Shadow Image (12 page)

“Stallion,” Christensen said.

Pearson gave him a look. “Aren't you the sharp one? Actually, it's missing some equipment. I think he's a gelding.” She leaned into the stall.
“Tchk, tchk.
Pretty horse, come.
Tchk, tchk.”

The horse raised his head from a food trough and appraised them. He was chewing something crunchy, the sound like someone grinding uncooked popcorn kernels into meal. Apparently satisfied that the pair meant him no harm, the horse buried his head in the trough again.

“You see the marking?” Pearson said.

“What marking?”

“Between his eyes.” She pulled the Once-Lost Images calendar from her shoulder bag, fanned the pages to April and stabbed a finger at the winged gray horse in the picture. “The mushroom.”

Christensen focused on the odd marking between the eyes of the horse in the painting. “
Tchk, tchk,”
he said.

The horse kept eating. Christensen took one step back. The names of the boarded horses were posted outside each stall, and he scanned quickly for the plastic-coated paper thumbtacked to the wall. “King, L12,” he said.
“Tchk, tchk.”

This time the horse stopped eating and looked back at them. Dead-center between its black eyes was a mushroom of dark hair the size of a man's hand.

“C'mere, Gray,” Pearson called.
“Tchk, tchk.”

The horse snorted, then turned its massive body around. In three strides it was at the stall door. Pearson patted its jaw with her palm and rubbed its ear. Christensen lifted a hand and the horse nuzzled it. Except for the coarse whiskers, the nose felt like velvet.

“Here's your horse,” Pearson said.

“Whoa, Maura. We're not sure it's the same one.” He tapped on the paper nameplate on the stall wall. “Different name. Besides, they kept it at their stables in Fox Chapel.”

She looked at the sign. “Buy your breakfast for a week if it's not.”

Christensen rubbed the mushroom, and the horse tossed its head. Interesting possibility, he thought, even if he had no idea how it might fit into the memory puzzle he was trying to piece together. From what he knew, Floss Underhill's Gray was freighted with both triumph and tragedy, a champion show horse, true, but also the horse responsible for the death of Floss's only grandson.

“Exile?” he said.

Pearson shook her head, apparently confused.

“That riding accident I told you about. The newspaper story I read said the horse Ford and his little boy were riding when it happened was gray. I'm sure that's why the gray horse turns up in a lot of her paintings.”

Pearson shoved her glasses up the bridge of her nose with her left hand, her right still moving up and down the horse's jawline. “So maybe having him around their own stables was too much of a reminder?”

“Maybe they sold him, or maybe they board him way out here so they don't have to confront those memories all the time,” he said. “I can think of a thousand reasons why he'd be here.”

For the first time, Christensen felt as if a puzzle piece had fallen into place. It didn't ease his more nagging concerns about the Underhills, but it was a start. He needed good information, though. What he had so far was speculation based on second- and thirdhand sources, certainly not enough to draw any conclusions about the images in Floss's paintings.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, he whirled around, suddenly aware he was tense. Pearson turned, too.

“Shit!” said the startled young stablehand he'd seen earlier. She was maybe eighteen, her dark brown hair pulled into a tight ponytail, the knees of her jeans dirty from honest work. She dropped the bucket in her left hand.

“I didn't know anyone was in here,” she said, bending down to scoop spilled oats back into the bucket.

“Sorry to scare you,” Christensen said. He waited for the girl to catch her breath. “I'm Jim, this is Maura. We're just visiting. You work here, then?”

“Kathleen,” she said. “Input-output technician.”

Pearson laughed. The girl smiled. Both correctly interpreted his confused look.

“First she feeds 'em—” Pearson said.

Christensen put his hand up. “Got it. Then you clean the stalls.”

“They call us I-Os for short,” the girl said. “I haven't seen you here before.”

Christensen shook his head. “Just visiting. Looks a lot like a horse we once knew, though. Know anything about him?”

The girl stepped forward and rubbed the horse's nose. “King's a sweetheart. Aren't you, baby?” She reached into a canvas pouch dangling from her western belt and held out a handful of what looked like granola. The horse nibbled obediently from her hand. She waited until her palm was clean before returning her attention to Christensen and Pearson. “You should talk to Mr. Doti. He knows everything.”

“King's owner?” Christensen asked.

“Ranch manager,” she said, picking up her bucket. “I've never met his owners. But Mr. Doti's in the office. Second building down, with the garden out front.” She smiled and walked away, tossing a “Can't miss it” back over her shoulder. She disappeared into a stall three doors down.

Pearson looked at her watch. “We've got plenty of time.”

As they got closer, what from a distance had looked like a rustic old ranch house more clearly became a new building expertly designed to look like a rustic old ranch house. The outside walls were rough timber, but the windows were the kind of extravagant double-paned Pellas that Brenna wanted for their new house, the kind with the miniblind installed between the two panes. They pushed through the oak front door into a cool gust of air, the product of the central air-conditioning unit humming on the building's roof.

A small reception area fronted two offices, both with their doors closed. Each of the three desks in the reception area had a personal computer on top, but no one was around.

“Hello?” he called.

Pearson drifted over to a wall map of the ranch property, reading it while shifting from foot to foot with her hands clasped behind her back.
“Le Petite Ponderosa,”
she said.

One of the office doors opened, and the Marlboro Man stepped out. He was tall, well over six feet, with the barrel chest of a wrestler and a sprinter's hips. His belt buckle was the size and shape of a cassette tape, with an intricate pattern of turquoise across it that Christensen couldn't decipher. He was wearing jeans and a denim shirt, but his boots weren't the least bit scuffed. If he had to guess the man's age, he'd say about seventy because of the white hair, lines around the eyes, and the distressed-leather look of his skin. Without those clues, he'd have guessed forty-five. Pearson had turned and was all but leering.

“Sorry to bother you,” Christensen said, extending his hand. “We were looking for the ranch manager.”

The man beamed. “Y'all got him,” he said with a soft Texas accent. He grasped Christensen's hand, his palm as rough as a cheese grater. He wasn't wearing a hat, but he tipped the brim of an imaginary one at Pearson and said, “Ma'am.”

“I'm Jim Christensen; this is Maura Pearson.”

He nodded. “Pleasure. First time to Muddyross?”

“It surely is,” Pearson said, a trace of the South suddenly in her voice. “You're Mr. Doti then?”

He nodded. Christensen followed the man's eyes as he absorbed the full impact of Maura Pearson. “Some fancy shoes you got there,” he said finally.

Christensen pushed on. “We're doing some research and were wondering about one of your horses here.”

“Now if you're looking to buy, we don't sell,” the man said. “You'd have to talk to the owner about that. I could help put you in touch—”

“No, no,” Christensen said. “It's a little complicated. Do you have a few minutes?”

After a pause, the man swept a long arm toward his office door. His stomach was as flat as an Oklahoma state road. “Always. Get you folks some coffee? Coke?”

“Thanks,” Pearson said, pushing past Christensen and following the man through the door into his office. Christensen brought up the rear. The office looked like some Ronald Reagan cowboy fantasy, complete with a replica of Frederic Remington's
Bronco Buster
on the corner of the desk. A black cowboy hat hung from the bronc's upturned tail.

The office carpet was plush, and as Christensen closed the door, he couldn't miss the door's engraved brass nameplate: Warren Doti.

The shelves immediately to his right looked like the trophy case of a championship-mad high school, with its stunning collection of silver trays, plaques, and loving cups. They weren't arranged for maximum exposure, but instead were wedged together in chaotic stacks and disorderly groups. Properly displayed, they would have filled the room. The one nearest the door was engraved with Doti's name beneath the words “National Trainer of the Year, 1964.”

Christensen didn't need more coffee, but accepting a cup might put Doti more at ease. “That coffee does smell good,” he said.

“You take it with anything, Mr. Christensen?”

“Black's fine. And please, it's Jim.”

“Two, since it's already made,” Pearson said.

Doti plucked two white cups from the stack beside the coffeemaker and turned them right side up on the bureau. “Hope you don't mind it strong. Grew up making it the western way and never lost the taste for it.”

Pearson leaned forward, apparently fascinated. “The western way?”

Doti's face crinkled into a smile. “Boil the grounds in a pot, like soup. When it gets dark like you want it, you just take an egg, crack it over the top.”

Christensen blanched, looking at the cups Doti was filling. “An egg?”

“Settles the grounds to the bottom. Works great, but it gives you a real kick-ass cup of coffee.” He nodded to Pearson. “Pardon my French, ma'am. Got used to it that way, so even with this thing I tend to make it pretty strong.”

The taste and texture were just this side of wet grounds. Christensen smiled at Doti, who was waiting like an anxious prom date for an appraisal. “Just right,” he said.

Doti seemed to relax as he circled behind his desk and sank into his leather chair. He seemed out of place in that setting, his skin too dark for office work, his collar open too far for doing business, even horse business. A plated chain around his neck hung down into a thatch of white chest hair, anchored there by a glint of something gold. “Now what can I do for you folks?”

“We're truthseekers,” Pearson began.

Christensen chided her with a look. Doti maintained the practiced smile of someone accustomed to dealing with the rich and eccentric.

“Beg pardon?” he said.

“She said we're researchers,” Christensen said. “From the Harmony Brain Research Center near Pittsburgh. Alzheimer's research, specifically.”

Doti smiled on.

“What's happened is there's this patient we deal with from time to time who apparently spent a lot of time here before she got so sick,” Pearson said. “I teach an art therapy class, and practically everything she paints has the Muddyross logo in it, that yellowish MR thing that's plastered all over everything outside.”

Doti nodded. “It's a special place.”

Christensen sat forward, probably too quickly, but he didn't want Pearson steering the conversation. “Special to her, for sure, at least from what we can tell. And we're trying to figure out why, just as a way of understanding how memory works in Alzheimer's patients. I'm focusing on patients who seem to have strong memories about something, trying to understand why some memories stay strong and vivid and why others get lost. There's so much about Alzheimer's we don't understand.”

He tried to read Doti's face. Confused? Concerned?

The ranch manager got up and poured himself a cup of coffee, finishing the pot, then sat back down. “So you'll want to look around, I guess?”

Christensen and Pearson looked at one another.

“Actually, we've sort of done that,” Christensen said. “Hope you don't mind. Just around the stables here, not out on the trails.”

Doti's face clouded. He took a deep swallow from the steaming cup. “I'd have been happy to show you around.”

“We should have stopped by here first, I guess,” Pearson said.

Doti appraised them over the cup's rim. When he lowered it, the smile was back. “Naw, really, it's no problem. It's just the members, they know us all here. Know each other, too. Unfamiliar faces just kind of stand out, and we always end up hearing about it. Just let us know you're coming next time and we'll walk you around, maybe even saddle up a couple of lesson horses for the grand tour.”

The three sat a moment in silence, each sipping from their cup. Now didn't seem the right time to start asking questions about the gray horse, but neither was Christensen ready to leave without bringing it up. He was phrasing and rephrasing an artful segue when Pearson spoke up.

“What do you know about that gray gelding out there?” she said.

Doti slowly turned to face Pearson. “We must have a hundred horses out there, ma'am, probably a dozen of 'em gray. Beyond getting 'em fed and watered every day and making sure the trails are in good shape, I can't say I've got the time to get to know 'em all.”

Christensen tried to buffer the comment. “See, in this patient's paintings—”

“King was the name on the stall.” Pearson leaned forward. “And there was a number, L12. A gelding.”

“Oh, King.” Doti shuffled some papers on his desk, straightened his executive desk set so that both the pen and pencil formed perfect 45-degree angles to the base. He stood and slowly walked toward his office window. “That's one of the lesson horses, ma'am. King. Use him for lessons, like I said.”

“Had him a while?” Pearson said.

“A while.”

“Since when?”

Doti twisted the rod on the miniblind of his window. The room darkened, then lightened again as he twisted it back. Then he did it again.

“Mr. Doti?”

When he turned back, the smile was unchanged. “Ma'am, he's just one of about sixteen or so lesson horses we keep here. He's been here a few years, maybe more. I'd have to check on something like that.”

Doti stepped back to his desk, but made no effort to sit down. He set his coffee cup down and leaned on the palms of his hands so far that the chain around his neck fell forward. The gold charm caught briefly on his chest hair, then tumbled free. Perfect smile. “Be more than happy to get hold of you folks if I find anything out,” he said, plucking the pen from its holder. “Care to leave a number or some way to get in touch with you?”

The dangling gold figure stopped swinging and hung straight down from Doti's neck. It was small, tasteful in its way, and Christensen knew without a second look what it was: a golden winged horse. If Christensen had had any doubt that Warren Doti was the man Floss Underhill spoke about that day at the hospital, it evaporated once he saw him wearing the same flying horse symbol that turned up in so many of Floss's paintings. Even more than the unexpected presence of the gray horse, Doti's relationship with Floss suddenly seemed critical to understanding the images in her art.

“How long did you work for the Underhill family?” he said.

It was more a reaction than a question. Christensen didn't think before he blurted it, but from Doti's reaction, he was glad he didn't. The coffee cup stopped halfway between Doti's desk and his mouth, and stayed that way an uncomfortably long time. “I'm afraid I don't follow,” he said finally. “I still work for them.”

“Here? You mean at Muddyross? They own it?”

A nod. “Managed their private stables before this. Why?”

Christensen pushed the gambit. “Mrs. Underhill, Floss, mentioned your name recently, that's all. She says you're quite a horseman.”

Doti lowered the coffee cup and sat down lightly on the front edge of his chair like a man who'd just gotten bad news. His eyes were open, but behind them his mind was clearly reeling.

Christensen poker-faced it, but the conversation's unexpected turn had caught them both by surprise. “Something wrong?”

“Been running their stables for a lot of years, Mr. Christensen. Mrs. Underhill, that's the patient you're talking about?”

Christensen and Pearson looked at each other, then back at Doti. Christensen nodded.

“Sorry. It's just—” Doti ran a thumb around the rim of his cup, then looked Christensen in the eye. “How's she doing?”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Three years now. I hear it's bad.”

Christensen nodded. “Alzheimer's has three stages, the third being terminal. She's late second stage.”

“I hear things, just bits and pieces from people.” Doti smiled suddenly. “Mrs. Underhill remembers me, though?”

What had she said? Her words bubbled up quickly:
The man knew horses like I don't know what. Women, too.

“She said you really know horses,” Christensen said.

Doti seemed to relax. “Before I got into this, I was a trainer. Mrs. Underhill's trainer when she was competing about two hundred years ago.” Doti nodded toward the hardware along the opposite wall. “We did okay.”

Christensen turned, his eye fixing on a 2-foot-tall trophy topped by a golden horse and rider leaping a rail jump.

“I'd say better than okay,” Pearson said.

“Won our share.”

“Show jumping?” Christensen asked.

“Equitation. Hunting and jumping. Mrs. Underhill's got what I call ‘touch.' Best hands of any rider I ever saw.” Doti's eyes faded again. “Had 'em, I mean. Before we all got old, before she took sick. Such a goddamned waste—” He ran one of his rough hands through his hair and drew a deep, ragged breath. He looked first to Pearson, then to Christensen. “Sorry. Lost my wife this past year. Cancer. Been rough, is all.”

“Our questions probably made it rougher,” Pearson said. “We're sorry, too.”

Christensen nodded his sympathy, but he wasn't finished. “We were wondering about the gray horse. See, Mrs. Underhill sometimes paints a gray horse with markings just like the one out there in the stall, the one you said was a lesson horse. What can you tell us about him?”

Doti shifted in his seat. “I'd have to check his papers. Like I said, we've got a hundred or so boarded here.”

“You said he's a lesson horse, though, one of the ones owned by the ranch.” Christensen leaned forward and leaned an elbow on Doti's desk. “There's only a handful of those, right?”

Doti nodded, but the muscles in his jaw knotted and rolled.

“Because here's the thing: The Underhills used to own a horse named Gray, see, a jumper.” He turned to Pearson. “Maura, do you still have the calendar?” She fished it out of her shoulder bag. Christensen took it, opened it to April, and slid it across the desk.

Doti stared a long time.
“Some Crazy Story about Gray,”
he read.

“That horse turns up a lot in her paintings, Mr. Doti, and that's where my research comes in. For some reason she remembers that horse. And she remembers you, and this place. We want to find out why those memories remain so—”

Doti stood up suddenly. The smile was back. “I really wish I could help you folks, 'cause Lord knows I'd do anything for Mr. and Mrs. Underhill.
Decent
people. But we've sorta lost touch, me being out here and all. They stopped coming once she took sick.” He checked his watch, made a face. “God's honest truth, I'm running a little scant on time right now. One of the members is expecting me down at the ring, and I shouldn't keep her waiting.”

Christensen stayed in his chair. So did Pearson.

“When would be a better time?” Christensen said.

Doti looked from one to the other. If they'd stood, Christensen was sure Doti would start ushering them out the door. Since they hadn't, Doti seemed a little self-conscious. But he didn't sit down.

“Muddyross is a private riding club, Mr. Christensen. Much as I'd like to help you out with your research or whatever, much as I think the world of the Underhills, I don't think the Underhills would much cotton to me talking about club matters with anybody who wanders in. This kind of puts me in a prickly situation, so there's not much point in us talking again. Maybe you should just talk to them.”

Christensen felt himself tense.

“No offense,” Doti added. “Sure you understand.”

The three of them waited in strained silence. The man clearly wanted to end the conversation, making Christensen that much more determined to push on. What did he have to lose? Suddenly, Pearson stood up. She stuck her hand out. “Well, then, Mr. Doti. We sure thank you for your time.”

Doti shook it warmly despite the moment's chill, then reached across the desk for Christensen's hand. When they shook, Doti all but pulled Christensen out of his chair.

Christensen retrieved the calendar from the desk and handed it back to Pearson. “Just one more question, Mr. Doti. It's personal, so I can't imagine the Underhills would mind you answering.”

Doti's jaw knotted again.

“That pendant around your neck?” Christensen pointed to the winged horse. Doti reached up and tucked the chain back into his shirt. “Does it have any special significance that Floss Underhill might be aware of?”

He waited for Doti to react, but all he got was that stiff smile and an unblinking stare. The ranch manager motioned them toward the door, then walked over and opened it, saying, “You folks drive carefully on your way back to the city.”

Pearson revved the Special's engine again, kicking up another whirlwind of dust in the Muddyross parking lot. She insisted on letting the car warm up for three minutes, no less, before putting it in gear. The brown cloud behind the car was thinning, but also drifting across the lot toward the stables and administration building. When Christensen turned around, he saw at least one reedy blonde waving a hand in front of her face to clear the air. The interior was a broiler, but when he'd tried to roll the window down, Pearson stopped him with a lesson about the deceptive delicacy of vinyl upholstery and how important it was to keep it clean.

“Let's just go, Maura. We weren't here that long. It probably hasn't even cooled down.”