by Thomas King
Cruz.
“Don’t make me shoot the girl.”
Thumps leaned forward and turned the key. Nothing. He tried again. More nothing. The Volvo wouldn’t start. Generally, the starter motor would make an effort, but now he couldn’t coax a spark of life out of the car.
Parrish leaned over and tapped the barrel of the gun against Thumps’s head. “Do we need some encouragement?”
“It won’t start.”
“Bullshit!”
Thumps turned the key again. “It won’t start.”
“Fix it.” Parrish sighed deeply. “Quickly.”
There had been problems in the past. A dead battery. Worn spark plugs. A timing belt. Annoying problems. Expensive problems. Tonight was more serious.
“Maybe it’s the cables,” said Thumps. “Battery’s new, so I should be getting a spark.”
Parrish opened his door and stepped out. “Easy,” he said. “Very slowly.”
Thumps walked to the front of the car and opened the hood. There was just enough light spill from the resort windows to see the engine. The battery looked fine. Except for the positive cable. It had been pulled off the post, and that didn’t happen by chance. Cable terminals were clamped onto the posts with a wrench. They didn’t pop off like buttons on a shirt.
Thumps hoped that Oliver Parrish was the new breed of car owner who had never peered under a hood, who didn’t know a head cover from a dipstick.
Parrish stared at the battery for a moment, and then he stepped in behind Thumps and pulled him in tight. “Where is he?”
“Who?”
“Mr. Cisco Fucking Cruz.” Parrish ground the gun into Thumps’s back. “Where is the sonofabitch?”
“Here.” Cruz stepped out of the trees. “I’m right here.”
Parrish spun around, taking Thumps with him as a shield. “Stay where you are!”
Cruz lazily raised his pistol. “How you doing, vato?”
“Been better,” said Thumps.
Cruz rotated his neck. “I think I can shoot him from here.”
“Think?”
“Put your gun down.” Parrish brought the gun up to Thumps’s head. “Or I shoot your friend.”
Cruz smiled. In the dark, his teeth looked like stars. “He’s not my friend.”
“Yes, I am.”
“You can shoot him,” said Cruz, “but then he falls down, and then I shoot you.”
Thumps could see the copper top of the casino through the trees. The odds weren’t all that good in there, but they were worse out here.
“Here’s the thing,” said Cruz. “We’re about thirty-five yards away from each other. You have a .22 calibre pistol with a short barrel. Effective range is around twenty-five feet. I have a SIG Sauer P210, 9mm, loaded with Parabellums. My gun has more kick, and so it tends to be less accurate. I could miss. Unfortunately for you, I’m a damn good marksman, so I won’t. Your gun is probably a bit more accurate because there’s no recoil, but I’m willing to bet that you’re not a particularly good shot.”
“I can kill Mr. DreadfulWater,” said Parrish.
“Or you can give yourself up,” said Thumps. “What about it, Cruz? You think we could get a conviction?”
Thumps could see Cruz lining up the sights.
“Not a chance in hell,” said Cruz. “So I’m really hoping El Guapo shoots you.”
“Don’t mind him,” Thumps told Parrish. “That’s just the testosterone talking.”
“Tell you what,” said Cruz, “you take a shot at me. Maybe you hit me, maybe you don’t. Then I’ll take a shot at you. I’m thinking I can probably miss Thumps and put a bullet in your head.”
“Probably?”
“The light’s not all that good,” said Cruz.
“Fuck you,” shouted Parrish, pulling the trigger.
The shot was quick and hard, and Cruz didn’t move. “Missed,” he shouted. “My turn.”
Thumps felt Parrish hesitate, and then the man slowly raised his hands. “Okay,” he shouted. “Okay, I’m putting down my gun.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Hand it to Thumps.”
Parrish let the pistol swing down by the trigger guard. Thumps took it and stepped to one side.
“I’m unarmed.” Parrish put his hands above his head.
“That you are.” Cruz looked at Thumps and gestured toward the Volvo. “Better check on Ms. Merchant.”
Thumps had taken three steps toward the car when the first shot hit Parrish.
“That was for Redding.” Cruz’s voice was low and fierce.
Thumps turned. Parrish was still upright, unable to come to terms with what had just happened. His face was twisted in pain, his mouth was open, as though he were going to complain. But there was no sound.
And then, with a quickness that Thumps had never seen before, Cruz’s arm came up, the gun cracked three more times, and Parrish was driven backwards onto the asphalt.
“And that was for mi hijo.”
Parrish lay on his back, his arms and legs splayed out at unnatural angles, his eyes wide open, a surprised look on his face, and four neat holes in his chest. Cruz held his shooting stance for a moment, and then he straightened up and slipped the gun back into its holster.
Thumps realized that he had stopped breathing. “You shot him.”
“I did.”
“He was unarmed.”
“He was.”
Cruz walked to the car, reached in, and slipped the pendant off the mirror. Thumps watched him tie the small disc around his neck.
“Redding gave you that.”
“She did,” said Cruz. “Mira. Face of the moon. Said I needed some light because I spent so much of my time in the dark.” There was no emotion in Cruz’s eyes, nothing but determined concentration. “Woman could be sentimental at times.”
It was only when Cruz turned that Thumps saw the tear in the man’s jacket. Blood had begun to soak the material.
“You’re hit.”
“He got lucky.” Cruz shrugged. “Caught a piece of the deltoid.”
“Jesus.”
“Ruined a good jacket,” said Cruz. “And it’ll probably leave a scar.”
“You could have been killed.”
“Scars are cool.”
“Would you really have let him shoot me?” Thumps didn’t know why he had even asked the question. He knew the answer.
“Your fault, Pancho,” said Cruz.
“My fault?”
“You were right.” Cruz touched the silver pendant. “No chance of a conviction. He would have walked.”
Fifty-Two
The scene in the Buffalo Mountain parking lot was somewhat surreal, like a black-and-white movie that had once been in colour. Lance Packard had gone to talk to the resort manager about getting the sodium-vapours back on, while two of Duke’s other deputies were setting up remote lighting units and stringing yellow crime-scene tape around the area.
Thumps helped Beth Mooney get a tarp from her station wagon to throw over the body.
“You ever think about taking suspects alive?”
Thumps held up his hands. “I didn’t kill him.”
Sheriff Duke Hockney was not happy. He had Cruz up against a police cruiser. “You know you’re under arrest,” Duke told him.
“Again?”
“You shot a man.”
“He killed Lester and Knight,” said Cruz. “He killed Redding.”
“Parrish shot first,” said Thumps. “He wounded Cruz.”
“I was in fear of my life,” said Cruz.
Hockney made a grumbling sound in his throat that sounded like a diesel truck on a steep incline.
Thumps ignored the noise. “And he’s also the Kanji Killer.”
“Parrish?” Duke tried to keep the surprise out of his voice. “The serial killer in Sacramento?”
“The photo on Lester’s phone,” said Thumps. “Amanda Douglas? Knight sent it to Lester, but I think she found it on
Parrish’s phone.”
“Jesus,” said the sheriff, “you two are a real Cheech and Chong.”
“A la verga,” said Cruz. “I must be Cheech.”
“Shut up,” said Duke. “You’re still under arrest.”
“He drugged Claire,” said Thumps. “He held me at gunpoint. He was going to shoot me. Cruz shot him.”
“Sure,” said Duke. “It’s the space between ‘He was going to shoot me’ and ‘Cruz shot him’ that I want to explore. And don’t tell me it happened fast, and that it was dark.”
Thumps looked at Cruz. “It happened fast. It was dark.”
“Damn it, DreadfulWater,” said the sheriff. “You remind me of a cat Macy had. Animal would go out and kill squirrels and bring me their bodies. I was not fond of that beast.”
“How’s Claire?”
“Deanna Heavy Runner’s looking after her. Beth said she’ll be okay.” Duke looked down at the tarp that was covering Parrish’s body. “I’ll talk to her later, but I’m guessing she didn’t see anything.”
“Parrish bought a car in Great Falls,” said Thumps. “Probably the internet. Cash sale. Drove over. Killed Lester and Knight. Drove back. Caught the morning flight the next day. I’m guessing you’ll find it in long-term parking at the airport.”
Duke scratched his cheek. “So, Parrish is our local killer as well as a serial killer?”
“You were kidding about arresting me,” said Cruz. “Right?”
“Wrong,” said the sheriff.
Thumps tried to keep the tone calm and reasonable. “The sheriff just wants to know why you had to shoot Parrish four times.”
“I could have shot him five times,” said Cruz.
“Here’s my problem,” said Duke. “Why would someone like Oliver Parrish, armed with a .22 calibre snub nose that isn’t worth shit after twenty yards, throw down on a professional bodyguard with military training and holding a SIG Sauer 9mm pistol? Can you explain that to me?”
“Arrogance?”
“And why, having fired once, didn’t he fire again?”
Thumps and Cruz waited for the sheriff to make his point.
“The only way I see Oliver Parrish with four bullets in his chest,” said Duke, “is if he had already given up his gun and was trying to surrender.”
“It happened fast,” said Thumps. “It was dark.”
Hockney tried to come at the shooting from several angles and each time he hit a dead end, until he finally gave up and put Cruz in the back of his cruiser. Thumps wandered over to see if Beth needed a hand.
“You can’t be here.” Beth didn’t even look up from her work. “You’re a suspect in a shooting.”
“I’m not a suspect,” said Thumps. “Cruz is a suspect. I’m one of the victims.”
“Man’s one hell of a shot.” Beth pulled the tarp back so Thumps could see the torso. “Thirty-five, forty yards in bad light. Killer with a gun and a hostage. Yet our hero is able to put four shots in our perp, centre mass, eight-inch spread.”
“You and Ora Mae do any more talking?”
Beth pointed her pencil at Thumps’s chest. “What it feels like,” she said, “is target practice.”
“It happened fast. It was dark.”
THUMPS STILL HAD the key card. He wasn’t superstitious, but the last time he had let himself in, a killer with a gun had been waiting for him.
Deanna answered on the first knock. “She’s okay. Just groggy.”
Claire was on the sofa, wrapped up in a blanket, holding a cup of something steaming. Thumps sat down beside her and waited.
“I have to get back to the desk,” said Deanna. “If you need anything from the mini-bar, help yourself.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s on the house.”
Thumps didn’t know if he should talk or wait. Claire’s hair was dishevelled, and he was tempted to try to fix it, to push it out of her face and pull it into place. Instead, he put his hand on her neck and gently rubbed her shoulders.
Claire took a sip of her drink. “That’s nice.”
“Is that tea?”
“Hot water and honey,” said Claire. “He called. Said he needed to talk to me about Austin and the agreement.”
“It was a set-up.”
Claire took another sip. “So, I met him in the bar. We talked. And then I wasn’t feeling well.”
“Parrish needed leverage over me,” said Thumps. “I’m sorry.”
“The last thing I remember was him helping me back to my room. Is that when you arrived?”
“More or less.”
Claire put her cup down and snuggled up against Thumps. “My hero.”
Claire’s body was warm and soft. Being a hero wasn’t so bad. Except he wasn’t. Granted, Claire hadn’t been awake to see how little of a hero he had been, and maybe it was better to leave it alone.
And then again, maybe it wasn’t.
“Look,” he began, “I didn’t have anything to do with stopping Parrish. It was Cisco Cruz. He saved us.”
Claire pushed away and held up an envelope. It looked vaguely familiar.
“This was on the back seat,” said Claire. “It’s the list Roxanne made up.”
Thumps felt the blood drain away.
“Have you read it?” Claire’s face was shimmering with delight. “Number three is great.”
“Claire . . .”
“And number four . . .” Claire started laughing, low at first, and then collapsing into a full-blown cackle. “You have to look at number four.”
It took the better part of an hour to get Claire calmed down and back in his arms again. She slowly moulded herself against his chest and began to snore. Softly. More a flutter. So this was how a happy ending looked. The heroine in the arms of the hero. Okay, he could get used to this.
Thumps reached across and borrowed a corner of the blanket. He eased his shoes off and put his legs up on the coffee table. It wasn’t a comfortable position, but he’d manage. The French doors were open, and he watched a starless night sky until his breathing slowed and he closed his eyes.
In the morning, he’d take the list and burn it.
Fifty-Three
The next morning when Thumps and Claire came down for breakfast, the crime scene was still cordoned off and Sheriff Duke Hockney’s cruiser was parked where it had been the night before.
Deanna Heavy Runner was at the reception desk, looking fresh and efficient.
“Sheriff Hockney is having breakfast with Mr. Austin. He said if I saw you to tell you that you should join him.”
“Ask us or tell us?” said Thumps.
“Tell you,” said Deanna. “He’s a little grumpy.”
Claire pressed Thumps’s arm. “I think breakfast with the sheriff is just the thing.”
“Sure,” said Thumps, “sounds great.”
“He signed my practicum,” said Deanna. “And he offered me a summer internship.”
“Congratulations. You earned it.”
“You’re the best, Mr. DreadfulWater,” said Deanna.
“Maybe you could mention that to your sister.”
Claire gently punched Thumps’s shoulder. “Don’t push your luck.”
Duke and Boomper were sitting at a table in the far corner where the floor-to-ceiling glass windows gave an unobstructed view of the Ironstone. They looked like a couple of old friends on vacation, which confirmed what people liked to say about appearances.
Thumps was working on how he was going to keep Duke at bay when he remembered the bag.
“Think you can handle those two on your own?” Thumps tried to look charming. “I have to get something.”
“I believe I have a chair and a whip somewhere in my purse.” Claire squeezed Thumps’s arm. “Have you seen Roxanne’s list?”
Thumps shrugged.
“I had it last night,” said Claire, “but now I can’t find it.”
“It’ll show up.”
“You know,” said Claire, “those aren’t
the kinds of things that I want. They’re what Roxanne wants.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Don’t be like that,” said Claire. “Everyone has different needs.”
By the time Thumps got back to the table with the bag, Duke and Boomper were relaxing in their seats, smiling like idiots.
“Grab a chair.” Austin laughed and whacked the edge of the table, shaking the glass and the coffee cups. “Ms. Merchant was just telling us about a canoe trip the two of you took.”
“Seems you overestimated your traditional skills,” said Duke.
Thumps settled himself in the chair and put the bag on the table. “The river was higher than usual that year.”
“Would have paid to see you shoot those rapids,” said Duke.
“Did you ever find the canoe?” asked Boomper.
Thumps ignored the Texan. “Did you really arrest Cruz?”
Duke sucked at his teeth. “It was high on my to-do list, but I’m going to have enough paperwork, what with four bodies. There’s no more room in Beth’s basement. We get another corpse and we’ll have to FedEx it to Great Falls.”
“Cruz is a good man.” Thumps turned to Austin. “Was a mistake to fire him.”
Austin looked startled. “Fire? Hell, I didn’t fire the boy. He resigned. Tried to get him to change his mind, but he was adamant.”
“What?”
“Best damn associate I’ve ever had. Going to be hard to replace,” said Boomper. “I can tell you that.”
Duke gestured at the bag. “I hope that’s not someone’s head.”
“Nope,” said Thumps. “Not a head.”
“Then I’m off,” said the sheriff. “Got a desk full of messages and a truckload of questions that are wanting answers. Mayor has requested a personal briefing, so I got to wear that damn tie and jacket.”
“Are acting sheriffs required to be sympathetic?” asked Thumps.
Duke stood and shook his head. “Your lucky day,” he said. “I don’t need you anymore.”
“I don’t have to be acting sheriff?”
“Nope,” said Hockney. “Black Jack Kramer is going to take some vacation time and look after the office.”
“Black Jack is going to take vacation time to come to Chinook? To work?”