Comes a Horseman Read Online Free Page A

does it matter?”
    He wrinkled his nose. “She smells funny.”
    True enough. Mrs. Pringle was a widow in her seventies who smelled as if she stored herself in mothballs when she wasn’t baby sitting Zach. But she had no problem in the mental acuity department, and despite operating at half speed, she seemed perfectly capable of doing all the things required to look after the boy. Weekday mornings, Brady saw his son off to the bus stop. After school, Zach went to a daycare center with several other schoolkids whose parents both worked or who had a single parent. Until a year and a half ago, Brady had never imagined that he’d fall into the latter category.
    He knew some parents let their children stay home alone for the few hours between the end of school and the end of their work. He’d been in law enforcement long enough, however, to know latchkey kids were more likely to expose themselves to danger—by being careless or naive on the Internet, with fire, around strangers—and become victims of accidents or crime. During the infrequent times Brady worked late, Mrs. Pringle filled in. She may have been slow and odorous, but to Brady, the woman was a godsend.
    â€œLook,” Brady said, “when I get home, we’ll rent some Scooby-Doo s and watch them till our eyes fall out, okay?”
    Zach brightened. “The two of us?”
    A brief pause. “You bet.”
    â€œYou too?”
    Brady let out a chuckle, as if it were a silly question, but of course it wasn’t. “Me too,” he said.
    â€œAll right!” Instantly wide-awake, Zach scooted into a sitting position. “How long will you be gone?”
    â€œA few days, at least. Maybe a week.”
    The boy’s face fell. “That long? Why do you have to go? Can’t someone else do it?”
    â€œIt’s my job, Zachary. Other people are doing their jobs.”
    â€œWill Miss Wagner be there?”
    Brady knew that Zach liked his partner, Alicia Wagner.
    â€œShe’s there already. The Bureau decided to send us too late to get to the crime scene before the local police . . . processed it.”
    â€œYou mean before they contaminated it.”
    Brady wasn’t sure he liked his son so steeped in the ways of the FBI, its parlance and procedures.
    He said, “That’s right. So, anyway, there’s no real hurry getting there. We’ll do what we can, review the evidence, and hope to be there sooner the next time.”
    Zach said, “Hope for the next time?”
    The kid was quick.
    â€œI don’t mean hope there is a next time. Of course not. I mean, if the bad guy strikes again, we hope to get there sooner so we can help.”
    Zach nodded.
    Brady leaned over, parted his bangs, and kissed him on the forehead. “Now get to sleep, big guy,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
    As he rose, Zach gripped his arm. “Can we pray?”
    Brady paused. It was a ritual Karen had started. Sinking back down onto the bed, he said, “You do it.”
    The boy closed his eyes and began speaking in the gentlest of tones.
    Brady noticed how the bedside lamp cast a warm glow over Zach’s face. He never tired of observing his son, and now his eyes absorbed every detail, his mind storing it for instant recall while he was away. Between his entwined hands, Zach held his “blankie,” a threadbare infant blanket that he had originally given up at age four. Shortly after Karen’s funeral, he’d had a number of bed-wetting incidents and had begun crying for his blankie. Fortunately, Karen, as organized as she was sentimental, had stored it in a box marked Zachary’s Baby Things . The nighttime accidents had stopped, but Zach was now more attached to that raggedy cloth than he had been as a toddler. Mrs. Pringle kept stitching it back together, especially its silk trim, which Zach absently rubbed between forefinger and thumb when wearied or