The Body of Martin Aguilera

by Percival Everett

  “Come on, let’s go have some tea,” he said. As they walked back to the house, Lewis began to replay the scene at Martin’s in his head. No furniture was overturned. There was no sign of any struggle. The wound was in the back of the man’s head, under his hair, so he hadn’t gotten a look at that. There wasn’t a lot of blood. He sighed, then swallowed a deep breath, knowing that tomorrow he would ask Maggie to sit with Laura while he went back to Martin’s to look around.

  Maggie called and was there an hour later. Her little Ford pickup kicked a cloud of dust into the air as she skidded to a stop in the front yard.

  “How’s it goin’, fart-face?” Maggie said.

  Lewis and Laura were standing on the porch. Laura laughed.

  “You’re a sweet talker,” Lewis said.

  “Hi ya, Laura.”

  Laura smiled.

  “Come on in and have some tea,” Lewis said.

  “Got any herbal?” Maggie asked.

  “You drink herbal tea?” Laura was pleased.

  “Yep. The other stuff isn’t good for you. It makes me go potty.”

  “That’s all Papa drinks.”

  Lewis was holding the door open. “Come on, you two.”

  “See,” Maggie said, entering the house behind the girl. “The tea makes him irritable and impatient and I’ll bet he pees every ten minutes.”

  Laura was laughing again.

  Maggie and the child sat at the kitchen table while Lewis put on the water. He turned around and leaned against the counter. “I was wondering if you’d stay here with Laura for a while.”

  “Sure. Where you going?”

  “You’re nosey.”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “He’s going to Martin’s house,” Laura said in a hushed voice.

  “He is?” Maggie whispered. “Why?”

  Laura said nothing.

  Maggie looked to Lewis. “What’s going on?”

  He hadn’t wanted to tell her anything, but better he tell her than she get Laura’s version. “I’m worried about Martin.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s dead,” the child said.

  “Laura.”

  “What?” Maggie pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket.

  “Yesterday, we went to Martin’s and I found him lying on the floor. I think it was Martin. It seemed he was dead. He wasn’t breathing and I call that dead. Anyway, we called the sheriff. And when Manny Mondragon went back up there with us, the body was gone.”

  Maggie blew out smoke. “Hunh. This ain’t the kind of talk one expects over tea. You sure he was dead?”

  “I thought he was dead.”

  “I don’t think you should be going out there.”

  “Martin was—is my friend. I want to know what’s going on.” The kettle began its whistle behind him. “I’m just going to look around.”

  “I think we should all go.”

  “Yeah,” Laura said.

  “No,” Lewis said firmly, the whistle hissing loudly. He turned and removed the kettle from the burner with one hand, putting out the flame with the other. He looked Maggie in the eyes. “This is not a game.”

  “What is this, some macho thing?”

  “I don’t want Laura there.”

  Maggie looked at the girl and seemed to understand. She exhaled a breath like she was playing a trumpet and made a funny sound. “I’m sorry.”

  “This is between us,” Lewis said. “I don’t want you talking to anyone about any of this.”

  “And what if you don’t come back?”

  Lewis looked at Laura. She was afraid. He looked at his watch. “It’s ten now. If I’m not back by two, call Mondragon.”

  “Papa?”

  “There’s nothing to worry about honey.” He felt badly that the child knew where he was going, but she had guessed it anyway.

  Chapter Four

  The place was dead still when Lewis arrived. A thunderhead was forming over the hills. Lewis took a deep breath and got out of his car. Looking at the cabin, he could almost see Martin stepping out and showing that boyish smile. Martin had been a good friend. He’d been in the army and had known black people. Lewis wasn’t treated badly by the Indians and Mexicans, but he didn’t completely fit in. He had been comfortable with Martin.

  He walked slowly toward the corral which was behind the house. He looked at the ground and thought he might be able to learn something, like if anybody had come back after he and the sheriff left, but he couldn’t tell anything. He laughed at himself, thinking that an elephant could have stomped over this ground and he wouldn’t know the difference. And so he looked at the empty corral and learned nothing. He turned and looked up the canyon.

  As he walked up the canyon, he thought how it didn’t seem real that Martin was dead. The canyon channeled a breeze into his face. He followed a trail to his right that climbed up a ridge and after a hundred or so yards he was looking down at the canyon floor. He studied the trail, looked up the slope beside him and across at the other side. He found some old bear scat and felt better about his ability to find something. He came upon a place where deer had bedded down and sat on a fallen tree. He looked up and saw a raven fly by. Then he realized that he was hearing no birds. He had heard none since starting up. He hadn’t seen or heard any squirrels or chipmunks. The deer droppings at his feet were old just like the bear scat.

  A chill ran over Lewis. He was up quickly and moving back down the trail. He tried to think, but it was difficult. He was almost tickled at how scared he was. He stopped again to listen. Nothing. He whistled the only bird call he knew, a brown wren, but there was no response. The raven was long gone.

  As he reached the mouth of the canyon, he remembered the tassel-eared squirrel he’d seen near the cabin. He walked around the cabin, then inside. Everything looked normal, in place. He opened the cabinet where Martin kept his cereals and sugar, then closed it. Outside, he walked around the house again.

  He thought it was a snake at first and it gave him a start. But it was bushy. It was still. He reached down and pulled the dead squirrel from under a pile of scrap wood. Lewis studied it. The hair was gone from several spots on the small animal’s body and the flesh was raw. Lewis felt sick. He carried the squirrel to his car and sat on the hood, tried to catch his breath.

  “Martin,” he said out loud to the house. “What in the world is going on?”

  Lewis wrapped the squirrel in an old towel he had in the car and walked toward the door of the veterinarian’s office. The vet was pretty new and so the place was clean and efficient looking. There was a tall bay in the cross-ties and a Mexican boy was rubbing a salve on the horse’s back. Inside, a fat white man and his yellow Labrador looked at Lewis. The dog stood up, his nose measuring the air. Lewis hurried to the desk of the assistant who immediately began trying to steal a peek into the bundle.

  “And who do we have here?” she asked.

  “This is my pet and I want to see the doctor.”

  Unable to see anything, she readied a pencil over a form. “Name?”

  “Lewis Mason.”

  “Pet’s name?”

  “Mortimer.”

  “What is Mortimer, Mr. Mason?”

  “Mortimer is sick, ma’am.”

  “I can well imagine that he is. He’s probably suffocating.”

  “If you knew Mortimer, you’d know that’s not possible.”

  The woman’s patience was growing short. “What kind of animal?”

  “Are you the doctor?”

  “No, but the doctor needs to know,” she said, her back straightening.

  “I think the doctor will know what Mortimer is as soon as he sees him.”

  Lewis thought the woman might cry. As she struggled through her question again, the vet, a middle-aged man with a belly, appeared behind her.

  “Problem?” the vet asked.

  The woman composed herself. “This is Mr. Mason. He refuses to tell what his pet is.”

  “I’m sure we ca
n clear this up in the examination room,” Lewis said.

  The vet looked at him and then at the yellow Labrador. He asked the assistant, “Who was here first?”

  “Mr. Wilson and his dog.” She looked at Lewis as she said “dog.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Wilson won’t mind if I see Mr. Mason first,” the doctor said.

  Wilson gestured for him to go ahead.

  The assistant glared at Lewis as he stepped around the desk into the hallway. He followed the vet into a room and laid the bundle on a table.

  “Mortimer?” the vet asked.

  “Indeed,” Lewis said and unwrapped the squirrel.

  The vet paused. “What happened?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  The doctor began to slip on rubber gloves. “Why don’t you wash your hands over there.”

  Lewis went to the sink and washed.

  “Where’d you find it?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It might? Near a dump? These look like acid burns. But I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Let me ask you something. Does it make sense that a person can go into the forest and not see or hear any birds?”

  “Just because you don’t see or hear them doesn’t mean they’re not there.”

  “They weren’t there.”

  “A falcon or an eagle could have come into the area.”

  “I suppose.”

  “My name is Peabody, Cyril Peabody.” The vet peeled off a glove and put out his hand to shake.

  Lewis took it. “Lewis Mason. Pleased to meet you, Dr. Peabody.”

  “Cyril.”

  “Call me Lewis.”

  Cyril scratched his chin. “So, you want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “It stays here,” Lewis said.

  Cyril nodded.

  “Someone murdered a friend of mine. Martin Aguilera.”

  “An old man?”

  “You know him?”

  The vet looked at the squirrel. “That’s it,” he muttered. “He brought his dog in three, maybe four weeks ago, with burns. The dog wasn’t dead yet, but he was on his way.”

  “He took the dog with him?”

  “He wouldn’t let me keep him.” He sat on a stool. “Somebody killed him?”

  Lewis blew out a breath. “I think so. I found him dead, but when I went back with the sheriff, the body was gone.”

  Lewis imagined that Cyril was now skeptical. “My granddaughter was with me. She saw him, too.”

  “What did the sheriff say?”

  “What could he say?” Lewis wrapped the squirrel up again. “Thanks for looking at Mortimer.”

  “Wait. Where you going?”

  “Home.”

  Cyril scratched his belly through his denim shirt. “Want me to ride out to the old man’s place with you?”

  Lewis studied the man. “Okay.”

  “I’ve got to look at that dog out there. You mind waiting?”

  Lewis shook his head. “Can you get rid of the squirrel?”

  “No problem.”

  Lewis went back to the lobby and waited. He smiled at the assistant, but she ignored him. “Mortimer died,” he said.

  She looked up.

  “Mortimer is dead.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “What was Mortimer?”

  “Alive.”

  She went back to the papers on her desk.

  Chapter Five

  While Lewis drove he told Cyril about everything, but he did not repeat his observation that there were no animals in the canyon. That sounded too strange and it scared him too much. Lewis wondered why the man was taking such an interest and coming with him, but he was glad to have the company. He felt a little less scared. Strength in numbers and all that, he thought.

  “How long have you lived around here?” Cyril asked.

  “Going on three years.”

  “Retired?”

  “Yep.” Lewis didn’t like the word.

  “From?”

  “I was a university professor?”

  “Where?”

  “Bennington College.”

  “No,” said Cyril. “My daughter just started there.”

  “How about that.” Lewis looked at the road. “When did you open your office here and where were you?” Lewis didn’t like the way he’d asked the questions.

  But Cyril seemed unbothered. “Used to practice down in Albuquerque. Got tired of city people and little dogs.”

  “Martin was my friend,” Lewis said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  They crossed the river, passed the cafe and followed the trail to Martin’s house. Lewis stopped fifty yards away and looked at a blue Camaro parked in front of the cabin.

  “What is it?” Cyril asked.

  “That car.”

  “Well, let’s go see who it is.”

  “Right.” This made perfect sense. Lewis felt like a coward. He came to a stop directly behind the strange car.

  “It’s a rental,” Cyril said.

  “How do you know that?” Lewis asked.

  “Says so on the license plate bracket. See, Budget.”

  “Oh.”

  The men got out of the car and walked toward the cabin. Lewis glanced into the Camaro on the way by and saw nothing. A man stepped out of the cabin.

  Lewis stopped.

  Cyril waved. “Hey there, how you doin’?”

  The young man smiled, waved, and came toward them.

  “What’re you doing out here?” Lewis asked.

  The man was taken aback by Lewis’ tone. “Looking for my grandfather. What are you doing here?”

  “Your grandfather?” Lewis asked.

  “Martin Aguilera.”

  Cyril reached his hand out. “I’m Cyril Peabody and this is Lewis Mason.”

  “Joseph Taylor.”

  “Martin never mentioned a grandson,” Lewis said.

  Taylor looked at Lewis for a long second. “What’s going on here? Where is my grandfather?”

  Cyril lookd at Lewis.

  Lewis didn’t know if the young man was on the level or not. But if this Taylor was who he said, then he didn’t want to hurt him.

  “I’m not sure,” Lewis said. “I’ve been looking for him ever since yesterday.”

  The young man looked back at the house and seemed to be lost. He didn’t seem to know what to do.

  “You want to ride to the sheriff’s station with me?” Lewis asked.

  “What’s happened?” Taylor asked.

  Lewis felt suddenly sad for the man. “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll have to follow you.”

  “Would you mind dropping me by my office first?” Cyril asked.

  “No problem,” Lewis said. “It’s on the way.”

  Lewis didn’t say anything in the car. Neither did Cyril. Except to say he’d hate to be the one to tell Taylor about his grandfather. Lewis didn’t believe Taylor. Martin had never mentioned a grandson; he had never mentioned any family. And for this guy to show up now? One day after Martin was found dead? Lewis didn’t buy it. He wondered what Taylor wanted.

  The blue Camaro stayed behind him and this surprised Lewis somewhat. He’d expected the car to turn off and never be seen again. The Camaro waited while he let out Cyril.

  “Be careful,” Cyril said. “Call me later and let me know what’s going on. The operator will tell you my number.”

  Lewis watched the heavy man walk away. He decided that he liked him. He pulled off with the Camaro still following.

  At the station, Lewis and Taylor walked in together. Mondragon was out of his office talking to the dispatcher. He looked up and saw Lewis.

  “Hey, prof, got some news for you,” Mondragon said.

  “Manny, this is Martin’s grandson, Joseph Taylor.”

  The sheriff’s manner changed. He sighed. “I’m sorry to tell you that we found Martin Aguilera’s body in the river this morning.”

  “Body?” the man said. He fou
nd a chair. “I just got a letter from him two weeks ago. He wanted me to come see him.”

  “In the river?” Lewis asked.

  “Accident,” the sheriff said.

  “Manny?”

  “He was geared up for fishing, professor. He probably stepped out too far and the river snatched him in. Happens all the time.”

  “Manny?”

  But Mondragon would not look at Lewis’ eyes. “I’m sorry about your grandfather,” he said to Taylor. “I have a lot of work to do. If you’ll excuse me.” He went into his office.

  The display of grief seemed pretty genuine and Lewis began to feel for the young man. But Lewis had nothing to say to him. Lewis had nothing to say to anyone. He was confused and angry. He left the station. He wondered why Manny Mondragon had behaved the way he had. Perhaps he too did not trust the stranger claiming to be Martin’s relative. But that would have been a pretty quick assessment. Mondragon seemed to be telling Lewis to stay out of it. Lewis leaned against his car and waited for Taylor.

  Taylor came out shortly, lighting a cigarette and looking at the sky. He saw Lewis and walked to him.

  “I’m sorry about your grandfather,” Lewis said.

  Taylor nodded. “You were his friend.” It was not a question, but a statement.

  “Yes.”

  “Is there something you want to tell me?”

  “Where are you from?” Lewis asked.

  “Seattle.”

  Lewis looked at the rental car.

  “Listen,” said Taylor, “it’s clear you don’t trust me. Want to tell me why? My grandfather is dead. I want to know what’s going on.”

  Lewis listened to him, looked at his eyes, believed him. “Martin never mentioned any family to me.”

  “He and my mother didn’t get along. He didn’t like the fact that she married a white man.”

  “I found your grandfather dead in his cabin yesterday.”

  “But the sheriff said—”

  “I know what the sheriff said. When he went back out there with me the body was gone. Sounds crazy. Mr. Taylor, I don’t know what’s going on and I don’t know who to trust. You pop up out of nowhere the day after I find Martin dead. What am I supposed to think?”

  “I understand. But put yourself in my shoes. My grandfather writes and tells me something’s wrong, but not what and when I get here the sheriff tells me he’s drowned in the river and you tell me this.”