by Thomas King
Thumps tried not to think about the bag. Now that he had it, and he was off the mountain, he was not at all sure he had done the right thing. Maybe he should have left it alone. Or maybe he should have opened it on the ledge. If he hadn’t discovered anything of interest inside, he could have closed the bag, put it back where he had found it, and pretended that nothing had happened. Now he was stuck doing things the hard way.
Thumps had been to Moses Blood’s place two or three times, but those visits had been during the day when he could see his way around. At night, distances lengthened out and directions shifted, and Thumps drove by the turnoff twice before he finally found it. Moses called the track that led to his house a “driveway,” but that’s because Moses had a warped sense of humour. No stretch of the imagination could turn the deep ruts carved in the prairies into something as genteel as a driveway. In the glare of the headlights, they looked like canyons, and Thumps had to make his way down to the river as much by feel as by sight.
Moses lived on about fifty acres of bottom land overlooking the river. There was a chicken coop, a barn, and about forty trailers in various stages of decay. Over the years, for reasons Thumps could only guess at, people from the reserve had brought their poor and tired trailers to Moses for safekeeping. And over the years, he had arranged the trailers in intricate patterns so they resembled a giant maze or an enormous patchwork quilt. Even Ora Mae would have been hard pressed to describe it.
The lights were on. Thumps parked, stood by the car, and waited. Unlike the sky in the mountains, the prairie sky was clear, and the moon was rising, bright yellow and full. Go ahead, thought Thumps as he watched the stars sparkle overhead, have a good laugh.
It took a while for Moses to come out, but when he did, he had two cups in his hands. “Been expecting you,” he said.
Ten or twelve years back, an ethnographer from a big university in California spent several weeks with Moses collecting old stories. Each day, when the ethnographer showed up, Moses would say, “Been expecting you.” Each day, no matter when the man arrived, Moses would say, “Been expecting you.” Towards the end of the visits, the ethnographer told Moses about the role of visions in primitive cultures and how some people believed they could see the future.
“Look at you,” said the ethnographer. “You know I’m coming before I get here.”
“That’s right,” said Moses.
“So, maybe you can see the future.”
“See it all the time.”
The ethnographer was delighted and went back to California dragging behind him stories of Indian mysticism, psychic ability, and spirituality.
“For a white guy,” Moses told his great-niece after the man had left, “he wasn’t too bright.”
“You told him you could see the future?”
“You bet. Look out the window. What do you see?”
“The main road.”
“The minute the future turns off the main road, I can see it.”
Thumps took the tea and let the twists of steam run over his face. “How you doing, Moses?”
“Been expecting you.”
Thumps smiled and sipped at the tea. It was hot and sweet. “Thought I’d stop by and say hello.”
Moses looked out into the night. “Is it a big problem or a little one?” In the distance, Thumps could hear a coyote working its way across the coulees.
“It’s not exactly a problem.”
Moses nodded. “Then you better bring it inside,” he said. “You never know when an owl might be listening.”
In contrast to the complications and angles of the trailer park behind Moses’ house, the inside of his place was surprisingly simple. It was basically one large room. The kitchen sat at one end and a large-screen satellite television sat at the other. In between was a Formica kitchen table and chairs, a purple Hide-A-Bed, and a white Naugahyde recliner. As far as Thumps knew, Moses slept in the kitchen, for the house had no other room except for the bathroom.
Moses took the tea kettle from the stove and set it on the table. “It’s a new recipe I’m trying.”
“Traditional?”
“Don’t think so, but who knows these days. I saw it in News From Indian Country. There’s this good-looking Native doctor, Dr. Marie Micak, and she said this tea will help you get slim.”
“Diet tea?”
“Who knows.” Moses scooped two spoons of sugar into his cup. “It’s got one-half cup of dried watercress, one-half cup of dried kelp, and one-quarter cup of chamomile flowers in it.”
“Tastes pretty good.”
“It’s better with sugar,” said Moses.
Thumps took the bag out of his pocket and laid it on the table. He knew Moses wasn’t going to look at it right away because there was other business to take care of first.
“You haven’t been out for a while.”
“Saw Claire today.”
“Lots of things been happening,” said Moses, and he helped himself to another spoonful of sugar. “Some of them are regular, and some of them are pretty strange.”
Thumps wasn’t sure whether Moses knew about the body at the condos. Since the old man didn’t have a phone, he might not know. Thumps had always found that odd. A big-screen satellite television and no phone.
“They cancelled North of Sixty. That was a regular thing.”
“That got cancelled a while back.”
“It was okay.” Moses shifted in his chair. “But those people up there at Lynx River didn’t have much of a sense of humour.”
“It was a serious show.”
“Laughing and crying are good for you,” said Moses. “But being grim all the time will only make you sad.”
“So what do you watch now?”
“Magnum P. I. reruns. That’s one tricky fellow. One time he was accused of murder. It looked pretty bad for him.” Moses stopped as if he was trying to remember the plot. “And sometimes I watch Northern Exposure.”
“That had Indians in it.”
“You bet,” said Moses. “Sidekicks.”
Thumps had had these kinds of conversations with Moses before, conversations that started off well enough but then took a turn when Thumps wasn’t looking and left him standing by himself in a field.
“Sidekicks?”
“That’s right,” said Moses. “Indians make the best sidekicks. You ever hear of a guy named Tonto?” He poured Thumps another cup of tea and put his hand on the bag.
Thumps leaned back in the chair. “It’s not mine.”
“Someone lost it?”
“Not exactly.”
“’Cause if you stole it, I don’t know that I can help.”
“I borrowed it.”
“Ah,” said Moses. “Okay. Borrowing is okay.”
Thumps leaned forward and looked at his tea. There were little yellow specks floating in the brown liquid. He hoped these were the remains of the chamomile flowers.
“I found it at that ledge. Where people used to go for visions.”
Moses poured himself another cup and let the sugar slowly fall off the spoon like sand in an hourglass. Thumps picked up his own cup and waited. He could have lied and told Moses that he had found the bag at the trailhead or in the parking lot, but he knew the old man could see through a lie as easily as most people can see through a window.
“You want to watch a movie?” Moses got to his feet and came back with the remote control.
“What’s on?”
“Everything. You ever see Die Hard?”
“Sure.”
“They kill a lot of people in that movie.”
“That’s Hollywood.”
“That’s what white people do best.” Moses pressed the on button and the television sprang to life. “They make good movies.” On the television, a bunch of good-looking men and women in spacesuits were fighting with a bunch of giant bugs. “Ho,” he said, “I’ve seen this one before. The bugs almost win.” Moses turned
down the sound. “Just like Indians.” Moses rubbed the bag with his thumb. “You want me to open it.”
“Yes.”
“But you were worried it might be sacred or something.”
“I wasn’t sure.”
“Always pays to ask.” Moses switched channels. Jodie Foster was talking to Anthony Hopkins, who was sitting in a jail cell. “That guy there is a cannibal,” he said and quickly switched to another channel. “The stuff they show on television.”
“Can you open it?”
Moses put the remote on the table and picked up the bag. “Don’t need me for this.” He untied the strings and emptied the bag on the table. “It’s not a medicine pouch.”
Thumps looked at the clump of tobacco on the table. Wonderful. Someone had left an offering, and Thumps had made off with it.
“Is this what you were looking for?”
“No.”
“How about this?”
Moses shook the bag again and four gold tubes fell out. At first, Thumps didn’t recognize them. It was only when he picked one up and turned it over that he realized what it was.
“Looks like a filter tip,” said Moses. “Always good to leave tobacco when you go to the mountains.” He ran a finger through the tobacco. “But you don’t have to leave the filters, too.”
There was no mistaking it. The filters on the table were the same as the ones the sheriff had shown him at Buffalo Mountain.
“Is it a secret?” said Moses.
“Maybe,” said Thumps.
“It’s okay. I won’t tell anyone,” said Moses. “I’ll be your sidekick.” And the old man began laughing softly to himself. “You want to watch a movie?”
“It’s getting late.”
“That’s the good thing about television.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s there twenty-four hours a day.”
Moses walked Thumps out to his car. The moon was gone, but the stars were brilliant. “Now, that’s a big screen,” said Moses.
“Maybe I should stop by sometime and pick you up,” said Thumps. “We could catch dinner in town and go to a movie.”
Moses looked up at the night sky. “They got stars like this at the movies?”
“No.”
“Then I guess I’ll stay home.” Moses turned and started back to the house. And then he stopped. “He didn’t do it, you know.”
“Stick?”
“No. Magnum. The killer turned out to be a hit man from Chicago.”
Thumps looked at the filter tips in his hand.
“Same as Stanley,” said Moses.
“What?”
“He didn’t kill anyone, either.”
“How did you hear about that?”
“Saw it on television.” Moses pointed the remote at the sky and clicked it several times. “Good news,” he said. “It doesn’t work out here.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know who did kill the man at the resort?”
“If this was television, it would be a hit man from Chicago.”
The way back along Moses’ driveway wasn’t as easy as the way in. Thumps’ mind was on other matters besides his driving, and his oil pan paid the price. The filter tips sat on the seat beside him. In the starlight, the gold foil seemed to glow.
He should have said no. When Claire had asked him to find Stick, he should have just said no. It was the sheriff’s job to solve crimes, not his. But now that he had started, he knew he was in too far to turn around and walk out.
TEN
The hardest decision Thumps had to make each morning was when to get out of bed. Nine was too early. Ten was okay. Eleven was even better because, by then, he could forget about breakfast and go straight to lunch. Some people might see this as a sign of laziness, but for Thumps sleeping in was a way of reminding himself that he was his own boss. When he was a cop on the California coast, late mornings had not been an option. Now that he was an artist, a fine-art photographer, and not tied to someone else’s schedule, most days were his to do with as he pleased.
Today was not one of those days. All the dashing about in the last while had screwed up his rhythm, and by the time the sun had begun its climb up the eastern slope of the mountains, Thumps was awake. Three early days in a row was obscene, and as he stood under the shower, he reminded himself that self-employed people should at least have the luxury of arranging their business day. Not that Thumps was exactly self-employed. To be sure, he had a small pension from the State of California, but if he added up the number of photographs he had sold in the last four months, self-unemployed might be a better description.
As soon as Thumps stepped out of the tub, Freeway jumped in and began lapping at the pool of water that never seemed to drain away completely. Thumps had considered pouring a bottle of something nasty down the pipe to unclog it, but he worried that Freeway might wind up stiff and cold on the porcelain. Of course, there were times when he wanted to strangle the cat. And he wasn’t sure he would really miss her. But after Eureka, he knew he didn’t have the stamina to manage many more losses in his life. Even minor ones.
As he stood in front of the bathroom mirror and tried to decide whether or not he needed to shave, Thumps began sorting through his options for the day. He had already been up to Buffalo Mountain twice. He had talked to Cooley. He’d been in the mountains looking for Stick and did not plan to do that again. He’d been out to Shadow Ranch to visit with Floyd, and Floyd had stopped by to visit with him. He’d even broken into Takashi’s room and searched it. The sheriff would love that one. And he had been to see Claire. As far as he could tell, he hadn’t missed anything. Yet, with the exception of the cigarettes, he hadn’t found anything either. Takashi was still dead. Stick was still missing. And aside from some vague notions about the possibilities of political protest gone wrong, he didn’t have a clue as to why the crime had taken place.
Thumps folded his jeans and put on a pair of cotton slacks instead. Most of his good shirts were in the laundry. The rest hadn’t been ironed yet. In the end, all he could find that was reasonably appropriate was a dark green golf shirt with “Paradise Canyon Golf and Country Club” tastefully stitched on the front. Thumps set his runners on the shoe stand in the closet and went looking for his old Rockports. He found them sitting on top of a shoebox.
Shit.
Thumps did not remember putting the box there. Couldn’t remember where he had put it, though he imagined he would have tried to put it somewhere he wouldn’t find it. Now it was too late to put it back or try to hide it again.
The box was empty except for a police-evidence bag and a handful of photographs. All that was left of his career as a cop. All that was left of Anna and Callie. Thumps sat down on the floor and took the photographs out of the box. It was a mistake, one he had made any number of times. It was a mistake and he knew it, knew where it would lead, knew how it would leave him feeling, knew how close to the edge it had taken him in the past. But he also knew that once the memories were loose, there was no putting them back in the box.
Not until they had done their damage.
* * *
It was late morning before Thumps backed his car out of the driveway and started the long run across the flat back of the prairies to Shadow Ranch. He rolled the windows down all the way to keep the heat and depression at bay, and he put a tape in the cassette player and sang along with the twangy, nasal voice of some Hank Snow wannabe. But nothing helped. Instead, he found himself sliding toward the edge as the interminable whining verses about unfaithful women, hard-headed men, and lost dogs, rolled into a chorus that celebrated being drunk, broke, and on the road again. Thumps liked country-and-western music well enough and probably would have liked it a great deal more if none of the songs had words.
Floyd was the wild card in the game. He had been Takashi’s driver. Maybe the two of them had gotten chummy. Maybe Takashi had told Floyd something.
Maybe, maybe, maybe. That
’s what Thumps liked about crime and about life in general. There was always an endless string of maybes to play with. Maybe after he talked to Floyd again, he’d stop in and see Vernon Rockland. Maybe Rockland would invite Thumps to bring his photographs out to Shadow Ranch for a one-man show.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
After all, Shadow Ranch did have an art gallery, and in addition to the usual suspects—landscape painters, woodcarvers, and stoneware potters—Rockland had already featured several photographers.
The first photographer that Rockland had brought to Shadow Ranch was a woman from San Francisco who did black-and-white ocean scenes with craggy rocks and backlit waves. Thumps liked the ocean and he was impressed with the photographs, each one a technical marvel of exposure, masking, and toning, but the overall effect of all the photographs in one room was more romance than he could stomach.
The second photographic show consisted of large colour prints of clowns.
Hockney’s cruiser was parked in front of the main lodge. Thumps pulled in behind him. So, the sheriff had finally gotten around to searching Takashi’s room. It had taken him long enough. But now that Duke was on the prowl, Thumps knew that he should stay away. Stay away from the townhouse. Stay away from Floyd. A smart man would retreat into the hotel, where it was air-conditioned and cool. A smart man would find Rockland, have a leisurely cup of coffee, and talk about photography. But Duke’s phone call was chewing at him, and curiosity is a powerful mistress. And, in the end, she dragged him up the red-gravel path to the townhouses.
Sure enough, Takashi’s apartment was taped off and Duke was standing in the doorway.
“Hi, sheriff.”
“This one of those coincidences?”
“Saw your car.”
“’Cause I don’t believe in them,” said the sheriff. “What about you?”