The Red Power Murders

by Thomas King

  “So, Lucy didn’t know about the bonds.” It was a cheap trick that cops did. Wait until you had the suspect worked up, and then hit them with a question they weren’t expecting. Don’t listen to their answer. Watch their face.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Next question,” said Thumps quickly. “Did Noah ask you to confess to the murders in order to buy him time to find out who’s trying to kill him?” He pushed the chair back from the bars. “Is that why you did it? To save his ass?”

  “What if it was? Is that such a bad reason?”

  No, Thumps thought to himself, protecting someone you cared about was a good reason for a great many actions. Noah wasn’t worth it. At least, Thumps didn’t think he was. But Dakota did. Or maybe he was all she had left of a life. Not a friend. Not a lover. Something more precious than that.

  “Did Noah say who he thought was trying to kill him?”

  Dakota walked to the far corner of the cell. “The FBI.”

  Thumps wasn’t sure what the FBI might be willing to do. Certainly the last several decades had not been kind to any of the intelligence agencies. Even before the terrorist attacks in New York and Washington, the FBI and the CIA had been caught in a number of awkward situations that had been both ill advised and illegal. Would the FBI have any qualms about playing fast and loose with a small activist organization? Probably not. Would they kill? Perhaps. Would they then try to cover it up? Absolutely.

  “What about you?” Thumps pushed the chair along the bars. “Do you think someone is trying to kill Noah?”

  “I don’t know.” Dakota sat down on the bed and turned toward the wall. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to figure out?”

  “It is, indeed.” Sheriff Hockney was standing in the doorway, the envelope in his hand.

  “Hi, Sheriff.”

  “Andy brought me this new evidence.” Hockney patted the envelope against the wall. “Said you got the whole thing figured out.”

  “Where’s Andy?”

  “On an errand,” said Hockney. “Am I interrupting, or do you have time for a little chat?”

  HOCKNEY WAS SITTING on the edge of his desk when Thumps rolled the chair into the office. He had the sections of newspaper in his hand.

  “So, you want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “But you needed to get rid of Andy, so you could talk to Ms. Miles again.”

  “That’s about it.”

  “And?” said the sheriff.

  “Where’s Noah?”

  “In his room. Resting. What about Ms. Miles?”

  “She thinks the FBI is behind this.”

  “Yeah,” said Hockney, “that makes sense. They send Special Agent Asah up from Denver to kill Ridge, and while he’s waiting for the right moment, he kills Mitchell Street and Reuben Justice for practice.”

  “Stranger things have happened.”

  “Not in my lifetime.” Hockney slipped off the desk and lowered himself into his chair. “Let’s take a run at the process of elimination. What do Mitchell Street and Reuben Justice and Dakota Miles and Noah Ridge all have in common?”

  Thumps had already asked himself this question any number of times.

  “They knew each other,” said the sheriff. “And since two of them are dead, that leaves two suspects. Which one do you like?”

  “What about Grover Many Horses?”

  “He was in Glory at the video store when Street was killed. Andy picked up the surveillance tape from the store. It’s time-dated.” Hockney turned around in his chair. “Of course, there is one other person who knew everybody.”

  “Yeah,” said Thumps. “Me.”

  “Process of elimination. See how it works?”

  Thumps had turned the same set of givens around any number of ways, and he kept coming up with the same answers as the sheriff.

  “Unless, of course, we’ve got ourselves one of those Hollywood hit men running loose.”

  “What?”

  “The movies.” Hockney opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a bag of licorice. “You know, where the bad guy comes to town disguised as a priest or a travelling salesman.”

  Thumps could feel the fur on the hood of the parka against the side of his neck. “We don’t have any new priests in town.”

  Hockney put the licorice down. “You’re not serious.”

  “Where’s Asah?”

  “Watching Ridge.”

  Thumps picked up the phone and handed it to Hockney. “Use your contacts. I’ll go to the hotel.”

  “Sure as hell hope you’re wrong.” Duke slid his revolver across the desk. “But if you’re not, for God’s sake, don’t shoot anyone until I get there.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  The front of the Tucker looked serene. The television trucks were gone, though Thumps was reasonably sure that they were just waiting in the woods for something to happen. News people didn’t give up on the smell of blood all that easily.

  Inside, the lobby had been magically transformed into a western movie set. There were saddles thrown over bales of hay, branding irons laid out on display tables, and a couple of wagon wheels leaning against the walls. Even the staff had got into the spirit of the moment, with cowboy hats and bright neckerchiefs. From the mezzanine balcony, someone had hung a large banner that read “Western History Conference.” The banner was a little on the worn side, and Thumps guessed that this wasn’t the first time it had been hung in a hotel lobby.

  As he headed for the elevators, he wondered what people did at a western history conference. It was, he assumed, a gathering of academics from various universities around the country who were keen on sharing their research with other academics. He had attended such a conference once. On photography. It had been a mistake, a misunderstanding. Thumps had thought he would meet other photographers, professionals working in the field. Instead, he had met university professors who understood photography, not as art form or even a craft, but as a metaphor, and he had had to sit through a drone of papers that analyzed the “paradigms of imagining” and the “ethnopoetics of photography” and the “repercussions of the postcolonial camera.” He did meet one photographer, but he was taking pictures for the local paper. One or two of the papers had been intriguing, but most of them had been brain-numbing things that would have defeated the most dedicated insomniac.

  Thumps didn’t bother with the house phone or the front desk. He went straight to Noah’s room and pounded on the door.

  “Noah!”

  Cooley had made kicking in a French door look easy. Thumps wondered if a hotel door would be as simple.

  “Noah! It’s Thumps!”

  Thumps leaned against the door to test the give. It felt firmer than he had hoped, but he wasn’t interested in wasting time at the front desk, arguing with the staff about the legality of letting him in Noah’s room. The trick, he remembered, was to concentrate all the force at the lock itself. As long as the door wasn’t sitting in a metal frame, he had a good chance of taking out the jam and the moulding with one kick.

  Thumps was balanced on one leg with the other aimed at the door when Hockney stepped off the elevator.

  “DreadfulWater!”

  Thumps lowered his leg slowly, in a manner that he hoped would suggest that the sheriff had caught him in the middle of his Tai Chi exercises.

  “Jesus,” said the sheriff, sliding a key card into the slot, “what is it with you and doors.”

  “What about Asah?”

  Hockney opened the door and pushed his way in. “Special Agent Asah is FBI, all right.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “Absolutely,” said the sheriff. “I talked to him myself.”

  “What?”

  “Special Agent Spencer Asah of the Denver office of the FBI is still in Denver.”

  “So, the feds didn’t send anyone to watch Noah?”

  “Noah Ridge is nowhere on their radar.”

  “And th
ey didn’t know about Street.”

  “Nope,” said the sheriff.

  “Beautiful.”

  The room was empty. There were no signs of a struggle. No indication of violence. Everything was in its place. Noah’s suitcase and all his clothes were in the closet. His toiletry kit was next to the bathroom sink.

  “You got any ideas about what the hell is going on?”

  “Yeah, but first we have to find Noah.” Thumps went to the window and looked out. A police cruiser pulled up to the curb, and Andy Hooper hurried into the Tucker. “You call Andy?”

  “Yeah,” said Hockney. “The way this thing is heading south, I figure we’re going to need all the guns we can get.”

  By the time Andy got to the room, Thumps and Hockney had gone through the place thoroughly and had come up with nothing. Andy wasn’t keen on babysitting an empty room, but the sheriff wasn’t much for democratic decision-making.

  “Watch some television. Make some coffee. If Ridge comes back, hold him and call me.”

  “What if he doesn’t want to be held?”

  “Then arrest him and drag his sorry ass to jail.”

  “Why don’t you make Thumps wait here? The two of them are friends.”

  “That’s why,” said the sheriff.

  THUMPS AND HOCKNEY rode the elevator in silence. All the way through the lobby and down the steps to the sheriff’s car, Thumps had the feeling that Duke was annoyed with him, as though he blamed him for everything that had happened, as though all of this was his fault.

  “Okay,” said the sheriff as they stepped off the elevator. “Start talking.”

  “Beth still have Street’s effects?”

  “No,” said Hockney. “Asah picked them up yesterday.”

  “When Buckhorn, Scout, and Begay hit that corporation in Denver, they got away with five million dollars in bearer bonds.”

  “Who the hell told you that?”

  “Asah.”

  “So, that Xerox was the real thing?”

  “It was just a lure,” said Thumps. “To get Street to come to Chinook.”

  Hockney stopped at the front door of the hotel. “You know who sent it to him?”

  “Yeah,” said Thumps. “I do. It was Massasoit.”

  Hockney pushed his way through the doors and stood on the steps huffing and puffing. “Do you know what’s going on?”

  “Part of it,” said Thumps. “Maybe.”

  The sheriff stomped down the steps to his cruiser, took a black cellphone out of the glovebox, and handed it to Thumps. “This works as a walkie-talkie as well as a phone. I’m going to try to find Mr. Asah or whatever the hell his name is.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Solve the case,” said Hockney. “I can hardly afford you as it is.”

  THE SHERIFF’S OFFICE was as he had left it, warm and bright. The Connors’ cellphone was still sitting on the edge of Hockney’s desk. Thumps wondered how they were going to like their phone’s being used in a felony. Some people found that sort of thing exciting. When Thumps had been a cop, there had been a bank robbery in Arcata, and during the escape, one of the robbers had put a bullet through a corner of the large mirror in the Lumberjack bar. Teddy Maxwell could have had the insurance pay for the damage, but he left the bullet hole there as a conversation piece. Maybe the Connors would feel that way about their phone. Maybe they’d frame the door.

  Dakota was standing in the cell by the small window.

  “Come on,” said Thumps. “I’m breaking you out.”

  “My hero.”

  “I’m serious. Noah didn’t kill Street or Reuben, and neither did you.”

  “Then who . . . ?”

  “Spencer Asah.”

  “The FBI agent?”

  “Yeah,” said Thumps, turning the key in the lock and swinging the door open. “Your tax dollar at work.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because you’re not safe here.”

  “Where’s Noah?”

  “I don’t know.” Thumps was putting the keys back in the sheriff’s desk when he noticed the cellphone again. “Shit.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Thumps took the phone the sheriff had given him and pressed the button on the side. “Duke, you hear me?”

  There was a moment of silence and then a crackle. “Yeah, I hear you.”

  “The key to the Connor place, did you leave it on the desk?”

  “Yeah, with the cellphone.”

  “Cellphone is here, but not the key.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “You want me to meet you out there?”

  “No, I’ll take Andy with me,” said the sheriff. “He likes to shoot things. You stick around in case either one of our two clowns shows up.”

  Thumps slipped the phone into his pocket. The sheriff’s revolver was still tucked into his belt, and it was beginning to irritate his back, but he was glad he had it. “Grab your coat,” he said to Dakota. “We have to get you someplace safe.”

  “Noah wouldn’t hurt me.”

  “Noah’s not the problem right now.”

  THUMPS WAS ALWAYS amazed how early night came in winter. By the time he and Dakota left the sheriff’s office, it was already dark. Thumps paused as they stepped through the door and looked up and down the street. Most of the cars were gone and the ones that were left were covered in snow. Asah wouldn’t know that they were on to him just yet, but he might have seen it coming and decided to cut his losses and disappear, though Thumps didn’t think the man was the type to be so easily detoured. If Thumps was right, Asah would go after Noah. And he might have already found him.

  If Asah had taken the key to the Connor place from the sheriff’s office, he must have expected to use it. And why not? Noah had already been to the house twice. If Asah had grabbed Noah and wanted a quiet place for the two of them to talk, Thumps couldn’t think of a better choice.

  Not that Noah was to survive such a talk. Sounds tended to carry for long distances across water, but at Red Tail Lake in the middle of winter, no one would hear him scream.

  “Where are we going?”

  “My place.”

  He had been tempted to leave Dakota in jail and race out to the lake to help Hockney. Asah had already killed two men. Two more wouldn’t make a difference. Not that the sheriff would be that easy to kill. He was smart enough not to walk into a trap. And on this kind of a chase, Andy, for all his faults, was the perfect partner. He was a crack shot with a short fuse. Having a chance to shoot a bad guy would be the high point of his career in law enforcement.

  “Why your place?”

  “I have an attack cat.”

  Every so often, Thumps would stop and search the street. Asah might well be at the lake, but then again he might be following Dakota to see where she might lead him. If he hadn’t found Noah yet, watching Dakota would be the next best thing. But the streets were clear and quiet, and the only people on the move were the two of them.

  Dakota leaned into Thumps as they walked. “Do you know what’s been happening?”

  “Some of it.”

  “I’ll tell you everything I know,” said Dakota. “As soon as you get me someplace warm.”

  COMING HOME IN THE DARK reminded Thumps that he needed to replace the porch light. This was one of the little matters of home ownership that always got left to the last. A busted pipe or a broken window or a toilet that had backed up got fixed right away, but a sticky lock or a doorbell that stopped working for no apparent reason or a burned-out light bulb on the porch might go unattended for a year or more.

  Thumps opened the door and stepped inside quickly, dragging a foot to keep Freeway from bolting past him. It was a summer habit, a way to keep the cat from escaping and disappearing into the warm summer evenings for days on end. Not that she was about to run off into this kind of weather. She had tried it one winter, and as soon as her paws hit the snow, she stopped dead in her tracks and meowed until Thumps pick
ed her up and carried her to the safety of the house.

  “What’s your cat’s name?”

  “Freeway.”

  “That’s not a name for a cat.”

  “She likes it.”

  “So, where is she?”

  Normally by now, Freeway would be on the table, doing her cat dance and rebuking him for leaving her alone again. Since she wasn’t here scolding him and her dish was half-full, sleeping had to be the correct answer.

  “Probably in the living room.” Thumps opened the refrigerator. “She likes to throw up on the couch.” He bent over and looked at the juices on the shelf. “You want something to drink? I’ve got apple juice, cranberry-grape, pineapple, and apricot.”

  Claire liked apricot. Thumps found it a little thick. He had tried cutting it with pineapple, a compromise that turned out to be surprisingly good. The cranberry-grape was generally for guests, and the apple was for baking squash.

  “I could mix a couple together.” Thumps grabbed the pineapple and apricot and swung the door shut. “What do you think?”

  Evidently, Dakota wasn’t going to be drawn out of her depression with the promise of fruit drinks. Thumps poured two glasses and carried them to the living room. He wasn’t sure what he could say to make things right. The Red Power Movement had been a fragile world at best. Now it had come apart completely.

  He expected to find Dakota lying down on the couch, with Freeway curled up behind her legs. He would put the drinks on the floor and sit with her, maybe hold her for a while, and say those encouraging things you say to people who are without hope.

  But Dakota wasn’t lying on the couch. She was sitting on it ramrod straight, her hands clutched in her lap. Noah Ridge sat across from her, his arms and legs taped to a chair. And standing behind him, with a squat silencer screwed onto the barrel of a .45-calibre automatic, was Spencer Asah.

  THIRTY-THREE

  There were any number of emotions that Thumps could have felt standing there in his living room with a gun pointed at his chest, holding two glasses of fruit juice, but mostly he felt foolish.

  Asah gestured to the glasses. “Orange?”

  “Apricot and pineapple.” Thumps set the glasses on the coffee table. “The FBI is going to be disappointed.”