Obsidian

by Thomas King

  “It’s not a secret,” said Beth. “We all know what happened out in California.”

  “Even I know what happened,” said Gabby. “Archie has explained it to me. Molto triste.”

  “The Obsidian Murders,” said Beth. “After all these years, you go off to the coast to look for the killer, and someone with a twisted sense of humour decides to have some sick fun.”

  “Was it obsidian?”

  “You’ll have to ask Duke.”

  “Damn it, Beth.”

  “I do bodies,” said Beth. “I don’t do rocks.”

  Gabby pulled the robe around her tighter. “Do you have such friends who would do this thing?”

  “You need to talk to Duke.” Beth took a cherry Danish from the box and looked at her watch. “And drink your coffee. Your time is up.”

  Sixteen

  “When were you going to tell me?”

  Sheriff Duke Hockney sat behind his desk and tried to impersonate a boulder.

  “Sit down,” said Duke. “Have some coffee.”

  “I’ve had coffee.”

  “It’s Colombian today,” said Hockney. “I’m trying out a bunch of varieties until I find one I like.”

  “Damn it, Duke, why didn’t you tell me about the break-in?”

  The sheriff heaved his body out of the chair and ambled to the coffee pot. “I did tell you about the break-in.”

  “You just forgot to mention the stone.”

  “You’re supposed to hold the coffee up to the light as you pour it to check the colour.” Hockney carried the cup back to his desk and opened the top drawer. “Macy got me a box of baby cookies to have with my coffee. They’re not bad. You want to try one?”

  “No.”

  Duke settled himself back in his chair. “Think like a cop for a moment.”

  “I am.”

  “No, you’re not.” The sheriff dipped the cookie into the coffee. “You’re thinking like an avenging angel.”

  “The Obsidian Murders. Six-year-old cold case.” Thumps held up a hand and began ticking off fingers. “Dead bodies begin appearing on Clam Beach, all with a piece of obsidian in their mouths. No one was ever arrested. There were never any suspects. Never a single break in the case. It’s not just cold, it’s frozen.”

  “And then you go back to California.”

  “And then I go back to California to try to pick up the pieces. I discover that Anna had a husband she never told me about.”

  “One Raymond Oakes,” said Duke.

  “Who was serving a life sentence at Deer Ridge,” said Thumps. “Until he got out on a technicality.”

  Duke nodded. “Just before the killings began.”

  “And when I get back here, I discover that someone has broken into Beth’s morgue and left a black stone on the autopsy table.”

  “You’re forgetting about the movie people who suddenly show up in town.” Duke shook his head. “You got a real talent for attracting the Hollyweirdies.”

  “Was it obsidian?”

  “You look like hell, DreadfulWater.”

  “I didn’t sleep last night, and I’m hungry, and I don’t like being lied to by friends.”

  “Nobody’s lied to you,” said Duke. “What? You think that after all this time, the same serial killer from California just happens to pass through town, happens to break into Beth’s place, and happens to leave a piece of obsidian for her to find?”

  “So, it was obsidian.”

  Duke nodded. “It was. I had Scotty Jacobs at the rock store in Glory check it out.”

  Thumps slumped in the chair.

  “Think like a cop.” Hockney helped himself to another cookie. “Chances are that this is just some stupid joke. You go to the coast to try to catch a killer. Someone in town says, ‘Hey, let’s turn his crank.’ They go to the rock shop in Glory, buy a piece of obsidian, break into the morgue, and have a good laugh.”

  “Someone bought obsidian at the rock shop?”

  “See,” said Duke. “Now you’re thinking like a cop.”

  “Who?”

  Duke waited a moment. “Wutty Youngbeaver.”

  “Wutty?”

  “But it wasn’t him,” said Duke. “Wutty did buy a square chunk of something called rainbow obsidian for his girlfriend. Wasn’t the same kind of obsidian that was left at Beth’s.”

  “So why tell me?”

  “To show you what’s possible. Hell, it could have been the movie people. You know how they are. Stir things up. A little publicity to help their project get press.”

  “So, you don’t know who left the obsidian in the morgue?”

  Duke tapped the side of his head. “Let’s say that it’s the serial killer from back then. Or let’s say that it’s Oakes. Where have they been all this time, and why show up now?”

  “So, it wasn’t Wutty.”

  Duke chuckled. “Oh, I’m sure it wasn’t Wutty.”

  “You lean on him?”

  “Hard,” said the sheriff. “It’s the kind of stupid thing he might do.”

  “But he didn’t.”

  “No,” said Duke. “And what pisses me off is that I’ve got no idea who did.”

  Thumps was going to have to eat soon. He could feel his blood sugars dropping. The cheese and the piece of Danish had been digested and forgotten.

  “In the meantime, I’ve got the dates for my operation.” Duke took another cookie out of the tin and then put it back. “Probably need you to look after the shop for about two weeks. Cleared it with city council. You okay with that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “In the meantime, you can use the resources of this office to try to figure out what’s going on.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t like people fucking with my town.” Duke’s face went hard. “Don’t like anyone fucking with my friends.”

  AL’S WAS EMPTY.

  “You just missed everyone.”

  “Good.”

  “People didn’t know you better,” said Al, “they’d take you for a misogynist.”

  “Misanthrope.” Thumps put his elbows on the counter and put his face in his hands. “Misanthropes hate humankind. Misogynists hate women.”

  Al brought the coffee pot over. “Got to be a reason they’re spelled the same.”

  “They’re not spelled the same.”

  “Too close for comfort, if you ask me.”

  “Did you know about the break-in at the morgue?”

  “Sure.”

  “And about the piece of obsidian?”

  “So, Duke finally told you.”

  “You could have told me.”

  “Is this the place?” Anderson Cole and George Gorka were standing at the front door of the café, not quite sure if they should come in or run away.

  “This is it,” said Al.

  Cole spotted Thumps. “You were with the big guy.”

  “Cooley Small Elk.”

  Cole and Gorka took the stools across from the register. “DreadfulWater something, right? That Comanche?”

  “Cherokee.”

  “Oklahoma?”

  Thumps nodded.

  “My daddy was part Choctaw,” said Cole, “but I generally don’t mention it, seeing as I’ve never had to walk that road. What about you, Mr. DreadfulWater?”

  Al held up the pot. “You want coffee?”

  George pushed his cup forward. “You remind me of my wife. Beautiful woman.”

  Thumps had never seen Al blush.

  “Molara,” said George. “She died three years ago.”

  “Anderson Cole,” said Cole, and she stuck out a hand. “And this son of a buck is my road manager, George Gorka.”

  Gorka kept his attention on Al. “Maybe you’d like to come to the auction. As my guest.”

  Thumps had never thought he would see Al speechless. Nor did he think he would find it . . . so refreshing.

  Al found her balance. “You asking me for a date?”

  “George may look ordinary, but
he’s all Basque, and the bastard’s got a silver tongue.” Cole took a T-shirt out of her bag and handed it to Al. “So what’s good? I’m starving, and I’ve got an auction to run.”

  “We’re in your hands.” George put the cup to his lips and caressed the porcelain. “This woman knows food. I can tell. Everything will be good.”

  Al didn’t disappoint. She grilled sausages and bacon along with the eggs and the hash browns. She even made George a waffle, something she only did for people she liked. Cole limited herself to eggs, orange, and toast.

  “Turning over a new leaf,” she said.

  Gorka winked at Al. “She always says this at breakfast.”

  “He’s right,” said Cole. “By the time I get to lunch, I make up for lost time.”

  Gorka left forty dollars on the counter. “Please,” he said. “I hope to see you at the fairgrounds. You can drive any car you want. Maybe we can catch coffee afterwards.”

  Cole stopped at the door and turned back to Al. “He’s good company,” she said. “Just don’t mention the Battle of Roncevaux Pass.”

  Thumps waited for Al to come back with the pot.

  “You going to go?”

  “Why not.” Al wiped the counter with a towel. “Vintage cars. Someone who hasn’t heard any of my stories. What’s not to like?”

  “He seems pretty sure of himself.”

  “You worried about my virtue?”

  “He’s got a gun.”

  Al threw the towel over her shoulder and headed back to the grill. “This part of the country, who doesn’t.”

  THE LAST TIME THUMPS had been in Chinook Pharmacy to buy drugs, he had had to take out a second mortgage on his house. Or at least that’s how it had felt. He didn’t expect this time was going to feel any better.

  Rawat was all smiles in his sparkling white lab coat. “Ah, Mr. DreadfulWater, Dr. Beth has called on your behalf, and now your prescription is ready.”

  “Will you take a kidney in trade?”

  “Oh, that is very funny. I must remember that one.” Rawat set a large bag on the counter and handed Thumps a slip. “Sadly, it is also true.”

  Thumps looked at the figure in disbelief. “What do I pay my taxes for?”

  “Bombs,” said Rawat. “And missiles. You cannot keep the world safe with enlightened social programs and good health care.”

  “Can I set up a monthly payment plan?”

  “The drug companies insist that you are to use each needle only once,” said Rawat, “in order to reduce the risk of infection at the injection site. This is sound advice, but many of my customers are putting a new needle on in the morning and then using the same needle throughout the day in order to reduce the cost.”

  “One needle a day?”

  “Others have taken to boiling their old needles and reusing them until the points are dull.” Rawat shook his head. “This I do not recommend, but if cost is the issue, boiling needles is better than doing nothing.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  “And if I could ask a favour?”

  “Sure.”

  “When you see Chief Merchant, could you tell her that the talc-free baby powder she requested is here.”

  “Baby powder?”

  “Yes,” said Rawat. “For the baby.”

  “Was there a guy with her?”

  “Indeed,” said Rawat. “A friend of yours?”

  “He’s Canadian.”

  “A fine country,” said Rawat. “Quite progressive.”

  “Just baby powder?”

  “Oh my, no. Chief Merchant bought an entire baby assembly. Diapers, gripe water, no-tears shampoo, zinc ointment.”

  “Great.”

  “Such a good baby,” said Rawat. “All smiles and pleasantries.”

  “I’ll tell Claire about the powder when I see her.”

  Rawat handed Thumps his change. “Very good-natured,” he said. “Perhaps we should insist that babies run the country.”

  Seventeen

  Anthony Mercer and Runa Gerson were sitting on a sofa. Harry Shipman was at the table. Sheriff Duke Hockney had taken up residence in a large easy chair next to the gas fireplace. The hotel’s hospitality services had brought up a tray of fruit and cheese along with an urn of coffee.

  The scene reminded Thumps a little of Van Gogh’s The Potato Eaters or van der Helst’s Four Aldermen of the Kloveniersdoelen in Amsterdam.

  “Mr. DreadfulWater.” Mercer stood up. “Thanks for coming.”

  Duke had a plate of fruit on his lap. “Coffee’s just the way you like it,” said the sheriff. “Weak as piss.”

  “Harry was just about to take us through the script,” said Gerson.

  “We get to be critics,” said Mercer.

  “Especially interested in hearing from law enforcement,” said Harry.

  “That’s me.” Duke held up his plate. “Fruit’s pretty good. Try the watermelon.”

  Thumps took a chair at the table.

  “These are ideas,” said Shipman. “Nothing is set in stone. I’m counting on you to tell me what you think.”

  “How about that, Thumps,” said Duke. “Someone actually wants your opinion.”

  “Okay, Harry,” said Mercer. “The floor is yours.”

  Shipman adjusted his glasses. “The Obsidian Murders occurred in California, so you’re probably wondering why we came to Chinook.”

  “Did wonder about that,” said Duke.

  “That’s because I want to set the film here.” Shipman paused for a moment. “And I want to start the story after the killings on the West Coast.”

  Gerson looked at Mercer.

  “Stay with me,” said Shipman. “We frame the story around a central character rather than the killings. Let’s call him . . . Dick Storm for the time being.”

  “I can see that,” said Duke. “There are times when Thumps reminds me of a Dick.”

  “Storm was a cop on the California coast when someone killed ten people and left their bodies on a lonely stretch of beach with a piece of obsidian in their mouths. Two of the victims were Storm’s wife and ten-year-old daughter. No one was caught. Storm was devastated. He quit his job, started driving east, and wound up here in Chinook.”

  “How about we call the town Serenity?”

  “Sure.”

  “Any depression or alcoholism?” said Gerson.

  “Could be,” said Shipman.

  Mercer shifted on the sofa. “You plan to work the backstory as flashbacks?”

  “Storm’s only friend in Serenity is the local sheriff.” Shipman made a quick note on a pad. “Let’s call him Virgil ‘Jerk’ Johnson.”

  “You’ve always struck me as a Jerk,” said Thumps.

  “The film would open in the present day. Storm has put his life back together. He has a new relationship with a woman who has an eight-year-old son. For the first time in a long time, he’s happy. But he’s haunted by the serial killer he never caught. And that’s when he makes a fatal mistake.”

  “He goes after the killer,” said Mercer.

  “Exactly,” said Shipman. “He goes back to Northern California and reopens the case. Little by little, he starts to close in on the killer.”

  “But the killer finds out,” said Gerson.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said Shipman. “But yes, the killer discovers that he is being tracked and instead of running, he turns.”

  “Killer got a name?” asked Mercer.

  “Sure,” said Shipman with a big smile. “Let’s call him Harold Shipman.”

  “Perfect,” said Gerson. “I hope to hell there will be some good parts for women.”

  “So,” said Duke, “I’m guessing that this serial killer comes to town and begins killing people close to our hero. Leaving pieces of obsidian in their mouths?”

  “You’re a natural-born script writer,” said Shipman. “That’s exactly what happens.”

  “We can create some really good tension,” said Mercer. “A climactic scene with
our hero as he tries to save the woman and her son from the killer.”

  “Hope to hell you’re not going to kill off the sheriff,” said Duke.

  “Blood Simple,” said Shipman, “meets Silence of the Lambs.”

  “More like sleazy meets sordid,” said Duke.

  “What about the husband? The guy who was in jail,” said Gerson. “Raymond Oakes?”

  “Don’t need him,” said Shipman. “We’re not making a documentary.”

  “I like it.” Mercer turned to Thumps. “What do you think?”

  Thumps looked at his watch. “You guys going to the car auction?”

  Shipman rubbed at the side of his neck. “I don’t think Mr. DreadfulWater is all that impressed.”

  “That’s just how he looks when he’s overwhelmed.” Hockney got out of the chair and put on his hat. “You folks let us know if we can help in any way.”

  “I know it sounds a bit thin right now,” said Shipman, “but I’ve got a couple of twists in mind that’ll turn lead into gold.”

  THUMPS RODE DOWN to the lobby with the sheriff. “Overwhelmed?”

  “Something doesn’t feel right.” Duke crossed the lobby and pushed his way through the revolving doors. “Think I’ll check up on our three musketeers. Make sure we know exactly with whom we’re dealing.”

  “Whom?”

  The day had begun to warm. Clouds were forming to the west, but they looked friendly.

  “You notice Mr. Shipman’s ring?” Duke stopped at the curb. “Emerald? Man’s got a new car sitting on his finger.”

  “Tattoo’s cute, too.”

  “You got a tattoo?”

  “Nope.”

  “Me neither,” said Hockney. “I look at kids today and wonder if I’ve missed out on something.”

  “So, what do you think?”

  “What’s the basic rule for serial killers?” Duke opened the door to his cruiser and let the car vent.

  “They keep on killing.”

  “That’s correct,” said Duke.

  “Sheriff’s department and the FBI looked,” said Thumps. “They didn’t find anything.”

  “Guy could have stopped killing,” said Duke. “Or he could have been convicted of another crime. Or he might have died.”

  “Or,” said Thumps, “Maslow was right. The guy’s smart.”