Limits of Justice, The by John Morgan Wilson Page B

more.”
    “You must have hated Charlotte Preston for wanting to take Equus away from you.”
    He glanced toward his tethered mare, then up in the direction of the house.
    “Mr. Preston said I could always live here. He promised he’d always keep me safe, take care of me. Charlotte wanted to sell Equus so they could tear the house down and carve the place up into half-acre parcels. Do you know how many horses you’re allowed to keep on a half-acre lot up here, Mr. Justice?”
    I shook my head.
    “One. One horse per half acre. As if horses can live like that and not go mad.”
    “Charlotte told me her father named Equus after the famous play.”
    “That’s right.”
    “Did you ever see the play yourself?”
    “Mr. Preston took me to New York once, in a private plane. We saw the play in a beautiful theater there. Mr. Preston cried. He told me afterward that I was the boy in that play.”
    “But you would never blind your horses, like the boy in the play.”
    “No, I could never hurt the horses.”
    “What about a human being, George? Could you hurt a human being?”
    “I don’t think I like your questions.”
    “Tell me about Saturday, George—when you last saw Charlotte.”
    “We argued, the way I told you. She was crying, and she took the photos and went away. And I never saw her again.”
    “I think someone murdered her, George.”
    “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
    Up at the cottage, the mare whinnied. He glanced at her, then back toward me.
    “I think you should go now.”
    “Could I come back, talk to you again?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe talking to you was a mistake. Maybe I shouldn’t have trusted you.”
    His boyish, bloodless face suddenly grew sullen, dangerous.
    “You wouldn’t write anything bad about Mr. Preston, would you?”
    “Would it upset you if I did?”
    “Yes, quite a lot.”
    He turned away toward the cottage. I ambled down the drive, slipped back through the gate, climbed into the Mustang, pulled back onto the road.
     
    *
     
    I saw George Krytanos one more time, as I fed the Mustang a little fuel, rolling down the hill.
    He was atop the mare, watching me from a small bluff at the southern edge of the property. Dusk lay heavily on the landscape now, and in the shadows, with his slim figure and long, dark hair, he looked eerily ghostlike himself. Neither man nor boy, male nor female, alive nor dead, but lost somewhere in the netherworld between.

Chapter Seven
     
    Friday-evening traffic into Los Angeles was the usual bumper-to-bumper grind, and it was after nine when I got back to Norma Place.
    Mei-Ling was resting on the patio with Maurice, Fred, and Maggie. Maggie and Fred barely stirred at my approach, but Mei-Ling was on her feet like a pop-up toy, trotting over with her little pink tongue protruding from her barracuda teeth, while Maurice’s chaise lounge scraped flagstone as he rose. Mei-Ling stood at my feet, pawing at my pants leg, insisting that I pick her up. I finally obliged, while Maurice told me that she was beginning to fit more snugly into the household—he whispered that even Fred had taken to napping with her when he thought no one was around to witness it.
    “That’s nice, Maurice, but I’m afraid this is her last night with us.”
    “She’s found another home?”
    “Templeton and I are attending Charlotte Preston’s funeral tomorrow afternoon. I expect Charlotte’s mother will be there. She’s Mei-Ling’s rightful owner.”
    “Yes, of course.”
    Maurice stroked Mei-Ling lovingly around the shoulders, refusing to look at me. I noticed that he’d given her a bath and a fluff, and bound a sprig of her hair between her ears with a small pink bow, just the kind of thing the childless Charlotte Preston would have done. It made me feel some sympathy for the dog—being festooned in a silly pink bow—though it didn’t mean I liked her any better.
    “I guess she can’t help it if she thinks she’s a princess. Can you,