The Dream of the Broken Horses by William Bayer
Authors: William Bayer
Tags: Suspense & Thrillers
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asks. "You could have looked into this years ago . . . before the trail went cold."
"I wasn't ready. But this spring, when my mom died, some new material came my way. Then a couple months later the Foster trial and the offer from ABC. Everything seemed to gel. The message was clear. It was time to go home and face my demons." I glance at her. "Such as they are."
"Oh, they definitely sound like demons," she says.
No mention from her this evening about having to get her "beauty sleep." Rather, I'm invited for the first time to spend the night.
Later she says, "Let me help you, David. I've got free time. We could backtrack your story together."
"Boy-girl investigative team. Nice idea. But I work best on my own." I look at her. "You wouldn't be trying to distract me now, so Wash can put out better drawings?"
She laughs. "Life isn't always a media war." She places her hands on my cheeks, stares into my eyes. "I like you, David. Don't you get it? I really do."
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T here's a health club on the top floor of the Townsend Hotel. If you're coming or going from there in workout clothes, you're supposed to take a special elevator lest guests in business attire be offended by the exposure.
Pam and I head up there at 6:00 A.M. to join other lean-mean media folk into physical fitness and self-torture. Gym workouts aren't my thing, but when Pam asks me to join her, I tag along lest she take me for a wimp. The exercise room is spacious, with plate-glass windows facing the city skyline and several rows of equipmentâtreadmills, StairMasters , Nautilus machinesâall gleaming chrome and sleek black leatherette, shiny and welcoming in the brilliant early morning light.
Pam starts on a Nautilus circuit. I mount an exercise bike. An NBC reporter, Cynthia Liu, is pedaling furiously on an adjacent machine. I give her the once-over. She's already slick with sweat. She wears black Lycra tights and a sports bra, the kind with a little porthole in back. She's a skinny girl, her spine protrudes, and her frail shoulder blades stick out. She stares straight ahead at a TV monitor set to the daybreak program on the local NBC affiliate.
News of the early morning commute: expressway jam-up due to an accident. Promise of another sweltering day: one hundred percent humidity with a projected high of ninety-one degrees. No end in sight to the Forgers' losing streak; team in the cellar for the third straight week. As the attractive, youthful, blow-dried anchors slip into casual morning happy-talk, I catch myself panting, slow my pedaling, then wipe myself down with the towel hanging from my handlebars.
"Kinda out of shape, aren't you?" Cynthia Liu comments, pedaling away, still looking straight ahead.
"Excuse me?"
She glances at me. " Whatsamatta ? Girlfriend wear you out?"
Annoyed, I shake my head. "I thought you were supposed to be nice."
She smirks. Our eyes lock. Suddenly I feel like putting her down. "Tell me," I ask, "are you bulimic?"
For a moment she holds the smirk, then her face squeezes up as if she's sucking on a lemon. She stops pedaling, shows me a hard gaze of hatred, dismounts, and stalks out of the gym.
Pam mounts the StairMaster on my other side. "What was that about?"
"Little Miss Perfect made a personal remark. I chose to respond in kind."
"Good for you, David! Now pedal up. Want an aerobic effect, you gotta work for it."
She spends the next twenty minutes sweetly putting me through my paces, enjoying her new self-assigned role as my personal trainer: "Faster, David! Faster!" "Go for the burn!" "Give me another, David. Another!" And, most sweetly of all: "Hey! Don't pussy out on me ... please!"
At 6:30 we step into the gym elevator. She snuggles with me on the descent. Her body, warm and moist, turns me on. Alas, she informs me sadly, she doesn't have time now to make love. Too much to do, a meeting with Starret and Wash, then over to the county courthouse for her early stand-up. She smooches me as the doors open,
"I wasn't ready. But this spring, when my mom died, some new material came my way. Then a couple months later the Foster trial and the offer from ABC. Everything seemed to gel. The message was clear. It was time to go home and face my demons." I glance at her. "Such as they are."
"Oh, they definitely sound like demons," she says.
No mention from her this evening about having to get her "beauty sleep." Rather, I'm invited for the first time to spend the night.
Later she says, "Let me help you, David. I've got free time. We could backtrack your story together."
"Boy-girl investigative team. Nice idea. But I work best on my own." I look at her. "You wouldn't be trying to distract me now, so Wash can put out better drawings?"
She laughs. "Life isn't always a media war." She places her hands on my cheeks, stares into my eyes. "I like you, David. Don't you get it? I really do."
Â
T here's a health club on the top floor of the Townsend Hotel. If you're coming or going from there in workout clothes, you're supposed to take a special elevator lest guests in business attire be offended by the exposure.
Pam and I head up there at 6:00 A.M. to join other lean-mean media folk into physical fitness and self-torture. Gym workouts aren't my thing, but when Pam asks me to join her, I tag along lest she take me for a wimp. The exercise room is spacious, with plate-glass windows facing the city skyline and several rows of equipmentâtreadmills, StairMasters , Nautilus machinesâall gleaming chrome and sleek black leatherette, shiny and welcoming in the brilliant early morning light.
Pam starts on a Nautilus circuit. I mount an exercise bike. An NBC reporter, Cynthia Liu, is pedaling furiously on an adjacent machine. I give her the once-over. She's already slick with sweat. She wears black Lycra tights and a sports bra, the kind with a little porthole in back. She's a skinny girl, her spine protrudes, and her frail shoulder blades stick out. She stares straight ahead at a TV monitor set to the daybreak program on the local NBC affiliate.
News of the early morning commute: expressway jam-up due to an accident. Promise of another sweltering day: one hundred percent humidity with a projected high of ninety-one degrees. No end in sight to the Forgers' losing streak; team in the cellar for the third straight week. As the attractive, youthful, blow-dried anchors slip into casual morning happy-talk, I catch myself panting, slow my pedaling, then wipe myself down with the towel hanging from my handlebars.
"Kinda out of shape, aren't you?" Cynthia Liu comments, pedaling away, still looking straight ahead.
"Excuse me?"
She glances at me. " Whatsamatta ? Girlfriend wear you out?"
Annoyed, I shake my head. "I thought you were supposed to be nice."
She smirks. Our eyes lock. Suddenly I feel like putting her down. "Tell me," I ask, "are you bulimic?"
For a moment she holds the smirk, then her face squeezes up as if she's sucking on a lemon. She stops pedaling, shows me a hard gaze of hatred, dismounts, and stalks out of the gym.
Pam mounts the StairMaster on my other side. "What was that about?"
"Little Miss Perfect made a personal remark. I chose to respond in kind."
"Good for you, David! Now pedal up. Want an aerobic effect, you gotta work for it."
She spends the next twenty minutes sweetly putting me through my paces, enjoying her new self-assigned role as my personal trainer: "Faster, David! Faster!" "Go for the burn!" "Give me another, David. Another!" And, most sweetly of all: "Hey! Don't pussy out on me ... please!"
At 6:30 we step into the gym elevator. She snuggles with me on the descent. Her body, warm and moist, turns me on. Alas, she informs me sadly, she doesn't have time now to make love. Too much to do, a meeting with Starret and Wash, then over to the county courthouse for her early stand-up. She smooches me as the doors open,
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