Dark Horse (A Jim Knighthorse Novel) (12 page)

“Yes.”

“No it wouldn’t. You would ask for another
miracle, and then another. Always doubting.”

“You’re not going to perform a miracle, are
you?”

“No. That is, not in the way that you
mean.”

“But you perform other miracles?”

“Every day. Every second.”

“But if you performed a miracle for me now,
then I would no longer have to believe, or have to have faith.”

“This is true.”

“I think faith is overrated. Turn something
into something else and I will be your biggest follower, I
promise.”

“I don’t want a follower. I just want you to
listen, to think for yourself and to lead the best life you can.
Ultimately, to define who you are and to live by those
convictions.”

“And if you performed a miracle for
me...”

“Then you will no longer make your own
choices.”

“I would blindly do whatever you say,” I
said.

“Yes. Exactly.”

“But you are here now, claiming to be
God.”

“Like I said, one man’s miracle—”

“Is another man’s reality,” I finished.

We were silent some more. I looked in his
half-empty cup. It was still coffee.

Jack closed his eyes, seemed to have fallen
asleep, but he did this often, going to wherever God goes.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“Very.”

“I’m going to hurt a man,” I said.

“Do what you must.”

“Really?”

“I do not define for you what is right or
wrong.”

“Au contraire,” I said. “There’s a whole book
out there that defines exactly what we should do.”

“Was that French?” he asked.

“Oh shut up,” I said. “Wait, did I just tell
God to shut up?”

“Yes. Would you like for me to shut up?”

“No.”

“Remember, I will not tell you how to lead
your life, nor will I tell you what decisions to make, or who or
what defines you. These are your choices. Your gifts. The book or
books of which you refer, were often inspired by me, but only the
parts about love.”

“Love?”

“As in do all things with love.”

“All things?”

“Yes,” he said. “This concept alone would
change much of the structure of your planet.”

“There are those who can’t love, or choose
not to love.”

“There are those,” said Jack, “who are an
unfortunate byproduct of your current state of non-loving.”

“You do realize we are in a McDonald’s?”

“Yes.”

“Am I going crazy?” I asked.

“That is for you to decide.”

“So you really do not care if I hurt another
human being?”

“Do you derive pleasure from hurting others,
Jim?”

“No. I will be hurting another to protect
many more.”

“Are you living and acting and behaving
within your own moral standards?”

“Yes.”

“Is this what defines who you are?”

“Yes.”

“And so you are being true to yourself?”

“I guess so, yes.”

“I can find no fault in that.”

“So you approve?” I asked.

“I approve of defining who you are, Jim.
There is a difference. And there are many, many people out there
who do not have a strict moral code, such as your own.”

“So any moral code would work?”

“Any true moral code, Jim,” said Jack. “Any
true code.”

34.

Sanchez and I waited in Sanchez’s unmarked
police vehicle in a red zone across the street from the offices of
Assemblyman Richard Peterson.

“His name has a nice ring to it,” said
Sanchez.

We were in the city of Brea, in a shopping
zone that called itself Downtown Brea. The stores were all new, and
there was not one but two movie theaters. The apartments above the
stores were advertised as artists’ lofts. Once, long ago, I wanted
to be an artist, until I realized I wasn’t good enough and didn’t
have enough patience.

“There are two ice cream shops,” said
Sanchez. “I wonder why.”

“They are across the street from each other,”
I said. “Downtown Brea is all about convenience.”

“If you say so.”

“There’s our man.”

It was past 6:30 p.m. and Richard Peterson
was just leaving the office. He was leaving with a rather pretty
blond in a short red dress. She split one way, walking to a nearby
restaurant bar, and blew him a little kiss.

“Maybe she’s the secretary,” I said.

“Bet she takes great dictation.”

Peterson crossed the street purposefully, and
headed to the parking structure to our right. We watched him ascend
the stairs.

“Takes the stairs. Keeps in shape,” said
Sanchez. “You think you can handle him?”

“As long as he doesn’t take them two at a
time.”

We waited at the mouth of the structure’s
exit, and sure enough a black Escalade with Peterson at the helm
came tearing through the structure, heedless of babies or speed
bumps.

“I could give him a ticket for reckless
driving,” said Sanchez.

“For now just follow him.”

Sanchez did, pulling in behind him. Peterson
drove like a man drunk or on drugs, weaving carelessly in and out
of traffic.

“At least he uses his blinker,” I said.

“Considerate. Where do you want this to go
down?”

We were on a street called Brea Blvd. The
street was wide and quiet.

“This is good,” I said.

Sanchez, hidden behind his cop glasses,
reached under his seat and pulled out a flashing light with a
magnetized bottom. He put it on top of his vehicle. I saw Peterson
jerk his head up and look in the rearview mirror a couple of times.
Finally he yanked the Escalade off to the side of the road. Sanchez
pulled in behind him.

I said, “You don’t have to do this. He’s my
problem. You could get into a lot of trouble.”

“Justice is justice, Knighthorse. Sometimes
street justice can be more effective.”

“And less paperwork.”

“And less paperwork,” said Sanchez. “Wait
here.”

35.

I watched from the passenger seat. Sanchez
spoke with Peterson through the open window. A moment later I heard
a lot of shouting, saw a lot of gesticulating, then the Escalade
door burst open and Peterson came charging out. He waggled a finger
in Sanchez’s face. From here, his finger looked like a worm on a
hook.

Sanchez said something and Peterson
reluctantly turned and put both hands on the SUV’s hood.

I watched intently.

Sanchez was an old pro. He kicked Peterson’s
feet apart and patted him down. Peterson said something over his
shoulder and Sanchez pushed him hard against the fender. I heard
the thump from here. Peterson’s sunglasses fell from his face.

Sanchez removed a pair of handcuffs from his
belt, twisted Peterson’s arm back, then cuffed the assemblyman’s
wrist. The whole cuffing process took less than three seconds,
faster than Peterson could react. Once he realized what had
happened, he swung around violently. Sanchez stepped back, removed
his gun and pointed it at Peterson’s chest.

Peterson backed off, breathing hard. Sanchez
walked him back to the vehicle.

And just like that we kidnapped Mr. Richard
Peterson, Orange County Assemblyman, wife beater and child
molester.

* * *

He shoved Peterson in the backseat. I took
off my shades and turned around.

“Hi, Dick,” I said. “Dick is an acceptable
variant of Richard, am I correct?”

Recognition dawned on Peterson’s red and
sweaty face. His eyes narrowed and his pupils shrank. “It’s you.
The detective. What the fuck is going on?”

I turned to Sanchez. “Do you want me to quiet
him up for the ride out?”

“Go ahead, I’m tired of hearing him
already.”

I stepped out of the front seat, opened the
back door, and punched Peterson as hard as I could. Even from my
awkward angle, the blow was still a good one and caught him sharply
across the temple, snapping his head around.

Dazed, he didn’t go unconscious, but it sure
shut him up.

I turned and headed toward the Escalade.

“Follow me,” I said to Sanchez.

* * *

I followed a street called Carbon Canyon
through the city of Brea. Soon the new homes and the massive state
park disappeared and we were on a winding road. The Escalade drove
like a dream. Shame what was going to happen to it.

I found a dirt turn-off and hung a right. In
my rearview mirror, Sanchez followed me closely, although he didn’t
use his turn blinker. Damn cops. Above the law. First kidnapping,
and now this.

We were now following a small creek, and when
we reached a point where the creek dropped off twenty feet below
down a dirt embankment, I stopped the Cadillac.

Sanchez pulled up behind me with Peterson in
the backseat. I put the Escalade in neutral, and stepped outside.
With Sanchez’s help, we pushed the Cadillac down the dirt
embankment. It ricocheted nicely off two trees, careened off a pile
of boulders, and then splashed down in the middle of the creek,
hissing and steaming.

The vehicle was totaled.

“Damn shame,” said Sanchez.

“Yep.”

36.

“Let him go,” I said to Sanchez.

Sanchez uncuffed Peterson. The assemblyman
was still woozy from the blow to the head. His hair was ruffled and
his face was red, and it looked like he might have been missing a
button on his shirt. He looked from me to Sanchez, and then at his
surroundings. Dawning seemed to come over him as he realized he was
not in a good situation. When he spoke, there was real fear in his
voice, along with much nastiness.

“Do you have any idea who I am?” he
asked.

“You are Richard Peterson, county assemblyman
and respected citizen. You are also a wife beater and a child
abuser who rapes his own children. Is there anything I missed?”

He looked at me briefly, then lumbered over
to the creek and looked down at his Escalade. “You can’t prove any
of it,” he said, still looking down. He might have considered
bolting if he wasn’t still dazed.

“I’m not here to prove anything.”

“So what’s going on? You want money to keep
everything quiet?”

Sanchez laughed and leaned a hip against the
fender of his vehicle.

“No,” I said. “You have been tried and found
guilty, Mr. Peterson. Now comes the punishment phase. I will allow
you to defend yourself.”

“It’s two against one, hardly fair.”

“My compatriot is here for entertainment
purposes only.”

“Compatriot?” said Sanchez.

“Yeah.”

Peterson sized me up, eyes darting quickly.
Sweat was on his brow, and spreading quickly under his pits.

“You’re bigger than me.”

“I’m bigger than most.”

“Not me,” said Sanchez.

“We’re even,” I said to Sanchez. “Besides,
we’ve already had this argument before, which is why I said
most.”

I turned back to Peterson. He backed up. If
he bolted and was fast enough I could be in trouble with my gimp
leg. Sanchez pulled out his gun and pointed it at Peterson
again.

“No running,” said Sanchez.

“You didn’t give your children a chance to
run, did you?” I asked. “When you beat them or forced yourself on
them.”

“What the fuck is going on?”

“I am here for two things: first, to convince
you of the error of your ways, and second to convince you to, um,
give up the error of your ways.”

“Poetic,” said Sanchez.

“Shut up, I’m making this up as I go.”

“I can tell,” said Sanchez.

I said to Peterson, “I am going to kick the
royal shit out of you. You are going to have a beating unlike
anything you’ve ever had in your life. You will tell the
authorities you suffered your injuries in a car accident, resulting
from your desire to go sightseeing. You will stick to this story or
a letter written by your daughter Annette detailing your sexual
tendencies toward your own children will be mailed instantly to all
the local papers. Do you understand?”

He stared at me blankly, sweating. He looked
like he needed a drink of water.

“And if you ever so much as lay a finger on
your wife or children again, your next car accident will be your
last. Are we clear?”

“Lesson learned, I swear. I mean, hell,
you’ve scared the shit out of me. I’m practically peeing my pants
here.”

“Practically,” I said to Sanchez. “Then I’m
not doing my job.”

“Losing your touch,” said Sanchez.

“Put your gun away,” I told Sanchez.

Sanchez did and continued grinning and
watching us. A squirrel ran along a tree branch overhead. We were
far from Carbon Canyon Road. The air was fresh and scented with
moss and soil and pine.

“I will give you a chance to fight back,
which is more than you deserve.”

“Fuck you, asshole,” he said.

“That’s the spirit.”

He looked from me to Sanchez, and them took
his shot, his right hand lashing out. I maneuvered myself in time
to take the majority of the blow off my shoulder. I countered with
something like a jab, which broke his nose.

“Fuck,” he said, holding the bleeding
mess.

Next, I did what I do best. I tackled him
low. It was a quick movement that combined my football and
wrestling skills. He landed hard on his back, and his air whooshed
from his lungs like an escaping devil.

I hauled Peterson up and walked him over to
Sanchez’s car and placed his left forearm on the fender.

“You broke Annette’s arm. Twice.”

“Fuck you,” he said, holding his nose and
gasping. “The bitches deserved everything they got. Fuck you and
fuck them.”

I broke his arm quickly, bringing my elbow
down hard on his wrist. The snap reverberated throughout the woods.
Birds erupted from nearby tree branches.