Obsidian

by Thomas King

  Archie figured that Rose changed her story to suit her mood.

  “It’s confusing,” he had told Thumps, “but there’s no real harm in it.”

  Thumps liked the woman, but it was a bit irksome to find her in his house reading his mail. Where else had she been? The bathroom and the medicine cabinet? His cupboards and the refrigerator? Under the bed? Thumps flashed on a mental picture of Rose rummaging through the house, making notes in her book, taking photos.

  Thumps had no reason to believe that the woman was lonely or depressed, but there was a suggestion of solitude, a scent of sadness. Or was he just seeing himself in Rose? The comparisons were easy enough to draw. He lived alone. He didn’t have a partner, no children. He spent most of his days talking to himself. There had been a cat, but now there wasn’t.

  He didn’t keep a notebook. He didn’t sit on the porch and watch his neighbours through binoculars. But perhaps that was what was waiting for him a little further down the line.

  THE BILLS WERE the usual suspects. The majority of them were paid directly out of his chequing account. He would have to remember to enter the amounts so he could keep the running balance up to date.

  The letters were more junk mail. In envelopes.

  An offer to increase the credit limit on a card he didn’t have. An appeal from a Christian organization to help put bibles in the bowls of starving kids. A reminder from the cable company that he could get TV, internet, and phone for as little as $29.95. A personal invitation to attend a free seminar on real estate investing that promised to change his financial life forever.

  He had read somewhere that, in the U.S. alone, it took over 100 million trees to produce the junk mail sent out each year. Four billion trees in the world at large.

  Not a ringing endorsement for clever creatures with large brains.

  Thumps hadn’t intended to evaluate his life, but as he sat there at the table, he began going over what he did of a day.

  Get up. Eat. Photograph a mountain. Eat. Work in the darkroom. Eat. Sit in an empty house and stare at the walls. Eat. Go to bed. Get up and repeat.

  If he were to come away with anything from this schedule, it would be that his life revolved around food and little else. It didn’t feel like a meaningless existence, but perhaps that’s what happened when you lived alone long enough. When you no longer noticed the silence. Or felt the cold.

  The answer to such malaise was action. Get out of the house. Walk along the river in the sunshine. Take in a movie. Sign up for a membership at a gym. Buy something expensive. Call Claire to see if she would like to drive over to Kalispell or Whitefish and spend a weekend in the hot tub of some swank resort.

  But if the rumours of Claire and her Canadian were true, then Thumps would just have to deal with it. Being alone wasn’t all that bad. And if he found isolation depressing, he could always try something like online dating. Mind you, the notion that you could find a compatible relationship by filling out a questionnaire was staggering in its comic absurdity.

  And each time he got this far, the past would reach out and grab him. Anna Tripp. Callie Tripp. Eureka. The Obsidian Murders. The unfinished business of his life. Perhaps it would never be finished.

  THE LATE-AFTERNOON SUN lit up the street and stretched long shadows out across the land. Thumps couldn’t remember the last time he had roamed the neighbourhood. Most of the houses were quiet, the adults at work, the children in school. Thumps walked to where the sidewalk turned into prairie and turned south. How many streets could he manage? If he saw someone he knew, would he stop and talk? Exactly how many of his neighbours did he know? Dixie? Rose? Was that it?

  After twenty minutes, he gave up and turned to head home. And almost missed the For Sale sign on the lawn of the blue and white house.

  The Passangs. Dorjee and Tenzin. Three kids. One surly cat.

  Stuck to the face of the realty sign was a Sold sticker.

  Thumps crossed the street. The last time he had been by, there had been curtains in the window. Now the windows were bare, and he could see parts of empty rooms. The front lawn needed to be cut, and there were flyers scattered on the porch.

  So the Passangs were gone. Was Freeway gone as well? There was no reason for him to be upset. After all, the cat had left him, run off to another family. There were reasons for the infidelity, for the betrayal.

  Not that a cat would need a reason.

  So, where had the family gone? Across town? Out of state? Cats didn’t like change all that well. Thumps wanted Freeway to be happy, but there was a part of him that hoped she would wake up one morning and realize what she had lost, would see the error of her ways and come home to him.

  Romantic melancholy.

  Still, the Passangs could have left Freeway behind. Maybe she was cowering under the house, afraid and hungry, not knowing what to do. Thumps walked around the house and looked in the places a cranky cat might hide, but if Freeway was there, she wasn’t showing herself. More likely she was in the back of a car with the three Passang children, heading off to places unknown, to a new life.

  It was always more exciting to be the one going rather than the one left behind.

  He made one last circuit, checking the bushes and the hedge. No cat. Except for the sign on the front lawn, there wasn’t much difference between this house and his. World War II bungalows with clapboard siding. Two bedrooms, one bath. A small lawn that ran out to the street. A peaked roof with dark asphalt shingles.

  Both ordinary in all ways. One vacant. One empty.

  As he headed home, Thumps tried to imagine who had bought the house and how long it would be before they moved in.

  Young family. Single mother. An older couple who were downsizing.

  Maybe he should walk the neighbourhood more often, get to know his neighbours, make the strolls a part of a new social regime, a physical activity to help draw him out and put him in the world.

  It was a heady idea, full of promises, and possibilities. As well as expectations and obligations. And by the time he reached his house and was safely inside, the idea, mercifully, had passed away.

  Thirteen

  By the time Thumps arrived at the fairgrounds, Anderson Cole’s vintage car party was in full swing. He had called Claire, had left a message on her answering machine.

  “Going to the car show. Want to meet for a burger?”

  It hadn’t been a particularly romantic message. More utilitarian. Serviceable. Insipid.

  “Going to the car show. Want to catch dinner? I miss you” would have been better, but he hadn’t thought of that until he was walking across the grass toward the roped-off area reserved for the collectible cars.

  He wasn’t sure why he had come. He wasn’t in the market for a vintage car, and he wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone. And now, here he was, out in the open and vulnerable. So this is how social felt. Somewhere between indifferent and uncomfortable.

  Thumps checked his watch. He’d stay for half an hour. No sense overdoing communal interaction the first time out.

  “Thumps!”

  Thumps didn’t have to turn to see who had found him.

  Archie was not alone. “You remember Gabby?”

  Gabriella Santucci was on Archie’s arm, the two of them dressed in vintage clothing. They looked like an advertisement from a 1940s Sears catalogue.

  “You are invited to the grand opening.” Gabby handed him a card. “We will find you something better to wear than the jeans.”

  “Thumps likes jeans,” said Archie. “That’s all he ever wears.”

  “Such bad habits the American man has,” said Gabby.

  “Had a visit from some movie people,” said Archie. “You know about this?”

  “Two men and a woman?”

  “Mercer, Gerson, and Shipman,” said Archie. “They want to do a movie on the Obsidian Murders.”

  Thumps glanced at his watch. Maybe he’d only stay for fifteen minutes.

  “I have a pair of men’s slacks. Wool
and cashmere,” said Gabby. “Early 1950s. Very soft, supple.”

  “Told them they should hire me as a research consultant,” said Archie.

  “You?”

  “Sure,” said Archie. “I know almost as much about the case as you do, and I’m not anti-social.”

  “Why do you not join us?” said Gabby. “Archie is going to show me his first car.”

  “Not the exact car,” said Archie. “Just the same year and model.”

  Thumps checked the crowd. “I’m waiting for Claire.”

  “Great,” said Archie. “I haven’t seen Claire since she got back from New Zealand.”

  Gabby gently poked Archie in the ribs. “Caro mio, they want to be alone.”

  “No, they don’t,” said Archie.

  “Yes, we do,” said Thumps.

  “And a hat,” said Gabby, as she dragged Archie away. “You will look bellissimo in a Knox fedora.”

  ANDERSON COLE WAS standing by a 1954 Hudson Hornet, talking with Beth Mooney and Ora Mae Foreman.

  “Well, look who’s come out of his hole.” Ora Mae was dressed all in black. Tight black slacks, a shiny black shirt, and a black leather vest.

  Cole patted the car. “The old cars don’t have any of the safety features that new ones have, but you don’t buy these with driving in mind.”

  “Hello, Thumps.” Beth had put on a dress for the occasion. Soft cream and teal, gathered at the waist. Next to Ora Mae, she looked small and vulnerable.

  “These are sculptures,” Cole continued. “Works of art. Sure, you drive them around town on good days for the fun of it, but you buy them because they’re just flat-out beautiful.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me the Passangs had sold their house?” Thumps tried to make the question sound friendly.

  “Wasn’t my listing.” Ora Mae frowned. “Since when you been interested in other folks’ real estate?”

  “It’s about his cat,” said Beth.

  “Do you know where they moved?”

  “You mean that nasty old cat that ran away and left you high and dry?”

  “Are they still in town?” said Thumps. “The Passangs?”

  Ora Mae shook her head. “Nyingchi. Left two weeks ago.”

  “Nyingchi?”

  “It’s a city in Tibet,” said Ora Mae.

  “Tibet?” Thumps kept his face under control. “What about Freeway? Did they take her with them?”

  “A cat?” said Ora Mae. “All the way to Tibet?”

  It wasn’t a reaction he had expected, but the thought of Freeway waking up on top of a mountain in the middle of a howling blizzard made him smile.

  “Nobody’s going to take some scruffy cat to Tibet.”

  “Here’s a primer on car collecting.” Cole handed Beth a brochure. “What are you driving?”

  “Buick station wagon,” said Beth. “1983, I think.”

  “No sense keeping it.” Cole shook her head. “A hundred years from now and it still won’t be collectible.”

  Beth turned to Thumps. “A vintage car might be fun. What do you think?”

  “The trick to collecting,” said Cole, “is to know which cars will increase in value and which ones won’t.”

  “No point being upset about that ratty cat,” said Ora Mae. “I’d worry more about house prices in your neighbourhood. The Passangs didn’t do you any favours.”

  THUMPS LEFT BETH and Ora Mae and Anderson Cole to work out the distinctions between old and vintage, between junk and investment. Ora Mae was right. Why would the Passangs take a grumpy old cat all the way to Tibet?

  And if they didn’t take her with them, where was she? Had they just left her when they moved out of the house? Had they given her to another family? Had they taken her to the animal shelter?

  She wouldn’t last long there.

  Thumps was surprised at the number of people who had turned out to look at old cars. He wasn’t sure he understood the attraction, but he knew that there was a fascination with things after they reached a certain age. Craftsman houses, for example. Or childhood toys, furniture, ceramics, vinyl records. Now that he thought about it, this interest in the past was the very thing that Gabby Santucci was selling with her vintage clothing.

  He had read somewhere that a poster for the 1927 silent movie Metropolis, painted by Heinz Schulz-Neudamm, had been bought at auction for $1.2 million.

  So far as Thumps could tell, the only things that did not get better with age and never became collectible, no matter how old they got, were people.

  DUKE HOCKNEY WAS sitting in a Cadillac convertible the size of Nebraska. The sheriff had his hands on the steering wheel and was making engine noises under his breath.

  “Place is an automotive petting zoo. You bring your camera?”

  Thumps smiled. “You want me to take a picture of you in this car?”

  “It’s a ’50 Coupe de Ville,” said Duke. “When I was growing up, all the successful people had Cadillacs. You drove down the street in one of these babies, the only thing you had to worry about were icebergs.”

  “You ever know the Passangs? Tibetan family that lived near me?”

  Duke began fooling around with the knobs and sliders on the dash. “Those the folks who stole your cat?”

  “They didn’t steal Freeway,” said Thumps.

  “Not what you told me.”

  “I was upset then.”

  “So, what about them?”

  “They moved,” said Thumps. “Back to Tibet.”

  Hockney adjusted the rear-view mirror. “And you don’t think they took the cat with them?”

  Thumps wasn’t sure what he thought. He wasn’t sure that he even cared. Except he did.

  “Coyote probably got her.”

  “What?”

  “Nobody’s going to take a cat to Tibet. If she hasn’t come home by now, she’s most likely dead.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Get another cat,” said the sheriff. “You remember that sign Budd used to have in his store?”

  “Duke . . .”

  “‘Unattended children will be given a large cup of coffee and a free kitten.’”

  “Forget I asked.”

  Hockney took his hat off and wiped the inside brim. “So, what the hell is going on?”

  “What?”

  “I get a call from some movie guy who wants me to come to a meeting.”

  Thumps opened the passenger door and got in. The seats were comfortable, and there was decent leg room.

  “Said they’re doing a movie on the Obsidian Murders.”

  “This thing have power steering?”

  “That was a California case, so the only possible reason for them to be here in Chinook is you,” said Duke. “Do I need to know anything?”

  “Nope.”

  “Nope isn’t an answer.”

  “They want to make a movie,” said Thumps. “They wanted to talk to me. End of story.”

  “So, you’re not going to the meeting?”

  The air had cooled. This was the best part of the day. When everything slowed down.

  Thumps ran a hand across the leather upholstery. “You thinking of buying this?”

  Duke snorted. “You kidding? I couldn’t afford to drive this pig to market.”

  “Or to a gas station.”

  “That too,” said Duke. “Oh, and I saw Claire.”

  “Here?”

  “Looking at a couple of old Fords.”

  “Claire?”

  “She’s with some guy,” said Duke. “You go and screw up again?”

  “What’d he look like?”

  “You really want to do this?”

  Thumps waited.

  “Younger than you,” said the sheriff. “Better-looking . . .”

  “Okay, forget I asked.”

  “. . . broad shoulders, good dresser, little dimple just here . . . had a baby.”

  Thumps held up a hand. “A baby?”

  “Five, six months old,” said Duke. “Hard
to tell when they’re young like that.”

  Thumps waited for Duke to finish.

  “They were right over there.” Hockney pointed his chin at the field of old cars. “Checking out a ’50s T-Bird.”

  Thumps stepped out of the car and did a slow once-over of the fairgrounds. The grandstands were in shadows now, and someone had turned on the floods. “You happen to see what the guy was driving?”

  “Audi SUV. Had a baby carrier in the back seat, so you know he’s the responsible kind.”

  “You get a plate number?”

  Duke’s smile held off the evening shadows for a moment. “Use of police resources for personal business is against department policy,” he said with a straight face. “But because we’re friends, and seeing as you’re a candidate for the sheriff’s position, I’ll put out an all-points bulletin for your cat.”

  Fourteen

  The Mustang had been a defunct Texaco gas station before Delroy “Hack” Chubby bought the property at auction and turned it into a western saloon. He left the original building intact, spliced a decrepit double-wide onto the back of the service bays, and cobbled a bar counter together out of old doors and zinc roofing panels.

  Hack found a couple of pool tables in a barn near Red Lake, along with a working jukebox. He hung the station’s Texaco sign from the ceiling behind the bar and nailed the grille of a 1965 Mustang to the wall just below an orphaned neon sign for the “Big Chief Motel.”

  In those days, the saloon was a dark, dank cave famous for its fist fights and arm-wrestling contests. Now and then someone would back their pickup into the motorcycles lined up in the parking lot like the pickets on a fence, and an all-out brawl would erupt.

  There were shootings as well, but with the exception of a guy from Texas who shot off part of a buttock trying to pull his pistol out of his belt, most of the gunplay, in and around the Mustang, involved beer cans, road signs, tires, windshields, and the occasional radiator that was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Hack was killed on his ’47 Harley Knucklehead trying to pass a semi on a grade just north of Glory. His wake was held at the Mustang and lasted the weekend. And when the sun came up on Monday, Hack’s daughter, Lorraine, moved the Texaco sign out of the building and into the parking lot, along with the jukebox, the pool tables, the ’65 grille, and the “Big Chief Motel” neon, and burned the place to the ground.