by Thomas King
“We knew she was hanging out with Rattler,” said Ethan. “But there was nothing much we could do about it.”
“Did she happen to call you the night she died?”
“Ms. Maslow,” said Adele. “Trudy and I didn’t talk. She was a drunk, and yes, she did drugs. She was not a pleasant person to be around. But she didn’t deserve to die the way she did.”
“Actually,” said Ethan, “she was off alcohol and drugs the last year or so.”
“Drunks are good at hiding what they are,” said Adele. “Buck was an expert.”
Thumps stood quietly and watched the two women move back and forth along the baseline. It was like watching a slow-motion tennis match. With knives.
“So you never met Mr. Rattler?”
Ethan jumped in. “He brought Trudy home one night. She was drunk.”
“Was he?”
“Drunk?”
“Yes.”
“No,” said Ethan. “I don’t think so.”
“That was when I called the sheriff,” said Adele.
“Because?”
“What would you do if someone like Rattler brought your daughter home drunk with her dress torn?”
“I’d probably call the police,” said Nina.
“I would certainly hope so,” said Adele. “Are we finished?”
Maslow looked at Pearl. “One last question. You testified at the coroner’s jury that you believed that Tobias Rattler was responsible for your stepdaughter’s death.”
“I did.”
“There’s nothing in the record to support that conclusion.”
“Why are you asking me these questions?”
Maslow softened her voice. “These are questions our viewers are going to ask.”
“Not everything got into the record,” said Ethan. “A couple of days before Trudy died, she went back to the drinking and drugs. I saw her at school. She was a mess.”
“Any reason why?”
“Something happened with her and Rattler,” said Ethan. “What I heard was that Rattler had dumped her and that she was furious.”
“She had a temper,” said Adele. “There is no denying that.”
“But you don’t think she might have committed suicide.”
“You don’t commit suicide when you’re angry,” said Adele. “I can tell you that.”
Maslow stood up. “I think that does it.”
“That’s it?” said Ethan. “Shouldn’t we go over what we’re going to say on camera?”
Nina shook her head. “No. We want that to be spontaneous. We want it to be organic. I’ll have a schedule shortly. On the day of the shoot, we’ll pick you up and bring the both of you here to the set.”
“Just make sure Rattler is here.”
“He will be,” said Maslow.
Adele Samuels paused at the staircase. “You know, you could have found a place with an elevator. I don’t think that would have been too much to ask.”
Thumps waited until Mrs. Samuels and Ethan had made their way to the first floor.
“What’s going on?”
Nina shrugged. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t have a show,” said Thumps. “What you have is a bunch of what-ifs that don’t add up to anything.”
“Actually,” said Pearl, “we have a great deal more than supposition and conjecture.”
“We do,” said Maslow.
There it was again. The feeling that he was missing a piece to the puzzle, a feeling that Maslow and Pearl knew more than they were saying.
“Rattler is never going to be on the show,” said Thumps. “There’s no reason for him to come.”
“That’s your job, Mr. DreadfulWater,” said Pearl. “Find Mr. Rattler. Talk to him. I’m sure you’ll find a way.”
“And,” said Maslow, “thanks for the help with the espresso machine.”
Seventeen
Ora Mae peered at Thumps over the top of her glasses. “Well, here’s a ton of trouble.”
The realty office was quiet. The big longhorn and the bales of hay had been moved to a corner of the room, away from the workstations.
“Don’t be dumping your grumbly self all over my brand-new carpet.”
“That condo that Moses is renting,” said Thumps. “I need the address.”
Ora Mae pressed her fingertips to her lips. “You ever hear of doctor-patient privilege?”
“You’re not a doctor.”
“And you’re not a patient.”
Thumps could hear the exasperation in his voice. “Of course I’m not a patient.”
“How’s Claire?” said Ora Mae. “I haven’t seen her since you two got back.”
“Claire’s fine,” said Thumps. “Moses?”
“I hear the operation was a success.”
“The address?”
“Is there a problem with the condo?”
“How should I know? I don’t even know where it is.”
“This is serious shit, DreadfulWater,” said Ora Mae. “I can’t be giving away addresses to just any cowboy who walks in off the street.”
“I’m an Indian.”
“And I’m a black woman in a white town,” said Ora Mae, “so don’t be playing the race card with me.”
“Moses is a friend. I’m worried that he might be in trouble.”
“That nice old man?”
“And I need your help.”
Ora Mae picked up a pen. “You been by Beth’s lately?”
Thumps glanced at the bag of diabetic supplies on the floor by his leg. “Yes.”
“What colour are the walls?”
“What?”
“The walls. In the living room. What colour are they?”
“I don’t know. Yellow, I think.”
“Light or dark?”
“Ora Mae . . .”
“Light or dark?”
“Light.”
“Damn.” Ora Mae shook her head. “That woman just can’t get past yellow. She ask about me?”
“Absolutely,” said Thumps. “Yes, she did.”
“Good thing you don’t lie for a living,” said Ora Mae. “You’d be butt poor and begging.”
Thumps was not about to get between the two women. They’d work it out, or they wouldn’t. Nothing waiting for him there but misery and blunt-force trauma.
“You two might think about talking to each other.”
Ora Mae screwed her lips into a knot. “You don’t do helpful any better.”
“Could I please just have the address?”
“You want to tell me why giving you that sweet old man’s address is so important?”
“It would take too long.”
Ora Mae settled back in her chair. “Short version.”
There were certainly other ways to find out where the condo was. But they would all take more time and effort than he wanted to spend.
“Malice Aforethought.”
“That’s disgusting,” said Ora Mae. “You think you could get me on the show?”
“What?”
“Lesbian real-estate agent.” Ora Mae patted her hair. “Dark secrets of the housing market. They do shit like that.”
Thumps rubbed his forehead. “I’ll put your name in.”
Ora Mae peeled a green sticky off the pad. “You tell anyone where you got this and you’ll be looking over your shoulder the rest of your life.”
“Okay.”
Ora Mae tapped a long, manicured finger against her chest. “You don’t want to be annoying this woman.”
Thumps couldn’t think of a single woman he wanted to annoy.
Ora Mae sat up straight and turned her face so that it caught the light from the window. “And when you talk to those TV people, make sure you tell them just how photogenic I am.”
THE CONDO COMPLEX was on the other side of the river, and Thumps made the mistake of thinking that a walk on a lovely fall day would be invigorating. It wasn’t. By the time he found the address, he was tired. He should have gone ho
me first and picked up the truck.
Now he’d have to walk back.
Mesa Verde was a cluster of condominium units that were done up to look like the Anasazi cliff dwellings in southwestern Colorado.
With only limited success.
Instead of adobe, the exterior was cinder block with a spray-on acrylic resin stucco finish that was already beginning to lift off around some of the windowsills and door frames. There were dark stains down the side of the condos where the eavestroughs had leaked, and the concrete walkways had started to crack and buckle from the hard plains winters.
Thumps should have asked Ora Mae what these units cost. Not that he was going to buy one any time soon. But depending on price, Mesa Verde might make him feel better about the condition of his own house.
Number 49 was facing the river and promised to have a nice view. Thumps pressed the doorbell and was greeted with the American national anthem.
Another thing that needed to be fixed.
“Hey, Thumps.”
Cooley Small Elk was standing in the doorway, a neat trick for a man who was bigger than the frame.
“Moses said you’d find us soon enough.”
“So Moses is here?”
“He said it’s because you’re such a good detective.”
“I need to talk to him.”
“Yep.” Cooley stepped to one side. It was like rolling a large boulder from the entrance to a cave. “We’ve been expecting you.”
The interior of the condo was standard apartment fare. Sheetrock walls, textured ceilings, low-pile industrial carpeting and engineered hardwood flooring, vinyl mouldings and baseboards.
Moses Blood was standing at the kitchen table, sorting through the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. “It’s supposed to be a colony of puffins,” said Moses. “One thousand pieces.”
“So you actually rented a condo?”
“There’s a pool,” said Moses, “and a gym where you can ride a bicycle that doesn’t go anywhere.”
“Don’t forget the Ping-Pong table,” said Cooley.
“Cooley,” said Moses, “get your uncle a glass of water. And some of those chocolate cookies.”
Thumps couldn’t imagine Moses leaving the reservation and his place on the river. “You’re moving into town?”
Moses picked up a piece and tried to wedge it into a corner. “Why would I do that?”
“Then why did you rent a condo?”
“He didn’t.”
The man was Thumps’s age, tall with short black hair and sad eyes. He was set at an angle, bent over slightly at the waist, as though he had stood against a strong wind too long.
“Tobias Rattler,” said the man.
Rattler’s hand was soft and gentle. Thumps was tempted to squeeze it to make sure that the man was real.
“I asked Moses to rent a condo for me so I wouldn’t have to deal with the media.”
“We’re helping Toby keep a low profile,” said Cooley.
“Yes,” said Moses. “That spy movie we saw had a place just like this.”
“A safe house,” said Cooley.
“That’s right,” said Moses. “It’s where the hero hides to recuperate from his wounds and to figure out who betrayed him.”
“Toby’s got this place for a whole month,” said Cooley. “Plenty of time to solve the case. And the pool is great.”
“You feel like a walk, Mr. DreadfulWater?” said Rattler. “Wouldn’t mind stretching my legs.”
“That’s a good idea.” Moses tried another piece that didn’t fit. “Cooley and I are going to work on the puzzle, and then he’s going to show me how to use the elliptical trainer.”
“But we can’t spend too much time working out,” said Cooley. “There’s a new TV series on tonight that’s supposed to be real scary.”
“They got a lot of scary shows on television.” Moses made a face. “White people sure like to be frightened.”
“Vampires and zombies,” said Cooley. “In the old days, it was just cowboys and Indians.”
“That’s right,” said Moses. “But these days, the cowboys are mostly gone, and we’re not as daunting as we used to be.”
Cooley put a huge hand on Thumps’s shoulder. “If you had a white jacket and a stethoscope, you could go to Archie’s party as a doctor.”
“Yes,” said Moses, “that would certainly terrify me.”
Rattler slipped into his jacket and put on his shoes. “We can talk along the way,” he said. “I imagine you have a question or two.”
Eighteen
The river path quickly left the condominiums behind, and by the time Thumps and Rattler reached the first bend, all signs of settlement and civilization had slipped away. The Ironstone snaked its way through the valley, sharp and dark, cutting into the land, drifting past the cottonwoods already stripped of most of their leaves. Magpies scuttled about in the wolf willow, and crows slouched in the trees, yelling insults at the intrusion into their world.
“I love the country,” said Rattler, “but I live in cities. Do you know why?”
“The traffic?”
Rattler laughed. “You ever live in a big city?”
Thumps had visited places such as San Francisco and Denver, Toronto, and New York. But he had always lived in smaller towns. Central California, the Northwest Coast, the High Plains. Towns like Chinook. All of them, just like Chinook.
“Nope.”
“One’s not any better than the other,” said Rattler. “They’re just different.”
“You were raised on the reservation.”
Rattler nodded. “On and off. Reservation’s worse than a small town. If you want to be invisible.”
“And you wanted to be invisible?”
Rattler kicked at a stone and sent it scuttling into the prairie grass. “You know the difference between a celebrity and a writer?”
Thumps wondered how many more days like this were left before the first storms came down from the north and buried the high plains. Before the cold took over the world. Maybe he’d go away this year. Somewhere warm. He’d always wanted to see Hawaii or maybe Australia. The seasons were flipped at the bottom of the world. Winter was summer, and summer was winter.
“Trudy Samuels,” said Rattler so softly that Thumps could have mistaken the sound for the wind in the trees.
“You were friends.”
“The best.” Rattler began walking again, moving stiffly like a thin bird wading in water. “We met in high school. Two loners trying to stay out of the way of the world.”
Thumps remembered his high school years. Not with any great fondness. “Almost impossible.”
“Bad boy Indian. Rich white girl.” Rattler paused and then continued. “Mother died when she was young. Cinderella stepmother. Father’s death messed her up good. You can do the math.”
“Sounds like the plot for a bad novel.”
Rattler chuckled. “It is the plot for a bad novel.”
Thumps zipped up his jacket. He should have worn something warmer. “Can’t imagine Adele was happy with the relationship.”
“Not sure anything makes that woman happy,” said Rattler. “It wasn’t Trudy. And it sure as hell wasn’t me.”
Thumps watched his shadow. It stretched out in front of him as though it were trying to get away. Or maybe it was just trying to find someplace warm.
“Trudy ever try to kill herself?” Thumps hadn’t wanted to ask the question, had hoped that Rattler would have come to it on his own.
“Not when I knew her. Maybe before.” Rattler ran a hand through his hair. “Don’t you want to know if I killed her?”
Thumps didn’t say anything.
“When they found Trudy’s body, Adele yelled murder as loud as she could.”
“But you were cleared.”
“Not quite the same, is it?”
No, thought Thumps, it’s not.
“I didn’t kill her,” said Rattler, “and I don’t think she committed suicide.”
; “What’s left?”
“But that’s not what you want to know, is it?” Rattler rubbed his hands together and stuffed them in his pockets. “You want to know why I’m here. Why I came back. After all this time.”
Thumps tried to think of all the reasons that would have brought Rattler back to Chinook and could only come up with one.
“Moses asked you?”
“Never knew my parents. I bounced around foster homes. Reservation, off reservation. Sometimes I stayed for a while, other times I ran away. Moses found me on the side of the road. I was trying to hitchhike to Paris.”
“France?”
“I had seen pictures of the city in a book,” said Rattler. “It looked nice.”
Thumps remembered the first time he had seen a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge. His mother had brought a magazine home from work. The bridge was on the cover.
“Anyway, he took me to his place. Fed me. Gave me a place to sleep.” Rattler started laughing to himself. “Next morning, he drove me into town. We stopped at the library and looked Paris up in an atlas.”
Thumps smiled.
“We followed the roads with our fingers to Minneapolis, through Chicago, and all the way to New York and the Atlantic Ocean.” Rattler took a deep breath. “And then we got back in his truck and went home.”
“And you stayed.”
“Moses didn’t mind that I was invisible.”
The sun sank in behind a ridge. If they didn’t turn around in the next little bit, they’d be walking back in the dark.
“Moses thinks I left because of Trudy.” Rattler made a clicking noise with his mouth. “That I left because she died.”
“But you didn’t?”
“I was never going to stay.” Rattler turned his face into the buffeting wind and the dying light. “There was nothing for me here.”
The river was in shadows now and the cottonwoods were settling in for the night. Thumps had forgotten how quiet the land could be.
“So,” he said, as he walked alongside the taller man, “what is the difference between a celebrity and a writer?”
Nineteen
Thumps didn’t know how far he and Rattler had walked. Certainly farther than he had intended. Evening had caught them before they turned around, and by the time they got back to the condo, Thumps could feel his knees.
