Cold Springs(60)

She fed it the rest of the apple slices, one at a time, stroking its muzzle between bites.

Olsen propped her foot on the bottom fence rail. “You know about Gray Level, Mallory? You choose a ranch skill to master. One of the options is horsemanship. You could do that, if you wanted.”

The filly nuzzled the empty plastic bag, then bopped Mallory gently under the chin.

“Why're you telling me that?” Mallory asked. “You into horses, or something?”

“The truth?” Olsen asked.

“Yeah.”

“I don't know a damn thing about horses. They scare me. I wasn't even sure they liked apples.”

A smile tugged at Mallory's lips. “I suppose I have to write that postcard now.”

“After I brought you to see horses and didn't even freak out? You pretty much owe me, yeah.”

“Why is it so important I write my mom?”

“It's not important to me. It's important to you. The people in your life never go away, Mallory—not when you run, not when they hurt you. You have to find a connection with them that works. You have to start somewhere.”

She brought out the postcard and the pen, offered them to Mallory.

The horse sniffed to see if this was another offering of food, and then, disappointed that it wasn't, snorted into Mallory's hair.

Mallory took the postcard, suddenly liking the idea of sending her mom something that had horse snot on it.

She wrote, Dear Mom, I'm fine. I'm sorry for trying to hurt you.

She signed her name and gave the card back to Olsen. Her hands only trembled a little. Olsen dabbed the raindrops off the card, then slipped it into her coat pocket.

“So where was Race?” Olsen's question was as unobtrusive as the patter of rain on the grass. “If he wasn't with you, where was he?”

“I told you, I was just talking. It's nothing.”

Olsen crumpled the plastic bag and stuffed it in her pocket along with the postcard. “It's the fourth thing to master, Mallory, the last of Dr. Hunter's concepts. Trust.”

“Yeah? What's the end of your story?”

Olsen stared at her.

“The thing with your stepdad,” Mallory said. “The lie you told your mom. That's got something to do with why you're counseling me, doesn't it? I remind you of something that happened to you.”

Olsen's eyes were blue, but they reflected the blackening sky. “You'd better get some sleep, now, kiddo. Big night tonight.”

“Don't you mean big day tomorrow?”

Olsen hesitated, and for a weird moment, Mallory thought she knew about her dreams, knew how Mallory sometimes woke in a cold sweat.

“Just get some sleep. We'll talk again soon enough.”

That night after rations, Mallory was allowed to build the fire.

She set tinder around the brace, trying to keep it dry from the cold drizzle that was falling.

She thought about Katherine, and wondered what she'd be doing now if she were alive. Maybe Katherine would be here at Cold Springs, helping kids the way Olsen was.

She got the fire to smolder, then flicker, then finally blaze.

Mallory cracked a branch of mesquite that looked like a wishbone. She tossed the short end into the flames, stared at the red outline of the other piece, which now resembled a crutch.

Accountability.

Competence.

Honesty.

Trust.

14

The man who opened John Zedman's door had a pencil goatee, the build of a middleweight, and a Mexican snake-and-eagle tattoo on his forearm. He reminded Chadwick of Norma's cousins in L.A.—the ones who threw hand grenades into empty police cars.

“You must be Pérez,” Chadwick said. “I've heard wonderful things.”

“Don't take warnings real well, Mr. Chadwick, do you?”

No hesitation. No confusion about who he was talking to. Pérez's eyes glowed like magnifying glass light on kindling.

“This is Miss Jones, my partner,” Chadwick told him. “We want to speak with John.”

“You carrying?”

“We fly for a living,” Chadwick said. “Be a little hard to pack pistols.”

Pérez produced a nine-millimeter from the back of his belt. “I don't have that problem. Come on in.”

Chadwick glanced at Kindra. “Told you, you should've waited in the car.”

“After sitting on my butt an hour last time? Shit, Chad. Even this clown's more interesting.”

“I'm being hospitable,” Pérez warned. “So shut up and come in.”

All traces of Ann had vanished from the house. No orchids in the windows, no kentia palm under the skylight. Her folk art no longer cluttered the coffee tables. The mantel was bare of photographs. Everything was stark white and black and decidedly John.

Debussy on the stereo, postmodern paintings on the walls. The only sign Mallory had ever lived there was the old kindergarten quilt hanging by the fireplace, its glass frame cracked, a huge triangular shard missing at about the level of a man's fist.

Pérez stopped Chadwick by the sofa and turned him around, made him open his overcoat. Then he studied Jones, who could've concealed six or seven weapons in her baggy flannel and corduroy layers.