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

of that day cursing God.
    “You asked me to come down and face you,”
said Jack. “I believe you wanted to fight me.”
    “Yes,” I said. “I was very angry.”
    “And so I came down not to fight you, but to
love you, Jim Knighthorse.”
    “You do this for everybody?”
    “Not so dramatically, but often, yes.”
    “Why me?” I asked.
    “Why not?”
    I was drinking a Coke. Big, bubbly Coke that
was the perfect combination of carbonation, ice and cola. Damn. I
love Coke.
    “I miss my mother,” I said.
    “I know, but she has been with you every day
of your life.”
    I suspected that, but didn’t say anything
about it now.
    “You know who killed her?” I asked.
    The man in front of me—the bum in front of
me—nodded once.
    “Her case is unsolved,” I said.
    He watched me carefully.
    “And I’m going to solve it,” I said.
“Someday.”
    “Yes,” he said, “you will.”
    “And when I do, I’m going to kill whoever
killed her.”
    Jack said nothing, although he did look
away.
     
     
     
    23.
     
     
    I was sitting with my hands behind my head
and feet up on one corner of my desk. This is a classic detective
pose, and I struck it as often as I could. Mostly because it was a
good way to take a nap without appearing to do so. I did my best to
keep my shoes off the desktop’s gold tooled leather.
    There was a knock on my office door. Thanks
to Fuck Nut, I kept the door locked these days. I took out my
Browning, held it at my hip and opened the door.
    The man I found standing before me was
perhaps the last person I expected to see. Hell, I hadn’t seen or
spoken to him in two years. It was my father. His name was Cooper
Knighthorse.
     
    * * *
     
    He studied me for a few seconds, then looked
coolly at the gun in my hand. “You could scare off clients with
that thing.”
    “Yeah, well, you’re not a client, and
someone’s sicced a hitman on my ass.”
    He stood easily six inches shorter than me,
which put him around five ten. His shoulders were wider than mine,
and he had freakishly large hands, hands which had pummeled my
backside more than once. But it was his eyes that drew one’s
attention. Ice cold and blue. Calculating and fearless. Devoid of
anything living. Eyes of a corpse.
    He smiled slowly, the lips curling up
languidly. When most people smile their eyes crinkle, giving them
crow’s feet over time. My father would never have to worry about
crow’s feet. His eyes didn’t crinkle. Hell, they didn’t know how to
crinkle. When he smiled, as he did now, it was only with the
corners of his mouth. Needless to say, the smile radiated little
warmth.
    “Well,” he said. “Are you going to invite me
in?”
    I stepped aside and he moved past me
smoothly, carrying himself easily and lightly. He stepped into my
four hundred square foot office which paled in comparison to the
monster he oversaw in L.A. He stood in the middle of the room,
surveying it slowly, taking in the pint-sized refrigerator on one
wall, the well-stocked trophy case adjacent to it, my sofa, the
sink, and finally the desk.
    His assessment was over embarrassingly quick.
He turned to face me with no emotion on his face. Did he approve of
the place? Or not? Was he proud of his only son, or disappointed?
Impossible to tell. Did I need his approval? Impossible to tell.
But probably, and it galled me to admit it.
    He was wearing a western-style denim shirt
and khaki carpenter pants with a hammer loop. There was no hammer
in the loop. His evenly-distributed silver hair was perfectly
parted to one side. He was the picture of fitness and vitality,
health and ruggedness. Just don’t look at the eyes.
    “So,” he said, “who wants you dead?”
    I stepped around him, slipped into my leather
seat and motioned toward the Mr. Coffee. He shook his head and
eased himself down carefully into one of the three client chairs.
The chair, which usually creaked, didn’t creak this time.
    “Someone wants me to back off a case.”
    “Any idea