Assumption (23 page)

“Here, turn left here,” Beetle said.

Ogden did. If there had been rain on this side of the mountains, it hadn’t amounted to much. The dirt road was more than decent. After three or so miles the house came into view and the road made sense; rich people enjoyed good roads, paid for good roads. The house was a beautiful, sprawling adobe with a wrapa­round portal that seamlessly connected the structure to the exterior planting of yucca, juniper, cacti, purple sage, and salvia.

“You know the people who live here?” Ogden asked.

“Yeah, he’s my buddy.”

“What his name?”

“Derrick.”

“Derrick what?”

“Derrick. His name is Derrick.”

Ogden asked no more questions. He stopped the truck in the clearly demarcated gravel parking area and looked at the heavy, antique front door set into a windowless seven-foot-high adobe wall. There were no other cars. Beetle climbed out and Ogden followed the mismatched flip-­flops across the path of pea-­sized stones through the garden. Beetle opened the door and they stepped into a courtyard. The house faced the yard on three sides and was all windows, even the bedrooms. A well-­shaped and healthy pagoda tree was centered in the yard. There was no sign of anyone. Beetle walked to the glass door of the living room and slid it open, walked in without hesitation. Ogden followed him, but with, if not hesitation, reservation and even reluctance. He called into the house once standing on the polished saltillo tiles. The room was warm. He called out again, “Hello!”

“He’s not home,” Beetle said.

Ogden didn’t know what to do.

Beetle plunked himself down on a red leather sofa and pulled a Zapotec blanket over himself. “So, now we sit and wait a little bit. He’ll be here.”

Ogden walked around the room, looking at the photographs, looking for some face he had seen before, looking for a picture of a child, any child, looking for Conrad Hempel. He looked for magazines or letters, anything with a name on it and found nothing. There was a burning in his brain, a rage that wasn’t exactly new and that frightened him for its familiarity. He sat in the leather chair that matched Beetle’s sofa and before he knew it he was asleep.

There was no rain, only bright sunshine, late morning sunshine, cool air but hardly a breeze, the stream below the little dam but a trickle, a western bluebird saying nothing and Ogden standing there, leaning there on that tool, his shirt off, sweating and drying. Terry Lowell was there, too, looking concerned, looking worried, his hands held away from his sides, his breathing short and catching. He wore his Fish and Game uniform, his trousers creased, his shirt collar stiff and hugging his neck though his top button was not fastened, his eyes fixed, his gaze fixed, the frame behind him nothing but blue sky and a bit of the mesa’s rim, as he was standing on a boulder’s upslope. And he wanted to know, wanted to know, and Ogden attended to his business, his own business, his hands wet with his business and he was not the Ogden he knew, was not the Ogden that Terry Lowell knew, as he stood there, leaning on his tool, looking down and away from Terry’s eyes, finding a key somewhere and ready to lock or unlock, he could not tell which, waiting to turn one way or the other, the sky so blue and framing Terry just so and filling the deep gorge just so, just so, just so. Ogden moved his foot and he brushed against something. He glanced down, thinking it was the blade of the tool he held, but it was not. Sutures showed through the torn surface, ragged and torn and peeling back, layers. Ogden tasted bile and it burned in his throat, in his belly, in his head.

“Who are you?” the voice came into Ogden’s sleep, but it was not Terry’s and not his own.

Beetle was awake, straightening himself, a comic effort, stepping out of one his flip-­flops. “Hey, Derrick, this here is my man.”

“What’s your man’s name?”

Beetle didn’t know.

“My name is Ogden.”

“What are you doing in my house?”

“Waiting for you,” Ogden said.

“I can see that.”

“What’s your last name?” Ogden asked.

“Fuck you,” Derrick said. “This is my fucking house.”

“I’m aware of that. My name is Ogden Walker, I’m a Plata County deputy sheriff.”

Derrick turned to Beetle. “You fuck, you brought a cop to my house?”

“Do you have a son?” Ogden asked.

“No, I don’t have a fucking son. What kind of fucking question is that? And this is illegal entry, you know that?”

“I don’t care what you’ve got here,” Ogden said. “Is your last name Yates?”

“I’m not telling you shit.”

“I can find out your name,” Ogden said.

“Then find it the fuck out, Sherlock.” Then, to Beetle, “Get your ass out of my house and take
your man
with you.”

“I came all this way. You gonna set me up, right?” Beetle did a little dance.

“Get out.”

“No, man, no no no, I need something, anything. I came a long way. I got here. You said if I ever got here, you’d set me up. You said it. I even got me some money.” Beetle pulled a wad of cash out his sweatpants pocket.

“Get out of my fucking house!”

“Where is the kid?” Ogden asked.

“There ain’t no kid.”

A vehicle crunched to a stop out on the gravel. Ogden looked out at the big door to the courtyard. He wondered if Warren had traced the kid to this house. When the door opened he saw that it was the flyweight from the meth lab. Ogden realized as he saw the small man approach that he, Ogden, was in fact afraid of him. Flyweight was hard, a seasoned criminal, and it showed in his walk and in the way he’d reacted when he’d had a pistol pointed at him. Of course the barrel of the weapon had not been in his mouth, but nonetheless he had remained calm, had measured the situation. Ogden had seen him do it. And now he was coming into this house. Flyweight leaned forward a bit as he walked, trying to see into
the house. It was clear he didn’t have a good view from outside, glare perhaps. Ogden turned his back on the room and walked to the kiva fireplace as the man entered.

“What is this, a party?” Flyweight said. “What’s that junkie doing here? How you get up here, junkie? Somebody was looking for you, Meth-­mouth.”

Ogden could feel the man’s eyes on him.

“Hey,” Flyweight said, a note of recognition in his voice.

Ogden turned with his pistol out of his pocket and pointed at Flyweight.

“Again with the gun,” the small man said.

“Afraid so,” Ogden said.

“I see you found Meth-­mouth. So, why the gun?”

“Because you have one,” Ogden said.

Derrick was now visibly frightened. He backed a couple of steps away.

“You stay with the pack,” Ogden said. “Stay close. I need you close. I need you to tell me where Willy Yates is.”

“What are you talking about?” Derrick asked.

“He’s loco,” Flyweight said.

Beetle fell onto the sofa and curled up in the fetal position, muttered to himself, saying, “Just a little, just a little and I’ll be gone. I don’t need to be here. Need some dope, man.”

“I’m telling you there is no Willy Yates, man. And there ain’t no kid,” Derrick said.

Ogden listened to Derrick. No Willy and no kid. That did not sound like a lie. It was no lie. Ogden looked around the house. It looked so familiar. Had he ever been here? “Have I ever been here?” he asked.

“This is my house,” Derrick said. “I don’t know you.”

“He’s loco,” Flyweight said.

“Everybody sit,” Ogden said. “Sit!”

Derrick sat next to Beetle. Flyweight sat on the leather chair, on the edge of the cushion, leaning forward.

“I want you to toss your pistol over here,” Ogden said.

“I don’t have no pistol,” Flyweight said.

“I won’t ask you again.”

Flyweight took a .45 from the back of the waistband of his pants. Ogden told him to be careful.

“I’m being careful,” he said calmly. He put it on the floor and kicked it to Ogden; it didn’t make it across the floor.

Ogden shook his head. “That’ll do.”

“Who is this guy?” Derrick asked Flyweight.

“He came in when we were taking the lab down. Was looking for Meth-­mouth.”

“My name is Beetle.”

“Where’s your son?”

Derrick shook his head. “What is it with this guy? What’s your problem? I don’t have a son. I don’t have a wife!”

Ogden sat on the far arm of the sofa. His leg was shaking. His head was aching. The rain had starting falling outside along with the night. Along with the night. Ogden studied the three faces and found his finger tapping the trigger guard. He watched the flyweight watching him, watched the flyweight staring at his .45 on the floor beside the edge of the Navajo rug, black against the red of the saltillo. Tap, tap, tap on the trigger guard, tap, tap, tap.

A parachute dragonfly placed at the top of a riffle. It landed beside a large stone that’s been made concave on one side by millions of years of relentless flow, relentless push. A tug. A twitch. The yellow line straightened, paused, went slack, and then carved a path down the broken water to the pool below. In the pool the trout swam in a circle looking for shelter. Warren got his line on the reel and sat down on the bank to watch. Ogden stepped farther into the Rio Grande. The water was at his waist, lapping at his elbows. It was cold. Ice had formed in the eyelets of his rod. He let the fish run. Warren stood. Ogden let the fish go some more. The trout grew tired and slowed. Ogden grabbed his net from his back and scooped up the fish. A fifteen-­inch cutthroat. The red slash was bright in the gray morning. Warren did not move closer. Warren did not move. Ogden put one hand under the trout’s belly, with the other he held the tail. He let it flow there in the water in his grasp. The trout struggled. Ogden held on. The trout strained against Ogden’s grip. He held on. He let go. The trout disappeared downstream. Warren watched, turned, and could not find Ogden.

Warren didn’t even know there was a road off this stretch of Highway 38. The rains had rolled through and left the sky clear and the air remained cold. He parked behind Bucky Paz’s rig and walked past a couple of state troopers, through the door, through the courtyard and into the living room.

“It’s a mess,” Bucky said.

Warren looked around. A small man, probably Hispanic, was spread out on his back on a stuffed leather chair, a bullet hole in his forehead. A white man, slight in build, was halfway over the leather sofa, a hole in his side and one in the same side of his head. The third was on the floor, head toward the kitchen. Warren couldn’t see his face, but there were a couple of holes in his back. There was blood everywhere. State cops were snapping pictures, dusting for prints, combing the rugs, and sweeping the floors.

Bucky looked around and shook his head. “What do you think, Warren?”

“Got any names?”

“Just that guy.” Bucky pointed at the man headed for the kitchen. “Derrick Yates. UPS guy found them this morning.”

“Yates?”

“That’s what I said.”

“How about that?”

“You got anything you want to tell me?”

“No.”

“Good. That’s a good thing.”

“Is the boy around here? Is he okay?”

“Seems there is no boy. Mr. Yates lived here by himself.”

Warren scratched his head. “This is hinky as hell, Bucky.”

“You think? I need a fucking doughnut, that’s what I need. Chocolate with sprinkles.”

“I’m going to go now.”

“Want to tell me where?”

“Not sure yet,” Warren said.

“Stay in touch. And be careful.”

Warren looked up at the sky as he got closer to his truck. Yes, the rain had let up, but the weather change wasn’t done. A red-tailed hawk circled overhead. Some crows and a magpie prowled at the far edge of the grounds. And a couple of optimistic turkey vultures rode the currents high above him. Feathers everywhere. So, as he drove back to the highway he recalled a conversation many years earlier with a Navajo singer, a medicine man. Warren had asked him if he used only eagle feathers for his ceremonies. The old man shook his head and said, “No, no, we use many feathers. We use hawk feathers, crow feathers, owl feathers, Woody Woodpecker feathers.” Warren sat there with his cousin and they just looked at each other, wanting to laugh and wanting to show proper respect. So at thirteen Warren learned the way the white world, for lack of a better or worse term, had eaten or bored its way into his culture. But that was not a good or a bad thing, just a thing, he thought. A chick cannot stay in its shell forever. That was how his father had put it. Then his father would squint, smile, and say, “It becomes a bird or breakfast. That’s just how it is.” Warren, done distracting himself, turned his mind to Ogden. His friend was in grave danger, it seemed. One of his friends was dead and now another might be. At the very least Ogden was in deep trouble, with the police and with someone who was not hesitant about killing.

Warren had searched the state for a Willy Yates and there was none. No boy, no old man, no tombstone, real or imagined or meta­phoric, with the name etched into it. Ogden had told him the last time he saw him that he was going to the hatchery, so that’s where he’d go. He drove west through Questa and turned south. A thunderhead was forming far off in the west, but over him there was nothing but robin’s-egg blue.

The office of the hatchery was little more than a trailer bolted to a concrete slab. In fact, that’s just what it was. There was a pair of portable toilets parked on either side of it, one for men and one for women. The hatchery manager was a tall, skinny man named Buddy Baker. He’d had a cleft palate as a child and some rather rough surgeries had left him with a pronounced scar that was not covered well by his mustache.

“Howdy, Deputy,” Baker said as he stepped from the office.

“Buddy.” Warren looked around at the facility.

“Sad about Terry,” Buddy said. “I liked him. Knew him for a long time.”

“I liked him, too. Were you the one that found him?”

“No, Wilson, the guy who cleans the toilets, he found him and then he came and got me. I saw him, though. It was awful.”

Warren nodded.

“His chest looked like it was blown open.” Baker looked at the west rim of the canyon. “I ain’t never seen anything like it. I met his wife one time.”