Chapter 1
Kentucky April 2001
“So, tell me,” Asked Dr. Evan Thompson of Tucker Flannery. “Who’s gonna win the Derby this year?”
Tuck stood patiently watching Doc Thompson as the 39-year-old veterinarian moved from stall to stall in Fairhaven Farm’s broodmare barn. The dogwood trees were in full bloom and rose bushes were beginning to blossom. With just days to go until the Kentucky Derby, the greatest two minutes in sports, Fairhaven’s headman was in a picture-perfect mood, having just celebrated his 49th birthday.
“Tell ya what,” said Tuck, opening the stall door as the doctor moved his ultrasound gear in and around the young mare. “There’s a bunch of good horses this year. But I think you saw the winner right here.”
“You mean in the Bluegrass?”
The Toyota Bluegrass Stakes, a prominent grade one stakes race many consider to be the most prestigious of all Kentucky Derby prep races, had been run two weeks earlier at Lexington’s famous Keeneland Racetrack. With one week to go before the Kentucky Derby, Doc Thompson, and Tuck, being true horsemen, were growing more excited with each closing hour.
“That Millennium Wind ran wire-to-wire, but there’s a lot of good speed this year,” said Tuck. “I think this is gonna be one of the best fields Churchill’s ever seen.”
“Well, one thing’s for sure, my bet’s going to be on a Kentucky horse,” said Doc Thompson.
“Ha,” said Tuck, his sandy hair blowing down around his eyes. “Yer not goin’ out on a limb, now are ya, Doc?”
Most horsemen knew that the majority of the field of 20-plus three-year-olds poised to qualify for the 127th Run for the Roses were some of the fastest horses ever produced in the state of Kentucky. And both men were proud to be associated with them.
“So, who’re you picking? Or don’t YOU want to go out on a limb?” smiled Doc Thompson.
“Too early to tell,” said Tuck. “But I wouldn’t count old Baffert out. He’s got two contenders this year. That Point Given’s just too big and bad if you ask me.”
“Yeah, but did you see the way Millennium Wind ran the bluegrass?”
“You know what they say about the Bluegrass, Doc. If you want to win the Derby, don’t win the Bluegrass.”
“That’s just an old barn tale,” said the doctor. “You don’t really believe that, do ya?”
“When’s the last time a Bluegrass winner won the Derby?” chuckled Tuck.
“Well, I know Northern Dancer won it. And look what he’s done for the breed. Every other Thoroughbred in the game can be traced back to him.”
“Yeah, but that’s back before I was even in high school. Hey, Doc,” said Tuck, stomping his feet, “you ever see so many of these caterpillars? They’re everywhere this year. I’ll bet half the trees on the farm are swarming with the dang things.”
“Yeah, I know. I can’t remember so many in one year.”
“I walked out to my truck a while ago,” said Tuck “and a breeze blew up and it felt like it was raining caterpillars.”
“Are you spraying for them?”
“Naw, don’t want to do that. Never know how that might affect the animals. We’re trying to burn ‘em out but not having much luck. Nobody’s got the time, with all these mares infoal,” said Tuck.
“Too bad you’re not in the business of birthing caterpillars.”
“Ain’t that the truth?”
Doc Thompson smiled as he made his way over toward Sugar Berry, Fairhaven’s 12-year-old mare, bred a few months earlier. Mares are examined several times in their gestation period to determine the well-being and sex of the offspring, allowing the farm to forecast its yearling sales more accurately.
“Well, let’s see now, old girl, how’re you doing today,” said the doctor, preparing to scope the nervous mare. His smile changed to a frown, as he glanced at Tuck in alarm.
“What is it?” asked Tuck.
“No heartbeat, can’t hear the foal.”
Tuck stood 73 inches straight up and moved toward the mare’s head, stroking the nose of the huge brown Thoroughbred.
“Nope, no heartbeat, this mare’s carrying a dead foal.”
“Doc, are ya sure? Couldn’t it be masked or something’?”
“Easy, girl, easy,” the doctor said soothingly, as he prepared to inspect the mare by hand. Placing the shoulder-length rubber glove on his right arm, he placed the rectal ultrasound into the mare’s vagina, as Tuck steadied the horse from the opposite end.
“Nope, no good, Tuck.”
With hardly a word spoken between the two horsemen, Doc Thompson continued scoping the rest of the Fairhaven mares until he reached Lishtie, a five-year-old gray, stabled a few stalls over from Sugar Berry.
“I don’t believe this, Tuck.”
“What?”
“You’ve got another one. I’ve never seen this. That’s two in one barn in one day. I don’t think I’ve ever even heard of this. I know I didn’t find more than five all last year.”
“No way, you’ve got to have a bad scope.”
“That’s what I’d have thought if it hadn’t worked correctly on the first couple I monitored, but you’ve got another dead foal, look here,” as he and Tuck verified the silence of the transabdominal ultrasound.
“I’ll run some further tests at the lab, Tuck, but I know these foals are dead.”
“Hell, Doc, that’s two out of eleven, and you’re not even through.”
Tuck could feel the sweat on his forehead as Doc Thompson pulled out his cell phone and dialed the Kentucky Equine Research Center.
“This is Dr. Thompson; is Dr. Pehlagrem there?”
After several long and arduous moments, a warm, matronly voice came over the phone.
“This is Dr. Pehlagrem.”
“Dr. Pehlagrem, this is Evan Thompson. I’m over at Fairhaven Farm, and you’re not gonna believe what’s just happened.”
Tucker Flannery couldn’t believe it either. In all the years since Audra Blevins had hired him to manage Fairhaven Farm, he’d never experienced anything like two dead foals in one barn on the same day. Not, at least, since 1996, when several of Central Kentucky’s foals were stillborn. But that was different; those foals had come through an entire eleven-month gestation period and had appeared to be healthy right up until their birth. The two found this morning were dead within the first three months of gestation. He’d never heard of that.
But Tuck wasn’t a man who waited for the opportunity to knock on his door; he was a man of action. He knew something had to be done, a quality he’d inherited from his mother, Ethel Flannery. She was a rough-and-tumble horsewoman from the day she broke her first mount to the day she gasped her last breath.
Tuck had to learn to deal with sadness from a very early age. He’d lost his only sibling, an older brother named Peter, in a car accident the evening of Peter’s senior prom.
Shortly after that, Tuck had to endure the painful passing of his mother. Raised by his father and taught the ins and outs of the equine business, he was hired by Audra Blevins to manage Fairhaven Farm when he was only 22. But his fate had not completely turned for the better. On the July fourth weekend of that same year, he had to drive 80 miles to a lake-side town to claim the body of his father. A boating accident had taken the life of Tuck’s last family member.
Since then, he’d remained steadfastly dedicated and loyal to the farm. His family had taught him a love for horses, and that love was his remaining connection to them. As Dr. Thompson finished examining the other mares, Tuck’s mind raced ahead in preparation for what was to come next.
“Well, Tuck, I’m really sorry about this.”
“Not your fault, Doc. Guess I better make a few phone calls.” Opening his cell phone, Tuck dialed Audra Blevins’ private number.
“Hello, Tucker, how’re things today?” asked the sharp-minded owner of Fairhaven Farm.
“Mrs. Blevins, I’ve got some bad news.”
“Oh?” She could tell by Tuck’s voice that something was very wrong.
Chapter 2
Keeneland Pavilion – Lexington, Kentucky
The lights of the auction arena dimmed ever so slightly, creating a warm, cozy atmosphere as the echo of the auctioneer’s gavel closed the sale at $210,000.00 of hip number 36, a dark gray filly.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” bellowed Keeneland’s head auctioneer, “hip number 37 from Stonecrest Farm, a bay filly out of Logician.”
Directly across from the microphones and trying to concentrate on the horse sale sat Sasha Prahstomank, a 42-year-old representative from the United Arab Emirates. He was known as Darkside due to the large, although faint, birthmark on the left side of his face. The mark accentuated his fine features rather than detracting from them, making him noticeable in any setting.
“What ahma bid for this beautiful filly?” barked the auctioneer, “a Biddle, a buddle, a bidda 25, a 25, a bidda.”
Dressed impeccably in his black suit and starched white oxford shirt, Darkside allowed the memory of the woman he’d met years earlier to waltz through his mind. After a chance encounter with her the previous night at a cocktail party, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since.
“45, gimme 45, I need 45, gimme 45.”
He couldn’t believe he was so consumed by her and was annoyed. The sounds of the arena and the auctioneer seemed to waft in the air. He’d met many women in his worldly travels, especially since the ruler of Karoumi, Sheikh Efram Al-Farouad, had promoted him to his current position. His responsibilities as director of the Karoumi Equine Training Center had taken him on many a global jaunt where he’d met countless women from many walks of life. But none had affected him the way this woman had.
One of his many responsibilities was to purchase the finest Thoroughbreds money could buy, which he ordinarily found extremely compelling; but if he continued to be so inattentive, he was on the verge of losing a potential stakes winner. Unable to keep his mind on the bidding, he excused himself to those seated near him and walked outside.
Noticing Darkside’s arrival, Sela, one of his trusted attendants assigned to accompany him on his travels, quickly moved toward him. Seeing the young man hastening to his side, Darkside smiled and shook his head slightly, indicating that everything was fine. Understanding immediately that he was not needed, Sela returned to where he’d been standing.
Darkside walked slowly around the arena, taking care to notice as much as he could about the horses within his sight. Some were dark, almost black. Some were gray, some bay, and some chalk white, but the chestnut colts and fillies were his favorite.
Karoumi’s equine stable was beginning to amass the caliber of Thoroughbreds necessary to develop its own lineage to compete worldwide, and Darkside took enormous pride in its success.
It wouldn’t be long, he hoped, before a true Triple Crown competitor would emerge from within the ranks of Karoumi’s bloodlines.
Always a positive thinker, he knew that winners like Secretariat and Citation came along only once in a lifetime, and he was not about to kid himself into believing in magic. He felt that winners were born, not made, and he knew that winning was more a matter of breeding than training, which was why he was here.
I must focus on the horses, he reminded himself walking the path leading up to the gate. I must not chase frivolous thoughts. I must not think about… her.
Returning to his seat, his attention was finally captured by a huge bay filly entering the bidding circle. Hip number 41 out of Ladymire Farms’s Dancing Star was one of the horses he’d wanted, and his heart raced as the bidding quickly moved past $50,000.00 “Ho! Ho!” yelled the assistants who, having been placed strategically in the gallery, relayed the bids back to the auctioneer. “55, 65, 75, I’ve got 85 and 90,000, thank you, sir.”
The price escalated quickly as Darkside waited. He didn’t like to get involved in the lower bidding. It was a habit he’d picked up from his sheikh, the man he used to accompany on these buying trips until Darkside had been given full responsibility for running Karoumi’s stables. He thought about the many times he and the sheikh came to this arena, and how he admired the man who provided him with the direction he so longed for in his life. Sheikh Efram was the kindest man he’d ever known.
Darkside had also loyally served Efram’s younger brother, Prince Rajad, before his death, knowing full well that Rajad had ordered him to bring the genetic poison to Kentucky and to leave no one alive after infecting the top stallions in the industry. Rajad was the first person to see him as something more than a ruffian when they became fast friends as teenagers. He felt guilty that he couldn’t have changed Rajad’s thinking, or that he alone had survived that awful time when so many of Kentucky’s finest horses were killed. Rajad had been his loyal friend and had been the only person to come to his rescue from a life of hellish torture in that stinking prison in Istanbul. But that was years ago, and so much had happened since then.
Darkside gazed at the most beautiful creatures in Allah’s kingdom, wondering how he’d been able to do what he did, bringing such devastation to the breed, while not getting caught. His conscience roared, begging him to disclose what he’d done, but to whom? He often wanted to confess his sins, but again, to whom?
“245, 245, I’ve got 245, that’s $245,000.00. That’s my bid for this beautiful filly.”
Darkside, trying to regain his focus, raised his hand. “Ho!” yelled the assistant.
“250, I’ve got 255,” responded the auctioneer.
The bidding gained momentum as the other high rollers entered the game. Sitting directly across and on the front row was Brendon Flynn from Ireland, a fierce competitor, as was Yuri Yokohashi, Japan’s top horseman. This was the first horse any of them had been interested in, and when Flynn raised his hand, the pace quickened and the atmosphere intensified.
“Thank you, sir. And now I’ve got 300, I’ve got 300, and now I’ve, thank you, sir. And now I’ve got 350. Thank you, sir, 400, and 450, and I’ve got 475. All right, ladies and gentlemen, I’ve got, thank you, 500, one half a million dollars.”
The bidding exploded above $5,000,000.00 before Darkside ceased. He never went above three million for any horse and was surprised to find himself going so high before pulling out. He knew he was not on a limitless budget and that his sheikh was more frugal than either of the other two horsemen.
Disappointed by his purchase of only two of the four horses he’d wanted that afternoon, he left the sale and went to his hotel room, intending to take a nap before going out for the evening.
Instead, he lay in his bed with thoughts of days gone by. Yet no matter how hard he tried, he could not stop thinking about… her.