Elena Estes - Dark Horse Part 1

TAMI HOAG.

DARK HORSE.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

As always, I have several people to thank for sharing with me their professional expertise as I wrote this story. Lieutenant Ed Serafin, Palm Beach County Sheriff's Office, Robbery/Homicide division. Robert Crais. Eileen Dreyer. Jessie Steiner. Mary Phelps. And most of all, Betsy Steiner, true friend and partner in international intrigue.

This book was inspired by the adventures of Tess and Mati.

May there be many more, and may they live to tell the tales.

AUTHOR'S NOTE.

Welcome to my other world.

In my life away from my desk, I am a compet.i.tive equestrian. In fact, I've been a rider longer than I've been a writer. Over the years horses have been my joy, refuge, therapy, salvation, and comfort. I've ridden in nearly every equestrian discipline, from barrel racing to jumping. When I was thirteen and my girlfriends were baby-sitting to earn spending money, my father was bringing home young horses for me to break to saddle.

Several years ago I settled on the equestrian sport of dressage as my out-of-office pa.s.sion. Dressage is all about control and precision and the mastery of imperceptible cues between rider and horse. The ultimate result is something like equine ballet, which appears elegant and effortless but requires the same physical and mental fitness as power yoga.

I began competing in dressage in 1999. Being me, I didn't ease into the sport. I have one gear in everything I do: full-on. I bought a wonderful-if difficult-horse named D'Artagnon from Olympic rider Guenter Seidel, and within a year's time went from my first dressage compet.i.tion to being a nationally ranked amateur rider in the U.S. Dressage Federation. At the end of my first season, my coach, trainer, mentor, and great friend, Betsy Steiner (a world-cla.s.s rider herself), encouraged me to bring D'Artagnon along with several other horses from her stable to Florida for the winter season.

Every year top equestrians from the East Coast, Midwest, Canada, and Europe migrate to Welllington in Palm Beach County to spend three months in constant training and compet.i.tion in some of the most prestigious dressage and jumper shows in the country. Thousands of horses and hundreds of riders converge to create a fascinating world, a world driven by the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat, and lots of money. A world populated by the ultrarich and the very poor; celebrities, royalty, and ordinary people who scrimp and save year-round in order to "do the season"; philanthropists, dilettantes, professionals, amateurs, con men, and criminals. People who love horses, and people who love to exploit people who love horses. A world with a glamorous surface and a tough underbelly. Yin and yang. Positive and negative.

By the end of that first season in Florida, my imagination was running wild with story ideas that would blend my two worlds. The result is Dark Horse, a cla.s.sic private-eye novel set against the backdrop of international show jumping. I hope you enjoy this glimpse into the dark side of my other world.

If you come away from this book thinking the horse business is all bad, I'll tell you that's not so. Some of the finest, kindest, most generous people I have ever known have been in the horse business. But on the flip side of that coin, some of the most vile, vicious, loathsome people I have ever known have been in the horse business. The horse world can be a world of extremes and amazing adventures. I've had horses drugged, horses stolen. I've been stranded in a foreign country with a sociopathic horse dealer who canceled my transportation home. I've masqueraded as a groom and flown in the belly of a cargo plane with a horse bent on killing me. But these adventures don't happen every day. Every day I go to the stables and find friends.h.i.+p and partners.h.i.+p and calm within my soul.

My own horses appear in this book, in Sean Avadon's stable. But, in answer to the inevitable question, Elena is not me (if my life were so exciting, when would I write a book?). However, I do agree with her when she says, "On the back of a horse I felt whole, complete, connected to that vital place in the center of me . . . and the chaos within me found balance."

ACT ONE SCENE ONE FADE IN: EXTERIOR: PALM BEACH EQUESTRIAN CENTER-SUNSET.

Flat, open fields of scrub stretching to the west. A dirt road running north onto equestrian center property and south toward small horse farms some distance away. No one around. The fields are empty. No people, no horses. Sunday night: everyone has gone home.

Erin stands at the back gate. She's waiting for someone. She's nervous. She thinks she's here for a secret purpose. She thinks her life will change tonight.

It will.

She looks at her watch. Impatient. Afraid he won't show. She's not aware of the camera filming her. She thinks she's alone.

She's thinking: maybe he won't come, maybe she's wrong about him.

A rusted white van approaches from the south. She watches it come toward her. She looks annoyed. No one uses this back road this time of day. The gate to the show grounds has already been chained shut for the night.

The van stops. A masked a.s.sailant leaps out.

ERIN.

No!

She starts to run toward the gate. He catches her arm from behind and spins her around. She kicks him. He backhands her across the face, knocking her sideways. She wrenches free of his grasp as she stumbles, and she tries to run again but can't get her feet under her. The a.s.sailant knocks her down from behind, coming down on top of her, his knee in her back. He pulls a hypodermic needle from the pocket of his jacket and rams the needle into her arm. She makes a sound of pain and starts to cry.

He pulls her to her feet and shoves her into the van. He slams the door shut, gets in the van, the van turns around and drives away.

Life changes in a heartbeat.

FADE OUT.

ACT TWO SCENE ONE FADE IN: INTERIOR: OLD TRAILER HOUSE.

Night. A single lightbulb in a lamp with no shade. No curtains at the filthy window. A rusty old iron bed frame. Stained mattress with no sheets.

Erin sits on the bed, huddled against the headboard, frightened, naked. She is chained to the bed by one wrist. Her hair is a mess. Mascara rings her eyes. Her lower lip is split and b.l.o.o.d.y.

She is very aware of the camera and the director of the scene. She tries to cover as much of herself as she can. She is crying softly, trying to hide her face.

DIRECTOR.

Look at the camera, b.i.t.c.h. Say your line. She shakes her head, still hiding.

DIRECTOR.

Say it! You want me to make you?

She shakes her head and looks at the camera.

ERIN.

Help me.

FADE OUT.

ACT TWO SCENE TWO FADE IN: EXTERIOR: THE HORSE PARK AT EQUESTRIAN ESTATES-SUNSET.

Wide open s.p.a.ces on three sides. Trees and a ca.n.a.l at the back of the property. A paved road curves past the front. No one in sight, but the cops are there, hidden.

A black car approaches and parks at the gate. Bruce Seabright gets out of the car and looks around. He looks p.i.s.sed off and nervous. He thinks it's a trap.

He's right.

He opens the trunk and takes out two large blue duffel bags. He heaves the bags over the gate, then climbs over, picks the bags up, and looks around again. He's looking for a sign, for a person. Maybe he' s even looking for Erin, though he would be just as happy if he never saw her again.

He starts walking up the drive toward the building, reluctantly. He has the expression of a man who will wet his pants at the first sudden loud noise.

Halfway to the building he stops and stands and waits. Slowly he turns around in a circle. He wonders what will happen next. He sets the bags down and checks his watch.

6:05 P.M.

Darkness is closing in. The security light comes on with a loud humming sound. The voice, the same mechanically altered voice from the phone calls, comes over the loudspeakers.

THE VOICE.

Leave the bags on the ground.

BRUCE.

Where's the girl?

THE VOICE.

Leave the bags on the ground.

BRUCE.

I want to see Erin!

THE VOICE.

In the box. Ring one. In the box. Ring one.

BRUCE.

What box? Which ring?

He is agitated, doesn't know which way to turn. He doesn't like not having control. He doesn't want to leave the money. He looks at the two rings nearest the building and chooses the one to his right. He takes the bags with him and goes to stand at the corner of the ring.

BRUCE.

What box? I don't see any box!

He stands there, impatient. It's getting darker by the second. He stares for a moment at the judge's booth-a small wooden shelter-at the end of the ring, then goes toward it.

BRUCE.

Erin? Erin!

He circles the booth cautiously. Someone might jump out and shoot him or stab him. Erin's body might fall out onto the ground.

Nothing happens.

He inches toward the door, pulls it open, jumps back.

Nothing happens.

BRUCE.

Erin? Are you in there?

No answer.

Slowly, he sets the bags on the ground and inches toward the booth again, eventually stepping inside. There is no one in the booth. A videotape ca.s.sette has been left on the floor. Written in black block letters on a white label on the tape: PUNISHMENT.

THE VOICE.