by Thomas King
And there it was. The nightmare come back, leaning across the table, whispering, telling the story of that summer, reminding him of how he had failed to protect the people he loved, chiding him for his inability to find their killer. And always in the background, behind the sound of the surf breaking on the sand, was the vague hint of laughter.
Thumps stood under the shower until he had washed the memories out of his blood. Freeway, who had little patience with regret or depression, stuck her head under the shower curtain several times to tell him that it was her turn. The cat loved jumping in the tub after Thumps had used it so she could lick at the water that pooled up next to the drain.
She also liked to stick her head in the toilet.
As he stood in front of the small mirror, drying himself and trying to find a good angle in the glass that would firm up the slope of his stomach, he wondered what Street had done in town for the days before he was murdered. If he had just wanted to come to Ridge’s reading, either to embarrass him or to kill him, he could have come in the night before and saved himself the cost of a motel. Maybe he had other business to take care of, other people to visit, other arrangements to make before Noah arrived.
THE CERAMIC LOG FIRE at the Holiday Inn was still burning brightly, and the woman at the front desk was the same woman who had tried to talk him into going down to a dead man’s room. Jill. No last name.
“Good morning,” said Jill. “How can I help you.”
“I was here the other day.”
“That’s right,” she said. “With the sheriff.”
“You have a good memory.”
“That was an interesting day,” she said. “In a bad way, of course.”
That’s the way a great many people saw death in general and murder in particular. Interesting. In a bad way. Thumps hoped that Jill’s memory for details was as good as her memory for faces.
“The sheriff asked me to stop by and check a few things.”
“Sure.” Jill turned to her computer and began pressing keys. Computers were a mystery to Thumps, so he was glad that there were some people in the world who knew what they were doing.
“I suppose the sheriff asked you about any visitors, or if Mr. Street made any phone calls.”
“Yes,” said Jill, “he did.”
“And?”
Jill looked almost suspicious.
“It’s what we do in police work,” said Thumps quickly. “We ask the same questions several times in an investigation. Sometimes people remember something later that they forgot about the first time.”
“That’s interesting.”
“So, did he have any visitors?”
“As I told the sheriff, he might have. You have to come through the lobby to get to the rooms, but we don’t keep track of people as they come and go.”
“Phone calls?”
Jill went back to the computer. “I gave the sheriff a printout.”
“I don’t need a printout. But maybe you could tell me whom he called.”
“Do you have to have a warrant or something?”
“No.” Thumps didn’t like lying. “The guy’s dead, so it doesn’t matter.”
“Sure,” said Jill. “He made two phone calls. One local and one long distance.”
“To where?”
“Don’t know,” said Jill. “It was a credit-card call.”
“And the local?”
“Sometimes when we’re full, we send people there,” said Jill. “But it’s more expensive, and it doesn’t have a pool.”
“The Tucker?”
“I hear it’s a little overpriced.”
So, Hockney wasn’t sharing with all the children. Thumps wondered if Asah knew about the phone calls.
“You never know about people,” said Jill. “I thought he was a tourist.”
Thumps was almost to the door before he heard the question. He walked back to the front desk slowly, turning things over in his mind.
“Why did you say that?”
“What?”
“That you thought he was a tourist.”
“Oh, that,” said Jill. “It’s the first thing that tourists ask for.”
“And that is?”
“Directions to Glory.”
THUMPS WAS ANNOYED as he pulled out of the Holiday Inn parking lot and headed back to town. By the time he got to the sheriff’s office, he was angry. Hockney was sitting behind his desk with a pad of paper, looking the worse for wear after last evening’s activities, but Thumps was not in the mood to cut the man any slack.
“I quit.”
Duke tossed the pad on the desk.
“I was just at the Holiday Inn.”
“I know,” said the sheriff. “Smart young girl at the front desk called to ask if she should be talking to you.”
Thumps sat down in the chair and waited.
“I said it was okay.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about the phone call?”
“There were only two.”
“You know whom Street called?”
“Nope,” said Hockney. “I’m waiting for Street’s long-distance company to send me a list of the calls he made in the last week. The local one we can only follow as far as the front desk.”
“So, he called Noah.”
“Or your girlfriend.”
“Does that make any sense?”
“Don’t think he called for dinner reservations.”
The chance of that, Thumps had to admit, was slim. If Street had called the Tucker, Noah and Dakota were the two best choices.
“You didn’t trust me.”
“Don’t be a baby,” said the sheriff.
“And when were you going to mention Glory?”
The sheriff put his pen down. “Might have been nothing.”
“But you didn’t mind sending Asah and me up there to rattle Grover’s cage.”
Hockney shrugged. “Never know what might happen.”
“I quit.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” said Hockney. “Keep your shirt on.”
“Does Asah know?”
“Of course not. If I’m not going to tell you, I’m sure as hell not going to tell him.”
For some reason, that made Thumps feel a little better. “I still quit.”
“You want some coffee? Made it this morning.”
“No.”
“You are one mean-tempered son of a buck.”
“You lied to me.”
“No, I didn’t. I just didn’t share.”
“Same thing.”
“Anyway,” said the sheriff, “I can’t let you quit.”
“Why not?”
“Because I need you.”
Thumps helped himself to a cup of coffee. It didn’t look as black or feel as thick as he remembered. It wasn’t as good as Al’s, but it was potable.
“So,” said the sheriff, “what would you have done?”
Thumps had to admit he probably would have done the same thing. After all, he had known Noah and Dakota in Salt Lake City. For all the sheriff knew, he might have been romantically involved with Dakota during those years. For that matter, Hockney had no reason to think he wasn’t involved with her now.
The phone began ringing. Hockney stared at it the way a hawk might eye a groundhog. “It’s been doing that all morning,” he said. “Thought about shooting it.”
“Press?”
“You name it, they’ve called. Press, television, movie producers, publishing houses, publicists, talk shows. Every damn rat in the woodpile, including two psychics who said they could find Ridge.”
“Good thing you’ve got an answering machine.”
“It’s already full. Hell, if someone robs a bank, it’ll be a week before we know it.”
“Is it safe to go to the Tucker?”
“Sure, as long as you take a knife and a rifle.”
Eureka and Arcata had been like that. Towns under siege. After the fifth of the Obsidian Murders, after the police figured out that they ha
d a serial killer on their hands, the media moved in. They took over hotels, camped out at restaurants, dragged their cameras up and down the beaches destroying crime scenes. They interviewed anyone who had a theory, no matter how absurd, and turned the victims into sideshow attractions.
“You got any ideas?”
“Hell,” said the sheriff, “if I had any ideas, I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you and listening to the phone ring.”
Thumps took another sip of coffee. He had been wrong. It wasn’t potable after all.
“Don’t suppose you were friends with Reuben Justice.”
There it was. The past come around again. The sheriff hadn’t got that name out of a cereal box. He had been busy.
“You actually read Noah’s book?”
“They say reading is broadening,” said Hockney.
Thumps had known Reuben only from a distance, but what he had seen, he had liked. The man was one of those rare individuals who was able to manage the intricacies and dangers of living in two worlds. He was a traditional singer, organized the community sweats and ceremonies, and he worked at the university hospital as a paramedic.
“I knew him.”
“How about Clinton Buckhorn?”
Thumps could see that he was going to have to read Noah’s book too. “You’ve been talking to the FBI.”
“Are you kidding?” said the sheriff. “Those boys wouldn’t tell you which way the wind was blowing.”
“Where’d you get all this?”
“Friends,” said Hockney. “I’ve got friends here and there. You know how much Buckhorn and his crew stole from Morgan Energy?”
Thumps tried to remember if he had ever heard a figure.
“Around eighty thousand dollars,” said the sheriff. “Given the cost of real estate, it wasn’t enough to split three ways and buy a vacant lot. You see my problem.”
“It was a protest thing,” said Thumps. “They weren’t after the money.”
“Matthew Colburne, CEO of Morgan, gets shot. Wallace Begay gets shot. That’s one hell of a protest.”
“You had to have been there.”
“I was,” said the sheriff. “So, why do you think Justice let them stay at his house?”
Thumps wasn’t sure Reuben had had much of a choice. Begay had been wounded in Denver. Clinton needed a place to hide until things calmed down. The two men were cousins. Reuben may not have liked what Clinton had been up to, but he wasn’t the kind of man who was going to turn relatives away, and he wasn’t the kind of man who would turn them in.
“What’s this got to do with anything?”
“From what I hear, this Justice fellow was an upstanding citizen.”
“He was.”
Hockney looked at the pad of paper on his desk. “You want to guess who led the raid?”
“Mitchell Street.”
“Good guess.”
“It wasn’t a guess.”
“Rumour has it that the feds got a tip on where they could find Buckhorn.” Hockney rubbed the back of his neck. “It should have been an easy bust. The bureau went in at three in the morning, when everyone was supposed to be asleep.”
“But they weren’t.”
“To hear tell, Buckhorn and his buddies were waiting for the feds. Whole place turned into a war zone. Bureau lost two agents in that raid.”
“Buckhorn, Scout, and Begay were killed too.”
“Yeah,” said the sheriff, “but they’re the bad guys. They’re supposed to be dead.”
The only one left standing had been Rueben Justice. He wasn’t in the house at the time of the raid, was at the hospital working when his place was turned into a shooting gallery. But it was his house, and he was arrested as an accessory and co-conspirator. Nobody really believed that Justice had anything to do with the robbery, but after such a public disaster, the FBI went looking for blood, and Justice was the only one left who could bleed.
“The same day Lucy Kettle disappears.” It was a good story, and Hockney was taking a great deal of pleasure in telling it. “Street is quietly shipped off to Nebraska. Justice goes to prison for life. And the rest is history.”
“Reuben was a scapegoat.”
“Maybe we should ask him about that,” said Hockney.
“Who?”
“Reuben Justice,” said the sheriff. “Seems he’s out of prison.”
Justice hadn’t taken part in the robbery, but given the circumstances and the dead federal agents, there was no way he would have been paroled.
“Pardoned?”
“Nope,” said Hockney. “Found himself one of those eager civil-liberty lawyers. The smart variety. Conviction was overturned on a technicality.”
“When?”
“A month ago,” said the sheriff. “Reuben Justice got out of jail a month ago.”
“You think Asah knows about any of this?”
Hockney rubbed his forehead as though his brain hurt. “What do you think?”
“But he didn’t tell us.”
“Maybe you should ask him about that,” said Hockney just as the phone began to ring again. “Let me know what he says.”
TWENTY-ONE
Things were getting out of hand. Mitchell Street, Noah Ridge, Dakota Miles, Grover Many Horses, Lucy Kettle, and now Reuben Justice. What had started off as a short story was fast becoming a Russian novel. If things got any more out of hand, Thumps was going to have to make up a chart himself. Or a scorecard.
So far as Thumps could tell, all the sheriff had was a bunch of pieces. Mitchell Street comes to Chinook three days ahead of Noah. Maybe he goes to Glory. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he sees Grover Many Horses. Maybe he doesn’t. After Noah and Dakota arrive in town, Street does make a phone call to the Tucker. Whom does he talk to and about what?
And then someone kills him.
Noah Ridge writes a book that goes nowhere, so he invents a book tour in the hopes of drumming up business. And one of the stops just happens to be Lucy Kettle’s hometown. He’s threatened, beaten up, and then, rather dramatically, disappears.
Wonderful.
THUMPS SAT IN HIS CAR and started at the beginning. The Red Power Movement comes to Salt Lake City and opens shop. With Noah Ridge leading the way, RPM is successful in bringing national attention to the problems facing Native people. RPM leads demonstrations, opens survival schools, funds after-school programs. Most of all, it annoys the FBI and local law enforcement, which would like nothing better than to close the organization down and toss Noah’s sorry ass in jail.
Then Clinton Buckhorn comes along and everything changes. Buckhorn and Wilson Scout and Wallace Begay kidnap Matthew Colburne and force him to open the company safe. Colburne plays hero and shoots Begay, and Buckhorn shoots Colburne. Buckhorn et al. disappear with a bag of cash and head for Salt Lake, where Buckhorn imposes on his cousin.
Thumps wondered if Buckhorn had taken more than just cash from Morgan Energy. The copy of the $50,000 bond had to have come from somewhere. If Hockney knew, he wasn’t telling. If he didn’t know, he must have had his suspicions. It wasn’t something that every former FBI agent would carry around.
In the meantime, the FBI runs all over the country trying to find the three men until they get a tip from a mysterious informant named Massasoit. The bureau raids Justice’s house, but Buckhorn is waiting for them, and the ensuing battle leaves five people dead.
That same night Lucy Kettle disappears. Reuben Justice goes to jail for life, and Mitchell Street is summarily shipped off to Nebraska.
Just trying to keep everything straight made Thumps’s head hurt. In the activist/terrorist game, Ridge was a lightweight contender. So why, after all these years, send an agent to shadow him? Noah’s book might have annoyed the boys in Washington, but the FBI must certainly have better things to do than chase around the countryside after one medium-naughty Indian. Then again, the bureau was famous for withholding information. Maybe there was more to this than Thumps could see.
Not that he
wanted to look.
Thumps picked up Noah’s book and flipped through the pages, in case a clue wanted to fall into his lap. It would be nice if the book were the key to the past and to the present. Then all he’d have to do is read it and arrest the bad guys. It certainly seemed to be a catalyst of sorts. Salt Lake City and Lucy Kettle had been forgotten and buried for years. Then Noah writes a book, and the past rises out of its grave and walks the land.
Night of the Living Dead Indians.
Thumps tossed the book onto the back seat. He’d look at it later, when he had more time. When he was in the mood.
He turned the key in the ignition. Nothing. He tried again. Nothing, nothing, nothing. There were Volvos in the world, he was sure, who looked forward to winter, who found summer hot and unbearable. Of course, you couldn’t tell just by looking. His Volvo had appeared perfectly normal when he bought it.
THE LOBBY OF the Tucker was quiet, the media having retreated to regroup and recharge their cameras.
“Hey, Thumps.”
There were any number of people that Thumps might have expected to see in the lobby of the Tucker. Cooley Small Elk was not one of them.
“Hi, Cooley.”
Cooley was sitting in one of the wingback chairs at the far side of the lobby, a notebook on his lap. It was a large chair with a heavy floral brocade, and Cooley filled it completely. He was dressed all in black, black pants, black jacket, black toque. Against the chair he looked like a large shadow in a small forest.
“You looking for Ridge’s woman?”
Thumps was sure he would not have described Dakota in that fashion.
“’Cause she’s not here.” Cooley wrote something in the notebook. “She went out with some of those television guys. They wanted to interview me, but when you’re working security, you want to stay as anonymous as possible, so I said no.”
