by Thomas King
And his feet.
“Sydney Pearl says you agreed to be on the show.”
“I thought it was going to be a documentary.”
“Then you discovered it was Malice Aforethought.”
“Surprise, surprise,” said Rattler.
“And you backed out.”
“I did. They weren’t real happy.”
“Maslow and Pearl want me to talk you into doing the show.”
“They paying you?”
“That’s the idea.”
“But you’re wondering why I’m here.” Rattler kicked at another stone. “If I wasn’t going to do the show, why come back to Chinook. Why not just stay in Barcelona?”
“Barcelona?”
“Amazing city,” said Rattler. “The Basilica of the Sagrada Familia is stunning.”
“And now here you are.”
Rattler’s face softened. “Here I am.”
THUMPS HAD HOPED to catch a ride home, but Moses and Cooley had already left for the reservation to catch the TV series of the undead and the living dead. He wondered if Moses had had a chance to try out the elliptical trainer, wondered what the old man thought about running in place and getting nowhere.
The old Dodge was waiting for him at the curb when he limped onto his porch, a mocking reminder of exactly why cars had been invented. He tried to recall the last time he had been on an extended trek. The hike up to Blackfoot Falls when he had gone looking for Stanley Merchant, Claire’s son? Stick had been a suspect in a murder case, and Thumps had tried to find him before the damn fool fell off a cliff or got himself shot by the police. Had it been that long?
Thumps didn’t expect to find Freeway waiting for him. And she wasn’t. The house was as empty and cold as when he had left it. He checked the message machine.
Nothing.
The folder that Nina Maslow had given him was on the table. Maybe there was something in the crime-scene descriptions, officer interviews, photographs, and forensic reports that would provide answers, but he doubted it. And before he could even think about tackling the report and its dull, plodding prose, he needed to get something to eat. How long had it been since his last meal? Shadow Ranch? Al’s? Not since late morning? What had happened to lunch? Where was dinner?
Wherever dinner was, he suddenly realized that it wasn’t going to be here.
He still hadn’t gone shopping. The cupboard was bare. The refrigerator was empty. The easy answer would be to jump in the truck and go to the new giant-squirrel fast-food joint the sheriff had recommended. Not an appealing idea. Golden arches, red-headed girls, giant squirrels. There was a reason they called it fast food.
The Halloween party.
Thumps had been to any number of events at the Aegean, and in every case, there had been food. Some very nice food, as he recalled. And if he left right away, he might get there before it was all gone.
He tried Claire’s home phone.
Answering machine.
He tried her cell.
Then he grabbed his jacket and his hat.
THE WINDOWS OF the Aegean were ablaze as though the old library had been set on fire. As he stepped out of the truck, he heard the big drum. The Clay Pigeons. No mistaking Marvin Soop’s voice. Singing an intertribal? At a Halloween party? How had Archie managed that?
Thumps stood on the sidewalk and reconsidered his decision. When he had been safe at home, the promise of free food had sounded appealing. Now that he was faced with the reality of having to talk to other people, of having to socialize with friends and strangers alike, the plan had lost much of its attraction.
There was still time to escape. He could get back in the truck, stop at Skippy’s for takeout, and spend the evening at the kitchen table, reading the file. Maybe the police reports were bristling with gripping prose. Maybe fast food had improved when he wasn’t looking.
Or he could slip into the bookstore, raid the food tables, and run to the safety of the drum. No one would bother him there, and he could lose himself in the voices of the other men.
The Clay Pigeons were a fluid group. Sometimes the drum consisted of four singers. Other times the Pigeons would field a dozen men. Thumps had been to powwows where some of the better-known drum groups—Red Bull, Black Lodge, Old Agency Singers—would wear matching shirts and leather vests. The Pigeons generally went with an assortment of jeans and mismatched T-shirts, but tonight the eight men around the buffalo hide drum were dressed in black suits and black shirts.
“Thumps!” Archie popped out of the crowd like a trapdoor spider. “Where’s your costume?”
The food tables were at the back of the bookstore. Thumps could see a chunk of something juicy under a heat lamp.
“You just came for the food, didn’t you?”
“Is that a roast?”
“Look at that,” said Archie. “Even the Clay Pigeons got dressed up.”
Thumps looked over at Marvin. “Who are they supposed to be?”
“Energy extraction corporations,” said Archie. “Marvin’s ExxonMobil. Wutty is Royal Dutch Shell. Russell is British Petroleum. Jimmy is Saudi Aramco.”
“Energy extraction corporations?”
“They’re supposed to be an oil slick.” Archie began dragging Thumps through the crowd. “If you had bought that suit, you could have come as Gazprom.”
It was a roast. Al was standing behind the table, carving off slices.
“Well, look who came for the free food.”
Archie handed Thumps a plate. “See,” he said, “even Alvera got dressed up.”
Al looked the same as she always did. Thumps tried to imagine who she was supposed to be and came up empty.
“Jack the Ripper.” Al waved her carving knife at Thumps. “No one knows what she looked like.”
Thumps was reasonably certain that Jack the Ripper had been a he.
“Maybe he was,” said Al. “And maybe he wasn’t.”
“Wouldn’t mind a couple of slices.”
“Not sure the food’s for people who don’t dress up.”
“Is there horseradish?”
In addition to the roast, there was potato salad and a platter of tomatoes with fresh basil, multi-grain rolls from the Fjord Bakery and a variety of desserts from Lucille’s. The “cauldron of blood” was raspberry juice with a little lemon juice added for bite. Mirrors had donated the coffee. Even Morris Dumbo had shown up for the party with several boxes of day-old doughnuts.
Archie had set up tables at the back of the store for seniors and anyone else who was too tired to stand.
“That includes diabetics,” said Archie. “And you can eat with your new friends.”
Gloria Baker-Doyle and Calder Banks were at a table in the corner. Gloria was wearing a ratty straw-blond wig and a pair of blue plastic-rimmed glasses. Calder was wearing a tweed jacket with a white shirt and tie.
Thumps wondered if Gloria had dressed up as Sydney Pearl. He could see where Pearl would be scary. Calder’s outfit felt a little old-fashioned, not the sort of thing that a twenty-first-century television star would choose to wear.
“Ted Bundy,” said Calder. “I auditioned for the part but Michael Reilly Burke beat me out.”
Gloria tried to suppress a yawn and failed. “Sorry.”
“Long day?”
“There are no short days on set,” said Calder. “Or many short nights for that matter.”
“They’re not here,” said Gloria, reading his mind. “Boss Pearl is busy in her dungeon torturing the shooting schedule, and Mistress Maslow is on location, trying to figure out the angles.”
“On location?”
“Where the murder took place,” said Gloria. “Brilliant, yeah?”
“By herself?” Thumps tried to picture Maslow wandering Belly Butte at night. “She’s a big girl,” said Calder.
“She wanted to get a feel for the landscape,” said Gloria. “I volunteered to go with her, but she wanted to go alone.”
“No chance she’ll run in
to wild Indians.” Calder’s voice was edged with hope. “Is there?”
“She should have been back by now.” Gloria glanced around the room. “I’ve tried calling, but she’s not picking up.”
“She’s missing good food and a fun party.” Calder gestured towards the drum. “How come all the songs sound the same?”
Thumps was on his way back to Al and the roast when he remembered that he was diabetic and that he was going to have to come to terms with the concept of moderation and mealtime insulin. The injector was in his bag, but he had no idea how much to take. What was the ratio of insulin to roast beef? Had the potato salad been a good idea? He was pretty sure that the tomatoes were okay, but he had serious doubts about the chocolate brownie.
And the lemon tart.
He should have paid more attention to the details when he was at the pharmacy.
Thumps locked the bathroom door behind him. Rawat had hinted that insulin usage was as much an art as a science. The injector looked more fearsome now that it was out in the open, now that he was faced with the reality of the disease. He had no idea if he should slip the needle in slowly or just jam it home and be done with it. He wasn’t keen on either option. Maybe he could stab himself through his shirt. It might cushion the blow and make it not feel so . . . medical, might give it the appearance of a casual afterthought, something that he could forget immediately.
The needle made a soft popping sound as it broke the skin, but it didn’t really hurt. A pleasant surprise. Okay, this might not be as bad as he had feared, even though his heart was racing. Thumps leaned on the bathroom sink and stared in the mirror. He wondered if you could look at someone and tell that they were sick or that they were dying.
Probably not. What good could come of that knowledge?
The party was in full swing now. Marvin had started a round dance, and all the thieves and gangsters and swindlers and serial killers and genocidal maniacs were holding hands, two-stepping their way around the bookstore in a giant serpentining circle, a variation of a conga line that reminded Thumps of a scene from The Addams Family movie. Raul Julia, Anjelica Huston, Christopher Lloyd. 1991. God, but that had been a funny film. “Don’t torture yourself, Gomez,” Huston tells Julia. “That’s my job.”
“Thumps.”
Cooley looked as though he had dressed in the dark. The navy suit didn’t fit quite right. The white shirt was twisted to one side and the bright blue tie had wandered off over one shoulder. The Donald Trump mask was pretty good, and it wasn’t until Cooley turned around that Thumps realized what had happened.
“The mask is too hot to wear,” said Cooley, “so I put everything on backwards. That way I can talk to you and scare everyone behind me.”
Moses was wearing a tight blond wig, with a little rouge added to each cheek.
“Just as well,” said Cooley. “When I had the mask on over my face, I had thoughts of groping women and not paying my bills.”
“We should join the dancers,” said Moses. “Marvin and the boys sound real good tonight.”
“Moses wanted to come as Margaret Thatcher.”
Moses licked his lips. “The Iron Lady.”
“But since I was coming as Donald Trump,” said Cooley, “he settled for Hillary Clinton.”
“You know,” said Moses, “pretending to be a woman is not as hard as being one.”
Thumps watched Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton join the round dance. He was tempted, but he was also tired. He worked his way around the perimeter of the store until he was standing at the front door.
Gloria and Calder were still at the table, talking about something over coffee. Archie and Gabby Santucci were moving through the stacks with the rest of the dancers, the whole community in motion. Thumps had already looked for Claire several times, in case she had come in without his noticing.
She hadn’t.
But he looked one last time, before he opened the door and slipped into the night.
Twenty
It was the insulin.
No other explanation.
By the time he got home, he was wide awake. Tomorrow he’d have to stop in at the pharmacy and talk to Rawat about other possible side effects of the drug and what he could do about them.
Maybe give the fast draw another try.
The file was where he had left it. Thumps had never enjoyed reading crime-scene reports, didn’t know any cop who did. They weren’t written to entertain. They were official documents, the language clumsy and stilted, facts and statements stacked up like cordwood for a long winter.
Whoever had taken the crime-scene photographs had used a strobe, and the flash had washed away any trace of humanity. Trudy’s corpse could have been a prop in a horror movie. Or a mannequin in a department store window.
Death was never pretty. And it was never kind.
A young girl dead in the middle of nowhere.
As far as he could tell, there was nothing in the file to suggest that the police hadn’t done a thorough job investigating Trudy’s death, nothing to indicate that they had missed something. Nothing to indicate that there was anything to find.
Thumps went through the file again, page by page, line by line. Trudy Samuels had been found at the bottom of Belly Butte. Her car was parked at the top. The injuries to her body were consistent with a fall. There was no suicide note.
If this was all Nina Maslow had, Malice Aforethought was wasting its time. Which didn’t make sense. Maslow wasn’t stupid, and she wasn’t sloppy. The file Calder had shown him had been a summary of his life, an outline, and the only way she could have put that together was if she had a larger and more complete file. So where was her complete file on Samuels? All he had in front of him was the police report. Where was Maslow’s research work on the case?
Thumps went through the file again, but he knew he was wasting his time. If Maslow had discovered something about the case, something that suggested foul play, it wasn’t here.
That night Thumps lay in bed, never quite asleep, never quite awake, his dreams bright and frantic, like lightning strikes in a storm. Claire lying on a beach, Anna and Callie falling down a mountain, Trudy and Tobias happily married with three kids.
Nina Maslow in bed next to him.
No sense to any of it. Just flash and blast and the long, dark silences in between. It was well after nine when Thumps finally gave up, got out of bed, and stumbled into the shower. He stood under the water and tried to wash away the exhaustion with a bar of soap that smelled like vanilla. He couldn’t stay here all day, he knew that, but there he remained until the water ran cold and the banging began.
Someone was at the front door.
Cooley would have just let himself in. Claire would have rung the doorbell. Dixie would have stood on the porch until Thumps noticed him. Archie would be banging and shouting.
Which left only one person.
“Howdy,” said the sheriff, without any hint of humour. “You just get out of bed? No wonder the country is in the shitter.”
“I was in the shower.”
Duke was holding two cups of coffee in a carry tray. “You smell like an ice cream cone.”
Thumps could feel his hair begin to drip. “I’m going to get dressed.”
“Hell of an idea,” said Duke.
“There’s nothing to eat unless you like dry cat food.”
“You mind stepping on it?” Duke put the carry tray on the table. “Some of us have jobs.”
Thumps closed the door to the bedroom. The sheriff arriving at his house first thing in the morning was never a good beginning to his day. When the man arrived with coffee, it generally meant that Duke wanted a favour. Or worse, help with a problem.
Thumps found his jeans. He checked his shirt. Still good. “Coffee’s not going to do it,” he shouted, as he rummaged in his dresser for a clean pair of socks. “If you want to talk, you’re going to have to buy me breakfast.”
Duke grunted something that sounded distinctly unpleasant.
/> Thumps took his time buttoning his shirt and deciding whether to wear runners or boots. He settled on boots. By the time he got back to the kitchen, the sheriff was pacing the floor like a herd of buffalo on a game trail.
“Finally.”
“I have to deal with my car.” Thumps stood in the middle of the kitchen and tried to imagine that he was an immovable object. “I have to go grocery shopping.”
“Drink your coffee,” said the irresistible force.
“And I have to eat.”
Duke reached into his pocket and came out with a lump of something folded up in a paper wrapper. “Breakfast.”
Grease stains had already begun to appear on the wrapper. Thumps could smell overcooked beef and burnt onions.
“You’re kidding.”
“You can eat it in the car.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Don’t make me arrest you,” said Hockney.
“For what?”
“For being a pain in the ass.” Hockney grabbed Thumps’s jacket from the back of the chair and tossed it to him. “Saddle up, Kemosabe.”
“You have any idea what ‘Kemosabe’ means?”
“Nope,” said Duke.
“So where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“I don’t like surprises.”
“How about that.” Duke held the door open with his foot. “Neither do I.”
It was a breakfast wrap of some sort, fatty and awash in melted cheese. Thumps held it away from his lap.
“This isn’t breakfast.”
“I got you the deluxe version.”
“I can’t eat this.”
Duke kept his eyes on the road. “There’s a candy bar in the glovebox.”
“I’m diabetic.”
“Then eat the wrap.”
Thumps had hoped that, wherever the sheriff was taking him, it would be in town and that whatever Duke had in mind would be simple and short-lived.
It wasn’t.
Duke left town on the fly, and by the time Thumps had finished the wrap, the sheriff had turned off the highway onto the old lease road that ran out across the prairies all the way to the mountains.
“We going to Canada?”
“Don’t get grease on my seat.”
