by Thomas King
“Maybe they’ll shoot a scene here in the café.” Thumps slipped a ten under his plate. “You could be Chinook’s new celebrity destination. Might even win the mayor’s Howdy award.”
Al’s eyes brightened. “There’s an award?”
“Hell if I know,” said Thumps.
Al leaned against the cash register and folded her arms across her chest. “Isn’t it time for you to stick yourself with a needle?”
Thumps slung his bag over his shoulder. “Coffee at Mirrors was pretty good.”
“Yippee.” Al twirled the dish towel around her head like a lariat as she walked back to the grill. “Yippee.”
Fifteen
The front windows of the Chinook Pharmacy had been transformed into a Plains Indian panorama with tipis stretched out along a river as far as the eye could see. There was a herd of buffalo in the foreground, with the sun just coming up on the horizon.
It wasn’t Albert Bierstadt, but it could have been.
Inside, the pharmacy was done up to look like a western jail, the kind of jail anyone who had seen Rio Bravo or A Fistful of Dollars would recognize. Someone had built a miniature cell out of trellis panels and painted the whole thing dark grey so that the cedar slats looked like iron bars. Taped to the walls were wanted posters that featured most of Chinook’s prominent citizens. There was a poster for Archie “the Kid” Kousoulas and one for Beth “Shotgun” Mooney, dead or alive, five thousand dollars each.
“Howdy, Mr. DreadfulWater.”
Normally Chintak Rawat would be dressed in his starched white pharmacy jacket. But today he was dressed in leather chaps, a western shirt, and a ten-gallon hat that reminded Thumps of sailing ships and flying nuns.
“You’re looking mighty grim,” said Rawat, and he took his six-gun out of its holster and spun it around on a finger. “I reckon you and me got a score to settle.”
There was a large poster behind Rawat that said “Gun Fights Available on Request.”
“Gun fights?”
“Oh, yes,” said Rawat, dropping John Wayne from his voice. “A great deal of western fun. Perhaps you would like to try to best me.”
Thumps chuckled. “A gun fight? Me and you?”
“I am quite quick,” said Rawat. “Already I have bested Mr. Archie and Mr. Cooley.”
Rawat had arrived from Toronto about seven years back and bought the drugstore from Harry Lomax when Harry retired and moved to the Oregon coast. Biblical admonishments to treat your neighbour as yourself aside, Rawat had not had an easy time of it, cultural diversity being an alien concept in this part of the civilized world.
But the cost of gas and the time it took to drive to Great Falls or Helena to get their drugs finally convinced folks to do what generosity and compassion could not.
“Alas, the sheriff is quicker than he looks.”
“You and Duke?”
Rawat held out a holster and a single pistol. “Prepare to slap leather.”
What the hell. Thumps strapped the holster around his waist and tied the holster off at his thigh. Rawat stalked out from behind the counter.
“I mean to kill you in one minute, Ned,” said Rawat, getting back into character. “Or see you hanged in Fort Smith at Judge Parker’s convenience. Which’ll it be?”
Thumps waited for Rawat to make the first move.
“No, no,” said Rawat, breaking character. “You’re supposed to say, ‘I call that bold talk for a one-eyed fat man.’”
“What?”
“True Grit,” said Rawat. “John Wayne, Glen Campbell, Kim Darby, Robert Duvall. The remake with Jeff Bridges and Matt Damon was not as much fun.”
Rawat let his hand hover just above the butt of the pistol. Thumps felt a jolt of excitement course through his body. Rawat was right. This was fun.
Both men moved at the same time.
The explosion was unexpected, as was the slight recoil of the pistol.
“Jesus!”
“That was very close,” said Rawat. “I think we have killed each other.”
“What the hell was that?”
“Oh dear,” said Rawat. “Yes, I forgot to mention that these are movie prop guns with special blanks. Very authentic. Available online from Los Angeles.”
Thumps waited for his heart rate to return to normal. “You might want to warn people ahead of time.”
Rawat stepped back behind the counter and took off his hat. “Dr. Beth has sent in a new prescription,” he said, the cowboy gone for the moment. “It appears that the initial medical protocol was not as effective as expected.”
“She says I need to be on insulin.”
“Yes,” said Rawat. “That is exactly what she is saying.”
“And that means a needle?” Maybe Thumps had misunderstood what Beth had said.
“Oh, yes,” said Rawat. “This means many needles. Are you testing your blood sugar levels on a regular basis?”
“So I have to keep testing my blood even with the insulin?”
“This is accurate,” said Rawat. “You have a small needle for testing the blood, which you already do, and now you need a larger needle for introducing the insulin into the body.”
“Larger?”
“Has Dr. Beth shown you the proper procedure?”
“No.”
“And has she discussed with you the possible side effects and the potential for infection?”
Thumps realized he was only hearing every other word. “She hasn’t.”
“It is really quite simple.”
Rawat opened a box containing a zipped case that looked as though it would hold glasses. Inside was a long tubular device that could have been a fountain pen but wasn’t.
“This is the injector,” said Rawat. “You twist it like this. Then you insert the vial of insulin like this. Then you peel the protective cover off the needle and screw it on the end of the injector.”
Thumps looked at the needle. Rawat was right. It was larger than the lancet he used to draw blood for testing.
Rawat held the injector up so Thumps could see what he was doing. “You dial in the amount of insulin you need like this, lift your shirt and pinch a roll of fat at your waist, insert the needle into the fat, and depress the plunger.”
Thumps needed to sit down somewhere and put his head between his legs.
“And has Dr. Beth mentioned the possibility of hitting nerves with the needle?”
Thumps shook his head.
“Then I will say no more about it.”
Rawat took his time explaining the ins and outs of insulin use.
“It is not an exact science,” he said. “There are all sorts of variables in insulin use. For instance, you must ask yourself, ‘Am I overweight?’”
No, Thumps thought to himself, that is not a question I want to ask.
“Another question is, ‘How much do I exercise and when?’”
“You mean like at a gym?”
“Yes, of course at a gym,” said Rawat, “but exercise can also come in other forms. For instance, does your work provide a high, a moderate, or a low amount of physical activity?”
Thumps wasn’t liking where this was headed.
“And of course, we must ask ourselves the most difficult question of all.” Rawat paused to see if Thumps wanted to come up with the answer himself.
“Diet?”
“Exactly so,” said Rawat. “Of course, knowing what one should do and doing it are not always the same thing.”
The bill for the insulin, the injector, and the needles was a shock, like the gun going off in his hand.
Rawat put the cowboy hat back on his head and set it at a rakish angle. “Are you gonna do something?” he said. “Or just stand there and bleed?”
“What?”
“Tombstone,” said Rawat. “1993, with Kurt Russell, Val Kilmer, and Sam Elliott.”
Thumps looked at the bill again. “So how are sick people who don’t have a lot of money supposed to get well?”
“Yes,�
� said Rawat, “this will appear to be a conundrum until you understand that the well-being of the individual is not the primary concern of health-care corporations.”
“Great.”
“So I shall say no more about it.”
THE SIDEWALKS WERE empty. The air had turned dark silver, and there were cold clouds on the horizon. Snow in the mountains by evening. Thumps had arrived in Chinook on a day like this. The Volvo had broken down on the outskirts of town, and he had been forced to wait for the car to be repaired.
What was it now? Five years? Six years since that summer on the Northern California coast when bodies began showing up on the beaches around Arcata and Trinidad Head. Ten people in all. Five women, four men. One child. There had been little similarity. Not in age or occupation. Some of the victims had been local. Others had been passing through on vacation. Each body left just above the high tide mark with a small piece of obsidian in their mouths, something you wouldn’t find on a beach, something the killer brought with him.
Anna Tripp and her daughter, Callie.
Thumps had been away at a forensics conference in San Diego. By the time he returned, there was nothing left of the life he had had. So he resigned his position, packed the Volvo, and headed east.
He didn’t remember deciding to stay in Chinook. He just had. And each fall, when the geese passed overhead on their way out of Canada, headed south, Thumps would imagine going, would imagine getting back on the road and leaving everything behind once again.
He guessed that it was people who held you in place. Wives, husbands, lovers, children, friends. Or perhaps it was a landscape, the light in the morning, the sky at night. Or maybe it was simply having nowhere else to go.
But right now he wasn’t going anywhere. At least he wasn’t going to be driving. The truck Stas had lent him was parked at home. Not a long walk, but there was nothing waiting for him there save the silence of an empty house.
Sixteen
Thumps was sure that attending a production meeting was a waste of time, and he stopped short of Budd’s to reconsider. Ironstone Jewelry was having a sale on diamond pendants, and the Natural Gourmet had a special on herbal teas. Thumps took his time looking in the windows of both stores to see if there was anything he might need.
There wasn’t.
Nor did he need to be sucked into the Pearl and Maslow quagmire of prime-time justice and small-screen entertainment. There had been the first shoe, the hint that he had a vested interest in the Samuels case, and Thumps suspected that it wouldn’t be long before the second one hit the floor.
Gloria Baker-Doyle and Nina Maslow were standing next to the espresso machine. Their faces reminded Thumps of tired mothers in supermarkets trying to manage unruly children.
“Mr. DreadfulWater.” Maslow rearranged her face. It wasn’t a smile exactly. “There you are.”
“Here I am.”
Gloria gestured to the machine. “You know anything about espresso machines, yeah?”
“Still not working?”
“We found the portafilter,” said Nina, “but now it won’t turn on.”
“Is it plugged in?”
Both Nina and Gloria reprised their market-mommy faces.
“And you’ve flipped the switch?” said Thumps, pushing his luck further than good sense would recommend.
Nina gave Gloria a weary look. “Why didn’t we think of that?”
“Because we’re girls,” said Gloria.
“Maybe the breaker is blown.” Thumps waited. “It’s an old building. The circuit might not be able to handle the load.”
Maslow rubbed her hands together. “Is this how guys talk when they get together?”
Thumps smiled. And kept his mouth shut.
“So we’re looking for a breaker box?”
“Probably a fuse box.”
“Brilliant,” said Gloria. “I’ve always wanted to see a fuse box.”
The fuse box was in a closet under the staircase, and the news wasn’t good. Someone or several someones had, over the years, tried to renovate the electrical circuitry without changing the size of the service. The wiring looked as though it had been teased with a comb.
“It’s a sixty-amp service,” said Thumps. “It should be at least a hundred amps.”
“How exciting,” said Gloria.
“So,” said Nina, “we’re blowing the circuit every time we try to turn the machine on.”
“Probably.”
“Can it be fixed?”
“Sure,” said Thumps. “All you have to do is pull out all the wiring, put in a new service, and you’re good to go.”
Maslow grunted something under her breath. “And if we don’t want to do that?”
“Find a free circuit that won’t overload.”
“Is this your first production meeting, Mr. DreadfulWater?” Nina headed up the stairs without waiting for an answer. “You’re going to love it.”
The second floor of Budd’s was in the process of being turned into a set, a rustic log room with enormous windows that opened onto nothing. Thumps didn’t know where Malice Aforethought had found the carved wood furniture, the heavy draperies, and the thick oriental carpets, but the effect was startling.
Daniel Boone comes to Downton Abbey.
Sydney Pearl was sitting on a high-back sofa, a script in her hand. “What do you think?”
“Elaborate.”
“Black Stag,” said Pearl. “It’s the living room of the Samuels’s estate. Nina worked from photographs.”
“Clever.”
“Was that sarcasm?” Pearl put the script to one side. “Or appreciation?”
“I’ve always found it somewhat grotesque.”
Thumps turned to find an older woman standing at the staircase. She was dressed in a dark blue cashmere suit with a pale white brooch on a lapel.
“Buck saw it as rugged elegance.”
Thumps had never seen the woman before, but he didn’t need an introduction to know who she was.
Pearl was off the sofa and across the set. “Mrs. Samuels,” she said. “It’s good of you to join us. You know Nina, of course.”
Thumps saw no point in trying to guess a woman’s age. It was an enterprise for fools. Adele Samuels could have been fifty, but simple math put her in her late sixties.
Samuels looked right at Thumps. “This isn’t Rattler.”
Adele Samuels was slender and ram-rod straight, with soft hair the colour of silver foil and blue-grey eyes that reminded Thumps of a fall blizzard.
“No,” said Nina. “This is Thumps DreadfulWater. He’s going to help us with the investigation.”
“You’re Indian.” Samuels’s lips curled up at the edges.
“I am.”
“Blackfoot? Cree?”
“Cherokee.”
Samuels didn’t try to soften her voice. “Do you know Mr. Rattler?”
“I don’t.”
“I see,” said Samuels, dismissing Thumps and turning her attention to Maslow. “I thought we had an understanding.”
Maslow nodded. “We do.”
“Rattler is to be on the show,” said Samuels, “but now I hear that he doesn’t intend to appear.”
“He’ll be here.”
“Because there’s no point in talking to some Cherokee who doesn’t know anything,” said Samuels.
Maslow let the complaint slide off her back. “Is your son going to be joining us?”
“Finding a parking space,” said Samuels. “He’ll be here shortly.”
“Ethan, isn’t it?” said Nina.
“It is,” said Samuels, turning from one woman to the other. “He’s to be with me on set when we confront Mr. Rattler.”
“What have I missed?”
The man who came puffing up the stairs was younger than Thumps. He was plump, with thinning hair and thinner lips. His face was damp. There were dark blotches under his arms and across his chest as though he had just come from the gym. Or a long run.
“
Hi,” said the man. “I’m Ethan Price.”
“Adele’s son,” said Pearl.
“That’s right.” Ethan had a nice open smile that he must have gotten from his father. “For better, for worse.”
“So, we’re here.” Samuels’s mouth made a sound like a steel trap snapping shut. “You said you needed to go over some of the material.”
“Just a few questions,” said Nina.
“Let’s not take too long,” said Adele. “I have things to do.”
“We’re happy to help,” said Ethan.
“Great,” said Maslow. “First of all, I’d like to get a feel for the geography.”
“Geography?”
“In a manner of speaking,” said Maslow. “For instance, at the time of her death, Trudy didn’t live with you.”
“At the time of her murder,” Adele corrected. “And no, she didn’t live with us. She lived in town.”
“And the drive from town to your place would take, what? Half an hour?”
“I can make it in twenty-two minutes.” Ethan smiled and shook his head. “So long as you don’t get nailed in Randall.”
“What does any of this have to do with anything?”
“It’s okay, Mom,” said Ethan. “They need all the background they can get.”
“After Trudy moved off the estate,” said Nina, “did she ever come back?”
“For what?” said Adele.
“A visit,” said Maslow. “To pick up stuff she might have forgotten. To talk to you about how her life was going.”
“No,” said Adele. “We didn’t talk.”
“I’d see her at school,” said Ethan. “We’d say hello.”
“So neither of you knew what was happening in her life once she left Black Stag.”
Adele sat up even straighter. “Of course we knew. It’s a small community, Ms. Maslow. People see things. People talk.”
“Did you ever talk to Mr. Rattler?”
Adele bristled. “Why would I talk to him?”
“Just checking,” said Maslow. “For instance, you might have wanted to warn him off your stepdaughter.”
“Trudy did what she wanted to do,” said Adele. “She didn’t listen to anyone except herself. She was spoiled, and she was selfish.”
