Comes a Horseman Read Online Free Page B

worried.
    Wetting the bed, needing the blankie, clinging to Brady—these were Zach’s telltale signs of distress. Brady’s were anger and sullenness. He’d also developed a rigid skepticism of the so-called ordered universe. Man’s notion that he could somehow shape his future was bunk. How many Ivy League grads wound up flipping burgers? Brady personally knew of one, and not because the guy was flaky, but because the universe was. Brady also remembered being shown the extensive security of a house from which a baby had just been kidnapped. And was a lifetime of exercise and healthy eating able to stop a drunk from plowing his car into you? Karen had discovered the answer to that one herself. “Fair” implied order, and life wasn’t fair.
    Zach’s face leaned into his field of vision. “Dad?” he said.
    Brady’s eyes—and attention—refocused on his son. “That was great,” he said. “Thank you.”
    Zach appeared skeptical but said only, “I’ll miss you.”
    Brady pulled him into his arms and squeezed. “Me too, son. Me too.” He laid the boy’s head down on the pillow and switched off the lamp. At the door, he looked back. Light from the hallway spilled in, climbed the bed, and fell in a wide rectangle across the covered figure. Everything from the chest up was in darkness.
    â€œDad?” came Zach’s voice from nowhere.
    â€œHmm?”
    â€œWho are you after this time? What did he do?”
    Brady considered his response. “Very bad things, Zach. Whoever it is needs to be caught.”
    Silence. Brady pulled on the door, then stopped. He walked to the bed and resumed his position on it, eliciting another noisy exhalation from Coco. Here, he could make out Zach’s face. “Don’t worry,” Brady said. “I’ll be extra safe. I will come home.”
    It was a careless promise, he realized. No one could be 100 percent sure of surviving a stroll across a country road, let alone the pursuit of a serial killer. Still, Zach’s experience with losing his mother made him especially aware of death’s randomness and suddenness. Anything Brady could do to alleviate the boy’s natural concerns, he would do. A family friend had given him a book about guiding a child through the loss of a parent. It had firmly recommended telling the child that indeed the surviving parent could also be “called home” anytime. Brady had dropped it in the trash.
    Zach reached up to pull Brady in for one more hug. “You’d better,” he said.

3
    Palmer Lake, Colorado
    T he beast moved through the woods like the falling of night. It crossed the rough terrain effortlessly and skimmed past branches that snagged at its thick fur. Through the trees, the moon became a strobe of flittering light and shadow, but the beast’s vision was unaffected, always keen. It sensed everything: a rabbit scampered into its hole a meadow away; a doe had left dung here recently but was now long gone. The beast’s companions, one on either side, kept pace, agile and powerful. Thirty paces behind, their master crunched over twigs and veered around obstacles, following. The beast smelled their destination before seeing it, a human odor, a human den. Fire. It had known they were heading toward fire but only now realized the smoke also marked their objective. It opened its mouth to let cool air fill its lungs, then exhaled in a low, hungry growl.

    BREATHING DEEPLY from the fireplace’s flue, the flames bit into the wood, found an especially dry section, and flared briefly. The blaze warmed Cynthia Loeb’s bare arms as she sat on the rug in her living room, dressed in a summer blouse and shorts. She added the final strokes to what would be listed on eBay as a “hand-painted wastebasket by world-famous artist.” Well, famous was a stretch, she conceded to herself as she swirled her brush through two