Racing From Evil: A Nikki Latrelle Mystery Novella; The Prequel Page 3

  He grabbed the armchair and shoved it against the broken door, blocking me in the room.

  As his eyes stroked up and down my body, a flame of rage curled in my belly.

  He circled the end of the bed, walking toward me. “Come on, sweetie. I won’t hurt you.”

  I ran straight at him and kicked his privates as fast and hard as I could.

  He doubled over with pain. “You bitch!”

  I darted to the window, shoved it open enough to squeeze through, and rolled onto the fire escape. When I pushed on the ladder, the old hinge wouldn’t release to let the ladder down. Stanley was at the window trying to raise it.

  Oh, God. I threw my weight on the ladder, gasping with relief when the metal rungs dropped to the ground. I scurried to the bottom, fear and adrenalin giving me wings.

  I hit the ground with a jolt, before sprinting through the backyard, and flinging myself over the metal fence. A nervous glance up at my window showed no sign of Stanley. I sped down the alley to the street out front, where I paused in the dark between two streetlights. The cold had seeped into my clothes until the fabric felt icy against my skin.

  The front door flew open. Stanley, who’d thrown on a bathrobe, stood there, his eyes searching. I ran. My spare frame and rubber boots created little sound on the pavement. Terrified, I looked back. He still loomed in the doorway. Maybe he hadn’t seen me.

  I have no money. No phone.

  Should I run to a neighbor? Try to reach the nearest police station? What if they took me back to Stanley? He could say I was reacting to the stress of Mom’s death, and the best place for me was safe at home with him. I couldn’t risk it.

  As I ran down my dark street and turned onto Garrison, it came to me. The place I’d been happiest. With Mom. A place I’d felt safe, a place close enough to run to. A place I could hide.

  Pimlico.

  Gasping for air, I had to slow to a walk on Garrison. No one was on the street, and there were no lights inside the houses as people slept through the night. I couldn’t run anymore, but it was so cold, I had to move. I started a slow jog, the motion warming me a little. If I kept moving, I’d be all right.

  I hit Park Heights Avenue and hung a left. Two more blocks, and I made a right onto Belvedere. I was close. On my left was an expanse of empty, crumbling pavement, a parking area that filled with cars and buses when Pimlico held its big races. Just beyond, lay the dirt track and the turn where the horses rolled into the backstretch.

  I kept going. The land ahead swept down to a triangle of backstretch stables lying between Belvedere Avenue, Pimlico Road and the track railing.

  As I got closer, I saw razor wire crowning the chain link fence between me and the stables. Screw it. I started climbing, afraid I’d lose my momentum, afraid I’d collapse from cold, or fear.

  When I was high enough to touch the barbed wire, I pulled off a rubber boot, slid my hand inside, and pushed the boot against the rusty barbs. It folded over the wire, and with one hand in the boot and the other pressed against the rubber, I managed to swing one leg over.

  The muscles of my arms trembled from the effort of holding the trunk of my body over the wire now running between my outstretched legs. Pain shot down my arms. My shoulders burned. Pushing with what little strength remained, I got the other leg over, whimpering as my unprotected hand slipped and a cluster of barbs ripped my palm and fingers.

  I had to let go. The ground flew up to meet me, hard and fast, knocking the air out of me. Jolted with pain, I lay still a moment, before carefully testing each limb. I found my boot next to me and pulled it on, thinking I was okay, knowing I was safer with the razor wire between me and Stanley. After rolling to my hands and knees, I stood up and it didn’t hurt that badly.

  Maybe nine or ten barns stretched into the distance, varying in length according to their position inside the backstretch triangle. The stables were dark, the only illumination coming from a few overhead security lights, the only sound from light traffic in the distance.

  Looking up, I realized that one of the longest barns had rooms overhead, like the second story of a motel. There would be people there. I avoided it and found a barn where the big wooden sliding door had been left open wide enough for me to slip inside.

  Warmer air immediately hit my face and hands. The spice of liniment and the sweet scent of molasses and hay rolled over me. Riding beneath were the pungent odors of manure and the ammonia produced by horse urine. The mixed brew smelled like Boiler’s barn and was incredibly comforting. Still, it was cold. And dark.

  I inched forward and nearby a horse snorted. Listening, I heard the sound of molars grinding hay, hooves shifting in the straw. Several horses rattled their feed tubs, probably hoping I’d come to feed them.

  I heard a soft nicker, and as I slowly approached the sound in the darkness, my outstretched hands touched a velvety muzzle and felt warm breath blowing against my fingers. The horse generated an extraordinary amount of heat that I needed desperately.

  Dropping my hands, my fingers touched a rubber stall guard and some rubber-covered chains that kept the horse inside. I squatted down, eased underneath and felt my way to a far corner of the stall, the horse turning and following me.

  The corner was fluffed with dry, clean hay. I curled into a ball and pulled as much fodder as I could over my body. The horse stood over me, his head just above my shoulder. He lowered his muzzle and sniffed at my hair, his soft rubberlike lips gently moving across my scalp.

  Something broke loose inside me. Long held tears burned my eyes, and I wept with deep, gulping sobs. For Mom, for myself, for the fear, anger, and loneliness that overwhelmed me.

  5

  I woke up often that night. Each time, the unknown horse stood over me, blowing soft breath on my cheek or nuzzling my hair with fingerlike lips. I’d reach for his velvet nose with my hand, the connection reassuring and allowing me to sink back into a light sleep.

  The barn was still dark when my stall mate and the horses around us became restless. I sat up quickly, stiff with cold, sore muscles, and fear. The barn lights came on, and the horses whickered and stomped. I thought grooms must have arrived to feed, making the horses eager for breakfast.

  With the light, I could see the horse that had stood guard over me through the night. He was a big gray gelding with a dark mane and tail and white anklets on his front legs. The nose I’d touched so often during the night had a pink mark that looked just like a rosebud. The horse was gorgeous, and I was honored he’d treated me so kindly.

  I was startled by a noise in the barn aisle. A dark-skinned man with dreads leaned over the webbing of our stall and dumped a pail of sweet feed into the bucket clipped on the wall just inside.

  When he spotted me, his brows rose. “Hey girl, what you doing back there?”

  “Uh, I’m . . . I’m looking for a job.”

  He shook his head, smiling. “Not gonna find it in Silver Punch’s hay. Boss in his office. Why don’t you ask him?”

  “Okay.” I tried not to look as busted as I felt. “So this horse is called Silver Punch?”

  “Never you mind. You’d better come outta there.”

  “Okay.”

  It’s hard to act nonchalant when you’re covered with hay, pieces of straw, and horse hair, but I gave it my best shot. I brushed myself off and ducked under the webbing. The man stepped back to give me room, then pointed.

  “Office down there at the end.”

  As I walked in the direction he’d indicated, I could hear him muttering. “Looking for a job, my ass. Runaway’s what she is.”

  I didn’t want a job. I wanted food, warmth, and bus fare to reach Boiler at Potter’s School.

  As I hurried down the dirt aisle, a man in an olive-green jacket and wool cap emerged from the office, stopped, and stared at me, his head tilting to one side like a curious bird.

  “You lost?”

  “No sir. Uh, maybe a little.”

  “Maybe a little? Looks like you’ve been s
leeping in one of my stalls. How’d you get in here?”

  “Sorry. I’ll leave right now.”

  But a smile started to build on his mouth. “You hungry?”

  I nodded.

  “Thought so.” He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. “You cold?” When I nodded again, he said, “You can get breakfast at the kitchen a few barns over.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Wait a minute.”

  I paused, ready to bolt.

  “Jesus, you’re as wary as a barn cat. Take this.” He pulled more bills from his coat. “After you eat, there’s a used clothing store on Belevedere. Get yourself a coat or something. But, listen. You can’t stay here.”

  “Yes, sir.” I reached for the money, stepped back quickly, clutching the bills in my hand.”

  As I scurried away, I thought I heard him mutter something about a “feral cat.”

  The kitchen turned out to be a tiny restaurant with good food sold cheap. It was filled with track help, like the guy who’d fed Silver Punch, and a mixture of Latinos and whites. They all stared, but nobody bothered me.

  I got a plate of ham, eggs, and fried potatoes. Everyone was drinking coffee. I had hot chocolate. I wolfed the food down, and on my way to the stable gate, found a ladies room where I used the facilities and washed my hands. The water stung the cuts from the wire, but they didn’t look too bad, and I was grateful Mom had made me get a tetanus shot a year earlier.

  I leaned over the sink, scrubbed my face, and stood up. In the mirror a dark-haired scarecrow stared back. After drying my face on paper towels, I pulled the remaining pieces of hay and straw from my hair and clothes, then found my way to the backstretch gate.

  The used clothing store had a hooded down-jacket that fit me and a pair of gloves for $1.00 that still had a $9.95 price tag attached. I found my bus stop and a short time later, was heading north.

  Stepping off the warm bus, I zipped up my jacket, pulled the hood over my head, and pushed my hands into the jacket’s deep pockets, grateful to the man who’d given me the money. I didn’t even know his name.

  I went through the stone gate at Potter’s School, skirting the main buildings before walking to the barn in the rear. Inside, I greeted Wishful and gave him one of the horse treats Boiler kept in the feed room. I leaned over to pet the calico cat who rubbed her face against my leg. Boiler wasn’t in the barn, so I went to the office and found her sitting at her desk with a spring horseshow schedule spread out on the wood surface.

  When she saw me, she drew back, as if my presence alarmed her. She rubbed at her throat, and then her glance dropped away from me to the floor.

  “Nikki, I heard the terrible news. I’m so very sorry about your mother.”

  “Thank you, Miss. Boyle.”

  The office heater kicked on and warm air and particles of paper dust floated toward me. I stared at the office shelves that were filled with equestrian text books, magazines, and volumes on veterinary medicine.

  The silence became awkward until Boiler finally spoke. “I wish there was something I could do for you, but . . .” She stared at a point beyond my shoulder. “I’m surprised to see you here this morning. How are you?”

  How was I? Why wouldn’t she look at me? I don’t know what I’d expected, but it wasn’t this. I didn’t answer her.

  Now, she studied the scarred wood surface of her desk. Suddenly she stood up.

  “I’m sick about this. Nikki, the board has decided you can’t continue the lessons now that your mother–”

  “I can’t come here anymore?”

  “If I had anything to say about it, you certainly could. Those people on the board are idiots! You have so much talent and promise. You’re so smart.”

  Her anger was real. Relief flooded me as I realized she still wanted me there.

  Her hands had clenched into fists. “Damn everything!” She paused a moment, then said, “I’m sorry, Nikki. But you probably should go home.”

  I was shocked by the small-child wail that erupted from my throat. “I can’t go home!”

  She came quickly around the desk and put her hands on my shoulders. “What is it?”

  “My stepfather. He tried to, to . . .” I couldn’t say it.

  Shocked, her mouth parted before her lips curled in disgust. “Oh, my God. He didn’t–”

  “No! I ran away.”

  “My God, where did you go?”

  I told her, poured out everything. By the time I was finished, I was shaking, and Boiler’s face was white with anxiety.

  “Sit down, Nikki. I’m going to make us some hot tea.”

  She did, and after handing me a cup, she said, “You are going to stay here tonight. I’d take you home with me, but I live with my sister. She’s not well and . . .”

  “That’s okay. It would be really nice if I could sleep here.”

  “That settles it. You stay here, and we’ll figure something out.” But uncertainty clouded her eyes.

  I didn’t want to get her fired, but was really grateful for a place to stay. At least for now.

  I slept in a sleeping bag on the sofa that night, a warmer, more comfortable bed than the stall of the night before. I woke up early, made more tea and had one of the sandwiches Boiler had bought the previous afternoon. Before I was halfway through feeding the horses, Boiler showed up and we finished together.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Nikki. It’s Manuel’s day off and I can use the help.”

  We turned the horses out into their paddocks and started cleaning stalls. These chores were usually done by the time I arrived, and it had never occurred to me how hard Boiler worked.

  By ten o’clock the stalls and tack were clean, and I helped get five horses ready for the beginner class that started at eleven. The class finished a little before noon, and Boiler and I led the horses back to the barn until the next class.

  We were about to leave the barn, when Boiler stopped. “I wonder who this is?”

  I glanced at the newcomer, and froze. He wore a leather jacket, overalls and the boots he’d used to kick my door open.

  “Oh, God. That’s him,” I whispered.

  “Let me handle this,” Boiler said, pushing me behind her.

  “Mr. Redecker, is it? I’m Jane Boyle, Nikki’s instructor. What can I do for you?

  “Nice to meet you,” he said, smiling pleasantly. “I’m her father. I’ve come to get her. Been worried about her ‘cause she’s been upset about her mother and all. I need to take her home.”

  “You’re not taking her anywhere.”

  “What are you talking about?” he asked.

  “Mr. Redecker, I know what you did.”

  He scowled, all pretense of being nice evaporating. He stepped closer to her, crowding her with his hatchet face and sharp shoulders.

  Boiler stood her ground. “Nikki is not your daughter.”

  “Look, lady, I don’t know what lies she’d told you. The kid’s skipping school. You want, I can get the police to pick her up.” He waved a dismissive hand at Boiler. “Come on, Nikki, we’re going.”

  The anger I’d felt the night before flared hot. I scooted around Boiler. “It’s not your home. It’s mine, and I want you to get out!”

  He laughed. “You little bitch. You think it’s your house? Your mother signed half over to me when we got married. She didn’t leave no will, so the house is mine now.” His lips curved into the same smile of triumph I’d seen when he took my phone. “You better be nice to me,” he said and grabbed my arm, twisting it, so I cried out.

  Boiler leaned to one side and grabbed the rake that was propped against the barn wall. She smacked Stanley’s face with it, and he dropped my arm.

  “Run, Nikki, run,” she cried.

  I did, right into the barn. I glanced back to see her whack him with the rake again, but he grabbed it, threw it on the ground, and started after me.

  I scurried up the barn ladder to the hay loft like a wild monkey, ran to the far
end and opened the loft door. There was a ladder on the outside wall, and I flew down that even faster. Running behind the barn, I raced along the black iron fence to a gap beneath it where rain water had formed a little ditch.

  After rolling under the fence, I stood up to see Stanley climbing down the barn ladder in the distance. A city bus was about to pass me on the street. I ran along the side of the bus and beat on the door. The driver stopped long enough for me to get in, and I paid, using the last of the money the man at the track had given me. Stanley stood at the iron fence shaking his fist at me.

  The bus was heading south, toward Pimlico.

  6

  As the bus rumbled toward the city, I sat next to a heavyset woman with a shopping bag at her feet. Old city buildings rolled past us outside the window, and I thought about Boiler, wondering why I’d never considered her life before, and how hard she must work at her job.

  Maybe when you get older, you start thinking about other people, not just yourself. I wasn’t the only one with hopes and dreams. What was it like for her to live with and take care of a sick sister? It had never occurred to me she didn’t have enough money.

  But it seemed everything was about money. It was why Mom had taken up with Stanley. It was why the girls at Potter’s school could snicker and whisper about me. It was why they had tweed coats with velvet collars, and I didn’t.

  And now, Stanley had taken my home, and Mom had left me nothing. The knowledge lit black coals inside me, and their angry flame burned hot. She’d left no will and essentially, had given me to Stanley. Though I missed her desperately, a part of me almost hated her.

  “Baby girl, you chew on your lip any harder and it’s gonna bleed.” It was the woman sitting next to me.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “What? You got nothing to be sorry about. I’m just saying, if I had a pretty mouth like yours, I wouldn’t be chewing on it so hard.”

  I focused on her for the first time. Dark skin creased around tired eyes. Her brown coat and pants were old, and her sneakers had a hole over one big toe.