She didn’t know where she was, if she was alone. What, besides horse waste, did she smell? What, besides pain, did she feel? If she made her breaths inaudible, she could hear a PA system in the distance, announcing something. She must still be at the show. She wondered how long she’d been unconscious. She heard voices coming closer. Terror washed through her. She heard a horse snort nearby. She smelled more manure, fresh. The horse was as terrified as she was. The handle of a door turned, the voices suddenly came very close to her. She forced herself to lie completely limp.
Footsteps approached, paused. Dale said, “She’s still out.”
She waited for the answer, but there wasn’t one. He must have turned from her, because when he spoke again, his voice sounded farther away. “You want to buff those boots before you go,” he said. “Just because they almost disqualified you in the last class doesn’t mean—”
“I know! Where’s the fucking rag?” Sylvie snapped.
“Behind you, on the shelf.”
“What’s he need?”
Billie didn’t understand the question at first, but Dale replied, “Three drops left front, two on the right should get it done.”
“Which bottle?
“That one.” The horse started to scrabble, trying to get away.
“Quit!” Dale growled at him. “God damn you son of a bitch. Get in there, Sylvie, and get it done.”
“No!” Billie tried to shout, but at most she made a soft grunt behind the gag. The restraint made her crazy, and she thrashed on the floor, desperate to stop them, desperate to get loose.
A boot landed on her neck, compressing her larynx and cutting off her air. She tried to twist her head away and heard Sylvie laugh.
“What’s going on?” Richard’s voice.
“We found your girlfriend, Dad.”
“Get that horse ready,” Dale said. “I’m not telling you again.”
“Make her do it,” Sylvie said. “I want to see her do that.”
“We don’t have time for this crap, Sylvie. You’ll miss the class, and you’re already in trouble.”
Dale grabbed Billie by her sore arm and stood her up, unknowable agony buckling her legs. She swayed, and he shoved her backward until something hit her behind the knees, forcing her to sit down. She turned her head, trying to find the tiniest bit of light beneath the blindfold. Searing jabs shot from her head, bruised where Dale had punched her, and her neck where she had been stepped on. She tried to swallow but couldn’t.
“Give me the juice,” Richard said. “I like to use two drops on the right and three on the left. Suit you?”
Eudora’s voice answered. “Put some of this on his pasterns and use those chains.”
Billie realized that Richard was soring Sylvie’s horse, dripping chemicals on its legs like the old pro he was. His protestations that he was out of this life, the interviews he’d given about seeing the light and changing his ways, his damnation of all things Big Lick—all lies. She had believed him, stupidly in love. The media had believed him. Still did. The light of righteous reformation shone on his head, but it was all false.
When they finished with the horse, Billie heard the thud of its padded hooves on the stall floor, approaching her, passing her by.
“You’re on your way,” Eudora said. “Dale’ll be right behind you.”
“We want to be there when Bo performs,” Richard said.
“I’ll try to get there too,” Eudora replied. “And Dale. Don’t want to miss him.”
“What you going to do with her?” Richard asked.
“Put her there.”
Billie wondered where there was.
“Make sure you lock it,” Richard said.
Billie felt the last shred of hope leave. Then return. Maybe he’d come for her later when he could.
Without a word, Eudora lifted her from her seat on the tack box, opened its lid, and shoved her in, slamming it closed. Billie heard the hasp close, then the metallic fumble and click of a padlock. The space was smaller than the trunk of a car, and far from empty. She lay on something curved and hard that dug into her hip—a stirrup or some grooming implement. She was folded tightly, her knees to her chest, her hands tied behind her, and she lay directly on them. Everything hurt. There was no room to maneuver into a more comfortable position. The box stank of liniments and chemicals. She wondered how much oxygen was in there. The realization that she might smother made her force herself to breathe slowly, evenly, counting her in and out breaths. Doing that calmed her a little. Tiny breaths. Light tiny breaths. There was nothing she could do about the pain, not in her shoulder, her head, neck, or wrists. Her world was pain, but she concentrated on leaving it behind. Not my pain, she thought. Doesn’t matter. She wasn’t completely successful, but she was able to get the sensations to seem less important.
In her mind she made herself smaller, then smaller still, bringing herself toward a center she visualized, a place where she was all right, where she could move. Her fingers felt around the tiny area they could reach. Her T-shirt, the waistband of her jeans beneath it, the stitching on a hip pocket. She felt a small round rivet, softened a bit by the T-shirt.
Infinitesimally, she coaxed the shirt up. From the arena, she heard an announcement, cheers. A voice intoned the Lord’s Prayer, followed by applause.
“Please, now,” Billie heard, “all y’all rise and place your hands on your hearts for our national anthem played for us by Shelbyville’s own rising country fiddler, Bo Collier!”
The single opening note of the anthem, achingly sweet on the violin, reached her as the tip of her middle finger slipped just past the rivet and barely inside her hip pocket.
She felt nothing but fabric. She didn’t even know if there was anything in the pocket she could use. Her fingers were numb from loss of circulation, but she often carried things—not even really aware of them—a pen, some baling twine, a knife. If only she had a knife, she might, just might be able
