Cody returned to the office, took out the ledger, checked that inventory page again. Midnight: Formerly owned by Townes DeWitt, now owned by LB Corp. Why would Clea want to buy Midnight? She already—at least back then, three weeks ago—had a horse, a horse she loved. Cody gazed at the inventory page for a long time before it occurred to him to flip the Midnight question around: Why would Townes want to sell him?
On a blank sheet of paper, Cody wrote:
Reasons for selling M:
1. T was buying a new horse.
2. Wanted C to have M.
3. Got tired of M.
4. Needed the $.
Any more? Not that Cody could think of, and even this brief list seemed padded. Townes needing money, for example, the 246
kind of money Midnight was worth, up to $30,000, according to Ike: What sense did that make? He almost stroked it off the list, but while his pen hovered over the page, he realized that checking out number one wouldn’t be hard. A bunch of phone numbers, including Ike’s cell, were written on a chalkboard over the desk.
“Ike? It’s Cody.”
“Somethin’ wrong?”
“No.”
“Then what’re you callin’ me on my cell for? It’s roamin’.”
“Just a quick question—has Townes bought a new horse, or is he planning to?”
“Think you’re talkin’ to a mind reader? Who knows who’s plannin’ what?”
“Did he buy a new horse, then?”
“Why’d anybody want to do that?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Season’s over till spring—you’d just be payin’ stable fees for no reason. And this is costin’ me.” Click. Cody crossed number one off his list.
2. Wanted C to have M.
Cody went through the desk drawers, found a Dover Academy student directory. No Alexes listed, but there were three Alexandras, one of them from Boston: Alexandra O’Rourke. 247
Cody dialed her number. She answered on the first ring.
“Cody?” she said. “I was just going to call you. Is it true—
someone poisoned Clea’s horse?”
“Shot him.”
“To death?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh my God—why would anyone want to do that?”
“I don’t know,” Cody said.
“This is horrible.”
“Yeah. Maybe you could help me out with something—did Clea ever say anything about Midnight?”
“Townes’s horse?”
“Yeah.”
“Not much—just that he’s a great horse, that kind of thing—why? Jesus, did he get shot, too?” Alex’s voice rose a little; Cody heard real fear.
“No, nothing like that. He’s fine.”
“Are you at the barn?”
“Yeah.”
“Alone?”
“Yeah.”
“Is that safe?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Because something bad is going on—there’s already talk 248
of parents coming to get their kids until . . . until whatever’s going on stops.”
“Seems a little over the top,” Cody said.
“It does?” Maybe it was his imagination, but Cody thought he heard less fear in her tone, as though he’d calmed her in some way; a pretty unlikely notion.
“Yeah,” said Cody. “That’s all Clea said about Midnight, that he was a great horse?”
“What else would she be saying?”
“Nothing about wanting him?”
“Why would she want him? She loves—loved—Bud.”
Cody stroked number two off the list. 3: Got tired of M.
“Got to go to class,” Alex was saying. “You around later?”
“Around where?”
“How about the Rev? Five or so?”
Through the window, Cody saw Ike drive into the parking lot. “See you then,” he said. He fetched the wheelbarrow, went out to help Ike with the feed.
“You’re not a bad worker,” Ike said when they were done with unloading and had walked the horses. “Ask too many questions, is all.”
“Here’s one more,” said Cody, guiding the last horse—
Dusty, a little brown mare, very gentle, already one of his favorites—into her stall. “Did Townes get tired of Midnight?”
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“Huh?” said Ike, leaning a pitchfork against the wall.
“Bored with him or something?”
Ike’s mouth opened, closed, reopened. “Can’t believe you did that—right up and asked a question, not two seconds after—”
“And what’s the answer?”
“Can’t believe you did that when I just—”
“Ike! Answer the question!”
Ike’s eyebrows rose. He looked shocked. “What’s so goddamn important?”
Cody stole Alex’s line, so undeniably right. “Something bad is going on.”
Ike licked his lips; his tongue was yellow and scaly. “Bud getting shot?” he said.
“And Clea disappearing,” Cody said, and, suspecting that Ike was missing an obvious point, added, “A human being.”
“Human being,” said Ike in a sarcastic way.
Cody thought: Weirdo. And at the same moment remembered Larissa’s take on Ike: Looks like an ax murderer. But could a weirdo, a murderer, have cried over Bud the way Ike had? Maybe. Some people had to be badly fucked up inside—
otherwise how could any of this be happening?
Cody glanced at the pitchfork leaning against the wall, a stride or two closer to Ike than to him. “Did you have some 250
problem with Clea?” he said.
Ike’s lower lip, cracked and chapped from weather, started to tremble. “Me?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I see through you,” Ike said. “You’re just like him.”
“Like who?”
“Orton.”
“I’m like Sergeant Orton?”
Ike nodded. “Sneaky. Two-faced. Asking lots of questions. Accusing Ike first for no good reason.”
Cody shifted sideways—yes, maybe a little sneaky—toward the pitchfork. Ike was a strong, rawboned guy, and he might have that whittling knife on him.
“What did Sergeant Orton accuse you of?”
“Just like you are—doing bad. When the truth is Ike could never harm a living thing.”
Did such people exist, who could never harm a living thing? Cody doubted it; and if they did exist, he himself certainly wasn’t one of them. He gazed into Ike’s red-rimmed eyes and said it again: “Did you have some problem with Clea?”
Ike’s hand, huge and gnarled, shot out with a quickness that took Cody by surprise and grabbed his right wrist, squeezed it in a grip that felt like fire. “My problem is two-facers like you and Orton.”
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Cody tried to free his arm, could not.
“Somethin’ wrong with you two-facers, thinkin’ anything bad about Ike and that kid, nicest kid in the barn, not like some others I could mention. Want proof? Give you proof, same as I gave Orton—I had Dusty over to the vet that whole afternoon, two to six.” He paused, chest heaving, breathing heavy, a little spit showing at the corners of his lips. “Don’t believe me? Call the vet.”
Cody did believe Ike, flat-out; at the same time realized that Sergeant Orton must have verified Ike’s story—how else could he be walking around, a free man? “I believe you.”
Ike let go. Cody overcame the urge to rub his wrist. Ike glanced at his own hand, stuck it in his pocket. “Just want a fair shake is all,” he said.
Cody caught a look deep in Ike’s eyes, a look of pain: and somehow knew that Ike had suffered a lot in life. “I know,” he said.
Ike turned away. “Answer to your question is no,” he said.
“Who’d ever get bored with Midnight? Champion goddamn horse in the stable.”
In his mind, Cody crossed out number three, leaving only 4. Needed the $.
“Other than th
at—and I know this sounds callous,” Alex said at a Rev corner table, after Cody had finished telling her about 252
finding Bud’s body, “how’s the job?”
Cody gazed at Alex for a moment, then laughed. There was a lot to like about that face—soft, smooth skin, lively eyes that made her seem older, those braces doing the opposite, and almost always, in his brief acquaintance with her, an expression of being right there, her mind not somewhere else. Clea had that too; no surprise they’d become friends. “Not bad,” he said.
“Whew. You’re not offended.”
“Nope.”
“I know it’s awful. No one knows what’s going on. But doesn’t it have to be related, Clea disappearing and now this?”
“Like how?”
“I don’t know how,” Alex said.
“Think of a possible connection,” Cody said. “You’re smart.”
Alex didn’t deny it. She sipped her hot chocolate, a faraway look appearing in her eyes. “Did you ever see The Godfather, part one, I think it is?”
Way too many times: It was Junior’s favorite movie, along with Fight Club. “You’re thinking about the scene with the horse?”
“Just the head, wasn’t it?” Alex said.
“And?”
“In that case it was a threat,” she said.
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Sergeant Orton’s idea: sending a message. “Who’s being threatened here?” Cody said. “Why?”
Alex gazed into her hot chocolate, shook her head. Cody stuck to his own theory: Someone had been afraid of Bud, of the possibility that Bud might remember—how else to put this?—the scene of the crime, and lead searchers to evidence of it. In fact, something close to that had happened—he’d found Clea’s cell phone; not a fact he was allowed to disclose.
“What?” said Alex. “You were about to say something.”
Cody shook his head. She gave him a look. Suddenly and to his surprise unable to meet her gaze, he bent over his Coke, took a sip. He wanted to tell Alex about the cell phone, knew he needed help from someone smart, someone his own age, a friend. Did he trust Sergeant Orton? No. But at the same time, things the sergeant said seemed to make sense. For example: the importance of secrecy. Whoever they were looking for was close by.
“Can I ask you a funny question?” Alex said.
“Sure,” Cody said, sounding anything but in his own ears.
“Have you got a lot of friends?”
“Yeah.”
“Really?”
“What’s the big surprise?”
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“No surprise. It’s not that you’re not att”—Alex blushed—
“perfectly presentable, but—”
“Glad to hear it.”
Alex laughed, blushed some more. “It’s just that you seem like a bit of a loner. I mean in a good way, the stranger who rides into town.”
“I’m a lousy rider,” Cody said.
“I didn’t mean literally.”
Discussing his friends couldn’t lead anywhere good. Cody tried to change the subject, could only find a clumsy way. “But I hear Townes is a good rider,” he said.
“I guess so,” Alex said. “Doesn’t it help that he has the best horse?”
“Who told you Midnight was the best horse?”
“Clea. Isn’t it true?”
“That’s the word,” Cody said. “What else did she say about Midnight?”
“What I said before, how powerful he was—and, oh yeah, how he and Townes were this perfect team.”
“Perfect how?”
“In competition, moving as one, that kind of thing. That’s what got her interested in Townes, the first time she saw him ride.”
Something seemed to twist inside Cody’s chest. He felt 255
Alex’s gaze, busied himself with his drink. “That’s how they got together?”
“Yeah, through riding,” Alex said. “The next thing I knew they were off to New York for Columbus Day weekend, doing the bar scene.”
“How?”
“That’s the kind of thing Townes can pull off. I think he’s got fake ID, but lots of places are pretty lax about carding. Even in this little burg—Big Len’s, for example.”
“The bar on Governor Street?”
“Supposedly,” Alex said. “I’ve never been, but Townes took Clea a bunch of times.”
Cody came close to saying: But she doesn’t even like beer. Alex seemed to read his mind. “She developed this thing for margaritas. But it didn’t last long—Big Len’s turned out to be kind of grubby.” She dipped a finger into the hot chocolate, licked it off. “The whole thing didn’t last long, not for her.”
“What whole thing?”
“With Townes. She was planning to break up with him.”
“She was?”
Alex nodded. “Kind of weird, just me having this little fact. Clea told me the day before she disappeared. She was up really late, working on the Princess Di report. I could hear her through the wall, reciting the speech out loud, so I stuck my 256
head in the door, just to tell her to relax, it was going to be all right, and she turned to me and said, ‘I’m going to break up with Townes.’ Just popped right out. And I was like, ‘How come?’ And she promised a tell-all for tomorrow, meaning last Wednesday. But of course that didn’t happen.”
“Do you think she did it, broke up with him?”
“Wondered about that,” Alex said. “I doubt it. Really wasn’t time—they were in different classes all day, and dumping him during riding practice wouldn’t be her. Makes me feel kind of strange, knowing what he didn’t know, watching him on those searches, hacking through the woods like a madman.”
But Cody couldn’t help thinking: Maybe she did tell him. Maybe he didn’t like hearing it. He tried to make the facts line up behind those ideas and couldn’t. For example, where did the sale of Midnight fit in?
“Did Clea ever say anything about buying Midnight?”
“No.”
“Or wanting to own him?”
“No. Why?”
“Just wondering,” Cody said.
The waitress—not Deirdre, who didn’t seem to be around—
brought the check.
“I’ll get it,” Alex said.
“Not fair,” said Cody. “I had the burger and all you had was 257
that little salad.” He took the check, added in the tip according to Frank Pruitt’s foolproof formula. When he looked up from his calculations, he found Alex watching him.
“Can I ask you another funny question?” she said.
“Yeah.”
“Are you going out with anyone?”
The true answer was no, but Cody said yes.
“Oh,” said Alex. And then, after a moment: “Anyone I know?”
The logic of the lie now made the true answer yes, but Cody said no.
Conversation didn’t come easy after that. They left the Rev, Alex heading back to campus, Cody on his way to Big Len’s Sports Bar on Governor Street.
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CODY HAD NEVER BEEN in a bar before. There was plenty of underage drinking in Little Bend, but not in bars. Everybody knew everybody, and it just didn’t happen. He opened the door to Big Len’s Sports Bar and walked in.
Cody found himself in a dark place, the exact size and dimensions hard to determine. A bar ran the length of the left side, with tables and chairs on the right. Most of the light shone from three TVs, a big one behind the bar, two smaller ones in the table-side corners.
Big Len’s was mostly empty. A few men sat at the far end of the bar, hunched over mugs of beer; an old couple was sharing a pitcher at one of the tables. Cody took a stool at the near end of the bar. No sign of a bartender. SportsCenter was on TV, the commentator going over the spreads for upcoming NFL
games. Down at the other end of the bar, one of the men said,
“Fuckin’ eight and a half points?”
“So?” said another man. “Take the under and stop bitching.”
“I’m not bitching.”
“You bitch more than my wife.”
“No one bitches more than her.”
“What’d you say?”
“You brought her up.”
“Fuckin’ watch your mouth, talkin’ about my wife.”
“Dudes, chill,” said another man. And then, raising his voice: “Len. Customer.”
A door opened behind the bar at the far end; Cody glimpsed some sort of storage room, cartons, a cooler against the back wall. A man emerged, first in silhouette, and then, as the storage-room door closed, just dimly lit. Tall, broad shouldered, barrel-chested, with long lank hair and a bandito mustache: Big Len. Big Len wore a tight, long-sleeved T-shirt, a studded leather vest, jeans; had a thick gold chain around his neck. He came forward, eyes on Cody—intelligent, experienced eyes, not friendly. Did Big Len recognize him from that time in the parking lot behind the bar—a distant sighting? No recognition 260
showed on his face, not even for an instant. Cody was just another customer to him, but on the young side. Next would be a request for ID, some fumbling excuse, Cody on his way out. Big Len gave him a slight nod. “What’ll it be?”
“Uh,” said Cody. “Maybe, like a beer?”
“Like, any special kind?” said Len.
“Bud Light,” Cody said, his mind blanking on all other brands.
Without taking his eyes off Cody, Len reached down for a bottle, snapped off the cap, set the bottle on the bar. “Run a tab?” he said.
Cody’s mind blanked again; whatever Len had just said didn’t even sound like English.
“I’ll run you a tab,” he said. “Cash, Visa, MasterCard.” Len smiled. He had big white teeth, maybe a little too white to be real. “Cash is always the nicest.” At the other end of the bar, one of the men laughed.
Len moved away, wiping off the bar with a not-very-clean rag. Cody took a sip from the Bud Light bottle. It didn’t taste like anything. First time in a bar, getting served no problem, and he had no desire to drink. A funny story to tell Junior; Cody wouldn’t have minded having Junior beside him at that moment—Junior was one person he could trust, maybe the one person.
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Down the bar, Len poured another round. “Eight and a half, Len,” said one of the men. “How they come up with that?”
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