Dark Horse (A Jim Knighthorse Novel) (11 page)

At the moment, the sun was just setting, and
much of the school was in shadow. Outdoor lights, many of them
flickering chaotically, were perched along the upper corners of the
many buildings. A security truck was parked in the visitor’s
parking lot near the main entrance. There was someone inside, a
large black man, talking on a cell phone. Huntington High was one
of the few schools in the area that did not lock down their campus
at night, trusting instead to a few tough-looking security
guards.

I parked three spaces from the truck, and so
that I was official, I clipped my visitor badge to the pocket of my
T-shirt. As I stepped out of my car, I had the full attention of
the security guard by now. He leaned out the driver’s side window
and beckoned me toward him. I showed him the visitor’s badge by
sticking out my considerable chest. Perhaps too impressed for words
by the size of my chest, he simply nodded once and leaned back in
his front seat.

I headed up to the school along a wide
concrete path. The main hall was deserted. My sneakers echoed dully
off the many lockers. Further along I heard whistling from
somewhere. Had I been a puppy dog, my ears would have shot forward,
twitching nervously. Unfortunately I wasn’t a puppy dog, though
certainly as cute, and did my human best to zero in on the
sound.

I turned a corner and came to a bathroom. A
girl’s bathroom.

A janitor’s cart was parked out front, filled
with cleaners and rags and brooms. Draped over a broom handle was a
sweat-stained Anaheim Angel’s baseball cap. The whistler was
whistling something I did not recognize, although it sounded sort
of mournful. Something you might hear on death row, perhaps.

White light issued from that most hallowed of
places: the girl’s bathroom, where periods were discovered,
cigarettes smoked and boys gossiped about. At least hallowed to the
minds and considerable imaginations of high school boys.

I rapped loudly on the open door.

The whistling stopped. A man’s head jerked
around the corner of one of the stalls, eyes wide with alarm, as if
he had been caught doing something. Whatever it was he was doing, I
didn’t want to know. He was Hispanic, dark complexion, wide brown
eyes. Perhaps forty-five. His forehead glistened with sweat.

“Hi,” I said, ever the friendly stranger.

He said nothing. His sewn-on name badge said
Mario.

“Do you speak English, Mario?”

He nodded. I held up my badge proclaiming me
as an official visitor. He relaxed a little. I stepped into the
bathroom and he flinched. I handed him one of my cards, holding it
before him, until he finally tore his gaze off me and took the
card. He looked at it carefully.

“Nice picture, huh?” I said. I turned my head
to the right and gave him the same smile that was on the card.

“You...you a private detective?” he said in
strangled English.

“The very best this side of the Mississippi.
Just don’t tell my pop that. He hates competition.”

He looked at me expressionlessly.

“Never mind,” I said. “Can I ask you a few
questions?”

He shrugged, which was the correct response
if my question was taken literally. I dunno, his shrug seemed to
say, can you ask me a question?

“Much work to do,” he said.

“I bet.”

I reached inside my pocket and gave him a
hundred dollar bill. He took it without realizing what he was
reaching for. Then he shook his head vigorously and tried to give
it back.

“Keep it,” I said.

“No, señor.”

He thrust it back into my pocket. Sometimes
money talks, sometimes it doesn’t. I asked, “Were you here on the
night Amanda Peterson was murdered?”

He blinked up at me. Whether or not he
understood I didn’t know.

I forged bravely ahead. “On the night Amanda
Peterson was murdered, could you verify whether or not Derrick
Booker was in the school’s weight room?”

He said nothing. Sweat had broken out on his
brow. He was looking increasingly troubled. “Please, señor. I know
nothing.” His voice was pleading, filled with panic.

I studied him, watching his agitated body
movements, and on a hunch I asked, “Has someone else been here to
speak with you?” I asked. “An older man, perhaps? Gray hair, an
earring.” I gestured to my ear. “A golden hoop?”

He was gasping for breath. “Please, señor. He
scare my family.”

Bingo. I walked over to him and took my card
from his trembling hands and placed it carefully in his overall’s
pocket at his chest.

“I’m going to take care of him, Mario. I
promise.”

He said nothing. We stared at each other. His
eyes were wide and white.

The hitman had come to see him. Warned him to
shut up. Threatened his family. No wonder Mario was terrified.

“It’s going to be alright, Mario. No one’s
going to hurt you or your family.”

He said nothing more.

I left the way I had come.

31.

The day was bright and there was a chill to
the air, but that did not stop eighty-three percent of the female
college students at UCI from wearing tiny shorts and cut-off
T-shirts that revealed many pierced belly buttons.

I had already tried one of the classrooms,
using the schedule Cindy had faxed me, but I did not see a single
young lady who looked like the framed picture on the Peterson’s
mantle.

Now I was standing outside a classroom in the
Humanities building. I was on the seventh floor and had a great
shot of what the students here called Middle Earth, a beautiful
central park located within the campus.

One of the problems I was running into were
that many of the girls could have been A. Peterson. Hell, most of
them were cute with dark hair.

“Excuse me,” said a voice behind me.

I turned away from the window. I saw that the
class across the hall had just let out, and I had already missed a
few faces. Damn. But standing in front of me was clearly A.
Peterson. Cute face, cute button nose. But the cuteness ended
there. Everything else about the girl was anything but cute.

“Miss Peterson?”

She nodded, frowning. “Are you the private
investigator that came to see my mom?”

She looked haunted. No. She was haunted. Her
pale eyes were empty, troubled and suspicious. A heavy backpack
weighed her down, and she was hunched forward to support some of
the weight. Her arms were crossed in front of her, her hands
holding her bony shoulders. Her hair was dyed pitch black, skin
pale and milky. She had a nose, tongue and brow ring. Had she
decided to wear make-up, she would have been able to cover the dark
rings around her eyes.

“How did you know me?” I asked.

“My mom described you. She called me last
night. Said a tall muscular man with a full head of blond hair and
a tattoo of a black horse on his forearm had come to see her about
Amanda.” Her voice was soft and wispy. I strained to listen to
her.

“And I fit the description?”

She looked at my crossed arms. The black
horse, shooting steam from its nostrils, was clear on my left
forearm.

“Plus,” she said, “You’re packing heat.”

She pointed to the bulge under my left
armpit. I was leaning against the wall in such a way that the bulge
was evident to those who knew where to look.

“You would make a hell of an investigator,” I
said.

“Investigative journalism is my major.”

“I couldn’t think of a more fitting job,” I
said. “What’s your name?”

“Annette,” she said.

“Ah,” I said.

“And you found my classroom, so you’re not so
bad yourself.” She might have grinned, but she had probably
forgotten how.

“Glad I have your vote of confidence.”

“I assume you’re here to talk with me about
my sister?”

“Yes,” I said. “That and more. Is there
somewhere we can have privacy?”

32.

We were in Middle Earth, surrounded by oaks
and pines and a lot of rolling green hills. Students with laptops
were banging away under trees nearby. Other students were soaking
in the sun, and too few were making out. There was one couple,
however, going at it like minks. Good for them. College at its
best.

We were sitting on the grass. My back was up
against the trunk of a gnarled ash tree, and Annette was leaning
against her massive backpack which was filled to overflowing.

“Are you a senior?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you live at home?”

She shook her head vehemently. “I needed to
get away. Far away. But I couldn’t leave mother and my sisters. So
I compromised with my mother. I live in a dorm here at UCI, and my
sisters and mother can come visit me anytime.”

I said, “Your father is abusive.” It wasn’t a
question.

“Do you know where my mom called me from last
night?”

I had a sinking feeling. “The hospital.”

She nodded. “You are good. Two broken ribs
and a broken nose. Said she fell down the stairs. We don’t have
fucking stairs.”

“Shit.”

“Shit is right. The man is a goddamn animal
and I have hated him my entire life.”

“He abuse you?”

“Often.”

“Sexually?”

“No. Not me. I wouldn’t let him. I fought
him. So he settled on beating the shit out of me. Broke my arm
twice. In the same fucking place. Loves to grab it and shake until
something snaps.”

“Were your sisters sexually abused?”

“I think so, and I’m pretty sure little
Alyssa is getting the worst of it now, especially now that she’s
alone with him.”

“Has your mother ever tried to leave?”

“No. He tells her he will kill her and her
daughters. Classic shit. She’s terrified of him.”

“Has anyone ever gone to the police? Have any
teachers ever noticed the bruises, questioned your broken
arms?”

“The answer is no. Father is an assemblyman
for the county. He can have anyone’s job. He knows it and they know
it. Our plight has been ignored.”

“Plight,” I said, grinning at her. “You must
be a writer.”

“Someday soon I hope to even make money at
it.”

“Would you like your father to stop the
abuse?”

“Of course. Stupid fucking question.” She
leaned forward, hands flat in the grass. Not surprisingly, her
nails were unpainted. “Are you going to stop him?”

I shrugged. “I could give a shit if he’s an
assemblyman. I work for myself. I could make most men on this earth
bend to my will.”

She actually laughed and clapped, and that
pretty much made my day. She said, “That’s such a funny way to
describe that you are going to royally kick his ass.”

“Royally.”

“He’s a big guy,” she said. “But you’re
bigger.”

“I’m bigger than most. And if I happen to
break his arm in the process?”

Her gaze hardened. “Tell him it was from
me.”

A Frisbee landed next to us. I flicked it
back to an embarrassed young lady. She caught it neatly with one
hand and dashed off.

“One more thing,” I said. “Do you know why
Amanda quit her school band?”

“Because the band director was a creep.”

“How do you know?”

“He made a pass at her,” she said.

“What did she do about it?”

“Told him to leave her alone.”

“I assume he didn’t.”

“No.”

“And then she quit?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Did she often confide in you?” I asked.

She looked away. “Yeah, we were close.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“So am I.”

I gave her one of my cards, and she looked at
it.

“Nice picture, Mr. Knighthorse,” she
said.

“I know.”

33.

It was early morning and the crowd in
McDonald’s consisted mostly of old men in tan shorts, white tee
shirts and running shoes. Most didn’t look like they did much
running.

I was eating a Big Breakfast with Jack at the
back of the restaurant. He was sipping his lukewarm black coffee
and looking very ungodlike in his bum outfit. Then again, according
to him, this is how I expected him to look.

“So who’s running the universe if you’re down
here with me?”

“I can be in many places.”

“Convenient,” I said. “Must make waiting in
line for Zeppelin tickets a breeze.”

“And makes doing chores a snap.”

“Was that a joke?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“God jokes?”

“Who do you think invented humor?”

“The devil?” I asked.

“There is no devil, you know that.”

“I know that because you told me there’s no
devil. I’m still not convinced.”

The man in front of me shrugged and sipped
his coffee. I’ve noticed that Jack often didn’t care if I believed
him or not. I found that interesting and a little
disconcerting.

“Prove to me you’re God.”

“Prove I’m not.”

“Touché,” I said. “What’s the square root of
one million?”

“Do you know?”

“No,” I said. “But I will later.”

“Then ask me later.”

“Fine,” I said. “Perform a miracle. A real
miracle.”

“Like turning coffee into wine?”

“Yes. That. Or beer. Turn it into ice cold
beer and let me drink it.”

“You sound like an alcoholic, Jim.”

“You would know.”

“Drinking is not good for your body. In fact,
it’s very hard on your body.”

“Let’s not go down that road.”

“Okay,” he said. “What road would you like to
go down?”

“I want a miracle. I want proof that I’m
talking to God.”

“One man’s miracle is another man’s
reality.”

“Oh, screw that,” I said. “Turn something
into something else, and quit giving me shit.”

“And if I performed a miracle for you, that
would finally satisfy your curiosity?”