False Prophet

“Sounds good,” Decker said. “By the time I’m done with Freddy, maybe Lilah will be able to talk.”

Marge said, “What should we do about Davida Eversong?”

Decker made a face and leaned backward. “What does she have to do with any of this?”

“You haven’t talked to Morrison yet?”

Decker was taken aback. It was unusual for the captain to stick his nose into Decker’s affairs. “Christ, what is it, Marge?”

“Just wanted to know a little about the case. Mentioned the fact that since Lilah was Davida Eversong’s daughter, it could get some press.” Marge sighed. “That maybe we might want to break the news to Ms. Eversong first and tell her to keep a low profile so we can do our jobs. I seemed to get the impression that he’s worried that Eversong might play this for some publicity. Should I try to dig her up?”

Decker thought for a moment. “Not just yet. Let me at least try to talk to Lilah first. She may have her own method of dealing with her mother.”

Plumes of dust obscured the corral’s ground as the palomino kicked up cloud banks of grit. The tomtom sound of hooves beating against the dirt, the horse rounding each bend of the fence seamlessly. In lesser hands, the stallion could have easily lost its footing, but Totes handled the animal with the combined expertise of professional cowboy and jockey.

Riding bare chested, the man was so thin he looked like an antenna. In his time, Decker had known many hands like him. Their strength was often deceptive. The guy was probably one wiry sucker.

Marge caught Totes’s attention. He pulled on the reins, stopping directly in front of them, spraying them with dirt. He untied the bandanna from around his neck and wiped perspiration off his face and neck. A watery sheen had coated his chest and stomach, but he didn’t bother to swab it away.

“Carl, this is my partner, Sergeant Decker,” Marge said. “If you don’t mind, he’d like to ask you a few questions.”

There was a moment of silence. Totes’s eyes were unreadable, hidden behind the shadow of his cowboy hat. He had a long face that matched his lean body. His nutmeg-colored cheeks were gaunt, hairless, and mottled with acne scars and moles.

“My partner needs to ask you a few questions, Carl,” Marge said.

Totes nodded.

“How ’bout we go in the stable?” Decker said. “You can brush your horse down while we talk.”

Totes nodded but made no effort to dismount. The palomino was prancing about, chafing at the bit, sweat pouring down his flanks.

Decker said, “You need to cool him off first?”

“Yes sir, I do.”

“Go ahead,” Decker said. “I’ll wait.”

Totes clicked his tongue and he and the horse trotted slowly around the corral.

“Swift, sport,” Marge said.

“Like you said, you’ve got to know the right questions.”

“I think you’ve got a good fix on the dude, Pete.” Marge slung her purse over her shoulder. “And now if I’m no longer needed …”

“Give me about a half hour.”

“You won’t need that much time, but go ahead.”

After Marge left, Decker leaned against the railing as Totes led the golden beauty through a series of cool-down exercises. The sky was clear and cloudless, the mountains studded with wild flowers. Watching Totes in the saddle, Decker felt jealous of the stable hand’s freedom, of his skill, too. Totes might be blunted mentally, but he’d mastered all the subtleties of riding. Fifteen minutes passed before Totes decided it was time to call it quits. He dismounted, took off his saddle, and led the horse by the reins around the corral. After the animal had been sufficiently cooled down, Totes brought him to the stable. Decker walked abreast of the horse, admiring his stately walk.

“Miss Brecht has some beautiful animals,” Decker said, once inside the stable.

Totes nodded and placed the horse in the middle stall opposite the Appaloosa. He took out a wire currycomb and brush and began to groom the beast. The comb had just made contact with the horse’s skin when Totes stopped, turned around, and looked at Decker.

“You can pull up a bucket and sit if you want.”

“I don’t mind standing.”

Totes didn’t respond. He paused, then returned his attention to the horse.

“Miss Brecht a good rider?” Decker asked.

“Yessir.”

“This one her favorite horse?”

“Yessir.”

“What’s his name?”

“Apollo.”

“Apollo,” Decker repeated. “After the sun god.”

Again, Totes stopped what he was doing and pivoted to look at Decker. He took off his cowboy hat, wiped his forehead with his arm, and put the hat back on. His hair was cropped short—one step above a five-o’clock shadow. Eyes, pale blue. They held a vacant stare.

“Apollo’s a great name,” Decker said. “Lilah must be a very experienced rider to handle a stallion. She doesn’t look like she has enough weight to manage him.”

Totes didn’t answer. He continued grooming the animal.

“How long you work for Miss Brecht, Carl?”

“Five years.”

“She have the horses before you came to work for her?”

“A few.”

“She have Apollo?”

“Yessir.”

“How old is he? Around six?”

“Yessir.”

Unimpressed.