by Sasscer Hill
“Well, don’t wonder too much. After he give you ID, stay away from him.”
Later that afternoon I left my room to visit Silver Punch, and was discouraged to see he’d hardly touched his grain. His hay rack was still full, too. Inside his stall, I stroked his neck and pressed my face close so I could breathe in his horsey smell.
“What’s the matter with you, Punch, you homesick?”
If he missed his home and his buddies, I knew just how he felt. I ran my hands over his coat. He was so pretty, his muscles so sculpted. What would it be like to ride a horse like him?”
I slipped out to the aisle to where I’d seen an empty plastic manure bucket. Grabbing its handle, I brought it into the stall. I did this slowly because the last thing I wanted was to startle Silver Punch. I flipped the bucket upside down, put it next to the horse’s left side, and slowly stood on it.
Silver Punch turned his head toward me as if curious, but he stood still. Leaning forward I put my hands on his withers and hopped on his back.
He moved into a fast walk, circling his stall. He humped his back once, threatening to buck. I spoke to him softly and stroked his neck. He stopped and turned his neck and head until his nose was on my foot. I giggled, and he walked to his hay net, and pulled out a long wisp.
“Good boy,” I said, as I heard the comforting sound of his molars grinding the hay.
He swallowed and grabbed more hay. I bent forward onto his neck and pressed my lips against his silky, grey coat.
“I see you got him eating.”
I was appalled to see my boss. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ravinsky! I’ll get off. I didn’t mean any harm.”
“Stay right where you are,” he said.
There might have been an amused twitch at the edges of his mouth. Still, I’d gotten on his horse without permission and was terrified he’d order me out of his barn.
“Horse seems to like you. You stay on him and let him eat that hay. I’ll get a little fresh grain and see if we can interest him in that.”
In no time at all, Punch finished the half pail of grain that Ravinsky brought, and was digging back into his hay.
“Find what works,” Ravinsky said. “Any race tracker worth his salt will tell you that.” His lips compressed as he shook his head. “Some horses you can spend months trying to figure out and never get it right.”
As he watched his colt eat, light seemed to build in Ravinsky’s eyes “But you got his number. Horse just wants company. Maybe he had a companion goat before, or a favorite groom he’s missing. But his previous people won’t tell us. The last thing they want is for me to be more successful with this horse than they were.”
There was a time I would have wondered how Punch’s former people could be that mean. But I’d learned some things about the human race since Mom died, and not too much surprised me anymore.
Maria and Carlos showed up late that afternoon for the evening feed and to give the stalls what Ravinsky called a “lick and a promise.” It would hold them over until they were cleaned the following morning.
Both grooms seemed to have aged, their faces lined with worry, their eyes filled with despair. When Maria emerged from one stall dragging a manure bucket, tears ran down her face.
She set her bucket down and fingered her tears away with one hand, while the other clutched and twisted a medallion around her neck.
“That’s a pretty necklace,” I said. It looks like the one in Pedro’s picture.”
“It is Saint Nicholas, the patron saint of children.” She stifled a sob as more tears slid down her face.
I hated that there was nothing I could do to help her. I still wanted to look up Bic on the internet. Maybe I could learn something. When I asked Ravinsky about it, he said he’d bring in his laptop in the morning.
After feeding Silver Punch, I learned that as long as I remained by his stall door, he’d work on his feed. When he cleaned up the last speck of grain, it was the only bright spot of the evening.
Cold and tired from more physical labor than I was used to, I crawled beneath the blankets of my cot early that night. Though Laurel was hardly a “gated community” like you’d see in an upscale real estate ad, I was safe and warm here. I fell asleep immediately.
Sometime in the middle of the night, I sat straight up in bed trying to escape the lingering cobwebs of a nightmare. I’d been dreaming about Pedro. I’d seen his face, his cherub lips, and the medal of a patron saint around his neck. But as I’d tried to reach him, his eyes had turned into the black holes of the albino.
11
In the morning, Silver Punch nickered for his breakfast, ate it right up, and licked his feed tub clean. I liked knowing I’d helped him. That I’d helped Ravinsky. It made me feel more whole inside, even happy.
Still, the dismal cloud of Pedro’s disappearance chased after me, and when my chores were finished, I went to the boss’s office to use his computer.
His wooden desk was piled with condition books for tracks like Laurel, PARX racing near Philadelphia, and Charles Town in West Virginia. Ravinsky had told me he sometimes shipped horses to the out-of-state tracks, ran a race, and returned the same day.
I picked up one of the books, and realized a trainer could use it to find the conditions which suited a particular horse in his barn. My eyes felt like crossing as I read the differing rules and qualifications. I was particularly confused by the expression “Non winners of a race other than.” I gave up trying to figure out what a “starter allowance” was. I had a lot to learn.
My gaze traveled over the rest of the desk. A box of chocolate glazed doughnuts, a broken halter, and a stack of vet and blacksmith bills littered the surface. I grabbed a doughnut and glanced through the bills while I ate. The amount of the vet invoices astonished me. Racehorse owners must have a lot of money.
When I finished my pastry, I licked my fingers and wiped them on my jeans, not wanting to get the sticky residue on Ravinsky’s computer keys.
I sat in his chair, powered up his laptop, and Googled the name Bic Braygler. Nothing came up. I’d known it was a longshot, but was still frustrated by the lack of information.
As soon as I earned enough money, I’d buy a smart phone so I could access the internet when I wanted, and contact my friends, Letitia and Carmen. I knew they wouldn’t give my location away, and I longed to talk to them. Then my thoughts slid to my mom, how much I missed her, my friends, Boiler, and Potter’s School. My emotions were spiraling downward.
I sat up straight, gave myself a mental head smack, and Googled the last name “Braygler,” and “Laurel, MD.” Damn if the name “Dr. Vivian Braygler, Plastic Surgery Associates” wasn’t staring me right in the face!
Of course. She was the woman I’d seen at the track who owned Silver Punch before he was claimed by Ravinsky. Dollars to doughnuts she was related to Bic. And her office was right behind Bic’s restaurant, the last place Pedro had been seen. Did this mean anything? I had no idea, but found it very curious.
I continued scrolling under her name and found a news article about her from the local newspaper. Reading it, I learned that Vivian was the franchise owner of Burrito Burro, which meant Bic worked for her.
They had to be related. She was a racehorse owner, which might explain why I kept seeing Bic at the track. Maybe it was a family thing. Since she wielded a scalpel, I hoped she treated people better than her weirdo relative did.
The sound of footsteps made me glance up to see Ravinsky entering the office. I didn’t want to hog his chair, so I rose to my feet.
“Find what you were looking for?” he asked.
“Sort of. Mr. Ravinsky, do you know the lady who used to own Silver Punch?”
“You’re making me feel ancient with the Mr. Ravinsky. Call me Jim.”
“Okay,” I said. “But what about this Braygler lady?”
“I don’t know her, but expect she may be the best of the lot.”
“You mean there’s a bunch of Braygler’s?”
�
�Yeah, there’s a whole nest of ‘em in Laurel. There’s a hay-and-feed man, a blacksmith, and then that albino fellow.”
“Bic,” I said.
A sour look crossed Jim’s face. “Yeah, that one.”
I told him about Burrito Burro being right across the alley from the Plastic Surgery office, and that Bic was the assistant manager. I figured Jim didn’t need to know his employees were obtaining false IDs from the guy.
He rubbed his lips for a moment, as he considered the information. “I think Bic’s her nephew. He’s a screw up, so she probably felt she had to give him a job.”
“How’s he a screw up?”
“The physical condition he has is no fun. Albinos usually have vision and socialization problems. He was probably teased and picked on by everyone when he was little. I heard he has a juvenile record for violence. Had to be placed in a special school.”
I nodded, not surprised to hear it.
Jim waved his hand in dismissal. “That’s enough about the Brayglers. I want to see you get on Wilson’s pony.”
What?
Wilson was the trainer on the backside of our barn. He had a paint horse that was called a pony as he was used to “pony” or lead racehorses to the track. Ponies made great companions for fractious and nervous Thoroughbreds.
I was dying to ride, but why did Jim want me to get on the pony? The suggestion had startled me, and it must have shown on my face.
“I liked the way you sat on Punch. Relaxed and natural. Think we could turn you into an exercise rider one day?”
“Oh my God, I would love that!”
I followed him to the tack room where he grabbed an exercise saddle, before walking to the other side of the barn. The pony, whose name was Grit, had a bridle hanging outside his stall.
“Let me see you tack him up,” Jim said.
I did, and in no time, Jim gave me a leg up, and I was riding the horse down the shedrow. Since it was after training hours and they still weren’t racing at Laurel, there were no other horses out. I had the dirt aisles to myself. When I rounded the corner, Jim had moved to the far end on the other side and his hawk eyes watched me as I rode toward him.
“Stop,” he said when I got close.
As soon as I did, he told me to back up. That accomplished, he had me walk on and the next time I came around the corner, he told me to trot Grit toward him. That went well, and after another circuit, he had us ease into a canter.
Stall doors and curious horse heads zipped by us, and the quick rhythm of the animal under me was wonderfully familiar. I knew I was grinning like a fool. I couldn’t help it. Riding always gave me a high.
“Keep going,” Jim called to me. “Twice more.”
Grit was getting cranked up and I had to rein him in a little. He responded until the last time around when a bantam rooster scuttled out of a stall, squawking and flapping his wings right in our path. Grit bucked once, kicked at the chicken as we flew by, and then tried to break into a gallop. I stood in the stirrups, got the leverage I needed, and reined him in.
“All right then, Nikki,” Jim said when I pulled up. “We know you can ride. Now you have to learn to gallop a race horse.”
I was breathing a little hard, and Jim put a hand on the left rein and walked us down the shedrow.
“I’ve got a friend who needs a rider,” he said. “He’s got a half-mile track on his farm. Maybe we can get you up there next week and let him show you the ropes.”
“I can’t learn here?”
“Nope. Got to be sixteen to go on the big track.”
“Oh.” Whatever disappointment I felt was whisked away by the thrill of the chance to become an exercise rider. It was the first step toward my dream of being a jockey.
“You should put Grit away and give him a good brushing.”
I did, and when I checked my watch I realized it was time to go to Burrito Burro and see Bic. I dreaded the visit, but once he handed me that social security card, I’d be outta there so fast, and hopefully never have to see him again.
Without a lift to 198, it was a long trek to the restaurant. I spent the walk through the backstretch daydreaming about being a jockey. As I passed through the stable gate onto Race Track Road a cloud bank darkened the western horizon as a bitterly cold wind kicked up.
The air smelled damp and above me the gloomy sky appeared leaden. Shivering, I zipped my coat up to my chin and pulled on my hood. As I picked up my pace on Whiskey Bottom Road it began to snow. The temperature was so cold, the snow was dry, and it swirled around me without sticking to anything.
Pedro had been missing for three days. Was he somewhere out in this frigid weather?
I pushed on, walking as fast as I could to keep warm, hands buried deep in my pockets. I made the turn onto 198 and broke into a jog. It wasn’t slippery yet, but the snow was thick and when the wind blew, the powder on the ground whirled up around my face, making it hard to see.
When I finally reached Burrito Burro, the snow was sticking and turning everything white. Cars were starting to slide and fishtail on 198. I pushed through the glass doors and stamped my feet on the rubber mat inside, grateful for the sudden warmth.
The enticing smell of chili made me decide to order something as soon as I got my ID card. There were several people in line at the counter, but I caught the eye of the gal I’d talked to before, pointed in the direction of Bic’s office, and mouthed, “Is Bic back there?”
“He’s all yours,” she said, her eyes cold, her mouth downturned with contempt for me. A sudden rush of empathy for illegals like the Pedrozas swept through me. Feeling isolated and unwanted was a terrible thing.
I walked down the hall, rapped on Bic’s door, and when I heard him tell me to come in, I stepped inside. A blonde woman in an expensive looking black coat sat in one of the chairs facing Bic’s desk. With her back to me, I couldn’t see her face, but there was something about her that seemed familiar.
“Nikki,” Bic said, almost cheerfully. “If you’ve got the cash, I’ve got your Social Security card. Have a seat while I get it.”
I didn’t really want to sit down and it seemed odd that the woman didn’t even turn her head to look at me. As I stepped closer, Bic came out from behind his desk.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, walking past me as I lowered myself into the office chair.
The woman finally turned her head to look at me. I recognized her immediately as the woman in the paddock the day Silver Punch was claimed by Ravinsky.
Dr. Vivian Braygler had been the only person in the paddock who’d shown no emotional attachment to the horse, and I understood why. I was looking into eyes as cold and uncaring as the snow outside.
Hands suddenly grabbed my upper arms.
“Get off me!” I yelled. “Stop it!”
“Hold her still,” Vivian said. She opened her shiny black purse and withdrew a hypodermic needle and a syringe.
“Let go of me, you weird fuck!” I shouted.
Bic twisted my arm up behind my back until I shrieked with pain. He clamped his other hand over my mouth, stifling my scream for help before it left my mouth. He was a much heavier and stronger than me. It was like fighting a bear.
Vivian grabbed the bottom of my coat. She pulled the hem up, then shoved the needle of her syringe through the denim of my jeans and into my thigh. I fought and kicked, struggling against the dizzy grayness that swept through and over me. I lost my ability to see, and became disoriented. For a moment I was certain they’d buried me in a drift of soft, white snow.
I could hear, but was unable to see, move, or speak. It felt like I was being carried. I heard Bic’s voice, and sensed bitter cold for a moment. Then there was nothing, nothing at all.
12
I was lying on my cot, except I couldn’t smell the horses, or the lingering traces of liniment and molasses. The air around me smelled foreign, almost medicinal. Was I in a hospital?
I opened my eyes and saw a white ceiling and florescent lightin
g above me. I tried to sit up, but something stopped me. Turning my head to one side, I saw a strap holding my arm down. Something else bound my legs.
What had happened to me? Turning my head to the other side, I saw a hospital gurney next to me. A boy lay there with his eyes closed. He had cherub lips that prickled a memory. Where had I seen them before?
I tried to raise up, but was defeated by the straps. I lifted my head as high as I could, but a wave of dizziness forced me to close my eyes.
Breathe, Nikki. Move slow.
The dizziness cleared and I tried again, only more carefully. I stared at the boy. A silver medallion on his neck winked at me as it reflected the florescent light.
Recognition rushed me. Pedro! He lay so still, but I could see his chest rising and falling. He must to be drugged. Like me.
Beyond him, another gurney. Again, I strained my neck up as much as I could. A dark-haired girl was laying there, apparently another victim of drugs. I had to drop my head as more dizziness flooded through me.
But where in God’s name were we? What was this place?
Memory hit me like a sledgehammer. The Brayglers. Bic and Vivian. They had done this. They’d made us prisoners.
I lay there with my eyes closed. What was Dr. Braygler doing? Images from TV shows like “Law & Order: Special Victims Unit" raced through my head. Were we going to be sold as slaves? Or used as plastic surgery guinea pigs?
Fear gripped me, releasing a shot of adrenalin. I struggled harder to sit up. The straps on my arms were not that tight. I wiggled one arm, drawing it up until my wrist was about to slide free of the strap. I heard a door shut, voices and footsteps.
I slid my arm back, closed my eyes, and slowed my breathing, pretending I was still knocked out. The footsteps stopped, and the voices became a quiet murmur. I turned my head to look in the opposite direction from Pedro. There was a door. The voices were on the other side. The words too low for me to understand.
I glanced at Pedro. He was still out, and so was the girl. But why was I awake? Had they given me a different drug? Then I remembered.
