Obsidian

by Thomas King

  The little Greek had a particularly bizarre idea of community, saw it as a vibrant collective where all members participated in the lives of one another.

  On a daily basis.

  Thumps understood community as an assortment of disparate and solitary individuals who only came together when they felt like it, or when a momentary crisis that demanded a group response appeared on the horizon.

  There were large trucks in front of Budd’s. The last time Thumps had been inside the old department store, it had been the production office for a reality television show.

  Malice Aforethought.

  Now it looked as though a major renovation was afoot. The windows were covered with paper, so you couldn’t see in.

  But the front door was open.

  Choices, choices, choices. The bookstore with Archie waiting to lecture him on communal responsibility, or a leisurely tour of a construction site.

  Budd’s was being gutted, the old building taken down to the studs. The dust hung in the air like a dense fog. Thumps could taste the accumulation of all the years Budd’s had been in business.

  “About time.”

  A dusty figure appeared out of the gloom. Even in a hard hat and a dust mask, Archimedes Kousoulas was impossible to mistake.

  “Archie?”

  “Not even a postcard?” Archie slapped at his coveralls. “‘Having a good time, wish you were here’?”

  “A postcard?”

  “Come on,” said Archie, “we have to get you a hard hat and a mask.”

  Thumps could think of any number of places he wouldn’t have expected to find Archie. A construction site was near the top. Then he remembered.

  “You bought the building.”

  “Best investment I ever made,” said Archie. “You know anything about drywall?”

  The main floor was divided off with plastic sheets that had been hung from the ceiling like curtains. Archie pushed his way into the back area. Here the air was somewhat cleaner, and Thumps could breathe without feeling as though he had been caught out in a sandstorm. There was a large saw and a long table piled high with boxes of joint compound. Twelve-foot sheets of drywall were stacked on the floor, and a series of work lights had been set up to illuminate the space. At the far end of the room was a compressor that was making its annoying rak-rak-rak racket.

  “Come on.” Archie picked his way through the work area to the rear door. “Let’s go outside. So we don’t have to shout.”

  Budd’s backed onto an alley. Thumps was already out the door before he noticed the large woman leaning against the wall.

  “Well, look who’s come to help.”

  “Hi, Roxanne.”

  “You look at those questions yet?”

  Roxanne Heavy Runner was the secretary for the tribal council. Chiefs and councils came and went, but Roxanne endured. She was a large, fierce woman with all the social skills and compassion of a land mine.

  “’Cause people are getting old waiting.”

  Roxanne was dressed in work clothes and covered in dust. The marks left by the safety goggles and the dust mask made her look like an urban raccoon.

  Or a special forces assassin.

  “Everyone is helping,” said Archie. “Now that you’re back, you can help too.”

  “Sure.”

  “But first,” said Roxanne, “he’s got to answer those questions.”

  Roxanne had a distinct way of phrasing a sentence that made each word sound like an exploding artillery shell.

  “We finish the drywall this week,” said Archie, “and next week, the stove and fridge arrive.”

  “Archie’s going to split the main floor,” said Roxanne. “His girlfriend gets the small side for her old clothes.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” said Archie. “Ms. Santucci is just a friend. And the clothes aren’t old. They’re vintage.”

  Roxanne made several noises in her throat that could have been ballistic missiles passing overhead.

  “Guess what’s going in on this side?”

  “A bookstore?”

  “A bookstore?” Archie frowned. “I already have a bookstore.”

  “A restaurant,” said Roxanne. “Imagine that. A Greek opening a restaurant.”

  “Pappous’s,” said Archie. “Greek cuisine with a cosmopolitan flair.”

  “Pappous’s?”

  “It means ‘grandfather,’” said Archie.

  Roxanne pushed off the wall. “Six thirty tonight,” she said. “Don’t be late.”

  It took Thumps a couple of beats to realize that Roxanne was talking to him. “Me?”

  “Claire’s cooking your favourite meal.”

  “Claire?”

  “Elk stew,” said Roxanne. “Dress nice and bring chocolate and flowers.”

  “Flowers?”

  “And not those cheap carnations,” said Roxanne. “You can afford roses.”

  “Claire hasn’t said anything about dinner.”

  “She’s been trying to call you.” Roxanne clicked her tongue. “But you haven’t been answering.”

  “And Claire doesn’t cook.”

  “Her place,” said Roxanne. “Six thirty.”

  “Okay.” Archie set the dust mask over his nose and mouth and adjusted his safety goggles. “Back to work. Place isn’t going to renovate itself.”

  IT WAS WELL after five by the time Thumps got home. If he hurried, he could grab a shower, stop off at the pharmacy for some chocolate. He wasn’t sure where he was going to find roses. Not that he wanted to buy flowers. He had always thought buying flowers was a waste. They were expensive, and they didn’t last all that long. You put them in a vase, looked at them for a few days, and then threw them out.

  Chocolate made some sense. At least you could eat chocolate.

  Then, too, the whole dinner thing could be one of Roxanne’s scams. The woman was famous for duping people into doing what she thought should be done. It wouldn’t be the first time she had sent Thumps to Claire only for him to discover that Claire had not been expecting him. He’d get to her place. Claire would come to the door in jeans and a sweatshirt. There would be no dinner. There would just be annoyance and embarrassment.

  In equal parts.

  What he should do is call ahead. Confirm that dinner had been offered. Confirm that Roxanne wasn’t just blowing smoke. Confirm that Claire really wanted to see him.

  Or he could just arrive, blame Roxanne, and take it from there.

  Nine

  A full moon was on the rise. Claire’s house sat on high ground on the western edge of the reservation, overlooking the Ironstone. Her house was a long rectangle of blue and white aluminum siding, a prefab remnant of one of the many economic ventures that the bright lights in the Bureau of Indian Affairs had insisted the tribe try.

  Modular housing.

  If it had had wheels, it would have been a trailer.

  No one was going to photograph the place for House Beautiful, and Claire hadn’t done much to improve its curb appeal. There was a pad of concrete slabs thrown down in front of the porch that was pretending to be a patio, and she had planted several shrubs against the low deck and a Russian olive at the west corner of the house.

  The shrubs had died immediately. The tree had persevered.

  Farther out, beyond the house toward the mountains, Thumps could see the shadow of the enormous slump that had taken about a mile of the coulee down into the river valley. One day, the coulee was intact, and the next, the entire edge had disappeared, forcing anyone walking the high trail to the mountains to make a long detour to get around the rip in the earth.

  The Slump didn’t look all that dangerous, but the raw face was unstable, and if you started to slide, there was nothing to stop you. Two hikers from somewhere in Nevada had tried to go straight across and had been swept to their deaths.

  Thumps parked the car next to the tree and waited. Claire would have seen him coming along the river from a long way off, would have heard him pull into t
he yard.

  “New car?” Claire was dressed in blue jeans and a blue work shirt. Her hair was tied back. “Honda Element?”

  “It is.”

  She stood on the porch with her hands on her hips. “Sports jacket, slacks. You on your way to the opera?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Claire shook her head. “Roxanne?”

  “Roxanne,” said Thumps.

  “Let me guess,” said Claire. “She said that I was going to cook dinner.”

  “Elk stew.”

  “And you were to bring chocolate and flowers.”

  “No chocolate,” said Thumps. “No flowers.”

  “Good,” said Claire, “because there’s no dinner either.”

  Thumps held up a white paper bag with an overweight dragon printed in red on the front. “There is, however, takeout.”

  “The Fat Dragon?” Claire’s face brightened. “General Tao chicken? Pork fried rice?”

  “Yes,” said Thumps. “And yes.”

  “Isn’t Chinese bad for your diabetes?”

  “It is.”

  “But now that you’re here with food,” said Claire, “you’re thinking that we should eat.”

  “We’d be fools not to.”

  “Robert Parker,” said Claire. “The Spenser mysteries.”

  “It worked for him.”

  “So, I’m Susan?” Claire smiled with just the edges of her mouth. “And you’re . . . Pearl?”

  “Isn’t Pearl the dog?”

  Claire’s kitchen reminded Thumps that she wasn’t the most organized of people. Nor was she the consummate housekeeper that you saw in movies from the 1950s, movies where the women waited for their husbands to return home after a hard day’s work so they could bring their man his slippers, his pipe, and a martini, women whose desires were bracketed by fur coats and new appliances.

  “You going to say something about my kitchen?”

  There were dishes stacked in the sink, empty frozen dinner boxes on the counter, and a couple of old cottage cheese cartons on the windowsill. Thumps wasn’t sure, but he hoped that the brown sludge in one of the cartons was bacon grease.

  “Nope.”

  “If I had known you were coming, I would have cleaned the place.”

  “But you didn’t know,” said Thumps. “So there was no reason to tidy up.”

  Claire fished two plates out of the sink and rinsed them off. “You bring chopsticks?”

  Thumps set the boxes on the table. “I did.”

  “You want to talk?”

  “I suppose we should.”

  “Beer,” said Claire. “If we’re going to have that conversation, we should probably do it with beer.”

  The General Tao chicken was good, a little soggy from the ride out to the reservation, but as good as could be expected. The pork fried rice was pork fried rice. Thumps didn’t think there was much that could hurt it.

  “So you knew this was a set-up.” Claire helped herself to a large, tangled lump of noodles.

  “Educated guess,” said Thumps.

  “Because this isn’t the first time Roxanne has pulled this stunt.”

  “It’s her favourite ploy.”

  “That it is.”

  Thumps tried to tear open the plastic packet of soy sauce. He had no idea what sort of malicious mind had come up with the idea of putting condiments in a plastic bomb shelter. Supposedly, there was a cut in the edge of the packet that would get you started.

  “So how was the coast?”

  “Great. How was New Zealand?”

  Thumps had the packet twisted into a fine knot.

  “You want scissors?”

  “I hear you and Angie had a good time?”

  “We did,” said Claire. “How about you?”

  Thumps took a sip of his beer. “Doesn’t seem to be working, does it?”

  “The beer?” said Claire. “The conversation?”

  “Anything new on the adoption? The two girls?”

  “Isn’t going to happen.” Claire helped herself to some of the pork fried rice.

  “Sorry.”

  “But Angie has another possibility.” Claire reached over and tore an edge off the soy packet with her teeth. “So, tell me about Northern California. Anything get settled?”

  Thumps wasn’t sure he wanted to tell Claire about Anna and Raymond Oakes. It wasn’t betraying a confidence. Anna was dead. Oakes didn’t count.

  “How’s Stick?”

  “Stanley’s fine,” said Claire.

  “His father still alive?”

  Claire stopped eating. “This sudden interest in my life have something to do with your trip?”

  “Nope.”

  “Anna,” said Claire. “Was that her name?”

  “It was.”

  “And her daughter?”

  “Callie.”

  “You weren’t Callie’s father.”

  Thumps felt his body tighten. “No.”

  Claire went back to her beer. “Is that what this is about?”

  “Anna had told me that Callie’s father was dead.”

  “But he wasn’t?”

  “He was in prison.”

  “Stick’s father isn’t dead,” said Claire. “So far as I know.”

  “You never talk about him.”

  “Nothing much to tell.” Claire dumped the rest of the rice on her plate. “So Anna had a husband.”

  “Raymond Oakes,” said Thumps. “He was in jail for life. And then he got out.”

  Claire put her chopsticks down. “I thought they were killed by a serial killer.”

  “So did I.”

  “But now you think that this Oakes was responsible?”

  “Don’t know,” said Thumps. “But I’d like to talk to him.”

  “So, you don’t know where he is?” Claire went to the refrigerator and got another beer.

  “No idea.”

  “But you’re angry. You think Anna lied to you. You think she betrayed you.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “And you think that I’ve betrayed you as well.” Claire leaned forward on her elbows. “You don’t talk about Anna or Callie.”

  “They’re dead.”

  “That was cheap.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Look, they died. They were killed. Anna never told me about Oakes. I didn’t know he existed.”

  Claire softened a little. “And you think you could have saved them if you had known?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And you think you can save me.” Claire reached out and touched his hand. “Before I left for New Zealand, I asked you if you were interested in a relationship with me.”

  “You and children.”

  Claire nodded. “Did you ever come to a decision?”

  Thumps wondered if there was another beer in the fridge. “I’d like to give it a try.”

  “But you have unfinished business.” Claire pulled her hand away and pushed back. “Raymond Oakes. You’re going after him, aren’t you?”

  “I need to finish it.”

  “And you’d like me to be waiting when you’re all done playing avenging angel.” Claire took the plates to the sink and put them on top of the stack.

  “I need to finish it.”

  Claire nodded. “When you turn back out of the driveway, make sure you don’t hit the tree.”

  THE MOON WAS HIGH in the sky, and the light lit up the land. Thumps pushed the Honda along the river road, off the reservation, and onto the main highway. Dinner had gone as poorly as he had imagined, and as he drove back into Chinook, he wondered why he had bothered to return. If all he wanted was to find Oakes, he could have just kept working the case, could have stayed on the road until he ran the man down. Maybe he wanted to see what he was giving up, a last look at what he had, an inventory of value, the cost of revenge.

  It all seemed a little melodramatic. The notion of righteous retribution. Determined lawman tracks the bad guy around the countryside, and after a search th
at takes years, lawman finds his quarry, captures him, and brings him back for trial.

  Or just kills him.

  But when he returns, he discovers that the heroine has moved on, has married someone else, and is living happily ever after.

  Claire had been clear. She wasn’t going to wait.

  And she had been right about him. He wasn’t going to step away. Anna was dead. Callie was dead. No point in trying to pretend that he was doing it for them.

  He was doing it for himself.

  Ten

  Thumps spent a restless night in a cold bed, waking up at sporadic intervals to go to the bathroom and to revisit what he should have said, what he should have done. He hadn’t seen Claire in over a month, and the Fat Dragon dinner offering aside, she hadn’t seemed all that thrilled to find him at her door. Thumps had hoped she would want him to spend the night, had brought his toothbrush, just in case.

  Absence, it would appear, didn’t necessarily make the heart grow fonder.

  And how did he feel? Relationships were a team sport. What did he want? From time to time, Claire had thrown out the idea of living together. How had he reacted? He didn’t remember being enthusiastic. When she had tried to adopt the two sisters out of Browning, had he jumped at the opportunity?

  What did that say about him?

  Thumps was willing to concede that people were not his strong suit, but maybe it was more than that. Maybe he was a closet misanthrope.

  Or worse.

  So now it was morning, and any reflections on interpersonal relationship theories would have to wait. The first thing on the agenda was breakfast. Two choices. He could make it himself, or he could have someone else make it for him.

  Thumps opened the refrigerator. There were the end pieces of a loaf of bread and a sliver of butter that had survived the breakfast that Cooley had made.

  Okay, Al’s it was.

  After that, he would continue the hunt for Raymond Oakes.

  He and Leon Ranger had started the process, but toward the end of the second week in Eureka, Leon had had to fly to Reno, Nevada, for a conference on militia organizations and the proliferation of assault weapons. Thumps had lost his access to law-enforcement databases and had been reduced to rummaging in the boxes that Ron Peat had left for him.

  Now that he was back in Chinook, he could camp out in the sheriff’s office and use Duke’s computer to search for Oakes, or he could go to the Aegean and talk Archie into hacking the databases he needed.