by Thomas King
“Little Fish?”
Big Fish started down the hall. “You think he knows who I am?”
THUMPS AND CLAIRE settled back in the chairs. The hospital was quiet. The corridors were empty and the lights had been dimmed.
“You think we should stick around,” said Claire, “just in case?”
“I’ll stay,” said Thumps. “Call you if anything happens.”
“Nine pounds,” said Claire. “Small wonder Lorraine is pissed.”
“What are you doing tomorrow night?”
“This about a date?”
“Dinner,” said Thumps. “Just the two of us?”
Claire stood up and stretched. “I hear there’s a film company in town that wants to do a movie on the Obsidian Murders.”
“Yeah,” said Thumps. “There is.”
“You helping them?”
“Not really.”
“But you’re still working the case,” said Claire. “California. Here. Paris.”
“Paris?”
“If you thought you’d find answers in Paris, you’d go to Paris,” said Claire. “Wouldn’t you?”
“Always wanted to see that city.”
“So, you’ll be at my place Friday? When Melton drops Ivory off?”
“I will.”
“And you’ll stay the weekend?”
“What about dinner?”
Claire put her jacket on. “Sure,” she said. “We can start there.”
THE COFFEE WAS GONE. So were the sandwiches. Thumps wandered down to the vending machines before he realized that he didn’t have the right change. He went back to the chair and read the rest of the articles, everything from the new design in soccer cleats to the ten ways to keep ants out of your kitchen.
Big Fish didn’t return. He and Lorraine were probably trying to figure out a name for the baby. Thumps should have suggested that they do what many of the tribes did. Wait to see what the child was like before giving it a name. Nothing worse than being saddled with “Bobby” when you turn out to be a “Winslow.”
Claire was right. He couldn’t be counted on. The Obsidian Murders would always be there, waiting in the shadows. And yes, he would go to Paris if that’s where the answers lay.
Life being what it is, one dreams of revenge.
Thumps had always wondered exactly what Gauguin had meant, whether the painter had thought that revenge should remain in dreams or if he was arguing that living in the waking world was reason enough for retribution.
Of course, Thumps could change all that. If he wanted. As with so many other things in life, it was a matter of choice. Drop the case. Put the killings behind him. Forget about justice or vengeance. Get on with the life he had.
There it was. The simple answer. Maybe even the right one.
A SQUALL HAD SNUCK in out of the northwest. The ground was wet, and the Element was glistening. The rain had washed all the dust out of the air, and the stars looked as though they had been scrubbed and polished.
Five-fifteen.
Too early to be up. Too late to go to bed. Just enough time to sit in his house in the dark and feel sorry for himself.
Twenty
Thumps parked the Element at the curb and tried to imagine a For Sale sign on his front lawn. How would he feel about that? What would he do once he had slipped that mooring? Would he stay in Chinook? Claire was offering an alternative, but she had her reasons, and they didn’t necessarily include him.
No house. No Claire. No cat.
Not the end of the world.
The weekend was going to be interesting. Claire and a baby. Thumps and Claire and a baby. What did you do with a baby? You carried it. You put it in a stroller and took it for a walk. You would certainly have to feed it, change its diaper, give it a bath. Thumps tried to think of something fun he could do with a baby, and came up empty.
Claire had done this before. She would probably have some ideas.
Lorraine and Big Fish were going to have to learn on the fly.
Thumps opened the front door and stepped inside. There was something to be said for coming back to an empty house. Everything quiet and calm. He remembered an old television show that his mother had liked where the husband came home every day and would sing out, “Lucy, I’m home.” Before she ran away, Freeway would have been here to greet him. Sure, he understood it was because the cat wanted to be fed, but she had been there waiting for him nonetheless. And that’s what had counted.
“Freeway,” Thumps sang out to the refrigerator, “I’m home.”
“In here.”
Thumps froze. In the early morning silence of the house, the voice was startling.
“Living room, Tonto.”
“Leon?”
Leon Ranger was sprawled out on the sofa, a bath towel thrown over his shoulders. “Door was open.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
Leon ran a hand through his hair. “Then get better locks.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Your fridge is empty,” said Leon. “You’re going to have to buy me breakfast.”
“You drove all the way out here?”
“That Roadtrek I bought,” said Leon. “Sweet ride.”
“Why?”
Leon sat up. “After you left, I began looking into Raymond Oakes. Amazing what you can find when you know where to look. And whom to look for.”
“Okay.”
“But the captain felt that my looking at an old case was getting in the way of my real duties.”
“Such as sitting on your ass in a basement, collecting dust.”
“Exactly,” said Leon. “So when he suggested that I should think about my career in law enforcement, I did.”
Thumps waited.
“You know the nice thing about retirement?” Leon grinned. “Just about everything.”
“So you’re retired,” said Thumps, “and you’re here . . .”
“And we got work to do, Tonto. I got all sorts of new shit.”
“You do the tests on the obsidian?”
“I did,” said Leon. “But you’re probably not going to like the results.”
Thumps nodded. “Couple of things I need to tell you as well.”
“Well,” said Leon, his attention on something over Thumps’s shoulder, “I hope the first thing you’re going to tell me is that the guy standing behind you with a gun is a friend.”
Sheriff Duke Hockney was in his civvies, his service revolver in his hand. “You know,” said the sheriff, “I ask myself that question every day.”
“Morning, Duke.”
“Wouldn’t be ‘Morning’ me if I were you.”
Leon Ranger. And now Sheriff Duke Hockney. Thumps wondered when Moses Blood and Cooley Small Elk were going to show up and they could start the party.
“Rose Twining called me,” said Duke. “At home.”
“Rose?”
“Woke Macy,” said Duke. “Said some shady character in a moving van had broken into your house and was trying to rob the place.”
“That would be me and the RV,” said Leon. “I parked it out back.”
“Told Rose it didn’t make much sense,” said Duke, “’cause you don’t have anything worth stealing. But I came anyway.”
“Duke,” said Thumps, “this is Leon Ranger.”
Duke put his gun back in its holster. “Charmed.”
“Leon and I used to work together on the coast.”
Duke nodded. “So, I don’t get to shoot him?”
“You had breakfast yet?” said Leon. “Tonto here is buying.”
THE CAFÉ WAS OPEN. There was one customer, a woman in a floral print, hunched over at the counter, but Al was nowhere to be seen. By now, the place should have been jumping with piles of hash browns on the grill and the steam spread out along the ceiling like a storm front.
Leon looked around. “Neat place. Can you get a waffle?”
The woman turned on the stool. “I’ll tell you three the same thing I told Wutty
.”
“Al?” Thumps had never seen Al Couteau on the customer side of the counter.
“Today is make-your-own-breakfast day.”
“I’ll be damned,” said Duke.
And Thumps had never seen her in a dress. “Is that lipstick?”
“Shut up, DreadfulWater.”
“And eye shadow?” said the sheriff. “What’d you do to your hair?”
Al fixed all three men with a lethal glare. “You really want to go there?”
“You know,” said Duke, “I don’t think Al’s been to bed.”
Thumps remembered. “She had a date last night. With the guy from the car show.”
“A date?”
Leon leaned around the sheriff. “Hi,” he said. “I’m Leon Ranger. You must be Al.”
Al squinted. “You with these two?”
“Never saw them before in my life.”
Thumps settled himself on a stool. “I like your hair.”
“Yeah,” said Duke. “Wearing it long like that, makes you look younger.”
“What he means,” said Leon, “is that it makes you look younger than you normally look.”
“Right,” said the sheriff, “that’s what I meant.”
“I was up all night,” said Al. “All right? Yes, it was a date. George Gorka. We had dinner and stayed out late. Went dancing at the Mustang.”
The sheriff shook his head.
“I drank too much. I haven’t had any sleep.” Al let her shoulders sag. “Is there anything else you boys want to know?”
Thumps looked at the sheriff and at Leon. “Nope.”
“No interest in whether George and I had sex?” Al waited. “Or whether he’s taking me out again tonight?”
“Nope,” said all three men in unison.
Al cocked her head at Leon. “I’m guessing you’re something that DreadfulWater dragged back from the coast?”
“Guilty.”
“He and Thumps used to work together,” said Duke.
“A cop?”
“Retired,” said Leon.
“So,” said Al, “you here about that piece of obsidian?”
Leon turned to Thumps.
“That’s one of the things I was going to tell you.” Thumps rubbed his eyes. “There was a break-in. At the coroner’s office here in town. Nothing taken, but someone left a piece of obsidian on the autopsy table.”
“The hell you say.”
“Most likely a stupid prank,” said the sheriff.
“And then there’s this.” Thumps took the watch out of his pocket.
“Since when did you start carrying a pocket watch?” said Al.
“It’s not mine.” Thumps popped the dust cover so everyone could see the inscription. “Found it in my mailbox. Or to be exact, Rose Twining found it and opened the package.”
“Rose?”
“She was collecting my mail. She was worried it might be something important.”
“Postmark?” asked Leon.
“Let me guess,” offered Duke. “Rose threw the packaging away.”
“She did,” said Thumps. “So we have no idea where it came from.”
“For Ray, with love, Anna.” Leon read the inscription slowly, pausing at each comma. “Oakes’s watch.”
“Maybe.”
“No maybe,” said Leon. “When I was looking at Oakes and Deer Ridge, I saw the inventory record. There was a large pocket watch listed among his personal belongings.”
“Raymond Oakes,” said Duke. “Someone sent you Oakes’s watch?”
“While you’re at it,” said Al, “tell your buddy about the movie company.”
Thumps was tired and he was hungry. “Maybe you should turn the grill on.”
Al didn’t move. “Be my guest,” she said.
The grill was not nuclear physics. Find the knob for the gas. Light the gas. Let the grill get hot. He had seen Al do it enough times. And he knew where she kept the hash browns. In a bowl of water in the refrigerator. Along with the eggs and the juice.
It was actually fun standing on the cooking side of the counter. He didn’t have to talk to Duke or Leon or Al. The sizzle of the potatoes drowned out whatever conversation was happening at the counter, and, for the moment, all Thumps had to worry about was getting the toast to come up at just the right moment.
He gave the first plate to Al.
“Son of a gun,” she said. “It appears the man can cook.”
“Is it too late to ask for eggs over easy?” said the sheriff.
Thumps gave himself extra hash browns and extra salsa.
“Pretty generous portions,” said Al.
“I did all the work.”
Al turned on the stool to face Leon. “So, you drove all the way out here to help our Thumps solve a cold case.”
“That was the idea,” said Leon.
“And you’ve got a bunch of new clues.”
“We do,” said Duke.
“And no idea what they mean.”
“There’s that,” said Thumps.
Al smiled at Leon and smoothed her hair. “I’ve seen these two geniuses in action,” she said. “I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
Twenty-One
Lance Packard was sitting behind the sheriff’s desk when Thumps and Duke and Leon got to the office.
“We got a 503 out at the fairgrounds,” said the deputy.
“English,” said Duke.
“Stolen car.” Lance was on his feet and reaching for his jacket. “You want me to take it?”
“Who called it in?”
“Woman.” Lance checked his book. “One Anderson Cole.”
“The car auction people?”
“I guess.”
“I’ll take it. Can use the fresh air.” Duke pointed his hat at Thumps. “Why don’t you come along? Get some practice in law enforcement.”
“I have to entertain Leon,” said Thumps.
“Bring him along,” said Duke. “Law enforcement is endlessly entertaining.”
THE FAIRGROUNDS WERE DESERTED, and the only evidence that there had been a vintage car show was the transport truck parked at the far end of the grandstands. Anderson Cole and George Gorka were standing in front of the barn.
“Sheriff,” said Cole. “Mr. DreadfulWater. Handsome stranger.”
“Leon Ranger,” said Leon. “Humboldt County Sheriff’s Department.”
“Multinational police presence,” said Gorka. “Nothing like small-town hospitality.”
“Be nice, George,” said Cole.
“No, I mean three cops for one stolen car. I’m impressed.”
“Just one cop, I’m afraid,” said Duke. “These two are retired.”
“So they’re just, what, observing?”
“Why don’t we start at the beginning.” Duke took his book out.
“Our cars were in two areas,” said Cole. “The ones for auction were in a roped-off area in front of the grandstands. Our more expensive cars and our display vehicles were in the barn.”
“What kind of car we talking about?”
“A 1967 Mustang,” said Gorka. “We came out this morning to put the cars on the truck and the Mustang was missing.”
“Barn locked?”
“No,” said Gorka. “Fire code.”
“Security?”
“Cars were locked,” said Cole. “We’re not exactly Fort Knox.”
Duke made notes. “The Mustang the most expensive car in the barn?”
“Not by a long shot,” said Gorka. “We have a 1932 Packard Twin Six and a 1946 Packard Super Clipper Club Coupe.”
“So, they hot-wired the car?”
“Didn’t have to,” said Cole. “They took the keys.”
Duke frowned.
“We keep the keys in a lockbox,” said Gorka. “Box was broken.”
Thumps shaded his eyes. “The cars on the transport. They look to be all 1940s and ’50s.”
“They are,” said Cole. “That’s our specialty.”
“So, why a ’67 Mustang?”
“Ford began making the Mustang in 1964,” said Leon. “The ’67 was the first redesign.”
“You know your Fords,” said Gorka. “You ever hear of Autoworks International?”
“Can’t say that I have,” said Duke.
“A few years back, they rebuilt a 1967 Ford Mustang.” Gorka lowered his voice as though he had just stepped into a church. “Tremec TKO 600 five-speed transmission, fuel-injected 392 cubic inch V8 with twin Rotrex superchargers and a pair of custom intercoolers. Zero to sixty in four seconds. Custom paint job.”
“Sounds expensive,” said Duke.
“Supposedly cost over a million to build.”
Duke stopped writing. “That’s one expensive car.”
“One of a kind,” said Cole. “It first appeared at the 2006 SEMA.”
The world ran on acronyms. CIA, IBM, CEO, IRS, CPA, AT&T. But try as he might, Thumps had no idea what SEMA stood for.
“SEMA,” said Cole. “Specialty Equipment Market Association.”
“Okay,” said Duke. “So you guys lost a million-dollar car?”
“No,” said Cole. “Our car’s a replica.”
“Doesn’t have the engine or the transmission or the rest of the expensive goodies,” said Gorka. “Just the paint job. The paint job is the same.”
Thumps had lost track of the conversation back at SEMA. He looked at Duke and Leon to see if they had been able to keep up.
“So, your car,” said Duke, “the replica, isn’t worth a million?”
“Our Mustang was a 427 V8,” said Gorka. “Book is high thirties. With the paint job, it’s low forties.”
“Because it has a nice paint job?”
Gorka smiled. “Not just any paint job. Sikkens Obsidian.”
Suddenly, Thumps was back with the conversation. “Obsidian?”
“Sure,” said Gorka. “That’s why they called it the Obsidian Mustang.”
“Because of the colour.” Duke looked at Thumps.
“That’s right,” said Gorka. “Sikkens made a custom colour for the Autoworks Mustang. Obsidian black. The deepest black you’ll ever see. Beautiful. Like falling into a well.”
“And your Mustang was painted the same colour,” said Thumps. “Obsidian black.”
“It was a damn expensive paint job,” said Cole. “Let me tell you that.”
“How many people knew about the paint?”
