bazooka over to a groom after checking the animal thoroughly for injury. As a precaution he drew blood to see if Bazooka could have been doped. An amphetamine used on a horse as high octane as Bazooka was a prescription for murder. He conferred with a reputable local equine vet, an acquaintance, Dr. Mary Holloway. She took the vial, jumped into her truck, and headed for the lab.
Fair reached the paddock and joined Coop. "What can I do?"
"Got a pair of rubber gloves?"
"Right here." He pulled the see-through gloves from his chest pocket.
"Inspect the saddle, will you? But be careful—remember, it has to be fingerprinted. Jim Sanburne, Chark and Addie will have prints on the saddle. We're looking for—well, you know."
"I'll be careful." Fair picked up the saddle, lifted the small suede flap. The leathers, beltlike with buckles, were solid on both sides. Then he inspected the girth, torn in two. "That's how they did it." He flipped over the girth and could see on the underside the razor cut, which ran its width. As the outside of the girth was not cut, someone could tighten the girth and not realize it was cut underneath.
"Would someone need to know a lot about horses or racing to do that?" Cooper asked.
"It would help. But with a little direction anyone could do it."
Troubled, Coop pressed her lips together. "Next."
A slight young man stepped forward. "Randy Groah. I ride for Michael Stirling here in Camden."
"Where were you before the last race?"
As Cynthia questioned, Harry wrote down everyone's statistics, name, address, phone number, etc. . . .
Tucker, having easily slipped her collar, followed The Terminator. They checked the changing room, hospitality tents, and the on-site stables. They turned up nothing except for doughnut crumbs, which they ate, certain the food had nothing to do with the case.
A long, low whistle stopped the Jack Russell. "That's my mom."
"I'll follow you over." Tucker trotted alongside her feisty new friend.
"Terminator, let's go." ZeeZee clapped her hands.
"I'll walk along for a bit." Tucker fell in beside The Terminator.
They reached the stables, where ZeeZee's Explorer was parked in front.
"Come on, Term." She scooped up the little guy and put him on the passenger seat.
"Good luck," the Jack Russell called out.
"You, too." Tucker scampered back to the paddock while ZeeZee peeled out of there.
Three and a half hours later Harry, Miranda, Fair, and Cynthia Cooper finished questioning jockeys and track officials. The Sanburnes left for the hospital as soon as Cynthia dismissed them. Mim had told Coop about the St. Christopher's medal, and Miranda confirmed it.
Coop stopped by the jockeys' changing tent to check over Addie's gear bag. She unzipped it. "I will slice and dice this son of a bitch!"