Free Dark Horse (A Jim Knighthorse Novel) by J.R. Rain Page A

waiting
for me to leave.
    There was nothing to do but leave.
    So I did.
     
     
     
    21.
     
     
    “We should probably call the police,” said
Cindy, after I told her about my encounter with Richard Peterson.
Whom I now referred to as Dick.
    “A few bruises and a terrified child does not
a case make,” I said. “Someone would need to come forward.”
    She sighed. “And most victims of domestic
violence are hesitant to report the abuse, for fear of
repercussions.”
    It was just past 10 p.m. Cindy’s evening
class had just ended. We were sitting at a small cafe in the UCI
student union. I was eating a chocolate chocolate muffin—yes,
chocolate chips in a chocolate muffin—the way it should be eaten:
big bites that encompassed the stump and the top. Cindy was sipping
hot cider. The cafe was surrounded by a lot of glass and metal.
Couches and chairs lined the walls and filled the many adjoining
rooms, filled with students studying and working and not making out
or sleeping, as I would have done in my day.
    “We are surrounded by over-achievers,” I
said.
    “UCI is a tough school to get into,” she
said. “Same with UCLA. Were you not once an over-achiever?”
    “On the football field, yes. In the
classroom, my mind wandered.”
    “Where did it wander?”
    “To the next game. The next girl. I was a big
man on campus.”
    She looked at me over her cider. “You still
are,” she said.
    “Are you flirting with me?” I asked.
    “If there wasn’t a chocolate chip on your
chin, the answer would be yes.”
    She reached over and scooped it off and ate
it.
    “Does that count against your diet?” I
asked.
    “I’ll jog an extra lap tomorrow morning.”
    She sat her cider down carefully in front of
her. She adjusted the mug so that the handle was facing at a
forty-five degree angle. Precision and exactness was her life. And
I loved her for it.
    I reached over and moved the handle a little
to the left.
    “Hey,” she said, slapping my hand. She
adjusted it back. “So what are you going to do about the
brute?”
    “About Dick? First, I need to speak with the
eldest daughter, and confirm my suspicions.”
    “Your suspicions are generally pretty
accurate.”
    “In this case, I want confirmation. I need to
speak to the eldest daughter.”
    “What’s her name?”
    “I don’t know. I didn’t have a chance to
ask.”
    “And how am I supposed to find her here at
UCI if you don’t know her name?”
    “I know her last name is Peterson. Or at
least I assume it to be. The other two daughters’ names both
started with an A. So I would begin there. Perhaps an Alicia
Peterson, or an Antoinette Peterson.”
    “You realize this isn’t part of your job
description, at least not on this case, resolving domestic
violence.”
    “I know.”
    “And what if she confirms your suspicions of
abuse?”
    “Then Dick Peterson and I are going to have a
talk.”
     
     
     
    22.
     
     
    “So why is God dressed like a bum?” I asked.
“Isn’t that a little cliché?”
    “I invented cliché,” said Jack.
    I rolled my eyes. He continued.
    “But to answer your question: This is how you
perceive me.”
    “As a bum?”
    “Not exactly. You figure that if God came to
earth, he would do so in a nondescript way.”
    “So as not to attract attention.”
    “Perhaps.”
    “So you appeared in just such a way.”
    “Yes.”
    “Or maybe you are just a bum, after all.”
    “Maybe. Either way, you are getting something
out of this, am I right?”
    I looked at the man. We were sitting opposite
each other at the back of the restaurant. At the moment, we were
the only two people in McDonald’s.
    “Yeah, I’m getting something out of it,
although I’m not sure what, and I still don’t know why you’ve come
into my life.”
    “You asked me into your life.”
    “When?”
    “The day I first arrived.”
    I was shaking my head, but then I remembered
that day: The twentieth anniversary of my mother’s murder. I had
spent a good deal