The Magnum Equation

by Lisa Wysocky

  Back at our stalls, Ambrose’s evening replacement said he needed a bathroom break. While I waited for him to return, I called Darcy to tell her I had my truck and would drive back to the hotel on my own. Then I gave her another admonishment to stay with Melanie and Hunter as I filled the horses’ water buckets. After that, I don’t remember a thing.

  28

  I RARELY WAKE UP DISORIENTED, but when I opened my eyes I could not figure out where I was. It dawned on me first that I was not in my bed, either at home or in the motel. In fact, I wasn’t in any kind of bed at all. I knew that for sure, but that was about all my sluggish brain could understand.

  My arms and legs, I noticed idly, were sprawled every which way and I slowly rearranged them. Then I realized that wherever I was, it was quite dark. I looked around and saw stars and thought I might have banged my head. Then I realized that it really was stars that I was seeing. I was outside.

  But I wasn’t, really. I reached out and my hand touched a wall. A cool wall. Metal. I tried to sit up, but could not find anything solid beneath me. Every time I pushed with a hand or an elbow, my limb sunk as if I was in a large vat of pudding.

  I blinked and looked around again. I couldn’t tell how big my enclosure was, only that the walls were tall––much taller than I was. I rolled to my right, toward the wall my hand had touched. Maybe I could find a door, a handle, something to grasp so I could sit up. I hadn’t yet considered the possibility of standing.

  When I rolled, my face followed my body and fluid leaked into the right side of my mouth. Holy doo doo, I was in a huge pile of manure. And not just any pile, I was in one of the tall metal containers that show management used to dump all of the soiled bedding from the stalls.

  I remembered seeing the enormous tan bins. There were a dozen or so throughout the show grounds. Each was about seven feet tall, and maybe six feet wide and twelve long.

  As soon as I realized where I was, odor rolled into my brain like a tidal wave. I don’t know why I hadn’t smelled the acrid urine or the muddy poop earlier. I also hadn’t realized bugs were in here. Lots of bugs. Tiny gnats, large horse flies, and something that felt like––oh crap––worms. Panicked, I scrambled around trying to find a foothold so I could right myself. I must have looked like I was in the middle of a mud-wrestling match, except the only person I was fighting was myself.

  I spit urine-soaked shavings and manure out of my mouth and resisted the urge to gag. The poop actually didn’t taste bad, but the though of it in my mouth was gross. I had to get out of here. Anxiety rose and I began to hyperventilate as a memory rolled in of a horrible time in my childhood, a time after my mom passed away from breast cancer. I was nine and my father left me alone in our Chicago slum to go to a bar to drink.

  During the day it wasn’t so bad, but at night rats came and scurried over me. Ever since then I became panicked in the dark and to this day I slept with a nightlight. Agnes once told me that Thomas Edison, inventor of the light bulb, was afraid of the dark, too. If that was true, then I was in good company.

  I hated emergencies, especially dark ones. And, I knew if I didn’t do something soon I would faint. I counted to ten slowly so I could clear my mind, and by the time I got to five I had begun to breathe in and out as I counted. Better.

  Once I could think, I rolled closer to the wall and ended up on all fours. Then I leaned my left hip and shoulder against the wall and slid upward. That, too, was better, even though I was up to my thighs in wet shavings and horse apples.

  Next up: a way out. I began to explore my environment. Truth be told, the clogs I’d worn to the party were not the ideal shoes for this. Runny manure leaked in and made the soles of my feet slippery. I lost my left clog twice and twisted each ankle before I kicked them off. They were already ruined. No need to try to keep track of them.

  I inched my way around what I now knew was a cargo container with an open top. I knew that on one end of the outside there was a ladder, and I was hoping for the same inside. But no, not that I could find, and I was pretty sure I had inched my way along all four sides. In the process, I realized that the pile of poop was deeper on one end than it was at the other. I slid down a wall to a sitting position at the cleaner, dryer end.

  Time for more thought. Why had I ended up on the deeper end, which must have cushioned my fall? Was it by chance, or was it intentional? That thought led to another. How had I gotten here? The last thing I remembered was settling the horses in for the night. I assumed that I did not get here by myself. If that was true then someone––or possibly several someones–– had climbed up the ladder on the far end and tipped me over the edge. Surely I did not climb up and topple in all by myself.

  I thought about that for a while. If one person dumped me here it had to be a man. The ladder was narrow. There was not enough room for two people. No woman I knew, with the possible exception of Sloan Peters, could hoist me over a shoulder, climb the ladder and let me fall inside. Sloan was tall and fit. But was she strong enough? I was five-foot-six and weigh in at about a hundred thirty pounds. I lose weight during competitions, so subtract five pounds. Could Sloan have done it? Maybe.

  I next considered any woman who might have partnered with a man to cause me to be inside this gigantic horse potty. Judy Lansing I eliminated, because as far as I knew, Mike was still in the hospital. And if his injuries were as severe as everyone said, then his assistance would have been impossible. Annie? Not remotely possible, even with Tony. Especially with Tony. Debra Dudley, however, required consideration because of Zach. Could they have teamed up? I didn’t know.

  Nothing good came of additional speculation, so I moved on. Which of the many turd wagons was I in? There was no way to know. Even in the deep end I could not reach the top of the wall, no matter how high I reached. I was hip deep in doodie there and could see nothing but up.

  I stood, raised my eyes and began to move around the edges of the container. I even cut into the center, still looking upward. I hoped to see the edge of a building, a change in lighting–– something that might indicate where I was. All my cut into the center did was bring about a fall and give me another view of the same starry sky.

  As the Irish would say, I was in “deep shite.” I was covered with wet shavings and watery manure from my hair to my toes. Maybe I could try out for a job as Swamp Thing. Probably, if I ever got out of here, I would smell for days.

  Last February, Hank urinated into the floor grate of my furnace. My house immediately filled with mutant urine vapor and I could tell from the reaction of people around me that I, too, smelled. That went on for most of a week, so I had no doubt that this smell would linger, too.

  Then a horrible possibility struck me. What if I was off the show grounds? What if the bin had been moved to a dump or an abandoned yard? No. Whoever was involved would need special equipment to move the container. There was only one person I knew who could do that, or cause it to be done. Noah.

  I wanted to cry but would not let myself. Instead, I put on my practical thinking cap, just as Mrs. Sidnam, my kindergarten teacher, had taught me. Sooner or later morning would come. In the meantime, if I banged on the metal container it might make a loud noise. I rolled from the center, where I had fallen, to the side and tapped my fist on the wall. Nothing. I banged harder. There was a little noise, but not nearly what I had hoped for. The thickness of the metal combined with the heavy, wet shavings and horse poo muffled the sound.

  No one had ever called me quiet, though. I had a good voice so I tried it out.

  “Help! Help!”

  There was an echo, and maybe a little amplification from the metal walls. I tried again.

  “Help!”

  Nothing. But, I looked up and realized the sky was starting to lighten. Eventually morning would come and with it the business of show ground activity. With luck, I could attract someone’s attention.

  There was nothing else to do, so I sat down in a corner and tried not to think about poop.

  I m
ust have dozed off. When I next opened my eyes the sky was gray with dawn and I could see the tan outline of my poop coop. I closed my eyes again, hoping I’d just had a bad dream. But no, I was still trapped inside. In frustration, I banged my fist on the wall and, ouch, regretted it almost instantly. Maybe I was a little too frustrated.

  I held my now throbbing hand to my chest and two tears fell. I sniffed back the rest but the worst thing about that was there was nothing to wipe my snotty nose on. My clothes were gooey with manure and there wasn’t a handy box of Kleenex anywhere in sight.

  Sight. I could actually see! The sky was getting lighter by the minute and I hoped it would not be long before I was rescued. I could do with a shower.

  Now that I could see the tall sides of my prison another thought came. Maybe I could rock the container to tip it over. I tried, but my best efforts couldn’t generate the smallest wiggle, even when I sloshed as fast as I could from one side of the container and banged as hard as I could into the other. All I received for that attempt was a very sore shoulder and the knowledge that running through knee-deep poop was akin to running underwater.

  Then I perked up. I heard something. Maybe. Yes! It was the distant sound of a shod horse clip clopping on pavement. At least I now knew I was still on the grounds. I listened more closely. A horse person can tell a lot from the sound of a horse’s foot falls, especially when the stride is magnified by the combination of horse shoes and blacktop or cement. I could tell that this horse was at the walk, had no signs of lameness in his or her gait, and best of all, was coming toward me.

  I began to yell.

  “Help! Please! Help!”

  I stopped to listen. The horse’s clopping had stopped. Oh, no. I hoped the leader or rider had not turned off onto a grassy area and were now moving away. I tried again.

  “Help! I’m in the manure bin!”

  I banged on the wall with both of my fists as I yelled. It hurt my sore hand but I kept on, even though the noise from my banging wasn’t much. Maybe it would help.

  “Hello?” called woman’s voice. Not mine.

  “Help,” I cried again. “Please, help me get out of here.”

  The rhythmic sound of clopping started again, then became jumbled.

  “Stop banging, you’re scaring my horse,” called the voice.

  I stopped and the clopping started again, much nearer now. Then the sound stopped again.

  “What on earth?”

  I looked up to see Sloan Peters peeking over the top of my prison. She must be sitting on a gigantic horse, but then again, many Dressage horses were quite tall.

  “Sloan! Thank God,” I cried. “Please, help me out of here.”

  “Cat Enright? Is that you?”

  “Yes! Please find Noah Gregory, or go to my stalls and get Jon, my assistant. I have to get out of here.”

  She disappeared for a second and I thought I’d lost her. Then I heard footsteps on the ladder outside.

  “How did you get in there?” she asked.

  I could see her almost from her waist up. She was peering at me from above the deeper end of the poop pile.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I woke up and here I was.”

  “Wow, were you drinking?

  “No. We can talk later, Sloan. I need to get out of here.”

  “I can see that,” she said. “Hang on.”

  Sloan pulled out a cell phone, dialed it, then spoke in Spanish to whoever was on the other end. The only thing I understood was, “Pronto.”

  “I’ll be right back,” she said to me. “Don’t go away.”

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at her words.

  “Sloan!” I called. What if she left me here? What if she was the one who had dumped me in?

  “No worries,” called Sloan. “My groom, Miguel, is on his way.”

  And sure enough, I soon heard the slap of human footsteps on the pavement. By the sound and frequency of the footsteps, Miguel must be running.

  Sloan climbed back up the ladder, higher this time, then leaned over. “Grab my wrists,” she said.

  I looked at her, unsure.

  “Grab my wrists, Cat, like in a fireman’s hold. I’ll grasp your wrists and pull, then you can walk your feet up the wall.”

  I was untrusting of her, but had no other option. I was also dubious that her plan would work. But, I grabbed anyway and she pulled. Our first attempt did not go well. My hands and wrists were so slimy that neither of us could maintain the grasp and I plopped back into the pit.

  “Cat?” Sloan called after a minute. “Miguel has a towel. I’ve wiped my hands and now I’m going to throw it down to you.”

  She was smart to wipe first. After I got through with it, it would be of no use to either of us. I wiped, then wrapped the towel around my waist. Least I could do was return it to her.

  Our second try was better. Supported by Sloan and the security of our interlocked hands, I inched my way up the wall. The only hiccup came when Sloan needed to take a step down to a lower rung. Our balance shifted and for a moment I was sure I’d plunge head first to the pavement below, but I didn’t. Sloan kept pulling, and before I knew it, I was teetering on the top edge. It must have been all of three inches across.

  “Hold up,” said Sloan. “Let me go down one more rung, then you can swing your leg over.”

  I waited, then swung, and Sloan guided my feet onto the ladder. When I was finally on the ground all I wanted to do was hug her.

  “Ah, not now, Cat,” she said eying me. “I was happy to help, though. Do you need Miguel to take you back to your stalls?”

  I looked around in an effort to orient myself. I was on the far rear side of the show facility, next to a series of tall bins on a paved track that was rarely used by anyone other than show management. My initial instinct was to refuse Sloan’s offer of Miguel, then I considered my state of sliminess and thought it might be a good idea to have a very human-looking escort.

  “Good, then,” she said as Miguel gave her a leg up onto her horse, a huge bay Warmblood gelding.

  “Uh, Sloan?” I said as she prepared to ride off.

  She gave me a questioning look.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Just … thanks.”

  She smiled, turned her gelding, and rode away.

  29

  MIGUEL AND I ARRIVED AT the barn to find Jon up and filling water buckets. I can only imagine what Jon thought when he realized it was me underneath all the wet horse dung. Unlike Sloan, however, Jon didn’t shy away from a poop-covered hug. He wrapped his arms around me while I heard him thank Miguel in his own language. I didn’t even know that Jon spoke Spanish.

  Jon, of course, had many questions. I filled him in on the basics, then asked him to defer the rest until after I got a shower.

  “No. Cat, I know how badly you must want to get clean,” he said. “But you have to report this to the police first.”

  “But––”

  “No buts. This sounds like another attempt on your life and you might be carrying evidence under all that … ah, slime.

  “Don’t forget the urine soaked shavings,” I said, pulling some out of my hair.

  “Never,” said Jon, then we both broke into laughter.

  I went into the tack room while Jon first called Noah, then the police. It was good timing, as Noah had been smack in the middle of a meeting with two detectives in the show office. Like Miguel, Noah arrived pronto, and had a female plain clothed detective and her younger male partner in tow. It was the first time I’d seen either of them. I explained what had happened, including the fact that Sloan Peters assumed I was drunk.

  The two detectives looked at each other. “You don’t still have one of the cups you were drinking from last night, do you?” the female detective asked. I squinted through the manure that was stuck to my eyelashes. DETECTIVE P. REY.

  I looked around. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” I really could not remember.

  The detective looked at her partner, w
ho had been talking on a cell phone. He nodded. The upshot was that they wanted to transport me to the local medical center to get blood and urine samples, and to get a once over from a doctor. They would also take samples of the poop and shavings.

  “You think I was drugged, don’t you?” I asked.

  “It’s one possibility,” Detective Rey said.

  “There are others?”

  She looked at her partner again, then at Jon, Noah, and me. “We’re aware of what happened to your truck. Is it possible,” she asked, “that you were the one who damaged your brakes?”

  I stared at her openmouthed before Jon and Noah both began to protest at once.

  “Stop,” I said to them both. “I’ll go with you,” I said to the detective, “just to prove you are wrong. But I have classes today. It is my job, my livelihood, to compete, so I hope you can speed things along so I can get back here and not disappoint the owners of my horses.

  “Jon,” I continued, “can you and Darcy get Sally, Reddi, and Petey prepped? Ask Darcy to get my saddle seat suits, my habits, from my hotel room. I gave her my extra key. There are two habits in the closet in a green clothes bag marked Thursday.”

  I had never been more aware how important organization was during a show. I was so glad that I had sorted each show outfit into a hanging bag before I left home. That way nothing was left to chance, and if I ran short of time, as might be the case today, I had everything I needed in one place.

  Then I turned to Detective Rey. “Do you want to put a tarp down in your car before I get in? I might stain your seats if you don’t.”

  The younger detective pulled a tarp from the trunk of their unmarked car and I left with them. All of a sudden I felt exhausted. So much so that I almost fell asleep on the ten-minute ride to the medical center. I tried to calculate how much sleep I’d had the night before and gave up. I just couldn’t remember.

  The detectives hustled me in and I was scraped for samples, then gave blood and urine. I first saw an ER doc who asked all the questions a doctor asks if he suspects a patient has a concussion. Then I saw a psych doctor who was the first medical person to seem concerned that I had no memory of last night. After all of that I was finally cleared for a shower. It all happened quite quickly. I’d like to think the detectives fast tracked me because of my classes that day, but it is more likely that the hospital staff did it so I wouldn’t continue to smell up their nice facility.