Cold Skies

by Thomas King

  “Sure.”

  “You think I could have that?”

  “Archie said I should cut back on your potatoes,” said Al. “Just in case it’s diabetes.”

  “Potatoes are vegetables,” said Thumps, slumping forward on his elbows. “Vegetables are good for me.”

  “Actually, they’re starch.” Sheriff Duke Hockney stood in the doorway. The light behind Hockney wanted to get into the café, but it wasn’t brave enough to try to push past the man. “Christ, DreadfulWater, you look like hell.”

  “He always looks like hell,” said Al. “Coffee, sheriff?”

  Thumps was in no mood for a double team. “I’d look better if someone would feed me.”

  “So, get married.” Hockney hitched his pants and slid onto a stool.

  Al shook her head. “Pretty high price to pay for a meal.”

  “Tell me about it,” said the sheriff.

  Hockney had been sheriff of Chinook since before Thumps had arrived in town, and Thumps was sure that Duke would be sheriff long after he left. Duke’s wife, Macy, thought her husband looked like John Wayne, but that was because of the way he walked, his feet set wide apart as he pitched from side to side. Mostly he looked like a bag of boulders in short sleeves.

  “You remember that convention Macy and I go to every year?”

  “Law enforcement? In Toronto?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Thumps knew that Toronto wasn’t Duke’s idea of a good time. It was Macy who liked the city. And with Chinook paying Duke’s expenses, it allowed her to squeeze a holiday out of a man who thought a vacation was sitting by himself in his backyard with a beer.

  “Sure.”

  “They moved the venue to Las Vegas.” Hockney put the cup to his lips. “Woman’s not happy.”

  “She doesn’t like Vegas?”

  “Thinks it’s tacky.”

  “It is tacky.” Al refilled both cups. “So instead, Macy’s found Duke an anti-terrorism summit in Costa Rica. Fancy resort right on the beach.”

  Thumps shrugged. “Costa Rica could be fun.”

  Hockney dragged the sugar bowl over, leaving a furrow in the Formica. “Anybody ever tell you that you’re an asshole?”

  “Tropical forests, ocean, fun in the sun,” said Thumps. “What’s not to like?”

  “You know how much Macy’s ticket is going to cost me?” said Duke. “You ever hear of leptospirosis?”

  “It’s a tropical disease,” said Al. “Nasty piece of work.”

  “And there’s Chagas,” said Duke, warming to the discussion. “You get it from blood-sucking bugs that bite you on the face when you’re sleeping and then take a crap in the wound. That sounds like a good time to you?”

  “Then don’t go.”

  “Have to go.” Duke held his hands out, palms up. “No living with her if I don’t.”

  “Okay,” said Thumps, “then go.”

  “He can’t go,” said Al. “He’s got no one to play acting sheriff while he’s away.”

  Suddenly, Thumps was awake.

  “So, I figure that if I have to go to Costa Rica and pretend that I’m an expert on terrorism, the least you can do is stay here and pretend you’re a sheriff.”

  “sheriff?”

  “Acting sheriff.” Hockney reached into his pocket, fished out a badge, and slid it across the counter. “You used to be a cop. Even heard a few rumours that you were a pretty good one.”

  “I don’t want to be acting sheriff.”

  “Yeah,” said the sheriff, “and I don’t want to go to Costa Rica.”

  “Not happening.”

  “You’re just out of practice.”

  “Not out of practice,” said Thumps. “Not interested.”

  Duke reached across and helped himself to a piece of Thumps’s toast. “And as luck would have it, something has come up that will help put you right back in the game.”

  Three

  By the time Duke pulled into the Chinook airport, Thumps had used up most of the good reasons he could think of as to why he couldn’t play sheriff.

  “You got four other deputies.”

  “Not enough experience,” said Hockney.

  “What about Lance Packard?” Thumps kept his voice calm and reasoned. “Lance could do it.”

  “You know the big law-enforcement conference in Toronto that Macy always drags me to?”

  “The one that got moved to Las Vegas?”

  “Vegas and Costa Rica are at the same time,” said the sheriff. “Packard’s going to Vegas.”

  Thumps could feel the first stirrings of desperation. “What about Andy?”

  Andy Hooper had been Hockney’s deputy for more years than Thumps liked to remember. Andy was one of those delightful combinations of bigotry and ignorance, an arrogant man who had no mind to speak of and spoke it.

  “Hooper quit,” said Duke. “Remember?”

  “Sure,” said Thumps, “but he might help you out if you asked.”

  “He sells used cars for Norm Chivington.”

  “And I take photographs.”

  Hockney parked the cruiser in front of the terminal. “Would you buy a car from Andy?”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “But you don’t mind if he’s sheriff ?” Hockney shook his head. “How about we just deputize you now? Give you a chance to ease into the position.”

  THE YOUNG MAN behind the counter was dressed in black slacks, a white shirt, tie, and red blazer. His gold name tag said, “Orem.” Thumps wondered if Andy Hooper had to wear a blazer when he was selling cars. And whether he had a name tag.

  “I’m Sheriff Hockney.” Duke took out his badge with practised efficiency.

  Orem went to the computer. “State or county?”

  “What?”

  “For the government discount,” said Orem. “Do you need GPS?”

  “Don’t need a car.” Hockney opened his notebook and stared at it for a moment. “A Bob Tatum called my office about a dead body he found in one of your vehicles.”

  “Oh, that,” said Orem. “That was a mistake. The guy was just drunk.”

  “Tatum?”

  “No, the guy in the car.”

  “Big difference between drunk and dead.”

  “Head office wasn’t too happy,” said Orem. “I can tell you that.”

  Hockney leaned on the counter, his palms flat, his elbows bent. “Why don’t we start at the beginning.”

  “Sure,” said Orem. “Mr. Tatum was supposed to arrive on the 6:10 from Great Falls, but it was delayed. Almost five hours. You believe that? He wanted a compact, but we didn’t have any, so we upgraded him to a full-size car. It’s company policy.”

  “So there wasn’t a dead body?”

  “It was late at night,” said Orem. “We had two Jeeps left on the lot. A blue one and a green one. Mr. Tatum thought the green Jeep was his.”

  “And the body was in the green Jeep.”

  “Wasn’t a body,” said Orem with a wistful look that suggested he had been disappointed. “Mr. Lester was just . . . under the weather.”

  Thumps wanted to jump in and say “Dead drunk,” but Orem was already doing a fine job of annoying the sheriff all by himself.

  “Lester?”

  Orem played with the computer for a moment. “James Lester. From Sacramento.”

  “Any idea how this James Lester wound up drunk in one of your vehicles?”

  “He rented it.” Orem looked at Duke and then at Thumps. “Not when he was drunk, of course. Two days ago. When he arrived.”

  Hockney turned to Thumps. “Why don’t you give it a try?”

  Thumps had been thinking about his new stove and how much easier it would be to do a vinegar reduction over an open flame.

  “Was Lester returning the vehicle?”

  “Don’t think so.” Orem checked the computer again. “He had another four days left on the rental.”

  “So, maybe he was picking someone up.”

 
“You mean like . . . a woman?”

  “Sure,” said Thumps. “Like a woman.”

  “Maybe that’s why he was drunk,” said Orem, gathering speed. “Maybe she didn’t show. Maybe she sent him an email or a text message to say that it was all over.”

  Thumps glanced at Hockney. The sheriff still had his gun in his holster.

  “Maybe when Lester realized that he had lost the love of his life, he decided to drown his sorrows in a bottle.”

  Hockney grunted. “Drown his sorrows?”

  “Okay,” said Thumps quickly, “so you went out to the car and woke him.”

  “Oh, I didn’t do that,” said Orem. “I didn’t even see Mr. Lester. We’re not allowed to leave the desk. Normally there are two of us, but at night, when it gets slow, Mr. Chivington doesn’t like to pay for the extra personnel.”

  Suddenly, Duke was back into the conversation. “Chivington?”

  “Our CEO.”

  “CEO? Norm Chivington?” Duke’s eyes were alive. “This is Norm Chivington’s rental agency?”

  “It is,” said Orem. “So when Mr. Tatum told me about the problem, I called Mr. Chivington, and he came out and took care of everything.”

  “I’ll bet he did,” said Hockney. “I’ll just bet he did.”

  Thumps looked around the airport lobby. There was a large poster that showed a happy couple on a beach. The ocean was impossibly blue, the sand impossibly white, the man and the woman impossibly fit. It was a scene that existed only in Photoshop.

  “It’s not Mr. Tatum’s fault,” said Orem. “Anyone could have made the same mistake.”

  Duke nodded. “What do you think, DreadfulWater? You think you would have made that mistake?”

  “Sure. Drunk and dead are almost the same thing.” Thumps gestured to the security camera on the wall behind Orem. “Maybe we could see the security footage.”

  “Unfortunately,” said Orem, “that doesn’t work.”

  “Of course it doesn’t.” Hockney shook his head. “Are there security cameras in the rental lot?”

  “No,” said Orem, “but there is a guy who checks the lot at night. Sometimes people park and forget to pay the fee.”

  “And this guy keeps track of the cars?”

  “Randy, I think,” said Orem. “Or Sandy.”

  “Andy?” asked Thumps.

  “Right,” said Orem. “Andy. He works for Chivington. Not here. At the dealership.”

  WHEN THEY GOT back to the sheriff’s office, Thumps made a hard beeline to the bathroom. It was the sudden onset that bothered him the most. One minute he was fine, and the next he had to bear down to keep matters from getting out of hand. Maybe Archie was right. Maybe he should get a physical.

  “You can even sit in my chair.” Duke poured himself a cup of coffee.

  Thumps didn’t know how much coffee Hockney stuffed into the old percolator or how long the sheriff boiled the grounds. Just seeing what came out the other end was enough.

  “And you can drink my coffee.”

  Thumps had watched Duke drink eighty-weight coffee for years, and he had never once seen the man flinch. “You ever get a physical?”

  “Physical what?”

  “Medical physical.”

  Duke set the coffee cup down on the edge of the desk. The desk didn’t flinch either. “You worried about what Archie told you?”

  “Why don’t you ask Archie to be sheriff?”

  “Why don’t we get you oriented in the new job?”

  “I don’t need an orientation,” said Thumps. “I need a new stove.”

  “You play sheriff while I’m gone, and I’ll buy you your new stove.” Hockney held out a meaty hand.

  “You’ll buy me my stove?”

  “Sure,” said the sheriff. “How much can it cost?”

  Thumps smiled, wrote the figure on a Post-it pad, and slid it across the desk.

  The sheriff stared at the number in disbelief. “You’re joking.”

  “Nope,” said Thumps. “Take it or leave it.”

  Hockney was staring at the figure when the phone rang.

  “Sheriff’s office.”

  Whoever was on the other end did all the talking, and by the time Hockney hung up the phone, all the fun was gone from his face.

  Duke pushed the Post-it back to Thumps. “You remember your concern about being out of shape for law enforcement?”

  Thumps closed his eyes. “More practice?”

  Duke stood and straightened his belt. “And you know what they say about practice.”

  Four

  The Wagon Wheel motel had been built sometime in the 1950s. The original sign, a large wagon wheel with neon spokes, which flashed on and off to simulate motion, continued to roll along. The split rail fence at the front of the property was still standing, but it had been repaired with baling wire so many times that it was now more rust than wood. There was a portable display panel parked at the edge of the driveway that promised free cable television and high-speed internet along with whirlpool tubs and free coffee.

  When Hockney pulled into the motel parking lot, Eleanor Lake was standing outside the office with her hands on her hips. Thumps’s mother had struck the same pose whenever her son had done something to displease her.

  “Eleanor doesn’t look happy.”

  “Eleanor’s never happy,” said Duke. “Woman’s vinegar and gristle.”

  Beth Mooney’s station wagon was parked in front of one of the units. Thumps could think of only two reasons that she would be here.

  “Beth is here.” Thumps waited to see if Hockney was going to confirm the suspicion.

  “I can see that.”

  Beth Mooney was a family doctor, but she also doubled as the county coroner. Beth made the occasional house call for patients too sick to come to see her, but, for the most part, if Beth and the sheriff were at the same place at the same time, it generally meant that there was a dead body nearby.

  “Just what the hell are we paying you for?” Eleanor stood about five foot two, with cropped steel-grey hair and the temperament of a straight razor.

  “Morning, Eleanor,” said the sheriff, tipping his hat the way John Wayne might have done.

  “Morning, Eleanor,” said Thumps, but without the tip.

  “Why’d you bring the photographer?” Eleanor bore down on her hips. “Sure as hell don’t need any postcards.”

  “Maybe you better tell me what happened.”

  “Told you over the phone,” said Eleanor. “Went to make up the room, and there he was. Suicide. Pure and simple.”

  “Actually, you didn’t call me.” Hockney tried to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “You called Beth.”

  “Course I called her. Don’t need the law for a suicide. She’s the one takes bodies away, isn’t she?”

  “When I tell her to,” said Duke.

  “How about you tell her to do just that,” said Eleanor. “And toot sweet. Can’t make money off an empty room.”

  Thumps left Duke to argue the protocols of effective law enforcement with Eleanor and ambled down the row of motel rooms. Beth was standing in the middle of Number 10. A tall, gaunt man was slumped in a chair in front of the television. He was dressed in a light grey suit. Cream shirt. Blue tie. In his early fifties. Not that his age mattered a great deal. He wasn’t going to get any older.

  “Hi, Beth.”

  “Sheriff with you?”

  “He’s chatting with Eleanor.”

  “That could involve stitches.” Beth moved to the far side of the room and took several photos of the body. “Good thing I’m a doctor.”

  “You want me to do that?”

  “You asking as the photographer or as the acting sheriff ?” Beth walked back to the body and took a photo of a gun lying on the floor next to the chair. “’Cause you’re in the middle of my crime scene.”

  Ever since Beth and Ora Mae had broken up, Beth had been somewhat irritable, and it didn’t appear that time, which is supposed to heal al
l wounds, had worked its magic just yet.

  Thumps gave Beth a quick smile. “Eleanor figures it’s a suicide.”

  “Archie tells me you’re dying of cancer.”

  “Since when do you listen to Archie?”

  “When was the last time you had a physical?”

  “Don’t need a physical.”

  “Let me rephrase,” said Beth. “Have you ever had a physical?”

  Thumps circled the bed. “That looks like a head wound.”

  “What else do you see?”

  “Dead guy. Medical gurney. Good-looking county coroner with a camera.”

  “Body dies,” said Beth, “the muscles relax and . . . ?”

  Thumps didn’t like the picture that flashed on the screen in his head. “Bladder and bowels,” he said quickly.

  “Bladder and bowels.” Beth took several close-ups of the side of the man’s head. “Archie wants me to give you a physical.”

  “His pants are stained,” said Thumps. “But the chair cushion looks clean.”

  “You feel like shit and you don’t come to see me?” Beth picked up the revolver and placed it in an evidence bag. “But you tell Archie.”

  “I didn’t tell Archie anything.” Thumps considered going back outside to watch Eleanor tear strips off Hockney. “Looks like you’ve been working out. Is that a new hairstyle?”

  “We talking about Ora Mae?” Beth crouched down by the chair. “Because if we are, that’s old news.”

  “I’m just being . . .”

  “Sensitive?”

  “Observant.”

  “And that particular piece of old news,” said Beth, “is dead news.”

  Thumps was trying to think of something else he shouldn’t observe when he felt Hockney’s large shadow at his back.

  “You two solve the case yet?”

  “It’s a suicide,” said Thumps. “Just like Eleanor said.”

  “Not even Andy is that stupid.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  Hockney walked over to the chair. “Don’t see that much anymore.”

  “A dead body?”

  “A vibrating bed.” Duke looked almost nostalgic. “You put a quarter in and the thing shakes you to sleep.”

  “Formica and chrome table and chairs,” said Thumps. “Shag carpet.”

  “1950s,” said Duke. “What’s not to like?”