by Thomas King
“’Cause I didn’t bring my passport.”
There were no clouds. Against the thin blue sky, the mountains looked hard and exact. As though someone had sharpened them for the coming winter. As they came over a low rise and Thumps saw the landscape open up in front of them, he realized where they were headed.
“Belly Butte?”
The track to the top of the butte was narrow and deeply rutted, and the sheriff had to straddle the runnels left by the rains and ease his way over the heavy rocks that rose out of the ground like the spine of some prehistoric beast.
Amazingly, there were four other cars that had also made the climb and were waiting for them. Beth Mooney’s station wagon was parked close to the edge of the butte. Lance Packard was parked farther back. Duke’s deputy was standing by his cruiser, a pair of binoculars around his neck, a roll of crime-scene tape in his hand, and a coil of climbing rope over his shoulder.
A white Toyota was parked next to Sydney Pearl’s Honda.
“I need your eyes,” said the sheriff, as he parked the SUV.
“No, you don’t,” said Thumps. “You have Lance and Beth.”
“Just shut up and pay attention.”
Beth was waiting for them and she wasn’t particularly happy. “About time.”
Duke nodded in Thumps’s direction. “I had to stop and feed him.”
“He tried to poison me with fast food.”
Beth frowned. “You’re not supposed to eat that crap.”
Duke pulled his hat down tight on his head. “Could we save the medical moaning for later and get on with it?”
Below, at the base of the butte, was a body. Thumps couldn’t tell who it was from here, but he was willing to take a guess.
“Shit.”
“Shit is right,” said Duke.
“Nina Maslow?”
The sheriff turned to him. “Why would you say that?”
“Maslow wasn’t at Archie’s party,” said Thumps. “She came out here for a site visit.”
“At night?”
“That’s what I heard.”
“I hate to interrupt the chit-chat.” Beth held up her camera. “But I need the body photographed and brought up.”
Thumps didn’t like what he was thinking. “You brought me out here to help you carry a body.”
“Not me,” said Duke. “You and Lance.”
“No way.”
“We can’t drive down,” said the sheriff. “And you are a photographer.”
“It’s got to be two hundred feet,” said Thumps. “And I didn’t bring my camera.”
“More like three hundred,” said Beth. “There’s a trail over there, but it’s steep, so you big, strong men get to go.”
“No can do,” said the sheriff. “I have to interview the witness.”
“You have a witness?”
Duke waved a hand at Lance’s cruiser. “Guy who called it in.”
Thumps squinted into the high glare. In the shadows of the back seat, leaning against the door of the police car, was Tobias Rattler.
Beth handed Thumps her cellphone. “You can take pictures with this.”
“A phone?”
“You do know how to work it?”
“Who takes photos with a phone?”
“Okay.” Beth took the phone back. “Looks like we all get to go.”
“Be careful.” Duke strolled over to the cruiser. “Three hundred feet. And I hear it’s steep.”
Twenty-One
The trail from the top of Belly Butte to the prairie floor was a run of steep switchbacks, and as Thumps made each of the sharp turns, the dirt and small stones sliding out from under his feet like fresh snow, he imagined he was on skis, working his way down a world-cup slalom course.
“Enjoy yourself now.” Beth slid along right behind him. “Coming up won’t be as much fun.”
Nina Maslow lay at the bottom of the scree field. One arm was bent at a nasty angle and her face had been badly cut by the rocks.
Beth pushed her way past Thumps and Lance Packard. “Stay put,” she said, “until I get a good look.”
“Hell of a fall,” said Lance. “I’ll bet you really pick up speed.”
Thumps watched Beth walk the perimeter slowly in a counter-clockwise pattern, using her cellphone to snap pictures. Then she stepped in and squatted down next to the body.
“Forensics 101,” she shouted back to Thumps and Lance. “Who wants to go first?”
“Lance,” said Thumps, volunteering the deputy.
Lance turned bright red as though he had been asked by his mother if he was sexually active.
“Injuries consistent with a fall.” Lance put the binoculars to his eyes and scanned the side of the butte. “I can see slide marks. Could have lost her footing and fell.”
“Okay,” said Beth, “let’s hear from Tweedledee.”
Thumps stared at the body. When he was a cop, he had never gotten used to dealing with the dead. Most times he hadn’t known the deceased. Nina Maslow he knew. Yesterday, she had been alive and well, and now she wasn’t. Thumps tried to make sense of seeing her like this, and couldn’t.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?” Beth put her hands on her hips and waited. “You want to elaborate?”
“Nope,” said Thumps.
Beth nodded. “Your turn, Tweedledum.”
Lance blushed again, but not as much. “That’s a nasty head wound.”
“Yes, it is,” said Beth.
“She could have got it from the fall,” said Lance, picking his way through the sentence as though it were a minefield.
“But we’ll know more when we get her back to my parlour, won’t we?” Beth stood up and took another picture.
Lance brightened. “Forensics, right?”
Thumps looked at the top of the butte. It was a long, hard fall. The top part was sloped, but then the side of the butte dropped away and it was a straight plunge to the bottom.
Beth shaded her eyes with her hands. “But first we have to carry her back to the top.”
“We?”
“You and Lance,” said Beth. “I’m just the pretty face.”
If going down Belly Butte had felt like a ski hill at St. Moritz, coming up was more akin to scaling the Matterhorn.
With a body bag.
Lance took one end and Thumps took the other. Every so often, they would stop to catch their breath.
“You want to know how much farther?”
The weather was chilly, but Thumps’s shirt was soaked with sweat and his shoulders ached. “No.”
“Me neither,” said Lance.
The sheriff and Beth’s station wagon were waiting for them when they got to the top. Rattler was out of Lance’s cruiser, a twist of coloured paper in one hand.
Thumps set his end down. “Are those flowers?”
“Yellow roses.” Duke dropped the tailgate of the station wagon. “Took you long enough.”
Thumps bent over and put his hands on his knees. Lance stood up straight, trying to pretend that the hike up hadn’t bothered him at all.
“You counting cars?” Duke hitched his pants.
“I am.”
“Beth’s station wagon,” said Hockney. “Lance’s cruiser. My official vehicle.”
“The Toyota’s mine,” said Rattler. “A rental.”
“Which leaves the Honda.”
“Car’s registered to a Sydney Pearl,” said Lance. “I checked the registration.”
“So,” said Thumps, “we got the right number of cars and the right number of bodies.”
“Damn,” said Duke. “I hate it when two plus two turns out to be four.”
The organization was impressive. Five cars. Six people.
Beth drove Maslow’s body in the back of the station wagon to the Land Titles building. Lance headed into Chinook by himself.
That left three cars and three people.
“I called Stas,” said the sheriff. “He’s going to tow the Toyota and the Ho
nda to the impound.”
“Thought High Country had the contract with the county.”
“They do,” said the sheriff, “but Mr. Rattler here, in consideration for our limited budget and to show his good faith in the matter, has volunteered to pay for the tow of both cars.”
“That’s me,” said Rattler. “Mr. Volunteer.”
“How about I drive the Honda into town?”
“It’s part of a crime scene,” said Duke. “You don’t get to test drive a crime scene.”
Thumps looked out towards the mountains. Clouds had begun to sneak in behind the peaks.
“I suppose I’m a person of interest,” said Rattler. “Because I found the body and called it in?”
“Yep,” said Duke. “That would do it.”
Thumps rubbed his eyes. He was tired and he was hungry. “What I don’t understand is why you dragged me out of bed and brought me up here against my will?”
“I fed you breakfast.”
“That wasn’t breakfast.” Thumps could hear his stomach begin to rumble. “And then you forced me to carry a dead body up the side of a cliff.”
“Lance did most of the work,” said Duke.
“The sheriff’s right,” said Rattler. “The deputy did have the heavy end.”
“I still don’t see why you needed me. You have Maslow’s body. You have the guy who found her.”
“All true,” said Duke.
“You have his statement.”
The sheriff rubbed his hands together. “Going to be cold tonight.”
“You don’t have a statement?”
“Nope,” said the sheriff. “No statement.”
Rattler shrugged.
“He’s under arrest?”
“Nope,” said the sheriff. “Not unless finding a murder victim is a crime.”
“He must have said something.”
“Not a word,” said Duke. “When Lance arrived on the scene, Rattler told him he’d only talk to one person.”
“I did say that.” Rattler smiled and started for the edge of the butte.
“Where the hell you think you’re going?”
Rattler held the flowers up over his head and kept walking.
It took Thumps a beat to realize who that person was. “Shit.”
“Exactly my sentiment,” said the sheriff. “The world-famous novelist will only talk to you.”
Thumps took a deep breath and let the air seep out the sides of his mouth. “And that’s why you hauled me out here. To question him.”
“Hell, DreadfulWater,” said Duke, as he climbed into his cruiser, “why else would I have bought you breakfast?”
Rattler stood at the edge of the butte, quiet and still, and as Thumps watched, he let the flowers fall from his hand and float out into the bright prairie sky.
Twenty-Two
The morning’s drama had been a four-act farce with no intermission, and the drive back to Chinook gave Thumps time to review his role in the production.
Act one. The sheriff drags him out of his house.
Act two. The sheriff tries to poison him with a bacon-fat wrap.
Act three. The sheriff forces him to carry a dead body up the side of a mountain.
Act four. The sheriff coerces him into grilling the man who found the body.
Friday to the sheriff’s Robinson Crusoe. He was going to have to get a better agent.
This was not the first time that Hockney had abused their friendship, and it probably would not be the last. Most times, Thumps let it slide.
“Where we going?”
“My office.”
This was not one of those times.
“Not happening,” said Thumps.
“What?”
“Not happening. I’m not going back to your office.”
“DreadfulWater . . .”
“I’m hungry,” said Thumps. “I think my blood sugars are dropping.”
Duke tried to impersonate a pipe bomb. “City’s not buying you another breakfast.”
“I can’t work on an empty stomach.”
“Now that you mention it,” said Rattler, “I’m hungry too.”
The sheriff gripped the wheel a little tighter. “Does this look like a food truck?”
“Al’s,” said Thumps. “I want to eat at Al’s.”
“That’s a great idea,” said Rattler. “Haven’t seen Alvera in years.”
“You’re a suspect,” said Duke. “Suspects don’t get breakfast.”
“I thought I was a person of interest,” said Rattler. “How about we talk over food and coffee?”
“I have coffee at the office.”
Thumps turned to Rattler. “No, he doesn’t.”
Duke kept his eyes on the road. “You know, one of these days, you’re going to hurt my feelings.”
“Low blood sugar is no laughing matter,” offered Rattler. “Breakfast may constitute a medical emergency.”
“As a diabetic,” said Thumps quickly, before the momentum disappeared, “I need to eat at regular intervals.”
“Jesus,” said Duke. “Are you two engaged?”
“Al’s,” said Thumps. “I’ll only talk at Al’s.”
“Christ, DreadfulWater, you’re not the person of interest! The guy in the back seat is the person of interest!”
“And this person of interest will only talk to DreadfulWater.” Rattler yawned and closed his eyes. “At Al’s.”
Al had a run of plywood booths along the far wall. Not that any of the regulars ever used them. The booths were tourist seating and to be avoided at all costs. In the first place, they were uncomfortable as hell, wood benches instead of a padded stool, and secondly, if you sat in a booth, it meant you were a world away from the coffee pot. Al seldom came out from behind the counter, so if you were in a booth and wanted a refill, you had to get up and bring your cup to Al.
All the booths were empty. As they generally were. The sheriff led the way to the last plywood box at the back and arranged the trio so that Thumps sat across from Rattler and the sheriff sat next to Thumps.
Thumps wasn’t all that happy with the arrangement. “How come I have to be on the inside?”
“So you can’t run off,” said Duke. “And this way, we can both see Mr. Rattler’s face.”
“You boys want to move a little closer together?” Al was standing behind the counter with a cellphone. “That way I can get you all in.”
“Morning, Alvera,” said Duke.
“Can probably get good money for the shot.” Al spread her hands out as though she were creating a banner headline. “Locals Sit in Booth.”
“Police business,” said Hockney, trying to make his voice sound official.
“And my counter’s not good enough for police business?” Al dropped the phone into her apron. “You think I’m going to walk all the way over there?”
“Just leave everything on the counter,” said Duke, “and we’ll come and get it.”
Al frowned, and then her face brightened. “Tobias Rattler. Is that you?”
“Hello, Ms. Couteau.”
Al came around the end of the counter with the coffee pot. “Never figured I’d see you again.”
“Never figured I’d come back.”
Al filled Rattler’s cup.
Duke slid his cup over. “I’d like some coffee.”
Al ignored the sheriff. “Duke giving you a hard time?”
“No, ma’am,” said Rattler.
Thumps pushed his cup next to Duke’s. “Coffee?”
Al turned to Duke. “Is Toby under arrest?”
The sheriff sagged a little in his seat. “Not yet.”
“This about that Maslow woman?”
“Police business,” said Duke.
Al filled the sheriff’s cup only to the halfway mark. “Wutty said he saw you at the giant squirrel this morning.”
Duke jerked a thumb at Thumps. “That was for him.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Shadow Ranc
h, Mirrors, and now Skippy’s?” Al set the pot down on the table with a bang. “Are you trying to piss me off?”
“No.”
“’Cause you’re doing a real good job.”
Rattler held up a hand. “Actually, Thumps and the sheriff are trying to figure out what happened to Trudy Samuels.”
Al relaxed her shoulders a bit. “Well, it’s about time. Emmitt Tull couldn’t find his butt if he shoved both hands in his back pockets.”
“Maybe some fried eggs and sausage,” said Rattler. “With hash browns.”
Al nodded. “And I suppose you two want your usual?”
“Please,” said Thumps.
“Yes,” said the sheriff.
Al pointed the pot at Duke. “You want your eggs burnt?”
“He’s not under arrest.”
“Just keep that in mind.”
Thumps waited until Al had made her way back to the grill. The woman was known for keen eyes and even keener ears.
“You know, I used to work here,” said Rattler.
“Here?”
“High school. Washing dishes.”
“Good to know.” Duke slapped Thumps on the shoulder. “Okay,” he said, “it’s your show.”
Thumps wasn’t sure if the whack was supposed to encourage or injure. Maybe a little of both.
“The sheriff wants to know all about your morning.”
“Yes, he does,” said Duke.
Rattler sipped at his coffee. “You mean, what was I doing out at Belly Butte?”
“Yes,” said Thumps. “Why don’t we start there.”
Rattler folded his arms and leaned back. “Nostalgia.”
Duke leaned forward. “Nostalgia?”
“It’s where Trudy died.”
“Hence the flowers?”
“Hence,” said Rattler.
“So, this morning you picked up a bunch of roses and went out to Belly Butte? Because that’s where Trudy died?”
“Got the flowers yesterday afternoon.”
“And when you got there, you just happened to run into a dead body?”
Rattler rubbed the side of his neck. “What are the odds?”
“How about I just arrest you for being a pain in the ass?” said Duke.
“I heard that!” Al shouted from the grill.
“Jesus,” whispered the sheriff. “Is there a microphone under the table?”
Rattler cut his sausages into pieces and tore the toast into smaller pieces. “I got to the butte at around eight. I saw the Honda. I looked around, saw Maslow’s body, and called you.”
