Jeffery Deaver - The Vanished Man

The first beautiful day this spring.

For a half hour she circled the reservoir slowly, lost in the rapture of that unique connection between two different, complementary animals, each powerful and smart in its own way. She enjoyed a brief canter and then slowed to post in a trot as they came to the sharper turns in the deserted northern part of the park, near Harlem.

Completely at peace.

Until the worst happened.

She wasn't sure exactly how it occurred. She'd slowed to make the turn through a narrow gap between two stands of bushes when a pigeon flew directly into Donny Boy's face. Whinnying, he skidded to a stop so fast that Marston was nearly thrown off. Then he reared and she almost went backward over his rump.

She grabbed his mane and the front edge of the saddle to keep from falling eight feet to the rocky ground. "Whoa, Donny," she cried, trying to pat his neck. "Donny Boy – it's all right. Whoa!"

Still, he kept rearing, crazed. Had the collision with the bird hurt his eyes? Her concern for the horse, though, was mixed with her own fear. Sharp rocks jutted from the ground on either side of them. If Donny Boy kept rearing he could lose his balance on the uneven ground and go down hard – possibly with her under him. Nearly all of the serious injuries among her fellow riders weren't from tumbling off a horse but were from being caught between the animal and the ground when it fell.

"Donny!" she called breathlessly. But he reared again and held the position, dancing in panic on his hind legs and edging toward the rocks.

"Jesus," Marston gasped. "No, no…"

She knew then she was going to lose him. His feet were clattering on the stones and she felt the huge muscles quivering in his own panic as he sensed his balance go. He whinnied loudly.

Knowing she'd crush her leg in a dozen places. Maybe her chest too.

Almost tasting the pain. Feeling his pain too.

"Oh, Donny…"

Then, from nowhere, a man in a jogging suit stepped from the bushes. Wide-eyed, he looked at the horse. He jumped forward, grabbing bit and bridle.

"No, get back!" Marston shouted. "He's out of control!"

He'd get kicked in the head!

"Get out of the…"

But… what was happening?

The man was looking not at her but directly into the brown eyes of the horse.

Speaking words she couldn't hear. Miraculously the Appaloosa was calming. The rearing stopped. Donny Boy dropped forward onto all four hooves. He was fidgety and he still trembled – just like her own heart – but the worst seemed to be over.

The man pulled the horse's head down, close to his and he said a few more words.

Finally he stepped back, gave the horse an approving once-over and then glanced up at her. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"I think so." Marston inhaled deeply, touching her chest. "I just… It was all so fast."

"What happened?"

"A bird spooked him. Flew into his face. It might've hit him in the eyes."

A close examination. "Looks okay to me. You might want to have a vet look at him. But I don't see any cuts."

"What'd you do?" she asked. "Are you…?"

"A horse whisperer?" he replied, laughing, glancing away from her shyly. He seemed more comfortable looking into the horse's eyes. "Not hardly. But I ride a lot. I have this calming effect, I guess."

"I thought he was going down."

He gave her a tentative smile. "Wish I could think of something to say that'd calm you down."

"What's good for my horse is good for me. I don't know how to thank you."

Another rider approached and the bearded man led Donny Boy off the path to let the chestnut by.

He was examining the horse closely. "What's his name?"

"Don Juan."

"You rent from Hammerstead? Or is he yours?"

"Hammerstead. But I feel like he's mine. I ride him every week."

"I rent there too sometimes. What a beautiful animal."

Calm now, Marston examined him more closely. He was a handsome man in his early fifties. He had a trim beard and thick eyebrows that met above the bridge of his nose. On his neck – and chest too – she could see what looked like bad scarring and his left hand was deformed. Though none of that mattered to her, considering his most important trait: he liked horses. Cheryl Marston, divorced for the last four of her thirty-eight years, realized that they were both sizing each other up.

He gave a faint laugh and looked away. "I was…" His voice faded and he filled the silence by patting Donny Boy's rippled shoulder.

Marston lifted an eyebrow. "What's that?" she encouraged.

"Well, since you're about to ride off into the sunset and I may never see you again…" He tromped on the shyness and continued boldly, "I was just wondering if it'd be out of line to ask if you want to get some coffee."

"Not out of line at all," she responded, pleased by his straightforward attitude. But she added, to let him know something about her, "I'm going to finish my hour. I've got about twenty minutes left… Got to get back up on the horse, so to speak. How's that fit with your schedule?"

"Twenty minutes is perfect. I'll meet you at the stable."

"Good," Cheryl said. "Oh, I never asked: You ride English or Western?"

"Bareback mostly. I used to be a pro."

"Really? Where?"

"Believe it or not," he answered shyly, "I rode in the circus."

A faint ding resounded from Cooper's computer, indicating he'd received an email.

"A note from our friends on Ninth and Pennsylvania." He proceeded to decrypt the message from the FBI lab and a moment later he said, "The results from the oil. It's commercially available. Brand name Tack-Pure. Used to condition saddles, reins, leather feeding bags, equestrian-related products."

Horses…

Rhyme spun his Storm Arrow around and looked at the evidence board.

"No, no, no…"

"What's the matter?" Sachs asked.

"The manure on the Conjurer's shoes."

"What about it?"

"It's not from dogs. It's from horses! Look at the vegetation. What the hell was I thinking of? Dogs're carnivores. They don't eat grass and hay… All right, let's think. The dirt and the mold and the other evidence placed him in Central Park. And the hairs… You know that area, the dog knoll? That's in the park too."

"It's right across the street," Sellitto pointed out. "Where everybody walks their dogs."

"Kara," he snapped, "does the Cirque Fantastique have horses?"

"No," she said. "No animal acts at all."

"Okay, that lets the circus out… What else could he be up to? The dog knoll's right next to the bridle path in the park, right? It's a long shot but maybe he rides or has been checking out riders. One of them could be a target. Maybe not his next one but lets just go on the assumption that it is – since it's our only goddamn solid lead."

Sellitto said, "There's a stable someplace around here, isn't there?"

"I've seen it nearby," Sachs said. "It's in the eighties, I think."

"Find out," Rhyme called. "And get some people over there."

Sachs glanced at the clock. It was 1:35 P. M. "Well, we've got some time. Two and a half hours till the next victim."

"Good," Sellitto said. "I'll get surveillance teams set up in the park and around the stable. If they're in place by two-thirty that'll be plenty of time to spot him."

Then Rhyme noticed Kara frowning. "What is it?" he asked her.

"You know, I'm not sure you do have that much time."

"Why?"

"I was telling you about misdirection?"

"I remember."

"Well, there's also time misdirection. That's tricking the audience by making them think something's going to happen at one time when it really happens at another. Like, an illusionist'll repeat an act at regular intervals. The audience subconsciously comes to believe that whatever he's doing has to happen only at those times. But what the performer does then is shorten the time between the intervals. The audience isn't paying attention and they completely miss whatever he's doing. You can spot a time-misdirection trick because the illusionist always lets the audience know what the interval is."