A/N: Here's the finale. Warning: This chapter contains nothing but horses and fluff. Lots of horses and fluff. Extremely detailed horses and fluff. You have been warned. Those of you who didn't like this story that much will like this chapter even less. I have carefully split it off so that if you couldn't care less about horses, you can simply skip to the preview at the end knowing that the case is over. I guarantee the preview to be free of horses or fluff. Thanks especially to my loyal and prompt reviewer who carried me through a few discouraging intervals of silence on this story and reminded me that I am not the only person out there enjoying the horse plot. Hope you enjoy this last chapter, Katarina.
I have shamelessly imported horses from real Breeders' Cups and put them in my fictitious one. Some were picked for the names, some for their uniqueness like Dayjur, and one entire race, the 2003 Breeders' Cup Turf, was transplanted from Santa Anita, California, to Gulfstream Park just because it was such a spectacular race that I couldn't resist. My apologies to my two actual favorite Breeders' Cup winners, Personal Ensign and Alysheba, for leaving them out of the fun. Had I not needed their two races for my story line, I would have included them, especially Personal Ensign, who won the most exciting race I have ever seen in the 1988 BC Distaff. I have plenty of company among experts in that opinion of that race, too. Remember, the key to this story throughout is that named horses, except for Silver Lining and Valentine, are real. No placings in reality have been disturbed for named horses; if I say they won, they won. Also, the facts about the 2001 Breeders' Cup at Belmont Park on Long Island a month after 09/11 are accurate.
Final Warning: Extreme Horsiness Ahead.
(H/C)
"And the hooves of the horses as they run shake the crumbling field."
Virgil (Publius Virgilius Maro)
(H/C)
Horatio, Calleigh, Rosalind, and Lisa met the Donovans at the front gate of Gulfstream Park on Saturday. The weather showcased Florida's finest – sunshine, warm temperatures, and a playful breeze off the ocean. The line at the gate extended several hundred yards, but the Donovans, with owners' passes, took the group through a special VIP gate at the side. Security guards searched the bags thoroughly before passing them through, and each person, even Rosalind, received a colored wrist band similar to those worn in hospitals. The color code would clearly label the areas they were authorized to enter throughout the day.
The owners' boxes were situated almost at the finish line but high enough to provide a clear view across the infield lake to the far side of the track. Lisa eyed the masses down below filing into the metal bleacher seats at the lower levels of the grandstand and smiled at Charles and Meg. "Thanks."
"You're welcome, dear," Meg replied. She twirled around in a circle, making her white hair fly in the speed of her turn. "I can't believe we're actually here watching our horse run in the Breeders' Cup." A kid at Christmas couldn't have had brighter eyes.
Charles kissed her. "Happy birthday, darling."
"Oh, is today your birthday?" Calleigh asked.
"Not officially," Charles replied. "I gave her our girl as a birthday present. Asked her what she wanted, and she said she'd wanted a horse since she was six, and now that she was over 70, she thought it was high time." Lisa winced in sympathy at the thought of that many horseless years.
Rosalind was as wide-eyed as Meg, looking all around at the track, the people, the lake, and the gently-waving palm trees. "Oooooo!" she exclaimed finally, cracking them all up.
"Wait till you see the horses, Angel," Horatio told her.
Meg turned her excitement to Lisa. "Horatio said you were a horse person."
Lisa nodded. "Dressage, not racing, but I follow racing as a fan."
"What chance do you think my baby has today?"
Lisa hesitated. Charles laughed. "Go ahead and be honest. We agree with you, actually. We never dreamed we'd be here. Not on the money we spent."
"You might steal the race, if you get lucky," Lisa said.
Meg nodded, the excitement refusing to dim. "It happens. We're hoping it will today."
Calleigh frowned. "How do you steal a race?"
Charles took over. "Horses can't run full speed the whole race, not the longer ones, anyway. So they go faster in parts of them than others. They have different running styles. The come-from-behind horses start out slowly and then run full speed the last little bit and hope to pass everyone. The mid-pack horses stay just off the lead and then pounce when they get an opportunity."
"Silver Lining is a mid-pack horse," Lisa told Horatio and Calleigh.
Meg jumped in. "Then, the front runners like to go all the way on the lead. Trouble is, in the longer races, they usually get tired and are passed. Especially if you get two or three front runners in a race. They burn each other out and set it up for the come-from-behind horses. Sometimes, though, if you have a horse who's the only front runner in the race, the jockey can bolt out of the starting gate like it's just a short sprint, and all the other jockeys think the horse will burn out before the end. But the jockey only really lets the horse run a little bit, then slows the race down without being obvious. So while the other jockeys think he's out there blazing along, he's really saving his horse for the end. When they finally do come running, the front horse has saved enough to maybe hold them off. That's called stealing a race, because you have to trick all the other riders to do it."
Horatio grinned. "Stealing a race worth a couple of million would be a felony, wouldn't it?"
"In front of 70,000 witnesses, no less. Still, I'm retired, and you're off duty," Charles pointed out.
Calleigh was working it out. "So your horse is the only front runner in her race?"
"Right." Meg twisted her program in anticipation. "She's a long shot, too, so the other riders will be more likely to dismiss her as no threat. It is hard to steal a race, though. You have to catch the other riders not paying attention to you. Jockeys have mental stopwatches – most of the top ones can tell you how fast the horses in the race are going within a fifth of a second or so. But if they're not paying attention to your horse, it can happen."
"Well," Horatio said, "your plotting of your crime seems pretty thorough, and I wish you success with its implementation." Meg giggled like a schoolgirl.
"Speaking of crime," said Charles, "how's our case going? All the loose ends tied up?"
Horatio's smile disintegrated as real crimes replaced figurative ones. "Jose and Juan are fingering each other for everything. The DA will love this case. The sad part is, it really was bad luck in a way that Pete died. Juan didn't research DMSO. Everybody at the track knows that it jumps straight through skin, but he just assumed that it would carry anything else along with it. Actually, it only works on some things. Unfortunately for Pete, penicillin happened to be one of them." They were all silent for a moment.
"He is going to have his book published, though," Calleigh said. "We've turned over the pictures to his family, except for that one. Along with the other pictures he'd sent back home, they'll still make a nice book."
"He died happy." Horatio had thought of that the night after the murder, watching the still-almost-full moon. "The security guard who was the last person to talk to him said he was thrilled about his last picture. It got four exclamation marks in the log. Unfortunately, that one was lost, but Pete was probably still thinking about it when he got up that morning."
The loudspeaker crackled into life, announcing any late changes of information from the program. Meg glanced at her watch. "Not much longer until we can go meet Randy in the paddock. I'm so glad our girl is in the first Breeders' Cup race. I couldn't stand waiting all day."
"You're not going onto the backstretch today, then?" Calleigh asked.
Charles shook his head. "Security is very tight today."
Horatio eyed a uniformed officer standing at the nearest staircase. "I was impressed with how thoroughly they searched us at the gates."
"People are here from all over the world," Lisa said. "This ranks as a nice target, according to Homeland Security. Lots of people in one spot, live media, many different nations represented."
"I'll never forget Belmont Park in 2001," Meg stated. "We didn't have a horse running then, but we live in New York. We went just to watch. It was barely a month after 9/11, and that was the first international sports event held in the city after the attacks. Belmont is actually in New York; you can see the Manhattan skyline from the grandstand. Breeders' Cup talked about going to an alternate site, and the mayor asked them not to. The event meant millions in income to the host city, and New York had had so many things cancelled. He begged them to hold it there anyway. Some people said that the other countries wouldn't come, but they all flew in, just as usual."
Charles took over. "They made the whole day a tribute. Had a fireman sing the national anthem. Many of the owners donated a percentage of their winnings that day to the 9/11 charities. One announced that he would give 100 percent, and he had one winner and a couple of seconds. It was several million, and he donated it all. They had SWAT teams in the grandstands and snipers on the roof, and the Goodyear Blimp couldn't come because the airspace was still too restricted. But the event went on in spite of everything. A lot of people who had been going to travel in gave up their tickets, but the people from the city came in droves. It set an attendance record. They loved it."
Calleigh understood perfectly. "To hell with the terrorists."
"Exactly." Charles glanced at his watch. "Let's head down to the paddock. The horses will be getting there soon to be saddled."
Randy was waiting in the paddock, along with the Donovans' horse and her groom. He looked fairly relaxed at the moment, able to enjoy it because he wasn't really expecting anything from this one. Horatio wondered what he would look like before the Classic, when he saddled Silver Lining with the weight of his mother's debts as well as the tack. "Enjoying yourselves so far?"
"Ooooooo!!!!" Rosalind replied, looking around at the horses, who each stood in individual open stalls to get saddled.
"See the horses?" Horatio held her up slightly for a better view. "You can't ride these, I'm afraid. We'll stay back."
"You don't really want to see them anyway, Rosalind," Calleigh put in. "They might think your hair was hay."
Horatio laughed again remembering it. "Just goes to show that the horse had excellent taste."
Calleigh reflexively ran her hands through her hair again, although it was shampooed clean many times over. "Be glad you weren't within reach. He would have thought you were a walking carrot."
Lisa was eying the mare. "She's got dapples," she said suddenly.
Randy stepped to the side for another look himself. "I noticed that this morning. Just came up since yesterday, too."
Horatio and Calleigh moved around slightly. The mare did indeed have slightly darker circles on her blood bay coat. "What does that mean?"
"It means she's absolutely feeling wonderful physically," Charles said. "Dapples are a great sign."
"Silver Lining ought to be an easy winner then," Horatio stated, and Randy tensed up slightly, thinking of the later race.
Lisa grinned at him. "Grays don't count. For a solid horse to get dapples, though, is great. Are you going to bet on her?"
Meg shook her head. "I never bet on my own horse. Just a superstition, but the first time I didn't bet on her is the first time she really did win. I'm afraid to break the string."
The valets arrived in the paddocks with each jockey's saddle after the jockeys had weighed in back in the jockeys' room. Randy took the saddle and the special adjustable pad with lead weights which each horse carried to equalize the weight difference in the riders. He put the saddle cloth on, then the weight pad, and started saddling the mare, and she shifted restlessly in anticipation. Meg stepped to the front of the horse, and the mare pricked her ears, obviously recognizing her owner. Meg grabbed the bridle straps on either side and planted a kiss on the end of the white blaze, leaving a perfect lipstick mark. "For luck," she explained. "I always send her out to race with a kiss."
"You're afraid to break the string," Calleigh finished, and Charles nodded. The mare, obviously used to this treatment, took it without objection. Randy finished saddling her and carefully stretched each front leg forward to make sure there were no wrinkles in the skin caught under the girth.
The jockeys arrived in the paddock in a shimmering undersized rainbow of silks that divided with rays going to the individual horses. Charles shook hands with their jockey, and Meg did the same, although Calleigh could tell she thought of kissing him. "Safe trip," she said, and the jockey nodded, then turned to the trainer.
Randy patted the mare. "She's as good as she's ever been. If you can steal it, do, and if you can't, she'll hold on as long as she can." The jockey nodded. He patted the mare's neck himself and whistled slightly through his teeth, and she turned her head around to bump him with her nose.
"Riders up!" The command of the paddock judge rang out, and Randy gave the jockey a leg up. The groom led the mare and rider out into their position in the line of horses circling the paddock, each horse trailed by its connections. Twice around, and the horses headed into the tunnel that ran under the grandstand and emerged onto the track.
Meg was vibrating like a hummingbird as they left the mare at the edge of the track and found their box again. "I can't believe this is actually happening," she repeated. Calleigh looked at her with fond amusement and hoped that she still had that much enthusiasm and life herself at 76 after decades of first-hand experience of too many victims, criminals, trials, and cases.
Randy pointed out the fractional time slots on the massive electronic tote board in the infield. "Watch the times. They show the fractions as the race is run. If we can get the second quarter mile several seconds slower than the first one, she's got a good chance."
Everyone but Horatio had binoculars; Horatio had Rosalind. The races were different lengths, and this one, a mile and an eighth on a one-mile track, started up the homestretch from them. The horses would pass the finish line twice. All the binoculars focused on the starting gate up the stretch as the horses loaded in one by one, and an almost reverent hush fell over the crowd as the last horse loaded. The starter, standing about 30 feet up the track from the gate, watched the shifting hooves, checking that the horses were all standing evenly, waiting for a restless one to settle. Finally, at the split second of stillness, he pushed the button he held that released the electromagnets holding the starting gate doors closed. With the current cut, the doors sprang open, and the horses launched from stillness to full flight with a stunning acceleration. Leading them all was the white-blazed face, the jockey shouting encouragement as the Donovans' mare skipped away from the field, starting like the race was only half as long as it was. The other jockeys glanced at her rider's efforts and held back, not following a pace that would be suicide in a race this long.
The horses came thundering by the finish line the first time, the mare leading already by four lengths. Horatio hadn't realized the full assault on the senses of a herd of running horses. The rumbling thunder from the hooves rolled up over the grandstand, and he was sure the people down by the rail on the bottom level could actually feel the ground shake. The jockeys' silks shifted like a kaleidoscope as they jostled for position in the field. Rosalind's eyes were saucers. "OOOOOOO!!!!" she said, and her comment was almost lost in the general murmur of excitement that swept over the crowd.
Randy's eyes were glued to the horse, but as she galloped past the first marked pole, he glanced briefly at the tote board. "23 seconds," he noted. "Pretty quick for her." All eyes returned to the race where the mare still held a clear lead. Was the thunder a bit less intense, or was the distance just greater as the horses ran onto the far side of the track? For a moment, Horatio thought the gap between her and the field was narrowing, but then it stabilized. The jockey was still bent low, and it looked like he was still urging his mount, as he had from the beginning.
The horses passed the half-mile marker, and they looked at the timer again. Meg jumped straight up. "48 seconds! Come on, girl, hang in there!" The second quarter-mile had been run several seconds slower than the first quarter-mile. The jockey continued skillfully gearing her down while still trying to look like he was going full out. The jockeys on the contenders behind him were watching each other. They hadn't noticed. Yet. The third quarter-mile also went in 25 seconds.
The horses rounded the far turn and entered the homestretch, and suddenly, the jockey released the stranglehold on the reins and starting calling to the mare in earnest. From here on, it would be up to her. He had done what he could. She skipped away, widening the lead briefly, and then it diminished again. Behind her, the other horses were coming, the contenders shooting out of the pack like arrows, aiming to catch the bay leader. Her stride was shortening; even Horatio and Calleigh could see it. Two other horses were gaining with every step, running her down, but when the horses flashed by the finish line the second time, the white nose sealed with lipstick was still a determined foot in front. One stride later, she had lost it. One stride later, it didn't matter.
Meg crumpled her program between her excited fingers. "Pinch me!" she demanded, turning to Charles.
He kissed her instead, ignoring the crowd, ignoring the approaching media cameras set up near the owners' boxes. "Happy birthday, my dear."
Randy was staring at the finish line with the dazed look of someone who has just found $102,000 lying in a parking lot. Horatio touched him gently on the arm, and Randy looked back at him. "That's a start, Randy."
A weak smile set in tentatively over the shock. "Not enough, but it is a start."
The Donovans broke apart. "What are we waiting for?" Meg demanded. "Let's go to the winner's circle! I want to see my girl."
Randy fell back into professional mode. "Come on. They'll wait for us, but they don't like to take too long. It is unofficial, you know, but I don't see any reason why it wouldn't hold up." The group started down the staircase toward the track.
"Unofficial?" Calleigh was puzzled. The mare had finished in front; how much more official did a race need to be?
"The stewards review every race," Lisa said. "They have films from all angles, and they make sure there wasn't interference. Races are competitive, but there's a limit. Any of the jockeys can claim foul, too. A win doesn't count and no bets are paid until the stewards say so."
"They can change the order?" Calleigh asked, imagining winning a race and then losing it again in just a few minutes. She preferred ballistics, where an answer couldn't be inverted by a panel after she had done her analysis.
"Not often, but yes, they do. It's not just the jockeys getting too competitive. Horses do strange things sometimes. They might swerve or jump, and there's nothing the jockey could do about it."
The group arrived at the winner's circle to survey an impressive-looking array of trophies on a stand. The mare came trotting back up the track to join them. She was drooping slightly, breathing heavily, but her ears were up, playfully twisting to catch the crowd's cheers. She knew she had won.
"Oooooo!!!" Rosalind reached out toward her, and Horatio stepped back.
"No, Angel, they aren't toys. This isn't Valentine."
"Oh, let her touch her," Meg urged. "My girl loves attention, and she's too tired to have much jump left in her, anyway." Horatio cautiously edged up, and Rosalind reached out to pat the sweaty neck.
"Keep her hair clear," Calleigh warned.
Meg, not caring if the horse ate her hair, planted a twin kiss along her first one on the blaze. "Good girl! I'll buy you a 25-pound bag of carrots, I swear."
At that moment, the official sign lit up on the tote board, and the crowd doubled its roar. A track representative came up with the blanket of flowers to drape over the winning horse's neck, and the Donovans posed with their horse for the official picture. Following that, the mare was unsaddled and led back toward the barn to be cooled off, and Charles and Meg accepted their trophy in a brief ceremony. They then returned to their box, still dazed, and the day continued. Randy had left them, heading back to the barn to try not to worry over Silver Lining.
"What next?" Charles returned to firm ground first.
Horatio glanced at the program. "Juvenile Fillies. Who do you like, Lisa?"
Lisa shook her head. "Hard to say. These are just 2-year-olds in this next one. They're so young and new to this, they're hard to handicap."
Meg glanced at the program. "Epitome."
Charles shook his head. "30 to 1. They don't think she has much of a chance."
"No, it's got to be Epitome. She goes with this day. Perfect name."
Calleigh laughed. "You pick horses by the name?"
"There are a lot of stupider systems around here, my dear." Meg was still floating. "It'll be Epitome; you'll see."
It was Epitome, winning by a nose, almost a repeat of the first race with a different outcome as the challenging horse did catch the leader right at the wire. None of the group had actually bet on her, and none of them cared. As Charles pointed out, if they didn't bet, they couldn't lose their money.
"Your turn, Cal," Horatio said. "Pick a horse in the next race. Who wins?"
Calleigh started studying the field in the program for the next race, then smiled halfway down the list. There was no need to go any farther. "Six Perfections."
Horatio read her thoughts and was touched beyond words. They shared a private smile across their daughter's head.
"It can be wonderful, can't it?" Meg said, understanding.
Calleigh nodded. "I couldn't ask for anything more. I can't speak for the horse, but Six Perfections fits my life fine at the moment."
"The horse actually has a chance," Lisa said. "She's from France, and she's raced really well in Europe this year."
"Maybe everybody should pick horses by name," Meg suggested.
Lisa suddenly laughed. "I heard a story about the 2002 Kentucky Derby. A bettor who thought he had the perfect system went to his OTB parlor to bet on the race, and a friend went along. The friend had never placed a bet in his life, but he picked out War Emblem and Proud Citizen from the program because they had good patriotic names, he said. He was going to bet $10 on an exacta, picking them to finish first and second. That was the first Derby after 9/11, and he thought a patriotic-named horse was destined to win. So the professional tried to explain to him how War Emblem and Proud Citizen had no chance at all, either one of them. Spent 20 minutes trying to talk him out of it and explaining his scientific system. He bet his system based on past performance, and his friend bet on patriotic names." Lisa paused for effect. "The War Emblem-Proud Citizen exacta that year paid $1300 on a $1 bet. So the friend was cashing in while his expert companion lost every cent."
Meg smiled. "I just thought of something else. The Mile isn't gender-restricted like our girl's race was. Six Perfections is a mare, and she'll be running against the boys here.
Calleigh loved it. "See, Six Perfections has got to win."
Six Perfections was a gorgeous black mare with a long white blaze. She took a violent dislike to the starting gate and delayed the race several minutes while she refused to load, but once the race started, she was all business, working her way up through the pack and winning with authority.
"Your turn," Meg said to Lisa. The next race was the Sprint, the shortest race, an all-out dash for six-eighths of a mile.
Lisa hesitated. "I think I'll break the system. There really is a horse in here I like but not for the name. Dayjur."
Charles raised an eyebrow. "Isn't he an English horse? Usually, the Americans are better at the sprints."
"I know, but this horse is brilliant. If his form transfers over here, I think he's got a good chance."
Dayjur was indeed brilliant. The sprint didn't even last an entire circuit of the track, starting on the far side and finishing in front of the grandstand, and as the horses came flying down the homestretch, Dayjur on the outside was in command, holding a consistent lead over a little mare on the inside, Safely Kept. It stayed that way almost all the way down the stretch until, right before the wire, Dayjur's ears suddenly snapped up, and in the next second, he jumped, going up instead of forward, as if he had seen an invisible fence in his path. He landed, took a few strides, and jumped again, and Safely Kept, running steadily along the inside, closed the gap and beat him by a nose.
Lisa shook her head, laughing. "The shadows. He jumped the shadows from the grandstand."
"Horses are unpredictable at times," Charles repeated.
"Ooooo!!!" Rosalind agreed.
"What will the stewards do with that?" Horatio asked.
Lisa shrugged. "Their call, not mine, but he was on the outside and clear, and he didn't interfere with anybody but himself. If he'd pulled that stunt in the middle of the field, he would have been disqualified for sure." The stewards apparently agreed, and Dayjur was allowed to stay in second place. "So much for the scientific system," Lisa continued. "Somebody else pick."
"Horatio." He saw the challenge in Calleigh's eyes, and he passed Rosalind to her and opened his program.
"The Filly and Mare Turf. These are all girls, then?"
"Right," Meg said. "And turf means it's run on the grass track, not the dirt."
Horatio considered the entrants. "Perfect Sting. The only horse for a CSI to pick, and it sort of goes along with Six Perfections." Charles, the ex-FBI man, nodded. Perfect Sting duly won the race fairly easily.
"Maybe we should be betting," Lisa said. "We've got four winners and one second out of five. Pick one, Charles."
"Gilded Time," he said, glancing at the program.
"No fair," Meg protested. "He's the favorite. You're going scientific."
Charles gave her a dazzling smile. "Actually, my dear, I hadn't even noticed the odds. Fair enough?" He kissed her again, quickly. "Happy birthday."
Gilded Time did win the next race, but the fun part turned out to be that his owner was in the next box to theirs, allowing them front-row tickets to see a grown man in an expensive business suit jump up and down, scream, and cry without the least shame over it as his colt pounded down the homestretch well in front.
That reminded Calleigh of Silver Lining, and she brought it up during the gap before the next race. "Is Silver Lining's owner here?"
A shadow suddenly dropped briefly across the day for Charles, Meg, and Lisa as they simultaneously shook their heads. "He's in a hospital," Lisa said. "He's dying of cancer."
"All the money he could ever want, and it can't buy health," Charles stated. "Mr. Silverman's one of the nicest rich people you could ever want to know. He's given much more to charity than I've earned in my lifetime, and he's totally down to earth. I've met him a few times."
"Mr. Silverman," Horatio repeated thoughtfully. "Is that where the name came from? Silver Lining?"
"Not really," Charles said. "Randy bought Silver Lining at the yearling auctions two years ago. He wasn't named yet. Most of the yearlings at the auctions aren't, to let their new owners name them. Mr. Silverman picked out the horse on bloodlines from the catalogue, and Randy went to bid for him. All the old man said was that he couldn't come along to the auction, but Randy had a blank check. Turns out, he was going to the doctor that day for tests. Randy called him that night to say he'd gotten the colt, and Mr. Silverman said, 'Well, we'll name him Silver Lining, because there's something good that came out of this day. If what the doctors said today is right, though, I'll never live to see him run.' They gave him six months to live, and he's gone four times over that. First, he wanted to see the colt run. Then, they thought he'd win the Derby. Then, after he got hurt, Randy said he might still make the Breeders' Cup. And Mr. Silverman keeps on living, says he can't die without seeing that. His family is long gone. That horse has kept him alive, Horatio."
Lisa misread Horatio's thoughtful expression. "It's happened before, Horatio. Science can't explain it, but there are a lot of stories like that."
"Oh, I believe you. All the medicine in the world isn't any stronger than a person's will to live. Call it a family, a cause, or a horse, I know it can work wonders."
The announcer broke into their thoughts. "The horses are coming onto the track for the Breeders' Cup Turf."
"We haven't picked a horse," Meg realized.
They quickly glanced at the program, and Horatio's eyes stopped at one. The Tin Man. His gaze went distant, and Calleigh saw it and followed it to the cause. She put an arm around him. "You want to pick that one?"
Horatio shook his head slowly. "He won't win. He'll try, but he'll fall short."
Meg stepped in with her sensitive enthusiasm, even though she didn't understand the cause of the shadow, shaking Horatio out of the mood by pretending it didn't exist. "Let me pick, then. High Chaparral. Now there's a name for a horse."
"He's from Ireland," Lisa said. "Nice horse but hasn't had the best luck this year." They agreed on High Chaparral and focused their binoculars on the action. The horses were just loading into the gate.
The Turf was the longest race at a mile and a half, and the horses waltzed out of the gate in the opposite of the first race. No one wanted the lead; no one was trying to steal it. All the running would come in the later stages here. The first quarter-mile went in a slow 25 seconds. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the race quickened, each quarter rolling by faster than the one before. The Tin Man was second, then, as they turned into the homestretch, was first, but the others were coming in a mass assault. The Tin Man faltered as Horatio had predicted, not giving up but simply not having enough to stay in front. Falbrav, a champion from England, took the lead on the inside, and in the middle of the track, High Chaparral, a bay with a crooked blaze, dug in. Falbrav fought back. High Chaparral was relentless. The crowd was already screaming at the stretch duel and suddenly doubled in volume as the third participant became apparent. On the far outside, the come-from-behind horse from America, Johar, was flying, passing horses with every stride, coming from dead last earlier in the race, moving faster than any of the others. The distance seemed to be running out on him, though. Falbrav hung tough, but High Chaparral gritted his way past him slowly, opening a margin of inches. On the outside, Johar surged up, and the three horses hit the wire in a knot, so close that one blanket would have covered them.
The crowd's screams died into a questioning murmur. Pulling up, the jockeys could be seen talking to each other in mutual confusion. Even they didn't know who had won. The familiar slot on the tote board, much-used that day, lit up again: Photo Finish.
Charles turned to Lisa. "What do you think?"
She shook her head. "Falbrav was third. I couldn't split the other two."
Horatio glanced at the board where the order of finish was displayed. The top three slots were vacant, and as he watched, Falbrav's number filled the third blank. The first two remained dark. He glanced down at his program, matching numbers to horses. The Tin Man had finished fourth.
High Chaparral and Johar came back to the front of the stands and circled there. No one could enter the winner's circle until it was official, but they didn't even know the unofficial winner yet. The track replayed the finish on the large screen in the infield, freezing it at the wire. Every time they replayed it, the crowd gasped. Five minutes. Ten minutes. The two horses still circled, and their connections milled around with them. Johar's trainer placed both hands together and appealed to the heavens. Fifteen minutes.
Lisa shook her head. "It shouldn't take this long. It never takes this long. Not with all the technology they've got nowadays."
"This one picture is worth millions," Meg pointed out. "They'll be careful."
"This is beyond being careful," Lisa insisted.
Charles shook his head. "Poor Randy. The Classic is next, and this is going to delay it. They can't go on until they have the ceremony on this race. A lot of the jockeys ride in all the races, too. These two will have to run back and change silks before they can get to the paddock for the next one."
Horatio and Calleigh looked at each other, imagining poor Randy twisted into even further knots. A throaty roar from the crowd drew their eyes back to the tote board, where an almost-never-used slot had lit up. Dead Heat.
Calleigh stared at it. A tie. "What happens to the money?"
"They add first and second place and divide it evenly," Lisa said. "That's incredible. I've never actually seen one before. This was the longest race of the day, too. It's the last place you'd expect a dead heat."
"Can we go down to the paddock before the next one?" Horatio asked. Randy had to be climbing the walls by now.
"No," Charles said. "We only had passes for the race our horse was in. Randy's going to watch it with us, though, since Mr. Silverman can't be here. He'll come join us in a few minutes, after he saddles the horse."
Meg studied the program. "I guess we all know who we're picking in this one."
Lisa grinned. "He qualifies on both counts. Great name, and he's certainly not the favorite."
Horatio glanced at the tote board, where the odds for the next race had filled in as the double winner's circle ceremony ended. "26 to 1."
"Think we should bet?" Charles asked.
Calleigh shook her head. "No, let's not jinx him." She didn't mention the further reason. The Donovans knew nothing of Randy's troubles, but Horatio, meeting her eyes, read the thought perfectly. Silver Lining was already racing under the weight of his owner's life, his trainer's mother's home, and his groom's family. Far too much was at stake here without their money.
Randy came up the stairs to join them eventually as the horses stepped onto the track. He looked pale and strained, and Meg gave him a concerned pat on the arm. "Are you okay, dear?"
"Fine," he said. "Just nerves. It's a big race." He had been calm as long as he was with the horse, not wanting him to sense tension. Now, though, he wasn't sure he could even last the next few minutes without passing out before the finish. Calleigh transferred Rosalind back to Horatio and put one hand on Randy's back, a gentle connection behind the Donovans, almost unnoticeable. Just the warm contact of someone who knew everything he was going through. It did help. Below, the post parade was winding along in front of the stands. Silver Lining was on his toes, prancing, neck arched, as the announcer introduced him as the 2-year-old champion who hadn't won a single race this year.
"And thanks for reminding us of that," Charles muttered.
"Maybe all the other jockeys will dismiss him, like your horse," Calleigh suggested.
Lisa shook her head. "He was the champion, and they know what he can do on his day. They'll keep an eye on him. He won't steal this race."
"He won't be on the lead anyway," Randy stated. "He'll be a few back, fourth or fifth, then make his run at the far turn."
The horses completed their warm-ups and walked back to the starting gate, which was parked at the head of the homestretch. The race was a mile and a quarter, and again, the horses would pass the finish line twice.
Horatio, hampered by Rosalind, didn't quite see what happened at the start, but he heard Randy and Lisa groan in unison, their fingers tightening on their binoculars. "What is it?"
Lisa spoke. Randy couldn't. "The horse next to him swerved way over at the start. Pinched him back." The horses thundered by them, the shimmering dapple gray easy to find in the field. He was second to last of 14.
"No position," Randy muttered. "He's not a come-from-behind horse." He was paralyzed, wanting to look away and unable to.
The horses were harder to see on the backside, but the gray still stood out among the bays and the chestnuts. He was as tangled up as Miami in rush hour. The jockey was trying to drop back and get to the outside, sacrificing the shorter way around next to the rail to get out of the traffic. Every time he tried it, though, he was shut off by one horse or another. Meanwhile, the favorite moved to the lead and began to draw away.
The horses rounded the far turn. Silver Lining was still pinned on the rail, in fifth, behind a wall of horses with the favorite already entering the homestretch. Then, as the horse directly in front of him came off the turn into the straight, he failed to change leads and ran wide, swinging out away from the rail. Silver Lining saw the gap start to open even before his jockey did, and he lunged, shooting through the hole like a gray javelin, brushing the rail on one side and the horse on the other as the jockey on the other horse tried to straighten him out and bring him back to the rail. There were harsh words and harsher hoofbeats for a moment of close quarters, and then Silver Lining was clear.
Ahead, 10 lengths out in front, the favorite was racing down the stretch. Silver Lining stretched out, literally dropping closer to the ground in the effort of his charge. He was closing the gap like an express train, but the finish line loomed ahead. With 100 yards to go, Randy thought he was beaten. With 50 yards to go, he suddenly wasn't sure, and in the last 5 yards, the gray caught the chestnut, and they hit the wire together.
Randy literally almost fell down. Calleigh and Horatio both caught him. Lisa turned to face them. "I think he got there."
Randy nodded. "I believe he did." All eyes were on the photo finish light. The horses came back, and Randy wrenched his eyes to his horse. Ramon stepped out to meet him on the track. Silver Lining's head was up, his neck arched proudly. The horse thought he had won. Surely they couldn't have two consecutive dead heats. An instant later, the placing lights lit up. Silver Lining first, by a nose. Then, as the group made their way down from the box to the track, another groan ran through the crowd. A new light had lit up on the board. Objection.
"No," said Randy in a soft, futile protest.
"One of the jockeys claimed foul?" Calleigh asked.
"Right." Lisa shook her head. "That move at the top of the stretch, I'll bet. He made contact there. The other horse was running out, though, and his rider jerked him back. I'd say it's his fault as much as ours, but I'm not a steward."
Ramon led the steaming gray in circles on the track. The jockey had slipped off and gone to a telephone at the side, a direct line to the stewards. He gestured with his hands as he talked, passionately presenting his case, although the stewards couldn't see him. Finally, he hung the phone up and came back over to the horse.
"Top of the stretch?" Randy asked.
"Right." The jockey kicked the dirt in frustration. "I counted at least five times during that race when we were shut off. Then, we get one break, and it goes wrong. We did brush there, but I wouldn't call it interference. He broke his horse's momentum more than I did."
"Why don't you claim foul for the other incidents?" Calleigh asked.
"We finished first," Randy told her. "You can't claim foul against someone you beat."
The horse circled patiently, his ears still up. The objection meant nothing to him. In his eyes, he had the victory, stewards or not. Then, a roar went up from the crowd as the objection sign went dark. The numbers in the order of finish stayed the same, and then the final light blinked on. Official.
Randy gave the jockey a leg back up on the horse, then lagged behind as the group headed to the winner's circle. Horatio glanced back at him questioningly, and he pulled out his cell phone and pointed to it. "I'm going to call Mom. Be there in a second."
"She already knows, I'll bet," Calleigh said. "She's probably watching it on TV."
"They need to share it, though," Horatio replied. "Until then, it's not Six Perfections." They smiled at each other.
In the winner's circle, Ramon steadied the horse as the blanket of flowers was folded over his neck. Thinking of his family, the groom spoke too softly for anyone else to hear. "Gracias, amigo." Silver Lining dipped his head and bumped him with his nose. The horse had heard. To Ramon, that was all that mattered.
Randy joined them now, and the winner's circle photo was taken. Afterwards, the jockey slid off, the flowers were removed, and the horse was unsaddled. Rosalind stretched her hands out, and Ramon caught the movement. He lead the horse over to her on the way out of the winner's circle, carefully holding him still as she patted the gray neck. Finally, he pulled away with a dark smile of gratitude to Horatio. Horatio and Calleigh looked back toward the trophy presentation, where Randy was accepting on behalf of Mr. Silverman, but Rosalind, held against Horatio's shoulder, looked behind him to the slowly-retreating forms of Silver Lining and Ramon.
"Horse!" she said distinctly. Her parents jumped and turned around, and Rosalind spun with them, stretching her hands out, trying to grasp the dream before it slipped through her chubby fingers. "Horse!"
Horatio and Calleigh burst out laughing.
(H/C)
Next on CSI Miami: Fearful Symmetry – "The Caine Mutiny." Police officers are being abducted and slowly tortured to death while the killer sends taunting progress reports on their deaths daily to the investigators. With pressure mounting from all sides and time running out for another friend, how far will Horatio go to solve this case?