The Red Power Murders

by Thomas King

  Noah had found Dakota one of those happy endings that you hear about from time to time. Thumps had visited her in the hospital, had sat with her that first week when no one was sure if she would live. And after she recovered her strength, he had taken her to the train station. The last time he saw her, she was headed home to Albuquerque. Either she hadn’t made it. Or she had come back.

  “Don’t try to figure it out.” Dakota sat down on the sofa. “It won’t make any sense.”

  “Try me.”

  Dakota and Noah had been lovers. It hadn’t been a secret. Nor was it a secret that Noah wasn’t monogamous. Thumps imagined that power gave some men the illusion of privilege, in the same way that wealth gave some men the illusion of power. Noah liked to joke that strong men had the right to breed. It was all about sex, he said. Love was just something White culture made up to hide the fact that we were all animals.

  “I went home. Stayed for a couple of months. And then I came back. There’s nothing much else to tell.”

  Thumps poured himself a cup of tea.

  “The movement was my life. I came back for that.”

  “And Noah?”

  “Noah was just the face that the movement wore.” Dakota’s eyes caught his. “It could have been yours.”

  “Not likely,” said Thumps.

  “That’s right,” said Dakota. “You didn’t believe in it.”

  “I didn’t believe in Noah.”

  “Noah wasn’t the movement.”

  “So, you and Noah . . . ?” Thumps let the question dangle in mid-air.

  “Yeah. We tried it again after I came back.” Dakota put her hands in her lap. “Then I grew up. What about you?”

  “Everybody grows up.”

  “Some don’t.”

  “You ever get married?”

  Dakota shook her head. “Thought about it from time to time. You remember Mrs. Tomioka?”

  Thumps came up blank.

  “Lucy’s next-door neighbour.”

  “The crazy Japanese woman?”

  “She wasn’t crazy. She was eccentric. She liked to tell Lucy and me that when women get to a certain age, they begin to remind men of other women they’ve known. And from there on out, marriage wasn’t worth the bother.”

  “Did she have an alternative?”

  “Yeah,” said Dakota. “Dildos, hot baths, and dark chocolate. How about you?”

  “Me?”

  “Marriage?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t sound so sure.”

  “Came close once.” Thumps pushed the memory of Anna back into the shadows. “But it didn’t work out.”

  Dakota walked to the closet and took out a heavy wool jacket. “I have to check in with the people at the church to make sure everything is ready for tonight. You want to walk with me?”

  “Sure.”

  “But no shop talk. I want to hear about you and what you’ve been doing.”

  THE READING, THUMPS discovered, was to be at the United Church on Main, a newer building with good acoustics. When the Chinook Jazz Festival came to town, the United Church was one of the main venues. Thumps turned his collar up and took the long way around. In the fall, when the leaves ran crimson and yellow, the path along the river was wildfire and blood. Now it was a bleak walk, the river ash grey, the sky bone white. Autumn brought with it banks of towering clouds in soft pastels. Winter brought a cold corpse laid out on the horizon.

  “So, you used to be a cop?”

  “Northern California.”

  “I never imagined you as a cop.”

  “Some things just happen.”

  “But you’re not a cop anymore.”

  Thumps picked up a rock and skipped it off the ice into the open water. “Nope. I’m a photographer.”

  “You’re the one who’s going to take the pictures?”

  “That’s me.”

  Thumps and Dakota had dated when they were both in Utah, but her first love had been the movement, and he had never been able to get closer than sex. It was as much his fault as hers. Fanaticism, even in its most benign forms, made him uncomfortable. There were good causes and bad causes, but in either case you were expected to suspend your disbelief. It was hard enough for him to do this at movies. In real life, it had proved to be impossible.

  “You don’t like Noah, do you?”

  “Don’t have to like him to take his picture.”

  “Have you read his new book?”

  “Nope.”

  “I’ll get you a copy.”

  The river curved around the edge of the downtown, passed under a series of stone and steel bridges, and ran out into the countryside as a string of beaver ponds before it regrouped and headed for Turtle Lake.

  “Why’d Noah come to Chinook?”

  “I thought I said no shop talk.” Dakota stopped and watched the river. “It’s almost frozen.”

  “I was just curious.”

  “Now you sound like a cop.” Dakota put a hand on Thumps’s shoulder and let her glove brush his cheek. “I better get to the church.”

  Thumps watched the river slide under the ice plates. Something wasn’t right. Maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was simply the surprise of seeing Dakota after all these years. Whatever the reason, he could hear his instincts whispering that cold weather wasn’t the only dangerous thing that had just arrived in Chinook.

  EIGHT

  The United Church on Main Street was supposed to be an inexpensive reproduction of a famous church somewhere on the east coast. Boston maybe. Or Baltimore. The original was probably architecturally pleasing in the way old churches tended to be, but this copy, with its stone-veneer face and its aluminum-siding body, looked like a politician in a wash-and-wear suit.

  The inside wasn’t any better. Plywood benches, dead dog brown carpet, and tall windows with stained-glass patterns painted on plastic panes.

  On the walk from the river to the church, neither Thumps nor Dakota had said anything much. A memory here and there. Nothing more.

  “Can we have dinner later?”

  Thumps nodded. “Sure, if you’re free.”

  Dakota leaned in and touched his cheek with her lips. “I will be.”

  Thumps stood on the steps, watching his breath turn frosty, and went through his options. He could go home, crawl into bed, and warm up. Freeway would like that. The cat’s schedule consisted of waking up at around six in the morning, complaining, eating, visiting the kitty litter, and then going back to sleep for the rest of the day. If she had someone to sleep with, so much the better. Especially if that someone would raise the covers just a little so she could crawl in and curl up behind the crook of a leg.

  Or he could leave town.

  The latter choice had the most immediate appeal. He could throw his gear in the car, chase the sun south, and come back when the past had left town. Seeing Noah and Dakota again had raised old ghosts, ghosts that he had no intention of entertaining.

  “You DreadfulWater?”

  The man standing by the door to the church was a stranger. Short black hair, dark eyes. Fit. The way Thumps imagined he had looked at thirty-five. The man was wearing a navy blue suit with a white shirt and a tie that looked to have been made out of the same material as the suit. Along with a down-filled parka with a fur-trimmed hood.

  “You DreadfulWater?”

  “Nice parka.”

  “It’s been tried,” said the man.

  Thumps smiled. “I’m DreadfulWater.”

  The man kept his hands in his pockets. “Spencer Asah.”

  “Asah?” Thumps looked at the man closely.

  “Kiowa,” said Asah.

  “Cherokee,” said Thumps.

  “Aren’t we supposed to share family histories about now?”

  Thumps jammed his hands into his pockets. “So, what can I do for the FBI?”

  Asah smiled. “What gave me away? The white shirt, right?”

  “Didn’t know any of you were any of us.”

>   Asah took a stick of gum out of his pocket and offered it to Thumps. “Have you ever had the ‘if you admire it, it’s yours’ routine work?”

  “You want some coffee?”

  “Am I buying?”

  Al’s was empty. The lunch regulars were gone, and it was that time of the day when Al retired to the backroom with the newspaper and put her feet up on a milk crate. And when she put her feet up, she did not want to put them down.

  “I’ve got it,” Thumps shouted into the backroom. “Don’t get up.” He reached across the counter, grabbed the pot and two cups. “Just coffee.”

  Asah slid into one of the booths. “Nice place.”

  “Good food.” Thumps poured two cups. “This about Noah Ridge?”

  “I hear you two are friends.”

  “You really with the FBI?”

  Asah took out a black leather case and laid it open on the table. An Indian to follow an Indian. The bureau’s idea of a good idea. “How well do you know Noah Ridge?”

  Thumps had played this game before. He had liked it when he was a cop. Now that he was a photographer, it wasn’t as exciting. “Did know. It was a long time ago.”

  “And now he comes to town.”

  Thumps shrugged. “Book tour.”

  “That’s what I hear.” Asah spooned sugar into his coffee.

  “You going to arrest him?”

  “Nope,” said Asah. “I’m just here as an observer.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Asah was smiling now. “You know I can’t talk about bureau business.”

  Thumps had met a number of federal agents during his years on the California coast. None of them had had a sense of humour. The ones who had come to the coast that one summer to help with the Obsidian Murders had been grim-faced and officious. Thumps wasn’t sure how much help Asah was going to be in Chinook. The ones in California hadn’t been any help at all.

  “So, why are you telling me any of this?”

  “We’re both from Oklahoma,” said Asah. “Maybe we’re related.”

  “Sure.”

  Asah finished his coffee and pushed a card across the table. “That’s my cell. Since we’re family, maybe you’ll give me a call if you think of something.”

  “The Tucker?” Thumps wanted to say something about his tax dollars. “Government work must be sweet.”

  “I have to stay close,” said Asah. “In case something exciting happens.”

  THUMPS STAYED IN THE BOOTH and worked things over in his head. So far as he knew, Noah hadn’t broken any federal laws, and Thumps had trouble imagining the bureau sending an agent all the way from Denver to babysit an over-the-hill activist. Something else was going on, and it didn’t appear that Asah was about to tell him. Which suited Thumps just fine. As far as he was concerned, he didn’t want to know.

  THE OLD LAND TITLES BUILDING was a tall two-storey brick affair that tripled as Beth Mooney’s medical practice, the county morgue, and the three-bedroom apartment that Beth and Ora Mae Foreman shared. The morgue was in the basement. The office was on the ground floor. The apartment was on the second floor with a view of the river and the mountains. Thumps tried to limit his visits to the two floors above ground. He had been to the morgue on a number of occasions and had always left with the promise that he would not return.

  Thumps pressed the buzzer and waited.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s me, Thumps.”

  “Second floor.”

  Thumps had a fondness for older buildings with high ceilings, but they did mean longer staircases. The Land Titles building had an elevator, and each spring Beth and Ora Mae talked about getting it fixed. Thumps suspected that Beth liked climbing stairs.

  Beth was waiting for him. “Took you long enough.”

  “See the elevator isn’t fixed yet.”

  “Walking is good for you.” Beth turned back into the apartment. “You want something to drink?”

  Thumps stood on the landing for a moment, bent over, his hands on his knees. “Sure.”

  The last time Thumps had been to the apartment, Ora Mae was painting the walls dark yellow. Now they were sea green. The faint smell of wet paint was in the air.

  “What happened to the yellow?”

  “You mean what happened to the taupe.”

  “Taupe?”

  “The yellow was two colours ago.”

  Ora Mae worked at Wild Rose Realty, where she sold anything with a roof. But her passion was home decorating, particularly painting.

  “You know if you get too much paint built up, it will begin to crack.”

  “Painting makes her happy,” said Beth. “You want to tell her to stop painting?”

  No, Thumps thought to himself, he didn’t want to do that.

  “So, you here to see me or Ora Mae?”

  “You.”

  “Last time you wanted to see me, it was about a dead body.” Beth put a pot of water on the stove. “We talking about the guy at the Holiday Inn?”

  “I was just curious.”

  “Funny,” said Beth. “You don’t look like a cop.”

  “I’m working with the sheriff.”

  The kettle on the stove was beginning to gurgle. “Coffee or tea?” Thumps looked out the window. A snow squall had snuck in, and the streets were beginning to disappear.

  “Tea, please.”

  “Good choice,” said Beth, putting on a thick red sweater. “But if you’re going to waste my time and drink my tea, the least you can do is help.”

  THE BASEMENT IN the Land Titles building was not Thumps’s idea of help. Raking leaves was help. Shovelling a walk was help. Jump-starting a car was help.

  “I have to get ready for the reading,” Thumps said as he followed Beth down the stairs.

  “That’s not until tomorrow.”

  Thumps could feel his feet slow down as they got to the first floor. “Yeah, but I should probably go home.”

  “Don’t be a baby.”

  “No, I have to . . . shower and . . . shave and . . . check my cameras.”

  Beth pulled the door open. Thumps felt the rush of warm, moist air lurch out of the black hole in front of him.

  “Tell you what,” said Beth, “I won’t do any cutting. Okay?”

  Thumps began breathing quickly, short, shallow breaths through his mouth. Drinking the tea was now out of the question.

  Beth hit the light switch. “See? All nice and bright.”

  The stairs to the basement were metal and they made a sharp, clanging sound that Thumps had come to associate with danger. The only windows were set high on the walls and painted black. But it wasn’t the sound of the stairs or the dark windows that made Thumps’s skin move. It was the desperate sense of loneliness.

  And the smell.

  “Okay,” said Beth. “Where should we start?”

  Thumps felt his stomach heave. “How about we look at his belongings.”

  “Sure.” Beth took a sip of her tea. “We can sneak up on the corpse later.”

  JOHN SMITH’S BELONGINGS consisted of the clothes the man had been wearing and a small suitcase that contained a shaving kit, a pair of pants, two shirts, two pairs of underwear, and two pairs of socks. Thumps had hoped to find something to tell him who the man was, a prescription bottle, a letter, something with a name on it.

  Beth sat on a stool and watched Thumps sift through the dead man’s things. “So, you think John Smith is an alias?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Oh,” said Beth, “I think he was having an affair with Pocahontas and didn’t want anyone to know.”

  “This it?”

  “When I left, Andy was still looking for Mr. Smith’s car.”

  “Did you tell him it was a Ford?”

  “Oh, dear,” said Beth, tilting her head to one side and batting her eyes, “that’s what I forgot to do.”

  The labels on the clothes read “Cabela’s, World’s Foremost Outfitter, Outdoor Gear Since 1961.”

  “F
ancy that,” said Beth.

  “What?”

  “Ora Mae and I stopped by their store.”

  “Cabela’s?”

  “When we went through Nebraska. They’ve got this giant store in the middle of nowhere.”

  Thumps held the cotton pants up. They weren’t new, and neither was the thick leather belt. “Doesn’t look like Ora Mae’s kind of thing,” he said, remembering that Ora Mae preferred the designer side of the aisle.

  “It’s not,” said Beth, “but the store was worth the stop. It’s got to be a couple of acres with log beams and rafters. Upscale in an outdoor sort of way. They’ve got this artificial mountain at the back with stuffed animals standing on the slopes. And next to the mountain they have a trout stream with live trout.”

  “A trout stream?”

  “The clothes are a pretty good deal. If you like cotton.”

  “With live trout?”

  Beth picked up the gun and handed it to Thumps. “If you’re going to shoot yourself, this is the gun to do it with.”

  Thumps looked at the gun for a moment and then slipped it back in its holster. “You want to do me a favour?”

  “It’s what I live for.”

  “The dead guy . . . the corpse . . . could you check his leg?”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” said Beth. “What am I looking for?”

  Thumps backed away from the table to a safe distance. “His right leg. Near the ankle. On the inside.”

  Beth went to a set of stainless-steel doors, opened the one on the left, and pulled out the long metal tray. She unzipped the body bag. “This leg?”

  Thumps turned away and stared at the stairs.

  “It’s just a leg,” said Beth. “And look at this.”

  “What?” said Thumps, without turning back to the table.

  “Aren’t you the clever one. It looks like a callus. Just above the ankle, as though something has been rubbing against the skin.”

  “New?”

  “Nope. He’s had this for a while. You want to share?”

  “Just a hunch,” said Thumps. “You got the fingerprints ready to go?”

  “I do.”

  “You might want to run them through the FBI database.”