The Red Power Murders

by Thomas King

  “They do in the summer.”

  “Two months,” said the sheriff. “Three, tops. You got your cameras?”

  “So, Ridge is dead.”

  Hockney hitched up his pants as he walked through the thin snow to the front door. “Guess that blows your publicity theory.”

  “Wasn’t my theory.”

  “You got any others?” said the sheriff. “’Cause we’re going to need a good one right about now.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Thumps had been right about the windows. The entire south side of the house was a wall of glass. He wondered what the panorama looked like in the summer, because right now the view was desolate. That’s why no one stayed past early autumn. Sitting on the designer couches and looking out the windows could really get depressing. Not that there was much room on the couches. Andy was stretched out on one, eating his lunch, and stretched out on the other was Noah’s body.

  “Hey, sheriff.” Andy slipped his feet back in his boots. “You believe this place?”

  “You call Beth?”

  “As soon as I found him.” Andy smiled at Thumps.

  Noah was curled up on the couch, his face buried in the cushion. If it hadn’t been for the large blood stain that covered the back of his shirt, Thumps might have thought he was simply taking a nap. He looked smaller now, as though death had shrunk him. Thumps tried to find the emotions he should be feeling, but all he could think about was Dakota and how she was going to take this. And whether she had anything to do with it.

  “Looks like he was shot,” said Andy. “Could have been a suicide.”

  “You mean like Street?”

  “Come on, Duke,” said Andy. “It was a joke.”

  “You want me to take the pictures now?”

  “Take them later.” The sheriff looked out the windows at the deck and the lake. “Right now, you’re a deputy and we need to talk.”

  “A deputy?” Andy swung himself off the couch. “Him?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Thumps, “it’s just temporary.”

  “Duke . . .”

  Hockney stopped Andy with a gesture. “Watch the body until Beth gets here. Eat your lunch, and don’t make a mess.”

  “Shit! He’s a fucking civilian!” Andy had a short fuse and it was lit. “I’m the one who found him.”

  “And you did a good job,” said the sheriff, as though each word were cutting his tongue. “Let me know when Beth gets here.”

  THE DECK WAS the last place Thumps wanted to talk.

  “Couldn’t we talk inside?”

  “Andy’s there.”

  “Have him eat his lunch out here.” Thumps stuffed his hands in his pockets. “We can watch the body.”

  “Get a warmer coat.”

  There was a mean streak that ran through Hockney, which could have passed for simple stubborn, if you didn’t know the man. If Thumps remembered correctly, it was Flannery O’Connor who said that there wasn’t any pleasure in life but meanness, or something to that effect, and he supposed that even though she had never known Hockney, she had him in mind.

  Thumps began moving from side to side to stay warm. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Course it wasn’t,” said the sheriff. “And I’m not blaming you either.”

  “Me?”

  “He was your friend.”

  “No, he wasn’t.”

  The sheriff blew a long silvery cloud out of his mouth toward the lake. “How much you think one of these things costs?”

  “Half a million minimum.”

  “You think they’d care if my wife and I moved in for the winter?”

  Thumps tried to stop the smile. “Rich people don’t like company.”

  “Yeah,” said Hockney. “You think she killed him?”

  Thumps had been waiting for the question. “Dakota’s life is the movement. Like it or not, the only thing of value that RPM has is Noah.”

  “Had,” said Hockney. “So, you don’t think it was a triangle or something like that?”

  It was cold as hell outside, but the sheriff was beginning to warm him up. “You mean me and Dakota and Noah?”

  “That would make a triangle.”

  “Sounds like something Andy would come up with.”

  “Say what you will,” said Hockney, “he did find the body.”

  “And exactly what was he doing out here?”

  The sheriff shrugged. “Doing what all good law enforcement personnel do. Making the rounds. Checking the territory.”

  “So, he’s on his regular patrol. He knows all the houses are closed for the season, and he drives by one that has fresh tracks going to the garage.” Thumps waited to see if the sheriff wanted to give it up.

  “He found the body, that’s all that counts.”

  “Blind squirrel could have found that acorn.”

  Hockney turned his head to the sound of scrunching snow. “That’ll be the body lady.”

  “You don’t expect me to congratulate Andy, do you?”

  “Couldn’t hurt,” said the sheriff. “You can never have too many friends.”

  Thumps was sure that Andy had friends, other men who thought bigotry was simply personal opinion and that sexism was funny as hell. And if he was being honest with himself, Thumps had probably laughed at the same jokes that amused Andy and his buddies.

  Beth looked at the house. “Nice place.”

  Even buried under a couple of layers of fleece, Beth looked good. Thumps knew that she went to the gym at least four times a week and watched what she ate, and he knew he was never going to follow her example. Still, the results were marvellous.

  “Inside or out?”

  “In,” said the sheriff, and he led the parade back to where the air was warm and where Thumps could take his hands out of his pockets and stop shivering.

  “You boys have been busy.” Beth set her bag on the floor next to the body.

  “I found him,” said Andy.

  Beth slipped on a pair of rubber gloves. “You take any pictures yet?”

  “Not yet,” said Thumps.

  “Then give me a few minutes to get organized.”

  “Take all the time you want. Me and Thumps are going to look around.”

  “What about me?” said Andy, who was not keen on being left behind again.

  “Tell Beth how you found the body,” said the sheriff.

  THUMPS WASN’T SURE how many summer homes had three-car garages, and he couldn’t remember if he had ever been in one. He would have been happy with a single garage in which to store the Volvo. Three seemed excessive, even ostentatious.

  “Well,” said the sheriff after he found the light switch, “that’s what I call a garage.”

  “Yeah,” said Thumps. “But it doesn’t solve your problem.”

  “You mean our problem,” said Hockney.

  The garage was empty. There was a set of tracks in the middle bay, tracks left by melting snow. But no car.

  The sheriff squatted down by the tracks and felt the concrete. “Shit. Get a shot of this.”

  Thumps could feel Hockney’s frustration. Street’s murder was bad enough. And now this.

  “All right.” Hockney stood up and wiped his hands on his pants. “We have a body that didn’t get here by itself. We have fresh tire tracks in the snow that come off the road and into this garage. So, someone beats Noah up, brings him out here, and shoots him, or they shoot him at the hotel and then bring him out here. That the way you read it?”

  “Yeah,” said Thumps, “but it doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It sure as hell doesn’t. If you’re going to kill the sonofabitch, why not do it at the hotel and leave the body there? No profit in dragging it all the way out here.”

  “Maybe our killer is a real-estate agent.”

  “Hysterical,” said Hockney. “You and Andy ought to go on tour.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No,” said the sheriff, “two murders in less than a week is real funny.”


  “You figure it’s the same guy?”

  “Little sexist, isn’t it?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  The sheriff walked over to the workbench and ran his hand along all the tools that were neatly organized on pegboard. “Compound cut-off saw,” said Hockney. “I was going to buy one, but I’ve already got one mortgage on the house.”

  “At least we don’t have to deal with reporters.”

  “They’ll be here soon enough.”

  Thumps wondered how the Connors would feel about an army of journalists invading their home. Not that they were using it right now. They might even enjoy the notoriety. It would certainly give them something to talk about with their friends and neighbours for the two months they spent at the lake.

  “My wife’s got this chart that shows the effect that stress has on life expectancy.” Hockney strolled to the door that led back to the house. “Wants me to be more optimistic. Wants me to look on the bright side of things.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Great,” said the sheriff as he flipped off the lights. “According to the chart, I should have died two years ago.”

  Beth was waiting for them. “Just in time,” she said. “Anybody want to tell me what we have here?”

  Andy swaggered over, his hands on his hips. “Sure,” he said. “We got a dead guy on a couch.”

  Beth kept a straight face. “Any of the other children want to answer the question?”

  Thumps had learned a long time ago that there were times when it was best to keep your mouth shut, and so far as he could see, this was one of those times. Besides, making Andy look foolish was too easy.

  Hockney waited as long as he could. “She’s asking about the pillow and the blanket.”

  Andy looked. “Yeah? What about them?”

  “The pillow’s under his head,” said the sheriff. “The blanket is over his feet.”

  “You mean it could be suicide?”

  Hockney turned around in a slow circle. Thumps wondered if the sheriff was working on seeing the bright side of Andy.

  “He was shot in the back,” said Beth. “Probably at the hotel. I don’t think we have to worry about suicide.”

  “Okay,” said Andy, who was not enjoying being the centre of attention, “so someone shot him.”

  “And then brought him out to the lake and made him all nice and comfy, so he could enjoy the view?” Hockney took a deep breath and held it for a moment.

  “Why don’t you ask your new deputy those questions?” Andy had switched from stupid to angry.

  “Because,” said the sheriff, in the most fatherly tone of voice he could muster, “he knows the answers.”

  NORMALLY, CRIME SCENES had any number of things to photograph, but besides the tire tracks in the garage, there was only Noah’s body. Thumps took it from several angles, while Andy tried to make small talk with Beth.

  “So, you work out?”

  “That’s right,” said Beth.

  “At Marco’s gym?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I work out sometimes,” said Andy.

  “Good for you.”

  Thumps couldn’t believe it. Andy was trying to hit on Beth. Even the sheriff looked amused.

  “You know what I heard?” said Beth. “I hear that you’re an avid heterosexual.”

  “Me?” Andy sounded genuinely alarmed. “Who the hell told you that?”

  “You get shots of the front?”

  Thumps checked the film in the camera. “Not yet.”

  “No time like the present,” said Beth. “Come on, Andy. You look like a strong man.”

  Thumps had seen enough bodies loaded onto stretchers and gurneys to last a lifetime, but as Beth and Andy rolled Noah off the couch and into the body bag, he felt a new and unpleasant sensation.

  “Shit!” Hockney growled and stepped away. “Fucking great.”

  Thumps wasn’t sure if the sensation was anger or relief or a little of both.

  “I’m getting real annoyed,” said the sheriff, “and what I’d like right about now is for someone to tell me who in the hell this is.”

  “Noah Ridge,” said Andy, pleased that he had got the answer to the question right.

  “What about you,” said the sheriff, glaring at Thumps, “you know him?”

  “Yeah,” said Thumps as he looked at the face of the dead man for the first time. “It’s Reuben Justice.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Thumps could feel the full weight of Hockney’s anger descending on him, and he knew it wasn’t going to do any good to protest.

  “Who?” said Andy, who was trying to catch up.

  “Another one of your old friends?” Hockney tried to scorch Thumps with a glance.

  Thumps liked to think of Andy as a reasonably complete idiot, but he had to admit that the mistake had been an easy one to make. From the back. Reuben and Noah did resemble one another. Thumps hadn’t noticed. Neither had the sheriff.

  Hockney pulled up a chair and sat down. “Don’t you dare tell me that you all look alike.”

  “Wouldn’t do that.”

  “Damn it, DreadfulWater.”

  Outside, it was beginning to snow again. The flakes floated past the bank of windows, and for a moment, the world looked soft and gentle.

  “Not guilty,” said Thumps.

  “You know,” said the sheriff, “I’m beginning to take a real interest in our Mr. Ridge.”

  “Don’t let me stop you.” If Thumps were the cop working the case, he’d sure as hell want to talk to Noah. “FBI knows more than it’s telling.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  “You’re going to have to tell the bureau about this.”

  “As far as I’m concerned,” said Hockney, “Special Agent Asah can find his own damn bodies.” The sheriff put his hat on and walked to the window to watch the snow come down. “Andy and I are going to stick around and do all that crime-scene stuff you see cops do on television. I suppose you still want to quit.”

  “You bet.”

  “But you’re going to stick around and help, aren’t you?”

  THUMPS FOLLOWED BETH into town. The sheriff hadn’t asked, but Thumps knew what Hockney expected him to do. No matter which way you looked at the two murders, everything revolved around Noah Ridge, and the first order of business was to find him as quickly as possible.

  The box of articles Moses had given him was still sitting on the coffee table where he had left it. Freeway was sleeping on top of the box.

  “This is work.” Thumps moved the cat to the couch. Freeway glared at him, meowed once just to let him know that she would make her own decisions, thank you very much, and disappeared down the hall.

  The articles that dealt with Reuben Justice and his trial all contained pretty much the same information. If Justice was to be believed, Buckhorn and Scout and Begay arrived at his house late one night. Begay had been shot, and Justice treated him. Buckhorn didn’t say anything about Denver, and if Justice was telling the truth, the first time he heard anything was when the police came by the hospital to arrest him. It was a thin arrest, but the FBI was able to parlay minor offences, such as treating a gunshot wound and not reporting it along with providing shelter to suspects in a kidnapping case, into a conspiracy charge.

  Thumps had seen this before. A cop was killed. Local or federal, it didn’t matter, and someone had to pay. Most of the time, it was the guilty party.

  Yet here was Justice in Chinook. Just like Mitchell Street. And the only common denominator in the equation was Noah Ridge.

  It took two hours to go through all the articles that Stick had pulled off the internet, and by the time Thumps opened the refrigerator door in the hopes of finding something to eat, something that could be warmed up in the microwave, he was no smarter than when he had begun.

  There was half a bottle of apricot juice, a carton of orange juice, a glass container of rice neatly stacked on a glass container of peaches. Thumps settled
on the peaches and a bowl of cereal. With soy milk. He looked at his watch. Enough time to eat and grab a long, hot shower before he had to begin everything again. The only question now was where to start.

  As he saw it, he had two choices. One was to talk with Dakota to see if she would trust him. That was what Hockney was hoping he would do, and Thumps knew it. The second choice was to stop by the old Land Titles building and check in with Beth and her new corpse. Choice number one was the hands-down favourite, but number two was the right one.

  Beth answered on the third ring. “This better be good.”

  “It’s me.”

  “I’m working.”

  “I know.”

  “You pass out, you’re on your own.”

  Thumps wondered if you could desensitize yourself to the smell of morgues. Logic told him that you could. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have coroners or morticians. But by the time he reached the bottom of the stairs and headed into what Beth liked to call her “kitchen,” Thumps was sorry he had promised anything.

  “I wasn’t fooling.” Beth was standing beside a steel table that held the body of Reuben Justice. And she had already begun the autopsy.

  Thumps tried to find something neutral and friendly to focus on. The smell of disinfectant was strong, and the blood in the air tasted damp and bitter. Even in winter, the morgue seemed to be able to create its own environment.

  “You’re fast.”

  “Sheriff is anxious.”

  Thumps could just imagine what Hockney had said. The second murder would have shifted him out of high gear into something considerably quicker.

  “He was shot,” said Beth as she rolled the body on its side for a moment. “But he didn’t die right away.”

  “Not at the hotel.”

  “No, not enough blood there.”

  “And not at the house.”

  “He was dead by then.”

  Thumps turned away as she pushed the nose of the tongs into the bullet hole in Justice’s back and began rooting around. “Actually, I wanted to look at Street’s effects.”

  “The dead guy in the motel?”

  Thumps tried breathing through his mouth.