by Thomas King
Not that throwing Andy anywhere was going to help.
Finding Takashi’s jacket in Stick’s car wasn’t going to help either. If Stick was telling the truth, someone had planted it there. And if Stick was telling the truth about having something incriminating in his trunk, it was probably long gone. An added bonus for the killer. Frame the chief suspect and recover whatever evidence Stick had. But what the hell was it? What had Stick found that might point the investigation in a different direction? And how had the killer known what to look for? More to the point, when did the killer plant the jacket in Stick’s trunk? It hadn’t been there when Thumps checked the trunk at the trailhead. Someone could have followed Stick to his mother’s house, but that was improbable. He hadn’t been there long enough.
Which left the alley behind Thumps’ house. It had to be that. The killer must have staked out Thumps’ house on the chance that Stick would eventually show up there. The rest would have been easy. Plant the jacket. Get lucky and find the evidence at the same time. Call the sheriff and drop him a hint about where Stick could be found.
As Thumps turned the corner, it suddenly occurred to him that he had been following the wrong trail. He had spent most of his time trying to reconstruct what had happened to Takashi. Maybe he should have been following Stick.
Okay, Stick had gone to the complex on Saturday in time to find Takashi’s body. He had moved the body to the condos, headed into the mountains, and stayed there Saturday night. He had showed up at his mother’s house on Tuesday night and at Thumps’ place on Wednesday night.
So where had he been the rest of the time? Where had he gone after he left the mountains? Where had he gone after he left his mother’s place? He certainly hadn’t been holed up in Thumps’ basement for more than a few hours because there was still food left in the refrigerator. He had to eat. He had to sleep. He had to have a safe house. A place to work from, as he tried to play the hero.
Of course. The answer was so clear that Thumps couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before now. Taking photographs might have sharpened his creative eye, but it had evidently dulled his analytic senses.
* * *
Moses Blood was sitting on an old lawn chair taking in the early sun when Thumps pulled up in front of his trailer the next morning.
“Been expecting you,” said Moses, and he poured a second cup of coffee from the stainless steel thermos.
“We have to talk.”
“I’d like that.”
“About Stick.”
“Claire’s boy.”
“That night I came by. Was Stick here?”
“Oh, yes,” said Moses. “He was staying in the Airstream.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You didn’t ask.”
Thumps cradled the coffee cup in his hands. “Stick’s been shot.”
Moses sat back in the chair and looked off at the sunrise.
“He’s not dead, but he was hurt bad,” said Thumps. “He told me he had evidence that would prove who killed Takashi.”
“Ah,” said Moses. “That must be the disk.”
“Disk?”
“You know, one of those CDs.”
So, that’s what Stick had found. A computer disk. Not that the answer was going to do any good, now. Thumps was almost afraid to ask the next question. “Did Stick leave the disk with you?”
“Nope,” said Moses, “he took it with him.”
Thumps leaned forward and put his face in his hands.
“You don’t look too good,” said Moses.
“I’m just tired,” said Thumps.
“You going to help Stanley?”
“Not much I can do,” said Thumps. “Without the disk, we don’t have anything.”
“Boy,” said Moses, “good thing we made a copy.”
It took a moment for Moses’ words to register. “You have a copy?”
“Sure. They’re easy to make if you have the right equipment.” Moses stood up and headed for the maze of trailers behind his house. “People bring their old trailers by and leave them with me because they don’t have the heart to kill them.”
“What do you do with them?”
“Give them a place to live.”
Thumps knew better than to argue with Moses. And he supposed that if he were a trailer, he’d like to be dropped off here rather than dumped into a junkyard and crushed into an aluminum brick.
Although Thumps tried to keep track of all the twists and turns, he suspected that he would have difficulty finding his way back. The farther they moved into the trailers, the more Moses began to look like a white rabbit and the more Thumps began to feel like Alice.
One of the trailers had a Radioactive Material sticker on its front door.
“Here we are,” said Moses, taking out a set of keys.
“Radioactive?”
“It used to be one of those mobile X-ray stations,” said Moses.
“No kidding.”
“It’s harmless now.”
The outside of the trailer was ordinary enough. White aluminum with red trim.
But nothing prepared Thumps for what was inside.
“This is yours?”
“No,” said Moses. “The band needed someplace to store their old computers.”
The inside of the trailer was one long table of electronic equipment—computers, monitors, printers, scanners—twinkling and winking in the dark, all hooked together by a web of wires. More computers and computer parts were stacked against the far wall.
“That Stanley is pretty handy,” said Moses.
“Stanley did this?”
“My grandmother could talk to animals.” Moses pushed a button and one of the monitors flashed to life. “Stanley can talk to these machines.”
“You know how to work this stuff?”
“Sure. Stanley showed me how.” Moses pressed another button and a plastic tray slid out of one of the machines. “It’s not hard once you understand how the Nephews think.”
“The Nephews?”
Moses waved his hand over the computers. “They’re just like little kids. They like to repeat everything you tell them.”
Thumps shook his head. He could barely turn on a computer, and here was Moses Blood, one of the more traditional men on the reserve, sitting in front of a seventeen-inch monitor giving him lessons on computer protocol.
“Some people are suspicious of computers because we didn’t have them in the good old days.”
“Nobody went buffalo hunting with a laptop.”
“That’s right,” said Moses. “But it’s best to be up-to-date. Even in the good old days, the smartest Indians were the ones who were up-to-date.”
“You said you made a copy of the disk.”
Moses nodded and worked the mouse. The screen went blank for a second, and then came up all bright and cheery. “Here it comes.”
Suddenly the screen was filled with long lines of numbers. Row after row of numbers. Ones and zeros.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Thumps watched the numbers scroll up the screen, hoping that at some point he would see something that resembled words. “Nothing but numbers?”
“It’s a program,” said Moses. “You don’t have to use words to write a program.”
“Great.”
“These machines are smart. You give them a bunch of numbers, and they understand what you want them to do.”
“Do you know what kind of a program this is?”
“Nope,” said Moses. “Stanley was talking things over with the computers, but he had to leave before they finished their conversation.”
Thumps sat back and sighed.
“I can make you a copy if you like.”
“Sure.”
“We have some pretty good conversations about easy stuff like the weather and where to take a vacation. I can ask them how much it’s going to cost me
to fly to Calgary for the big powwow. And we can discuss the stock market.” Moses worked the keyboard for a moment. “But I don’t know their language well enough yet to ask them what this disk is trying to tell us.”
Thumps watched while Moses burned a copy of the program, marvelling at the skill with which the old man managed the keyboard. It was almost as if the computers in the room knew who he was, almost as if they liked him.
“Here you go.” Moses handed Thumps a disk. “You tell Claire I hope her boy gets well soon.”
Thumps had to give Stick credit. The computer system he and Moses had cobbled together from parts was impressive.
“Are you hooked up to the Internet?”
“You bet,” said Moses. “We can go anywhere in the world. The other day I went to a really nice resort in Costa Rica.”
“I don’t need a vacation.”
“Everybody needs a vacation.”
“I need information.”
“Sure,” said Moses. “That’s why they call it the information highway.”
Thumps found a pen and a piece of paper. “See what you can find out about this company.”
“Spy stuff,” said Moses, looking at the paper. “Magnum PI does spy stuff. And you know what?”
“What?”
“He always gets his sidekick to do the computer work.”
Moses closed and locked the door to the trailer, and the two men made their way back to where Thumps’ car was parked.
“That’s one of the good things about computers.”
“What’s that?”
Moses looked up at the sky. “They don’t shoot people.”
True enough, thought Thumps. Nonetheless, two men were dead, and a young man was lying in a hospital bed, and Thumps couldn’t help but feel that he might be holding the reason for the murders in his hand.
TWENTY
Thumps slapped his face and sang songs as he drove back into town. With only moderate success. It had been a very long night, and unless the tide turned in a hurry, it was going to be an even longer day. Outside of sleep, the only thing that was going to keep him awake and aware was food. And coffee. Lots of it.
Thumps turned the disk over in his hand and let the sun glint off the surface. The pessimist in him suspected that it contained nothing more than a word-processing program. Or an Internet something. Or a game.
Al’s was full. Thumps leaned up against the wall along with the four other people waiting for a seat.
“Go home and go to bed.” Al stood behind the counter with her hands on her hips.
“Morning.”
“You look like hell.”
“I’m hungry, too.”
“Hear you made friends with Andy.”
Thumps couldn’t tell whether Al approved or disapproved. Not that it mattered.
“Heard about Stanley, too.”
Maybe his luck was changing. The four people in front of him were waiting together for one of the two booths large enough to hold them, and Mike Deeter, who ran the Shell station, was just leaving his seat at the counter. Thumps climbed on the stool, dropped his head into his hands, and waited for the coffee to arrive.
“The usual?”
“Please.”
He wasn’t sure he had the energy to lift the cup, so he sat slumped over and let the coffee fumes rise up and wash over his face.
“Looks more like depression than exhaustion.”
“Could I get a little extra salsa?”
“Salsa isn’t going to help depression.”
Thumps looked out from under his hands and watched Al amble back to the grill. Maybe she was right. Maybe he was depressed. Claire had asked him to help find Stick, and he had helped get Stick shot. Sure, it wasn’t really his fault, but depression wasn’t a rational emotion—if it was an emotion at all.
The coffee was starting to work its magic, and Thumps could feel his eyes begin to focus. By the time the food arrived, most of his intuitive faculties were back on-line.
“You solve the case yet?”
“That’s the sheriff’s job.”
“Can’t take pictures all your life.”
Thumps couldn’t remember Al’s breakfast ever tasting better. The hash browns were particularly delicious, crisp and buttery, as though Al had made them especially for him.
“You feeling better?”
“Much.”
“So, you know who killed that Asian guy yet?”
“Nope.”
“How about Floyd?”
“Don’t know that either.”
Al picked up the coffee cup and ran the rag across the counter. “Floyd was here, you know.”
Thumps tried not to sound too interested. “Floyd’s got good taste.”
“Morning he died.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“He had a big stack of pancakes, full order of sausage, toast, and two large glasses of orange juice.”
“He must have been hungry.”
“He was always hungry. But that day he was happy, too.” Al leaned a hip against the counter. “And there are only two things in the whole world that would make Floyd Small Elk happy.”
Thumps didn’t need Al to tell him what was at the top of Floyd’s “happy” list. “What’s the second thing?”
“More of the first,” she said.
Thumps smiled. “He say where he was getting the money?”
“Not a word,” said Al. “But the whole time he was working on the pancakes and the sausages, you could see him spending it.”
That made sense. If Floyd’s death was tied to Takashi’s murder—and Thumps was willing to bet the ranch that it was—then there were only two reasons for the second killing. Either Floyd knew something, or he had been able to convince the murderer that he did. Floyd had tried to sell Thumps information on Takashi. There was no reason to believe that he hadn’t offered it to the murderer as well.
But Thumps was sure that Floyd had not yet connected the dots when they had talked at the limo garage. Was it possible that Thumps had said something to Floyd that put him on the right track? Or had Floyd just figured things out on his own?
Two murders and a shooting, and the only leverage that Thumps had was a disk that no one could read. If he had a Plan B, now would be a good time to break it out.
When Thumps got to Shadow Ranch, Virginia Traynor and Elliot Beaumont were already waiting for him in the coffee shop.
“Mr. DreadfulWater.” Beaumont stood up and stuck out his hand, as if he were playing the part of a banker in a romantic comedy. “Good to see you again.”
Thumps took Beaumont’s hand. It felt like a piece of polished marble. Thumps wondered what the man had to do to get his skin to feel like stone. “Sorry I’m late.”
“You’re not late,” said Traynor, and she turned to Beaumont. “You did tell George about this meeting.”
“Talked to him last night,” said Beaumont.
Traynor signalled the server. “You hungry?”
Thumps shook his head. It would have been a travesty to eat anything while Al’s breakfast was still entertaining his stomach.
“I was hoping to make use of Mr. Chan’s computer expertise,” he said.
Traynor was quick and direct. “What have you found?”
Thumps took the disk from his jacket and laid it on the table.
“A disk?” Beaumont picked it up and turned it over. “Where’d you get it?”
Thumps took a deep breath. It was time to run the bluff. “Actually, Stick found it. At Buffalo Mountain Resort.”
“Stick?” Beaumont frowned.
“Stanley Merchant,” said Thumps, watching Beaumont’s face. “He’s the one who found Takashi’s body.”
“But I thought a . . . real estate woman found the body.” Beaumont looked puzzled. If he was faking, he was doing a good job.
“Stanley was the leader of a group known as the Red Hawks. They were opposed to
the casino.”
Beaumont nodded as if he agreed with Thumps. “So this Stick killed Daniel.”
“That isn’t what you’re telling us,” said Traynor, “is it?”
The server came by with coffee. Thumps waited until she had left. “No. Stick didn’t kill Takashi. Takashi was already dead. Stick just moved the body to the condo.”
Beaumont settled back in his seat. “Do you know what’s on the disk?”
Thumps took a deep breath. Here was the tricky part. Lie or tell the truth? “No,” said Thumps, deciding on the truth. “Not yet.”
“And you were hoping that George could tell you,” said Traynor.
“Takashi was worried about the computer being sabotaged,” said Beaumont. “Maybe this is it.”
“No,” said Thumps. “Stick didn’t have a chance to do anything.” There was nothing to do now but run the bluff all the way to the end. “I think this is what got Takashi killed.”
Thumps thought he detected a nervous twitch pass Beaumont’s lips.
Traynor put her napkin on the table and nodded. “Then we’d better talk with George.”
Thumps picked up the disk. “Maybe I should just give this to the sheriff, and let him figure it out.”
“Let’s do both,” said Traynor. “Give George a crack at it. If he can figure out what it is, it’ll save the sheriff some work.”
“But you did look at it.” There was more than curiosity in Beaumont’s voice.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“It didn’t make any sense to me,” said Thumps. “It was all ones and zeros.”
“Then showing it to George isn’t going to help,” said Beaumont.
Traynor nodded. “Elliot’s right. What you saw was machine language. Most programs are written in what is called source code, which consists of a series of text commands. However, once the program is written and tested, it’s converted into a kind of numerical sequence called machine language. Machine language is impossible to read.”
“Can’t you translate machine language?”
“Yes. But you have to know in what program language the program was originally written. And even then it’s difficult.”
“But Chan could do it?”
“Any skilled computer programmer could do it,” said Beaumont. “But Virginia’s correct. You would have to know the source code language to have any hope of success.”
