Trickster #3

  “J.J.,” he calls to Dr. Mac. “I think his fever is going up.”

  “Claiborne keeps urinating,” Jared says.

  “Where should we put Trickster?” I ask.

  “Too many horses, not enough hands,” Dr. Mac mutters. She takes a deep breath. “OK, here’s what we’re going to do. We can’t let them walk around the paddock. I want you two to take each of these horses into a foaling barn stall.”

  As soon as we bring the first horse, Claiborne, into a stall, Dr. Mac starts examining him. Dr. Gabe arrives, pulling his car around the side of the barn. He jumps out and starts unloading supplies. Dr. Mac and I run over to help.

  “Did you get everything?” asks Dr. Mac.

  “Everything you asked for and a few things you didn’t,” Dr. Gabe says, grinning as usual. He hustles a cooler of intravenous fluid and medicine into the barn.

  With two vets, the examinations go quickly. They check the vital signs—temperature, respiratory rate, and heart rate—of each horse. Dr. Gabe presses his stethoscope against Trickster’s chest. “Seventy-two beats a minute,” he says.

  That’s way too high. A normal pulse rate for a horse is thirty-five to forty beats a minute.

  “It’s got to be more than colic,” Mr. Quinn says.

  “The stomach pain looks like colic,” Dr. Mac says, “but they all have diarrhea, so everything is flowing through their intestines well. Too well.”

  “They’re dehydrated,” Dr. Gabe observes.

  “They’ve been drinking, but it’s all coming out the other end,” Dr. Mac explains. “It’s got to be intestinal. A toxicosis of some sort. Let’s get I.V.s started on everyone.”

  She strokes Trickster’s neck, then smoothly inserts a needle into a vein. She connects the needle to a long tube that leads to the bag of clear I.V. fluid. The bags are hung from a hook on the wall of the stall.

  “We have to keep his fluid level and electrolytes up. We don’t want his blood pressure to drop or him to lose consciousness,” Dr. Mac says. She moves down to Gertie and prepares to start her I.V.

  “Wait a minute,” I say suddenly. “Dr. Mac, stop. Go back to Trickster. Look in his mouth, on the edge of his lips. He has bumps.”

  “Bumps?”

  “I saw them earlier. He was drinking weird, too. He would stick his whole nose in the water bucket. He’d lift it to breathe, then stick it back in the water.”

  “What else did you notice?” She lifts Trickster’s lips to look at his gums. “Think carefully.”

  “His stall. Jared said he had cleaned it, but when I got there, manure was everywhere. I cleaned it, but it’s a mess again already. He’s been having really bad diarrhea.”

  Dr. Mac peers in Trickster’s mouth, then releases it and scratches his jaw. She looks over at Dr. Gabe. “Cantharidin.”

  “Couldn’t be,” Dr. Gabe replies, shaking his head.

  “Has to be,” Dr. Mac argues. “Look at these blisters.”

  Dr. Gabe hands Elsa’s I.V. bag to Jared and looks into Trickster’s mouth. He pulls a penlight out of the pocket of his coat and flashes it along Trickster’s tongue.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Blister beetles,” Dr. Mac says. “These horses may have been poisoned by blister beetles in their hay. What a nightmare.”

  “Blister beetles? You’re kidding me,” Mr. Quinn says. “We’ve never had blister beetles before. How can you be sure?”

  Dr. Mac gently holds Starfire’s head and pries open his jaw. Sure enough, way back in the throat I can see the same kind of blisters I saw in Trickster’s mouth, smaller but still ugly.

  “That’s one way to be sure,” she says, releasing the horse. Starfire shakes his head and coughs. He has started to drool a bit. “We’ll run some urine tests to confirm.”

  “What’s a blister beetle?” I ask.

  Dr. Mac goes back down the line and starts Gertie’s I.V.

  “Blister beetles live on plants like alfalfa, which is harvested for hay,” she explains. “They have a chemical in their body called cantharidin. Cantharidin is not nice. It burns body tissues. And it explains all these symptoms. Trickster was keeping his whole mouth in the water bucket because it cooled the blisters on his lips. The cantharidin has irritated their stomachs, kidneys, and intestines, blistering their insides, too. That’s why they are acting colicky. Their insides really, really hurt. The irritation has caused the diarrhea.”

  “And Gertie’s seizures? Starfire’s fever?” Mr. Quinn asks.

  “Everything,” Dr. Mac says.

  Linda enters the foaling barn. She must have just come back from town. “What’s going on? Why are the horses still in the pasture? Jared, you have students arriving in a few minutes.”

  Dr. Mac looks up. “We’re pretty sure these animals have been accidentally poisoned,” she quickly explains. “Have you gotten any new hay recently?”

  Linda frowns. “Yeah, yesterday. It came in the nick of time. We were almost down to the barn floor.” She pauses. “These horses were the first ones to get it. What’s wrong? Is the hay moldy?”

  Mr. Quinn dashes toward the big barn as Dr. Mac explains about the blister beetles again. Linda looks like she just came out of a horror movie.

  “You mean, they were in the hay? But I didn’t see any bugs. I would never feed them anything with bugs in it!”

  “Of course you wouldn’t,” Dr. Mac says. “They were probably chopped up, in tiny pieces. It only takes a couple of blister beetles to kill a horse. The fact that the horses are still alive proves they didn’t eat very much.”

  Mr. Quinn steps back into the barn with a flake of hay. “Here’s a sample.”

  Dr. Gabe stays with the horses, and the rest of us file outside to watch. Mr. Quinn puts on a pair of work gloves and scatters the hay on the ground. Dr. Mac and Linda get on their knees.

  “Here, is this one?” Mr. Quinn pinches something small and black, and then drops it on the ground where Dr. Mac can see it.

  “Hard to tell. Could be. Don’t touch it,” she warns. “It will blister your hand just like the insides of the horses. We’ll analyze it.”

  “What can we do?” Linda asks.

  “The horses in the pasture haven’t eaten any of the new hay, have they?”

  Jared and Linda both shake their heads.

  “Good,” Dr. Mac says. “Let’s get some fresh hay here—from a different grower—as soon as possible. You’ll need to notify whoever sold you this batch about what we found. And every stall has to be swept clean, every speck of hay removed.”

  “What’s the antidote?” asks Mr. Quinn. “How do we treat them?”

  I look at Dr. Mac.

  “There is none,” she says. “The best we can do is to keep their fluids up. We’ll give them pain medication and antibiotics for infection.”

  “That’s it?” Mr. Quinn asks. “That’s all we can do?”

  “We could transport Starfire to the equine hospital,” Dr. Mac suggests. “There they can monitor his calcium, magnesium, and protein levels, which we can’t do here. If his calcium gets out of whack, he could have a heart attack.”

  “Can’t you take all of them to the hospital?” I ask. But I already know the answer. Mr. Quinn can’t afford to take all the horses to the equine hospital. Starfire and the other show horses would be the ones to go. It would be way too expensive to treat unproven horses like Trickster.

  It feels like something is squeezing my chest. I look up into Mr. Quinn’s eyes. He looks like he feels the same way.

  “I’m going to call Brenna’s father,” Dr. Mac says briskly. “He can take you all home.”

  “Wait,” I say. “I can’t go home—I have to stay here and help.”

  One of the horses in the barn whinnies.

  Mr. Quinn runs his hand over his head. “Look, David, I appreciate your concern. You obviously care a lot about these horses. But I think you should go home.”

  “Let me stay,” I plead. “The others can leave—they aren’
t used to being around horses, not like me. How old was I the first time Dad brought me here—five? Six? I could clean the stalls for you, get rid of the hay. Anything, just let me stay.”

  “David—” Dr. Mac begins.

  Whump!

  She’s cut short by a loud crash and heavy thump from inside the foaling barn.

  “J.J.!” Dr. Gabe calls from the foaling barn. “It’s Starfire!”

  Dr. Mac and Mr. Quinn get there before me, but not fast enough to keep me from seeing what happened.

  The beautiful black stallion has collapsed in his stall. His head is stretched limply out on the straw, and his eyes are open and dull. Mr. Quinn kneels, touches the horse’s leg, and turns his face away from the rest of us.

  Starfire is dead.

  Mr. Quinn clears his throat a few times. “David, go home. This is no place for kids. Not tonight.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Midnight.

  I can’t sleep. No way. And it’s not because of my brother’s snoring. I keep thinking of Trickster. Of the other horses, too, but mostly Trickster.

  He was shaking when I left. He had a high fever and wouldn’t drink anything. Is he feeling better now? Is he sleeping? Awake? Is he even alive?

  Brian jerks in his sleep and makes a sound like a surprised pig. He still smells like the popcorn in the movie theater. Maybe I could wake him up and get him to drive me back to the barn.

  As if. Turn over and go to sleep, Hutchinson. There’s nothing else you can do. You’re just a kid.

  I punch my pillow and roll over so I can see out the window.

  If I were going to go back to the barn, which I’m not, I’d have to do something really crazy like ride my bike there. It’s got to be at least five miles. I do have a light, but that’s way too far.

  I should go to sleep.

  But I can’t.

  What if Trickster is dying?

  It only takes a few minutes to get dressed and leave a note for Mom so she won’t freak out if she finds my bed empty. Rolling up the garage door quietly is tricky, but by midnight most people around here are fast asleep. I check the light on my bike and put on my helmet. It’s time to hit the road.

  All the lights are on in the foaling barn, and I can hear people talking. Their voices sound tense. I set my helmet on the seat and silently lean the bike against the wall. My stomach clenches as I run across the gravel.

  What do I do now? Walk in? Pretend like I’m supposed to be here?

  I peek in the door, staying in the shadows so no one can see me.

  The foaling barn looks like an emergency room, crowded with veterinary supplies and oxygen tanks on every surface. Claiborne and Gus are breathing through horse oxygen masks. Elsa is lying in her stall, breathing heavily. Gertie and Trickster are wired up to heart monitors. Heart monitors.

  Trickster’s coat is shiny with sweat, and drool leaks from his mouth. His eyes blink slowly. I wish I could tell him I’m here, tell him everything is going to work out.

  Suddenly, Gertie throws herself against the side of her stall. The noise startles Trickster and he flinches.

  “Do something, J.J.!” Mr. Quinn says.

  “I can’t give her any more pain medication, Lucas,” Dr. Mac says.

  “I should have called the ambulance. I should have taken them all in, no matter what it cost,” Mr. Quinn says as he strokes Gertie’s neck.

  “It wouldn’t help the horses if you put yourself out of business,” Dr. Mac points out.

  Jared glances at his watch. “Um, Mr. Quinn, sir. Sorry, but I really have to go home. My folks said I could only stay until midnight, and it’s past that. I have a Spanish test at eight o’clock.”

  Mr. Quinn takes a deep breath and crosses his arms over his chest. “I understand. Linda, you should go home, too. Get some sleep.”

  “No way,” Linda protests. “I’m staying here.”

  “You wore yourself out cleaning up all that hay, and in a few hours, thirty-five horses are going to want breakfast. Go home and get some sleep. You’re no good to me or the horses if you’re exhausted.”

  Dr. Mac nods. “He’s right, Linda. Go on. We’ll manage.”

  “Just remember to bring us doughnuts when you come back,” adds Dr. Gabe.

  I hide around the side of the barn while Linda and Jared leave. This was a really dumb idea. I should go home and get back in bed. If Mom catches me, she’ll ground me until I’m fifty.

  “Watch out!” Dr. Gabe shouts.

  I look back in the barn.

  Trickster has gone totally stiff. He falls to the ground, shaking violently.

  “He’s seizing!” Dr. Mac says.

  “Trickster!” I shout. Without thinking, I run into the foaling barn. “Trickster, no!”

  I slide to the floor and brush his forelock out of his eyes. He’s still shaking. “Hang in there, buddy.”

  “Where did you come from?” Dr. Mac asks.

  I look up at her. “Can’t you do anything?” I ask, my voice cracking. “He’s dying!”

  Mr. Quinn sits next to me. He puts one hand on Trickster’s chest and the other around my shoulders. “We’re doing everything we can, David. We just have to hope he’s strong enough.”

  “He is,” I say fiercely. “I know he is. Come on, Trickster. You can do it. Don’t give up!”

  Trickster twitches again and snorts. His nostrils flare and his eyelids flutter. I reach out my hand so he can smell me. “I’m here,” I say, quieter now. “I came back for you. I won’t leave until you’re better. I promise.”

  Dr. Mac leans over with her stethoscope.

  “His heart rate is slowing a bit. Good. The seizure is over. He’s OK, for now.”

  Mr. Quinn squeezes my shoulder.

  “You won’t make me leave, will you, Mr. Quinn? I promise not to get in the way.”

  He nods once. “You can stay. We need the help.” He stands up and brushes off his jeans. “But let me call your mother. She doesn’t know you’re here, does she?”

  “I didn’t want to wake her up.”

  “Let me see if I can take care of it,” Mr. Quinn says.

  It might be that I’m tired, or maybe it’s the dim light in the barn, but I swear it almost looks like he’s smiling.

  I don’t know what Mr. Quinn said to my mom, but when he returns, he’s carrying a six-pack of soda and good news.

  “Your mother said you could stay,” he tells me.

  “Really?” I take a soda. “You’re kidding. How angry is she?”

  “Not as angry as you’d think. It’s been a while since I talked with her. Not since your dad left, in fact. She was mostly worried about you.” He pauses. “She knows this is important to you.”

  “David, can you get the wheelbarrow?” Dr. Mac asks. “It’s getting a little too smelly in here even for my nose. Let’s muck out the mess.”

  “Right away, Dr. Mac.”

  Once I’ve cleaned the stalls, Dr. Gabe sends me for fresh water. After that, we bring in more supplies from Dr. Mac’s van. The moon climbs into the sky and crosses over the hill while I do all kinds of little chores so the docs can concentrate on the big stuff. The heart monitors beep, the oxygen canisters hiss, and the horses cough and whinny. Dr. Mac and Dr. Gabe take turns monitoring the vital signs of our patients. Mr. Quinn watches everything. Sometimes he watches me.

  Around three o’clock, Dr. Gabe goes into Mr. Quinn’s office to sleep for a few hours. He’s in charge of the clinic tomorrow—wait, that would be today. He’s going to need a clear head to deal with the cats and dogs that are scheduled.

  Mr. Quinn brings out some old horse blankets. I wrap myself in one and sit next to Trickster. His heart rate has slowed to fifty-five beats per minute, much healthier. He seems to be more comfortable. The pain medicine must be making his stomach feel better. And his leg, too. I almost forgot about that in all this confusion.

  I pull the blanket up over my shoulders. Mr. Quinn and Dr. Mac sit at the other end of the foaling bar
n watching Claiborne and drinking coffee. They’re talking about Starfire.”

  “You only get a horse like that once in your life,” Mr. Quinn says quietly. “He was the finest animal I ever met.”

  “You were a good pair,” Dr. Mac says. She blows on her coffee. “He needed someone like you around to teach him. If I remember, he was a little flighty when he was young.”

  Mr. Quinn shakes his head with a little laugh. “And stubborn! But he learned. So did I.” He looks out the window and doesn’t say anything more.

  It’s going to be a long time before Mr. Quinn gets over this.

  Trickster snorts in his sleep. I pet his muzzle.

  What would Dad say if he saw me here? I wish he could. I miss him more than I want to think about—way more than I want to talk about. Some things don’t fit into words.

  The blanket is warm. I lean against the post to get comfortable, keeping one hand on Trickster. I can feel his pulse, strong and steady. We’re going to ride. We’re going to ride like the wind. I can just see us flying up the hill …

  A bird twitters overhead, and another answers from across the field. A sliver of the morning sun climbs over the hill. A rooster crows.

  “What happened?” I say, waking up with a jolt. “Trickster! How’s Trickster?”

  “Relax,” laughs Dr. Mac. “See for yourself.”

  I look up.

  Trickster is standing over me. He bobs his head and nickers.

  “Is he feeling as good as he looks?” I ask, scrambling to my feet.

  Dr. Mac stands and stretches her back. “Not quite. But he made it through the night. They all did. They’ll need some extra attention for a few weeks, but I think things are looking rather positive.”

  I grin. “You are the best veterinarian in the entire universe.”

  “Thanks,” Dr. Mac says. “Maybe I should put that on my sign. What do you think?”

  Mr. Quinn walks in the foaling barn. “I think it’s time for breakfast, that’s what I think. I’ve got a stack of pancakes in the kitchen with your name on them, J.J. Some for you, too, David. My father used to say the best way to keep good stable hands was to feed them well. Do you still like sausage?”

  I can’t stop grinning. “Yeah. I can’t believe you remember that.”