Dark Horse (A Jim Knighthorse Novel) Read Online Free PDF Page A

How does that make you
feel?”
    “Maybe I should shoot myself.”
    “Got a gun in my gym bag.”
    “So do I.”
    We raced back and as far as I could tell we
were dead even this time, pulling up just past the far sidelines.
The throb in my leg was feeling unhealthy. We had done this for the
past thirty minutes.
    “We’re even on that last run,” said Sanchez.
“So I say we call it a morning. Baby steps. This is your first day
back in training. Want to take it easy on the leg, especially a man
your age.”
    “You’re only a month younger.”
    “Lot can happen in a month.”
    “True.”
    We sat on a bench wet with dew. The mist was
all pervasive, leaving nothing untouched. I enjoyed the solitude it
allowed.
    “You going back with me to San Diego?” I
asked. “To try out?”
    He laughed, and kept his dark eyes on the
joggers. “I wasn’t the one they asked to come out of
retirement.”
    “You could make it.”
    “I was good, but not that good,” he said. The
mist was dispersing and more light was getting through. There were
also more joggers now, three males, but these were not as
interesting to look at.
    Sanchez checked his watch. “Most people with
respectable jobs have to get going now.”
    “Luckily, neither of us have respectable
jobs.”
    “True,” said Sanchez. “So who do you think
did this girl?”
    “Don’t know,” I said. “That’s the part I’m
working on.”
    “Isn’t it just your job to get the kid off?
And to give a damn who really killed the girl?”
    “But I do give a damn who killed her.”
    “You always do. But you shouldn’t. It’s not
your job, at least not on this case. Your job is to spring the kid
before he goes to trial.”
    I said nothing.
    “I know,” said Sanchez, “I know. You’ll do it
your way.”
    I smiled brightly. “Exactly.”
     
     
     
    8.
     
     
    I was sitting outside Huntington High in my
car, on a stretch of road that overlooked the Pacific Ocean. My
windows were down and the engine was off; a cool breeze wafted
through the car. Life was good at the Beach.
    It was three o’clock and school was just
getting out. High schoolers nowadays are younger and smaller than I
remember, although the occasional curvy creature sashayed by. Most
of the girls wore unflattering jeans that rode low on the hip,
showed a lot of tanned flesh and a surprising amount of lower back
tattoos. The high school boys were spiked, pierced and dyed. Those
who weren’t natural blonds, wanted to be. Huntington High probably
had a very popular surfing club. My old high school in Inglewood
did not have a surfing club. We had metal detectors and hired
security that were referred to as The Staff.
    More than one Mercedes whipped out of the
student parking lot, followed by nineteen different Mustangs, and
twenty-two of the new Volkswagen bugs. I saw exactly seventeen
near-fatal car accidents in the span of forty-five seconds.
    The less fortunate, and those not of driving
age, waited in line and boarded the various yellow school buses.
Other students walked, some passing my Cobra. I was promptly
ignored, being an Old Man, and Not Very Interesting.
    I didn’t blame them, although my ego was
crushed a little.
    All in all, I saw a fair share of Asians and
Hispanics, but no blacks.
    Teachers on duty did their best to clear out
the lingering students from the front halls. The buses pulled away.
And the potential smash-up derby that was the student parking lot
cleared away shockingly fast and without a single incident. I
waited another ten minutes, then left my car there on the hill, and
headed up to the administration building at the front of the
school.
    The building, and much of the school, was old
cinder block, bright with a fresh coat of powder blue. A very
school-like color. I stepped into the mostly empty admin office.
There was a receptionist behind her desk, pen in hand and working
furiously. She was young and pretty, probably a school senior. I
stepped up to the front