little houses climbing up into the foothills. It depressed him to see so many useless people living such pathetic lives in those ant boxes. It was almost like being in prison.
No, he took that back. Nothing was almost like being in prison.
His mind drifted to the problem at hand, feeling a sudden rush of irritation. Broadbent. The man must have been waiting for his moment up there in the Maze. Just waiting. Maddox had done all the work, popped the guy, and then Broadbent stepped in, helped himself to the notebook, and split. The son of a bitch had wrecked a perfect finish.
Maddox took a deep breath, closed his eyes, said his mantra over a few times in his head, tried to meditate. No sense in getting all worked up. The problem was fairly simple. If Broadbent was keeping the notebook in his house, Maddox would find it. If not, then Maddox would find a way to force it out of him. The
man simply had no idea who he was dealing with. And since Broadbent was up to his neck in it, it was unlikely he'd call in the cops. This was going to be settled between them privately.
He owed it to Corvus; Jesus, he owed him his life.
He settled back as the 747 came in for a landing, nice and soft, the plane barely kissing the ground. Maddox took it as a sign.
10
THE NEXT MORNING Tom found his assistant, Shane McBride, at the hot walker, eyeballing a sorrel quarter horse trudging around the circle. Shane was an Irish guy from South Boston who went to Yale, but he'd picked up western ways with a vengeance and now he looked more cowboy than the locals. He stomped around in roping boots and sported a bushy mustache, with a dented Stetson with a scoop-brim jammed on his head, a faded black bandanna tied around his neck, his lower lip packed with chaw. He knew horses, had a sense of humor, was serious about his work, and was loyal to a fault. As far as Tom was concerned he was the perfect partner.
Shane turned to Tom, pulled off his hat, wiped his brow, and screwed up one eye. "What do you think?"
Tom watched the horse move. "How long's he been on there?"
"Ten minutes."
"Pedal osteitis."
Shane unscrewed his eye. "Naw. You're wrong there. Sesamoiditis."
"The fetlock joints aren't swollen. And the injury is too symmetrical."
"Incipient, and sesamoiditis can also be symmetrical."
Tom narrowed his eyes, watched the horse move. "Whose is it?"
"Noble Nix, belongs to the O Bar O. Never had a problem before."
"Cow horse or hunter-jumper?"
"Cutting horse."
Tom frowned. "Maybe you're right."
"Maybe? There ain't no maybe about it. He just came back from competing in Amarillo, won a saddle. The workout, combined with the long trailering, would do it."
Tom stopped the walker, knelt, felt the horse's fetlocks. Hot. He rose. "I still say it's pedal osteitis, but I'll concede that it might be pedal osteitis in the sesamoid bones."
"You should've been a lawyer."
"In either case, the treatment's the same. Complete rest, periodic hosing with cold water, application of DMSO, full leather pads for the feet."
"Tell me something I don't know."
Tom grasped Shane by the shoulder. "You're getting pretty good at this, eh, Shane?"
"You got it, boss."
"Then you won't mind running the show today, too."
"Things go a lot better when you're not here-cold cerveza, mariachis, bare-assed women."
"Don't burn the place down."
"You still looking for that gal whose daddy was killed in the Maze?"
"I'm not having much luck. The police can't find the body."
"It ain't no surprise to me they can't find the body. That's a big damn country back up there."
Tom nodded. "If I could figure out what he'd written in that journal of his, it would probably tell me who he was."
"It probably would."
Tom had told Shane everything. They had that kind of relationship. And Shane, despite his garrulousness, was implicitly discreet.
"You got it on you?"
Tom pulled the notebook out of his pocket.
"Lemme see." He took it, flipped through it. "What's this?
No, he took that back. Nothing was almost like being in prison.
His mind drifted to the problem at hand, feeling a sudden rush of irritation. Broadbent. The man must have been waiting for his moment up there in the Maze. Just waiting. Maddox had done all the work, popped the guy, and then Broadbent stepped in, helped himself to the notebook, and split. The son of a bitch had wrecked a perfect finish.
Maddox took a deep breath, closed his eyes, said his mantra over a few times in his head, tried to meditate. No sense in getting all worked up. The problem was fairly simple. If Broadbent was keeping the notebook in his house, Maddox would find it. If not, then Maddox would find a way to force it out of him. The
man simply had no idea who he was dealing with. And since Broadbent was up to his neck in it, it was unlikely he'd call in the cops. This was going to be settled between them privately.
He owed it to Corvus; Jesus, he owed him his life.
He settled back as the 747 came in for a landing, nice and soft, the plane barely kissing the ground. Maddox took it as a sign.
10
THE NEXT MORNING Tom found his assistant, Shane McBride, at the hot walker, eyeballing a sorrel quarter horse trudging around the circle. Shane was an Irish guy from South Boston who went to Yale, but he'd picked up western ways with a vengeance and now he looked more cowboy than the locals. He stomped around in roping boots and sported a bushy mustache, with a dented Stetson with a scoop-brim jammed on his head, a faded black bandanna tied around his neck, his lower lip packed with chaw. He knew horses, had a sense of humor, was serious about his work, and was loyal to a fault. As far as Tom was concerned he was the perfect partner.
Shane turned to Tom, pulled off his hat, wiped his brow, and screwed up one eye. "What do you think?"
Tom watched the horse move. "How long's he been on there?"
"Ten minutes."
"Pedal osteitis."
Shane unscrewed his eye. "Naw. You're wrong there. Sesamoiditis."
"The fetlock joints aren't swollen. And the injury is too symmetrical."
"Incipient, and sesamoiditis can also be symmetrical."
Tom narrowed his eyes, watched the horse move. "Whose is it?"
"Noble Nix, belongs to the O Bar O. Never had a problem before."
"Cow horse or hunter-jumper?"
"Cutting horse."
Tom frowned. "Maybe you're right."
"Maybe? There ain't no maybe about it. He just came back from competing in Amarillo, won a saddle. The workout, combined with the long trailering, would do it."
Tom stopped the walker, knelt, felt the horse's fetlocks. Hot. He rose. "I still say it's pedal osteitis, but I'll concede that it might be pedal osteitis in the sesamoid bones."
"You should've been a lawyer."
"In either case, the treatment's the same. Complete rest, periodic hosing with cold water, application of DMSO, full leather pads for the feet."
"Tell me something I don't know."
Tom grasped Shane by the shoulder. "You're getting pretty good at this, eh, Shane?"
"You got it, boss."
"Then you won't mind running the show today, too."
"Things go a lot better when you're not here-cold cerveza, mariachis, bare-assed women."
"Don't burn the place down."
"You still looking for that gal whose daddy was killed in the Maze?"
"I'm not having much luck. The police can't find the body."
"It ain't no surprise to me they can't find the body. That's a big damn country back up there."
Tom nodded. "If I could figure out what he'd written in that journal of his, it would probably tell me who he was."
"It probably would."
Tom had told Shane everything. They had that kind of relationship. And Shane, despite his garrulousness, was implicitly discreet.
"You got it on you?"
Tom pulled the notebook out of his pocket.
"Lemme see." He took it, flipped through it. "What's this?
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