by Thomas King
“Got a photograph,” said Leon. “Mug shot. I can email you a copy.”
“We’ll show it around,” said Duke. “I’ll have the boys check the motels north to Glory and east to Red Tail Lake.”
“But if we’re looking at a serial killer,” said Thumps, “we’re blind.”
“Nonsense.” Duke pushed his glasses up his nose with one finger. “He’s a psychopath. He looks just like the rest of us.”
Twenty-Three
Thumps was fine with the idea of a house guest. In the abstract. The reality of having someone in his personal space was a different matter entirely. Not that Leon turned out to be a house guest in the strict sense of the term.
“No offence,” Leon said, “but I’ll stay in the Roadtrek. More comfortable. Private. My own bed. Bathroom. Television. Kitchen.”
Leon took him on a tour of the RV, and Thumps had to admit that the amenities and the finishes were impressive.
“And I won’t have to listen to you snore.”
Leon unrolled a long extension cord that they hooked into an outlet on the back porch. “Got solar panels on the roof,” said Leon, “but a plug-in is more reliable.”
There was a laptop on a fold-up table.
“Got satellite WiFi. Can write my novels anywhere in the world. Do all the research online.”
“What about the toilet and sink?”
“Fresh water reservoir and the toilet dumps into a holding tank.” Leon rambled on like a proud parent. “Can go at least a week before I have to find a dump station and drain the black water.”
“Black water?”
“That’s what they call the . . . you know.”
Thumps tried to put the picture out of his mind.
“There’s enzymes you have to put in the tank that help break down the solids, but all in all, the maintenance is pretty easy.”
“You need any blankets or pillows?”
“Nope, brought everything with me.” Leon opened the small refrigerator. “Beer, nuts, and hard-boiled eggs.”
“Major food groups.”
Leon tapped the sofa with his foot. “You press this button, and the darn thing turns into a bed. You believe that?”
“Nice.”
“Ron always thought you’d come back. He didn’t fill your position for over a year.” Leon took a beer from the refrigerator. “What happened?”
There it was, the question for which Thumps didn’t have an answer.
“I mean, I can understand why you never came back. But we never heard from you again. Nothing. You had a lot of friends on the force.”
“Herb and Paul?”
“Those assholes.” Leon’s laugh was sharp and cold. “No, they thought you quit, thought you gave up, that you ran away.”
“Maybe I did.”
“Paul mouthed off once too often, and Ron decked him.”
“Ron?”
“Wouldn’t have thought it,” said Leon. “But all that home repair, swinging a framing hammer. Hell of a right. One shot, and Paul didn’t get up.”
“Jesus.”
“Mind you, getting cold-cocked didn’t change his opinion,” said Leon, “but after that, he kept his thoughts on the matter to himself.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call.”
“Damn straight you are. You don’t treat friends like that.” Leon went back to the fridge. “You want a beer?”
“You want me to try to explain?”
“Do you want to?”
“Not really.”
“Then have a beer,” said Leon. “I hate explanations, and I hate drinking alone. Makes me feel like some pathetic alcoholic.”
THE REST OF the afternoon was taken up with stories, stories they had told each other when they were cops on the coast, stories they knew by heart.
“You remember Guy Dixon?”
“Sure.”
“You remember that charity golf tournament we went to in Truckee?”
“Greenwood something.”
“That’s the one,” said Leon. “Sixth hole, Guy puts the cart in the lake.”
“And tries to get you to pull him out with your cart.”
“So I back up my cart . . .”
“And you backed it up too far.”
Leon put his beer on the table and let the silence fill the room. “Always thought it was strange that you and Anna never got married.”
Thumps tried smiling. “Thought we were boring each other with old stories.”
“Or even moved in together.” Leon worked on a burp. “I mean, hell, you were Callie’s father for all practical purposes.”
“How about we take the RV for a spin.”
“But now we know,” said Leon. “Anna was married already and didn’t want to tell you.”
“We could take it along the river road,” said Thumps. “Give you some pointers on photography.”
“Anna could have divorced Oakes while he was in prison. But she didn’t.”
“I could get a photo of you and the RV with the mountains in the background.”
“She loved you, but I’m guessing she still had feelings for him. Or she felt sorry for him. And there was the child.” Leon picked up the bottle and swirled the beer around. “Women are strange that way.”
Thumps could see that he wasn’t going to be able to move Leon off his line, so he sat back and let the man run.
“You didn’t know any of this,” said Leon, “but you must have wondered why she kept you at arm’s length?”
“She didn’t keep me at arm’s length.”
“She didn’t tell you about Oakes.”
“Again. What difference does it make?”
“And when they were killed, you fell apart.”
Thumps could feel the anger rising. “You going somewhere with this other than in circles?”
“Thought you indigenous types liked circles.”
“Fuck you.”
“That’s the spirit,” said Leon. “Good to see you have some fire left.”
Thumps set his beer to one side. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”
“What?” said Leon. “My being here? Reopening the case? Dredging up the past? All of the above?”
“Me drinking.”
“Call this drinking?” Leon finished the bottle. “Look, you want to solve the case. You want to find who killed Anna and Callie. I want to find who killed all those people. Maybe we’re looking for the same person. Maybe we’re looking for two different people.”
Leon paused for a moment. “We used to be good at this. You and me. Six years ago, we got blindsided, and we screwed up. Ten bodies was a load to deal with. Along with state and federal cops and the press and the public all screaming at us to do something.”
“We tried.”
“Sure, we tried,” said Leon, “but we also got swept up in the hysteria. We didn’t do our job. At least, we didn’t do it well enough.”
“And I ran away,” said Thumps. “Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
“You left. Can’t say I understood your reasons. But that was then. This is now.”
“And you think we can finish this.”
“I’m not the one who drove all the way to California.” Leon saluted Thumps with the empty bottle. “I was happy rotting away in that basement.”
“So,” said Thumps, “what kind of mileage does this thing get?”
“Changing the subject isn’t going to save you.”
“Why don’t we try.”
“Okay.” Leon helped himself to another beer. “Where might a lonely brother go to find wine, women, and song in this one-horse town?”
“Wine, women, and song?”
“Okay,” said Leon, “booze and dancing.”
“The Mustang.”
“Good manners dictate that you show me around, introduce me to the populace.”
“Busy tonight.”
“A date?”
“Dinner.”
Leon reached into his pocket and
came up with his silver dollar. “Flip you.”
“For what?”
“Heads, you come to the Mustang with me,” said Leon. “Tails, I go to dinner with you.”
Thumps opened the door of the RV and stepped out into the fading light. “You need to get a life.”
“Tomorrow”—Leon followed Thumps into the yard—“tomorrow, we work the case from the beginning.”
“Sure.”
“You up for that?”
Thumps nodded. “Yeah, I’m up for that.”
“’Cause this time, I need to know that you’re in it till the end.”
Twenty-Four
Thumps took his time in the shower. Not a rub-a-dub-dub kind of shower with soap and a washcloth, but rather a stand-under-the-hot-water shower. Until it ran cold. Not a bad way to live a life.
Alone.
In the dark.
The water drowning out all sound.
If it weren’t for the limits of hot-water tanks, standing in the shower long enough might just wash away the past and leave you clean and ready to start over again.
THE MOTHER LODE was busy.
“I have a reservation.”
“Name?”
“DreadfulWater,” said Thumps. “For two.”
Thumps hadn’t expected Claire to be on time. And she didn’t disappoint.
The server was an older man with a heavy accent that sounded authentic. Italy perhaps. Or maybe somewhere in Germany where they spoke French as a second language.
“Would you care for a drink while you wait for the rest of your party?”
“Water, please.”
“We have American Summits, Apollinaris, Badoit, Berg, and, of course, Evian and Perrier.”
“Of course.”
“I would recommend the American Summits, which is sourced from springs high in the Beartooth Mountains of Wyoming, or the Berg, which is harvested from icebergs off the coast of Newfoundland and Labrador.”
“Tap water.”
The man didn’t miss a beat. “Ah,” he said, “Château Chinook.”
“No ice.”
“Excellent choice.”
Al Couteau and George Gorka were at a table in the corner. Thumps was tempted to wander over, just to be annoying, but he knew that Al was not the forgiving type, and only a fool messed with breakfast. Al was wearing a dark dress with bright white stars. Her hair was down, and she was smiling. George was holding her hand. The two of them were bent over, their heads close together as though they were exchanging state secrets.
“Mr. DreadfulWater.”
Mercer, Gerson, and Shipman.
Mercer brushed his hair off his forehead. “You dining alone?”
“No.”
“Aha,” said Shipman. “And she’s late.”
“God, Harry,” said Gerson. “That is such a cliché.”
“Late is late,” said Shipman.
“Archimedes Kousoulas,” said Mercer. “Great guy.”
“Spent the afternoon with him,” said Shipman. “All sorts of good background information. Man’s a walking encyclopedia.”
“Says that the two of you are working the Obsidian murder case together,” said Gerson.
Thumps could only imagine what Archie had told the movie people.
“Said the two of you were about to crack it wide open.”
“Archie mention the Aztec treasure?” Thumps kept a straight face.
“The fortune in gold that Antonio Garcia de la Vega is supposed to have brought north out of Mexico?”
Thumps nodded. “That’s the one.”
“Wants us to do a film about it,” said Shipman. “After we’re done with Obsidian.”
“He wants to play himself,” said Gerson. “He’s really kinda sweet.”
Mercer picked at a spot on his jacket. “You have any luck with Oakes?”
Thumps tried to read the man’s face. “Thought you weren’t going to use Oakes in the script.”
“We’re not,” said Shipman. “But curiosity is a powerful thing.”
Over Shipman’s shoulder, Thumps saw Claire come into the restaurant.
Thumps stood as she got to the table.
“Am I late?”
“Mercer, Gerson, and Shipman,” said Thumps by way of introduction. “Claire Merchant.”
“Lawyers?” asked Claire.
“Close,” said Mercer. “Entertainment.”
“They’re thinking of making a movie about the Obsidian Murders.”
“Ah,” said Claire.
“That’s what most people say,” said Shipman. “We should leave you be.”
“We didn’t make a reservation,” said Mercer, “so it looks like it’s fast food.”
“That’s disgusting, Tony.”
Thumps smiled. “The sheriff did mention something about a giant squirrel.”
“Try Shadow Ranch,” said Claire. “Stay away from the squirrel.”
“The script is almost done,” said Shipman. “I’ll get you a copy when it’s locked.”
THE SERVER ARRIVED with a menu. “May I bring the lady something to drink?”
“House white,” said Claire.
“The specials are on the insert at the front,” said the server. “I’d recommend the prime rib.”
Claire had dressed for the occasion. Thumps was so used to seeing her in jeans and a work shirt that Claire in a dress and heels was somewhat of a shock.
“You look great.”
“Well, aren’t you the charmer.”
“No,” said Thumps, “you look . . .”
“Stunning?”
Thumps quickly ran through the synonyms for “stunning.” Spectacular, striking, fabulous, magnificent, gorgeous, exquisite.
“You look beautiful.”
Claire blushed. “It’s been a while since we did this.”
Thumps tried to remember the last time they had gone out to dinner. Before Seattle and the cancer treatments. Long before that.
“We should do it more often.”
“Yes,” said Claire, “we should.”
The server was back, and he waited patiently while Claire looked at the menu one last time.
“Rabbit,” said Claire. “I’m going to have the rabbit ravioli. And the bruschetta appetizer.”
“And for the gentleman?”
“Prime rib,” said Thumps. “Medium rare.”
Claire sat back and willed her shoulders to relax. “This is nice.”
“It is.”
“Is that Al?”
“It is.”
“With a man?”
“George Gorka,” said Thumps. “He’s with the vintage car auction.”
“Good for her,” said Claire. “I suppose you know about Beth and Gabby Santucci.”
So he hadn’t imagined Santucci in Beth’s apartment.
“But that’s not why you invited me to dinner.” Claire unfolded her napkin and spread it on her lap. “Is it?”
“Thought we should talk about us.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely.”
“Maybe you want to talk about Victor.”
Thumps tried to play dumb.
Claire cocked her head. “Moses didn’t mention Victor?”
Thumps shrugged. “He might have.”
“Want to see a picture of him?”
“No.”
“Men,” said Claire. “Not sure what separates you guys from buffalo.”
“Buffalo don’t take beautiful women out to dinner.”
“Victor was good-looking. He was exciting.” Claire played with the wineglass. “He was the bad boy that mothers warn their daughters about.”
“Maybe I’m a bad boy.”
Claire started laughing. Tears began streaming down her face.
Thumps waited, hoping she would stop. “There’s lots you don’t know about me.”
It was somewhat embarrassing. People at the other tables began glancing in his direction, and Thumps realized that they were probabl
y thinking that Claire was crying, that he had said something brutish or unkind.
Even Al and George were looking at him.
“God,” said Claire, “but you do make me laugh.”
“So what about Ivory?” said Thumps, trying to change the subject.
Claire wiped her eyes with her napkin. “Well, you’ll get a good dose of baby.”
“Great.”
“Screaming. Feedings every two hours. Dirty diapers. More screaming. Singing, rocking, burping, more dirty diapers.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Sure,” said Claire. “For the weekend. I figure you’re good to get through that.”
“What do you need me to do?”
“I want to adopt her,” she said. “Can you help me do that?”
“I can.”
“Callie,” said Claire. “You thought of her as your daughter, didn’t you?”
The food arrived. Thumps put his napkin on his lap and went to work on the prime rib. It was slightly overcooked, but good.
“What time should I come by on Friday?”
“Any time,” said Claire. “I’ll make something for dinner.”
“I could bring Chinese.”
Claire cocked her head to one side. “The salmon stuffed with wild rice was a mistake anyone could make.”
Thumps nodded.
“The instructions didn’t say anything about cooking the rice first.”
Thumps smiled. “You want to split a dessert?”
“And when you find him,” said Claire, her voice soft and sad. “When you find Raymond Oakes, will that be the end of it?”
THUMPS HADN’T EXPECTED that Claire was going to stay over. And she didn’t. They said good night at her truck.
“Last time you were looking at an adoption, you almost bought a Subaru from Freddy Salgado.”
“I’ll stay with the pickup.”
“Too bad you don’t have a club cab.”
“Single cab will work for the time being,” said Claire. “See how it goes.”
CASH AND CARRY was open, and Thumps spent a leisurely hour wandering the aisles. Eggs. Potatoes. Shredded wheat. Bread. A six-pack of beer for Leon. There was a sign on the wall above the produce that said, “Buy Local.” The grapes were from Chile. The melons from Turkey. The peaches were from the Okanagan Valley in British Columbia.
The bananas weren’t marked, but Thumps was sure they hadn’t been grown on a plantation in West Yellowstone.
Cash and Carry had changed some of their food offerings. Not long ago, the store had had an organic section. Now the space had been taken over by an enormous freezer with glass doors that was filled with microwave meals in bright, appealing cartons. Thumps read the nutritional guide on a box that contained Salisbury steak, green beans, and mashed potatoes. No wonder Americans were obese. Sugar, fat, salt, unpronounceable chemicals. The ready-to-eat food industry was the new cartel, its CEOs the new drug dealers.
