Obsidian

by Thomas King

  Thumps supposed that Archie knew about Beth and Gabby. The little Greek knew about everything else that happened in town. But maybe he didn’t.

  Thumps stood up. “I’ll get Leon to call Eureka in the morning.”

  “Even if I’m right,” said Archie, “we won’t be any closer to finding out who Obsidian is.”

  “New clues are new directions,” said Thumps.

  Archie sat on the sofa and put his feet on the coffee table. “What are you going to do about Claire and the baby?”

  Thumps looked at Archie.

  “What? You’re going to have to talk to someone who understands these sorts of things.”

  “You don’t understand these sorts of things.”

  “I read,” said Archie. “And I spend a lot of time on the internet.”

  Thumps stopped at the doorway. “What if the trip to the coast wasn’t the catalyst?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if something else was already in play? What if the break-in and the watch and the stolen car are all part of a larger plan?”

  “And the movie company?”

  “And the movie company,” said Thumps. “What if all of this is connected?”

  “To the Obsidian Murders?”

  “Yes,” said Thumps. “To the murders.”

  Archie stayed on the sofa, looking a little flat, as though someone had let the air out of him. “That,” he said, “would not be good.”

  Thumps picked up the folder. “Can I take this with me?”

  “Sure.” Archie revived a little. “So, what do we do next?”

  “We aren’t going to do anything,” said Thumps. “It’s late. I’m going to go home, read a book, and go to bed.”

  Archie shook his head. “Your buddy goes out dancing. You go to bed. There’s a killer out there. He may even be right here in Chinook.”

  “Good news,” said Thumps. “If he’s in town, at least we know where he is.”

  “That’s the good news?”

  Thumps yawned. “Ask me that in the morning.”

  Thirty

  The night was black. Thumps eased the car away from the curb and drove until he was out of sight of the bookstore. Then he turned north. Archie wasn’t going to be happy when he found out that Thumps hadn’t gone home, that he had ditched the little Greek.

  THE MUSTANG PARKING lot was full. The birth of a baby hadn’t slowed business. Thumps wondered if Big Fish was back behind the bar or home with Lorraine, up to his neck in fatherhood.

  Leon was at a corner table by himself. “Took you long enough.”

  “He’s a friend.”

  “He’s a civilian,” said Leon. “And if he’s right, he could be in a world of danger.”

  “No Ora Mae?”

  “Just an excuse,” said Leon. “If I had stayed, we’d still be there.”

  Thumps put the folder on the table. “It’s pretty compelling.”

  “He really figure it out?”

  “Most of it,” said Thumps. “Archie’s thinking that Obsidian arranged for suspects to be in place at each of the killings.”

  “Complicated, but effective.” Leon nodded. “One-stop shopping.”

  “And then along comes Eureka.”

  “Only this time,” said Leon, “something happens, and the plan winds up in the toilet.”

  “Archie’s figured that part out too.”

  “Shit,” said Leon. “He’s smarter than he looks.”

  “We need to call Eureka in the morning.”

  “To check to see who we had in lockup at the time.” Leon sipped his beer. “It’s a long shot, but I can call Sam and have her check it out.”

  “Sam?”

  “Samantha Tupper,” said Leon. “You met her. She said you were cute.”

  “Cute?”

  “But she’s got no taste in men.”

  “Archie figures that Obsidian is in town,” said Thumps. “That all of this—the break-in, the watch, the car—is part of a long plan.”

  “Nothing I see to say the little guy is wrong. Big question is why?”

  “That’s the question, all right.”

  “And the other question,” said Leon, “is what any of them have to do with this.”

  Thumps followed Leon’s eyes.

  “They were already here when I arrived.”

  Anthony Mercer, Runa Gerson, and Harry Shipman were at a table by themselves.

  “Didn’t take the old guy for a party animal.”

  “You think one of them is Obsidian?”

  “Why not?” said Leon. “It’s a perfect cover.”

  “Did Ora Mae really sleep with you?”

  “Jesus,” said Leon. “You’ve been living in a small town too long.”

  Thumps looked over at the table. “So, you think we should join them?”

  “Beat the bushes?” said Leon. “See what flies out?”

  “You got any better idea?”

  SHIPMAN WAS THE first to see them coming.

  “Mr. DreadfulWater,” he said, “and Mr. Ranger.”

  “Join us,” said Mercer. “We’re celebrating.”

  “We’ve got the script in order,” said Gerson. “Another six months and we’ll be on set.”

  “Too bad,” said Leon. “Thumps and I had worked out some interesting plot points for the film.”

  “Really?” said Mercer.

  Leon pulled out his silver dollar. “Heads, you tell him,” he said. “Tails, I get the honours.”

  Shipman smiled. “You guys practise this shtick? Dumb and dumber?”

  Leon looked under his hand. “I guess it’s me.”

  “You discovered something?” said Gerson. “About the case?”

  Mercer sat up. “You solved it?”

  “That could help the film,” said Gerson. “Or it could hurt it.”

  “We haven’t solved it,” said Leon. “But we’re thinking that we know why no one has caught Obsidian.”

  Mercer looked at Thumps. “Obsidian?”

  “Archie’s name for the killer.”

  “It’s not bad,” said Gerson. “Obsidian. Might be able to use it in the film.”

  “If you haven’t solved the case,” said Shipman, “just what have you accomplished?”

  “Modus operandi,” said Leon. “We’ve got Obsidian’s pattern.”

  “Okay,” said Mercer. “Let’s have it.”

  “Ongoing investigation,” said Leon. “Can’t share the details with you right now.”

  “That’s not nice,” said Gerson. “No one likes to be teased.”

  “What we can tell you,” said Leon, “is that there are a series of serial killings that everyone thought were solved.”

  “But they’re not solved?” said Mercer.

  “In each case, the person thought to be responsible committed suicide.”

  “And the case was closed,” said Shipman.

  “That’s right,” said Leon. “We’re thinking it was a set-up. That the real killer walked away and left somebody else to take the blame.”

  “Too complicated for a movie,” said Shipman. “But it is intriguing. You know who the real killer is?”

  “We’re talking about the killings on the coast?” said Gerson. “Right?”

  “That and more,” said Leon. “We expect to break the case in a couple of days.”

  “Well, this is exciting.” Mercer turned to Shipman. “We may have to rewrite the script.”

  “Frankly, my dear,” said Shipman in a reasonable impersonation of Clark Gable, “I don’t give a damn.”

  Gerson yawned. “I’m going to call it a night, Scarlett. Big day tomorrow.”

  “You can’t go,” said Mercer. “Dancing’s just about to start.”

  “I’m with Runa.” Shipman got to his feet. “I need my beauty sleep.”

  “All right, party poopers,” said Mercer. “But don’t wake me before ten.”

  MERCER ORDERED ANOTHER pitcher of beer and some nachos. “I think
we look a little desperate.”

  Leon scanned the room. “Three guys sitting by themselves?”

  “Three’s not a good number,” said Mercer. “One is okay. Two is fine. But three . . .”

  “Because?”

  “I’ve done a study of bars,” said Mercer. “When women come into a drinking establishment by themselves, they’re either depressed or looking for someone to drink with. Two women in a bar are looking for a party.”

  “Sounds scientific,” said Thumps.

  “Experience,” said Mercer. “But you see a group of three or more women, you know that they’ve brought their party with them and that you don’t stand a chance.”

  “Whereas,” said Leon, “when you see three guys, you know that they’re desperate?”

  “Exactly,” said Mercer. “You think we should get some chicken wings?”

  Big Fish was nowhere to be seen. Which made sense. Thumps imagined that a newborn would take all the energy of two adults for quite some time. This was the world to which Claire was committed, the world that Thumps was about to enter.

  Or not.

  “So,” said Leon. “Just how does this film business work?”

  Mercer looked blank.

  “I mean, do you use your own money?”

  Mercer snorted and then started to cough. “Are you kidding? No one uses their own money.”

  “But someone has to pay for the production.”

  “Sure,” said Mercer. “In the case of Obsidian, it’s Dustan Schwarzstein Ltd. Spells Dustan with an a. That’s the money pot.”

  “He easy to work for?”

  “Not a ‘he,’” said Mercer. “Dustan Schwarzstein is an it. A holding company.”

  Leon nudged Thumps with his foot. “So, you guys are just the hired help?”

  “I’m a filmmaker,” said Mercer. “A damn good one.”

  “And this is your big break?” said Thumps.

  “I’ve made other films,” said Mercer.

  Thumps waited.

  “Okay, mostly commercials,” said Mercer. “But that’s all going to change.”

  “Congratulations,” said Leon.

  Thumps got up. “I’m going home.”

  Mercer turned to Leon and brightened. “You’re going to stay, aren’t you?”

  “Sure,” said Leon. “Two guys aren’t as desperate as three.”

  “Two guys are perfect.” Mercer ran a hand through his hair. “See those two at the bar? The blonde and the redhead? As soon as you stood up, they looked our way.”

  Thumps moved past Leon and put his hands on the man’s shoulder for a moment. “Maybe Mr. Mercer can fill you in on the film business.”

  “You ask me any question,” said Mercer, “and I’ll answer it.”

  “Best offer I’ve had all day,” said Leon.

  “The redhead,” said Mercer. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like the redhead.”

  “In my experience,” said Leon, “that’s not the way it works.”

  THUMPS STOOD OUTSIDE the Mustang and took in the night sky and the stars. Thumps had loved the coast. The fog. The damp. The soft, deep greens of the old-growth forests.

  What was left of them.

  But the high prairies had their own grandeur, and a clear sky at night was high on Thumps’s list of marvels.

  He strolled through the parking lot on the off chance that whoever had taken the black Mustang had a sense of humour and had parked it outside the bar in plain sight.

  Thumps took his time as he walked past the Chevys, the Dodges, the Hondas, the Hyundais, the Fords, and the Jeeps. As well as an entire tribe of pickups. To be sure, there would have been a certain poetry to finding the Mustang at the Mustang.

  But in the end, all he found was the sound of the land at night.

  Thirty-One

  For the first time since he had returned from the coast, Thumps got to bed in good order and was up the next morning with the dawn. Leon’s RV was parked in the backyard. The curtains were drawn, and there were no signs that anyone was home. He considered knocking on the side of the vehicle, but there was something to be said for having the morning to himself.

  Yesterday’s mail was on the kitchen table, each letter carefully slit open. Thumps was going to have to talk to Rose. He just couldn’t think of what he would say. He checked the envelopes. Bills. An offer of another free credit card. Thumps shuffled through them again on the off chance that there was a postcard from Freeway.

  Having a wonderful time in Tibet. Wish you were here.

  AL WAS IN FRONT of the grill, working a pile of hash browns. Wutty Youngbeaver, Jimmy Monroe, and Russell Plunkett were on their usual stools. There was an older couple with cameras draped around their necks at the far end of the counter. Tourists, by the look of them, not sure that coming to the café was a good idea but bold enough to take the risk.

  “Hey, Thumps.” Jimmy Monroe got off his stool and put his hand on Wutty’s shoulder. “May I introduce Wutty Youngbeaver, Baron of Sealand.”

  “Grand Baron,” said Wutty. “Grand Baron.”

  Thumps found his favourite stool and sat down.

  “So from now on,” said Jimmy, “we have to address Wutty as ‘your Baronship.’”

  “If you ask me,” said Russell, “it sounds stupid.”

  “You can buy a knightship,” said Wutty. “But knights are below barons.”

  “Maybe Thumps would like to be a knight,” said Jimmy. “A knight in shining armour and all that.”

  Thumps tried to imagine how he was going to stay out of this conversation. Al came to the rescue.

  “You want breakfast?”

  The cold snap in her voice caught Thumps by surprise.

  “Al’s grumpy,” shouted Wutty. “We should have warned you.”

  “I’m not grumpy,” said Al, her voice sharper than before.

  “She got stood up,” said Wutty. “By that car guy.”

  Thumps tried to look sympathetic. “George Gorka?”

  “You want breakfast or not?”

  “I want breakfast.”

  “And coffee?”

  “Yes,” said Thumps. “I’d like coffee as well.”

  “Then you might want to keep your opinions to yourself.”

  “I don’t have any opinions.”

  Al poured coffee into a cup. “Keep it that way.”

  “The car guy was supposed to take Al to that fancy place in Glory,” said Wutty.

  “Détour,” said Russell. “It’s supposed to be French.”

  “It’s got one of those funny marks above the e,” said Jimmy. “That’s what makes it French.”

  “Marilyn Travers over at the credit union says that their specialty is awful,” said Wutty. “So you probably didn’t miss much.”

  “Offal,” said Al, her face shaping itself into a tornado. “O-f-f-a-l.”

  “That’s not how you spell ‘awful.’”

  “Offal is the entrails and internal organs of an animal,” said Al. “Tongue, bone marrow, cow heart, pig’s lungs.”

  Wutty blanched. “Jesus!”

  Thumps took a chance. “That doesn’t sound like George. I’ll bet he got hung up in Cheyenne.”

  “That’s what phones are for,” said Al.

  “No man in his right mind would miss a date with you.”

  “Is that because I’m so ravishing,” said Al, “or because I’m armed and dangerous?”

  Thumps was working on the right answer when Leon came through the door of the café in a rush.

  “Hey, Tonto. What’s the big idea?”

  Thumps couldn’t think of any big idea he had had lately.

  “Ditching me.”

  “Didn’t ditch you,” said Thumps. “You were asleep. Thought you might have company.”

  Leon slid onto the stool next to Thumps. “I did have company. Judy. Nurse at the hospital. That friend of yours who had a baby?”

  “Lorraine and Big Fish?”

  “Judy says they stil
l haven’t figured out what to call the kid,” said Leon. “Judy spent most of the night on my computer, looking up names.”

  Thumps made a sympathetic noise. “Sounds romantic.”

  “Judy thinks they should call the kid Ragnar after some show about Vikings.” Leon made a face. “What kind of a name is Ragnar?”

  “Wutty has a new name.” Jimmy raised his coffee cup to show Al that it was empty. “Baron Youngbeaver, Lord of the Realm, Keeper of the Prissy Purse.”

  “Privy Purse,” said Wutty.

  “What’s a Privy Purse?” said Russell.

  “It’s the allowance that royalty gets for their private expenses,” said Leon. “I saw this documentary about Queen Elizabeth.”

  “You get an allowance?” said Russell. “If you sign up with this Sealand outfit?”

  “Hope you didn’t buy that off eBay,” said Jimmy, “’cause those bastards are a bunch of crooks.”

  “So,” said Russell, “how much do you figure a baronship is worth?”

  “Hey!” Al whacked the counter with her hand. “Do I look like I want to listen to this shit?”

  Wutty held his hands out. “Hey, Al,” he said, “say the word, and the boys and I will have a talk with the asshole.”

  “Yeah,” said Russell. “No one messes with our friends.”

  Al smiled at Thumps. “They’re sweet,” she said, “in a Cro-Magnon sort of way.”

  “He’ll show up with roses and a good explanation,” said Leon. “Man didn’t strike me as a fool.”

  “I’m guessing you want breakfast too.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Leon. “I’ll have whatever Tonto is having.”

  “Tonto?” Al looked at Leon sideways. “What’s Thumps call you?”

  “Leon,” said Leon. “What else would he call me?”

  BREAKFAST ARRIVED IN good order, and Thumps and Leon ate without talking. Wutty and Russell and Jimmy were busy drinking coffee and dreaming up ways to spend Wutty’s privy purse.

  “You get any land with your baronship?”

  “Naw,” said Wutty. “I just got my allotment.”

  “Too bad,” said Jimmy. “If you’re going to be landed gentry, you’re going to need more land than that.”

  “You can buy land on the moon,” said Russell. “You get an authentic certificate and a map that shows just what part you own.”