“First, Jud Repke saw the wisdom of telling the truth to the FBI about horse killings on your property. He thought he was a little underpaid, by the way. And Jud was real good in recalling the search for the look-alike horse. That’s what he called the horse he and Mortvedt found in New Mexico, the horse nearly identical to the one you tried to slip into the Heartland Derby today. Old Jud, he was off key at first, but then he got into the sing of things, so to speak,” Doyle said, thoroughly enjoying himself now, as if he were rhythmically drumming the light bag in the gym.
“And that poor little woman that Stoner bribed, the horse tattooer over there? She was what you’d call extremely forthright as well.
“But the star of the linking-everything-to-Rexroth show was that little monster over there,” Doyle said, pointing at Mortvedt. “When it got down to a choice between a reduced prison sentence and nailing your fat ass to the wall, Ronnie got his vocal cords and his testimony in order. Like his buddy Jud, he was kind of miffed over the level of payments you made to him-once he found out the true worth of those insurance policies you were collecting on.
“Ronnie kept a real good record of your payments to him, though-dates, names of the horses you told him to kill. Not to mention the mare you paid him to steal and then kill after she’d foaled the look-alike horse.
“You’re going down, Rexy,” Doyle said with relish, “like a cannonball tossed off the Sears Tower.”
For the first time, Rexroth’s armor of conceit began to melt. He looked at Doyle, then pleadingly at Stoner. As he started to speak, Stoner interjected quickly, “Let the attorneys deal with this.” But Rexroth ignored him. “Why you?” Rexroth said to Doyle. “I don’t understand….”
“It’s a long story,” Doyle said, “but the upshot of it is that Aldous Bolger, he’s a friend of mine.
“There’s a price to be paid for what happened to him. You’re going to be one of the people paying it.”
Four hundred feet above the Heartland Downs infield, General Belliard’s balloon continued its errant descent. The general remained unconscious. Red Marchik had now fought off Junior Kozol and was in charge of the controls. He had no clue as to how or where to land the hated contraption. The centuries-old Marchik paranoia genes boiled and burbled in Red as he fumbled about in the rapidly diminishing altitude.
Track announcer Calvin Gemmer gawked at the approaching balloon. He grabbed his microphone. With an urgency usually reserved for photo finishes, Gemmer shouted, “People, get out of the way down there at the winner’s circle, get out of the way. That’s a balloon coming down at you…GET OUT OF THE WAY, PEOPLE!!”
The fans bunched around the winner’s circle started to scatter. As he looked skyward, Damon Tirabassi blanched, then ordered, “Get them out of here.” With a glance over her shoulder at the oncoming balloon, which was obviously out of control and heading straight for them, Karen Engel grabbed Earlene Klinder’s arm and hustled her toward shelter. The other FBI agents moved quickly to get Rexroth, Stoner, and Kauffman into the paddock tunnel, which by now was becoming crowded with fleeing fans.
As Doyle started to follow Maureen and E. D. Morley into safe range from what appeared to be a rapidly impending disaster, he realized that the only person remaining in the winner’s circle was Ronald Mortvedt. His guard, agent Ebner, had moved to assist in the removal of Rexroth, leaving the ex-jockey behind him in what he thought was the custody of agent Kamin. Doyle had no idea how this mix-up had occurred, but he didn’t like what he was seeing. He felt his stomach tighten as Mortvedt glared at him.
Never looking either back or upward, Mortvedt began to move purposefully toward Doyle across the twenty feet that divided them. His progress was remarkably unhurried.
“You’re not gettin’ away with what you done to me, mister,” Mortvedt said as he advanced, fists clenched. “You got somethin’ comin’ from me.”
Doyle pivoted to run, not from Mortvedt but from the onrushing balloon he could see dropping from the sky behind the little man. It was headed directly for the winner’s circle. In a reflex action that he would later chide himself for, Doyle shouted to Mortvedt, “Look out, look out, it’s coming right at you….”
So determined was he to reach the man responsible for his capture, Ronald Mortvedt did not heed Jack Doyle’s warning, never looked up at the out-of-control, brightly colored vehicle that was plummeting directly toward him.
The platform of General Oscar Belliard’s balloon landed on Ronald Mortvedt like an elevator car cut loose from its cables. The impact of one of the balloon’s two propane tanks hitting Mortvedt’s head made a horrible thunking noise. Immediately, the balloon bounced back up into the air. Beneath it Mortvedt lay face down, the back of his head crumpled. His left cheek had been nearly ripped off, and the blood from that wound spread on the ground. Nearby, grooms struggled to control the two terrified horses that were attempting to back away from the scene.
As the balloon rose, Wanda Marchik leaned out of the wicker basket, making a series of soprano whoops the content of which no one on the ground could make out. However, two of the FBI agents and a groom leaped forward to grab the line she’d dropped from the balloon. Junior Kozol unleashed another line from the other side, and that too was snatched by helpful bystanders. Tugging mightily, they combined to haul the balloon back to earth. Its wicker platform settled directly atop Ronald Mortvedt.
The only part of Mortvedt now visible was his left foot, encased in a small black boot that protruded from under the balloon wreckage. The Marchiks and Junior Kozol remained enwrapped in the ravaged envelope of the balloon as track workers rushed to extricate them.
Karen Engel ran forward from the paddock tunnel, her face pale.
“My God, Jack,” she said, “it looks just like The Wizard of Oz…with the Wicked Witch of the West’s foot sticking out from under the barn door after the tornado. There’s no way Mortvedt’s alive under there,” Karen added with a shudder. “Did you see the way that metal tank cracked into him?”
“He had all of that coming, and more.”
Chapter 37
Karen Engel’s assessment of Ronald Mortvedt’s prospects was accurate. The little ex-jockey was pronounced DOA at Western Community Hospital five miles from Heartland Downs, victim of massive head injuries.
Passengers in the killer balloon, the Right to Bear Arms, were much luckier. Examination of General Oscar Belliard established that he had, indeed, suffered a minor cardiac arrest. But the prognosis for him was good, provided he adopted some lifestyle changes.
Tough nut that she was, Wanda Marchik escaped with various minor bruises, as did Junior Kozol. Red Marchik, however, somehow managed to pull both an Achilles tendon and a groin muscle during the disastrous descent. Even as paramedics hefted him on a stretcher into the ambulance, Red was raving about lawsuits he intended to file.
“Settle down, honey,” Wanda told Red as she slid into the ambulance beside him, “let’s first get you fixed up and comfortable.” Wanda patted her husband’s hand. Then she said, “Wonder what the Sports Preacher would make out of all that happened here today?”
Jack Doyle sat at the end of the long mahogany bar of O’Keefe’s Ale House, watching television’s ten o’clock news. All the Chicago channels had received-courtesy of the Heartland Downs television department-excellent footage of the Derby and its memorable winner’s circle aftermath.
Doyle grinned as he watched himself sidestep and dodge, his old AAU footwork standing him in good stead again, as the balloon dealt its death blow to Ronald Mortvedt.
“Sheila, Bushmills Manhattan, please,” Doyle called to the busy barmaid, another immigrant from County Cork. Her name was Sheila Maloney, and she was bright, friendly, and considerably better looking than her predecessor, Maureen Hoban. And Doyle was determined to keep a tremendous distance between them, having decided he’d had enough dealings with women from Cork.