The Trojan Colt by Mike Resnick Read Free Book Online Page A

nothing to add. Tony loved horses and the racing game, he had eyes for no two-legged female except Nan, and he seemed happy as a clam the last time they’d met.
    By the time I was through hitting all the addresses and talking to the last friend, it was nearing nine o’clock, and I realized I hadn’t eaten dinner yet, so I stopped at a Bob Evans, had some steak and eggs and a piece of pecan pie, downed a couple of cups of coffee, and hunted up a Motel 6, which cost about as much as a closet in the downtown Hyatt. I left a message for Ben Miller, telling him where he could find me if he had to, took a shower, and got ready for bed.
    About two in the morning my phone rang. I picked it up, grunted a “Hello” into it, and was rewarded by the sound of Ben Miller’s voice.
    â€œEli, this is Ben. Sorry to wake you, but I just got in.”
    â€œWhat’s up?”
    â€œMessage for you from someone called Nanette. Says to call her, night or day.” He gave me the number.
    â€œThanks, Ben.”
    â€œYou working on that missing groom?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œGood luck.”
    He hung up, and I dialed Nan’s number.
    â€œYes?” said a wide-awake female voice.
    â€œHi, Nan. This is Eli Paxton.”
    â€œThank goodness!” she said.
    â€œYou’ve heard from him?”
    â€œNo,” she replied. “But I lied to you before. Now that I’ve had time to think about it, I realize I should have told you the truth. I thought I was protecting him, but you’re being paid to find and protect him too.”
    â€œOkay,” I said. “What can you tell me?”
    â€œI did hear from him last night.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œJust before midnight,” she said. “He sounded very upset, very worried. He wouldn’t say what it was, but he said he had to come by and talk to me in person, either today or tomorrow . . . well, yesterday or today, now.”
    â€œDid he give you any hint of what was bothering him?”
    â€œNo. Just that he had to do or see something, and then we’d talk.”
    â€œNothing about any of the owners or trainers, at the track or at the farm?” I persisted. “Nothing he heard them say? I mean, a lot of them are filthy rich, and I’m sure their dealings aren’t always ethical or legal.”
    â€œNo, not a word about it.”
    â€œDid you get the feeling he thought he was in danger?”
    â€œJust worried.”
    â€œWhat kind of things worried him?”
    â€œI don’t know!” she said in an exasperated tone, and a few seconds later she was crying.
    â€œCalm down,” I said. “Thank you for the information.”
    â€œAnd you’re not mad at me for lying?”
    â€œI’m grateful to you for finally telling the truth.”
    â€œAnd you’ll let me know when you find him and that he’s all right?”
    â€œYes.”
    She hung up without another word.
    I thought about it for a while, realized there was nothing to be done at two-fifteen in the morning, and lay back on the bed. I’d run through Tony’s friends, so I decided that, come sunrise, I’d pay a visit to Bigelow’s farm.

Mill Creek Farm was about fifteen miles out of town. It wasn’t one of the classic farms like Claiborne or Calumet or Gainesway, but over the years Travis Bigelow had produced his share of stakes winners. No Derby winners, but that seemed to be a lot more important to sportswriters who followed racing two or three days a year than to the people in the industry.
    I kept looking for blue grass, and what I kept seeing was green grass. I drove past a few thoroughbred farms with picturesque white split-rail fences for the public and electric wires that delivered a very mild shock for the horses, since some of the more athletic horses could probably jump the fence, but they couldn’t jump the electric wire that ran along the top of it maybe a