Susan Johnson - Hot Streak

“With extreme difficulty,” Carey admitted with a rueful smile. Since the first night he'd arrived, he'd been politely evading Sylvie's sexual advances with various excuses. He'd slept on the couch in Egon's room not only to discourage Sylvie's presence, but because he slept when Egon did and woke when he did and in general served as nursemaid. He'd worn a two-day stubble of beard out of laziness until Sylvie had brushed her fingers across his jaw one afternoon when she'd come to visit Egon and said in her throaty contralto, “Ummmm… sexy…” Immediately after she'd left he'd gone into the bathroom and shaved.

“You must be the exception to the rule: What Sylvie wants, Sylvie gets,” Egon observed.

“Now I'm the exception,” Carey reminded him. “Now. But I paid for the privilege of that hard-earned experience. I married her.”

“She can be a trial,” Egon agreed with the frankness of a younger brother.

“The understatement of the millennium.”

“Whatever came over you?” Egon asked. “I mean, to marry her.”

“Lord, I don't know… wish I did.” He shrugged, and the silk shirt he wore unbuttoned shimmered with the small movement. “I woke up one morning and said, ‘What the hell?' That was that rainy day in Belio, when we couldn't do any filming, remember? It rained buckets all during the ceremony. I should have recognized the ominous portents.”

“It was a swell party after, though.” Egon had his own fond memories of Carey that summer. Carey had been the first person since his parents died who listened to him and took him seriously, who didn't treat him like an obtrusive child.

“Yeah, it was.” They'd invited everyone in the small village to the reception, closed down the shops, and danced and drank till dawn. “At least one good thing came out of the marriage,” Carey said, his expression mildly amused as he recalled the festivities at Belio.

“Two things,” Egon softly rejoined. “I've you for a friend, and I don't have friends. Not real friends. I'll pay you back someday, Carey. For all you've done for me.”

Carey saw Egon's eyes fill and felt his heart go out to the young man who'd lost his parents too young and had been forced to rely on Sylvie for stability. And stable she wasn't. “Hey, what are ex-brothers-in-law for,” Carey responded quietly, putting out a hand to touch Egon's shoulder. He'd spent long enough growing up himself to recognize the problem. “Why don't you come back to the States with me?” he offered. “You can cheer me on at the Maryland Hunt Cup. There'll be parties there, too. It won't be completely tame.” He went on talking about the race because Egon was perilously close to tears and needed time to recover. The drugs did that, made every problem more intense, every emotion shaky, hair-trigger, turbulent.

“Maybe later,” Egon replied short moments later after he'd swallowed hard, “but Sylvie's dragooning me into going up to Paris with her for a shopping spree. She needs my company, she says. Actually, she wants an excuse so Bernhardt won't barge in. And I'm the excuse. I know how to be obnoxious. He's too old, she says, and dreary.”

“She's right there, poor devil; he's boring as hell. Well, come later if you can. You've an open invitation. But try to stay straight. Shakin Rifat isn't near as frightening when you're off the stuff.”

“I'm going to try. Really. I'm not as shaky today, am I?” He was pale under his tan and still very thin, but the tremor in his hands was almost gone.

“You look great,” Carey lied. “Absolutely.”

T he men on surveillance that morning reported in their log that Charles Fersten left Villa Mariabelle at eight-ten with his groom, pilot, and chauffeur, then the logbook marked “Charles Fersten/Nice” was closed and sent by courier back to Shakin Rifat in Rome.

Egon was being watched by Rifat's staff, who noted that Egon von Mansfeld was once again cutting back on his excessive drug habit, and Charles Fersten was a prominent part of that rehabilitation. Shakin Rifat knew Fersten was someone of importance to Egon. He just didn't know yet exactly how he could make use of that association. In the meantime, the surveillance would continue.

W hen Carey walked into his mother's house in the late afternoon, she greeted him warmly with a hug and said, “I didn't believe your father for a minute. Now sit down and tell me where you've been.”

“Baby-sitting Egon,” Carey answered, settling into a large overstuffed chair.

“The poor boy. Will he survive?”

“This time he will.”

“It doesn't sound too hopeful,” Juliana replied, perching on the arm of a love seat that had graced the empress's drawing room at Malmaison. Her hazel-eyed glance scrutinized her son.

Carey shrugged. “It's hard to tell. Someone or something gets him hooked again and who knows… But enough of that mess. You look wonderful, Mother. When are you going to start looking old? I'm starting to look old.”

Juliana was slender, tanned, and toned. Her blond hair was short and fluffy this season, making her look girlish although she was fifty now. “Just good clean living, darling. Something you aren't too familiar with.” And she grinned.

Carey smiled back. His open, winning smile came easily in his mother's company. “I've reformed, Mother. Only caffeine and an occasional Twinkie now. I'm disgustingly healthy.”

She looked at him with a mother's searching gaze for a moment and, discounting the fatigue of his session with Egon, she decided he looked well. “Have you found some nice woman to take care of you?”

“No, Mother.” She always asked and he always gave the same answer. “I'm trap shy after Sylvie.”

“She was most unusual, I'll agree.” Juliana was tolerant beyond the normal. “But not a very good rider.” On that criteria, she had exacting standards.

“She didn't ride at all.”

“Perhaps, dear, that was the problem.”

“The problem, Mother, was she screamed very early in the morning, often during the day and always at night after several drinks. I was beginning to get hearing loss.”

“Perhaps some therapy would help.”

“When I suggested it once, she broke most of the glassware on the table.”

“I see… well, it's lovely to have you here and after a good night's sleep and a restful day tomorrow, you'll be ready for the race.” Her interest in Sylvie, exhausted, she moved on to topics which concerned her.

“No houseguests yet?” Carey asked. He'd expected full battalion strength.

“I put them off, love. I knew you'd be tired when you arrived. They'll be here in plenty of time.”

“How did you know I'd be tired?”

She snorted softly, then smiled. “Your father was always charming but he's never learned to lie. The story he gave me was reproachfully poor. I knew straightaway you were mixed up in something unsavory and would show up exhausted. Now tell me what you want for dinner.”

The day of the race the house was filled to overflowing. Breakfast was served to 200 guests and neighbors, all family or friends of Juliana and cheerful well-wishers of luck to her only child. The mimosas served with a hearty country breakfast buffet induced an early morning good humor, and Carey responded to his share of jovial back-slapping and animated advice. But his mother could see he was becoming impatient, and she excused him so that he and Leon could drive out to the course early enough to see to Tarrytown's preparation.

Tarrytown had been flown in four days before, and was rested and placid-unlike his rider.

Purses had been going up the last few years; steeplechase was becoming a growth sport in the States, and crowds of 30,000 people were no longer a rarity. Money had much to do with the boom. The $700,000 purses were a viable way to earn a living for trainers and riders, and steeplechase had actually become more than just a tax write-off for owners.

However, money hadn't changed the Maryland Hunt Cup. Forty years ago when timber racing was struggling to return from the World War II doldrums, an editorial bemoaned the lack of entries for the postwar renewal. Someone had suggested a $50,000 purse might encourage more owners and trainers to run their horses. The editorial argued against a large purse, suggesting entries would be swelled by horses unsuitable to the course.

The Hunt Cup didn't offer a purse until 1972, and it was only $15,000 now. The few horses and riders here today, Carey thought, were up for the unique challenge of this race. The purse was only a minor bonus.

He'd entered for several reasons, some less tangible than others. First, the Hunt Cup was by reputation the most terrifying, most formidable course in the world with timber jumps lethal to both man and beast. Carey thrived on that danger-the cutting edge excitement of survival. Secondly, this hunt country had been home to his mother's family for generations; a Carrville always risked his life in the Hunt Cup. Faithful to its original intent as a race for gentlemen sportsmen through home fields, the Hunt Cup was still the only steeplechase in the world charging no admission. So he rode for the sense of adventure and family. And, last but not least, the thought of winning the triple crown in world steeplechase brought a rush to his senses. He'd had eight wins in fourteen mounts in this race but the perfect combination of victories at all three-Aintree, Autueil, and here at home, had always eluded him. If he won today, he would have achieved something no American rider had ever done before.

He wished he were less tired.

He wished he'd had another day to rest after the sleepless nights in Nice.

Maybe the field would fall away, he speculated with casual hope and considered expectation. It was known to happen here and at Aintree. There had been times at both races when the last horse standing had won, and this year only a field of twelve had been entered. The famed third fence usually took out a few riders, and the sixteenth and seventeenth of the twenty-two fences often claimed their victims. Perhaps simply staying on would be enough to win.

But his cynical sigh brought Tarrytown's ears forward as though he, too, understood more than luck was involved. Reaching out, Carey stroked the velvet softness of Tarrytown's coat as they waited to move up to the starting post. “You've got a nice long rein today,” he said, his fingers trailing down the gleaming chestnut's powerful, deep neck, “so carry me through and I'll just stay on one way or another.”

Tarrytown twisted back and nuzzled Carey's leg as if to reassure him. And Carey grinned, oddly relieved, knowing his horse understood his weariness. In the years they'd been riding together, they'd developed a communication distinctly their own with a telepathy peculiar to their special natures.

“It's a slop course,” Carey added. “Pray we lose a few competitors to that.” Early morning thunderstorms had softened the ground so the turf was going to be muck to anyone not in the lead. They had to get out front and hold it from the start.

Tarrytown apparently had decided on the same strategy-a favorite of his-because he broke away at the starting post with power and speed that was both remarkably elegant and economical. Coming into the first fence, Tarrytown lowered his head to see what he was up against, and Carey allowed him to make his own arrangements. He knew from experience Tarrytown was bold but careful. This horse didn't take any chances. Although he had the courage to face any steeplechase fence and the weight to hit them without necessarily falling, he preferred a clean jump. All Carey had to do was keep himself under control and watch.

Tarrytown shortened his stride and jumped, tucking his front legs under in his own peculiar style to avoid the top rail. As they soared over the fence with extravagant inches to spare, Carey's weariness lightened.

Eleven riders followed them over the first two fences but predictably the third fence took its toll, and four horses either fell or were brought down in a terrible struggling mass. The field was precipitously cut to eight, and further dwindled to six when two horses failed to get over the ninth fence, hitting the top rail simultaneously and splitting it as they went down. Another rider fell at the twelfth fence when his mount balked at a loose horse.