Read Lost Dog (A Gideon and Sirius Novel Book 3) for Free Online Page A

look like they’re in agony, which they probably are.
    “If I had known what I do now about the walk, I probably would have told Isaiah ‘no way.’ I just remember him saying, ‘Dad, what do you think about the two of us doing the Cactus to Clouds walk?’ When you hear it that way, it doesn’t sound so bad, does it? Isaiah didn’t tell me the details. He just said something about how we’d start in Palm Springs and end up near Idyllwild.
    “I didn’t know it meant climbing up more than eight Empire State Buildings. I didn’t know I’d be looking at having to walk more than ten miles. I didn’t know about all the people who’d died during the hike. And we’re not just talking about weekend warriors who keeled over from heatstroke and dehydration. There was one professional outdoor guide who bought the farm when he slipped down an ice chute.
    “Isaiah had the cactus part right and the cloud part right, but he didn’t tell me about what came between them. In order to beat the heat, you need to start before dawn. No water fountains along the way, so you better be hauling lots of liquids. In fact, you better start hydrating the day before the hike, like I’ll be doing all of tomorrow. And I’m not sure whether it’s harder to deal with the heat or the cold. When you start off in the heat of the valley, it’s hard to imagine that you’ll be fighting ice by the afternoon. You might even need crampons to keep your footing.”
    “All of that sounds pretty awful,” I said.
    “And it feels pretty awful. I’m no spring chicken. And I’m carrying at least twenty-five, hell, thirty-five more pounds than I should be.”
    “But you’ve still done it for the last three years?”
    “I’ve made an anniversary of it. At the 187 Club we like to stress the importance of setting aside time for special remembrances of the dead. Isaiah and I make that walk together every year on the anniversary of his death. It’s my way of spending time with my son and putting a positive spin on a terrible day. Crazy, right?”
    “Not so crazy,” I said. “I assume you take the tram back down?”
    “You’re damn right I do. I’m only half-crazy. The worst thing about that ride is that it only takes about ten minutes to go from Mountain Station to Base Station. It goes too fast.”
    “My wife and I took that tram years ago,” I said. “We swore the next time we did it, we’d dine at that restaurant they’ve got up at the top.”
    “Peaks Restaurant,” said Walker. “It’s supposed to be pretty good, but everyone goes there for the view more than the food. Every year Isaiah and I have a long drink there before I take the tram back down. You can’t imagine the view. You feel like you’re on top of the world. I suppose I remember that more than all the aches and pains that come with the hike.”
    “Memory is a crazy woman that hoards colored rags and throws away food.”
    Walker wrinkled his brow. “Say what?”
    “My shaman next-door neighbor is fond of quoting that.”
    “One more time,” said Walker.
    “The shaman part or the quote?”
    “The quote.”
    “Memory is a crazy woman that hoards colored rags and throws away food.” Then I remembered the name of the writer. Seth was fond of several of his sayings: “Austin O’Malley.”
    “I like that. Instead of remembering the real substance, we’re more likely to remember the pretty trappings.”
    “It certainly puts a perspective on what we choose to remember and what we don’t.”
    “And you say your neighbor is a shaman?”
    “He is.”
    “Only in L.A.,” said Walker.
    I qualified my head-nodding with an explanation: “I actually have a lot of respect for Seth. That’s his name. He doesn’t go by Soaring Cloud or Deep Waters or anything like that. Seth is one of those people who seem to know just about everything. When Jenny died, he helped guide me through some very difficult times. He did it because I’m a friend, but it’s also one of the