Death on the Diagonal - By Nero Blanc Page 0,1
and waterproof gear could possibly arrive.
Orlando had been working at King Wenstarin Farms for six years. He was forty-two years old and had been around horses his entire life. He was proud to say he was one hundred percent Pequot Indian. He kept his raven black hair tied in a ponytail that reached halfway to his slim and sinewy waist, and his nose for smoke was as good, if not better, than Moon-dog’s. He was already cursing himself under his breath for not having smelled the fumes sooner. But even if he had, he couldn’t have stopped the blaze; it was spreading far too quickly, and he had a good idea why. Unlike Moon-dog, however, Orlando had heard no strange noises or spotted anything out of the ordinary. He shook off questions of how the fire had begun and concentrated, instead, on logistics. He realized that if the horses weren’t freed soon they would claw at the sides of their stalls, pointlessly attempting to climb their way out and tearing their pricey flesh, or worse, fracturing their fragile bones.
With this assessment in mind, he ran up the aisle to the double barn doors at the stable’s east side, shoving them open and outward and latching them in place before heading toward the structure’s west end. A less-seasoned horseman might have made the mistake of freeing the horses from their stalls before opening the doors, thereby creating pandemonium and probably getting trampled to death in the process, but Orlando prided himself on remaining calm in times of crisis. At least where horses were concerned.
As he raced back to open the west-facing doors, he passed the tack room, which was now completely engulfed in flame. The air in the building had turned as thick and dark as mud, but fortunately the stalls directly opposite the blaze were empty. No animal could have remained that close to the fire without killing itself out of fear. Polk pulled his shirt over his nose and mouth and forged his way to the western doors, but before he could reach them, they seemed to swing open on their own. He then saw the farm’s owner, Todd Collins, yanking them back and securing the latches.
Collins was seventy-four years old with a lean and angular six-foot-three-inch frame, a full head of wavy white hair, and an ample, matching mustache. He’d made millions in the importation of Irish whiskey to the United States, and his passion was horseflesh, especially the elegant creatures trained in the hunter-seat equitation discipline. A limp that was the result of a riding spill four years earlier sometimes made strangers imagine Collins was a frail man, but they were wrong. Todd Collins was weak neither in body nor mind.
Orlando gaped at his boss, the fire now reflecting vividly in Collins’s craggy face and making him look as if he’d just stepped directly from the gates of Hell. Polk swore again, but too softly to be heard, while his boss’s irate eyes bore into him.
From Todd Collins’s point of view, it appeared as though Orlando had done nothing to try to save the horses or extinguish the blaze. At first sight, his barn manager seemed to be standing in the smoke dumbfounded, like a lost child.
“Dammit, man, get these horses out of here. What are you waiting for? An invitation? Get those stalls open. Force them out the other end. If any head this way stay with them; drive them through the smoke and up toward the Big House lawn.”
Orlando stood frozen for a second too long, and Collins grabbed his shoulders and shoved him toward the far end of the stable.
“You work the right side stalls; I’ll do the left,” Collins barked.
Orlando stumbled slightly, but then sprang into action, hurrying his supple dancer’s body from stall to stall, releasing the horses then swatting them hard on their rumps to direct them away from the tack room and toward the open east end of the barn. Collins duplicated the action on the other side of the stable until all eight animals had been safely driven from the building. The older man then turned to his manager and shouted, “Get to that sprinkler valve and turn it on. I don’t care if we flood the entire state of Massachusetts. I’m going to drive these babies down to B paddock. If the stable goes up in smoke, they’ll panic where they are now. We need to give them some distance.”
“Right, boss.” Orlando Polk turned and headed back into