Judas Horse_ An FBI Special Agent Ana Grey Mystery - April Smith [66]
“Look! Underneath the branches.”
A slender tree with a network of smooth willowy branches, bending to the ground like an old woman where the water used to flow, seems to gesture toward the body of a white baby horse lying on its side. All four legs kick out in a spasm that breaks my heart.
Coils of heat bake the sweat off my bare shoulders. The foal, where it lies, is fully exposed to the sun.
“Let’s see what we got,” says McCord. “Quietly. The wind’s comin’ that way. Don’t want him to smell us and get aroused.”
He motions that we get down into a squat and crab-leg it slowly toward the animal, stopping every ten feet to test the wind. Finally we are close enough to see it clearly in the lee of the branches. Its muzzle is swollen twice the normal size and bright red blood has covered its face, attracting glittering swarms of greenflies.
McCord reaches toward the chalky, almost translucent coat. It is not pure white; you can see dark clouds of pigment underneath, like a stormy desert sky. He runs his fingers along the neck, below a two-inch strip of bristly silver mane, and down the long and fragile legs, rosy with sores. In response, the baby tries to lift its head. Its face is long and delicately etched. The eyes are crying tears of blood. Pink-rimmed, with thick white lashes, they are opaque spheres of shiny blackened indigo.
“Shh now, just lie still.”
Sara, whispering: “Was he just born?”
McCord is checking the scrawny ribs. “He’s one month old and just about starved.”
“Is he wild?”
“Probably got loose from a ranch. Looks to be part Arab. The mom either took off somewhere or she’s dead. Anyone have a cell phone?”
Sara and I stare at each other, helpless and ashamed.
“We’re not allowed to have cell phones on the farm,” she says.
“Why’s that? So you can’t talk to your boyfriends?”
“We just can’t.”
I look at the ground and say nothing. My fingers clutch the Oreo phone in my pocket.
“Will this little guy live?”
“Depends if the toxin’s already in the bloodstream. We got to call the vet.”
I am about to curl up and die with guilt. I cannot make the call. To pull out the tiny phone now would be to expose myself.
You cannot blow a half-million-dollar operation on one stray horse.
“Don’t get near his face. It’s sore and we don’t want him to move or raise his head. Damn. Everybody in the world has a damn cell phone. I left mine at the damn house.”
“Why don’t you get in the damn truck and get help?”
McCord holds his answer. He climbs up the embankment with long strides.
The girl is standing with her arms and feet all crossed up. She looks anxiously toward the truck. “Is he just gonna leave us here?”
I’m running my hand down the thin, pale throat of the foal, feeling the shuddering nerves.
“Touch him. He’s soft.”
“I don’t want to. It’s disgusting.”
“Scary, huh?”
“Not at all,” says Miss Nothing Affects Me. “I just don’t enjoy watching something die, okay?”
“Then why were you taking shooting lessons?”
“Shooting lessons?” she says, as if she’d forgotten. “I don’t know. He was coming on to me at the ice-cream store, so I said to myself, ‘Okay, this is different.’ He’s cute, but kind of old.”
McCord skids back down the hill on his heels, carrying a bottle of water and an old shirt.
“Keep him quiet. Sponge him down to cool him off. The rattler’s most likely still around, so watch where you step.”
“Shit,” says Sara, jerking her feet.
“What’s wrong with his eyes?” Flies are walking on the darkened pupils.
“Oh,” says McCord matter-of-factly. “This little baby is blind.”
My stomach lurches. “Are you sure?”
McCord replies, “Yeah,” and passes a hand before the dark violet eyes of the horse, which do not blink. “Could be why he was abandoned. I’m going for the vet.”
McCord turns, but Sara grabs his arm.
“Just shoot him.”
The world goes silent, except for the clicking of crows and the dry maraca rattle of insects in the grass.
“Shoot him,” she insists.
McCord is astounded. “He’s not