The Horses of the Night by Michael Cadnum Read Free Book Online Page A

wished there was some way it could recover and become healthy again.
    The outbuildings were padlocked, their shutters tight. In these buildings I kept a bicycle or two, gardening equipment, and an assortment of teak lawn furniture.
    In the hothouse, in the warm, tropical demi-world, I snapped on a light.
    The stepping stones in the hothouse were outlined with green moss. The lobster claw heliconia and the ornamental ginger all blazed, technicolor and unreal in appearance, and even the vanilla orchid suspended from its perch overhead looked like a relic from a lost planet.
    I had believed that we needed more sanctuary in our lives. We needed gardens, from rooftop to rooftop, interlinked, as a refuge for all of us. My drawings were found nearly universally “charming, tasteful,” exactly the sort of grand illusion a gentleman designer would cherish.
    I seized a pot and hurled it, and the sound of the exploding clay was loud.
    I knelt and gathered the terra-cotta fragments. The pot had not been completely empty. A fan of soil spread across the moist concrete, and there were traces of delicate white roots.
    Mustn’t hurt anything like this, not here, not among all these living things.
    The air was breath-warm, and as I knelt to gather the shards I felt something bend, like a wire, over my heart.
    I wished that there was something I could tell Blake, some way of explaining to him what a mistake it was to align himself with DeVere.
    Fight back, I told myself.
    Powerless . I despised self-pity, but the word kept drifting back into my mind. Why was it, however, that as I stood there in the warmth of the hothouse I did not feel powerless at all?

7
    The morning light slanted across the bedroom. The sunlight caught the tiny motes of dust. Every surface became dusty easily now, the restoration work downstairs standing unfinished.
    The phone rang and I reached for it.
    It was Anna Wick’s voice. She was polite, friendly. Peterson was going to be on television, “AM San Francisco,” the next day. Her voice did nothing to indicate the spite behind the message she was giving.
    â€œThey’ll be showing his designs for the new Golden Gate Park,” she said.
    When I put down the telephone I realized the importance of this news.
    Everyone would know.
    DeVere was enjoying this.
    Blake shook his head sadly. “I can’t help you.”
    My first impression, sitting there in a leather chair, sunlight slipping through the plush curtains, was quite clear: This man has changed. He was not the avuncular, polite man I had known since childhood.
    â€œAs friends,” I persisted, “don’t you think we owe something to each other?”
    â€œWhat would you have me do? Talk DeVere into liking you?”
    His voice was sharp. I glanced around at the oak-and-crystal quiet of the club but there was no one who could overhear us. The lounge, a dimly lit room dominated by a fireplace, had been intended for a place of secluded conversation. We were alone with our balloons of cognac, although mine was largely unsampled; it was, after all, well before noon.
    â€œI am in debt to DeVere,” Blake continued. “In more ways than one.” He looked at me and smiled joylessly. “Look at you—a vigorous man living in a house you should have sold a long time ago. Pursuing a dreamer’s career. Give up.”
    â€œLook at me, Blake. You helped teach me chess.”
    â€œYou liked the knights. You wanted to take them away and play with them.” He let me enjoy this memory for a moment. “You’ve always meant a great deal to me, Stratton. You remind me so much of your father.”
    â€œI’d like to know how DeVere influenced you.”
    â€œYou make it sound as though there might be some mystery about it. He bought me. Crudely. Without shame. He agreed to purchase my vineyards, and my stables, and my place in Newport Beach.”
    â€œMoney.”
    â€œI can live without my