Obsidian

by Thomas King

  THUMPS STAYED AT the table and sorted through his options. He could get back in the car and drive over to Shadow Ranch on the off chance that Shipman and Gerson were enjoying the amenities of the resort. Or he could sit and watch the river run down the canyon, eat something light, and wait for Claire to emerge from her meeting.

  Or he could keep things simple and just go home.

  “Arlene said you were here.”

  Tribal council meetings could be bloodbaths, but Claire looked none the worse for wear.

  “Hey.”

  “You eat yet?”

  “Nope.”

  “Mind if I join you?”

  “Please.”

  “Arlene says the sheriff has you looking for a couple of adulterers.”

  Thumps shook his head. “Missing persons.”

  “How long they been missing?”

  “Since last night.”

  “Thought the police liked to wait seventy-two hours before they released the hounds.”

  “That’s a myth,” said Thumps. “There’s no waiting period for missing persons.”

  “I’ll remember that next time my nephew runs off.” Claire sat down with a sigh. “Have you ordered?”

  “Nope.” Thumps opened the menu. “What’s good?”

  “Just so you know,” said Claire, “the prairie oyster appetizer is just deep-fried meatballs.”

  Thirty-Four

  Thumps settled on the pasta special. Claire ordered a salad. “That’s not much to eat.”

  “There was coffee and pastries at the meeting,” said Claire. “And I’ll eat some of yours.”

  “Interesting meeting?”

  “Regulations for cattle grazing on the extension lands. I could hardly contain myself.”

  The pasta was disappointing. It was supposed to have been farfalle with roasted autumn vegetables and garlic sausage, but what arrived was penne with green peas and a marinara sauce.

  “So, what are you up to?”

  Thumps tried to think of a right answer.

  Claire pushed on without him. “I just figured that since you’re here, maybe you’d like to stay.”

  “Stay?”

  “Here,” said Claire. “I have a condo. We could go for a walk. Talk. Have a late dinner.”

  “Like a date?”

  “Sure,” said Claire. “Like a date.”

  “You have a condo?”

  “Bought it when Buffalo Mountain opened,” said Claire. “Tribal members got first crack at the units.”

  “Good view?”

  “The best,” said Claire. “Finish your autumn vegetables, and I’ll show you.”

  CLAIRE HAD BOUGHT one of the three-bedrooms. The Cascade. The Cataract. The Confluence. All the units had names, but Thumps could never remember which was which.

  “Big unit.”

  “I rent it out during the season,” said Claire. “It almost pays the mortgage.”

  “Hell of a view.”

  “I’m going to get into something comfortable.”

  Thumps kept his face under control. “Okay.”

  “Not that comfortable,” said Claire, and she disappeared into one of the bedrooms.

  Thumps walked out onto the balcony. The view was the same as the view from the dining room. He sat in one of the wrought-iron chairs, stretched his legs, and watched the river rush away through the canyon.

  “How’s the case going?”

  Claire had reappeared. She had lost the suit and found a pair of shorts and a loose top.

  “It’s not.”

  “Still trying to find the husband?”

  Thumps shook his head. “Don’t even know where to look. He gets out of prison. He disappears.”

  Claire pulled up a chair. “Did he have any place to go?”

  “Like family?”

  “Family,” said Claire. “Friends. A favourite part of the world.”

  “Don’t know.”

  “He had Anna.”

  Thumps started to say something and then stopped.

  “I’m surprised that he didn’t try to see Anna,” said Claire. “She was his wife. Callie was his child.”

  “Nina Maslow thought that Oakes might have killed them.”

  Claire shook her head. “Why?”

  “Because she was with me.”

  “Then he would have killed you.”

  “Maybe Anna was easier,” said Thumps. “Maybe I was supposed to be next.”

  “Sure. If this were a movie.” Claire took the other chair. “So, tell me about it.”

  “What?”

  “Anna’s murder. The sooner you get it solved, the sooner you can get on with the rest of your life.” Claire stretched out one leg and touched Thumps’s foot. “Maybe I can help.”

  Thumps looked down at the river. His field camera and tripod were in the car. He could set it up just inside the sliding doors and wait for the sky to lose some of its high glare.

  “I’ll go first.” Claire shifted in the chair. “Victor Brandt.”

  Thumps started to object.

  “Just shut up and listen.” Claire closed her eyes for a moment. “Anna and I had quite a bit in common.”

  Thumps frowned.

  “Not just you.” Claire made a face. “We were both young. Single mothers whose partners left them.”

  “Okay.”

  “Women with children, on their own,” said Claire. “You following this?”

  “I am.”

  “Make a noise every so often, so I know you’re awake.”

  “Okay.”

  “Victor came along one summer, and I ran off with him. It was exciting. We rode all over the country.” Claire stretched her legs. “And then I got pregnant.”

  “Stanley.”

  “I had Stanley in a small town in Utah,” she said. “Monticello. Mormon country.”

  Thumps had seen pictures of the Great Salt Lake and Canyon-lands. John Ford had filmed his westerns in Monument Valley on the Navajo Nation.

  “But we didn’t stay long. Victor got a line on a job in Arizona. Place called Holbrook.” Claire stretched her legs. “Then one morning, Victor got on his motorcycle and disappeared. Stanley was about nine months old. I waited for him to come back. End of the second month, I called Moses. He sent me money for a bus ticket.”

  “So, you came home with a baby.”

  “Six months later, Victor showed up on the reservation. Wanted to get back together. Make a new start.”

  “And you said no?”

  “No,” said Claire. “I said yes.”

  Thumps waited.

  “He stayed a week. And then he was gone again. Don’t think he liked a crying baby or the smell of a dirty diaper.” Claire paused and stared out at the view. “Or me.”

  “Man was a fool.”

  “I was hoping you’d say something like that.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Every six months or so, he’d show up, a little worse for wear. I think he was doing drugs by then. You know why he kept coming back?”

  “Money?”

  “I was his touchstone,” said Claire. “It took me a while to figure it out. I was the only constant thing in his life.”

  “Must have been tough on you.”

  “Not really. He came back again when Stanley was two, and this time, Moses and my uncles talked to him. Made it clear that he wasn’t to come back again.”

  “They beat him up?”

  Claire laughed. “No, they didn’t beat him up. And they didn’t threaten to kill him or anything like that. God, you watch too much television.”

  “So, what’d they discuss?”

  “Motorcycle insurance,” said Claire. “Okay, your turn.”

  “Nothing to tell,” said Thumps. “I was at a conference in San Diego when the killings started. By the time I got back, Anna and Callie were dead.”

  “A serial killer.”

  “So far as we know.”

  “Or the husband.”

 
“Perhaps.”

  Claire sat back and closed her eyes. “What was Anna doing there?”

  Thumps rubbed the back of his head.

  “I mean, did you guys ever go to the beach?”

  “Anna was a nurse,” said Thumps. “I was a cop. We both worked shift.”

  “So you go to San Diego, and she takes her daughter to the beach.” Claire opened her eyes. “What time of the day?”

  “What?”

  “What time of the day did she go to the beach?”

  “Evening.”

  “Were most of the victims killed at night?”

  Thumps cocked his head. “You’re beginning to sound like a cop.”

  “I am a cop,” said Claire, “but just for this one case.”

  “Yes,” said Thumps. “They were killed at night.”

  “So why was Anna at the beach? At night. With her daughter.” Claire stood up and leaned against the railing. “And what was she wearing?”

  “Wearing?”

  “It might tell us why she was there.” Claire paused. “Would you rather we didn’t talk about Anna?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “You seem to know less about this case than you should.”

  “How about we talk about us.”

  “And the baby?”

  “Sure.”

  “Or we could do something else. For instance, we could lie down and hold each other.”

  “A nap?”

  “And if that doesn’t work out,” said Claire, “I’m sure we’ll be able to find alternatives.”

  “Maybe he’ll come back.”

  “Victor?” Claire snorted. “It’s been twenty years. There’s nothing to come back to.”

  “Does he know that?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Claire took Thumps’s hand. “All that matters is that I know.”

  WHEN THUMPS WOKE, he was lying on the bed by himself. His shoes were gone. So were his socks. As well as his pants and shirt. He could vaguely remember climbing onto the bed with Claire, could remember holding her.

  Or did she hold him?

  So, where was she? Thumps waited in case she had gotten up for a drink of water or to go to the bathroom. He listened for the sound of someone moving about the condo. Nothing.

  And it was night. How long had he been asleep? “Hello.”

  Claire was sitting on the balcony, bathed in moonlight. Well, not moonlight. There was no moon. Just the overhead balcony light. But the effect was much the same.

  “Look who’s awake.”

  “What happened?”

  “You passed out.”

  “Passed out?”

  “My uncle was diabetic,” said Claire. “Whenever he had a heavy meal, he’d pass out.”

  Thumps tried to remember where he had put his diabetes kit.

  “You had pasta. Did you take any insulin?”

  In the car. The testing kit and the insulin were in the car. “What time is it?”

  “Almost midnight. I poked you a few times to make sure you weren’t dead.”

  “Did I take my clothes off?”

  “My uncle didn’t take his diabetes seriously either,” said Claire, “and he wound up losing a foot.”

  “Did we . . . ?”

  “Oh, and your cellphone’s been buzzing.”

  “I don’t have a cellphone.”

  “In your jacket.”

  The cellphone Duke had given him. Thumps had forgotten about it. And now that he remembered, he wished he hadn’t.

  “Someone’s trying to find you,” said Claire. “And they sound serious.”

  “The sheriff. He gave me a cellphone.”

  “Why would Duke give you a cellphone?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Is this about his prostate operation?” Claire caught Thumps’s reaction. “Is it supposed to be a secret?”

  “Guess not.”

  “So, you’re going to what? Be the sheriff?”

  “Acting sheriff,” said Thumps. “Just until Duke is back on his feet.”

  “Well, Mr. Acting Sheriff,” said Claire, “you better answer your phone.”

  Claire’s ears were better than his. Thumps fumbled in the jacket pocket until he found the phone.

  Duke did not sound happy. “Where the hell you been?”

  “It’s almost midnight.”

  “The law doesn’t sleep. You still at Buffalo Mountain?”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want you,” said Duke. “In town. ASAP.”

  “No can do,” said Thumps.

  “Get your ass to the fairgrounds.” Duke didn’t frame it as a question.

  “I’m busy.”

  “Are you with someone?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Claire?”

  “I. Am. Occupied.”

  “She’ll understand.”

  He could hear the sheriff arguing with someone in the background. For a moment, Thumps thought he had lost the connection.

  “Hey, Tonto. You better get in here. We found Shipman and Gerson. Sheriff says to bring your camera.”

  “Shit.”

  “Worse than that,” said Leon. “But if you hurry, there may be some doughnuts left.”

  Thirty-Five

  Claire had been understanding.

  “The sheriff or sex,” she had said. “It’s an easy choice.”

  Thumps had tried to defend himself. “You heard me,” he said. “I told him I was busy.”

  “You better put on some clothes. A make-believe lawman in his underwear isn’t all that intimidating.”

  “Technically,” said Thumps, “I’m not make-believe. I have a badge.”

  Claire walked him to the door, undoing her blouse one button at a time. “Someday,” she said, “you’ll have to explain the statutes on indecent exposure.”

  THE DRIVE BACK to Chinook was made at speeds exceeding the limit. By the time he got to the fairgrounds, the place was ablaze in lights and activity. Hockney’s cruiser was parked against the barn. Beth’s station wagon was next to it. The sheriff and the county coroner in the same spot at the same time eliminated the possibility of this being a social occasion.

  One of the sheriff’s other deputies, Bob or Bruce, Thumps could never remember, was controlling the traffic.

  “Sheriff’s expecting me.”

  The name tag said “Fred.” Thumps tried to come up with some kind of mnemonic reminder.

  Deputy Fred was skinny with a small pot that hung over his utility belt like a small bag of potatoes.

  Fred, Fred, potato head.

  “DreadfulWater!” Sheriff Duke Hockney and Leon Ranger were standing at the entrance to the barn. “About time.”

  The sheriff had work lights set up, but the barn swallowed most of the illumination, leaving the interior in a disturbing pattern of half-light and long shadows.

  The black Mustang was parked in the centre of the barn. Most of the lights were trained on the car. Beth Mooney was standing beside the driver’s door.

  “There he is,” she said, with no happiness in her voice.

  Thumps caught the sharp, copper smell before he got anywhere near the car. “Shipman and Gerson?”

  “In the car,” said Leon. “And it’s not pretty.”

  Thumps stayed where he was.

  “You can’t see anything from there,” said the sheriff.

  “Don’t need to see anything,” said Thumps. “I know a dead body when I smell one.”

  “Two dead bodies,” said Leon.

  Beth came over. “Don’t want to tell you law-enforcement types how to do your job, but the crime scene is over here.”

  “I’m a photographer,” said Thumps.

  “Who is going to photograph my crime scene?”

  “How about I lend you my camera?”

  “We going to have to listen to your ‘Navajo sensibilities’ whine?” said Beth. “Again?”

  “Murder?”

  “Is that really a qu
estion?” said Duke.

  “Someone bashed their heads in,” said Leon. “Did a fine job.”

  “Mr. Mercer has already identified the bodies.”

  Thumps looked around.

  “He’s sitting in Lance’s cruiser,” said Duke. “He looked as though he was getting ready to throw up.”

  “And better Lance’s cruiser than yours.”

  “I’m the sheriff,” said Duke. “Can’t drive around in a vehicle that smells like puke.”

  “He under arrest?”

  “Maybe,” said Leon. “Maybe not. Duke hasn’t decided yet.”

  “Maybe you want to flip for the answer,” said the sheriff.

  Leon already had the silver dollar out.

  HAROLD SHIPMAN WAS behind the wheel. Runa Gerson was in the passenger’s seat. Thumps took shots from both sides of the car. He shut down the flash, turned up the ISO, and shot through the windshield. Both bodies were intact, but the faces were gone. Someone had pounded their heads into pulp. The attack had been violent, excessive, and focused.

  “Thoughts?” said Beth.

  “We haven’t looked in the mouths yet,” said Leon.

  “I want to get them back to the morgue first,” said Beth.

  “So, someone kills Shipman and Gerson, puts their bodies in a stolen Mustang, and parks the car in the barn from which it was originally stolen.”

  “We found blood over here.” The sheriff pointed toward the high stack of hay bales. “Drag marks from there to the car.”

  Thumps walked to the bales and then back to the car. “So, how does the killer get Shipman and Gerson to come out here?”

  “That’s exactly what we’ve been asking ourselves,” said Duke.

  “And we don’t have a good answer yet,” said Leon.

  “While you boys are thinking about it,” said Beth, “how about you bag the bodies and put them in my wagon.”

  Duke jammed his hands in his pockets. “You and Leon okay with that?”

  “Not happening,” said Thumps.

  “I got prostate cancer,” said Duke. “I’m not supposed to lift anything heavy.”

  “That’s hernia surgery,” said Beth.

  THUMPS TOOK SEVERAL photographs of the sheriff and Leon loading the bodies into Beth’s station wagon.

  “Was DreadfulWater really a cop?” asked the sheriff.

  “So far as I can remember,” said Leon.

  “We’ll finish up here,” Duke told Beth. “Meet you back at the morgue.”