Death by Equine by Annette Dashofy (booksvooks txt) 📕

“I said he’s been like that since he’s been here. He ain’t mine. I’m training him for Doug Whitman.” Emerick motioned toward one of the three men who now stood clustered together farther down the shedrow.

She rested a hand on the gray’s pencil-thin neck and spoke softly to the horse. He didn’t respond. His hair-coat felt hot and dry, almost brittle. She stroked the flat area between his eyes, slid her hand to cup his ear, rubbing a thumb against the soft hair inside. Then she moved back to pat his neck and ran her hand along his bony spine. Picking through the contents of the white bucket, she found and greased a thermometer with Vaseline and then slid it into the gray’s rectum. A length of cord attached the thermometer to a spring clothespin, which she clipped to the gray’s tail. “How long has he been here?”

“A month. Maybe a little less. Maybe a little more. I’d have to check my books.”

Jessie bet Emerick knew to the minute how long this horse had been in his stable. She shifted her gaze to the three men, unsure which one to direct her question to. “Mr. Whitman? How long?”

The one in the center with a long face and a John Deere ball cap replied. “Like Neil said, about a month.”

Jessie examined the horse starting with his head, checking his gums, his tongue and his eyes. “Mr. Whitman, how long have you owned this horse?”

“Not long. Maybe three, four months. I got him at an auction in Oklahoma.”

She ran her hands down the gray’s left front leg. As she knelt beside him, she saw the band of swelling that ran along his underside, from his breastbone back. She caught Sherry watching her and knew immediately why Sherry had insisted she be called.

“I assume you have health papers for this animal?” Jessie stood and looked first at Emerick, then Whitman.

They exchanged nervous glances.

“Yeah.” There was a hint of a question mark in Whitman’s voice.

“I’d like to see them, if you don’t mind.”

Emerick sent one of the other men, a younger fellow, off to fetch the papers.

Jessie moved toward the horse’s hindquarters, running a hand under his belly, along the band of edema. After a check of her watch, she unclipped the clothespin and retrieved the thermometer. “One hundred and six.”

Emerick muttered something under his breath.

Whitman shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “What do you think it is?”

Jessie eyed Sherry, who continued to silently chew on her nails. Sherry suspected the same thing she did—Jessie was sure of it. She didn’t expect the health documents to tell her much, but she was praying the Coggins papers had been signed by any vet but Doc.

Emerick’s young assistant appeared around the corner and jogged down the shedrow toward them. He clutched a dirty envelope, which he offered to Emerick. The trainer indicated he should hand it to Jessie.

Her head throbbed as she removed the papers and unfolded them. They were dated three weeks prior to Doc’s death. A third of the way down, the space naming the federally accredited veterinarian responsible for drawing the blood listed Dr. Samuel Lewis, Doc’s given name.

She studied the horse. The sweet, sad, dark eyes. The rough coat. She could only imagine the agony he was in. “I need to do bloodwork.” Her voice sounded hollow in her ears.

Emerick shrugged. “Whatever.”

Jessie shot a look at the poker-faced trainer who appeared a lot less concerned than she believed he really was. As she watched him, a puzzle piece snapped into place in the back of her mind. She swung around to Sherry, thinking of the morning Jessie had gone to Emerick’s barn to check on Soldier Bob. The morning Sherry had blocked her passage. The gray head hanging over the stall webbing farther down the shedrow. The apparently empty stalls on either side of him. And later, Emerick himself cleaning out that lone stall.

Sherry finally met Jessie’s gaze but just for a moment. Then she lowered her head. The glimpse had been enough for Jessie. She turned back to Emerick. “I’m also going to need to draw blood on all the horses in your barn.”

Emerick’s poker face dropped away like a mask. “Why?”

“That’s where you had this boy stabled until recently, right? Empty stalls on either side of him. You suspected something was wrong and isolated him. Then you moved him here when you heard I was on my way to look at Sullivan.”

Emerick stepped toward her, his fists balled. “So what? I figured he had a cold or something. I didn’t want the other horses catching it. I don’t see why you need to draw blood from them.”

Sherry spoke up. “EIA.” She pressed away from the rail. “Dr. Cameron thinks it’s EIA. Swamp Fever.” Sherry wheeled and strode away, her long blonde braid swaying side to side. No silver and turquoise barrette adorned the top of it.

Whitman’s face matched the color of his sick horse.

The trainer loomed over Jessie. “EIA? Equine infect—”

Jessie refused to react to the stench of his stale breath. “Equine infectious anemia. I’m placing both barns under quarantine.”

Jessie swabbed the gray’s neck just under his jaw with an alcohol wipe. Then she picked up the Vacutainer she’d prepared a few minutes earlier. She probed the skin and flesh until she found the spot she wanted, inserted the needle, and popped the vacuum tube into place. He didn’t flinch, didn’t bat an eye. Dark blood began streaming into the tube.

The somber gathering had been joined by Tony Rizzo, known around the track as The Stall Man. Short, stocky, and bald, he controlled which trainers were assigned which stalls. Most days he appeared to take tremendous pleasure in the power he wielded. Today, he seemed even shorter than usual.

“Are you sure about this?” Tony asked from behind her. “I mean, about it being EIA. Couldn’t it be something else?”

Jessie’s eyes never left the Vacutainer. “Sure it could. It could be a few things.”

“So