by Thomas King
“It’s nice.”
Archie’s head snapped up. “That’s how you thank me? ‘It’s nice’?”
“You bought this for me?”
“Of course I bought this for you. You’re my friend, right? You need a poster like this for your house. Something to brighten up the place.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t go thanking me yet. You have to earn it first.”
Of all Archie’s endearing qualities, his endless energy was Thumps’s favourite.
“I’ll take the pictures of Ridge. But not in front of an American flag. Okay?”
“You’re the boss. Hey, maybe I should be your assistant.”
“That’ll cost you two posters.”
The Indian in the poster was pushing the fronds to one side to get a better look. And well he should, for as far as Thumps could see, the ship headed for him was deserted. There was no sign of passengers anywhere. No happy folks on deck with flags and cameras. No festivities to mark its arrival. Just a silent, swift cruise moving across the face of the water like a missile.
“Who arranged for Ridge to come to Chinook?”
“The publisher.”
“You talked to them?”
“Who else would send him?”
No matter which way Thumps turned it, Noah’s arrival didn’t make sense. “When was the last time a writer came to Chinook as part of a book tour?”
Archie cocked his head. “You trying to tell me I don’t know what I’m doing?”
“No.”
“It’s not easy bringing culture to Chinook.”
“I know.”
“Did you also know that no one on the library committee gets any pay?”
“You’re doing a great job,” said Thumps.
“Tony Hillerman.”
“What?”
“He came through town when he was on his last book tour. He signed books right here in the store.” Archie went to a cabinet and rummaged through the files until he found what he was looking for. “See?”
The flyer was part of a press packet for one of Hillerman’s novels. There was a picture of the author and a picture of the book cover, a series of reviews, along with information on the publicity campaign.
Thumps looked at the flyer for a moment and then handed it back to Archie. “He was on a twelve-city tour.”
“He’s popular,” said Archie.
“And do you know where he went?” The cities were listed. Thumps waited to see if Archie was going to bite.
“Okay, Mr. Smarty-pants, Chinook wasn’t on his tour. Happy?”
“What happened?”
“Hillerman was in Calgary on his way to Denver. But there was a pilots’ strike, so he drove down and wound up stopping here.” Archie gestured to the glass cases where he kept the first editions. “He signed every book I had. Great guy. Real friendly. Said he was going to see about putting Chinook on his next tour.”
Thumps laid the flyer on the table. “Hillerman’s a major writer. His publishing house flies him around the country, east coast, west coast, most of the major stops in between. You know where Noah is going?”
“Albuquerque, Denver, and Salt Lake City.”
“That’s it?”
“Mysteries always sell better than non-fiction.”
“You just made that up.” Thumps looked at the Hillerman flyer again. “So, they fly Noah to three cities that make sense and one town that doesn’t.”
“They didn’t fly Ridge anywhere.”
“What?”
“He drove. Said he wanted to be close to the land, see the country.”
“He drove to Chinook?”
“More people should drive around and see the country,” said Archie. “I’m thinking of taking a horse trip back into the mountains. You want to come?”
“This about the Aztec gold?”
“I’ve got a hunch I know where it is.”
“What about Noah Ridge?”
“After,” said Archie, putting the poster back in the drawer. “We’ll go find the gold after.”
Thumps looked around the room at the rows of books all neatly arranged on shelves. He took a deep breath. Then he took another. There was something about standing in the middle of such an ostentatious display of order that made him feel calm, that made him feel at peace.
“I need a favour.”
“Sure,” said Archie. “How much do you need?”
Thumps shook his head. “I need you to make a couple of phone calls.”
FREEWAY WAS WAITING for him when he got home, and the cat was not happy. As soon as he came in the front door, she crawled under the sofa and refused to come out. Even shaking the carton of kitty treats didn’t dislodge her from her lair. So far today, Thumps mused, he hadn’t been much of a hit with the females of at least two species. And there was still dinner with Dakota, still time enough to annoy someone else.
Thumps set the box that Moses had given him on the table. It was mostly copies of newspaper articles. As Thumps glanced at each piece, he could feel the whole story coming together around him. When he had been a cop on the Northern California coast, he had been able to do that with a crime scene, see things in relief as though he were standing in the middle of a diorama and could look in all directions at once.
Halfway through the box, he picked up the phone. The front desk put him through, and Dakota answered on the second ring.
“You’re late.”
Thumps froze.
“I’m kidding.”
“I know. You still want dinner?”
“Yes,” said Dakota softly. “I’d like that.”
Me too, thought Thumps. “When?”
“Later?”
“Sure.”
“I have to go over some stuff with Noah.”
“Pick a time.”
“And I had a late lunch.”
“How’s nine?”
“Nine’s good,” said Dakota.
Thumps hung up the phone and lay back on the sofa. Through the window, he could see a corner of the sky, and he tried to imagine that a warm front was on its way in.
“I forgive you.” Thumps rattled the treats once more and dropped the box on the floor. When the cat got over her snit, she could damn well open it herself. Then he dragged the afghan off the back of the sofa and pulled it over his head.
IT WAS SEVEN-THIRTY when he woke. Evidently, Freeway had relented because the cat was curled up behind his legs, snoring away. Thumps hadn’t planned on falling asleep, had the nagging feeling that he might have gone on sleeping right through his dinner date with Dakota and straight on until morning had not something wakened him.
What it was that had roused him he couldn’t say. It might have been a noise, a car coming down the street perhaps or a siren in the distance. Or the sound of snow hitting the sidewalk. The more he tried to remember, the more the moment vanished, until he was left with only the vague impression of someone leaning over and whispering something in his ear.
The articles he had read were still in a neat pile on the table. Thank goodness for small mercies. He could have knocked the papers over with his foot, or Freeway could have decided to rub her cheek against the stack until she pushed everything onto the floor.
Thumps took the next article out of the box and settled back against the cushions. Freeway rolled over on her back, but she wasn’t going anywhere. Most of the stories had been about Lucy’s disappearance and about Noah Ridge and the parade of hot leads and dead ends that had marked the case from the beginning. But the story that Thumps held in his hands was not about Lucy. It was about a raid that the FBI had conducted on a house in Salt Lake City. The bureau, acting on a tip, had gone in looking for three AIM activists who were wanted in Colorado for robbery and attempted murder and who were believed to be hiding in the house.
And the boys from Washington had gone in with guns blazing.
Thumps didn’t recognize the names—Clinton Buckhorn, Wilson Scout, and Wallace Begay—but he remembe
red the event. By the time the smoke cleared, Buckhorn, Scout, and Begay were dead, as were two FBI agents.
Thumps had forgotten about that particular mess and the conspiracy theories that had been floated about the raid and Lucy’s disappearance.
Along with the photographs of Buckhorn, Scout, and Begay, there was a picture of Lucy and the agent in charge standing toe to toe, wagging fingers at each other. Lucy looked fierce in the picture, the way she had always looked. And dedicated. That was how Thumps remembered her. She never went looking for a fight the way Noah did, but she was always ready to go to battle if that’s what it took.
Thumps was looking at the picture and marvelling how photographs allowed you to hang in time, neither moving forward nor moving back, when he heard the voice again. This time it was clear, and as he sat on the sofa listening to Freeway chase squirrels in her sleep, he could feel a cold chill move through his body.
And it wasn’t the weather.
TWELVE
Thumps hadn’t expected to find the sheriff’s SUV parked in front of the Land Titles building. But there it was. Beth answered on the first ring.
“It’s me.”
“So it is,” said Beth, sounding almost festive. “Downstairs.”
Thumps tried to remember if he had ever been “downstairs” twice in one day. He didn’t think so, and he wasn’t particularly happy that that was about to change.
Beth was standing by the autopsy table talking to the sheriff and Special Agent Asah. Everyone looked happy, and if Thumps hadn’t known better, he might have thought that he had happened on a party.
“I know why I’m here,” said Hockney, looking right at Thumps. “And I know why Mr. Asah is here. Hell, I even know why Beth is here.”
“I live here,” said Beth.
“Mitchell Street,” said Thumps.
“That’s the password, all right,” said the sheriff.
Special Agent Asah wasn’t quite so congratulatory. “How in hell did you know that?”
“Oh, our Thumps is a clever duck,” said Beth, who was having more fun than her line of work should allow.
Thumps shrugged. “Andy find the car?”
“He did,” said Hockney. “And I’ll bet you can tell me what he found.”
Thumps paused for a moment, enjoying the short film that was playing in his head, starring Andy Hooper wandering the parking lot of the Holiday Inn in a snowstorm, shoving the key into frozen locks. “Street’s wallet.”
Hockney scratched his stomach. “You should have been a cop.”
“You drive a long distance, the last thing you want to do is sit on your wallet,” said Thumps. “Where’d Andy find it?”
“Glovebox.”
“Gas receipts?”
“On the passenger seat,” said the sheriff. “One for a station in Missoula and one for a station in Whitefish.”
Agent Asah flipped open his little black book. “Special Agent Mitchell Street, Omaha office.”
“Nebraska?”
“Man was retired and living in Missoula,” said Hockney. “But before Omaha and before he went fishing, he headed up the Salt Lake City field office. Same time as all that trouble.” The sheriff paused in case Thumps wanted to add something. “Don’t suppose you knew him.”
“Nope.”
“So, you didn’t kill him?”
Hockney was good. He’d slipped that question in without breaking stride.
“So, he was murdered.”
“Well,” said Beth, “he could have shot himself.”
“But we had a little vote,” said the sheriff, “and murder won.” Hockney took off his hat and checked the brim. “Want to guess what else we found?”
Thumps glanced at Beth to see if she was going to give him a hint. The sheriff slid the bag across the table. Inside was a book. Ghost Dance: The Red Power Movement in America. By Noah Ridge.
“Street was FBI,” said Asah, “so now it’s a federal matter.”
“Man was retired,” said the sheriff. “That makes him mine.”
Asah folded his arms across his chest. “Bureau won’t see it that way.”
“This is fun.” Beth looked over at Thumps. “Don’t you think this is fun?”
Through the plastic, Thumps could see a piece of paper sticking out of the book.
“Go ahead,” said the sheriff. “You like a good read, don’t you?”
Thumps opened the book and took out a black-and-white Xerox of a certificate.
“That there’s a bearer bond,” said Hockney. “For fifty thousand dollars. Course, it’s a copy, so you can’t cash it.”
But that wasn’t what caught Thumps’s attention. It was the note someone had written across the face of the bond. “See you in Chinook, kemo-sabe.”
“A real coincidence, don’t you think?” said Hockney. “First the postcard and now this. Don’t suppose you know who this kemo-sabe is?”
“I’m going to question Ridge,” said Asah. “Any objections?”
“Got nothing to link Mr. Street to Mr. Ridge,” said Hockney.
Thumps held the Xerox up to the light. “They were in Salt Lake together.”
“Yes, they were,” said Asah. “Street didn’t come here for the food. We got the book and the note and one dead FBI agent.”
Right, Thumps thought to himself, the only things missing are a motive and a weapon, fingerprints, a couple of witnesses, and a signed confession.
“That might get you fed in Washington or New York City,” said the sheriff, “but it won’t even buy you a cup of coffee around here.”
Asah might be young, but he wasn’t that young, and Thumps could see that the man wasn’t about to turn a murder investigation of a federal agent, retired or not, over to a hick sheriff, no offence, in a hick town.
“Okay,” said Asah, trying to be friendly, “what would you do?”
Hockney put a beefy hand on Thumps’s shoulder, and for an instant, Thumps wondered if this was how his Volvo felt when Cooley leaned on the car. “Thumps here has a date with Mr. Ridge’s executive secretary. Isn’t that right?”
Thumps stiffened. How in the hell did the sheriff know that?
“They’re old friends,” Hockney explained to Asah. “Got a lot of catching up to do. Isn’t that right?”
So, it had been a guess. And a damn good one.
“That right?” said Asah.
“I’m hungry,” said Beth. “Anyone want to take me to dinner?”
“I was thinking maybe Thumps could mention our friend here.”
“And see what happens?”
“Couldn’t hurt,” said the sheriff, laying the bond on the table. “Maybe Ms. Miles knows what the hell this is supposed to be.”
“Someone’s idea of a joke,” said Asah. “You can get shit like this at any novelty store.”
“Let me make sure I understand the plan,” said Thumps. “After the waiter lights our candle and we look at the menus, you want me to drop a hint that there’s a dead ex-FBI agent at the morgue whom the police think Noah killed. Is that about it?”
“Course, we could just haul them both in,” said the sheriff.
“I like that,” said Asah.
The sheriff was bluffing. Thumps wasn’t so sure about Asah.
“Where you going to take her?” said the sheriff. “In case we have to find you.”
“One of you paying for the meal?” said Thumps.
“Keep the receipt,” said Hockney. “You never know what the FBI might do for you.”
THUMPS STOOD ON the street and let the wind and the cold blow the smell of the morgue away. So, Noah Ridge the activist comes to town, and Mitchell Street the FBI agent comes to town. All at the same time. And Street winds up dead in a motel room. Thumps had thought of mentioning Lucy’s brother to Hockney, and he wondered when Grover Many Horses was going to arrive on stage, hot from hell with Atea by his side, to quote Shakespeare. Then there was Dakota Miles, and Thumps himself, for that matter. All they needed was Lucy Kettle
’s ghost prowling the parapets and they had the makings of a first-rate piece of Jacobean drama.
And that was before they got to the postcard. And the bond.
And the note.
Not that any of it made much sense. After all these years, why would Mitchell Street give a damn about Noah Ridge? Why would he buy a copy of Ridge’s book and drive all the way from Missoula to Chinook? To go to Ridge’s reading? Hardly. And why had Noah come to Chinook in the first place?
Thumps pulled his jacket tight around himself. The weather and the stench had fought each other to a draw, leaving Thumps cold and musty. Time for a long, hot shower and a change of clothes. Time for a firm resolution to let the sheriff and Special Agent Spencer Asah do their jobs. Without his help. Dakota Miles might well have some of the answers to some of the questions, and then again she might not. But tonight all Thumps wanted was a little companionship and a good meal.
The sheriff, on the other hand, was not going to have either. Hockney had been concerned about winding up with a dead activist. Instead, he had wound up with a dead FBI agent. And it was no contest as to which was worse. Mitchell Street might have been retired, but the bureau was not going to split hairs. Active agents and retired agents were all the same to Washington. And when one died, the bureau would want to know why. Thumps guessed that Asah had already called someone and that any time soon the sheriff was going to be knee-deep in suits.
Thumps was halfway down the street before he realized he couldn’t see his car, and for one annoying moment, he imagined that someone had stolen the Volvo. But no, there it was, huddled in behind Hockney’s SUV, trying to stay warm.
Thumps slid in behind the wheel, leaned over, and patted the dashboard. If anything, the inside of the car was colder than the outside.
“Let’s go home.”
The car didn’t groan or complain as it normally did. It also didn’t start. In fact, it didn’t even try to start. Thumps turned the key again. Nothing. Not even a hint that the spark plugs and the cylinders were talking to each other.
“Come on.”
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Thumps pumped the accelerator and tried again. Nothing. Just to irritate himself, he tried turning on the lights. Nothing. Hadn’t he bought a new battery two years ago? Or was it three? Or four?
