He hesitates, then says, “No.”
“Bullshit,” I say, sounding as angry as I can. But I’m not angry. I’m satisfied to have gotten under his skin.
“You’ve murdered six girls. Is that or is that not correct, and do not forget that this Colt Python is inches away from your face.”
“How did you know?”
I lean forward and speak softly. “I know a lot of things, Jerry.”
Five Years Ago
THE GIRL TOLD HER FAMILY to wait in the stands. Her three grandparents, her parents, the boy, and his mother, all of them are hidden away inside the giant recesses of the Jim Norick Arena. She wanted to warm up alone, free of distraction, free from watching eyes, and most importantly, free of the burden of managing their expectations. Right now it’s time for her to manage her own.
As she lopes her horse around the exercise ring, she is surrounded by professionals. She recognizes their faces from her American Quarter Horse journals. Those who live in her region are familiar. But most she’s never seen before, and some of them are painfully famous.
The girl shows her horse in a class called Ranch Pleasure, a hybrid between the working cow horse and the show horse classes. She was drawn to it because it rewards athleticism as well as a sense of showmanship. At World’s, there’s only one division. Meaning, as a twelve-year-old amateur, she must compete against the most accomplished pros in the game, almost all of them middle-aged men. They wear no-frills cowboy attire, and their tack is stripped down. Silver and flash is frowned upon in this competition, but the girl wears a tight-fitting bright pink shirt. She hates pink, but it looks good against her horse’s dark coat, and she likes how it flaunts her size, age, and gender. In this setting bright pink works as a giant middle finger, and that’s an attitude the girl can get behind.
Eyeballing her competition, she sees a few are struggling, their horses acting up in the cool night air. It’s blood in the water. The more she observes, the more confident she becomes that she can manage a top-ten finish. It’s a satisfying thought, placing ahead of these people who don’t even know who she is, let alone consider her a threat.
A realist, she knows how political horse shows are. But a top-ten finish is conceivable, and it would put the family farm on the map, bringing in the big-money clients her mother needs. She doesn’t realize it, but she’s -hoping again.
The ring steward calls her number, letting her know she’s on deck. She gives the woman a tight nod. A flutter of nerves in her belly radiates out through her body. It’s been a long time since she felt nervous like this.
She makes her horse walk, keeping his muscles warm and her own body moving. Gazing into the night, she’s not seeing anything but the pattern she’ll perform in a few short minutes.
Then a familiar silhouette cuts across her line of sight.
The boy walks out of the darkness, up to the ring.
She faces down a swarm of competing feelings. Resentment he didn’t obey her command to stay in the stands, gratitude to see a friend just as her nerves hit, and an odd, new pull she’s not sure what to do with.
None of this comes to the surface. Instead, she says, “Hey.”
He puts a foot up on the bottom rail, looking far too old to be the age he is. “There’s something I want to tell you.”
Another round of butterflies takes flight. He sounds so serious, she’s worried he has bad news. “What?”
“Whatever is meant to be, will be.”
There is a gravitas about him that shuts the girl up. She leans forward in the saddle, not wanting to miss a word. There is a smell of prophecy in the air.
“There is only one thing you can control right now and that’s you. The rest of it is in God’s hands. If he wants you to win this class, Ruthie, then you will win this class. If he doesn’t, you won’t. The only thing you need to focus on is riding Tucker just like you’ve been riding him. You stay in your zone, don’t even look at the crowd, don’t worry about the outcome.”
Protests rise up into her mouth. The idea of winning the whole thing is preposterous. The idea of not thinking about the outcome is almost impossible. Before she can speak, he continues.
“I know how much pressure they put on you, Ruthie. But God loves you just the way you are. You don’t need to prove anything to him, and you don’t need to prove anything to me.”
The protests turn into a lump in her throat.
The ring steward has returned. “Ruth Carver? You’re next.”
The boy reaches through the rails and puts his hand on her leg. “Now go in there and show ’em what you and that big black horse can do.”
She laughs. “Kick some ass?”
“Damn straight.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN