Cold Skies

by Thomas King

  “What?”

  “Back there,” said Duke. “You and Stanley.”

  Thumps shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “This about Claire’s new boyfriend?”

  “You’d have to ask Stick,” said Thumps.

  “Boy’s always been somewhat territorial.”

  “Yes,” said Thumps. “That he has.”

  The Brandenburg Concerto filled the car. Hockney fished the cellphone out of his pocket. “Speak.” Suddenly, the sheriff was a happy man, grinning and bobbing his head. “The hell you say.”

  Thumps couldn’t remember ever seeing Duke this pleased about anything. The man was actually humming to himself.

  “On our way,” said the sheriff. “Stay right where you are.”

  Duke dropped the phone on his lap and tore out of the parking lot on the fly. Thumps leaned against the door and watched the landscape fly by.

  “Drop me off at my place,” said Thumps. “I’ve had enough fun for today.”

  “Fun’s just beginning,” said Duke.

  “I take it that was good news.”

  “That it was.”

  “They cancel the conference in Costa Rica?”

  “Better.” Hockney hammered his hand against the steering wheel. “Much, much better.”

  Nineteen

  It didn’t take Thumps long to figure out where the sheriff was headed.

  “Chivington Motors?”

  “I’ve had Lance watching the place,” said the sheriff. “Just in case.”

  “And?”

  “Just in case just drove up.”

  The dealership was where they had left it. The late afternoon sun had found the sides of the showroom, setting the glass and aluminum panels on fire, while the slanting light played off the backs of the cars and trucks, giving them the appearance of a herd that had settled down for the evening.

  Hockney keyed the mic. “What’s he doing?”

  There was a moment of static and crackle and then Lance’s voice broke through.

  “He’s putting two suitcases into a maroon late-model Lincoln Navigator. You want me to stop him?”

  “No,” said Duke. “He’s all mine.”

  Through the windshield, Thumps could see the maroon Navigator come flying down the access road.

  “Rodeo time!” Hockney hit a switch on the console and the lights and siren sprang to life. He cranked the wheel hard and slid the cruiser across the road, effectively blocking the Navigator’s forward progress.

  But the big Lincoln kept coming at speed, and Thumps wasn’t sure it was going to stop. He braced himself against the dash just as the Navigator found its brakes and nose-dived into a cloud of dust. Duke didn’t wait for the dust to settle. He was out of the cruiser in an instant, his gun clear of its holster, as though he were the star of a crime drama and the director had just yelled, “Action.”

  “Turn the motor off,” the sheriff yelled.

  The Lincoln stayed in play, its motor running.

  “Turn off the motor! I will not tell you again!”

  The Lincoln rolled backwards on its heels, and for a moment, Thumps thought the big car was going to reverse and make a break back up the rise in the hope of losing itself in the acreage of cars and trucks. Not that there was the possibility of escape in that direction, but Thumps knew that panic could trump good sense.

  Duke quickly stepped to the driver’s side window and fired a round into the belly of the prairies. Even out in the open, where sound was swallowed whole by the land and sky, the crack of the shot was startling. The Navigator’s engine immediately went dead.

  “Open the door and show me your hands.”

  Instead, the driver’s side window slicked down and there was Norm Chivington, his ferret face bright red and bathed in sweat.

  “Duke?” Norm was trying hard to look friendly and aggrieved at the same time. “Is that you, Duke? Jesus, but you scared the daylights out of me. That was some dangerous driving, you know.”

  “Step out of the car, Norm.”

  “Dangerous and irresponsible, Duke. You could have got us hurt.”

  “Out.” The sheriff slipped the handcuffs off his belt. “Now.”

  Norm kept his hands on the steering wheel. “Come on, Duke,” he whined. “How about we all drive up to the showroom, sit down, and talk this out like civilized men. Have a cup of coffee. Wait until you see the new machine I got.”

  WITH CHIVINGTON HANDCUFFED in the back seat, the sheriff took the long scenic route to his office. Norm complained all the way, alternating between appeals and threats.

  “Mayor’s not going to be happy, you treating a pillar of the community like a criminal.”

  “You have the right to remain silent.”

  “Is this about the Buick? Is that what this is about?”

  “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

  “Kidnapping is a federal offence. I hope you realize that.”

  “You have the right to consult an attorney before speaking to the police.”

  “You won’t think this is so funny when I sue you for everything you have.”

  “If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you before any questioning.”

  “Damn it, Duke. Think about what you’re doing to your career.”

  “Do you understand your rights as I have explained them to you?”

  Norm leaned forward and pressed his face against the wire panel. “For god’s sake, Thumps, talk some sense into the man.”

  Hockney could have pulled the car into the alley and taken Chivington in through the rear door. But he didn’t. Instead, Duke parked the car two blocks away and perp-walked Norm back down the street. Hockney took his time, tipping his hat to people as he passed them on the sidewalk, allowing them the thrill of seeing a pillar of the community in handcuffs.

  When they got to the office, Thumps stopped.

  “I’m going to go home.”

  “Don’t you want to stick around for the questioning?”

  “What questioning?” said Norm. “I haven’t done anything. This is just police harassment.”

  “I have better things to do.”

  “Suit yourself,” said the sheriff. “But you’re going to miss all the fun.”

  Norm went pale. “You can’t do that, Thumps,” he said. “You can’t leave me alone with this madman.”

  THE WALK HOME was pleasant. A high, thin overcast had drifted in and softened the afternoon glare. Thumps stopped in front of Chinook Appliances for a moment and looked in the window. The stove was still there. He considered stepping into the store and having another chat with Danielle, in case she was in a clearance-sale sort of mood.

  But he didn’t.

  He was exhausted. Again. And he was tired of the sheriff and his ideas of temporary employment, tired of dead bodies, tired of Texas billionaires and their hired muscle.

  Tired of duplicitous car dealers.

  Thumps had a good idea as to Norm’s role in Lester’s death, and if that were the case, then the sheriff had figured it out as well and was jerking Chivington around on general principles. There was a price to pay for stupidity and arrogance, and, if Thumps was right, Norm had run up quite a bill.

  But none of that was his concern. His concerns were what to eat for dinner and what to watch on television. The sheriff could sort out the victims and the villains on his own. Thumps was going to have a nice, quiet evening by himself.

  The porch was deserted. No Pops. No Freeway. But someone had stopped by. An envelope was stuffed between the jamb and the door. Inside was a fancy invitation.

  Boomper Austin. The party at Shadow Ranch. That was tonight?

  Great.

  The house was dark and silent. No grumpy cat complaining that her bowl had not been filled, or that she had been abandoned, or that there had been no one to pet her for an entire day. Thumps wandered the kitchen and the living room. He expected to find Freeway somewhere in the house, but she
was nowhere to be seen. Not outside. Not inside. Maybe she had packed her bags and gone to live with Pops. How long would that last?

  Maybe longer than Thumps and Claire.

  Thumps checked his watch. Three hours before the party at Shadow Ranch. He could stay home, of course, but this Boomper was a curious bird. The Texan was probably richer than anyone Thumps had ever met. That kind of money would make most people nervous, even paranoid. But ostentatious wealth seemed to have had a relaxing effect on the man.

  Money appeared to make him cheerful. Money made him friendly.

  Not that Austin’s general disposition was of any great concern. What was interesting was that he had come all the way to a hick town in the middle of nowhere to sit around on folding chairs and listen to lectures on water.

  Why?

  Thumps didn’t know all that much about the habits of the rich and famous, but he was sure that the Boompers of the world didn’t go just anywhere in the world.

  Unless the going was important.

  And profitable.

  Besides, if he went to Shadow Ranch, he wouldn’t have to feed himself. Someone else would do that for him. Always a crowd pleaser.

  Three hours.

  Time enough for a shower and a shave. Maybe he’d trim his toenails. The invitation hadn’t specified a dress code. Probably business casual. Somewhere in his closet was a pair of slacks, a dress shirt, and a jacket, and he was reasonably sure he could find them.

  But a free dinner wasn’t the only reason he decided to go to the party. Claire would be there. Maybe they could get some time together. Thumps didn’t feel particularly proprietary when it came to Claire. She was a grown woman, could make her own choices. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to see this mysterious lawyer from Missoula, size up the competition.

  And if Lester and Knight had been murdered, maybe Thumps could hang the crime on him.

  Twenty

  The drive to Shadow Ranch was a surreal affair. Thumps was barely able to stay awake. He tried slapping himself across the face and chest, pinching the insides of his thighs, and singing 1960s rock and roll songs at the top of his lungs. By the time he rolled into the parking lot, the side of his face was hot and slightly swollen.

  And he was hoarse.

  SHADOW RANCH WAS the brainchild of Vernon Rockland, a Reagan Republican from Ohio who had made his money in construction. Rockland arrived in Chinook one spring, looked around, bought the old Anderson place for cash, and began “remodelling.” A summer retreat, he told everyone, a getaway from the stress of the big city. No one in Chinook thought much about it until several architects arrived, followed closely by a swarm of surveyors, carpenters, electricians, millwrights, and welders, along with a herd of trailers, a pack of earth movers, and a flight of industrial cranes.

  And before anyone in town had a chance to react, Rockland had turned a modest ranch into a sprawling, upscale resort and country club cleverly disguised as a western movie set.

  The “Bunk House” was a four-star hotel. The “Watering Hole” was a Las Vegas–style nightclub. The “South Forty” was an eighteen-hole golf course. The following year, Rockland quickly added a water slide and pool complex, tennis courts, riding stables, and a skeet-shooting range.

  THE RESORT WAS lit up like a Christmas tree. Evidently Rockland hadn’t heard of National Dark Skies Week either. Thumps was out of his car and halfway to the main building when he heard the drum. Boomper didn’t miss a trick. The Chief Mountain Singers. Thumps recognized the voices and the song, and for the first time all day he began to feel some energy flow back into his body. With any luck, Turley Standing Bull or Wayne Fox would invite him to sit in, and he could lose himself in the community of the drum circle.

  It wasn’t until he came around the corner of the decorative rock wall that was trying to pretend it was part of a natural formation and he could see the entrance to the resort clearly that Thumps realized he might have been better off staying home.

  He had been right about the Chief Mountain Singers.

  And he had been right about the drum.

  They just weren’t part of Boomper’s party.

  FOR THE FIRST two years of its existence, Shadow Ranch was one of the top destinations in the state, rivalling West Yellowstone, Whitefish, and the rest of the luxury resorts in the Bitterroot Valley.

  Then the tribe built Buffalo Mountain.

  Buffalo Mountain wasn’t as large or as fancy as Shadow Ranch. It didn’t have a golf course or a water park. It didn’t have a clever theme or a high-end nightclub where you could party till the sun came up.

  But it did have the only casino for three hundred miles.

  And what it didn’t have in terms of glitter and glamour it made up for in location. Part of Buffalo Mountain was set on tribal land, while the other part was set on land the tribe had purchased on the open market. Rather than hotel rooms, Buffalo Mountain offered high-end condos for sale and rent, all with full kitchens and views of the mountains, White Goat Canyon, and the Ironstone River.

  All of the condos were on land owned by the tribe but were not on reservation land, a legal distinction that kept condo ownership from running afoul of federal Indian legislation.

  The casino, on the other hand, was on tribal land, where it was protected, at least in theory, from state jurisdiction and legislative meddling.

  THUMPS MIGHT HAVE mistaken the forty or fifty people standing near the entrance to the resort for partygoers who had stepped outside for a smoke had it not been for the placards that said, “Stop the Theft” and “Our Water Is Not for Sale.”

  And the television crew.

  Most everyone was standing facing the drum, listening to the song, and there was a chance that Thumps could retreat to his car unmarked and head home.

  “Thumps!” As if by magic, Archie popped out of the crowd. “Where’s your sign?”

  Archie’s sign said, “Water for People, Not Profits.” The printing had been done freehand with a black marker, but it looked professional.

  “Nice sign.”

  “Here,” said Archie, “you take it. I have another.”

  Turley was singing the lead for a Round Dance. Thumps closed his eyes and began to sing along, under his breath.

  “But you’re not here for the protest, are you?”

  Even with his eyes closed, Thumps could feel Archie glowering at him.

  “You’re here for that asshole’s party.”

  “I was invited.”

  “That’s not an excuse!”

  “Archie . . .”

  “All right,” said Archie, taking Thumps by the arm and leading him around the protesters, “you can be our inside man.”

  “You want me to spy?”

  “Don’t be melodramatic. Just keep your eyes open.”

  “Why don’t you go in and spy for yourself?”

  “Unlike some people,” said Archie, “I wasn’t invited.”

  It was a simple declarative sentence, but Archie was able to make it sound like a federal indictment.

  “I didn’t ask to be invited.”

  “Tell your buddy the people won’t be defeated.”

  “He’s not my buddy.”

  “And tell him to turn the damn lights down.”

  VERNON ROCKLAND WAS not happy about Buffalo Mountain. And he was furious about the casino. Even before construction on the resort began, Rockland sent his lawyers to lobby state and local officials and agencies to shut it down, arguing that the complex and especially the gaming facility represented an unfair advantage for the tribe.

  “Level playing field” was the phrase that floated through the air, like smoke from a summer fire.

  But because the condo complex was on private land and the casino was on tribal land, there was nothing anyone could do, and for the first time in his life, Rockland, who was used to doing business on a favourable slant, found himself labouring across relatively flat ground.

  WHEN THUMPS REACHED the lobby, Cooley Small Elk was waiting for
him. Along with a young White guy who was larger than Cooley. If that was possible. Both men had brass badges that said, “Welcome.”

  “Good evening, sir,” said the man.

  Thumps guessed that the guy was a football player or a weightlifter. His head and neck were the same size. His shoulders were broad, his chest thick. In a pinch you could have attached hinges to one side of his body, stuck a knob on the other, and hung him in a doorway.

  “Do you have an invitation?” The voice sounded pleasant enough, but Thumps was reasonably sure that the man had not been hired solely for his personal relationship skills.

  “This is Randy Palmer,” said Cooley. “He’s from Glory.”

  The name didn’t fit, but that’s what you got for naming a baby prematurely. Waiting until a child was old enough to earn a name had always struck Thumps as the intelligent way to do things. Randy looked more like a Bruce or a Jethro or a Billy Bob something.

  “Randy’s studying photography and graphic arts at the college,” said Cooley.

  “Your name?”

  “Thumps DreadfulWater,” said Thumps. “You guys security?”

  “Nope,” said Cooley. “We’re event greeters. Randy is showing me how to welcome people.”

  “What if Archie and the protesters try to get in?”

  “Then we’re security,” said Cooley.

  Randy flipped a couple of pages on the clipboard. “Okay,” he said, “it says here we can let you in.”

  “Archie wants me to spy on the party.”

  Randy shrugged. “Nothing much to see,” said the man, “just a bunch of regular people pretending they’re important.”

  “Wait until you see the food,” said Cooley. “If you think about it, you might want to bring us out a plate.”

  “Sure,” said Thumps, “I can do that.”

  “A large plate,” said Randy.

  Cooley pointed his lips at Randy. “Better make it two.”

  “But,” said Randy, “you’ll have to leave that sign here.”

  BOOMPER AUSTIN WAS standing in a tight knot of people, holding court. Oliver Parrish had shed his island attire and was dressed in a dark jacket with a Nehru collar. Evidently the man had more than one pair of glasses as well. Thin, black horn-rims with a gold accent at the sides. Beth Mooney was looking lovely in a shiny cocktail dress. Thumps couldn’t remember if he had ever seen Beth in high heels and sporting cleavage.