DreadfulWater Shows Up

by Thomas King

  The Coco Puffs floating in the Hawaiian Punch looked particularly unappetizing, but Thumps was hungry and had a second bowl. Claire, he remembered as he rummaged through the cupboards, didn’t care much for multi-grain bread, bread with bits and pieces of grains and seeds that bothered your tongue and got stuck between your teeth. Thumps had no particular problem with white bread. Aside from the fact that it had no taste and no texture.

  At least Claire believed in butter.

  Thumps took his coffee to the bathroom and shut the door. Mornings were never a pretty time for him, but today he was feeling particularly dishevelled. And lost. Coffee would help. So would a shower. But hot water and soap weren’t going to wash away the feeling that he had screwed up.

  By the time Thumps stepped out of the shower, the bathroom was foggy and warm. There was a tube of menthol toothpaste on the edge of the sink, the bright white kind with a glowing blue gel swirl running through it. He squeezed a gob on his finger and reluctantly pushed it around the inside of his mouth. Jesus! What was wrong with regular toothpaste?

  Thumps was wiping a hole on the mirror and considering using Claire’s razor to tidy up his face when he noticed Stick’s clothes on the floor. Finding a clue in Stick’s jeans would be too much to ask, and Thumps was not sure how Claire would feel about his looking. Though, with a murderer on the loose, Claire’s feelings weren’t really the issue.

  The jean pockets were empty. The shirt pockets were no help either. Thumps kicked at Stick’s runners. They were wet and covered with tiny grey spots that looked for all the world like mould blooms. The laces were shreds. The black rubber bottoms had begun to separate from the black nylon tops. And the inside lining had deteriorated into a soft, soggy pulp with an odour that reminded Thumps of Claire’s sink.

  He saw it by accident. The thin edge of something white and much too clean to be part of the shoe. Something just under the insole. Thumps was not keen to put his finger anywhere near the inside of Stick’s shoe. Fortunately, there was a toothbrush on the side of the sink. He hoped it was Stick’s, but at this point, he wasn’t particular. It wasn’t his. He slipped the butt end of the toothbrush under the insole, pried it up, and shook whatever it was into the sink.

  What it was was a card. A white card. A white plastic card with a magnetic strip. No name on it. No markings.

  Thumps let the rest of the clothes lie where they were. Stick was Claire’s son. She could figure out what to do with them.

  It took a little rummaging around in the kitchen before Thumps found what he needed. A pair of rubber gloves and a utility knife. And a flashlight. The gloves were a light rose colour. He would have preferred green or yellow, but these would have to do.

  The morning air was dead calm and had an unexpected but welcome chill to it. As Thumps stepped off the porch and walked to his car, he played back his conversation with Stick. His instincts told him that Stick had been telling the truth about not killing Takashi or Floyd. But he had lied about going fishing, and he had lied about not knowing anything about Takashi’s death.

  More troubling was Stick’s attitude. He hadn’t been frightened. And even though he had taken off, he wasn’t running. Thumps didn’t like what he was thinking. Surely Stick wasn’t trying to solve the case himself. The damn idiot! That would explain why he had gone to see Floyd, and why he had come home. He hadn’t come home to hide. He had come home to change his clothes. And eat.

  Thumps turned out of the driveway and pointed the nose of the car due west. Back to Buffalo Mountain Resort. Things were beginning to go in circles. Big circles. Little circles. In most Native cultures, circles were good. But for police work, circles were maddening. Culture notwithstanding, Thumps was more than ready to stumble onto a straight line.

  Cooley was waiting for him when he drove through the gate. Cooley and Floyd had not always got along, but they were brothers, and Cooley wasn’t going to be happy about Floyd’s murder. That is, if he knew about it yet. Thumps couldn’t imagine that Duke hadn’t notified the family by now. There was no reason to keep Floyd’s death a secret. But as Thumps pulled up to the guard shack, Cooley was smiling as he always smiled.

  “You’re up early.”

  “Figured I get some photography in.”

  Cooley sucked on his lips and nodded. “I hear early morning light is the best.”

  “Okay if I park up by the condos? I’d like to do some shots of the river.”

  “Place is still a crime scene. Not supposed to let anyone in.” Cooley leaned on the car. “Except members of the crime team.”

  “That would probably include me,” said Thumps, holding onto the steering wheel as the car dipped to one side.

  “Think so?”

  “I took the pictures of the dead guy.”

  “How about my brother?” Cooley’s smile evaporated, and Thumps felt the man’s fingers tighten on the car. “Did you take pictures of my brother?”

  So, Cooley knew. Thumps could see it in his face now. And he could hear it in his voice.

  “No,” said Thumps, hoping Cooley wouldn’t detect the lie. “I didn’t find out about it until this morning.”

  “Sheriff’s looking for Stick pretty hard.”

  “Stick didn’t do it.”

  “Sheriff thinks he did.”

  “Hockney’s blowing smoke,” said Thumps. “I’m really sorry about your brother.”

  “Floyd lived his life.” Cooley shrugged. “He was a screw-up. Everyone knew that.”

  Thumps wondered whether Cooley or the sheriff knew that he had been at the trailer, had discovered the body, and had skipped out. It had been a dumb thing to do. He didn’t think Cooley would hold it against him, but Thumps knew that if the sheriff found out, he could expect to lose a body part. He should have called the murder in himself But if he had, Hockney would have known for sure that Thumps was playing cop again, and more body parts would have gone missing.

  Cooley stood back from the car and folded his arms across his chest. The man was massive, but anyone who thought that he was fat and happy and inoffensive would be making a fatal mistake.

  “If you see Stick, you tell him I said hello.” Cooley patted the roof of the car the way you might pat a dog or a favourite horse. “Tell him Floyd’s brother said hello.”

  Thumps eased the car away from the guard shack. Great. Stick was beginning to resemble a pizza. The sheriff wanted a piece. The folks at Genesis Data Systems wanted a piece. Cooley wanted several pieces. By the time the FBI arrived, there’d be nothing left but the box.

  He parked the car in the top parking lot so Cooley could see it from the guard shack. Then he hauled his camera backpack out of the trunk, along with the wooden tripod, and made a production of strapping everything on. Cooley stood by the side of the shack watching him.

  Wave goodbye, Thumps reminded himself. Act casual.

  The Ironstone was about a quarter of a mile from the condos, and the walk through the trees was a pleasant one. By the time he got to the river, Thumps had almost convinced himself to spend the rest of the morning taking photographs of the water, retiring to his darkroom, and leaving the detective work to the professionals. He even went so far as to set up the camera and take several light readings before conscience and obligation regained control.

  But he left the camera set up at the water’s edge. If anyone asked, he could say he was waiting for better light or for the right moment. If Cooley wandered down to the river, at least it would look as though Thumps were working. And if what he had in mind didn’t pan out, he could always come back to the camera and take a few shots, so the trip out wouldn’t have been a complete waste of time.

  Thumps worked his way back to the condos, keeping high ground between himself and the guard shack. Going in through the front door was too public and too open, but if he was right, the side door would do as well.

  By the time he got to the north side of the condos, he was out of breath. Thumps wasn’t sure whet
her it was the altitude or the adrenalin. Or whether he was just getting too old for this kind of nonsense.

  The locking mechanism on the door was a small steel box with a slot and two tiny lights. One red. One green. Thumps took the plastic card out of his pocket and slipped it into the slot. Red light.

  He removed the card, checked the magnetic strip, and put it back in the slot. Red light.

  Maybe the lock was like the ones in expensive hotels, where guests had to slide the card in and out with one motion.

  Green light.

  Thumps turned the handle and the door swung open. So far, so good.

  The eighth floor was quiet. Duke had sealed the Cataract with a large paper patch that said Crime Scene, and had strung yellow Crime Scene police tape across the doorway. Breaking the seal was a crime, but Thumps had already lost count of how many laws he had broken in the last few days. Breaking into Takashi’s room. Failing to report a murder. Leaving the scene of a crime. Impersonating a rich golfer. The list was impressive.

  Thumps took the rubber gloves out of his pocket. They were too tight, and as soon as he put them on, he could feel his hands begin to sweat. It took less than a minute to cut the seal with the exacto knife and to pick the lock. Anybody looking closely would be able to see that the crime scene had been compromised, but Thumps hoped that by the time questions were raised, the case would be solved.

  If Thumps had killed someone and wanted to leave the body in a condo, he would have chosen one of the larger units. A unit with more class. A unit closer to the elevator. Why drag the body all the way to the Cataract? He walked to the window and looked out. From here, he could see the parking lot and the computer complex. One thing was sure. Takashi hadn’t been brought to the Cataract for the view.

  It didn’t make sense. It didn’t make any sense at all. Thumps smoothed the cut edges of the seal and reset the tape. This was the place where the crime ended. Maybe this was the place to begin. Maybe if he could follow the events backwards, he could figure out what had happened to Takashi and why he had been brought here.

  Keep it simple, Thumps reminded himself as he walked down the hall to the elevators. Do it by the numbers.

  The basement of the condo complex was an underground parking garage, and it was pitch black. Thumps turned on the flashlight, but it didn’t make much of a dent in the darkness.

  Ora Mae had said that all the buildings were connected by service tunnels. If the sheriff was right about Takashi’s being killed in the computer complex, the tunnels were the only safe way to move the body between the two buildings. Thumps played the light up and down the garage, and tried not to allow his imagination to get out of hand. It was not just dark in the garage. It was dark and damp, with the wet smell of fresh concrete and the oppressive weight of silence. The only sound was the echo of Thumps’ footsteps, as they rolled off the cold walls and came back as low moans and growls. While Thumps knew better, he felt as though he were lost in the belly of some large beast. And that he was not going to get out.

  It took him twenty minutes to find the door. The card opened it as easily as it had the first door. So, Thumps could go anywhere in the complex he wanted, and right now he wanted to go somewhere bright and airy that didn’t remind him of Beth’s workroom. There was no way to tell which way he was going or which building he would wind up in. But by the time Thumps got to the door at the other end of the service tunnel, he didn’t care.

  He wasn’t sure what he would find when he opened the door, but he wasn’t expecting another basement. Another basement with no lights. The flashlight began to stutter. Thumps shook it, but instead of coming back to life the way flashlights are supposed to do when you shake them, this one died all at once. Terrific. With the light, he had been stumbling around in the dark. Now he was reduced to groping. He put his hands on the wall and slowly followed it around the room until he found a set of stairs going up.

  Up was good.

  At the top of the stairs was another door with another card slot. Mercifully, Thumps could see a whisper of light under the door frame. Salvation was at hand. Better yet, as he stepped through the doorway, he found himself back in the computer complex. Just where he wanted to be. Almost as if he had planned it. And once his breathing returned to normal, he might even congratulate himself.

  If Thumps had felt slightly out of his league sitting in front of Takashi’s laptop at Shadow Ranch, standing in the Buffalo Mountain computer complex staring at a bank of large boxes with little lights made him feel like a Neanderthal just out of the cave. Everything considered, he had been better off in the garage with a dead flashlight.

  If the answer to Takashi’s death was on the computer, Thumps would never find it. If the answer was somewhere else in the computer room, he had half a chance. He circled the room and tried to imagine what might have happened.

  There were any number of ways to reconstruct Takashi’s murder, but Thumps preferred two. One, the killer was in the process of sabotaging the computer. Takashi arrived unexpectedly. They argued. They fought. Takashi was killed. Or two, the killer was waiting at the complex for Takashi. Takashi arrived and was killed.

  Both possibilities were simple enough, but Thumps had learned to distrust coincidence long ago. During the weeks Takashi had spent working at Buffalo Mountain, he had never come out on a Saturday. Each and every weekend, he had rented a van and gone sightseeing. But this particular Saturday, he had shown up. Why? How did the killer know Takashi would be there? The idea that the killer and Takashi had just happened to appear at the complex at the same time was too pat. Even for a Neanderthal.

  And coincidence aside, how had the killer gotten past Cooley? Cooley would have certainly noticed a second car. No car could mean that the killer had been on foot with a reasonable knowledge of the terrain. And that turned all the suspicion back on Stick and the Red Hawks.

  Unless Cooley was lying. Unless Cooley had been involved in the killings.

  Maybe the murder had nothing to do with the computer. Maybe Takashi had been fooling around with someone’s wife. Maybe he had annoyed someone at a bar. Thumps stopped in mid-thought. He was getting desperate, beginning to sound like a television detective. Even if Takashi had gotten someone murderously pissed off, why would the killer go to the trouble of sneaking into Buffalo Mountain Resort on foot instead of driving over to Shadow Ranch and killing Takashi there?

  Thumps sat down in the chair and spun it around. Something was missing. How did Takashi and Floyd fit together? The simplest answer was that Floyd had figured out who had killed Takashi, was trying to blackmail the murderer, and was killed for his troubles. Thumps liked that answer. Neat. Uncomplicated. Believable.

  Spinning around did not help. It was making him dizzy and turning his mind away from the killings to more mundane concerns. The walls of the computer complex, for instance. As Thumps turned in the chair, he noticed that the walls were all painted grey. Not a particularly nice shade, either. Maybe the colour was supposed to be a soothing complement to the irritation of computers. Not that the painters had done a very good job. Now that he was looking at it, he could see that the paint job on the far wall was streaked and uneven.

  All the money Claire and the tribe had thrown at the resort, and they couldn’t even get a good paint job.

  Thumps walked the length of the room. The bloodstains that Hockney had found suggested that Takashi had been killed while he was working on the computer. Takashi was shot from the front, so he probably saw his killer. Either he knew his killer, or he didn’t see the danger until it was too late.

  Thumps sat down in the chair again. Maybe Takashi was sitting at the monitor. He heard a noise behind him, turned around, and was shot before he had time to react. Thumps turned in the seat to face the wall with the bad paint job. Bang, bang, you’re dead.

  Damn! That wall was a real annoyance. Thumps rolled the chair across the floor and looked at it from a different angle. Now it looked fine. He rolled the chair
back the other way. It looked fine from here, too. He rolled the chair slowly back toward the main keyboard.

  There it was. The bad paint job. You could see it only when the wall caught the light in a particular way, from a particular angle. Maybe it was the murders. Maybe it was the shootout at the Songbird Trailer Park. Maybe it was exhaustion. Whatever the reason, Thumps had the strong urge to find a can of paint and a roller and do the job right.

  He bent the gooseneck lamp on the monitor table and aimed it at the wall.

  Sloppy bastards.

  And then he saw it. So large and clear, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it before, couldn’t believe that no one else had seen it before. Thumps grabbed the lamp and began playing the light across the wall.

  “Sonofabitch.”

  Beneath a thin layer of paint, he could see the shadows of letters. Letters that had been painted over. There was an R and an H and a W. Thumps worked the lamp and watched as the light pulled words off the wall.

  Red Hawks.

  Someone had scrawled “Red Hawks” across the wall in large letters. And someone had tried to cover it up.

  Thumps took a coin from his pocket and began rubbing at the paint. It peeled away easily, revealing a layer of shiny black paint.

  “Nice gloves.”

  Thumps froze.

  “You need some help?”

  Thumps turned slowly, letting the light trail off across the floor. Cooley was standing in the doorway, smiling the way he always smiled. But Thumps wasn’t looking at Cooley’s face. He was looking at the rifle Cooley had pointed at his chest.

  FIFTEEN

  On Thumps’ list of the things he liked about guns, having one pointed at him was near the bottom. Especially when the person with the gun was the brother of a man who had just been murdered.

  “Kinda hard to photograph the river from here.” Cooley cocked his head at the wall.