by Thomas King
Thumps finished off the last bit of toast and wiped his mouth.
“Selling your house is probably a bad idea,” said Al. “When my sister got a divorce, she went out right away and got involved with a married guy. It’s always better to wait until the dust clears before you make any big decisions.”
“I should get going.”
“Where?”
Thumps shrugged.
Al threw the dish towel over one shoulder and wiped her hands on the apron. “Yeah,” she said. “Something happened. Something you really didn’t expect. Something you didn’t expect at all.”
Three
It took four trips to carry everything into the house. Thumps parked the camera pack and the tripod at the top of the basement stairs and took the suitcase to the bedroom. He set the banker boxes on the table next to the pile of mail that his next-door neighbour had collected for him while he was gone. Virgil “Dixie” Kane had taken the time to organize everything into three piles, bills, letters, and a small mountain of junk mail for which several perfectly good trees had been butchered.
Thumps took his time walking the rooms, hoping to find some memory of home. But there was none, no sense that he belonged here. The house felt old and tired. Worn out. Maybe that would change. A week. A month. And things would return to normal.
Whatever normal was.
And now what?
There was the question he had been dreading. Where to go from here? What to do next? He could unpack, and that certainly seemed to be the logical answer. Or he could go shopping and stock the kitchen. Or he could go to bed. His mother would have made a cup of tea while she considered the options.
Instead, he sat down at the kitchen table and opened the file that Nina Maslow had put together on the Obsidian Murders. He had read it any number of times. Now he would read it again. There was nothing definitive. One page was filled with questions about the order of the deaths, the weather, tidal cycles. Another page was dedicated to the motels in Eureka and in the neighbouring towns of Arcata, McKinleyville, and Fortuna. A third listed the public events and conferences that overlapped with the killings.
Most intriguing of all was the entry Maslow had set in block letters at the top of the last page.
Raymond Oakes, Deer Ridge.
She had circled the entry and drawn a star next to it in the margin. That was it. Thumps had done a quick Google search for Raymond Oakes and turned up a former hockey player, a wildlife photographer, a family physician, and a musician born in Bangkok but living in London.
Deer Ridge was a golf course in Brentwood and a resort near Newbury, both in California, a housing development in the southeastern quadrant of Calgary, Alberta, and a hiking trail near Granite Creek in Wyoming.
It was a thread that led nowhere.
Nor did a Raymond Oakes appear in any of the boxes that Ron had left for him. So far as Thumps could tell, Peat had copied everything to do with the case. Incident reports, photographs, DNA, the notes of the investigating team, the FBI’s profile, and the statements of the people of interest who had been brought in for questioning.
So who was this man that Maslow had marked in a way that suggested he was important? And if he was important, why didn’t he show up in the original police investigation?
THAT FIRST WEEKEND in Eureka, Thumps had gone online to see if there was anyone left from when he had been a deputy. Turnover in law enforcement tended to be high, and Humboldt County was no exception. There were three names he recognized but only one person he knew.
Leon Ranger.
The following Monday, Thumps had gone to the sheriff’s office.
“Deputy Sheriff Ranger?”
The dark-haired woman behind the desk looked to be in her late twenties. “S. Tupper” on the gold name tag. Her uniform was pressed to a hard edge.
“What is this in regard to?”
“I’m a friend.” Thumps began to run the possibilities. Sunny, Smiley, Sympathy. He had known a girl named Sympathy in high school.
“Your name?”
“DreadfulWater,” said Thumps. “Thumps DreadfulWater.”
S. Tupper’s face softened for a moment. “You used to work here.”
“Another life.”
“Are those doughnuts?”
Thumps held up the box. “They are.”
“From the Donut Mill?”
Thumps opened the box. “Help yourself.”
S. Tupper selected a chocolate raised. “Just to make sure we’re talking about the same Officer Ranger, could you describe him for me?”
“Yeah,” said Thumps. “Leon Ranger. Black guy with a big mouth. Tries to write trashy romance novels in his spare time. He’s got a silver dollar he calls Flora, after his mother, that he flips whenever he makes decisions.”
Officer Tupper tried to hold the smile in check. “Courthouse next door,” she said. “In the basement.”
“Basement?”
Officer Tupper took another bite of the doughnut. “Last summer, he arrested the mayor’s son on a possession charge.”
“Let me guess,” said Thumps. “He offered to flip the kid for the citation?”
“Flora came up tails. Mayor’s son was convicted and got probation.” S. Tupper handed Thumps a visitor’s badge and helped herself to another doughnut. “Officer Ranger got the basement.”
THE BASEMENT OF the courthouse was home to the property and evidence lockup as well as the department archives. Leon Ranger was sitting behind an old metal desk.
“Son of a bitch.” Leon had leaped to his feet as soon as he saw Thumps. “Is that Officer Crappy Water?”
“Hey, Leon.”
“Where the hell have you been, Tonto?” Leon grabbed Thumps by the shoulders and shook him. “I figured someone had shot your ass and turned you into a lamp.”
“Not yet.”
Leon cleared out a spot on the desk and pulled up a chair. “Those sure as blazes better be Donut Mill doughnuts.”
“They are.”
“I’m cutting back, you know.” Leon patted his belly. “They got these new jerk-off regulations on weight limits.”
“You don’t have to eat any.”
Leon took a silver dollar out of his pocket. “Call it,” he said.
Thumps had played this game before. “Tails.”
Leon caught the coin on his wrist and slapped his hand over it. “Damn,” he said, peeking under the hand. “I lose.”
“Tragic,” said Thumps.
Leon nodded and lifted the lid of the box. “Crullers. You remembered.”
The two men spent the better part of the next hour filling in the blanks.
“Got tired of apartment living, so I bought a small RV. Roadtrek Agile. They make them in Canada. Nineteen feet, Mercedes Sprinter chassis, diesel. Sweet ride.”
“What happened to Barbara?”
“Didn’t want to live in an RV.”
Leon had photos of the van parked on the edge of a bluff near Astoria, Oregon, overlooking the ocean.
“You heard about Ron?”
“Fell off a ladder.”
Leon shook his head. “Damn fool. Thought he was one of those repair guys on television.”
“How’s the writing going?”
“Four books done,” said Leon. “Halfway through the fifth.”
“Any published yet?”
“There’s no rush,” said Leon. “When I retire, the plan is to travel around and hit a bunch of writers’ conferences.”
Thumps shook his head. “Can’t see you retired.”
“Guy who took Ron’s place is an asshole. I got my twenty in. Can walk out the door tomorrow, if I feel like it.” Leon laid the silver dollar on the table. “So, Tonto,” he said, “you still a cop?”
“Fine art photographer.”
“No shit,” said Leon. “I’m thinking about doing that. Not fine art. Travel stuff. Drive around the country, take shots, do some magazine work.”
“Why not.”
“H
ey, you could help me. Show me how to shoot.”
“Sure.”
“All right,” said Leon, “let’s can the small talk. What the hell has precipitated your return to this sorry backwater? As if I didn’t know.”
“I could use your help.”
Leon tossed the silver dollar into the air. “Call it.”
“Heads.”
Leon peeked under his hand. “You’re one lucky son of a bitch.”
LEON SET UP a small table in the basement at the back of the evidence locker, and for the next two weeks, Thumps worked his way back through the boxes Ron had left for him. Along with Maslow’s notes.
“Ron always figured you’d come back at some point,” Leon told him. “I helped him put all this shit together for when you took up the case again.”
“He couldn’t have known that was going to happen.”
“He was betting you wouldn’t let it lie. So, who’s this Nina Maslow?”
“Television producer,” Thumps told him. “Ran a reality show called Malice Aforethought. Each episode was a cold case.”
“And you got this Raymond Oakes character from her?”
“His name was in her notes.”
“And you can’t ask her?”
“She was murdered.”
“So you have no idea who this Oakes character is.”
“That’s about it.”
Working with Ranger in the courthouse basement allowed Thumps access to law-enforcement databases. There had been nothing in the California state database for a Raymond Oakes and nothing in the national database.
“We’re still not talking to one another,” Leon told him. “Local, state, FBI, CIA, NSA, ATF, and all the rest of the alphabet children. With all the bitching about national security and the need to share data, we still continue to play parochial games with information.”
“I’m not even sure what I’m looking for.”
“What was that name again?”
“Raymond Oakes.”
“No, the other name.”
Thumps double-checked Maslow’s notes. “Deer Ridge.”
“Shit,” Leon said. “I must be getting old. Maybe it’s time for me to hang it up and hit the road.”
“You got something?”
“Oregon,” Leon said. “Let’s try Oregon.”
THUMPS PUT THE KETTLE on and waited for the water to boil. So Claire was home. The last time they had talked, she had been in the process of adopting two little girls. Thumps remembered a breakfast. Or was it lunch? And a conversation about his involvement with Claire and the soon-to-be-formed family. He hadn’t seen it coming, had been blindsided, had not handled it all that well, and the matter had been left unsettled. Then the adoption had fallen through, and Claire had gone off to New Zealand with Angie Black Weasel, and Thumps had gone to the coast. Now that they were both back, Thumps wondered if Claire would want to pick up the conversation again or if she would be content to let it die.
The kettle began its staggering whistle. Thumps found a bag of fennel tea and dropped it into the boiling water.
The smart thing to do would be to call her. Claire would already know that he was back in town. Any delay would be an answer in and of itself. Thumps tried to imagine how he would start.
“Hi. How was New Zealand? Glad you’re back. Just calling to see how you are. How about this weather.”
No good way in. No good way in at all.
Thumps waited as the phone rang and was surprised by the sudden sense of relief he felt when it rang through to Claire’s answering machine.
“Hi, it’s me,” he said. “Just got back. Hope you’re well. Give me a call when you have a chance.”
Smooth, succinct, stupid.
Thumps set the phone to one side at a safe distance and went back to Maslow’s file.
RANGER HAD FOUND Oakes on the first pass through the Oregon State Criminal Database.
Raymond Oakes. White male. Forty-one. Six feet. One hundred and eighty pounds. Brown hair. Blue eyes.
“I should have caught it right away,” Leon said. “Deer Ridge Correctional. Just east of Madras. Used to be a minimum/medium security facility. They changed it over to minimum a few years back.”
“Robbery/homicide?” Thumps scrolled down the screen. “Oakes got life. What’s he doing in a minimum-security prison?”
“Overcrowding. Bureaucratic incompetence. Our penal system in action.” Leon scrolled down the screen. “Okay, here’s why. Our boy caught himself a technicality. The bastard got out on appeal.”
Thumps felt his body tense. “Look at the release date.”
“Shit.” Leon took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “It gets worse,” he said. “Check out the next of kin.”
THUMPS WENT TO the living room and sat down in the easy chair. He was hungry but he had no interest in eating. He was tired but wasn’t sure he could sleep. He knew about jet lag. Maybe there was car lag as well. Or maybe depression came in all sorts of shapes and sizes.
Tomorrow, he’d call Leon to see if the results had come back from the lab. Tonight, he’d drink his tea and pretend that in the morning, he’d know what to do with the rest of his life.
Four
When Thumps woke the next morning, he was still in the chair. Someone had thrown a blanket over him, and someone was in the kitchen cooking. Bacon by the smell of it. And coffee. Logic suggested that the blanket, the bacon, and the coffee were the work of the same someone.
Cooley Small Elk was looming over the stove. The large cast-iron fry pan that Thumps had inherited from his mother was filled with strips of crackling fat. Moses Blood was sitting at the kitchen table, enjoying a cup of coffee.
“Welcome home,” said Moses. “I figured you might need a diversion.”
“A diversion?”
“Something to take your mind off your worries.” Moses raised the cup to his lips. “I always find that breakfast is a good diversion.”
“You like bacon?” said Cooley.
Thumps rubbed his face.
“Quick, grandson,” said Moses, “get your uncle a cup of coffee.”
“We got eggs too, and some bread and butter,” said Cooley. “Moses said you wouldn’t have much in the way of food, so we stopped on the way in and got some groceries.”
“Great.”
Cooley made a face. “Moses thought you might like yogurt, and I said I didn’t think Cherokees ate the stuff.”
“It looks healthy,” said Moses, “until you read the nutritional information.”
“The smell is the clue,” said Cooley.
“Some of those mini-cartons you see kids bring to school in their lunch have twelve grams of sugar.” Moses shook his head. “That’s three teaspoons.”
Cooley held up the spatula. “You want your eggs scrambled or fried?”
“Scrambled is fine.”
“Once you put those three teaspoons of sugar into that little cup,” said Moses, “there isn’t much room for the yogurt.”
“Multi-grain bread okay?”
“Sure.”
“Good,” said Cooley. “Moses didn’t think that white was a good idea.”
“Six grams of sugar per slice,” said Moses. “I guess that’s why it’s white.”
Moses Blood didn’t come to town all that often. Mostly he stayed on the reservation, on a piece of bottomland that fronted the river. But when Moses did come in, it was always for a reason. Thumps wondered if the reason for this visit was him.
Cooley set the bacon to drain as he whipped the eggs in a bowl. “Tell Thumps about the car show.”
“That’s right,” said Moses. “There’s a big car show in town at the fairgrounds. Old stuff that people like to collect.”
“There’s going to be an auction,” said Cooley. “We’re going to buy Moses a car.”
Thumps couldn’t remember if Moses had ever owned a car.
“Cole’s Classics,” said Cooley. “Travelling show. Old cars. Collectibles from the ’40s and �
��50s. Show goes around to smaller areas than outfits like Barrett-Jackson. And people can bring in their own cars for an appraisal. Sort of like the Antiques Roadshow.”
“I’m thinking about a 1956 Chevrolet two-door Bel Air,” said Moses. “Blue and turquoise. Though I could be persuaded by a 1955 Ford F100.”
“The F100 is a pickup.”
“Yes,” said Moses. “The eternal struggle between form and function.”
“You know how to drive?”
Moses shook his head. “Nope,” he said, “but I’m willing to learn.”
“You know you’re going to have to get a licence,” said Thumps. “And insurance. There may even be an issue with your age.”
Moses looked surprised. “What’s wrong with my age?”
No one knew how old Moses was, and, so far as Thumps could tell, that included Moses. Old wasn’t a word that defined the man. Moses was simply an elder, a respected member of a community that valued wisdom over birthdays.
“Well, sometimes the insurance companies don’t want to insure people over a certain age.”
Cooley brought the food to the table on two large platters. There was enough to feed eight people. Or two people plus Cooley Small Elk.
“Moses isn’t going to need a licence or insurance.”
“He will if he wants to drive a car.”
Cooley helped himself to half the bacon. “He’s okay so long as he stays on his own land.”
“I can drive along the river,” said Moses. “Maybe a convertible, so I can feel the wind in my hair.”
“In the old days,” said Cooley, “we had horses. Now we got cars.”
“They’re not the same,” said Moses, “but it’s important to be flexible.”
“Moses was worried about you.” Cooley took the last piece of toast. “He wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Moses dug in his pocket and came up with a fold of money. “Almost forgot,” he said. “This is your share.”
“The pool,” said Cooley.
“Fifty-fifty,” said Moses.
“That’s your money.” Thumps tried sticking his fork in the eggs. Maybe if he pretended to eat, he’d find he was hungry.
“Sure,” said Moses, “but it was a team effort.”
“If you didn’t come home when you did,” said Cooley, “Moses would have lost. And I wouldn’t have gotten a new rifle.”
