Page 9 of Broken Ride

Two Thornton deliveries from two different origins, both spending hours in transit that can't be accounted for by the distance between pickup and delivery. The barrel horse that was penned beside one of those deliveries tested positive for fentanyl metabolites.

The mare didn't ingest fentanyl. She breathed it, or absorbed it through mucous membranes, or drank water contaminated with residue. Something in or on those Thornton trailers contained enough synthetic opioid to leave metabolites in a horse that was never even loaded onto the rig.

My phone is still warm from the sun on the dash. I scroll through my contacts until I find Dr. Amy Perez at the Texas A&M Veterinary Medical Diagnostic Laboratory.

Amy and I overlapped during my residency. She's been running the toxicology section for years, and she's the kind of veterinarian who spots anomalies before anyone else realizes there's something to spot.

She picks up on the third ring.

"Laney Brooks," she says. "You still traveling with the circus?"

"Still traveling. Listen, I've got a question. Have you seen any equine tox panels come through your lab in the last few months with unexpected opioid metabolites? Specifically fentanyl or fentanyl analogs in animals with no prescription history?"

The pause on the other end lasts a beat longer than casual.

"Why are you asking?"

"I've got a mare on the Southwest Circuit with norfentanyl in her blood and no medical reason for it to be there. I'm trying to figure out if this is an isolated incident or if it's showing up in other animals."

"Huh." Another pause. I hear the hum of lab equipment in the background, someone calling Amy's name from down the hall. "We've had a couple of equine panels come through recently with similar findings. I flagged them internally, but the submitting vets didn't follow up. You're the first person who's called asking."

"A couple. From where?"

"I'd have to pull the case files. Listen, I'm in the middle of something. Can you come by the lab? I'd rather go through the data with you in person than try to compare notes over the phone."

"Yeah. Let me get through what I'm working here, and I'll come to you."

"Good. Bring your paperwork. I'll pull ours."

She hangs up with the efficient brevity of someone who has three other things waiting.

The silence settles over the cab. Light slants through the windshield, catching motes in the afternoon glare.

Outside, a stock contractor's teenager rides a dirt bike between the trailer rows, kicking up a plume of caliche that hangs in the still air.

Amy flagged them internally. Similar findings. More than one. The submitting vets didn't follow up, which means either they didn't think it was significant or they didn't want to think it was significant.

The smart thing to do is nothing. File the report with the event veterinary committee, note the anomaly, let the regulatory system do what it's designed to do.

The regulatory system didn't catch the drugged bulls that killed Grant Corbin last season. The regulatory system didn't notice Hayes Merrick running a fraud operation through the circuit for years. The regulatory system is a set of forms and filing deadlines managed by people who'd rather not find problems because finding problems creates paperwork.

A new section goes into the binder. I label it with a date and a case number I make up on the spot, because this doesn't belong in any official system yet. Transport manifests for every animal I've treated this season come next, sorted by hauling company.

Hours later, I'm perched on the tailgate with paperwork spread across every flat surface I can reach. The sun is dropping behind the arena grandstands, stretching long shadows across the fairground. Most of the competitors have cleared out. The evening event doesn't start until tomorrow. The lot is emptying, trailers pulling away in a grinding parade of diesel and dust.

"That's a lot of paper for a vet check."

The voice comes from my left. I don't flinch, but my hand moves to the edge of the tailgate where my closed pocketknife sits next to the binder clips. It's a reflex I don't examine anymore.

Wade Ashcroft is standing about ten feet away, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, ball cap pulled low against the fading light.

He doesn't look like he just arrived. He looks like he's been standing there long enough to read the headers on my paperwork. I didn't hear him walk up. I don't make that mistake twice.

"Can I help you with something?" I ask.

"Depends on what you're looking for."

"Who says I'm looking for something?"