The Scar Rule

by Heidi Vanderbilt

  Over the sound of a woman on the PA system announcing the sponsors for the horse show—truck dealerships, a restaurant chain, a mortuary, and a meatpacking company—Billie tried to listen for sounds in the forest. She strained to hear footsteps or voices, but a splatter of applause gave way to a man’s voice reading the Lord’s Prayer, children reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, then a live organ played “The Star-Spangled Banner,” which ended in cheers.

  Billie saw Charley standing beside a black horse with white legs, brushing it with long sweeps. She walked over. “Hey.”

  He looked at her without pausing but glanced around.

  “This is the first time I’ve seen a show where the feds showing up didn’t send everyone scurrying.” He pulled a comb from his pocket and ran it through the horse’s mane, carefully straightening knots. “I’ve been wondering if what I heard was true—that there is a new way to fix a horse, a way that doesn’t show up during inspection.” He coughed.

  “Wouldn’t you know about that?” Billie asked.

  “Once I would have. Not so much now. The boss is keeping an eye on me, I’m pretty sure. I don’t get told the things I used to. But no one knows which shows get the federal inspectors coming in. Mostly they don’t appear anywhere—too little funding, too few inspectors, too many shows.” He attached a ribbon to the browband on the horse’s bridle, fluttering it with his fingers. “There’s so much hostility toward them that even in their righteousness, they hate their job. You see them when they came in?”

  “I did.”

  “You see how they stick together like gum on the sole of a boot?”

  “That doesn’t really work,” Billie said. “As an image.”

  Charley ignored her. “They’re scared to death. Walk like guns are trained on them.”

  “Are there? Guns?”

  “There is everything, Billie Snow. Mostly though, shit happens behind the scenes. The good folks of Shelbyville don’t want an OK Corral shootout and forever fame. They pick their targets pretty carefully.” He stuck the comb back into his overalls pocket then slipped it out again to tap himself on the chest. “You see this?”

  “What?”

  “This is a bullseye right here. Maybe you can’t see it, but I sure can feel it.”

  A string of riders passed by, calling hellos to Charley who answered each with a cheerful “Good luck!”

  When they had passed, he flipped a saddle pad onto the horse’s back and followed it with a saddle.

  “I saw you chatting with old Addie Stockard. Her son Vern has been showing sore horses all his adult life, starting with the horses he trained for her. There was a time when she’d say he’d never sore a horse. I have heard that bullshit ever since I started to work in stables as a little bitty boy. ‘Oh no, ma’am, your horse is so talented. I’d never have to resort to that!’ All these trainers say that to their clients if the clients bother to ask. Most owners know damned well what’s going on in the barns and don’t give a shit. Long as their horsie comes home with rosettes and a trophy, it don’t make an anthill of difference how that happened. But some are natural-born worriers, like Addie. Don’t hurt my horse. Just make sure it wins.”

  She should be writing this down, but she didn’t want to interrupt him, slow him, or call attention to herself. She’d just have to remember.

  Charley bent double wheezing. “Damned asthma. Maybe I caught some damned bug from the kids at Dale’s barn. When school’s out, the place crawls with kids. Their parents pay for them to have lessons and the character-building experience of cleaning stalls and brushing horse hides. And the folks get a few hours each day to work or fuck.”

  “Did you babysit Richard’s kids?”

  Billie watched Sylvie, several trailers away, prepare Dale’s blue roan stallion for this evening’s show. She had him tied to the side of the top-of-the-line Sundowner four-horse, aluminum, gooseneck trailer. She knelt beside him with a long-handled screwdriver in her hand, tightening the bands that held on his heavy shoes until he pulled back from pain.

  Behind them, seated on the fender of a small aluminum trailer that was parked askew, Billie glimpsed Royal talking on his cell phone, an infant in a pouch on his chest, and a toddler sitting on top of his feet.

  “I will turn in the last evidence I gathered to the feds next week,” Charley whispered. “I could still be adding to it, but I got a bad feeling.”

  “What kind of bad feeling?” she asked.

  But Charley stepped away from her and the horse he’d tacked up, and waved to someone. Richard, Billie saw, getting Sylvie mounted and spiffed up for a trip around the ring on her horse. The girl was a beauty, Billie thought, tight-bodied and slender. Like her mother.

  “I’ve known her since she was an infant,” Charley said. “I taught her how to show horses and how to sore them. She was a natural, the most talented kid I ever worked with. Good at everything, and a great little chemist. Loved to burn a horse’s legs then see what that did to its gait. She listened to everything I told her about how to win. She made it all her own. Then she improved on it.”

  He stared over Billie’s head, tears on his cheeks.

  CHAPTER 24

  BILLIE WOKE EARLY and lay on her back, looking at the motel room. She’d been here long enough that it felt familiar, almost homey. The Formica bureau was covered with her open suitcase and mounds of laundry. The bathroom door had a towel hanging from the knob. She’d kicked off her sandals after sitting on the bed last night. One had landed on the floor, the other lay upside down on the bedspread.

  She got up, brushed her teeth, ran her hands through her cropped hair, and washed her face. She pulled on no-wrinkle brown slacks and a tan blouse, draped her linen jacket over her shoulders—her reporter-on-the-job work clothes—and headed to the courthouse for Dale’s trial.

  The courthouse stood at the outskirts of town, rising from the middle of a black asphalt parking lot. She parked, got out, locked the car, and strolled across a strip of lawn and up the steps of the granite building.

  She hadn’t expected the lobby to be crowded. A mass of young people gathered in front of a trio of girl a cappella vocalists singing the University of Tennessee fight song “Rocky Top” in precise harmony.

  “Part 4. Downstairs on your right,” she was told when she went to the information desk. She descended the stairs, stepping in time to the music, aware of the superb acoustics in the building, aware that this had nothing to do with her job but loving it.

  Downstairs, away from the filtered sunlight in the lobby, fluorescent light soured the narrow bench-lined hallways. Billie glimpsed Dale at the far end of the hall, talking to a small cluster of men she guessed were his lawyers. He wore a yellow plaid short-sleeved shirt, carried a tan jacket over his shoulder, and looked sweaty in spite of frigid air-conditioning. She edged over toward them. Snatches of bluegrass drifted down, and she noticed people hushing up to listen, but not Dale’s group. They spoke somberly, so softly she couldn’t make out their words, mumbling to each other. One of the lawyers reached up and squeezed Dale’s shoulder, which brought his gaze to her.

  “What’s she doing here?” he asked clearly so a half dozen people in addition to his attorneys turned to stare.

  “Looks like media,” the lead lawyer said. “Ma’am?”

  Billie extended her press pass.

  The heavy wooden door to Part 4 opened, and Billie followed Dale and his team inside. The air was icy, the room empty except for the court stenographer in a cardigan fussing with her table in front of the witness chair.

  Billie sat in the back row, watching. There was no question that Dale was tense, possibly scared. He mopped his face several times, and she saw that his hands trembled. When Eudora arrived and came to sit beside him, he leaned over to give her an awkward kiss but missed her cheek. Billie heard his lips smack air. Eudora touched his cheek with her fingertips. The judge entered along with a smattering of people Billie didn’t recognize, who scattered themselves in seats near t
he front. Richard leaned against the wall in the rear, beside the door, looking ready to bolt. Someone slipped into the chair beside her and tapped her arm.

  “Addie!”

  “I couldn’t miss it,” she said. “Thought I might be useful to you too. I know who most of these folk are. I’m a human scorecard, you could say.”

  “Thanks! I was feeling pretty lost.”

  Addie dropped her purse on the floor between them, fished inside, and brought out a package of Black Jack chewing gum. She offered it to Billie, who declined with a shake of her head, then unwrapped two pieces and folded them into her mouth.

  Addie reached back into her handbag and brought out her knitting. She settled it into her lap, twisted the yarn around her finger, and set to work, needles making soft clicks. Envious, Billie wished she’d brought her own so she could sit alert but relaxed beside Addie as the hearing unfolded.

  “Ma’am! Ma’am!” Billie wondered what she’d done wrong before she realized the judge was pointing at Addie. “There is no gum chewing my courtroom. Please dispose of it. Now.”

  Addie pulled the wad from her mouth, reached into her handbag, and emerged with the empty wrappers. Slowly, she selected one, folded the other, and replaced it in her bag. She removed the gum from her mouth with her fingers and rolled it into the wrapper, using theatrical gestures.

  “Okay?” she asked.

  The judge resumed his seat, nodded to her, and called the attorneys to the bench.

  “Pompous ass,” Addie said, just loudly enough to prompt the judge to glance over at her. “I had him in third grade, and he was already a stuffy little brat. Now he’s a stuffy middle-aged man. But you know, I’m actually proud of him. He turned out okay.”

  “Does he know who you are?” Billie asked.

  “’Course he does! These tiny towns back here in the hills, we know each other all our lives. A lot of sorry folk back here, that’s for damn sure. He came out okay though.”

  The judge rapped his gavel once and glared at her. She shrugged and blew a discrete little kiss that made the lawyers laugh.

  “Is he a good judge?”

  Addie slipped the yarn along her needles and turned it to knit the next row. “Now I didn’t say that.”

  “For this case, I mean? Is he impartial?”

  “I didn’t say that either.”

  The room was packed when the hearing started with witnesses being called to testify about Dale and his business. Where he’d grown up, what his connections were, how far he’d risen in the walking horse world. Billie was aware that at some point the courtroom door opened for a latecomer. She turned to look and saw a man in a seersucker suit—his tie open at the neck, a black briefcase in his hand—enter and sit in front of Addie.

  “Who’s that?” Billie asked her.

  “No idea.”

  Witness followed witness, first detailing Dale’s alleged crime, establishing where it occurred, how it was discovered, what was discovered, alluding to an expert witness who would testify even more damningly about the condition of the horses in Dale’s barn.

  Eventually, the judge asked the bailiff to bring in the expert witness.

  “I’m already here, your honor.” The man seated in front of Addie rose.

  “Are you Dr. Michael Spearman, of National Chemical Forensics?”

  “I am.”

  “Dr. Spearman, you’re not allowed to be here.”

  “But sir—”

  “Before we began, I informed the attorneys that witnesses would not be permitted in this courtroom before they gave their testimony. That is to keep anyone from hearing someone else’s testimony and adjusting his or her own to match. Were you not aware of this rule?”

  “I wasn’t.”

  Addie stopped knitting, her attention fixed on the judge. “Ah, shit,” she murmured.

  “What’s going on?” Billie asked.

  Addie didn’t answer her.

  “Ladies and gentleman,” the judge addressed the room, “I regret that we have a mistrial. Mr. Thornton, you are free to go.”

  “What happened?” Billie asked as Addie rose.

  “Trial’s over.”

  “But why?”

  “You heard the judge.”

  “But why didn’t the witness know? Why didn’t someone tell him? The attorneys knew, right?”

  “Exactly.” Addie stuffed her knitting into her bag and headed for the door. “That’s the sixty-four-dollar question.”

  Billie jogged to keep up with her, brushing past Richard at the doorway. Briefly, she felt his hand on the small of her back. If anyone saw it, it wouldn’t look like anything, just two people passing in a close space. But it lit her up with memories of their lovemaking.

  The performers were gone from the lobby.

  Billie saw a reporter grab Richard’s arm. “Comment on the verdict? What do you think of what happened, Mr. Collier?”

  Richard pulled away and shoved through the throng, Billie in his wake.

  Where had they all come from? When she’d entered the courthouse ninety minutes ago, there had only been a few reporters. Now there were five times as many people pressing forward with microphones, iPads, and cell phones. Most of them obviously didn’t recognize him, but they shouted random questions at him anyway. Once he reached the far side, he turned and looked back. Billie’s eyes found his and he paused. Then he moved on.

  Reporters also mobbed Dale, who stood with his back to a wall, head held high, Eudora at his side.

  “Because I am innocent!” Billie heard him say.

  Outside, thunder cracked overhead, and rain battered the pavement. Billie looked around for Richard but couldn’t see him. Somewhere in the crowd, in the rain, she thought she glimpsed Charley’s grizzled head. When she looked again to make sure, he wasn’t there. She stepped off the sidewalk into a puddle. Water sloshed over the tops of her shoes, soaking her feet.

  She spotted Richard ducking into his truck and ran to him. Rivulets streamed down her forehead into her eyes. “Can we talk?”

  “Sure,” he said, as if he knew it was the wrong answer.

  She waited for him to offer her a dry spot in the truck. When he didn’t, she asked, “Where?”

  “Your motel?”

  Her pause was infinitesimal, trying to hide her relief. She told him which one.

  “Nine tonight okay for you?” he asked.

  “Sure,” she said.

  As suddenly as it had started, the downpour became a sprinkle, then stopped. A mosquito landed on her elbow. Another whined around her ear. She should have brought bug spray to the press conference. She had some in the car. She wondered if she had time to go get it. Something bit her on the back of her neck, and she swatted at it. Steam rose off puddles left from the downpour, puddles that reflected a huge sign advertising the horse show, and insects of all sizes and appetites zoomed through the sodden air.

  Just as she was about to return to her car to look for repellant, news vans pulled up. Most were from local stations and Nashville and Knoxville, followed by a trio sporting logos from ABC, CBS, and NBC. They were followed by a swarm of sedans and SUVs that parked among them, nosed in toward the curb. Reporters and video crews waded through the standing water to set up. There must be at least a couple dozen media types, she realized. She felt like a wallflower, standing alone to the side.

  “That’s him!” She recognized Dan Tiger, who anchored the 11 PM news.

  Richard got out of his truck and extended his hand. “Hey, Tiger!”

  There was a tense pause before Tiger took the proffered hand for a quick squeeze. “Surprised to see you here, Richard.”

  A young woman grabbed Richard by the elbow and moved him so he stood under the Big Show sign.

  “This is good,” she said. “Stay right here.”

  Billie moved in closer.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” she heard Tiger say.

  Richard gawked at him then a look of outrage overtook his surprise.

&nbs
p; “Don’t I remember your riding in this same arena a decade ago, Tiger? On that bay mare your father-in-law bred and raised, and that you trained. If I recall, you sored that horse all the way to a championship.”

  “You want to put us all out of business?” Tiger leaned in close, pulling on Richard’s shirt as if searching for a place to clip on a microphone. “You should keep your mouth shut or it might get shut for good.”

  He turned away before Richard could say anything, nearly bumping into Billie.

  “Get out of here!” he demanded.

  She flashed her press pass at him, and he shoved past her.

  Another woman, her face covered in a thick layer of makeup, stepped past Billie to Richard.

  “You ready?” she asked him. “Look at the camera. Just be natural. Three. Two. One…”

  The reporter positioned herself in front of him, faced into the camera, and said, “This is Sally Ann Wagner, here at the home of the upcoming Tennessee walking horse Big Show in Shelbyville, Tennessee to hear what a long-time trainer and owner of these beautiful animals has to say about the controversy over the means used to train them. As we speak, there is a group of horsemen walking—no riding!—on the Capitol in Washington, DC to bring attention to what is often referred to as ‘the plight of the walking horse.’”

  Billie caught a quick, subtle flinch in Richard’s eyes. She had resolved to change the title for her article when she learned how much he hated that phrase, clichéd from years of overuse.

  Unaware, Sally Ann continued. “The case against Hall of Fame trainer Dale Thornton has just been thrown out. Here, outside the courthouse, protesters have gathered. Animal rights activists and others claim that these horses are tortured to make them step high.

  “Today, we are here to talk to Richard Collier, whose family has been active in the walking horse industry for three generations. Mr. Collier and his family own, train, and show walking horses. In fact, Sylvie Collier, Mr. Collier’s daughter, is being touted as perhaps the next—and youngest ever—winner of the coveted world grand championship class.”

  The reporter stepped aside and turned to face Richard. “People within the walking horse industry claim that these complaints will ruin them and destroy their livelihood. They say there is no abuse involved, and the horses are loved and well cared for. Please tell us, Mr. Collier, your opinion of this controversy.”