by Thomas King
Chinook was buried in snow. The main streets hadn’t been cleared yet and drivers were trying to dig their cars away from the curbs. Thumps tried to remember how many animals slept right through winter. He had thought of six by the time Cooley was able to plow his way into a parking space in front of the sheriff’s office.
Hockney was on the phone. Special Agent Asah was sitting in the chair by the coffee pot. Andy was nowhere to be seen. Whoever the sheriff was talking to was doing most of the talking, and Hockney was doing most of the listening.
“Well, well, well.” Asah got out of the chair. “‘Home are the hunters, home from the hills.’ The sheriff said you’d find him.”
“We got lucky.”
“And I lose twenty dollars.” Asah walked around Noah. “Why isn’t he handcuffed?”
“Didn’t have any.”
“Just as well,” said Asah. “Probably not going to need them.”
Hockney waved Thumps over while he talked on the phone. “Yes, that’s right. Yes, I know how irritating that can be. Yes, I’ll call you when we get more information.” The sheriff let the phone dangle in his hand for a moment and then put it back in its cradle.
“That was George Connor. He’s not happy.” Hockney ran his hand through his hair, glared at Noah. “Where’d you find him?”
“The Connor place.”
“Again.”
Thumps rubbed his hands and blew on his fingers. “There was some damage to one of the doors.”
“What?”
“I didn’t do that,” said Noah. “I don’t even know why I’m under arrest.”
“Trespass,” said Thumps, “and breaking and entering.”
“I didn’t break anything.”
“Well, I guess we should have a talk.” Hockney took the keys to the cells out of his desk. “And if I don’t like your answers, you can join your executive assistant.”
“Dakota?”
“That’s what I was going to tell you,” said Asah. “She’s confessed.”
“To what?”
“The murders,” said Hockney. “She says she was the one who shot Street and Justice.”
“You’re joking.”
“Hard to joke with a confession,” said the sheriff.
As if winter wasn’t bad enough, now Thumps found himself in the middle of a Three Stooges film directed by Federico Fellini.
“Come on, Duke,” said Thumps, “you can’t possibly believe that Dakota has anything to do with this.”
Hockney swivelled around in his chair. “Make me a better offer.”
“Let me talk to her,” said Thumps. “Alone.”
“Sure,” said the sheriff. “It’ll give Mr. Ridge and Special Agent Asah and me a chance to catch up on old times.”
THERE WERE ONLY two reasons why Dakota would have confessed to the killings. One, she was guilty. Two, she was protecting Noah. Thumps didn’t believe the first and couldn’t imagine why she would do the second.
“He’s not worth it.”
Dakota was huddled in a corner of the cell. Thumps remembered the last time he had seen her like this. In a hospital bed in Salt Lake City.
“Neither is the movement.” Thumps waited to see if there was any smoulder left in Dakota. “The only thing worth saving is you.”
“How’s Noah?”
“He called you again, didn’t he?”
Dakota sat up, her elbows on her knees, her eyes looking at the floor.
“Did he ask you to confess to the murders?”
“What difference does it make?”
“It matters to me.”
Dakota shook her head. “No, it doesn’t. You don’t like him.”
Thumps couldn’t argue with that at all. He didn’t like the man, and the more he was getting to know him, the more he didn’t like what he found. It wasn’t just that Noah was conceited, it was that he expected other people to sacrifice themselves for him, to throw themselves in harm’s way so he could slide through unscathed.
“I care about you.”
“What makes you think I didn’t kill Street?”
“Because you didn’t kill Reuben.”
Dakota stood up and came to the bars. “Remember what you said when you put me on that train all those years ago?”
How was it that women could remember those moments? Especially at a time like this. Claire could do it too. Once, she had asked him if he remembered what he had said to her on their first date. He hadn’t been able to recall that either.
“Probably something encouraging.”
Dakota smiled. “You made me promise to eat something.”
“I’m not going to let you take the blame for Noah.”
“He didn’t do it.”
“Maybe not,” said Thumps, “but he sure as hell is responsible.”
ASAH WAS STILL encamped by the coffee pot. Duke was relaxing in his swivel chair.
“She say why she did it?” said Hockney.
“She didn’t do it.”
“Well,” said the sheriff, “that makes me feel better.” On the edge of Hockney’s desk was a blue key and a cellphone. “She tell you who did?”
Thumps suddenly realized he hadn’t been paying attention. “Where’s Noah?”
“Street’s murder makes this a federal case,” said Asah, “so that makes Noah mine.”
“You let him go?”
Hockney held up the blue key. “Guess what this is.”
“The key to the Connor place,” said Thumps. “You didn’t let him go.”
“And this,” said the sheriff, picking up the cellphone, “is the Connors’ cellphone.”
“What the hell is going on?”
“Evidently, Mr. Ridge found the cellphone in one of the drawers in the kitchen and charged the battery. Probably used it to call Ms. Miles.” Hockney was enjoying making Thumps wait. “He found the key under the wooden Indian on the porch. That’s what you would call ironic. I’m going to have to have a word with the Connors about homeland security.”
“Jesus, you did let him go.”
“Well,” said Hockney, “I’m not about to waste good cell space on him right now.”
“What about the breaking and entering?”
“He’s not going anywhere,” said Asah. “He’s under ‘town arrest.’”
“Town arrest?” Thumps looked at Hockney. “This is bullshit!”
“Not much I can do about it,” said the sheriff. “Even if I wanted to.”
“Law and order in action,” said Asah.
It was an old game. Let the suspect loose and see what he does. Asah and Hockney were hoping that Noah would slip up somehow and lead them to enough incriminating evidence to hang him.
“You’re dreaming.”
Asah shrugged. “It’s happened before.”
Thumps turned to the sheriff. “Am I still your deputy?”
“You’re not going to quit on me again, are you?”
“What about it?”
“Sure,” said Hockney. “Just don’t bother Mr. Ridge, and don’t do anything that’s going to piss me off.”
THE TRICK TO beating winter, Thumps discovered as he stormed out of the sheriff’s office, was to stay really angry. Right now he was furious enough to melt a polar cap.
“Hey, wait up.” Asah jogged up behind him. “Nobody thinks your girlfriend did the deed.”
Thumps swung around ready to set Asah on fire. “Then why is she in jail?”
“She confessed.” Asah sighed. “You know what that means.”
“Yeah.”
“And until we get this straightened out or until she comes to her senses, that’s where she stays.”
“You check the cellphone?”
“Yes, we did.” Asah shoved his hands in his pockets. “Noah called the Tucker.”
“And talked Dakota into taking the blame.”
“Probably, but we can’t prove it. And if we toss Ridge in jail, nothing is going to happen.”
“He’s too smar
t. He hasn’t survived this long on luck.”
“Maybe,” said Asah, “but a little luck never hurts.”
“So, what do you do now?”
“Well, first of all, I’m going to give you my parka.” Asah slipped off the coat and handed it to Thumps.
“I don’t want your coat.”
“It’s a gift. You can’t refuse it. Besides, you admired it.”
“Is this a bribe?”
“Agents of the federal government don’t do that kind of thing,” said Asah. “Unless it’s a matter of national security. Or in the service of a sensitive case. Or if the bureau’s reputation is on the line.”
“Or if you just feel like it.”
“Take the coat.” Asah turned back to the sheriff’s office. “I have another. Besides, I’m tired of watching you freeze.”
“What about Noah?”
“Oh,” said Asah, “don’t worry about Mr. Ridge. I’ll take care of him.”
THIRTY
It was after midnight before Thumps got home. Asah’s parka made the walk almost pleasant. Freeway was curled up in the middle of the carpet, next to a lump of yellow vomit. She didn’t meow, and she didn’t rush over and turn figure eights around his feet. She just glared.
“What do you think?”
If Freeway liked the parka, she wasn’t saying. Thumps tore a paper towel off the roll and tried to pick up the puke in one piece. Most of it came away cleanly, but part of it stuck to the pile. Thumps really disliked Freeway’s darker side. The cat could at least be considerate and throw up on the stretches of hardwood or on the linoleum in the kitchen. Places that were easier to clean and sanitize.
Thumps flopped on the couch and turned on the television. Enough. He had done what he could. Had done more than he should have. Noah wasn’t going to help, and neither was Dakota. Fine. Let the feds arrest everyone and sort things out later.
CSI was on, a show that Thumps vaguely liked. So was a rerun of Magnum P.I. He flipped back and forth between the two for a while and then turned the set off.
“What about it?” he said to the cat as he moved the table and put the box of articles in the middle of the floor. “You going to help?”
He had been through all the articles that Stick had given him and hadn’t found anything other than the details of the various events. Now he began to put everything in piles by date and subject. There was a pile for Lucy Kettle and a pile for the raid on Reuben Justice’s house and a pile for the robbery at Morgan Energy.
But nothing in any of the piles answered the question that Thumps kept coming back to. How was everything connected? He was sure it was. He even imagined that he could almost see the outline of the web. Yet every time he looked hard, it vanished.
Thumps took a pillow off the couch, lay down on the floor next to the Lucy Kettle pile, and looked at the stacks of paper from a new angle. The trouble, he had to admit, was that he had no idea what he was looking for, probably wouldn’t recognize it even if he saw it.
The pillow was comfortable. Freeway evidently had decided to forgive him for leaving her alone. She slid over his hips like a warm breeze and curled up against his stomach. Thumps closed his eyes to clear his mind, and for a moment, he could see the answers floating on the horizon, just out of sight.
WHEN THUMPS OPENED his eyes, it was morning, and Freeway was sitting on the kitchen table having breakfast with Moses Blood and Stick Merchant.
“This cat is one good storyteller,” said Moses. “Has she told you the one about the ducks?”
For a moment, Thumps thought he was having one of those silly dreams that late-night pizza can induce.
“What time is it?”
“Six-thirty,” said Stick. “You always sleep in this late?”
“We found the coffee,” said Moses. “Boy, is your kitchen organized.”
“He’s probably gay,” said Stick.
Thumps sat up and rubbed his head. His hair was piled up on one side, his tongue thick and metallic.
“You got those piles organized too,” said Moses, pushing his chin at the stacks of articles. “Just like your kitchen.”
“You didn’t have any bacon.” Stick put a forkful of scrambled eggs on a piece of toast.
“I don’t eat bacon.”
“That’s okay,” said Moses. “Elk is better.”
“Bacon tastes better.”
Thumps tried to remember if he had invited Moses and Stick for breakfast. Not that it mattered. They were welcome any time. Well, certainly Moses was.
“We saved a plate for you,” said Moses. “Your cat wanted some, but I explained that you had a hard day in front of you.”
“I should catch a shower.”
“Sure,” said Moses, “we’ll wait.”
THUMPS TURNED THE TAPS on and let them run until steam filled the bathroom. Hot water always felt better in winter, and if he hadn’t had guests, Thumps would have stayed under the spray until he drained the tank. Though he was curious. He didn’t see Moses in town all that often, and the old man had never stopped by the house. If he and Stick had driven in from the reservation this early, it must have been for a reason. Whatever else their visit might be, it wasn’t a social call.
Stick was loading four pieces of bread into the toaster. “You’re out of bread. You got any strawberry jam?”
“Apricot.”
“Nobody eats apricot.”
Moses had a stack of articles in front of him. “Pretty exciting stuff. It’s like that action movie I saw on television the other night.”
Thumps would have probably described the week’s activities as a melodrama or a soap opera if it hadn’t been for the bodies.
“Which pile do you have?”
Moses looked at Thumps over his glasses. “You got names for the piles?”
As Thumps recalled, he had made six distinct stacks on the floor. Moses had one pile in front of him, but there were still six stacks on the floor.
“Which stack is that?”
“It’s new,” said Moses. “It doesn’t have a name yet.”
Stick’s toast popped up. “That’s all new stuff I found. Moses said you might be able to use it.”
“Great.”
“You got any peanut butter?”
“No.”
“You a vegetarian or something?”
“There’s cereal.”
“Froot Loops?”
Thumps thought about taking out the box of Shredded Wheat just to hear Stick squeal. Instead, he sat down next to Moses, who was running a finger down one of the pages.
“You find anything?”
“You bet,” said Moses. “Lots of chickens.”
“Chickens?”
“Yeah,” said Stick, who had his mouth full of toast, “wait till you hear about the chickens.” Moses held up the article. “That’s what this story reminds me of,” he said. “Chickens.”
Thumps looked at the article. At a quick glance, it was no more than a summary of what had happened in Salt Lake City. All the players were there: Clinton Buckhorn, Reuben Justice, Wilson Scout, Wallace Begay, Lucy Kettle, Noah Ridge, Mitchell Street.
“You don’t even rate a mention.” Stick went looking for more bread.
“I wasn’t part of it.”
“Sure,” said Moses, “but you were there.”
“Tell him the cannibal-chicken story, Grandfather.”
“That boy likes to eat,” said Moses, “and that one likes to hear stories too.”
Thumps looked at the clock. He wondered how Dakota had managed the night in jail. How she was going to manage the day. And the days to come.
Thumps settled in the chair. “I’d like to hear the story.”
“It’s not an old story. I heard this one from Jimmy Frank, before Jimmy married that White lady and went to live in Florida.” Moses sipped his coffee. “There was this guy from New York who came out to see us, and he liked what he saw so much he bought a bunch of land and built this big house, and then that one b
uilt a bunch of chicken coops.”
Moses put his hand up to his face and began laughing. “Old John Samosi came by one day and asked the New York man, ‘Why did you build all those chicken coops?’ And the New York man tells Old John that raising healthy chickens on the open range and selling them to White people in the east was going to make him rich.”
Stick opened the refrigerator. “Hey, Thumps has chicken.”
“See,” said Moses. “So, that man begins raising chickens, and he begins making money by the bag. But one day a coyote comes along and sees all those chicken coops and all those chickens in those coops, and he tells all his friends. ‘Holy,’ says all those coyotes, ‘this is too good to be true.’ But the coyotes know that the White man isn’t going to share his good fortune, and that if they eat his chickens, he’ll try to rub them out. So, they sit around one night and think, and in the morning, they have a plan.”
Moses stopped for a moment and closed his eyes. “Boy,” he said, “telling stories can wear you out.”
“You want more coffee?” Thumps got the pot from the stove.
“Coffee is always good with stories,” said Moses. “Maybe Stick should tell the rest of the story.”
“Sure,” said Stick, and he flopped himself down in the chair. “What the coyotes figure is that if they disguise themselves as chickens and act like chickens, then if the farmer sees one of them grabbing a chicken, he’ll figure that the problem is with the chickens.”
“And that’s just what happens,” said Moses.
“Yeah. One day that farmer comes out, and he sees about five of his chickens grab five other chickens and eat them on the spot. Man, he doesn’t know what to do. He figures that his chickens have turned cannibal.”
“Pretty scary, eh?” Moses leaned over and patted Thumps’s hand.
“He starts calling around, but no one he calls has ever heard of cannibal chickens. And in the meantime, he’s losing a lot of chickens.”
“This is the exciting part,” said Moses.
“Old John Samosi hears about the man and his cannibal chickens, and he stops by and asks him if he can see the cannibal chickens. So, the both of them go out to the coops, and Old John and the man watch as one chicken grabs another and eats it on the spot. And while that one chicken is eating the other chicken, Old John takes out his gun and shoots the cannibal chicken.”