Dark Horse (A Jim Knighthorse Novel)

by J. R. Rain

  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.

  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.