Riders Down by John McEvoy Page A

to take his aunt gently by the hand. “Auntie,” he said, “will you please promise me you will never buy any more horses without telling me about it first?”
    “Why, sure, Tommy,” Aunt Sophie replied. She patted his hand. “I only wish Mr. Schrapps would let you in on one of these partnerships. But,” she said regretfully, “he says he sets aside these great deals just for us seniors. Isn’t that sweet?”

Chapter Twelve
    Bledsoe drove from Madison to Baltimore in two days. He could have done it faster had he gone straight through, but he stopped three times on back roads off the turnpike to look for places to re-test his rifle. In western Pennsylvania he found what he was seeking near Livonia, adjacent to a state forest. He didn’t dare go to a rifle range, where he might be remembered. He needed isolation and a target. He found both in the isolated backyard of a red brick ranch house on land abutting the woods: a ceramic deer, its brown paint flaking off, poised with one front foot up in the air in a patch of sunlight now being threatened by the advance of late afternoon shadows.
    Bledsoe had purchased the Model 700 Remington from a private gun collector who lived outside Rhinelander, Wisconsin, two hundred miles north of Madison. Bledsoe found him on the internet, called for an appointment, and acquired not only the weapon but a Leopold 10x scope, a suppressor, or silencer, and a supply of seven millimeter Remington Magnum shells. He told the man he wanted to experiment with the suppressor during the next deer season. The seller accepted Bledsoe’s cash and explanation without comment. Bledsoe then drove seven miles to an abandoned quarry to try out his equipment. Two hours later, having collected every one of the dozens of cartridge casings and the shredded paper targets, he drove back to Madison.
    In the course of his lengthy education, Bledsoe one year had enrolled in the University of Wisconsin’s ROTC program. During his training it became clear that, even as a twenty-nine-year-old novice, he was a natural-born marksman. He easily outshone his fellow cadets in every aspect of their arms training. His instructor saw so much talent and potential in Bledsoe that he urged him to consider trying to qualify for the U. S. Olympic rifle team. Bledsoe never gave the suggestion a serious thought. He just accepted the discovery of his new talent as nothing out of the ordinary—just like his ability to, without any training, bench press three hundred and sixty pounds, or do the
New York Times
Sunday crossword in nine minutes.
    Lying on his belly and elbows in a copse of birch trees some two hundred yards from the statuette, Bledsoe carefully sighted the rifle. He exhaled abruptly, then was still for the instant before firing. Down the grassy slope before him, the deer’s head disintegrated. Bledsoe grunted with satisfaction. He still had it. If he could hit a target that small from this far away, he would have no trouble hitting the future targets he had in mind. His body relaxed. The rifle was perfect, and so was he. For a moment or two he listened to the wind ruffle the birch leaves above him. Finally, he got to his feet and jogged up the hill toward his car.
    ***
    It was 12:58 p.m. as the field of skittish two-year-olds approached the starting gate. Carlos Hidalgo reached forward to stroke the neck of his mount, Alki Alley, while continuing to mutter soothing words to him. Alki Alley, like all other members of this eleven-horse field, was about to have the first official race of his life. He had joyfully raced fellow foals through green pastures in his native Kentucky, had competed in trial races both on the farm and at the racetrack, but this was different. Alki Alley was nervous, sweating, and noisily apprehensive as he was led toward the rear of the massive iron starting gate. On either side, other similarly inexperienced young horses tossed their heads, or planted their feet and balked, all the while