"Most of it," I said. "Martin here can help me with the hard parts."

"Anything has to do with that horse," Delroy said, "you go through me."

He about-faced smartly and marched away.

"First Pud, now him," I said to Martin.

"Southern hospitality," Martin said absently. His mind was still on the horses.

"Just so we're clear," I said. "I'm not after your wife. I won't tell you how to train horses."

"My wife will be sorry to hear that," Martin said.

"But the horses won't give a damn," I said.

"They never seem to," Martin said.

SIX

I WAS SITTING in an office at the Columbia County Sheriff's Lamarr substation with a man named Dalton Becker. He was a big, solid, slow black man. He had short graying hair. His coat was off and hanging behind the half-open door. His red-and-blue-striped suspenders were bright over his white shirt. He wore his gun tucked inside his waistband.

"You care for a Coca-Cola?" he said.

"Sure."

"Vonnie." He raised his voice. "Couple Coca-Colas."

We waited while a young black woman with bright blond hair sashayed in, chewing gum, and plopped two Cokes on his desk.

"Thank you, Vonnie," Becker said.

She sashayed back out. He handed one to me, opened his, and took a drink.

"Here's what I know about this horse business," he said. "First of all, there's been three horses attacked. Not counting the alleged attack on Hugger Mugger. One of them died. All three attacks were here at Three Fillies. Far's I know, there have been no other attacks on other horses."

"Alleged?"

"Yep. We only got the groom's word."

"You believe the groom?" I said.

"I been at this awhile. I don't believe or not believe. I just look for evidence."

"Anything wrong with the groom?"

"Nope."

"Just native skepticism," I said.

"You got any of that?"

"Some," I said.

Becker smiled. I waited.

"First one was about a month ago, at the training track, here in Lamarr. Stable pony got plugged with a.22 caliber slug. Bullet went into the brain through the eye socket. He died. You know what a stable pony is?"

"I know he's not a racehorse."

"That's enough to know," Becker said. "I don't know squat about horse racing either."

"The other two were Thoroughbreds, one shot from a distance, probably a rifle with a scope, while he was walking around the training track. Hit him in the neck. I guess he'll recover. The other one was shot in the shoulder-he's all right, but I guess his racing days are finished. Both bullets were.22 long."

As we talked Becker sipped on his Coke; otherwise he didn't move at all. He wasn't inert, he was solid. It was as if he would move when he chose to and nothing would move him before.

"Same weapon in all the shootings?"

"Far as anybody can tell," Becker said.

"One bullet each?"

"Yep."

"Is there a case file?" I said.

"Sure. Why?"

"Just wondered if you bothered," I said.

"Always had a good memory," Becker said. "You can look at the file, if you want to."

"Suspects?" I said.

"Well, so far I'm pretty sure it ain't me," Becker said.

"Think it's the same person?"

"Could be. Or it could be one person shot the first one and a copycat shot the others. They're always out there. Could be somebody with a grudge against Clive."

"Any evidence that it's either?"

"Nope," Becker said. "No evidence for anything."

"Sort of up the Swanee without a paddle," I said.

"Till you showed up. Nothing makes us dumb southern boys happier than having a smart Yankee show up to help us."

"You going to break out in a rebel yell soon?" I said.

"Well," Becker said, "I do get playful sometimes."

"I thought you were supposed to be ticked off about slavery and stuff."

"Never been a slave. Don't know anybody who owned one."

"Any pattern to the wounds?" I said.

"Veterinary report's in the case file," Becker said. "To me they look random."

"So why would somebody go around randomly shooting horses?"

"Don't know."

"The shots were random," I said, "but the horses weren't. They all belonged to Three Fillies."

"Yep."

"Try not to run on so," I said. "You're making me dizzy."

Becker smiled.

"If you wanted a dead horse, wouldn't you shoot more than once? Especially if the horse didn't go down?"

"If I had time," Becker said. "If I wanted a dead horse. Might use a bigger weapon too."

"Did he have time?"

"Far as we know."

"And there are probably bigger weapons available."

"Yep."

"So maybe a dead horse wasn't the point," I said.

"Maybe."

"Maybe shooting the horse was the point."

"Maybe."

"If he wanted to prevent them from racing for some reason, why shoot the pony?"

"Good question," Becker said.

"So why'd he shoot them?"

"Maybe he's a fruitcake," Becker said.

"Maybe," I said. "You familiar with Security South?"

"Sure," Becker said. "Bunch of ex-FBI guys. Do a lot of horse-racing security."

"Know a guy named Delroy?"

"Jon Delroy," Becker said.

"Brisk, stern, upright, and ready," I said.

"You bet," Becker said. "Awful dumb, though."

SEVEN

I WAS IN the Three Fillies stable yard looking at Hugger Mugger. Security South had a guy with a gleaming pistol belt posted in front of the stall and another one in the stable office making sure of the coffee. Hugger Mugger hung his head out of the stall and looked hopefully at Penny in case she might have a carrot. He had very large brown eyes and looked deeply intelligent.

"They're not terribly smart," Penny said. "They seem to have a lot of certain kinds of awareness people don't have. They are very skittish and can be spooked by dogs, or birds, or sudden noise."

Hugger Mugger nosed her upper arm, his ears back slightly and his profound brown eyes gazing at her. Along the stable row other horses looked out over the open doors of their stalls, turning their heads to peer down at us. The horses were restrained only by a belt across the open door. It was not unlike the velvet rope that closes off a dining room.

"Does he know you?" I said.

"He knows I sometimes carry carrots," Penny said. "Mostly they like other horses."

"They ever get to gallop around in the field with all the other horses?"

"God no," Penny said. "You pay two million dollars for a horse that might be the next Citation, you can't let him hang around with other horses, one of which might kick his ribs in."

I patted Hugger Mugger's forehead. He turned the carrot-questioning look on me.

"Nice horsie," I said.

"Aficionados of the sport of kings," Penny said, "don't usually say things like 'nice horsie.' "

I frowned and looked hard at Hugger Mugger. In a deep voice I said, "Good withers."