Dark Horse (A Jim Knighthorse Novel) (10 page)

I went through all of the pictures, my heart
heavy and sad. I never recovered from her loss. Mother’s Day is
hell on me, and I often go into seclusion. How does one replace a
mother’s love? I lived briefly with an aunt and uncle and they did
their best to give me love and attention, but it wasn’t the
same.

So what else was in the pictures?

What was I missing? What had my father seen
that I was missing? Of course, the fact that he had seen it with no
prompting was an irritating thought at best.

I went through the pictures again and again,
almost setting them aside. Then I found it, and my mouth went
immediately dry.

I carefully removed the three photographs and
placed them in chronological order on the desktop before me. I
noticed my hands were shaking. I linked my fingers together to stop
the shaking. I’m not sure it worked.

The first in the series of three pictures was
of my parents and the two young men with the sand shark. In the
second, my mother was alone and waving to the camera, all smiles,
enjoying my father’s company for the first time in a long time.
Beyond her and up the pier a ways, the two young men with the sand
shark were walking away. The brunette dangled the shark over one
shoulder, while the bleached blond was looking back toward my
mother. The third picture had been near the bottom of the stack,
thus near the end of the roll of film, and thus near the end of
their day. In that one, my parents were in a souvenir shop in
Huntington Beach. The shop was still here to this day. My father
had on a goofy baseball cap with a big piece of dog crap on the
bill—the hat said Shit Happens—while my mother was wearing a
colorful straw hat. They were holding each other tight. Behind them
was a young man with bleached blond hair. He was watching them,
alone this time, about three rows back. He was not smiling, and he
did not look too happy.

If I had to guess, I would say he was
stalking them.

26.

The sun had set and the ocean was black and
eternal. We were running along the hard-packed sand, passing
cuddling lovers who really ought to have gotten a room. There was a
dog loose on the beach and I called it over. It followed us
briefly, then veered off to chase a hot dog wrapper skimming over
the sand. It was humbling to know that we were less interesting
than trash.

“So how are you holding up?” Cindy asked. Her
breathing was easy and smooth. She kept pace with me stride for
stride.

“My leg?” I asked.

“That and the news about your mother.”

“Well, running on sand is a good thing, easy
on the leg. As far as my mother,” I paused, shrugging. Because I
was wearing a nylon coach’s jacket, I doubted Cindy could see me
shrug, especially in the dark. “I don’t know. All I have are a
series of pictures featuring a young man who seemed to have taken
an inordinate amount of interest in my parents.”

“On the day she was murdered.”

“Yes.”

We were running along an empty stretch of
sand now, no lovers or wandering dogs. We were alone with the
crashing waves and the black sky. The moon was nowhere to be found;
then again, I wasn’t looking very hard for it.

“Why did your father give you the pictures
now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was he keeping them from you for any
reason?”

“I don’t know.”

I was favoring my bad leg, but that was
nothing new. Based on the angle and depth of my shoeprints in the
sand, a good detective could probably deduce that I had once broken
my right leg.

“So what are you going to?”

“There’s only one thing to do.”

“You’re going to look into your mother’s
murder.”

I nodded. “It’s something I have always known
I would do.”

“But you weren’t ready yet.”

“No.”

“Are you ready now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Has your father looked into her murder?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “We have never
discussed it.”

“I think, maybe, it’s time that you do.”

27.

I was alone in my car overlooking the ocean.
I was in a turn-off above the Pacific Coast Highway. Below me was a
straight drop of about five hundred feet. My engine was
running.

With no leads, my mother’s case had been
closed. It seemed like another random killing. There had been no
sign of sexual trauma, and there were no fingerprints, or blood,
other than my mother’s. My mother had no known enemies. The only
person on the face of the earth that even remotely resented her was
my own father. The source of his resentment was me, of course, but
we had been together at the time of her murder.

My mother had no family. No brothers or
sisters, and both parents were dead. She had only a handful of
acquaintances in our neighborhood. In all reality, I was her only
family, her only friend, her one true love.

She used to call me her little angel.

I gripped the steering wheel. The leather
groaned in my hands. I could hear the blood pounding in my skull. I
fought to control my breathing.

After her funeral, she had been all but
forgotten. By the police, by her friends, the media, and even her
own lackluster husband. She had been forgotten by everyone accept
me.

I care that you were killed. I care that
someone stole your life and cut your throat and hurt you so very
badly. I care that you were taken from this earth before your time.
I care that you felt the fear of death, the pain of the knife, the
hot breath of your killer on your neck. You have not been
forgotten, and your little angel is not so little any more.

This was going to take time, I knew. The case
was cold. I would investigate it on the side, around my paying
work. There was no reason to rush. It’s been twenty years, and no
one was going anywhere.

28.

The next morning, Sanchez and I were at Cal
State Fullerton’s defunct football field. The school had spent
millions on a fashionable new stadium, hoping to lure big name
schools to compete against their smaller program, and then
mysteriously decided to pull the plug on football altogether a year
later. I sensed a conspiracy.

Still, the bleachers were massive and made
for an invigorating stadium workout. It was also hell on my leg.
The pain was relentless and disheartening. I was accustomed to my
body working through kinks of pain. But this was no kink. This was
a pain that encompassed the entire leg. It was a pain that
registered in my brain as something very wrong, and that perhaps I
should stop doing stadiums.

I didn’t stop.

I was determined.

Football is all about learning how to live
and deal with the pain. Football was in my blood. My father played
in college, but he was too small for the pros. I am not too small.
I am just right.

Sanchez followed me as we wended our way up
and down the narrow concrete stairways between the bleachers. We
had been doing this steadily now for thirty-two minutes. I was
soaked to the bone. Sanchez had a minor sweat ring around his shirt
collar.

The man was a camel.

At thirty-five minutes, my target time, I
stopped at the top of the bleachers, gasping for air. Sanchez
pulled up next to me, gasping, I was pleased to hear, even
louder.

“You need a respirator?” I asked.

“You need a towel?”

We both had our hands on our hips, both
wheezing. I had done perhaps ten minutes more than my leg could
handle. It was throbbing alarmingly. I tried to ignore it.

We had a great view of Cal State Fullerton’s
sports complex. I could see the baseball field, built by Kevin
Costner, an alumnus of Cal State Fullerton and a hell of a fan and
athlete in his own right. Baseball was this little-known
university’s pride and joy, having won three national
championships.

Baseball wasn’t a bad sport.

It just wasn’t football.

I told Sanchez about Dick Peterson and his
daughters. For now, I left news about my mother to myself.

“So you want me to bust this guy?” asked
Sanchez when he finally found his wind. “Dick who’s-this.”

“That would make it worse,” I said. “He’ll
just come back more angry than ever.”

“You think he could have killed his own
daughter?”

I shrugged. “Anyone who terrifies the
youngest one to the point she loses control of her bladder might be
capable of doing anything. But he didn’t kill her. He was with his
wife; they were eating dinner together at the time of the
murder.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Talk with the older daughter. Confirm my
suspicions.”

“And then what?”

The pain in my leg did not subside. It was a
constant force. A reminder of what I had lost. But I decided to
view it as my one and only obstacle to achieving my goal. It was
the only thing standing in my way to becoming what I most wanted.
At least, I thought it was what I most wanted. Sometimes the pain
made me waver. I hated wavering.

“I will convince him to stop his nefarious
ways,” I said.

“Nefarious,” said Sanchez. “Shit. You’ve been
reading too much.”

We walked down the bleachers. I could have
used a handrail, to be honest.

Sanchez said, “You sure this is all worth
it?”

“Yes.”

“You’re in pain.”

“I thought I could hide the pain.”

“No one’s that good of an actor.”

We reached the clay track that surrounded the
football field. We were completely alone this morning.

“Why is all this shit you’re putting yourself
through worth it?”

The morning was still and cool. Steam rose
from our bodies. In the distance, on another field, I could see the
university’s soccer team stretching together.

“It’s something left unfinished,” I said.

“Maybe some things are meant to be left
unfinished.”

I thought about that, and had no answer.

29.

After the stadiums I headed straight to 24
Hour Fitness and soaked in their Jacuzzi for half an hour. Now, I
was in my office and the pain in my leg was down to a dull throb. I
could almost ignore the pain. Almost.

Although my office is in Huntington Beach,
it’s inland and in a tough area. I fit in nicely here. I grew up in
Inglewood, the only white kid in an all black neighborhood, as was
my story through elementary school and junior high. It wasn’t until
I was in high school that I was no longer the only white student.
There were five white students at East Inglewood High.

Anyway, I’m at home in tough neighborhoods.
Plus the rent’s cheaper here.

I sat down in my leather chair and opened a
bag of donuts. An NFL fullback weighed anywhere from
two-twenty-five to two-fifty. Just to hit the minimum weight I
still had to gain another ten pounds. Ideally the weight is added
on as muscle and not fat. Well, I had plenty of muscle. I never
stopped lifting weights, even for a single day. Except when I was
sick, which is different. Your body deserves to rest when sick.

There were five donuts in the bag. I just
couldn’t bring myself to eat a half dozen. I started on them with a
half gallon of whole milk in hand to wash them down. By the third
chocolate long john I was beginning to notice a rank smell from
within my office. By the time I finished the donuts, the stench was
getting worse and I was sure something had died in my office.

I opened a window.

The last thing I wanted to do was disgorge
all the precious fat calories I had just consumed. I inhaled some
fresh air. My office was on the third floor of a professional
building filled with accountants and insurance agents and even a
used bookstore that I often perused.

When I was sure I would not launch my donuts
into the parking lot below, I turned back into my office,
determined to find the source of the stink.

Maybe a possum had died between the walls.
Christ, that was going to be a bitch if that were so.

I sniffed away until I found myself back at
my desk. Perhaps under? I looked under. Nothing.

I opened my top drawer—and stepped back.

It was there in my drawer. A cat. It had not
died of natural causes. No, it had been cut neatly in half, just
under the rib cage. A black cat with a cute little blue bell around
its neck. Paws were thrown up over its head, like a referee giving
the touchdown signal. Its eyes were wide, and it appeared devoid of
blood. Just skin, fur and bones.

Tinker Bell.

A piece of greasy paper, stained with ichor
and other bodily fluids, was neatly folded and shoved into its
chest cavity. I extracted it carefully, and unfolded it. There were
just three words on the note:

Last warning,

Meow.

And that’s when my fax machine turned on,
startling me. Shaken, I got up, leaving the severed cat where it
lay in my drawer. The fax was from Cindy. It was a short list of
three names, all of them A. Petersons from UCI. Their class
schedules were included. The last faxed page was a photocopy of
Cindy’s small palm pressed down against the glass of the copy
machine. Written below her palm were the words: I like your
touch.

I needed that.

30.

I went to Huntington High in search for
clues. That is, after all, what detective do. In particular I went
searching for someone, anyone, who might be able to corroborate
Derrick’s story.

It was almost 7:00 p.m., about the time
Amanda had been murdered. I wanted to see what kind of staff was on
hand at the witching hour.

I cruised through the faculty parking lot,
which ran along the west side of the school. It was nearly empty,
just six vehicles in total. The student parking lot was fuller, but
that could be the result of the outdoor basketball courts and
tennis courts that were nearby. The days were longer now than when
Amanda was murdered two months ago, so I expected to see more
activity in and around the school.