The Magnum Equation

by Lisa Wysocky

  “What?” I repeated just as loudly. “You knew all this time and never told me?”

  “You’re going to scare a horse, Cat,” Tony, who was now also standing, said. “Let’s go outside. I’ll tell you more there.”

  He took my arm, but I shrugged it off and hurried up the stairs. A thought flashed through my brain. What if Tony was the killer? What if he just told me that to get me outside, alone? I moved farther away from him, then called Darcy.

  “You busy?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

  “No. I’m on the other side of the arena watching you and Tony. Like what’s up with you two?”

  I explained that Tony and I were going to go outside, out the doors on her side of the coliseum, then sit on the grassy slope and talk.

  “Can you watch us through the doors?” I asked. “If we get up to go anywhere but straight back to you, I want you to call the police.”

  “Yes Cat, but––”

  “Tony’s coming; I have to go. Just keep your eye on us.”

  Once more, I hated that I suspected my friend.

  Tony and I walked around the mezzanine, through the doors on the opposite side, and sat on the grass. He didn’t seem to want to start the conversation so I did that for him.

  “Maybe you should start from the beginning,” I said.

  So he did. Seems when Tony was a kid his best friend was a Native American boy named Dusty. They went to school together, played ball together, the only thing they didn’t do was go to church together, as their families were of different faiths. The spring of their junior year in high school, Dusty’s church went on a mission trip to help an underprivileged Native community in eastern Oklahoma, and Tony went along.

  “Annie and I were dating then and she almost came along, too,” he said. “At the last minute her mama took sick and Annie stayed home to help.”

  According to Tony, the mission group stayed in the destitute town for about a week. They, along with members of the community, fixed houses and cars, cleaned up streets, and helped people along the path to finding Jesus. One person in particular that Tony “helped” was a pretty young thing named Yanita.

  “She was sixteen and was a total mess. Drinking, parties, that was her life,” said Tony. “I am not proud that I succumbed to her charms.”

  Tony did not find out that he had a son until Jon was thirteen. By that time Jon was an angry young man and Yanita, in a moment of sobriety, tracked down Dusty’s pastor.

  “I had only gone on the mission trip the one year, but Dusty’s church went every few years,” Tony said. “Yanita realized that if she didn’t get help for Jon, and quite soon, that he would end up to be just like her. I think it’s the only responsible decision she ever made.”

  Tony went to meet Jon, then weeks later brought him home for a visit.

  “He and Annie got along right from the start, even though Annie and I had a long rough patch in there. You know Annie always wanted kids, but that never happened for us. Then I bring home a boy who is mine, but not hers. It was hard for Annie, but she never let Jon know.”

  I started to ask a question but Tony again held up his hand.

  “Let me finish. If I don’t get all this out now, I probably never will.”

  Through Dusty’s pastor, Tony found a good high school in a town about thirty miles away from Jon’s Native community, and a series of families to host Jon during the week. On weekends Jon went home.

  “That was all Yanita would agree to. She wanted better for her son, but she didn’t want to lose him in the process. We saw him in the summer between shows, and sometimes during his Christmas break, but I wrote to him every week. This was back before everyone had cell phones and the Internet.”

  Jon dropped out of school at the end of his junior year, got his GED a few years later, attended community college, and worked a series of jobs, none of which lasted more than a month.

  “He was floundering, Cat. He was lost. Three, well, about four years ago now, Jon came to me. He’d always loved the horses, and seemed to understand them instinctively. He asked if I could find him a job. Of course I offered him one but he wouldn’t take it. Jon wanted to stand on his own two feet, to make something of himself, by himself.

  “I knew you had your hands full and had just finished building that apartment over your barn, so I gave Jon money to go to Tennessee. He called you and, well, you know the rest of the story. I thought if Jon was with you, then I’d get to see him at shows and keep up with him, be sure he was doing all right.”

  I hugged my knees to my chest. Tony had the good sense to remain silent while I worked through all he had told me. It was a lot.

  “Why didn’t Jon want me to know?” I asked.

  “He thought you’d think less of him if you knew he was my son,” said Tony. “Guess that shows what he thinks of me. We’ve never seen life from the same viewpoint.”

  I looked at Tony for the first time since he began to talk, and smiled.

  “You’re a good dad, Tony Zinner, certainly far better than mine ever was.” My dad was another story. I rarely saw him and that was just fine with me.

  “It’s not been easy,” he said. “I have a very stubborn Cherokee, Norwegian, German son.”

  “That is quite a combination,” I agreed. “So, your thoughts. Should I tell Jon that I know?”

  Tony considered that, then said, “If you want. That’s for you to share if and when you want. Jon will not hear from me that I told you, but I don’t mind if he hears it from you.”

  “And Annie?”

  “I’ll tell Annie,” he said. “That night with Yanita was the only time I didn’t tell Annie something and look how that worked out. Since then, I have shared everything with her … and she with me.”

  Maybe that explained their closeness, and I wondered again if Brent and I would ever have anything like Tony and Annie had.

  Tony and I walked back into the coliseum, and Darcy and I headed back to the stalls. She, of course, wanted to know what our conversation had been about.

  “Tony told me a secret and I have to think about it before I can tell anyone,” I said. Then I saw her face. “It’s not about anything that is going on here. No worries, okay?”

  “Okay,” she agreed. “Hey Cat? Why can’t you tell corn a secret?”

  “I don’t know Darce, why can’t you tell corn a secret?

  “Because corn has ears!”

  “Pretty lame, kiddo.”

  “I know, but it made you smile.”

  That it did.

  Noah and Jon were both at the stalls when we arrived and Jon broke away from Noah as soon as he saw me.

  “About this morning––”

  “It’s fine, Jon. Let me get a few things done, then maybe you and I can grab a bite to eat.”

  I hadn’t had breakfast yet and my stomach was long past the growling stage. I turned to Noah.

  “I just stopped by to let you know that, as of a few minutes ago, the police had not gotten anything back from either the veterinarians or the state lab on the tox screens for Star or Temptation,” he said. “Thought you might ask Annie if she’s heard anything from the hospital.”

  Darn. I’d hoped that information would open up a lead that would help close the case before the competition ended. Some trainers were already loading up and heading out––those who did not have classes today and did not have horses in the championships tonight or tomorrow. One of them might even be the person we’d been looking for, or some of the people who were leaving could have information. It was all so frustrating. There had to be something we all had overlooked.

  After Noah left I checked that my show outfit for tonight was not wrinkled, and that Jon had polished Gigi’s halter. He had. I looked at the show schedule once more and confirmed that the evening’s performance began at seven P.M. Gigi’s class was the second in, so we needed to be in the holding area a few minutes after seven. She needed to head to the wash stall at four, and I made a note on our dry erase bo
ard about that, as well as a reminder not to feed her any hay this afternoon. Hay can extend a horse’s underbelly enough that it can ruin the tight, straight profile needed for a halter class. Gigi could eat all the hay she wanted after her class.

  Bubba and Hunter stopped by, but when it became clear they were just hanging around, I sent them over to Cam’s stalls to see if he needed his aisle swept. Then Jon and I went to the coliseum, bought several dozen freshly made miniature doughnuts, coffee for him and orange juice for me, and sat in a deserted section of seats.

  Some of the jumping was still going on, but these fences were smaller, so I assumed it was a different class than what Reed had competed in earlier. From the impeccable turnout of the horses and riders, it was probably a hunter over fences class. Jumpers are judged solely on whether or not they get over the fence, hunters are judged on how well they get over the fence. Here, form counted.

  Jon opened the box of doughnuts and I ate several before I said a word.

  “If I tell you something, promise not to get mad?” I asked when my mouth had cleared itself of all traces of my third doughnut.

  “Did Tony tell you?” he asked.

  “Yeah.” I picked up another doughnut. “Why did you feel I would think less of you if I knew?”

  “I don’t know. Pride, maybe. Ego. Stupidity.”

  “Well, I’m glad I know,” I said. “Makes our little horse show family closer somehow.”

  I stuffed another doughnut into my mouth.

  “That’s it?” asked Jon.

  I nodded. I’d been taught that it was rude to speak with my mouth full.

  “I thought maybe you were going to fire me.”

  I swallowed. “Fire you? No way! We’re a team, Jon. I could not get along without you. I know I don’t often say that, but I mean it. You are my rock here at the shows, and at home.”

  It was his turn to nod, not because his mouth was stuffed with doughnuts, but because he looked like he might cry if he said anything.

  Jon and I finished every last one of those doughnuts, then went back to our stalls. He took Gigi for a walk, while I sat in one of our director’s chairs. Darcy had Petey in the aisle, and was grooming him.

  I turned the events of the show over in my mind, pieces clicking together here, and falling out there. Sally began to kick her stall wall again and I got up to see what her problem was. Maybe she wanted to go for a walk, too. She looked purposefully at me, then lifted her right rear leg and slammed it into the stall wall. Then she made a quarter turn, so I could see the long side of her body. Then she turned her head to look at me and again picked up her right leg and kicked the wall. Just one loud staccato kick.

  “What is she doing?” Darcy asked, joining me at Sally’s stall.

  “I don’t know. She did this a few days ago, too. Maybe she just wants to go home. I know I do.”

  Sally then pinned her ears and shook her head.

  “She’s, like, saying your answer is wrong,” giggled Darcy.

  “Well I wish she’d be clearer about the right answer.”

  Sally kicked her stall wall again, then sighed and began to eat the rest of her morning hay.

  I went back to the director’s chair and thought some more.

  I smiled at Ambrose and patted Hank. Then all of a sudden, things in my brain clicked together and I knew not only who it was, but why.

  Cat’s Horse Tip #21

  “If a horse does not follow the societal rules of the herd, the herd leader will banish the horse from any interaction with the other horses.”

  31

  I KNEW. I KNEW WHY the horses and people had been hurt. I knew why my life had been in danger. But even worse, I knew what was about to happen.

  What I didn’t know was how far the show had progressed, and I raced through the barns. I dodged the hindquarters of several dozen young stallions who were having their final grooming before going to be judged.

  As I ran, I ignored one groom’s angry call to “slow down,” and a trainer’s warning to “watch it.” I was intent only on reaching the coliseum.

  What class were they on? The last I’d heard over the public address system, the jumping was over and the weanling colts were going in. How long ago was that? Two minutes? Twenty? I couldn’t remember.

  As I got closer, I realized with horror that the final call for the yearling colt class was more than several minutes past. Colts, the two year olds, were coming up to the holding area. The yearlings must already be in the arena and in the process of being judged.

  “Oh, God,” I prayed, “please let him win. Then it won’t happen.”

  I dashed through the exhibitor entrance, up steps to the mezzanine, halfway around the arena, then down more steps to an area close to the horses in the ring, yet void of spectators.

  I sat, gasping for breath, in a front row seat. Looking closely at the handlers of the yearling colts, my heart sank. The gun was tucked into the waistband of his slacks, virtually hidden by his jacket. Before I could think what to do, the public address system crackled and the announcer called out the numbers of the top six finalists.

  “Please let him make the cut,” I prayed. “Please let him make the cut.” He did and I breathed a shaky sigh of relief.

  The top six now moved in random order, single file, head-to-tail, down the center of the ring. I moved quickly, so that I was again directly in line with the exhibitors, and as close to him as I could get.

  The placings were being announced. As usual, sixth place was read first, working up the line to first. My heart was thumping so loudly I could barely hear the announcer. I could hear the blood pumping through my veins. Oh, God. What was his number? 1207. That’s it. 1207. He had to win. Please let his number be called last.

  “In sixth place, number 931––”

  I couldn’t hear which entry 931 was, I was shaking that badly. What if he didn’t win? What would I do? Somehow I had to make him stop. Thoughts were tumbling around my brain like clothes in a dryer.

  “Fourth place to number 466––”

  Fourth? What happened to fifth? Get a grip, Cat, get a grip. I took a few deep breaths. Steady. Think. I looked about, feeling dangerously close to hysteria, and only began to regain control when I saw Tony leading Master Attack, Mike Lansing’s yearling, toward the gate, a white fourth place ribbon in hand.

  “And in third place––”

  I tried to concentrate, but I couldn’t focus. Deep breaths, Cat, deep breaths.

  “The third place ribbon goes to … number 1207––”

  “Nooooo,” I yelled as I jumped over the arena wall, and dropped into the soft footing. What was I doing? I was acting on instinct and knew I’d have to trust it. Running, yelling, I raced to the center of the arena as he pulled the gun from his waist, waving it wildly in the air.

  “No, Cam, please. Don’t!”

  “Don’t come near me, Cat,” Cam hissed and I saw the gleam in his eye. What I had always taken as an intense belief in his horses and in himself was far beyond an obsession.

  He turned, surveying the crowd of spectators.

  “My colt is going to win this class,” he shouted to them. “I’ve got the best colt here. Don’t you agree?”

  There was a low rumbling from the spectators and a frantic scurry away from some of the closer seats.

  “Hey,” he screamed. “What’s the matter with all of you? I’ve got the best colt here. Agreed?”

  I edged closer to Cam. The remaining two horses and their handlers had scattered when the gun was first pulled, and now they were warily making their way toward the out-gate. Each had one eye on Cam, the other on Noah, who was making frantic hurrying motions with his arms.

  “Please, Cam. Let’s talk about this,” I said when I was within arm’s length. “Come. We can go to the show office, they’ll let us talk in private and we’ll work it out. It will be okay.”

  For a second there, I thought he believed me. He looked steadily at me and a bit of the wry humor I o
nce loved flickered in his expression. He smiled a gentle, half-smile and slowly put his colt’s lead entirely into his right hand, along with the gun. Then he stretched his left hand toward mine. When we made contact, he squeezed my hand briefly, then, with Herculean strength, pulled me to him and pointed the gun to my head.

  “Close the gate, Noah,” he called. “Close the gate or this will be Cat’s last class. Neither of those horses are leaving the arena without everyone agreeing that my colt gets the blue ribbon,” he shouted, jerking me a quarter turn so I was facing the gate.

  Noah stood there in indecision, waves of anguish flashing across his face. I knew he was weighing his concern for me against the welfare of the other exhibitors and their horses.

  “Close it, Noah. Close the gate now,” shouted Cam. “You’ve got until the count of three. One. Two––”

  In spite of the fact that this might be my last moment on earth, I was quite calm. I felt as if I was watching a movie in slow motion. Colors sharpened and I could smell the dirt on the arena floor. This wasn’t real. Couldn’t be. If I reached out now, I knew I’d find a bag of popcorn on the seat next to me, and with it, the comfort and safety of a darkened movie theater. Wouldn’t I?

  “Okay, Cam,” called Noah, interrupting my fantasy. “I’m closing the gate. Leave Cat be. Let her go.”

  Cam leaned over so I could see his face. “You know I can’t do that, don’t you?” he asked softly. I looked at his face and stifled a gasp. The concern in his eyes was so real. “I can’t let you go until my colt wins this class. Everything depends on it. My farm, it’s mortgaged to the hilt. The trust fund, it’s gone,” he laughed quietly. “I never was any good with money. You know that, Cat. I need the stud fees this win will bring. I can’t fail now. I … I just can’t.”

  Like quicksilver the concern faded from his eyes and he whirled us another quarter turn to face the judges’ stand. There were no judges there, of course, show management having spirited them away at the first sign of trouble, but Cam didn’t seem to realize they were gone.

  “I want you to come back out here and take another look at these three colts,” he yelled to the empty judges’ stand. “Come out here you scum bags. Come out here now!”