Carving Knife

by Christian, Claudia Hall

  There were a series of reports about Liễu Chiến, Major Cotton, and to Seth’s surprise, Brent Davies. Seth wasn’t able to save them or print the reports. He had access to read them and take notes. That was all. They could never be used as evidence in a case. The last document was a timeline of Liễu Chiến’s activities since arriving in the country in 1975.

  Until he was recruited to assist with US-Vietnam diplomacy in 1990, Liễu Chiến was a schoolteacher in Tucson, Arizona. Seth felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He dug out the bio Éowyn had helped him put together on Davies.

  The State Attorney went to the high school where Liễu Chiến worked. Seth flipped through the Major General’s file for Chiến’s address. He put both addresses into a mapping program and found that Davies and Chiến had been neighbors. Seth fell back in his seat.

  Just then, a thirty-second timer appeared on the screen. Seth did another quick review of the documents. He was staring at the timeline when the screen went dark. He’d be able to log in again tomorrow, but tomorrow this information would be gone. He closed his eyes to try to make sure he sealed in all the details from the reports he’d read.

  Seth got up to make a cup of caffeinated coffee. He looked one way and then the other before pouring out Schmidty’s decaf and putting a caffeinated coffee pack into the little cup coffeemaker. The first time they had traveled together, Schmidty had set up video cameras to keep track of “his artist.” It drove Seth crazy. He didn’t quite trust Schmidty’s promise to never to tape him again. Shaking his head at the memory, he flipped on the coffee maker. He got a cup of yogurt, rinsed the berries in the sink, and settled into eat.

  Was Liễu Chiến the knife? Or the hand that controlled the carving knife?

  He looked up when the video camera stopped playing Barton’s interviews of people with cattle-mutilation experiences. Getting up from the desk, he put in another tape and went back to eating and thinking.

  The fact that Liễu Chiến was a mutilator was no surprise to anyone, including, according to the intelligence documents, Major Cotton. In fact, Major Cotton brought up the matter when they recruited Liễu Chiến to help restore relations between the US and Vietnam.

  Why had Major Cotton come to visit Seth? What was the purpose of his visit?

  Hearing the coffee maker sputter in the bathroom, Seth got up to get a cup of coffee. At the desk, he took out the Major General’s personal file to read through it again.

  What if Dale was right and the mutilations were being used to cover up some other activity?

  Seth checked the New York Times, the Los Angeles Times, and the Chicago Tribune to see if he’d missed some event happening in the US when Everest was being killed. He checked newspapers in the United Kingdom and went through the Vietnamese newspapers’ websites. There seemed to be nothing going on.

  “BFBL, Nelson speaking,” Nelson said when he answered the phone to Ava’s lab.

  “Hey, Nelson,” Seth said.

  “Seth! We were just talking about you,” Nelson said. “Ava, it’s Seth!”

  “Can you do me a favor?” Seth asked.

  “Sure,” Nelson said. “Shoot.”

  “I need you to cross-reference when the mutilations happened with national news,” Seth said.

  “From what Dale said?” Nelson asked. “I already did that. I can send it to you.”

  “What did you find?” Seth asked.

  “Nothing,” Nelson said. “I mean, there was fighting in the Middle East and China is communist and whatever, but nothing new. Just the usual murder and mayhem.”

  “I wonder if it’s something personal with Davies,” Seth said.

  “Or that guy you saw in Vietnam,” Nelson said.

  “How . . .?”

  “Maresol told Ava,” Nelson said. “You’re a hot topic of gossip, man. Say, did you take that girl back to your room?”

  “What girl?” Seth asked.

  “The one who was hanging all over you at Adams State,” Nelson said.

  “Tonight?” Seth asked. “There was a girl hanging all over me? You sure?”

  “Saw you on the news,” Nelson laughed. “You didn’t notice her?”

  “Who?” Seth asked.

  “He says he didn’t notice her,” Nelson said to the people around him.

  “How about her gigantic silicone melons?” Leslie yelled.

  “I have kind of a lot on my mind,” Seth said. “I missed the melons.”

  Seth waited until Nelson stopped laughing.

  “Can you check what’s going on in Davies’ life around the times of the murders?” Seth asked. “I’ll send you his timeline.”

  “I have it,” Nelson said. “What about the other guy?”

  “Liễu Chiến. That’s his name,” Seth said.

  “And? Do I get his timeline too?” Nelson asked.

  “I can put something together,” Seth said. “But he’s . . .”

  “Got it,” Nelson said. “I’ll have this to you tonight. Here’s Ava.”

  “O’Malley!” Ava said. “How’s the whoring around the countryside?”

  Seth laughed. He was fumbling for a snappy response when something from Barton’s video interviews caught his attention. He looked up at the video.

  “Seth?” Ava’s voice became concerned. “You okay? I was just joking. I . . .”

  “Sorry,” Seth got up and paused the video camera playback. “I did it again.”

  “Someday, you’re going to have a stroke, and I’m not going to notice,” Ava said.

  “Let’s hope I don’t have a stroke,” Seth said.

  Ava laughed.

  “Miss you,” Ava said.

  “Me, too,” Seth said.

  “How long are you running the horse and pony show?”

  “Dog and pony,” Seth said.

  “Whatever,” Ava said.

  “Just this week,” Seth said. “I think I’m getting somewhere.”

  “Schmidty called,” Ava said. “He said you’re wiped out. He’s worried you’re getting sick again.”

  “Working on symphonies wears me out,” Seth said. “And . . .”

  “And?”

  “I don’t like being the prodigy,” Seth said. “It’s like being the freak in the sideshow. These kids are talented, really, and so jealous . . . of me of all people. They don’t have any idea of the cost. They just want the reward. And all this software, software, software—‘I can’t believe the great O’Malley still transcribes onto paper.’ Or ‘You know you could double your productivity.’ I’m looking at this kid who’s never composed or sold anything, and he’s worried about my productivity. The whole thing . . .”

  “Sounds exhausting,” Ava said. “I bet you miss Mitch.”

  “I miss Mitch,” Seth said. “He would have gotten me to laugh it off.”

  “Did you know that Maresol dated Mitch?” Ava asked.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Seth said.

  “She’s very much in love with him,” Ava said.

  “How . . .?”

  “She was talking about it after that drill sergeant left,” Ava said. “She’s pretty upset about all of this.”

  “That makes two of us,” Seth said. “How are your remains going?”

  “Good,” Ava said. “Tiring. The bone-lab team spent a couple hours training us in what to look for and what we should pass on to them. They’re amazing, so talented. Oh, the Chief wants you to call. I guess Davies came to yell at him about your incompetence and ‘inability to follow a simple request.’ The Chief was watching you on the news when he arrived. He’s pretty amused.”

  “Why was Davies upset?” Seth asked.

  “He says you’re not taking his request seriously,” Ava said.

  “Huh,” Seth said.

  “I wonder what he’s . . .” they said in unison and laughed.

  “It’s a pressure tactic,” Seth said. “Get the chief to pressure me. Keep the pressure on here, so I can’t track down the re
st.”

  “I forgot to tell you,” Ava said. “The bone team thinks they’ve come up with how the victims are subdued.”

  “How?” Seth asked.

  “Electric stun,” Ava said. “Like in cattle. The electric stun can burn the skin. That’s why he takes the patch in the forehead, or that’s what we think right now. With that piece of skin missing, you can’t tell how they were subdued.”

  “But it shows on the bones?” Seth asked.

  “If you know what you’re looking for,” Ava said. “Or that’s what they said. They’re looking at the older skulls to see if they find a traditional cattle bolt gun. Seems the electric ones haven’t been around forever.”

  “I’d forgotten about the patch on the forehead,” Seth said.

  “Does that mean something to you?” Ava asked.

  “Not sure,” Seth said. “This is good work, though. Thanks. I know it’s terribly monotonous.”

  “My husband’s out of town,” Ava said. “What else am I going to do?”

  There was a crash in the background, and Ava swore.

  “I have to go,” Ava said. “I’ll call you before I go to bed.”

  “Do that,” Seth said.

  “Love you,” Ava said.

  He was going to respond, but she’d hung up. He never got used to her aversion to saying “Goodbye.” She would not do it. She wouldn’t even let him say goodbye. He looked at the phone. Shaking his head, he set it down and picked up the video recorder. He rewound the tape for a few seconds and pressed “play.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  An elderly woman’s face flashed on the screen before the image blurred. After a moment, Seth focused on a man wearing a baseball cap pulled down low. His eyes were shaded by mirrored amber glasses. He had a thick mustache that would rival any 1970s porn star. His teeth were stained brown from the thick piece of chew that bulged in his front lip. He wore a heavy denim jacket and a felted red plaid shirt. Barton shook his hand and introduced himself. The man looked at the floor in a gesture that Barton assumed was shyness.

  “Do you mind if I get your name?” Barton asked in a kind voice.

  “It’s Lefty Van Zant,” the man said. “You Federales?”

  The man’s eyes flicked to the camera. That’s what had caught Seth’s attention. “Lefty” is the name of a character in the song “Pancho and Lefty” written by Townes Van Zant and made famous by Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard. Barton was too young to know the song so he didn’t catch it.

  “No, sir,” Barton said. “I’m a reporter with Westword. Detective O’Malley asked me to help with the interviews.”

  “Jus’ came in from the desert,” the man said. “Things are a little . . .”

  The camera lost focus for a moment and then zoomed in on the man’s face. Seth leaned forward.

  “Weird,” the man finished his statement with a nod.

  “Would you like to share your story with Detective O’Malley?” Barton asked.

  “Jes,” the man said. He went on to tell a wild story about mutilations and aliens. The story got so big and so weird that even Barton could tell he was making it up. Barton kindly closed the interview. The man looked at the camera, shrugged, and said, “If the great detective wants to get in touch with me, he knows how.”

  Thinking the man was crazy, Barton nodded and smiled. The man turned in place and wandered off. Before the next person, Barton leaned forward.

  “Reeked of weed,” Barton said to the camera.

  The camera went blurry before the next person came up, and Barton greeted them.

  Seth watched the short interview three more times. He checked his watch. It was nearly ten. He bit his lip and looked up at the ceiling.

  The guy looked like Rick Lopez.

  One night, when Seth was supposed to be at the incredibly boring Southwestern Detectives’ Banquet, crazy Emily, Seth’s soon to be ex-wife, had called Rick when she was looking for Seth. Not thinking anything about it, Rick had told her the truth—Seth was playing sing-a-long at a piano bar in Tucson with Mitch. This small act of friend betrayal earned him the title of Lefty to Seth’s Pancho. His betrayal was rewarded with a trip to Denver where Lefty had the pleasure of testifying to Pancho’s unreliability in his divorce proceedings.

  Seth rewound and watched the tape again. That had to be Rick Lopez. His face was different in some way that Seth couldn’t define, but his gestures and voice were all Lopez.

  Seth tapped his head. Rick Lopez was supposed to have died from a bullet in the brain. Seth and Mitch had gone to his funeral just before Mitch died. Seth racked his mind for how he’d gotten a hold of Rick in the past.

  Telephone? Seth thought for a moment and dialed the number he’d used for Rick Lopez. Out of service.

  Email? No, Lopez was dead and buried before Seth could bring himself to write his first email.

  “If the great detective wants to get in touch with me, he knows how.” That’s what this “Lefty” had said to Barton in San Luis.

  Then it occurred to him. When Rick was alive, Seth and Mitch would usually find him in some dive Mexican restaurant sucking down bottles of cheap tequila, if it was nighttime, or coffee, if it was morning. Seth picked up the telephone and called the front desk.

  “What’s the diviest Mexican restaurant in Alamosa?” Seth asked.

  “The diviest, Mr. O’Malley?” the desk clerk’s effeminate voice chuckled.

  “Yeah, I guess that’s a word,” Seth said.

  “For tonight, we’ll make it a word,” the desk clerk said. “Your agent told me specifically not to let you leave the hotel.”

  “That’s interesting,” Seth said.

  “I thought so, too,” the desk clerk said. “How much do you pay him?”

  “A lot,” Seth chuckled.

  “That’s what I thought,” the desk clerk said. “Looking for a place to drink?”

  “I’m looking for a friend,” Seth said.

  “A friend . . .” the desk clerk’s voice faded. “You mean like the girls who are waiting here on the off chance that you’ll want a friend?”

  “Like an old friend who told me that I could find him at a Mexican place in town and that I would know it because it was a dive.”

  “Oh,” the desk clerk said. “No girls?”

  “No girls,” Seth said.

  “Boys?” The desk clerk’s voice lifted with the possibility.

  “Not my thing,” Seth said.

  “I wondered, ’cuz you’re traveling with that gorgeous Barton,” the desk clerk said.

  “Mmm,” Seth said.

  “There’s a few dive Mexican restaurants in town. I mean, it is a college town.” Clearly embarrassed, the desk clerk’s words came out fast.

  “So it is,” Seth said.

  “I’d say that the one about a half block down is the diviest,” the desk clerk said. “Yeah. On a scale of dive to extremely dive, the one down the street is extremely dive to the one downtown that’s just dive.”

  “Can you write the addresses down for me?” Seth asked.

  “You don’t want to come out here,” the desk clerk said.

  “Why?”

  “Girls?”

  “Good point,” Seth said.

  “I can give you the addresses, and you can find them on your GPS,” the desk clerk said.

  Seth scowled. He’d left his fancy phone at home.

  “You know what?”

  “What?”

  “Why don’t you try the one down the street?” the desk clerk asked. “You can always call me if that’s not it.”

  “I’ll do it,” Seth said.

  “It’s about a half block down on the opposite side of the street,” the desk clerk said.

  “Thanks,” Seth said.

  “Your friend? The reporter?” The desk clerk asked. “Is he single?”

  “As far as I know,” Seth said.

  “Good.” The desk clerk’s voice dropped to a whisper. “He’s coming down the hall right now. Should I
go for it?”

  “Why not?” Seth said. He added, “Have fun,” and hung up the phone.

  He pulled a fleece sweater over his T-shirt. While he had a license to carry the handgun, Seth figured he’d better not take it to a dive bar. He went down the backstairs to the truck. From the truck, he could see Barton talking to the desk clerk. Grinning, Seth grabbed a thin wool skullcap and a newspaper. He pulled the cap over his shock of salt and pepper hair, stuck the paper in his back pocket, and started down the road. He crossed at the light and ducked into the Mexican restaurant.

  TWENTY-TWO

  He did a quick scan of the empty restaurant from the entrance. Nothing moved. A weary Mexican man wearing a food-splattered white apron appeared from the back. Seth ordered a beef tamale plate and a cup of black coffee. He was getting his change when a man came into the restaurant behind him. Seth carried his coffee to a dark booth second from the back of the empty restaurant. He took out the newspaper and started to read the Denver Post’s uninformed review of Everest’s murder investigation.

  He was turning the page when the man Barton had interviewed sat down in the booth behind him. Seth didn’t look up from his paper, and the man didn’t say anything. After a few minutes, a teenager wearing a loud headset set their food in front of them.

  “Lefty,” Seth said. He made sure not to look straight ahead.

  “Pancho,” Rick Lopez said. “I thought you’d never figure it out.”

  “Took me a while to look at the tapes,” Seth said. He kept his eyes straightforward. “Fuck me for thinking you were dead, Lefty.”

  Rick chuckled.

  “You drinking?” Seth asked.

  “Sober,” Rick said. “A year in the hospital does that for you. What’s your excuse?”

  “Mitch made me do it,” Seth said.

  Rick laughed.

  “Usually works,” Seth said.

  “What do you say now that Mitch is dead?” Rick asked.

  “I need a new excuse?” Seth asked. “Shit.”