Free The Horses of the Night by Michael Cadnum Page B

pretense.
    Collie had made a haven of the kitchen, and even in her absence it awaited her return, spruce and cheerful, like Monet’s kitchen in Giverny, sun-yellow and spacious. Maui onions waited in a tumble on a side table, beside a rope of garlic.
    I ground some Jamaica Blue Mountain and called Blake and let the phone ring. Bad thoughts pricked me.
    Someone was keeping Blake away from the phone. Someone who was using Blake as bait. This was not a rational theory, and yet it simmered within me as I waited out the dark, the sun crawling across the old, warped glass of the leaded windows.
    I turned on the portable Sony beside the teapot. I watched idly, and then cursed myself for turning on the television so thoughtlessly. There was “AM San Francisco,” and our host, an amiable man I knew slightly, a man as mild and agreeably shallow as he looked, was introducing “one of Northern California’s biggest talents, a man you’re going to hear a lot more about, Frederick Peterson.”
    Frederick, I thought dully. Everyone I knew called him either “Peterson” or “Fred.” It must be one of DeVere’s suggestions. New clothes, new name, bright new future.
    There was Peterson, lean and made up so that he looked more deeply tanned than ever. He wore one of DeVere’s Scottsdale line of sports jackets, one of the so-called Western tweeds. It was not a bad-looking piece of clothing.
    Behind the figures on the screen was the usual set, a beige wall, and a circle with a stylized seven—the station’s logo. I had designed a few logos in my career—one or two had been accepted by local companies, a now defunct restaurant supply firm and a stationery store. I found myself wondering why beige was so popular, and if someone from the age of, say, Chaucer would have even recognized the color.
    I busied myself with wiping invisible spots on the counter, unable to watch for a few moments. But there was something peculiar. The host’s voice chattered idly, and I had the sense that the show was not moving smoothly. When I looked back Peterson was seated. “You’ve got some big plans for the way our city is going to look,” said the host.
    What had seemed self-consciousness now seemed a speech impediment. Peterson opened his mouth and could say nothing.
    I felt myself sink into a very ugly realization. I said the words aloud. “Don’t.”
    The television made a faint buzz, a tiny electronic reverberation behind the spoken words.
    My voice again: “Don’t do it.”
    It was a shock. Not long ago, Peterson had been thoughtful, articulate. Now he was a man numbed, lost. There was no doubt in my mind. I knew, but I was helpless, looking on, unable to reach forth my hand and shut off the sight of what was about to happen.
    The cohost was a woman, a journalist of considerable intelligence who had retreated to the safety of morning talk shows recently after her helicopter crashed in the Middle East. Her voice accompanied the sight of Peterson’s glazed eyes, his working lips.
    â€œFrederick has some really impressive improvements in mind for the Polo Field at Golden Gate Park, and he has some good ideas for the Shakespeare Garden—”
    Peterson spoke. His voice was hard to make out. “I wanted it all so badly.”
    The male host beamed and frowned simultaneously, so that he would be sure to have the correct expression in any event.
    Peterson continued, his voice a gasp. “I wanted to have something.”
    â€œIt certainly looks like you have some very fine plans for San Francisco, Frederick,” said the brisk, female voice, “and in just a moment we’ll be back to—”
    â€œThe competition was rigged. DeVere rigged it. Stratton Fields deserves to win.” His words were spoken with the mechanical care of a man confessing after torture. Peterson stood straight in his chair. He fumbled at his sage-brown tweed