The Red Power Murders

by Thomas King

  “Maybe I’m not you.”

  Yes, thought Thumps, that’s true. And then again, maybe you are.

  “THAT WAS SLICK,” said Asah as they drove out of town. “How old do you think he was when his sister disappeared?”

  “You’ve seen the file.”

  “Eight,” said Asah. “Grover was eight?”

  “I can’t remember a thing from when I was eight,” said Thumps. “How about you?”

  “You think he assaulted Ridge.”

  The cuts and bruises on Grover’s knuckles were fresh. Thumps had seen them. So had Asah.

  “Maybe,” said Thumps. “But that’s not the problem.”

  Asah nodded. “Yeah. No way Ridge didn’t see the guy.”

  Hockney wouldn’t have missed that either. All of Noah’s injuries had been to his face and chest. Whoever had attacked Noah had come at him from the front, not behind.

  “So, why would he lie?”

  That, thought Thumps, was one of the better questions. “Maybe he’s protecting someone.”

  “That would have to have been a very special someone. You know anyone he cares about that much?” Asah looked across at Thumps and grinned. “Besides himself?”

  Thumps settled in against the door. Nice to meet an FBI agent with a sense of humour.

  “Sheriff says you used to be a cop,” said Asah.

  The hand-hewn log homes on five-acre lots and the glistening stone and glass condominiums slid across the windshield. On the near ridge, a herd of deer was making its way into the valley. “Why’d you quit?”

  “Is that an official question?”

  “No,” said Asah. “I was just curious. You can tell me it’s none of my own business.”

  Thumps wondered how the deer might have felt about the film company’s plan to blow up Glory and leave the valley to the seasons. He suspected that they would have been in favour of it.

  “Okay,” said Thumps, closing his eyes. “It’s none of your business.”

  SEVENTEEN

  While they were gone, the circus had come to town. Thumps had no idea how it had got there so fast, but there it was. CBS, NBC, ABC, all the alphabet networks with their trucks and their cameras, with their elephants and their clowns. As Asah and Thumps drove down the street, Thumps could see that it was going to be a very long evening. No doubt he’d be able to watch everything on the evening news—the interviews, the background, the analysis—all reduced to a series of inane but provocative sound bites.

  “I don’t think the sheriff is going to like this,” said Asah as they passed the television trucks jammed together in front of the Tucker.

  “Not a whole lot to like.”

  “You want to tell the sheriff, or do you want me to do it?”

  “About Grover? Not a whole lot to tell.”

  “What about Grover lying to us?”

  “He could have been telling the truth.”

  Asah pulled over to the curb. “Grover’s sister disappears when he’s eight.”

  “Witness protection works for me.”

  Asah grinned. “Not a chance.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah,” said Asah, “I’m sure. Which leaves us with only two possibilities. One, Kettle was killed and we’ve never found her body. Or two, she’s still alive and has been in hiding for more than twenty years.”

  “Twenty-five.”

  “Which one do you like?”

  “Maybe Lucy Kettle killed Street.”

  “Which one you think Grover likes?” Asah paused to see if Thumps had anything else clever to say. “Now after all this time, the man she was working with and who would have been a prime suspect if Lucy’s body had ever been found shows up flogging a new book about those years. What do you do?”

  Thumps opened the door and stepped out. “I go home and take a shower.”

  “You want me to drop you off?”

  Thumps shook his head. “I have to pick up my car.”

  “You know, she may be involved.” Asah waited to let this sink in. “According to Street’s field notes, Ridge and Miles were close.”

  “That was in the past.”

  “Sure, but she’s still with Ridge. Has to make you wonder.”

  “You think Dakota killed Street to protect Noah?” Thumps didn’t even try to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

  Asah shrugged. “Street led the raid in Salt Lake. It blew up in his face. The bureau quietly shipped him off to Nebraska, and that was the end of his career.”

  “I see they’re still trying to teach logic at the bureau.”

  “Street blamed Ridge for what happened. At the review board, his defence was that Ridge had found out about the raid and tipped Buckhorn. Ridge and Street hated each other. Have you read Ridge’s book? You can bet Street did.”

  Thumps wasn’t sure whether to laugh or just smile. “So, when Street finds out about Noah’s reading, he drives to town with murder on his mind, only Dakota finds out and kills him to protect Ridge. Is that your theory?”

  “You’re not exactly impartial.”

  “I’m not exactly brain-dead either,” said Thumps, surprised by the anger that had got loose.

  “Street’s death wasn’t a suicide, and he wasn’t killed by a tourist in town for the weekend.”

  “Noah’s a better suspect.”

  “That he is,” said Asah. “But if you watch enough television, you know that the murderer is never the obvious choice.”

  THE VOLVO COMPLAINED and moaned, but it made the trip home without stalling or playing dead. So, Asah wasn’t just another pretty face with a badge. He had found something in Street’s field notes. And he wasn’t going to share. At least not yet. What had he seen that would make Dakota a suspect? Asah hadn’t thrown that scenario out just for fun.

  The light on the phone was blinking. Thumps wasn’t sure that buying an answering machine had been a wise move. If someone called and you weren’t home, then you never knew they called, and you didn’t have to feel guilty about not being available. With an answering machine, while you didn’t miss anything, you still felt responsible for not being home and were now burdened with the obligation of calling the person back.

  The first message was from Archie, brief and to the point, as if he had to pay for it by the word. Don’t worry about tonight, he said. Getting pictures from the networks.

  The second message was from Claire. It was even shorter than Archie’s. Coming to the reading, she said, her voice soft and encouraging, how about dinner afterwards?

  The third message was a hang-up. So was the fourth.

  Great, thought Thumps, as he headed for the shower. It would be nice to see Claire. Maybe even spend some time together. Her voice had had the hint of intimacy, something he hadn’t heard in a long time.

  He had just finished rinsing his hair when he remembered Dakota.

  “Shit!”

  He stood under the shower and let the water hit him in the face.

  “Shit! Shit! Shit!” Somehow he had wound up with two women at the same time. And it wasn’t even his fault. He rested his head on the wall and quietly banged it against the tile.

  Freeway wandered into the bathroom to see what all the noise was about and to complain about not being fed on time.

  “Forget it,” Thumps growled at the cat as she tried to pull the bath towel off the rod so she would have something to lie on. “I’ve got my own problems.”

  At least he didn’t have to take the photographs. He had never been keen about that, about wasting good film on Noah, about having to endure his smiling face on the easel, negative after negative.

  And yet here was his salvation. And he grabbed it. If he was taking official photographs of Noah and the reading—the “historical moment,” as Archie called it—he couldn’t really have dinner with Dakota or Claire or spend any time with either woman. And neither would feel slighted.

  The network folk would never take the kinds of photographs Archie would want anyway, photog
raphs of Noah signing books with Archie by his side, photographs of Noah talking to Archie, photographs of Archie and Noah standing together, their arms around each other’s shoulders.

  Thumps pulled the towel from under Freeway and began humming to himself as he rubbed shaving cream on his face.

  With any luck, the reading would go off without a hitch, and tomorrow Noah would be on his way to Portland or Seattle or wherever the next stop on the tour that Ridge had invented for himself was supposed to take him. Maybe he could talk Dakota into staying for a few days or maybe Claire would suggest that the two of them take a week off and go someplace warm. As he stood in front of the mirror, scraping his face, Thumps had an absurd picture flash through his mind of Claire lying naked on a white sand beach under a palm tree, while he took pictures of Indians in multicoloured shirts wrestling alligators.

  Of course, Noah’s leaving town wouldn’t settle anything. Hockney and Asah would still have a dead body on their hands, though, to be honest, Thumps was more than happy to walk away from that mess. But he was curious. Street had come to town for a reason.

  Thumps stopped shaving and looked at his reflection. Surely the sheriff or Asah would have thought of that. Then again, maybe they hadn’t. Thumps hadn’t, until just now. He checked the clock. More than enough time to pack his gear and make a quick stop.

  BETH AND ORA MAE were just coming out the door of the old Land Titles building when Thumps pulled up in the Volvo.

  “We appreciate the thought,” said Ora Mae, her eyes dancing at the prospect of having someone to pick on, “but we have our reputations to consider.”

  “What?”

  “She doesn’t want to ride in your car,” said Beth.

  “I need a favour.”

  Beth looked at him hard. “Is this one of those ‘I need to look at the body again’ favours?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Do we look like we got dressed up to go play in a morgue?” Ora Mae was a big, fierce woman, and most times Thumps liked her and she liked him.

  “It’s important.”

  “It better be,” said Ora Mae, “or we’re going to tie you to a table and leave you there.”

  Thumps knew that Ora Mae was kidding, but just the threat of being left alone in the morgue in the dark with all those nasty smells made his entire body cramp up. And as Beth unlocked the door to the basement and they made their way into the bowels of the building, Thumps regretted having come here at all.

  “Okay,” said Beth, “what do you want?”

  “You still got all his effects?”

  “Right here.” Beth opened a drawer and took out two large, clear plastic sacks. Street’s wallet and the book were in the second bag.

  Thumps sat down on a stool and turned the book over. Then he opened it and checked the inside of the jacket.

  “You going to read us a passage?” said Ora Mae.

  Thumps flipped through the pages. “Was there a bookmark?”

  “What you see is what you get,” said Beth.

  Some people used bookmarks to mark their place. Archie, for instance. And some people liked to fold down corners. Thumps was hoping that Street was one of the latter.

  “What are we looking for?” Ora Mae was losing her sense of humour and adventure.

  “Evidence,” said Thumps.

  “Get the straps,” said Ora Mae. “I’ll hold him down.”

  Thumps laid the book on the table and went through each page individually until he found what he was looking for. A page that had been turned down at the corner and then straightened. Thumps ran a finger across the paper. This hadn’t been an accident. The crease was clean and symmetrical.

  “That’s no way to treat a book,” said Beth.

  Chapter Six. “Murder in Zion.” Street had marked this page for a reason.

  “Are we done?” asked Ora Mae. “’Cause you don’t want to make us late.”

  “We’re done,” said Thumps.

  “Did we solve the murder?” Beth turned off the lights and locked the door.

  Not yet, Thumps thought to himself, but now he could see that if he was going to solve the crime in Chinook, he was going to have to figure out what had happened in Salt Lake. At the same time.

  Moses had been right, as he generally was. Understanding the past was the only hope for understanding the present.

  EIGHTEEN

  The church was packed. The networks had taken up the front rows, and the town’s dignitaries, who were all in attendance, had had to squeeze themselves in between large men with video cameras and large men with computers. Archie was standing at the back, watching the crowd adjust itself.

  “Thumps.”

  Thumps could feel Archie’s eyes on his camera bag and tripod. For a moment, he thought about having a little fun.

  “Didn’t you get my message?” asked Archie.

  “What message?”

  Thumps watched Archie twist. “Oh, you mean about being fired?”

  “Fired?” said Archie. “I never said fired.”

  “It’s okay,” said Thumps. “I figured I’d take shots on my own. As you said, the guys who shot the Beatles and Elvis are all rich and famous.”

  “Sure,” said Archie. “Just don’t get in the way of the professionals.”

  When Claire arrived, she had Stick with her. Thumps couldn’t imagine him coming to a reading, even if his mother had insisted.

  “Hi.”

  Claire was wearing a dress, which was always a good sign. It meant that she had left work at work and was making a conscious effort to enjoy herself. Thumps tried to swing the camera bag behind him out of sight with the least amount of motion.

  “You’re taking pictures?” Claire’s tone was matter of fact, but he could see the disappointment in her eyes.

  “Library committee hired me.” Which wasn’t completely untrue. “I would have called, but I didn’t get in till late.”

  Stick came riding to his mother’s rescue with his teeth showing. “You’re standing my mother up?”

  “He’s not standing me up.” Claire was not about to have her son rescue her from anything. “He has to work.”

  But Stick had already lost interest in the conversation. “Whatever,” he said and wandered off to find someone who wanted to listen to him talk about himself.

  “His eye looks better.”

  “He said you talked to him.”

  “A little.”

  “Did he tell you anything?”

  Claire was a fine figure of a woman. Even hidden away in blue jeans and a flannel shirt. Which is what she normally wore. But when she put on a dress, she was stunning. For one thing, you could see her legs, particularly her calves.

  “Didn’t know Stick was the literary type.”

  “Stanley,” said Claire, “and he wanted to come.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Men tended to divide women up into pieces and judge each piece separately. Face, breasts, butt, legs. Thumps liked legs, especially Claire’s legs. They were long with well-formed muscular calves and thin ankles. When he was a cop on the Northern California coast, Sharon Doyle had loaned him one of her romances in which the heroine had long, tawny legs.

  That was Claire. Long and tawny.

  The heroine in the novel also had alabaster thighs, which didn’t make much sense since Thumps didn’t think you could have tawny legs and alabaster thighs on the same body, unless you spent most of your time sunbathing in long shorts.

  “Stanley wanted to come to this?”

  Claire’s face hardened slightly. “What did he say about the eye?”

  Thumps shook his head. “If he’s not going to tell you, he’s not going to tell me.”

  “Did you try?”

  Thumps looked over at the book table. Stick was talking with Judy Ferraro, and unless Thumps was reading the signs wrong, Stick was bragging about something, trying to impress the young woman.

  At least he was out of trouble and out of Thumps’s hair.
For the moment.

  “You look great. I like the dress.”

  Claire blushed, but her defences didn’t come down. “It’s the only dress I own.”

  “I know.”

  “So, it wasn’t really a compliment.”

  Things had started off well enough, Thumps thought to himself, even promising. But now it was time to disappear and take some pictures.

  Noah hadn’t arrived yet. Or he was in one of the backrooms waiting to be announced, waiting for that moment when all eyes would be on him. Or perhaps he was just being fashionably late, allowing the suspense to build. Thumps wondered if Noah would read from the chapter that Street had dog-eared, or if he would do as he had done in the old days and just haul out the sound and fury. With the television crews in attendance, Thumps was betting on performance over substance.

  After all, reasonable Indians intelligently debating important issues didn’t get on the evening news.

  Ten after eight. Archie had disappeared, probably to tell Noah that he had a full house. Thumps looked around the audience and realized that this could well be the social event of the year. Everyone was here. Doctors, lawyers, Indian chiefs. But he would have missed Hockney completely if he hadn’t seen Duke’s wife, Macy, sitting next to a large man in a brown suit. Thumps tried to remember the last time he had seen the sheriff in a suit. He had been with his wife that time too.

  Thumps waited for Hockney to look his way, but Duke was keeping his eyes straight ahead, hoping, Thumps supposed, that if he couldn’t see anyone, no one could see him.

  “Thumps!”

  Archie was standing in the shadows motioning to him. He didn’t look particularly happy.

  “Full house. Pretty good.”

  “You seen him?”

  “The sheriff?” Thumps chuckled. “Yeah. Looks like a dog on a leash.”

  “No,” said Archie. “Noah Ridge.”

  “He’s not here?”

  “Not yet.” Archie scratched his head. “Does he like being late?”

  “Did you call the hotel?”

  “Sure.”

  “And?”

  “No answer.”

  Thumps looked at all the cameras at the ready. “He’ll be here.”