Percival Everett

Assumption

For Beth

~ ~ ~

Dusk came on and the pinacate bugs were out of their holes and trudging along the wash. Ogden Walker pushed his toe into the path of one of the large beetles and watched it stand on its head. He glanced up at the shriek of a chat-little and noticed the pink in the sky and though it showed no promise of rain he walked up to higher ground to settle in for the night, remembered how quickly desert floods could occur, how his father would not drive across a dip in the road if there was even an inch of water standing in its trough. The chill of evening was already on him. He built a fire, ate the sandwich he had bought some miles back near Las Cruces, and then rolled out his sleeping bag. He stared up at the new moon and the clouds that threatened to obscure it and tried to recall the last time he had been able to sleep in the desert. The desert he and his father had shared was not like this one. The high desert was not so severe, was not so frightening, relentless, was harsh only for its lack of water. His father spoke to him, a dead voice telling Ogden that he was a fool, a fool to love the desert, a fool to have left school, a fool to have joined the army, a fool to have no answers, and a fool to expect answers to questions he was foolish enough to ask. And his father would have called him a fool for working as a deputy in that hick-full, redneck county. His mother would be waiting for him in Plata. She wouldn’t call him a fool. He thought about the desert around him, thought about water and no water, the death that came with too much water, flooding that carried mice and snakes and nests and anything else in its way. To drown in the desert, that was the way to die, sinuses replete with sandy water, dead gaze to dead gaze with rattlers in the flow. Ogden closed his eyes and thanked the desert wind that it was all over.

A DIFFICULT LIKENESS

Ogden Walker put his finger, a once-broken index that still held a curve, to the hole in the glass of the door through which two bullets had passed, a neat hole with spiderweb etching out and away. He felt the icy air, the rough exit hole, and he traced the netting of cracks to the wood. Neither the neighbors nor Mrs. Bickers knew who or what had been on the porch, but all were certain that he, she, or it would not be returning. Ogden marveled at the fact that Mrs. Bickers had been able to put two bullets through the same mark. He certainly could not have fired two shots like that, but still it was his job to relieve the old woman of her firearm and any others she might have. It wasn’t that he believed she should not have the gun, an old woman alone like that, but that she’d pulled the trigger without so much as a glimpse at the person on the porch. It could have been the meter reader, the postman, ringing only once this time, or Ogden himself.

“I need to talk to you, Mrs. Bickers,” Ogden said through the slim crack she offered at the door.

“Not now,” she said, her voice hoarse, perhaps thick with the morning. She pulled her terry-cloth robe tight around her bony frame. “Can you come back?”

“No. I have to talk to you now. Okay? Open the door and let the not-yet-fully-awake deputy in.” Ogden looked her in the eye. “Please, ma’am.” He always sensed that the old woman didn’t like him because he was black, but that was probably true for half of the white residents of the county.

She opened the door and stood away. Ogden walked past her into the tight space of the foyer. He caught sight of his tired face in the mirror of the combination coat rack/bench. He watched as she closed the door, attended to the bullet hole from the other side.

“You got any coffee, Mrs. Bickers? I’m dying for a cup.” He knew that the old lady had never been comfortable with him, but he believed he could somewhat control the tension by having her feel he didn’t notice.

“Don’t have any coffee,” she said.

“What about tea? Listen, I need to sit down with you and have a little chat. Sheriff wants me to do it. So I have to do it.”

“Come on back.” She led the way to the rear of the long house and into the kitchen, across the buckled linoleum to the table.

He held his holster away from his hip as he lowered himself into a chair. “A lot of excitement last night,” he said. “Are you all right?” He watched as the old woman filled a mug with the coffee she’d said she didn’t have and set it down in front of him. “Thank you, ma’am.”

She wiped both hands on her apron.

Ogden wrapped his hands around the mug. “Strong tea,” he said.

She sat. “Let’s get on with it.”

“Pretty fancy shooting last night, Mrs. Bickers. I’d never be able to hit a mark twice like that.”

“Well, I didn’t see much point in putting two holes in a perfectly good door,” she said without a hint of a smile.

“No, I guess not. Mind if I take a look at your gun?”

She frowned and twirled a lock of her loose gray hair between her fingers.

“I need to see it.”

She nodded, got up, and walked out of the kitchen and across the hall. She opened the door and slipped inside, closing the door behind her. Ogden watched the door and was still watching when she came back out with a long-barrel.22 target pistol.

“That’s a hefty weapon, Mrs. Bickers.”

“Yes, it is.” She put it on the table, her hand lingering on it.

Ogden was impressed that the woman could even lift the pistol. She even seemed to have trouble raising it from her hip to the table. He figured that adrenaline had done the lifting and shooting in the darkness.

“Are you going to take it from me?” she asked.

Ogden didn’t answer that question. “Is it true you didn’t have any idea who was on your porch last night?”

She sat across from him. “That’s true.”

“You didn’t even see them a little bit? How many? Man or woman? Tall or short? Wearing a jacket? Did he have a head? That’s a high window, ma’am.”

“I didn’t see anything. I heard a noise and shot at it. That’s what happened.”

“Then I’m afraid I’m going to have to take your gun.”

She sighed, looked past him out the window of the back door. “A person’s got a right to protect herself.”

“Protect is one thing. Shooting at noises in the night is another. That could have been anybody out there.”

“I shot high.”

“Could have been a tall somebody.”

“Just take it,” she snapped.

Ogden looked around the floor and then across at the litter box. “Where’s your cat?”

“She’s outside somewhere, been gone all morning.”

“Are you sure you’re all right, Mrs. Bickers?” He suddenly felt uneasy. He wondered about the way she was looking away from him.

“I’m fine.” She looked him in the eye. “I had a prowler last night and I shot at him and I scared the hell out of him and now you’re taking my protection away.”

“Look at it this way. What if it had been me at the door?”

“What if it had been you?” She pulled hair from her face. “First off, you wouldn’t have been coming around that time of night unless you had a reason and you wouldn’t have pounded on the door like that.”

“Prowlers don’t usually knock.”

“Pound, not knock.”

Ogden granted the distinction with a nod. He looked for the cat again and then realized just how cold the house was.

“Go on, take it,” she said.

“I’ll come by and check on you now and again,” he said. He picked up the pistol. “It’s warm.” Ogden observed that there was no clip. He pulled back the slide and saw that a round had been chambered. He removed it.

“I don’t need no babysitter.”

“Ma’am?”

“I said I don’t need no babysitter.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He took another sip of coffee. “I like your coffee. And where’s the clip?”

“I took it out,” she said.

“Do you have any other guns?”

“No. That’s the only gun I have.” She coughed.

“I can take only this gun because you discharged it,” Ogden told her. “But, personally, I’d like to know if you have another. In case I get a call late some night.”

“That’s the only gun in the house.”

“Okay. I’m still going to need that clip. I’m not expected to round up every stray bullet, but I will need that clip.”

She got up and walked back to the same room. She came back and handed him the magazine. The clip was full, not missing a single shell. Ogden slipped it into his jacket pocket.

“Thank you.” He stood and again felt the cold air. “How about I bring in some wood for you? It’s a little chilly in here.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I insist. Maybe I’ll see your cat while I’m out there.” Before she could protest again he was at the door. He stepped out and made the only set of prints in the fresh snow. Ogden had a bad feeling about something but he couldn’t nail it down. As he loaded his arms with wood he looked back at the house, at the windows of the kitchen and the room she’d gone into for the pistol. That shade was drawn. He guessed that it was her bedroom. And where was her cat? Maybe she was acting strange simply because she was strange, because she had never liked Ogden’s skin color, though she had never said as much. But he knew. Anyway, something wasn’t right. A full clip? Why would she have replaced the missing bullets so quickly? A chambered round?

Back on the stoop, he stomped his boots free of snow and then stepped inside. Mrs. Bickers stayed close to him all the way to the front room where he set down his load next to the stove.

“I can take it from here,” the old woman said.

“You want me to open your bedroom door and let it warm up?” he said and looked for a reaction.

“Oh, I will, I promise.”

Her agreeable response rang strangely. Ogden had imagined her biting his head off, telling him that she’d lived alone long enough to know how to take care of herself and that she didn’t need some half-brained deputy telling her how to heat a house.

Ogden smiled at the woman and walked to the front door. “You know, it’d be no trouble for me stroll around awhile and look for your cat. What, did she just scoot out when you had the door open, something like that?”

“He’ll be home soon.”

Ogden was out of the house and walking, almost to his car, when he turned around and looked. As he was about to fall in behind the wheel he saw Mr. Garcia standing at his door. Ogden walked toward him.

“Buenos días, again,” Ogden said. He kicked at the snow in the corners of the steps and looked up at Garcia, now on his porch.

“Everything straightened out?” the man asked. He held an unlit cigarette between his lips.

The deputy shrugged. “Seems under control.” He stepped onto the porch and stood next to the shorter man and together they looked across the street at the old woman’s house. “Report says you heard shots last night. I know you didn’t see anybody, but is there anything else you remember? Even before the shots?”

Garcia blew into his hands and then shoved them into the pockets of his thick sweater. “Like what?”

“Anything at all. Anybody suspicious hanging around the last few days? Ever, for that matter. Strange cars. Spaceships landing in her backyard.”

“The spaceship was a couple of weeks ago.”

“You don’t like Mrs. Bickers much, do you?” Ogden asked.

“Do you?” he asked.

Ogden looked at the gray sky. “Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Garcia.”

Ogden walked to his rig and got in this time, started the engine, and drove away. He stopped when he was sure his car couldn’t be seen from Mrs. Bickers’s house. He sat there behind the wheel for some minutes, nibbling from a bag of chips he’d bought the night before, trying to figure out what to do, trying to think of what was bothering him about the situation, if there was a situation.

He watched the postman drive down the road, depositing mail in the boxes. He could see the old lady’s box, but she didn’t come out to get her mail. The old people around there were paranoid about letting their mail sit in the box; too many checks had been stolen. Ogden had even seen Mrs. Bickers on occasion meet the postman at the roadside.

He got out and climbed a fence and made his way through the backyards to the old woman’s house. He slipped through the barbed wire that kept a fat calf in the neighbor’s yard and moved low until he was seeing the old woman’s house from behind the woodpile. The calf came to the place where he had crossed the fence and stared at him, lowed a complaint. Ogden stared back at the house. His heart was racing now and he focused on breathing more slowly.

He would have felt like a fool trying to dash across the yard unseen. With winter, all the shrubs were bare and there was no hiding. So he walked to the house casually, but quickly. He was glad he had taken the old woman’s pistol. When he had returned to the house with the wood, he had been the one to close the door. He hadn’t locked it and maybe it was still unlocked. He ducked and passed beneath the bedroom window and stepped up to the door. He gripped the knob gently, but surely, and gave it a slow twist. It was open. He heard nothing, nothing at all. If there was nothing wrong he was going to have a hell of a time explaining himself. He could tell the truth, that she had been acting strange and he was worried that something was wrong and then he would lie, saying he’d knocked on the back door and when there was no answer he became more concerned. The only lie was the part about knocking.

He was in the kitchen now, his boots weighing on the buckled linoleum. He knew there was no way to walk across the floor unheard, so he stepped quickly. He slipped a little on the ice he had brought in on his boots. He stopped at the closed bedroom door, looked up the hallway toward the front door, and unsnapped the trigger guard on his holster. If he opened the door and found the old lady in her altogether, she wouldn’t need a gun, he’d shoot himself. He did open the door and there was no one there. He moved quickly through the rest of the house, the parlor, the spare bedroom where the old woman had apparently watched television, the bathroom. Then he opened the front door. No one. The only prints in the snow were his, one set in and one set away.

Ogden went again into the bedroom and looked around, fingered through the papers on the nightstand, mostly receipts for prescriptions. He called out the woman’s name. He paused at the door, a little dizzy. He was about to leave the room when he stopped. He dropped down to look under the bed. The little white cat looked like a rag. Ogden pulled him out, the cat falling limp over his palm. He thought that maybe the animal had been squeezed to death, his eyes blood-burst and erased of all sign of life. He called out the woman’s name again.

~ ~ ~

Ogden’s father would never have approved of his son’s job with the sheriff’s office. He wouldn’t have said it outright, that had never been his way except in Ogden’s dreams, but he would have made it clear that he believed Ogden to somehow be a traitor. A traitor to what would have remained forever unclear, but it would have been tinged with the language of race and social indignation. Ogden never did much like the uniform. He disliked it as much as he had disliked the one he’d worn in the army. His father had been alive for that uniform. It wasn’t that the man hated the idea of his son being a soldier; he hated the idea of his being an American soldier. He’d moved to New Mexico from Maryland because there were fewer people and so, necessarily, fewer white people. He hated white people, but not enough to refrain from marrying one, Ogden’s mother. Ogden’s mother never flinched and always laughed off her husband’s tirades as silly, which they no doubt were, but it was hard for a son to think that his father hated half of him. Perhaps this was why he was willing to care enough about the bigoted white woman who was now missing.

Sheriff Bucky Paz was a big man with a belly round enough that the general belief was that his suspenders not only held up his trousers but kept him from exploding. He didn’t carry a side arm because he figured he was wide enough without one. He had once said to Ogden, “I can’t do anything about my gut, but there’s no reason to look sillier than god intended.” He was sitting now behind his desk, eating carrot sticks and listening to Ogden’s report.

“You get any more out of the neighbors?” Paz asked. “People don’t like to talk in the middle of the night, but you catch them after breakfast and that’s another story.”

“They’re not crazy about talking with full stomachs either,” Ogden said. “Mr. Garcia didn’t see anything. The Hireleses didn’t see anything. Nobody saw anything.” Ogden stood from his chair and walked across the room to lean on the file cabinet. “And I believe them. Though I can’t say any of them are too fond of the old girl.” He peeled down a slat of the blinds and looked out at an insignificant flurry of snow. “They might not say anything even if they had seen something, but I believe them.”

Paz held up the Baggie of carrot sticks and offered some to Ogden. He nodded at the refusal. “My wife packs these for me. Says she’s trying to save my life. You know how many of these you have to eat before you don’t want a doughnut?”

Ogden rubbed his eyes. “How many?”

“Hell if I know. I eat all the carrots she packs for me and then I go get a doughnut.” He dropped the Baggie on the desk. “You say there were no car tracks.”

“Only mine and the mailman’s. The only vehicle on the street was Mr. Hireles’s pickup and it never moved.”

“That vintage blue Ford?”

“That’s the one.”

“I love that truck.”

Ogden nodded.

“Mrs. Bickers.” Paz said the name as if to hear how it sounded. He shook his head. “You know I took this job because nothing happens around here.”

“So, what now?”

“Hell if I know.”

“No escapes from the prison,” Ogden said. “I called. Not for over a year anyway.”

Paz bit the end off a carrot stick and looked up at him. “That’s good to know.”

“Felton!” Paz called out into the duty room.

The lanky Felton came to the door, tugged at his belt buckle, and adjusted his glasses. “Yeah?”

“Call over and see if anybody’s escaped from Santa Fe.”

“No reports of any escapes,” Felton said.

“Call anyway,” Paz barked. Then to Ogden, “Nothing wrong with double-checking. And call the mental hospital, too.”

“Yes, sir,” Felton said and turned away.

Paz studied Ogden. “You look like shit.”

“I’m tired.”

“Yeah, you look tired, too. Son, you’re too young to look old.”

“Right.”

“Have you had anything to eat today?” Paz asked. “You know breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Person can’t go around with his body needing fuel.”

“You sound like my mother.” He started out of the office. “You know, Bucky, it wouldn’t hurt to miss a meal or two.”

“That’ll be the day.”

Ogden left the station and drove to the diner down the street. It was a place run by two young women who opened for the single meal of lunch. Whether they slept late and went to bed early, Ogden didn’t care. He cared only that their lunches were good and not expensive. They were pleasant enough and not flirty and Ogden liked that. He waved to a couple of people at the counter. One of the two owners came to his table, filled his cup with coffee.

“Thanks.”

“How you doin’, Deputy,” she said.

She and her partner didn’t much like the idea of policemen. He understood. He didn’t much like cops either, though he did want to like himself. “It’s okay to dislike the uniform. It’s just a uniform. Under it I’m just like you.”

She studied him for a second and together they realized that he had just uttered a blatant untruth.

“Forget I said anything,” he said.

“What’ll it be?”

“Tuna on whole wheat.”

“Fruit or fries.”

“Fruit,” he said.

She smiled. “And you’re healthy under the uniform as well.”

As he watched her walk back to the kitchen, Manny Archuleta and Rick Gillis slid into the booth opposite him.

“Hey there, Ogden,” Rick said. “Mind a little company?”

Ogden shook his head no, but he didn’t mean it. “How are you guys?”

They nodded.

“Don’t you love this place,” Rick said. “I was telling Manny I think they’re lesbians.”

“Who?” Ogden said.

“The gals that run this place. Mindy and Eloise.”

“So,” Ogden said.

“So, I think that’s hot,” Rick said.

“What about you, Manny?” Ogden sipped his coffee while he looked at Manny.

“I don’t know. It don’t matter none to me.”

“Me, either.” Ogden shifted his focus to Rick.

“Listen, don’t make me out to be no pervert,” Rick said.

“How’s Carla?” Ogden asked Manny.

“She left his ass,” Rick said.

Manny slapped his friend’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “She’s gone to visit relatives.”

“Yeah, right,” Rick laughed. “That’s why she took everything she owns with her.”

Manny called for Mindy or Eloise to bring them some coffee.

Rick leaned back in his seat. “Hey, Ogden, we’re trying to get some guys together for a poker game this weekend. You interested?”

“I don’t have any money.”

“You’ve got enough,” Manny said.

“I don’t think so. I told my mother I’d fix a few things, and I was hoping to get in a little fishing.” Ogden looked at his watch. “Don’t you two work for a living anymore?”

“Break,” Manny said. “Man’s got to have a break now and then to remain productive. That’s what memo 9374 says.”

Ogden looked over at Huddie’s Lumber Company where Manny and Rick worked, had worked since high school, probably would work until they stopped working for good.

“It’s slow right now,” Rick said.

Ogden nodded.

Mindy or Eloise brought food to Ogden and coffee to his friends. She didn’t give them much of a look and even less of a greeting.

“She doesn’t like you guys,” Ogden said.

Rick smiled. “She likes us.”

“Listen, fellas, I’ve got to eat so I can make my rounds. You mind?”

Rick held his palms out as if pressing against an invisible wall. “Pardon the hell out of us. We wouldn’t want to interfere with Wyatt Earp making his rounds.”

“Give me a break, guys.”

They did. The two men left in a bit of a huff. Ogden watched them walk across the street and back toward the lumberyard. He felt bad for having shut them down. He finished his meal.

The old road up to the defunct ski area was just that, old. The lodge had burned to the ground fifteen years ago and now the only people who went up there were teenagers. They kissed each other, tore around on the occasional snowmobile, or spray-painted what they thought were offensive words on the remaining five feet of the lodge’s north wall. It being a weekday and during school hours, the place was deserted, the dry snow blowing across the meadow beyond the parking area. Ogden got out and walked to where the doors had once been, then he moved around and along the wall to see the new graffiti. In the summer, people who called themselves Gypsies would come park their motor homes and squat for a while. Nobody minded much. He recalled the past summer when he had to pick up a Gypsy man accused of stealing a watch from a tourist. Ogden knew as soon as he began talking to the man that he wasn’t guilty of stealing the watch, but oddly he also knew that the man, given the opportunity, would have taken the watch in a heartbeat. He went back to the tourist and helped the man retrace his steps. They found the watch in the man’s car trunk.

Ogden felt bad for having tied the dead cat up in a plastic bag to be taken to the lab in Santa Fe. He imagined that the old woman would have wanted the cat buried. He walked back to his rig and radioed in.

“Anything?” he asked Felton.

“No escapes from no place,” Felton said. “Checked the pen and the hospitals and the animal shelter. Everybody’s present and accounted for. Well, except the mental hospital. They want to know when you’re coming back.”

“Thanks.”

“They said your brain will be ready on Wednesday.”

“Thanks, again.”

“What’s your twenty?”

“I’m up here at the old lodge.”

“Don’t freeze up there.”

Ogden hung up the handset. He looked at the field of white against the backdrop of the slope of aspens, spindly and naked.

It was afternoon when Ogden received the call to go to Mrs. Bickers’s house. Bucky Paz’s car and two other rigs were already parked in front. Neighbors were hanging about on their porches and Ogden took this as a bad sign. Inside he found Paz just hanging up the telephone. He paused at the look on the big man’s face.

“I got a notion to come here and look around,” he said. He looked away and coughed into his fist.

Ogden didn’t speak. He waited.

“Well, I figured out why no one saw anything.”

“Why is that?”

Paz asked Ogden to follow him out of the parlor and across the hall to the room with the television. The rug was pulled back. Ogden stopped to observe the trapdoor in the floor.

Ogden hummed.

“I came in and found the rug turned back like that.” He paused and put a cigarette in his mouth. “The old lady’s still down there.”

Ogden felt his stomach turn a little.

“Just like the cat,” Paz said.

“Christ,” Ogden said.

“Christ ain’t got nothing to do with this, son.” Paz stomped his foot down on boards of the trapdoor. He took a slow breath and leveled his eyes on Ogden. “She knew whoever it was.”

“How do you know that?”

“The killer knew the house. At least that much is true. She sure as hell didn’t tell him about her trapdoor.”

That sounded reasonable to Ogden.

“Ogden, after we run through this place, I want you to go through her closets, drawers, desk, papers, everything.”

“Okay.” He wanted to climb down and look at the dead woman’s body.

“You okay?” Paz asked.

“Fine.”

“You want to see?”

Ogden nodded.

Paz took his foot off the door and stepped back. Ogden reached down and pried his fingers into the crack and pulled up the panel. Mrs. Bickers was lying right below, her pale skin easy to see against the dark ground. A spider crawled along her thigh. Her dress was hiked up, exposing her underwear. She was there, dirt-covered, faceup, eyes open and death-gazing, pupils finding different lines, her throat bruised. He let the door back down.

“Shouldn’t we pull her out?” Ogden asked.

“Pictures first. Coroner’s on his way.”

The men waited.

Morning. Ogden rolled over to answer his phone. It was his mother and she’d just heard about Mrs. Bickers. He agreed with her that it was terrible thing and how it just wasn’t safe to go out of your house anymore or even stay in. “I’ll be right over,” he said to her. He dressed and also packed a bag. His mother was frightened and rightly so, an old woman alone. He would stay with her for a few days.

Eva Walker had the door open before he was out of his truck. “You didn’t sleep,” she said.

“I slept. I didn’t sleep well, but I slept.” He followed her into the house and took off his jacket. He glanced over at the woodstove and saw the red glow behind the glass panel.

“But you didn’t eat.”

“You’ve got me there. I didn’t eat. Can you help me out?” He walked behind her into the kitchen.

“Isn’t it awful?” she said.

“It is that.”

“How could such a thing happen?” She pulled down the skillet and placed it on the stove. “Why?”

Ogden shrugged. He watched as she took eggs from the refrigerator, and sausage. “It’s a cruel world out there?”

“Any leads?” she asked.

“What?”

“Leads.” She dropped the sausages into the pan.

“You’ve been watching Columbo again. No, not yet. No leads.”

“Well, it’s just awful.”

“We believe Mrs. Bickers knew whoever mur—killed her.”

“Killed doesn’t sound any better than murdered,” his mother said. “No fingerprints?”

“Plenty. Including mine. Prints seldom help. At least that’s what they tell me.”

“All I know is what I see on the television.”

“Well, anyway,” he said. “I don’t think you need to worry.”

She turned the meat over.

“But I will sleep here for a couple of nights, if you don’t mind. It’ll save me a little driving.”

She beat the eggs. “I don’t need you here. I wish somebody would try to break in here. I’d pop him with this skillet and poke him with this fork and pour hot grease on him and then I’d get mad.” She tended the food in the pan. “I didn’t know her very well. Just to say hello. Not that I ever wanted to say hello to her.”

Ogden nodded.

“Did she suffer?”

“I don’t think so, Ma,” he lied.

She removed the meat and poured the eggs into the pan. She plugged in the toaster and grabbed a loaf of whole-wheat bread. “You do want toast.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Such good manners. I wonder who trained you.”

“Some crazy woman,” he said.

Eva put the food in front of her son, poured them both some coffee, and sat down to watch him eat. “What’s wrong, son?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Something’s bothering you. Tell me what’s on your mind. It’s been eating at you for a while now.”

“Nothing really,” he said. He sipped his coffee.

“That’s not fair. You come in here all the time and I can see the sadness on your face and I’m just supposed to ignore it? It’s not right. Either you talk about it or you learn to pretend you’re happy.”

Ogden put down his fork. She was right; it wasn’t fair and he told her that. He then said, “I just wonder what I’m doing. Am I wasting my time here? I don’t mean in this house. I mean in this town.”

“I know what you mean,” his mother said. “And, yes, you are.”

He looked at her.

“You really think that.”

“Yep.”

“What would Dad think?”

“He’d think the same thing. But, like me, he’d be proud of you.”

“For what? For hanging around here playing deputy? Not even that.”

Ogden’s mother leaned back and studied his face, smiled. “If you need to get out and live somewhere else, that’s fine. Son, that’s normal. But don’t think your father wouldn’t be proud of the man you are. He would be damn proud. I know that. You’re a good man, Ogden. There are not a lot of good men around.”

Ogden nodded. “Thanks, Ma.”

He finished his meal and then the two of them watched television. Ogden had to wake his mother and tell her to go to bed. Once she was off, he went into what had been his father’s tying room, where the man had made trout flies for the last twenty years of his life. His mother had kept it clean but pretty much as it had been when his father was alive. He sat at the desk and switched on the lamp. He put a number 12 down-eye hook in the vise and began to wrap it with black thread. He would make something easy, some zug bugs. He tied on a little lead and imagined the nymph skipping the bottom of a riffle. His father had loved to catch trout, but for Ogden to simply have a trout take notice of his fly was reward enough. He wrapped the peacock herl around the hook and watched the bug take shape.

In the dream, ten cutthroat trout were facing upstream in a row in the Rio Grande. They were spaced evenly across the river just after its confluence with Arroyo Hondo. Their dorsal fins were exaggerated in size and stuck up over the rushing water. Ogden was in chest waders, standing in the middle of the Grande. The river up to his chin and his waders were full of water, but he felt stable, foot-sure, and steady. The current wasn’t pushing him at all. He was casting the largest stonefly nymph he’d ever seen at the end of crazily long tippet. The wind was whipping but didn’t affect his casts in the least. The big fly landed perfectly on the water, no splash at all, no drag from the line. The fly would just drift past the nose of a trout. And the fish would ignore it, almost with disdain.

~ ~ ~

Ogden checked in at the station and then drove to Mrs. Bickers’s house to continue his so-called investigation. He stood in the middle of the parlor, slapping at his sleeves in the cold, and wondered where he should start. He watched his breath condense and float away from him and decided he should begin with a fire. He brought in wood and got a fire going. Still cold, he again sifted through the uninformative papers at the old woman’s bedside. He sat on the edge of the bed and then stood immediately. The bed was unmade and it felt like a block of ice. He had been sitting at the kitchen table with Mrs. Bickers, knowing that something was wrong. He wondered if she had been trying to tell him something that he had been simply too dense to understand. He should have gotten up and kicked in the bedroom door, but he hadn’t known enough to even consider it, much less do it.

He went to the desk in the parlor and sat. He found some trashy celebrity magazines and some back issues of Time and starts of letters that didn’t say much and the old woman’s address book. In the Bs he found three other Bickerses listed and one of those had been scratched out. The woman’s purse was on the floor beside the desk. Her identification revealed that her maiden name was Robbins. The bag also contained two hundred dollars and change. In the address book he found one Robbins, a Lester G. in Tempe, Arizona.

He went through the desk twice and found nothing out of the ordinary and nothing of any particular interest. There were some payment-due bills from the clinic, some through-the-mail insurance offers that the old woman had saved in a stack, and a deed to a parcel of land that was identified by quadrant number and all Ogden could determine was that it was in the county.

He went again into her bedroom and stood there awhile. He opened a dresser drawer. He moved her underwear around and looked behind her blouses. He searched behind her socks and stockings, nightgowns and sweaters. Nothing.

He walked into the room with the television and stood next to the open trapdoor. He looked at the space under the house and then lowered himself into it. He squatted and looked around in the dark a bit before switching on his little flashlight. The old woman’s impression was still in the dirt. He wouldn’t know a clue if it jumped up and bit him on his pecker. But he had known that something was wrong. He’d known and hadn’t done a single thing and now Mrs. Bickers, as objectionable and miserable as she was, was dead. Detective or not, he collected himself and scoured the ground for anything the other cops might have missed — a hair, a broken-off fingernail, a wad of gum, a signed confession with an address, anything.

The front door opened with a complaint from its hinges. Ogden stood and saw legs in tights.

“What can I do for you?” he asked. He pulled himself to sitting on the wood floor, brushed off his clothes.

“I’m Jenny Bickers,” the woman said. She was in her mid-thirties, maybe older. She looked around the room, at Ogden, and into the hole.

“I’m Deputy Ogden Walker.” Ogden stood.

“Where’s my mother?”

Ogden’s stomach fell hollow and cold against his back. The woman didn’t know.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

It was a reasonable question. Ogden knew he had to provide an answer. “Miss Bickers, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. Your mother is dead.”

The woman became unsteady. Ogden was berating himself for not suggesting that she sit first. She didn’t move.

“Where’s my mother? What’s going on?”

“You mother is dead,” he said again, realizing that there was no softening it. He reached out and helped the woman balance herself as she took a seat on the sofa.

Ogden stood beside her. “I’m very sorry.”

“Are you sure?”

“She was killed,” he said.

“Murdered?” the woman cried.

Ogden didn’t say anything. He sat next to her while she cried. He moved to put a hand on her shoulder, but decided that that might seem patronizing. He went to the bathroom and brought back some tissue.

“I don’t understand,” she said. Her face was twisted. She was beginning to hyperventilate.

“Take deep breaths,” Ogden said. He watched her for what felt like several minutes and then said, “We don’t know who killed her. I’m very, very sorry.”

She continued to try to breathe deeply.

Ogden resolved to say no more. He certainly wasn’t going to tell her how they believed her mother had died or that her cat had been crushed in the killer’s hands or that he had been sitting in the house with the woman minutes before she had been murdered.

“How?” Jenny Bickers asked.

“The sheriff will tell you everything. I’m going to call him now, okay?”

She nodded.

Ogden went to the phone in the parlor and called Paz. He told him that the old woman’s daughter had shown up and that he’d had to tell her the news.

“How is she?” Paz asked.

“What do you think? I didn’t go into any details with her. I’m about to bring her over.”

“Okay. How about you? You all right?”

“See you in a few.”

Ogden hung up and turned to Jenny Bickers. “I’ll take you to the station now.” He helped her up and they walked out.

“Murdered,” the woman said to herself as Ogden turned to padlock and tape the door.

Ogden repeated the word in his head as they walked to his rig. It was a bad thing, no matter how you said it.

Ogden walked Jenny Bickers past Felton and right into Paz’s office where she fell into a chair without an invitation. Paz wasn’t there, so Ogden stood silently by while the woman massaged her temples. It seemed her crying had given way to a headache.

Paz walked in and moved directly to the woman, very businesslike. “I’m Sheriff Paz.” He shook her hand. “I’m very sorry about your mother.” He moved to the other side of his desk. “Let’s see if you can help us find out who killed her.”

She sat up, squared her shoulders.

“Where do you live, Ms. Bickers?”

“Santa Fe.”

“And can you tell me when you last spoke to your mother?” the sheriff asked.

“Two days ago. Tuesday morning.”

“You come up often?”

“Not really.”

“This might sound like a stupid question, but did your mother have any enemies?”

“She was an old woman,” Jenny Bickers said.

“I know. Still,” Paz said. “She ever mention any fight or disagreement she’d had with anybody?”

“No.”

Paz offered a tired glance toward Ogden, then asked, “Did you come up here for any particular reason?”

“No, not really. I hadn’t been up to see her in a month or so,” the woman said.

Paz nodded. He leaned back and looked at Ogden. “You find anything?”

“Nothing. There’s still some papers to go through.”

“Well, get over there and finish up,” Paz said to Ogden. He looked at Jenny Bickers. “I know this is difficult, but I can’t allow you to stay at your mother’s house. It’s a crime scene.”

“I can’t say when I’ll be through,” Ogden said.

“I wouldn’t be able to sleep there anyway,” she said. “I’ll get a motel room. I don’t really feel like driving back to Santa Fe.”

Paz looked out the window. “Deputy Walker will take you back to your car. If there’s anything you can think to tell us or that you want to ask us, just call.”

Jenny Bickers pushed herself to her feet and walked out of the office ahead of Ogden.

“Ogden, I want you to give me a call when you get back to the house,” Paz said.

Sitting beside him on the way back to her car, Jenny Bickers couldn’t contain herself. “Was that man trying to insinuate that I had something to do with my mother’s death?”

“No,” Ogden said.

She didn’t believe him and stared out the window. “Did you know my mother well?” she asked.

“No, just in passing. To tell the truth, I don’t think she liked me very much.”

“She was surly.”

Ogden looked at her angular face, masculine, handsome, not pretty. “You grow up in Santa Fe?”

She cleared her throat. “I don’t know why my mother moved up here in the middle of no place. No offense.”

“None taken. I like the middle of no place. It beats the far edge of no place.” Ogden examined the gray sky. “Sisters, brothers?”

“No.”

“I’m an only child, too,” Ogden said.

“Listen, do you mind if I come in and look around with you?” she asked.

“No can do. You’d be better off getting some rest anyway.” After a brief silence, Ogden asked, “So, what do you down there in Santa Fe?”

“I’m an assistant manager in a copy shop.”

“Like it?”

“I’m an assistant manager in a copy shop,” she repeated.

“Gotcha.”

“I moved to Santa Fe after my divorce.”

When he stopped she got out and went directly to her car. He climbed out and jogged to catch her before she pulled off.

“Ms. Bickers,” he said, “may I recommend a place to stay?”

She looked at him.

“My mother’s house.”

“I couldn’t,” she said.

“It’s cheap.” He paused. “I mean to say it’s inexpensive. If you consider free inexpensive. My mother wouldn’t like me calling her house cheap. That way I won’t have to track you down if I find something and need to ask you questions. What do you say?”

“How will your mother feel about it?”

“She’d be mad if I didn’t offer.”

Ogden called his mother.

~ ~ ~

The sheriff thought it was a good thing that Ogden had sent the woman to his mother’s house. Ogden listened to the list of details about the house that told no one anything: fingerprints known and unknown, an unflushed toilet, the fact that the old woman had been strangled, her windpipe crushed. One didn’t need a coroner to determine that.

“The toilet seat was up,” Ogden added. “So there was a man there, but we knew that.”

There was something in the fat man’s voice that puzzled Ogden, namely, the mere fact that he was telling Ogden all of this. “What is it, Bucky?”

“You didn’t happen to glance at the young Ms. Bickers’s ID, did you?”

“I didn’t think to.” Ogden felt stupid.

“It wouldn’t have occurred to me either, but try to get a look at it, okay?”

“Of course.”

Ogden went back to Mrs. Bickers’s address book. The two Bickerses who weren’t scratched out were a John and a Howard, but beside their names was neatly written deceased. The Bickers who had been crossed out was a Jennifer with an Arizona phone number. The book was stiff and felt unused, so Ogden thought that Jenny’s Santa Fe number might be written someplace else. He turned to the listing under Mrs. Bickers’s maiden name. Lester G. Robbins. He dialed the Arizona number. The phone rang without answer. On a back page he found the name Jenny written many times with various numbers — Arizona, Utah, and numbers without area codes.

Ogden finished his looking and rifling through the dead woman’s desk and panties and felt strangely dirty and weird for his effort. He tried to leave out what he thought Jenny would need to sort out her mother’s affairs. From what he could tell, Mrs. Bickers had died without owing too much money. There were a few outstanding medical bills, a power bill, all overdue by only days. Her bank statement showed a balance of thirteen hundred dollars.

Ogden locked up the house and went to his rig where he called in to Felton and told him he was going to grab a bite.

“You mean you’re going to be 10-7,” Felton said.

“I guess so.”

“Actually that would be a 10-7-B,” Felton crackled. “Or a 10–48.”

“What about a size 10 up your ass?”

“No time. No time for lunch either, cowboy. You gotta go out County 8 and check on a vandalized car. Mouth of Niebla Canyon.”

“Roger that.”

He drove out on Highway 8 as instructed and saw a couple of hikers waving, trying to flag him down at the little store about a mile away from the Niebla trailhead. They were neat-looking young men with expensive boots, daypacks, and Nalgene bottles on their belts. They walked toward him as he got out.

“You the guys who called?” Ogden asked.

“It’s our car,” one of them said. “It’s up there.” He pointed up the dirt road.

“Get in,” Ogden said.

They did.

“Either of you hurt?” Ogden asked.

“Just our car.”

“They really trashed it, man.”

“We’ve had some complaints up here recently,” Ogden said. He cranked up the heat a bit.

He drove them up the washboard and rutted road to the trailhead. He whistled as he looked at the smashed windshield. “You came back to find it like this, eh?”

They got out and approached the school-bus yellow Nissan Pathfinder.

“We never even got going,” one of them said.

“We got about a quarter mile up the trail and heard the glass being smashed,” said the second. “It was scary. We didn’t know if we should run back or not.”

“We ran anyway,” the first said. “Nobody was here when we got back.”

“That’s probably a good thing,” Ogden said.

“Then we had to hoof it all the way down there to the pay phone. I couldn’t get a signal on my cell.”

“Mobile phones don’t work up here. Hardly in town either, for that matter.” Ogden looked again at the car. “You remember pissing anybody off?”

“Nah, man.”

“Anything missing? The CD player, cash, anything?”

“Nothing.”

“You got about a quarter mile up, you say?” Ogden asked.

“Maybe a little more.”

Ogden shook his head. He reached into the vehicle and popped the hood. He walked to the front and looked at the engine. It looked fine, all in place.

“I can drive you back to town, but I’d be nervous about leaving the car here if I was you.”

“You think we should wait here for a tow truck?”

“Or you could kick out the rest of that windshield and drive it to town. You’ll be cold as hell.”

“Yeah.”

“I say we just drive it and get the fucking hell out of here,” the other said.

Ogden looked at the damage again. “I can fill out a report for you to sign right now. You know, for insurance. That way you won’t have to come into the station.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Snow started to fall.

Ogden’s mother was holding the curtain aside and looking out the window when he drove up. She opened the door and stepped away to allow him in.

“It’s cold out there,” she said.

“It is that. How’s your visitor?”

“She’s doing fine considering all that’s happened. Poor thing. I simply can’t imagine.”

“Thanks for letting her stay here,” he said. He looked around for Jenny.

“You were right to suggest she stay here. Imagine losing your mother and having to sleep in some depressing motel. She’s been napping. And she’s lovely. Don’t you think she’s lovely?”

“I hadn’t noticed, Ma.”

“You’re a liar.”

Jenny Bickers came out of the guest bedroom, what had actually been Ogden’s bedroom. “Hello, Officer Walker,” she said.

“It’s Deputy,” Ogden said. “Seeing as you’re sleeping in my room, I think you can call me Ogden.”

“Okay, Ogden.”

“How are you, Jenny?” Eva asked. “Would you like some nice hot tea? Ogden, come sit down with us and have some tea. It’s the kind you like.”

“No, I’d better get going.”

“Pishposh,” his mother said.

“Okay. Just a cup and then I have to go.”

Ogden still felt grimy from his day. “Sorry I’m so filthy.” He looked at Jenny’s eyes. They were tired. “I think I’m finished at your mother’s house. I’ll have to get the okay from the sheriff, but I think you can get in there tomorrow.”

“Did you find anything?”

“No, I didn’t.”

Eva’s old cat walked across the room and rubbed against Ogden’s leg. He reached down and scratched his back. “Hey, Moose.” His father had given the cat that name almost fifteen years ago, a kitten as big as a Labrador puppy. “You’re feeding him too much.”

“I can’t control what he eats when he’s cruising.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t let him out so much.”

“Hey, I just let the guy enjoy what’s left of his life,” the old woman said.

Ogden thought about Moose out there prowling yards in the night and then he thought about Mrs. Bickers’s cat. He looked at Jenny. “Do you like cats?”

“I love cats,” Jenny said. Then, “Excuse me.” She left the table and walked into the bathroom.

“Poor thing,” Eva said. She shook her head and then looked at her son. “Why do you have to run off?”

“I’m filthy.”

“You can shower here. You’ve got clothes here, too.”

“I have to go,” he said.

“She needs people around her,” Eva said.

Ogden shook his finger. “Ma, you don’t know this woman. You don’t know what she needs. You hear me? Now, she’s got to make arrangements for her mother’s funeral and sort through—

Eva stopped him. “Already started.” Eva got up to see to the whistling kettle.

“What?”

“I got her in touch with Fonda today and we’re taking care of it. I know everybody here. I can get everything for a reasonable price.”

“Good Lord.”

Jenny came out of the bathroom. Mother and son shut up. Jenny sat. “Am I in the way?” she asked.

“Don’t be silly,” Eva said.

Jenny looked at Ogden.

“Don’t be silly,” he said. While they sat and talked about weather, Ogden wondered how he might get a look at the woman’s driver’s license. “What was your mother like?”

“Ogden,” Eva said.

“I don’t mind. I’d like to talk about her.” Jenny sipped her tea. “My mother was independent, ornery, and secretive.”

“Sounds familiar,” Ogden said.

“At least that’s what I imagine she was like,” Jenny said. “Sadly, I didn’t know her that well. I was raised by my grandmother.” She smiled at some memory. “My grandmother, she was from Kansas, she was a wonderful woman. She never said a negative thing about my mother, though I’m sure there was plenty negative to say. That stuff comes out, you know. Emma Bickers was a lousy mother and apparently an even worse judge of men.”

Ogden glanced up at the clock hanging slightly crooked on the wall behind Jenny.

“She was married to my father for a couple of years and then he left. I don’t know anything about him. My grandmother refused to acknowledge his existence. Then my mother left me with her. My mother lived in Seattle, Portland, Butte, and then here. She never remarried, but always moved because of a man. That’s what I got from my grandmother. She always blamed it on the men.”

“It’s always the men,” Eva said.

Jenny pulled her hair from her face and stared down into her tea cup. “I was trying to get to know her these last few months. I had only seen her three times since I moved to New Mexico. You probably knew her better than I did.”

“I doubt that,” Ogden said.

“Did you like her?” Jenny asked Ogden.

“Yes,” he lied.

“She was a fine person, I’m sure,” Eva said.

Ogden stood, looked at his watch. “Okay, I’ve been dirty long enough. If you ladies will excuse me?”

Ogden got up after a restive night and drank orange juice from the carton. He looked out his window at the landscape. He deeply loved the place, the mountains, the desert, the rivers, the fish, but he felt like a failure remaining there. It had been different for his father, he thought. The man had come there from someplace and carved out a life. He’d worked house construction and driven cats and plows in the winter and seemed happy with that, while instilling in his son the notion that there was more out there.

He dressed and drove toward town. He decided he would go over a few things at Mrs. Bickers’s house with Jenny and then ask her to sign a receipt and claim to need her driver’s license number on it. The sky was clear and cerulean and he felt lighter.

He arrived at the station to find Jenny waiting.

“You’re up early,” Ogden said.

Felton watched the two of them from his desk.

Ogden saw that Paz wasn’t in yet. “Well, let’s go have breakfast and then we can go to the house.” He felt himself intentionally say the house instead of your mother’s house and wondered what difference that sort of thing made.

Felton cleared his throat. “So, you’ll be 10—?”

“I’ll be at breakfast,” Ogden said.

Ogden drove them to the bowling alley that served the best Mexican food in town and breakfast all day. They sat in a booth. There were a few other people eating and one lone fat man bowling at the far end. A lot of folks didn’t go to the bowling alley, because it was a bowling alley. It was what it was; that was all you could ask of anyplace or anything, Ogden thought.

They ordered.

Ogden got right into it. “Did your mother have anything of value that you know about? You know, like gold bricks between her mattress and box springs, diamonds in ice trays. That sort of thing.”

Jenny shook her head. “Never saw anything.” She looked over the lanes. “You know, I don’t think my mother was ever really happy to see me. It was as if she worked to tolerate me.” She glanced at Ogden and then back at the fat man down the way. “She just didn’t feel like a mother to me. You probably don’t know what I mean. She wasn’t anything like your mother.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You have your mother. I had my grandmother.”

The food came.

“Looks good,” Jenny said. They’d both ordered simple bacon, eggs, and toast. “I love breakfast.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Do you think she knew her killer?” Jenny asked.

Ogden felt like a phony, a fraud. Who was he to be playing investigator? He was just supposed to go through the woman’s papers. “I don’t know.”

They sat without talking for a while and Ogden realized that he had nearly inhaled his food. He set his fork down. “I guess I was hungry,” he said.

“I guess I wasn’t,” she said. She pushed at her eggs and then ate a bit of toast.

“Robbins was your mother’s maiden name?”

Jenny nodded.

“Who is Lester G. Robbins?”

Jenny thought. “Lester?”

“The name was in your mother’s address book.”

“Where does he live?” she asked.

The waitress came and poured Ogden more coffee.

“Where does he live?” she asked again.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Just a name in her book.”

It was nearly nine when they walked into the house. Ogden paused before closing the door just to look at how bright and clear the day was. The snow on the street had already become slushy, but the yards were still beautiful. Most of it would be gone by late afternoon. “It never lasts long,” he said.

Jenny looked at him.

“The snow. Around here, it falls and then the sun takes care of it pretty quickly.”

Jenny sat at the desk and looked at the pile of papers. “Where do I start?”

“I’ve been through it all,” he said. “I do have a couple of questions. I didn’t find any insurance policies. Do you know if she had any?”

“I don’t know.”

“And you’re the only child?”

Jenny looked as if she was contemplating being offended by the question. “As far as I know.”

“Then I guess you’re the new owner of a parcel of land ‘herein referred to as the southeast quarter of section 22, southwest quarter of Section 23, T16R71W in Plata County.’ ”

“Oh yeah?”

“Nearly a hundred acres as far as I can see from the deed.” Ogden handed the paper to her. “Can’t say I know where it is, from that description.’ ”

“I guess that’s a good thing,” she said.

“Maybe it’s a pretty place. Maybe there’s a house on it.” While she studied the document, Ogden slipped the address book into his jacket pocket. “I’ll get some wood for the fire while you look.” He walked through the house to the back and out the kitchen door. Ogden had had little interest in the old woman when she’d been alive, so he was amused at how much her death was affecting him. Perhaps it was as simple as a mystery to pass the time in a boring, sleepy village. Maybe it was some kind of sublimation for a stalled life, a life he was not pursuing. Or perhaps he just wanted to catch and stop a killer. Anyway, he thought he needed the address book.

He took the wood back in and got the fire going. He sat on the sofa and glanced through a People magazine while Jenny sifted through the papers. He looked around the house at the tacky pictures on the walls, the assortment of knickknacks. Then it hit him. Everything in this house could be bought at the local roadside gift shops. He walked around the front rooms. Several cheap ceramic storytellers were scattered about. A couple of bad landscape paintings of the gorge and the mountains were on the walls. A couple of saddle blankets were tossed over the backs of chairs. There was nothing that made him think of the Pacific Northwest or Montana or any other place where the old woman had supposedly lived. He noticed a photo on the table on the other side of the room and went to it. There was the old lady, not much younger, recognizable, standing with a man of about fifty in front of a landscape that could have been local terrain, but also parts of California, Arizona, or Utah.

“Excuse me,” Ogden said. “Do you know this man?”

Jenny walked over to the picture, leaning close to Ogden for a good look. He could smell her shampoo or some fragrance and he didn’t like that he liked it.

“He’s a big guy,” Ogden said.

“I’ve never seen him,” Jenny said.

He took the picture from the wall and took off the back of the frame. There was nothing written there, so he put the disassembled mess on the table. “You can go on back to the papers,” he said. “I’m going to look around again.”

He looked through all the drawers in the bedroom, the kitchen cabinets, and the refrigerator again. He found so much nothing that it left his head spinning. He returned to the front room and fell with a thud onto the sofa.

“Anything?” Jenny asked.

Ogden shook his head.

“At least she didn’t leave a lot of bills to be paid,” Jenny said.

The phone rang. Ogden answered. It was Felton, saying that the sheriff wanted Ogden up on Plata Ridge right away.

“What’s up?” Ogden asked.

“We got us some more bodies.”

~ ~ ~

It was fairly easy to find the dirt road that lead to the ridge from the highway because of all the traffic it had seen in the last hour or so. It was muddy and deeply rutted. Ogden could feel his heart racing and he wondered why and realized the answer to that was obvious. Nothing makes people more interesting than their being dead. Sad, but true. He really didn’t want to see dead people. It made him feel queasy to see dead people, but damn if it wasn’t interesting. The sky was so blue that it was almost ironic.

He saw the collection of vehicles and the superfluous twisting flash of a blue light atop one of the rigs. There was a white panel truck parked in the middle of it all and outside it were four covered bodies. Ogden got out and stood next to Warren Fragua, the only Native member of the department. He told Ogden that the sheriff was on the other side of the van.

Paz was leaning into the bay of the van, looking around floor to ceiling. Ogden stood behind, but he was staring at the bodies. “What happened here, Bucky?”

The sheriff turned around. “We got us a bunch of dead folks. Couple of cowboys come up here looking for strays and found this. Looks like they lit this little stove to keep warm and smothered to death.”

“But?”

Paz looked at him.

“There’s a but in your voice.”

Paz cracked his jaw. “Looky here.” He pointed to the stove. “We didn’t find any food.”

“You just said they lit the stove to keep warm.”

“Look at the stove.”

Ogden did. It was a typical ten-dollar hibachi from a hardware store. The two grills were sitting over the cold ashes. “Why put the grills on if you’re not cooking? But if they were stupid enough to light it in the first place.”

“Just bothers me,” the sheriff said.

Ogden looked at the stove, put on a glove, and removed one of the grills. Then he removed the glove to push his fingers into the ashes. “There aren’t a lot of ashes,” he said.

“We’ll have to get somebody who knows the science to tell us if there was enough fuel to kill them.”

Ogden followed Paz over to the bodies. “Do you know who they are?” he asked.

Paz pulled a Baggie of carrot sticks out of his pocket. “These three, we don’t know. But this one.” He knelt down and pulled back the cover from the face. “Fragua recognized him as José Marotta. His mother called this morning to say she hadn’t seen him for a few days. All of nineteen years old.”

“Jesus.”

“The other poor bastards are Anglos. There’s something else, Ogden.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t like the way they died,” Paz said.

“Okay.”

“They were piled up like they knew they were dying. They didn’t die in their sleep, that’s a cinch.”

“Maybe they woke up, realized they were in trouble, and then were too weak to get out.”

“Five bodies in two days, Ogden. I don’t like it. I don’t like it one little bit.” Paz looked at Ogden. “How was breakfast?”

“Fine.” Ogden tilted his head as he looked at something under the van.

“What is it?” Paz asked.

“State police guys go through the van for prints already?”

“Yeah.”

Ogden was on his back on the ground now, examining the undercarriage of the truck. “Did they check under here?”

“I don’t think so. What is it?”

Ogden used his pencil tip to poke at something hanging from the exhaust pipe. “You might want to call them back. I think this is a piece of duct tape.”

Paz grunted. “What’s that mean to you?”

“I don’t know, but it’s strange.”

“I’ll have him check it out.” Paz stepped back. “Get up from there and go look at the other faces. Maybe you saw one of them around someplace.”

The sheriff left Ogden standing next to the bodies. He looked to the west, at the distant hills. A football field away from him was the Rio Grande Gorge. He was always amazed at how that big ditch pulled him toward it, just so he could stand there and realize how far away the other side was. He went back to the bodies and pulled the cover from the first face. He didn’t know him. The second, however, he recognized as the face in the photograph with Mrs. Bickers.

“Bucky!”

Paz came over.

“I’ve seen this guy. I’ve seen his face. He’s in a photograph with Mrs. Bickers. It was on her wall.”

“Please don’t tell me shit like that,” Paz said. “Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure. And he’s tall like the man in the picture. I’d put him at six five, maybe.”

“Daryl,” Paz called to a deputy. “Take a Polaroid of this guy for Ogden to take with him.”

“Fuck,” Paz said. “Now we’ve got some kind of goddamn conspiracy.” He blew out a breath. “Warren!”

Fragua came over. “I want you two to ride into town and break the news to the Marotta boy’s mother. Take Ogden’s rig. I’ll have Daryl drive yours back, Warren.” He looked at Ogden. “Warren knows the family and he’s good with people. I want you to ask the questions.”

“What kind of questions?” Daryl handed Ogden the Polaroid.

“I don’t know, Ogden. Use your damn imagination. Probing questions. Find out what the boy might have been doing up here. Find out anything. Connect some goddamn dots, and some-fucking-body needs to find me a doughnut.”

Ogden went back to the bodies and looked at the remaining face. He was relieved that he’d never seen it.

Warren Fragua was always eating piñon nuts and today was no different. Ogden liked Fragua because he knew more about fly-fishing for trout than anyone he had ever met. Ogden found himself wishing that they were headed down to the river instead of to the Marotta family’s home.

“Do you eat those all the time?”

“Lately. Better than a cigarette. They’re healthier than those overpriced power bars you eat.”

“Do you know these people well, Warren?” Ogden pulled out onto the main highway. There was light traffic. Ogden put on his sunglasses and nervously adjusted his rearview mirrors.

“I like those shades,” Fragua said. “What kind are they?”

“Convenience store specials,” Ogden said.

“I like them.” Fragua crunched on a nut. “You look cool.” He looked out the window. “I arrested José when he was sixteen for stealing a car. Not a great kid, but not too bad. He and his old man fought like crazy, but that’s not strange.”

“No trouble since then?”

“Not caught for anything, anyway.” He cracked another nut. “I guess the sheriff doesn’t think this was an accident. You don’t think so either.”

“I don’t know what to think.”

“Best place to be, not knowing what to think,” Fragua said. “Been tying any?”

“I tied some beaded nymphs the other night,” Ogden said. “Zug Bugs, Tellicos. A couple of grasshoppers and a little black beetle, used that fake jungle cock. You?”

“Not yet. Waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“Waiting for the moon to speak to me. For the spirits tell me what flies I’ll need.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“I’m waiting for some feathers to arrive from Cabela’s.” Fragua looked at the passing chaparral. “I hate having to tell people bad things. I’d like to look at it as just a part of the job, but it’s so hard. Especially when you know them.”

“So, tell me, what do you think went on out there?” Ogden asked.

Fragua shrugged. “We’ll know more when the state cops send us their report. Who knows, maybe the Marotta kid got picked up hitchhiking and they stayed out there to smoke some dope. Maybe they were transported there by aliens.”

“That’s more likely.”

“Turn here,” Fragua said. “They live down this road about a mile across the creek.”

Ogden followed Fragua’s directions and they found the house, set back away from the road, the snow around it disappearing quickly. They walked up to the porch and stomped their wet boots. The stomping was more or less a knock. A young woman opened the door, then closed the door. It was opened again, this time by an older woman.

“Mr. Fragua,” the woman said, half-smiling, seeming to see something in his face, and falling back a step. “We haven’t seen you for a long time.” She stepped back and allowed the men to enter.

“It’s been awhile. You been busy?”

“Yes, yes, very busy.”

Ogden closed the door.

“This is Deputy Walker.”

Ogden nodded to the woman.

She briefly acknowledged Ogden and looked back at Fragua. “What’s wrong?”

“Where is Mr. Marotta?”

“He’s at work.”

“It’s José,” Fragua said.

Mrs. Marotta sat on the sofa. Ogden looked to see the young woman at the kitchen door. Fragua sat beside the boy’s mother.

“I called the police because he didn’t come home for two nights,” she said. “He’s never been gone for two nights. You have him in jail?” She shook her head. “What has he done? Do we need money?”

Fragua rubbed his left temple. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but there’s been an accident.”

“Oh god,” the woman said. The woman at the kitchen door disappeared.

“José is dead.”

With that the woman who had disappeared into the kitchen ran out and clung to her mother.

“I must call my husband,” the woman said, blankly. She was crying, but made no sound.

“We’re very sorry,” Fragua said.

Ogden was waiting for her to ask what had happened, but the woman was too broken up. He touched Fragua’s shoulder and asked with his eyes what they should do. Fragua shrugged.

The young woman looked quickly at Ogden, then away.

“You call your husband, Mrs. Marotta,” Fragua said. “You can come by the station anytime and the sheriff will talk to you, if you want that. I’ll come back by tomorrow.”

Fragua stood and Ogden moved to the door, stepped out first. Outside the brisk, fresh air was like a drug. Ogden couldn’t get enough of it into his lungs.

Ogden walked into his home and looked at his walls and furniture and unwashed dishes in the sink and breathed easier. He peeled off his hat and coat, went to the gas heater, and turned it on high. He took off his shoes and slipped into the moose-hide moccasins his mother had given him last Christmas. He then turned his attention to the collection of feathers and patches of deer and calf hair and spools of thread on his desk. He sat behind his vise and secured a size 10 hook, imagined a trout on the Chama rising for the Green Drake he was about to tie. He recalled his father spending the cold winter nights reading and tying flies for the next season. Ogden finally asked his father to teach him to tie, not so much because he wanted to fish, but because he thought the flies were beautiful. He was ten at the time and he still remembered watching his first colorful streamer develop in front of him. He recalled the way it felt to trim the deer hair on his first grasshopper, the pieces of feathers, how much fun it was to dub the muskrat fur onto the thread with his thumb and index finger. He hadn’t even put the first winds of thread around the hook and he already felt better. As he dubbed a mixture of yellow rabbit and tan-red fox fur onto the olive thread he recalled his father. He no longer felt sad when he thought of him. In fact, thinking of him helped Ogden relax. They had been close, for some reason not having the conflicts his friends had had with their fathers. He wondered if his present profession would have caused a problem between them, in spite of his mother’s assurance. He wondered because he himself had a problem with it. He felt out of touch with his time, didn’t feel like people his age. He wasn’t like a lot of people who became cops, didn’t want to be like them, but then Fragua and Paz weren’t like that either. They weren’t hard men; some wouldn’t even have called them tough, but they did their jobs. Ogden wanted only to do his job. He worked the grizzly hackle around the body and turned his mind again to trout. He looked away from the vise and saw that his bonsai tree was browning.

Morning came with a bright new layer of snow. Ogden sat at the edge of his mattress, his brain still tethered to the remnants of a dream. He was on a dirt bike, chasing a man on another dirt bike. It was a sort of game, he thought, since they we were both laughing and tossing glances at each other. They were riding over rugged terrain, bouncing high and sliding through turns. Finally, Ogden stopped and the other man came back to him. The other man had a bad face. Together they studied Ogden’s badly warped front wheel. It seemed a common enough thing and so Ogden lifted the bike and carried it. The dream logic began to disintegrate as his eyes opened more fully and all sense was gone by the time he sat up.

He rubbed the back of his neck and stared out the window. The sky was clear now. The bad weather was over. The brilliant cerulean lifted his spirits and also let him know that it was late. He found his watch on the floor by his shoes. It was nearly eight. Still, he took his time showering, shaving. There were a lot of things wrong with his little place, but the shower was not one of them. The water was good and hot and the pressure was strong. He dried, got dressed, and walked out into the cold.

As Ogden cleared the ice from the windshield he thought of his business that morning. He had to go question the Marottas and go through the dead son’s room. That wouldn’t be pleasant, but at least Warren Fragua would be there with him. He hoped that the dead man he had recognized as the one in the photograph would be identified. Was there a connection between Mrs. Bickers and the Marotta boy? How could that be?

The incompetent highway crews had done a good job of transforming the hazardous roads into deadly sheets of ice and had done a brilliant job of dumping endless strands of salt and sand down along the center of the lanes where no tires touched. Ogden parked and entered the station just behind Fragua. Once inside he was shoulder to shoulder with Fragua and staring at the pointing, chubby finger of Bucky Paz. “I want you two to go to Fonda’s Funeral Home right now.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Somebody broke into the place last night and walked away with José Marotta’s body. Seems Fonda got there this morning and the boy was gone.”

Fragua and Ogden turned to leave.

“By the way,” Paz said. “That van last night was stolen from Taos. Reported five days ago.”

Ogden drove. The accumulation of so many dead people was unusual for the Plata Sheriff’s Department and the only place to put them was the same place a single body would have been put, Fonda’s Funeral Home. From there the bodies were to go to the forensic pathology lab down in Santa Fe.

“I’ll bet Fonda just misplaced him,” Fragua said. “Put him in the wrong drawer or something.”

“Why would anyone want a dead body?” Ogden looked at the sky to the west. Clouds were gathering. “Maybe the kid swallowed balloons filled with dope and the dealers want it back.”

“You’ve been watching television again. I told you, just tie flies every night and your mind won’t get polluted.”

“You watch television all the time,” Ogden said.

“That’s why I can speak with such authority.”

Ogden slammed on the brakes to avoid an empty pickup that fishtailed through a stop sign. Fragua braced himself with a hand against the dash.

“That was close,” Ogden said.

Fragua nodded. “It’s like tying flies.”

“Everything for you is like tying flies.”

“True, but listen. You’ve got to tie things down in the right order or it won’t work. You can’t go tying down the tinsel after the body or tie the tail on last and expect it to look right. Everything works in the same way, step at a time, but the right step.”

“You’re telling me this right now because?”

“Don’t know.”

Fonda was a big square man, not tall, but wide shouldered with large features, huge eyes and nose, giant hands. He was angry, but like the funeral director he was, he was unflapped, cool. “What can I tell you,” he said. “I came in this morning and the boy was gone.”

“Any sign that someone broke in?” Fragua asked. He and Ogden followed Fonda into the back room where there were two tables with bodies lying on them and one without.

“No, I can’t see that anyone broke in,” Fonda said. “But look around. This place has a hundred windows. I didn’t check them all. This is a funeral home; who expects a break-in? All I know is that he didn’t get up and walk out of here.” He looked at the bodies on the slabs. “Get your clues and go. It’s bad for business to have you here.”

“How do you figure that?” Ogden asked.

Fonda didn’t reply.

Ogden watched as Fragua walked past the bodies to the empty table. “Mr. Fonda, you’re the only undertaker in town.”

“Just do what you need to do and go,” Fonda said.

“Was anybody working here last night?” Ogden asked.

Fonda answered, “No.”

“Does Emilio still work for you?” Fragua asked. “What’s his last name?”

“Vilas? Yes, he still works for me.”

“When will he be in?” Ogden said. Ogden realized he didn’t like being in the room with the dead people.

“He was supposed to come in this morning, but he called in sick. Now, if that’s all.” Fonda walked out of the room.

“Charmer,” Ogden said.

Fragua ran his finger along the rim of the empty table. “Well, so do we check out the hundred windows?”

“If it’s that easy to get in, why bother? Hell, they probably came in through the front door.” He looked around the room again, scanning, looking for anything that seemed out of place. He realized that everything was out of place. “Think we should dust for prints?”

“Prints? That never leads anywhere.” Fragua yawned, something he did when he was anxious. “Listen, all I know is we have to tell the boy’s parents.”

“Shit.”

“You thought Mama was freaked out last night,” Fragua said. “Wait until we tell that good Catholic lady that her son’s not going to get a proper Christian burial.”

“Shit.”

“Let’s go,” Fragua said.

They didn’t tell Fonda they were leaving.

Ogden drove them into the Marottas’ neighborhood. Small poorly maintained adobes stood in a row; awkward wood-framed additions poked out of most of them. Sheep and chickens wandered through yards and an occasional horse stood in a rough shed. The opposite side of the road was open, a ravine splitting it some thirty yards in. The snow made it all so peaceful.

Fragua knocked. Mrs. Marotta came to the door, her eyes red, dark circles under them. She offered the men coffee.

Fragua sat on the sofa. Ogden wandered away to stand by the window. He looked out at the field across the road and the hills rising beyond it.

“Please,” Fragua said, gesturing for Mrs. Marotta to sit by him on the sofa.

The woman looked even smaller today. Ogden studied her narrow shoulders slumping inward.

“Mrs. Marotta,” Fragua said, “José is gone.”

The woman took Fragua’s hand and patted it, consoled him. “Yes, my son is dead.”

Fragua tossed a glance at Ogden, then looked back at the woman. “I don’t how to tell you this. I’m really sorry. Someone broke into the Fonda’s last night and took José’s body.”

Mrs. Marotta turned her head slightly, as if to make sense of Fragua’s words. She then shook her head and fell over.

“Christ,” Ogden said. As he moved toward her, her daughter came running from an adjacent room. Fragua lifted the woman and got her stretched out on the sofa. Ogden went to the phone, called the paramedics. The girl pleaded with her mother to wake up. Fragua told her to go get a glass of water.

Ogden put down the phone. “They’re on their way.”

“She’s breathing fine.”

The girl came back with the water and a damp rag. Fragua took the rag and pressed it to the woman’s face.

Ogden looked at the room. Clean, tidy, ordered. On the far wall was a crucifix with a bare-chested Jesus wrapped in a skirt. He looked at the fainted woman again. She was slowly coming around. The daughter stood by with the glass of water. Ogden stepped close to the girl and asked if she was all right.

She nodded.

“I’m Ogden. What’s your name?”

“Rosa.”

“Everything’s going to be fine, Rosa.”

Fragua had the woman sitting up now. He took the glass from Rosa and helped the woman take a sip.

“Rosa, will you show me José’s room?” Ogden asked.

She nodded and led him down the hall. She stopped at a door with a paper keep-out sign taped to it.

“You’d better go back out there to your mother,” Ogden said. He entered and took a slow turn around the room. He thumbed through a stack of car and motorcycle magazines on the dresser, then sat down on the unmade bed and stared at the top of the nightstand. He was about to open the drawer when Fragua stepped in.

“She okay?” Ogden asked.

“I think so.”

“They’re Penitentes, you know.”

“You don’t say.”

“Yep,” Ogden said.

They searched the room. Ogden found nothing of interest in the nightstand and moved to the tall dresser. He started in the bottom drawer, peeling past the boy’s trousers, shirts, and sweaters.

Ogden went to the closet and pulled a shoebox down from the top shelf. He took off the lid. “Howdy, howdy.” He tilted the box so that Fragua could see the stack of bills.

Ogden closed the box. They could hear the paramedics entering the house.

Fragua looked at his watch. “I’m glad nobody was dying.”

“Do we take this with us?” Ogden asked about the cash. “I mean these people could really use this money.”

“Yeah, I know,” Fragua said.

Ogden put the box back on the shelf.

“I guess that’s your answer,” Fragua said.

“Let’s get out of here,” Ogden said.

On the way out, Ogden said good-bye to Rosa. He asked, “Can you tell me if there was anything weird or different going on with José?”

Rosa shook her head.

Fragua talked to Mrs. Marotta.

“Who were his friends?” Ogden asked. “Did he hang out with anybody?”

“Just Emilio,” the girl said.

“Emilio Vilas?”

Rosa shrugged.

The deputies left.

Fragua got out at the station and took his rig to find Mr. Marotta. A call to Fonda gave Ogden Emilio Vilas’s address.

Ogden drove to the little duplex on Carson Road. He knocked, but there was no answer. He then knocked on the door of the attached unit. A robed, middle-aged woman with bright red hair came to the door. She was annoyed.

“I’m looking for Emilio Vilas,” Ogden said.

“He doesn’t live here,” she said.

“Sorry to disturb you. Do you know Emilio?”

“Lives next door, but I don’t know him. I’ve got enough trouble.”

“He’s trouble?”

She looked at Ogden as if he were stupid. “Men in general are trouble.”

“So, you wouldn’t have any idea where he is?”

“No. Try a bar. He’s a damn alcoholic.” She closed the door.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Ogden said to the wood.

Ogden decided to check the nearby taverns. He entered three, glanced about, got stared at, got nowhere. In the fourth bar, a man spotted Ogden, made eye contact, looked away, and started for the back door. Ogden chased him, leaped over a chair, squeezed between stacked crates in front of the rear exit, and ran out into the alley. Emilio hit a patch of ice and slid into some garbage cans. He looked back at the deputy, but didn’t get up. Emilio held his leg.

“Broken?” Ogden asked.

“Fuck you. What you want with me?”

Ogden sat, straddling an upset garbage can. “Emilio Vilas.”

“You know who the fuck I am.”

“You hear about José?”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“You two were pals,” Ogden said.

Emilio rubbed his leg.

A rat bolted from the garbage and Ogden let out a short scream. So much for the macho front. “I’m interested in José’s body.”

“What?”

“Somebody stole his body,” Ogden said.

“Yeah, so?”

“They stole him from your place of employment.”

“Sure, man, but I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

“So, you know about it.”

Emilio sat up. “So, I heard about it.” He looked up and down the alley.

“Looking for somebody?” Ogden asked. “Do you have any idea how they got into Fonda’s?”

Emilio shook his head.

“Can you walk?”

Emilio pulled himself up and tested his leg.

“Why’d you run?” Ogden asked.

“Not sure.”

“Come on, let me buy you a cup of coffee.”

“I gotta go,” Emilio said.

“No, I really want to buy you some coffee.” Ogden looked at his eyes. “It’s the least I can do. Come on.”

Emilio snatched his arm free of the deputy’s help. Ogden walked him back into the tavern where they sat in a booth.

“Anything to do with drugs?”

“What?” Emilio asked.

“You and José into drugs? Pot? Meth?”

“No, man.”

“Did José ever tell you what he was into? Did he tell you he was in trouble?”

“No.”

The bartender brought two cups of coffee over and gave Emilio a hard stare.

“What’s your problem?” Emilio said to the man as he walked away.

“Cops are bad for business,” Ogden said. He blew on his coffee. “You were about to tell me about José. You two were running buddies, right? What kind of deal did he have?”

“José didn’t have a deal.”

“Emilio, José had a shoe box full of money tucked away in his closet,” Ogden said.

“News to me. Maybe it was from his paper route.” Emilio shook his head. “We were friends. We went out and scored some dope together once in a while, but that’s all I know. Honest. I really didn’t see him that much lately.”

Ogden nodded. He was starting to believe him. “What do you think of your boss?”

“Fonda’s weird as shit, but he’s okay.”

“Weird?”

“He’s an undertaker, man.”

“You gonna drink your coffee?”

“Don’t need it.”

Ogden looked at the front door. It was a bar in the morning; who would be coming in? “You know Emma Bickers?”

Emilio shook his head. “Never heard of her.”

“What was José doing up on Plata Ridge?”

“I don’t know? Ain’t nothing up there but sage.”

“Okay,” Ogden leaned back in his seat. He looked at Emilio over the rim of his mug as he drank. “My name is Walker. If you think of anything, call me. You’ll do that?”

Emilio nodded.

Ogden walked out into the daylight and the biting wind. He got into his car and wrapped his ungloved fingers around the ice-cold steering wheel. He was tired and his back hurt. He needed to go fishing.

~ ~ ~

Mrs. Bickers’s funeral was a quiet affair. Ogden looked at Jenny Bickers, at his mother, at ice-block Fonda, and at young Emilio who stood several yards away, sweating in the winter air, leaning against the body of a small tractor a shovel handle resting against his chest. There were no other faces. Not even the town woman who showed up at all funerals to just cry. A couple of magpies perched on a fence. Fonda said some words, being ordained in some way, and then the tearless eyes went about their business. Emilio moved toward the grave as Ogden, Jenny, and Eva Walker moved away.

Ogden opened the passenger door of Jenny’s car and let her and his mother in. He walked around and fell in behind the wheel, started the engine. “How are you doing?” he asked Jenny.

“I’m okay.”

“It was a nice service,” Eva Walker said. “It’s nice weather for a funeral.” She put a hand forward and touched Jenny’s shoulder. “I’m just saying the kind of stupid stuff one is supposed to say.”

Jenny smiled. “I appreciate it.”

Ogden thought about his mother standing without him at his father’s funeral.

“The desert is god,” Ogden’s mother said. They were at the stop sign with a flashing red light north of town.

“It is,” Eva Walker repeated.

Ogden pulled into the lot of the Texaco Mini Mart. “I’ll put some gas in your car for the road,” he told Jenny.

“I can’t let you do that,” Jenny said.

“Let him,” Ogden’s mother said. “He has nothing else to do with his money.” Then she asked, “Are you driving back to Santa Fe now? That pass can be miserable at night. Tell her, Ogden.”

Ogden said nothing.

“Why don’t you stay through till morning?”

Ogden closed the door and didn’t hear Jenny’s response. He leaned against the car and filled the tank. He could see that the women were chatting inside the car. At least, his mother was chatting. Jenny was nodding. He topped off the tank and walked inside to pay. He looked at the covers of magazines while he waited for his change. None of the headlines meant anything to him. The world below seven thousand feet meant nothing to him.

Back in the car he found his mother and Jenny laughing. He didn’t ask them what was so funny. He pushed in the clutch and started the engine. At the house, Ogden waited on the front porch while Jenny went inside to collect her things. When she came out he took her bag and carried it to the car. He slammed the trunk shut and looked at her for a long second.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome.”

Jenny took Ogden’s hand between hers. “You have really helped me through this.”

“I guess you’re all set then,” Ogden said.

“I guess so.” Jenny turned and waved a last time at Ogden’s mother.

Ogden stepped onto the porch and watched Jenny drive away.

“Are you hungry?” the old woman asked.

“No, thanks, Ma. You okay? I need to go out for a while.”

“I’m okay,” she said.

The Blue Corn Café was crowded. The first thin wave of skiers had hit the area and found the taverns. Ogden wanted things to slow down, not get busier. He found a place to sit at the bar and in short order Manny Archuleta and Rick Gillis found him.

“How’s it hanging, Marshal Dillon?” Rick asked.

Ogden looked around the room. “Shitload of people.”

“Anything new?” Manny asked. “Find the bad guys?”

“Nope.”

A waitress, Laura, walked by with a fresh round of drinks on a tray, brushing Ogden without a greeting.

“Chilly in here,” Rick said.

Ogden scratched his head. “What is tomorrow?”

“Saturday, “ Manny said.

“I’ll be back. I have to make a call.”

Ogden found the phone between the doors of the restrooms, paused to remember Fragua’s number, then dialed it. “Warren, this is Ogden. I hope I’m not interrupting your dinner.”

“Not at all. What’s up?”

“You want to go fishing tomorrow morning?”

“It’s freezing out there,” Fragua said. “We probably won’t do any good.”

“We can scout some river. Listen, it was a bad idea. I’ll see you on Sunday.”

“No,” Fragua said. “Let’s do it.”

“Eight o’clock?”

“Let’s say nine. Give the sun a chance to thaw things a bit.”

“You got it,” Ogden said.

Ogden dropped the receiver back onto the cradle. He stepped into the restroom and took a leak before going back to Manny and Rick. He ordered one more beer.

The morning in Ogden’s place was extra cold. He’d forgotten to switch on his heater before going to bed. There was no point in cranking it up now. He’d be showered and gone before the edge was even taken off. He stood under the spray and let the water beat his neck and shoulders. He got dressed and looked at his dying bonsai. He was killing it with the cold. He turned on the heat. He grabbed a rod, his vest, and a box of nymphs on the way out.

Fragua’s teenage daughter was driving away in her mother’s station wagon when Ogden arrived. He waved and she waved back. He pulled in beside Fragua’s truck and killed the engine. The light fog was already burning off. He knocked as he entered through the kitchen door.

“Howdy, howdy,” Ogden said.

“Howdy yourself,” Mary Fragua said. She leaned against the counter and blew on a mug of coffee. “How are you, Ogden?”

“Fine. What about you?”

“Good. Coffee?”

“Please. I had to rush out. Overslept.”

Mary nodded toward the front of the house. “You’re not the only one.”

Ogden poured himself a cup. “Warren? He never sleeps late.”

“Tossed and turned all night,” she said.

Fragua walked into the kitchen. “Morning, cowboy,” he said.

“What’s up, Indian?”

“Not me.”

“Sorry about this,” Ogden said. “Go get back into bed. You’ve been looking at my face all week. You don’t need more of it.”

Fragua laughed. “That’s no doubt true, but I’m up. I can’t sleep in the daytime.” He looked out the window at the sky. “Looks like it might warm up a bit.”

Ogden nodded. “I brought a rod.”

“Mine is by the door.”

“You two are pathetic,” Mary said. “Addicted. I made you two Cub Scouts some lunch. Two sandwiches apiece and they’re all the same, so no fighting.”

“Thanks, Mary,” Ogden said.

“Don’t thank her,” Fragua said. “She’s just making sure I’m out of the house for a while.”

Ogden drove them north toward the confluence of the Red River and the Rio Grande. “Warren, do you ever consider the size of the trout you catch?”

Fragua looked at him with a mildly puzzled expression. “What do you mean? I won’t keep an itty-bitty one.”

“No, I mean do you want to catch that monster fish that everybody’s always talking about? You know, fifteen pounds, two feet long.”

Fragua looked at the road, smiled. “That’s not easy to answer. Seems like it would be. No, I don’t think so. A big fish is fun, I suppose, but so are small ones sometimes. Depends on the water. If I catch a ten-incher in a creek that’s two foot wide, that’s a big fish. Know what I mean?”

Ogden nodded.

“What’s all this about?”

“Nothing. I can’t get Mrs. Marotta’s face out of my head.”

Fragua looked out the passenger window.

Ogden turned off the highway onto the snow-covered dirt road. “I think somebody taped a hose to the pipe and ran it into the bay of the truck. I think those men knew they were dying. You think it could have happened that way?”

Fragua nodded. “Let’s just fish today. Fish and not worry about what we catch, okay?”

~ ~ ~

Ogden walked into the station a couple of days later to hear a man and a woman describe how their car had been vandalized. The well-dressed couple told their story to Felton. The man told with some pride how he’d managed to get their car started.

“Excuse me,” Ogden said. “Where did this happen?”

“At Fog Canyon,” the man said. “That’s what we were told it was called. We were going to hike up to the falls.”

“Never heard of it,” Felton said.

“He’s talking about Niebla Canyon,” Ogden said.

“That’s what niebla means?” Felton said.

“We’ve had a run of incidents up there,” Ogden told the couple. “I was told the county was putting a sign up there warning about vandals.”

The woman said, “We saw the sign.”

“And you didn’t believe it?” Ogden asked.

“Somebody will go up there and look around,” Felton said.

“Good,” the woman said.

“We didn’t get more than a hundred yards up the trail when we heard them breaking the windows,” the man said.

Ogden walked to the door of Bucky Paz’s office and leaned against the jamb.

“What do you need, Ogden?”

“More vandals up at Niebla.”

“Shit. Find the time to stop up there once in a while. That’s all we can do.”

~ ~ ~

Ogden sat in his pickup outside the Marotta house. The family dog was sniffing the ground below his window. He opened the door and gave the animal a rub. Fragua had been back to the house and said that they were doing okay. He walked up to the door and knocked.

Mr. Marotta answered. His eyes were tired and it took him a few seconds to recognize Ogden’s uniform.

“Buenas tardes,” Ogden said. “Mind if I come in?”

The man stepped back and let Ogden in. He pointed to his daughter. “Siga a su habitación.”

Mrs. Marotta came and stood beside her husband. She gestured for Ogden to sit. He did, on a stuffed armchair. The woman sat on the edge of the sofa. Mr. Marotta remained standing.

“We haven’t found José,” Ogden said. “But I need to ask you a few questions. Is that all right?”

“Okay,” said Mr. Marotta.

“Do you know if your son used drugs?”

They shook their heads. Ogden couldn’t tell if they were saying he didn’t use drugs or that they didn’t know he was using or whether they were simply dismayed at the news.

“I found a lot of money in a shoe box in his closet. Do you know anything about that?”

“No,” Mr. Marotta said.

“Was he hanging around with anyone you didn’t know? Anyone you did know that made you worry?”

“No one.”

Ogden could hear the daughter crying in the other room.

“He started going away a lot,” Mrs. Marotta said.

“Do you know where?” Ogden asked.

She shook her head.

“Did he seem worried or scared?”

They shrugged.

Ogden stood. “Thank you for your time.”

It was early Monday and Ogden was driving north. The weather had turned hard cold again. He turned onto the kidney-busting dirt road to Niebla Canyon. A battered pickup rattled by him and the two men in it gave him a good looking over. He’d never seen them before. He tried to read the plate, but couldn’t. He stopped at the trailhead parking area. The county had indeed put a sign that warned of vandals. Ogden had never seen one like it. Bright yellow with big red letters, it read BEWARE OF VANDALS. It had supposedly gone up a week or so earlier. He then wondered why the vandals had spared the sign. He looked at the only other sign there, one that said PARKING. It was dented from birdshot and punctuated with bullet holes. It was ventilated just like every other sign along the highways and dirt roads up here. But not this sign.

At the office, Ogden did the small amount of paperwork that had accumulated on his desk. Then he sat for a long time just staring at his doodles on a sheet of paper. He’d drawn rows of evenly spaced dots and had connected them with straight lines. He was tapping the grid with his pencil when the phone rang.

It was his mother. “Guess who’s here?” she asked.

“I’m at work, Ma. Okay, I’ll guess. Weather Wally.”

“Jenny’s here. She came back to pack up her mother’s house.” Ogden heard her slap a sloppy hand over the receiver. “Can you stay for lunch?” Then to Ogden, “We’ll see you here for lunch.” She didn’t wait for a response, but hung up.

Ogden leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. Felton came in. Ogden could hear his awkward gait.

“Oh Lord,” Felton said. “Another rough night for poor ol’ Deputy Dawg.”

“How are you, Felton?”

“Fine as frog’s hair. What about you? You don’t look good. What’d I tell you about them women and staying out late. Maybe I should be telling them about you, right?”

“I suppose.” Ogden got up and walked over to the rack, put on his coat, grabbed his hat. “I’m going out on patrol. Do me a favor?”

“What’s that?”

“Tell Bucky I might be out of touch for a while.”

“You want me to tell him why? Or you want him to worry about it all day?”

“I want him to worry.”

“You got it, sport.”

Ogden sat across from Jenny at his mother’s round kitchen table. Eva Walker sat between them. He looked at the impressive spread of food. There was a variety of sandwiches, a bowl of carefully carved-out cantaloupe and honeydew melon balls, chicken wings, and sliced avocado. He smiled.

“What?” his mother asked.

“Nothing, Ma.” Ogden looked at Jenny. “So, how are things in Santa Fe?” He took a half of an egg salad sandwich and put it on his plate. The sun came through the window and hit Ogden’s eyes. He stood and pulled the blinds.

“The sun shouldn’t shine on such cold days,” Eva Walker said.

“Why is that?” Ogden asked.

“It’s like a con or something. Cold days should be gray so you’re not tricked into going outside.”

“Where do you come up with this stuff?” he asked.

“I like being out on cold days,” Jenny said. “Even the gloomy, overcast ones.”

Ogden ate a few bites. “I wish I could tell you something new about the case,” he said.

After a pause, Jenny said, “I’ve got a new job. I left the copy shop and now I’m in a bookstore. It’s not a great bookstore, but it’s better than the copy shop.”

“I’m glad,” Eva Walker said. “Better to be around books.”

“And,” Jenny said, “someone wants to buy my mother’s land from me. I don’t even know where it is, but this man wants to buy it.”

Ogden nodded. “That’s pretty quick. Who is it?”

“His name is Brockway. He called me and said he’d be back in touch.”

“That’s fast,” Ogden repeated. He shook his head. “No will, a murder. The sale won’t happen quickly, I can tell you that. Probate and all that stuff.”

“Really?”

“We can go over to the county clerk’s office and look up the parcel, get an idea what it’s worth anyway.”

“You’d help me with that?” Jenny asked.

“I’ll help.”

“Try the melon balls,” Ogden’s mother said.

The land registry was in the new courthouse, a large fake adobe affair. It was set right next to a fake adobe McDonald’s. Ogden looked at the young faces in the waiting area, couples holding hands, waiting for marriage licenses. Down a wide corridor, then a narrow one, and they were in the registry office.

“Hello, Deputy.” The short woman behind the counter said. “What can I do you for?”

“I need to know where a piece of land is,” Ogden said.

“It’s out there somewhere,” the woman said, nodding toward the window.

“I need to be more precise,” Ogden said and smiled. “I’ve got the description right here.” He read it off the deed.

“May I?” The clerk asked to see the paper. She then walked away to a stack of flat drawers with plat maps. She pulled open a low drawer and fingered through the huge squares of paper. She pulled one free and brought it back, laid it on the counter. “You’re right here.” She put her finger on the spot.

Ogden looked. “Is that Route 3?”

“Yes. And that’s Arroyo Hondo, if that helps.”

“You’re sure this is land?”

The woman gave him a look.

“Sorry,” Ogden said. He looked at Jenny.

“What is it?” Jenny asked.

“Nothing,” he said. To the clerk, “Thank you, ma’am.”

Ogden drove Jenny back to her car at his mother’s house. “We’ll take a ride next week if you want to come up and you can see your property.”

“Okay,” she said. “Is everything all right? You hardly said a word all the way back.”

“I’m exhausted, that’s all.”

Ogden left there and drove to Fonda’s Funeral Home. He found Emilio sweeping off the loading dock in back.

“Emilio?”

The man jumped. “Jesus, man, you scared the shit of me.”

“Sorry.”

“Go away.”

“I just want to ask you a couple more questions. Won’t take long. I promise.”

Emilio leaned on the broom. “Go.”

“What was José into?”

“I told you, man, I don’t know nothing.”

“Who took his body?”

Emilio looked away.

“I think, I’m not sure, but I think you told me last time that you scored some drugs at some point. That’s probable cause. I can go search your house right now. Do you think I’ll find anything there?” Ogden stared at the man.

Emilio shifted his weight. “It was his father.”

“What?”

“His father. José’s father came and took the body. I let him in. You gonna arrest me?”

“I don’t know,” Ogden said. “Why’d his father do that?”

“He thought they were going to do an autopsy on José and that family, well, they’re like super religious.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I know I shouldn’t have let him in. You gonna arrest me?”

“Not for that, no.”

“But you’re going to arrest me,” Emilio said.

“I don’t know. Were you two into drugs? Just tell me. Off the record. I’m not going to arrest you. I promise.”

“No drugs. We were getting paid to smash cars.”

“Excuse me?”

“José and me were supposed to hang out up in one of them canyons up there and smash anybody that parked there.”

“Just the two of you?”

“There were some other guys, I guess. We had our own hours, you know. Anyways, we only had to smash four or five. No one ever came up there.”

“Who paid you to do this?”

“I don’t know. José got paid and he paid me. I was helping José.”

“What canyon?”

“I don’t know what it’s called.”

“Niebla?” Ogden asked.

“That sounds right.”

Ogden started to walk away, then stopped. “I’m sorry about your friend.”

~ ~ ~

Fragua was eating piñon nuts like crazy, cracking and chewing and brushing the empty shells onto the floor of Ogden’s truck. Ogden looked at him and then at the mess.

“You’re going to clean that up, right?” Ogden asked.

“Clean up what? This is natural waste, bio-stuff. You should be happy to have it in here. They’ll break down naturally and contribute to the ecosystem that is your truck.” He looked out the window. “I love early morning.”

“I need to tell you, I found out something about José Marotta’s body,” Ogden said.

“If you know, that’s fine,” Fragua said. “Let’s keep it just the way it is.”

“You know.”

Fragua looked ahead through the windshield.

“How’d you find out?”

“You told me. When you noticed the Marottas are Penitentes. Pretty much when the mother faked fainting when we told them their son’s body was missing. They never even called the station to find out if we’d found him.”

“Mr. Detective.”

“Enough said,” Fragua said.

“Enough said.”

“You say the Bickers land is up Niebla Canyon.”

“The trail leads all the way to Mount Wheeler. My father and I used to hike it.”

“You say somebody paid those boys to break windows?”

“Yep.”

“But not slash tires,” Fragua said.

“That’s right.”

“Pot farm,” Fragua said.

“My guess.”

After a couple of hours of hiking, Ogden stopped and looked at the rough trail. He pulled a topo map out of his pocket and studied it. “Okay, we leave the trail here.” They walked a half mile and then crossed an old logging road.

“This ain’t on the map,” Ogden said.

Fragua took a knee and studied the road. “Somebody uses it, though.”

They followed the road about a mile and came to a clearing. “This could be it,” Ogden said.

“Look at this,” Fragua said. He pointed to a hole that had been shoveled out, the dirt left in a pile beside it.

“Here’s another one,” Ogden said. “And another.”

There were dozens of small holes, two or so feet deep and the same across.

“This is creepy,” Fragua said.

“You think?”

“Somebody’s looking for something?”

Ogden said nothing. He wended his way through the holes and mounds.

“What do you say we get out of here?” Fragua asked.

“Okay.”

They walked back along the logging road, then cut cross country back to the trail. The sky remained clear. The air was cold.

“I have a question,” Fragua said. “To whom do we tell what?”

“That’s a damn good question.”

Ogden dropped off Fragua at his house, then drove home. There was a sedan parked in his front yard. There were two men in suits under open parkas knocking on his door. They turned as he set his brake and stepped out.

“Help you?” Ogden asked.

“You Deputy Walker?”

“I am.”

“I’m Special Agent Clement and this is Special Agent Howell.”

Howell nodded.

“Special agents,” Ogden said, weighing the words.

“We’re the FBI,” Howell said. He was the taller man.

“FBI,” Ogden repeated.

“We’d like to talk to you, “ Clement said.

“And so here you are,” Ogden said. He stepped past them, turned the knob, and opened the door. “I never lock it.”

The men followed him inside.

Howell zipped up his parka.

“Have a seat,” Ogden said.

The men sat at the little kitchen table.

“So, what can I tell you about what?” Ogden asked.

“Emma Bickers.”

“I’m going to make some tea,” Ogden said. “You want some tea?”

They said they didn’t.

“Mrs. Bickers,” Ogden said. “You know she’s dead.”

“Yes,” Clement said. “We read in the report that you recognized a dead man from another recent murder as someone you’d seen in a photograph belonging to Emma Bickers.”

Ogden turned the flame on under the kettle.

“That man was an FBI agent. His name was Terry Knoll.”

“I see.”

“Knoll was undercover. We hadn’t heard from him in a month and some days,” Clement said.

“Okay. What do you want from me?”

“Anything you can think of,” Clement said. Ogden looked at Howell. “Do you have the photograph?”

“It’s in the file,” Ogden said.

Clement looked at Howell, then said, “Cowboy, it ain’t there now.”

The kettle started to rattle. “I put it there.”

“It’s not there now,” Clement repeated.

“What kind of undercover work?” Ogden asked.

“We’re not at liberty to discuss that,” Howell said.

“All right. Well, I’ve told you all I know. Sorry the photo got lost, but the last time I saw it, it was in the folder.”

“He was investigating hate groups,” Clement said. You know, KKK, neo-Nazis, good folks like that.” Clement took an envelope from his inside suit jacket pocket, opened it, and pulled out several photographs.

Ogden looked at the pictures. The first was of a man tied to a cross, his body split wide open and empty.

“He was field-dressed,” Howell said.

Ogden looked at all the photos. All were of the same man from various angles and ranges. He handed back the pictures. “Well, that’s scary.”

“He’s a marker,” Clement said. “Some very bad people staked that poor bastard out on the Mexican side of the border to warn people to stay in Mexico.”

Ogden didn’t know what to say. He tried to press the image of the man out of his head.

“Hate group,” Ogden said. “Are they around here? What’s the name of this group?”

Clement sighed. “It’s a very violent, very secret club. They like to kill people. They don’t want to get caught killing people. Rumor has it that a lot of upstanding citizens are members. Call themselves The Great White Hope.”

“Not much for subtlety,” Ogden said. The kettle whistled and Ogden got up to pour his water.

“These are not your everyday, run-of-the-mill, lunatic-fringe bad people,” Clement said.

“What did your undercover agent have to do with Mrs. Bickers?” Ogden asked.

“You tell us.”

Ogden just looked at them.

“Tell us what you know about Emma Bickers,” Clement said.

“You read my report.”

“We want to hear it from you.”

“The report is from me,” Ogden said.

“You were the last person to see Emma Bickers alive?” Clement asked.

“No, that would be the killer.”

“But you sneaked back into her house after your visit.” Clement looked at his notepad. “Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because something seemed wrong,” Ogden said.

“Do you always sneak into houses when something seems wrong to you?” Clement asked.

“The woman seemed scared.”

“Did you know about the trapdoor in the living room?”

“No.”

“So, you crept back into the old woman’s house,” Clement said. “You said in your report that you found the old woman’s cat dead under the bed. Did you knock before you entered the old woman’s bedroom? Did you call out?”

“I don’t much like this,” Ogden said.

“Neither do we, Deputy Walker.” Clement leaned back in his chair. “One of our agents is dead.”

“Did you ever meet or see Terry Knoll before his death?” Howell asked.

“No.”

“Never even glimpsed him from a distance?” Clement asked.

“This is crazy.” Then, in as calm a voice as he could muster, he said, “Why don’t you two just get the hell out of here.”

The agents stood up. “Perhaps we can talk again later,” Clement said.

Ogden watched the door close and exhaled. He thought he might faint.

At the station, Ogden paced in Bucky Paz’s office. “So, what are you telling me, Bucky? That the FB-fucking-I is out to get me for the murder of one of their agents?”

“Don’t run to the outhouse before the hole is dug.”

“What?”

“Just a saying I heard,” Bucky said. “Like it?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just relax.”

“You didn’t hear how they sounded. Asking me if I always sneak into people’s houses when they sound scared and strange.” Ogden fell into the chair in front of the desk. “Leave it to the FBI, though. They lose a man investigating the fucking KKK and they hunt down the only black man in a five-hundred-mile radius. And where is that photograph?”

“We’re looking for it.”

“Jesus.”

“Go home. Go fishing.”

Felton leaned into the office. “Ogden, your lady friend is on the phone.”

Paz pointed to the phone on his desk and stepped away to talk to Felton.

Ogden picked up the phone. It was Jenny Bickers.

“That man called me about the land again.”

“You should tell him it will be awhile before you can sell it.”

“He just sounds so pushy.”

“Did you ask him how he knows about the land?”

“No.”

“What’s your address?” Ogden asked. Ogden wrote it down. “I want you to stay there.” He hung up and looked at Paz. “Do me a favor. Call the police in Tempe and see if there’s anything to know about a Lester G. Robbins.”

“Okay. You’ll be back tonight?” Paz asked.

“Don’t know.”

Ogden made the two-hour drive to Santa Fe and was parked in front of Jenny Bickers’s apartment complex at five. He found her door and knocked. Jenny was towel-drying her hair when she opened the door. She wore a thick white robe.

“Come on in,” she said.

Ogden didn’t look directly at her. “Jenny.”

“I’ll be out in a minute.” She walked away down the hall. “I didn’t expect you so soon.”

“No traffic.”

“There’s some coffee on the counter and soda in the fridge. Make yourself at home.”

Ogden sat on the sofa and leafed through a Newsweek.

Jenny came out dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. She walked into the kitchen and poured herself some coffee. “You’re sure you don’t want any?”

“I’m sure,” Ogden said. “The guy who called about the land, did he leave a number or a way to reach him?”

“Yes.” She grabbed her purse from the counter and went through it. “Here it is.”

“Did he say how he knew about the land? How he knew your mother? How he got your number?”

“That would be no, no, and no. What’s wrong?” She handed the paper with the number to Ogden.

“Dial it,” Ogden said.

Jenny did, then hung up. “Have to dial one first.” She dialed again. “Best Bet Autos,” she said to Ogden.

“Address?” he asked.

“El Cerrito and Norte.”

“That’s Albuquerque,” he said. “Ask them what time they close,” Ogden said. He stepped closer to her.

She hung up. “Nine.”

“I’m going to drive down there.”

“Ogden?”

Ogden looked at her. “I wasn’t supposed to say anything, but I have to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“A man from the FBI was here.”

Ogden said nothing.

“He asked me questions about my mother and he asked me about you.” She sat on the sofa with her coffee.

“What did he ask about your mother?”

“The same things you did.”

“And what did he ask about me?”

“He asked if I knew you before this, if I’d ever seen you before my mother’s death. He asked if you asked me anything strange.”

“Did he tell why he was asking those questions?”

Jenny shook her head. “No.”

“What was the agent’s name?” Ogden asked.

“He left his card.” Jenny pointed to it on the tray with pencils and hair clips on the coffee table.

“Howell,” Ogden said. “Quiet guy?”

“Not really. What’s going on, Ogden? Are you in trouble?”

He shrugged.

Ogden left her apartment, understanding finally that he really had to be an investigator now. Maybe his ass was on the line, maybe not, but he at least wanted some answers, one answer.

Ogden was not so lucky with the traffic on the way down to Albuquerque. At least the place was on the north side of town. He parked on the busy street and walked onto the car lot. He walked past a Volkswagen 411 and a blue Camaro with wide ties. A man walked out of the modular office.

“Looking for a new set of wheels?”

Ogden nodded.

“My name is Ernie Kettle.” He shook Ogden’s hand. “What’s your name?”

“My business,” Ogden said.

Kettle stiffened.

“How much is the VW?”

“Only $2999.”

Ogden laughed.

“It’s a classic.”

“Is Brockway around?” Ogden asked.

“Who?”

“Joel Brockway. He told me if I was down this way, he’d cut me a deal.” Ogden glanced at the office, didn’t see anyone.

“No one named Brockway here.”

“No?”

Kettle shook his head. “Two grand for the VW?”

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” Kettle walked back toward the office and entered. He watched Ogden through the blinds. Ogden walked back to his truck and fell in behind the wheel.

Ogden stopped at a diner on his way north. He found the phone book at a pay phone. He didn’t find a listing for Joel Brockway or Joe Brockway or J. Brockway. He called Jenny Bickers.

“What did you find out?” she asked.

“Nothing.” Ogden leaned his head against the wall. “Listen, Jenny, do you have a friend you can stay with tonight?”

“What’s going on?”

“Probably nothing. I’ve got a bad feeling, that’s all. Can you stay with a friend?”

“Sure.”

“Good.”

“But why?”

“It’s probably nothing, but do it.” Ogden hung up. He was scared and he didn’t know why and that made him more scared.

It was three in the morning when Ogden got back to his trailer. He showered, had tea, worried for a while, and then drove to work.

“Bucky’s already here,” Felton said.

Ogden walked into Paz’s office.

“So?”

“Nothing. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Wouldn’t know it if it bit me.”

“I called Tempe like you asked, but I haven’t heard back. I really don’t think the FBI will give us anything.”

“Maybe I should go look for him,” Ogden said.

“I think you’re probably wasting your time, but I won’t tell you not to go.”

“Thanks, Bucky.”

“I wouldn’t worry about the FBI.”

“Oh, but I do.”

“They have no evidence. No motive.”

“They have opportunity, Bucky. That’s enough for me.”

Ogden was sick of driving, but he didn’t have the spare cash for a plane ticket. There was a knock while he packed. It was Clement and Howell.

“Going someplace?” Clement asked.

“Trip.”

“Where to?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Don’t be cute,” Howell said.

Ogden smiled at him. “Arrest me.”

The agents said nothing.

“Okay, you can leave now.”

Howell looked down at Ogden’s tying table. “I always wanted to try this.” He picked up a duck feather and let it drop.

“Probably too boring for you,” Ogden said.

“I like boring,” Howell said. “Fishing help you relax?”

“Listen, you two girls are more than welcome to stick around if you like. Get comfy.” Ogden picked up his bag. “Like I said, I never lock my door.”

“You didn’t tell us where you’re headed,” Clement said.

“You’re right.”

“We could follow you,” Clement said.

“You could try.” Ogden walked away to his truck. He heard his door slam behind him. “Come on, follow me.” He fell in behind the wheel and gave the men a final look, started his engine, and kicked up gravel as he left.

~ ~ ~

Ogden followed Interstate 25 to 40 to 17 and ended up in Tempe, he believed, without an FBI escort. The drive took him about ten hours. He took a nap along the way, at a rest area WITHOUT FACILITIES as the sign said. He took a room in a cheap motel outside town with the thought of getting some rest. In the telephone directory he found two columns of Robbins, see also Robins, but no Lester G., no Lester, no L.G. The one L. belonged to Linda Robbins and she liked the sound of Ogden’s voice, wanted to talk a little more.

The next morning Ogden drove to the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office and introduced himself, showed his badge to the grumpy officer at the desk, who was duly unimpressed. He told the man he was looking for someone and needed to see the phone company cross-directory. The desk officer gave Ogden the book, dropped it on the table, and went about his business. Ogden looked up the number he’d found in Emma Bickers’s things. He jotted down an address.

Ogden thanked the man.

“What was your name again?” the desk officer said, pulling a pad in front of him.

“Ogden Walker. I’m a deputy of the Plata County Sheriff’s Department.”

The man at the desk gave him another look.

Ogden showed him the address. “How do I get there?”

“German Town,” the officer said. “I don’t think you want to go there.”

“Oh, but I do,” Ogden said.

The man shook his head. “No, you don’t.” He scratched his head and looked at Ogden. “I’ll draw you a map, but remember I told you.”

Ogden nodded. “Do me a favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Will you run a name and tell me if there are any outstanding warrants?”

“What’s the name?”

“Lester G. Robbins. Lester Robbins.”

He typed the name into the computer and waited. “Nothing.”

“Can you run it through DMV and give me the address.”

“You’re a pushy little son of a bitch.” The desk officer groaned and did it. “Nothing.”

Ogden thanked him.

“What you want this guy for?”

“He’s the relative of a murdered old lady.”

“You should be careful over in that part of town. It’s kind of rough. Especially for someone like you. Being from out of town and,” he paused, “black like that.”

“Got you.”

Ogden found the address in a section of town that his mother would have called seedy. The city seemed to stop and start again with shotgun shacks and shotgun racks and, he assumed, shotguns. There were abandoned refrigerators at the side of houses, cars on blocks, and a sight that Ogden thought he might never shake, a three- or four-year-old boy alone in a front yard bouncing on a trampoline. The boy stared at him as he drove by. A woman in another yard gave him a hard look as he turned a corner. Confederate flags were on the back windows and bumpers of pickups. Ogden stopped in front of the house and got out of his truck. His nerves were charged. He was both happy and dismayed that he was not wearing his sidearm. He knocked.

A short, round man opened the door. He wore a flannel shirt with breast pockets ripped off, jeans. He looked Ogden up and down.

“Mr. Robbins?” Ogden said.

“No.”

“Do you know Lester Robbins?”

“I ain’t never heard of him.” The man tried to push the door shut, but Ogden stopped it with his hand. The fat man smiled. It was a scary smile. “What?”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Who the fuck wants to know? You a cop?”

Ogden stared at the man’s milky eyes. “No, I’m from a bank in New Mexico. I have some business with Mr. Robbins.”

“You don’t look like you’re from no bank.”

Ogden nodded. This was true. “I can’t help that.” He glanced up and down the street. A few people had stepped out of their squat houses and were looking his way. “He’s got some money coming to him.”

“Good for him,” the fat man said.

“Okay, thanks for your time,” Ogden said.

“How much money?”

Ogden smiled at the man. “You have a good day.”

Ogden found his way out of German Town as quickly as he could without attracting even more attention.

He found a diner and sat with a cup of coffee and a doughnut, felt like a cliché. Perhaps old Lester’s phone number had been put back into the system. He would go to the library and look through old telephone directories. He would find Lester G. Robbins and the man would shoot Ogden in the chest. Mystery solved.

Ogden found the books. He started ten years back and worked forward. Six years earlier there was a listing for a Lester G. Robbins. Same phone number. He jotted down the address.

It was about noon. The sun was high, almost hot. Ogden rolled up his sleeves. The neighborhood was a far cry from the squalor of German Town. It had a kind of eerie, suburban safeness. He sat in his truck for a couple of minutes, watched the house. He wanted to have his routine down a little better than last time. He walked to the door.

A woman answered. “Yes?”

“Excuse me, ma’am, I’m trying to locate a Lester G. Robbins.”

She turned around and called back into the house, “Carl!”

Carl came to the door. He was a tall, skinny white man. “What is it?” he asked. The woman walked away.

“I’m looking for a man named Lester G. Robbins. Do you know him, where I can find him?”

The man had tattoos on his arms, a serpent on one, a lion on the other.

“What do you want with him?”

“Do you know him?” Ogden asked.

“I might.”

Ogden cleared his throat. “Might is not good enough.” He turned to leave.

“Yes, I know him.”

“How do you know him?” Ogden asked. This was good. He’d managed to change the dynamic. He was once again the one asking the questions. “Are you a relative?”

“I bought this pile of lumber from him.” He referred to the house.

Ogden pulled some bills from his pocket. “Perhaps you know where I might find him.” He peeled off twenty, then another ten.

“Some old folks’ home. That’s all I know.”

Ogden gave him twenty. “Thanks.”

The man sneered. “He’s probably dead now anyway.” He slammed the door.

The drill was simple. Open the phone book and start dialing. He called hospitals, retirement apartments, nursing homes. The next morning he left the motel and drove to the West Village Convalescence Hospital.

It was a sad-looking place. Ogden parked in a visitor’s slot and walked up the carpeted ramp to the front door and into the main building. The large nurse at the desk was not fully awake even though it was after nine.

She looked at Ogden over her glasses. “May I help you?”

“Do you have a Lester G. Robbins here?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to speak with him, please.”

The woman looked surprised, almost startled. “You’re sure you want to talk to Lester Robbins?”

“Lester G. Robbins, yes, ma’am. I don’t know what the G is for. Doesn’t he get visitors?”

“No.”

“Then maybe I’ll lift his spirits a little,” Ogden said.

The nurse laughed and pulled her dyed blond hair away from her face. “Okay, I’ll take you to him.” She came from behind the desk. “Do you know Robbins?”

“Never met him.”

“I didn’t think so,” she said. She laughed without laughing. She stopped at a door, opened it. She didn’t enter, but stepped aside. “Lester,” she called into the room.

“What is it, bitch?” a scratchy voice fired back.

“You have a visitor.” The nurse gave Ogden a look as if to say, You’re on your own. She then turned and walked back down the corridor toward her desk.

Ogden entered the room. “Mr. Robbins?”

“Bitch,” the man said. He did not look up.

Ogden paused and regarded the crumpled old man. He sat in a tattered vinyl recliner, wore dirty pajamas, and had a half-eaten breakfast on a table tray in front of him.

“My name is Walker, Mr. Robbins. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Why the fuck you want to ask me questions? Who the fuck are you?”

Ogden realized the man was blind. “I want to ask you about Emma Bickers.”

The man paused, tried to straighten himself in the uncooperative recliner. “What about her?”

“You do know her?”

“What’s this all about? You a friend of hers?”

“Yes, I am. Maybe the best friend she’s got.”

“I doubt that,” Robbins said. “You a member?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is the door closed? Close the door.”

Ogden walked over and closed the door. He returned and sat on the hard chair next to the man.

“You know I haven’t heard from her in years,” Robbins said, more to himself. “She’s a pistol, that one. She was gonna change the world. We was gonna change the world.”

“I see. How so?”

“You see how many niggers they got working in this rat hole?” Robbins wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

“A lot of them,” Ogden said.

“Nigger nurse gives me a bath. Another nigger takes me to the toilet. Another one brings me my pills.” The old man shook his head. “Can you believe that?”

“How do you know they’re niggers?” Ogden asked.

“I can smell a nigger.”

“When was the last time you heard from Emma?”

Robbins paused. “What’s all this about, anyway?”

“I’m afraid I have some bad news for you,” Ogden said. “Emma Bickers is dead.”

“Hmmph. God rest her soul,” Robbins said. He leaned his head back and pointed his useless eyes at the ceiling. “I was sure she would outlive me.”

“Did you know her long?”

“Grew up together. She lived with us after her mother died.”

“Somebody killed her, shot her,” Ogden told him.

“Damnit, damnit, damnit.” Robbins pounded his claw of a fist down onto the arm of his chair, then grabbed at a loose piece of tape there and nervously played with it. “Who did it?”

“The police don’t know.”

“Of course they don’t. Fucking idiots. They probably killed her. This used to be a free country.” He coughed. “She called me last year or was it two years ago?”

“She called you?”

“That’s what I said.”

“What did she say?”

“Something about things getting out of control, but she didn’t explain. I think she just told me things to make me feel like I was involved in something. She said she was sending me a package, but I never got nothing.”

Ogden noticed a stack of unopened letters on the table behind the man. He walked over and looked through it. “When did you lose your sight?”

Robbins dropped his head. “Two years ago. It was coming on for a while.”

Ogden moved to another stack.

“What are you doing?”

“Just stretching,” Ogden said. “She didn’t say anything else? She mention any names?”

“No, like I said, she just made stuff up for my benefit. I’m sure she did.”

Ogden found a thick manila envelope from Emma Bickers. He held on to it.

“What’s your name?” Robbins asked.

“Howell,” Ogden said. “Thurston Howell.”

“She never mentioned you.”

“Really? Did she tell you she was afraid of anything, something happening, somebody?”

“The niggers in this place are trying to kill me. I just know it. You say somebody shot her?”

“Yeah.” Ogden let the lie stand. “How long have you been a member?”

“What is this about?” Robbins asked again. “You ain’t no member. You tell me what you’re a member of.”

“Thanks for your time,” Ogden said.

“Who the fuck are you?” Robbins shouted.

“Just another nigger,” Ogden said and left.

Back in his truck, Ogden broke federal law and opened Lester G. Robbins’s mail. He stared at the list of numbers. There were two rows of twenty ten-digit numbers. There was another slip of blue paper with a note:

To think I kept this in a coffee can for twenty years. You’re the only one who has this. Be careful, Lester.

Emma

Ogden started the drive back home. He knew enough more to be sure that he knew nothing, a feeling that was becoming sadly familiar. He imagined that Emma Bickers was a part of the hate group the FBI agents had talked about. She’d always been unpleasant enough, but still he couldn’t believe it. He had no idea what to make of the numbers. He learned little from talking to Robbins, except to find out that Bickers had been a member. Perhaps the holes in the meadow up Niebla Canyon made some sense; someone was looking for a coffee can. Then he became anxious and a little afraid. Someone was going to a lot of trouble to find what he had stuffed into his pocket. Perhaps Emma Bickers had even been killed for it.

~ ~ ~

All the lights were on at Ogden’s mother’s house. Snow was falling heavily and the wind was whipping around, making the tin on the metal shed rattle and slam. The house was warm, but it was empty. Ogden called a couple of his mother’s friends and they didn’t know where she was. Her car was parked beside the house where it was always parked. He called the hospital and she wasn’t there. He called the office and she hadn’t called there. He stood in her bedroom, looked around. He recalled standing in Emma Bickers’s room and he felt sick.

Ogden drove over to the Bickers house. Jenny Bickers’s little car was parked out front. He pulled up behind it. He looked at the glove box where his pistol was locked up, but left it there. He walked to the porch, opened the door, and stepped inside. Jenny sat in front of the gas stove.

“Wow,” Ogden said. “You drove up in this mess just to collect a few things?”

“Weather wasn’t so bad when I left.”

Ogden looked back into the house, at the kitchen, at the closed bedroom door.

“Did you find out anything? Do I have oil on that land? Gold?” She laughed.

Ogden took off his coat and sat on the sofa. “You’re good,” he said. “You’re very good.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Where’s my mother?”

“What are you talking about?”

Ogden stood and looked back into the house.

“You had me fooled.”

“What?”

“You can cut the act, Jenny, or whatever your name is. You told me your grandmother raised you. Emma Bickers’s mother died when she was a child.”

“Simon!” Jenny Bickers called out.

Ogden looked to see the bedroom door swing open. His mother walked out into the hall. He then saw a.22 semiautomatic pistol in Jenny’s hand. Behind his mother was the man from the used-car lot in Albuquerque.

Ogden stared at his mother’s terrified face, tried to let her know that everything was going to be okay. “You all right, Ma?”

“She’s all right,” the man said.

Ogden turned to Jenny Bickers. “All of this was so I’d do your investigating for you,” Ogden said.

“Where’s your gun?” she asked him.

“It’s in my truck.” He held his hands away from his body and turned around. “I think I do have what you want.”

“Give it to me and I’ll tell you,” Jenny said.

“Let my mother go.”

“You give me what I want?”

“He doesn’t have it,” Simon said.

“I hid it,” Ogden said.

“He doesn’t even know what it is,” Simon said.

“I know there’s no coffee in it,” Ogden said.

“Where is it?” Jenny said.

“I told you, I hid it.”

“Well, let’s go find it,” Jenny said. “Simon will wait here with your mother.”

“My mother goes where I go.”

“Okay, we all go,” Jenny said. “But don’t misunderstand, I’ll kill her and you, too.”

“Untie her,” Ogden said.

“Don’t get stupid.”

“At least let me put my coat over her. She’s freezing.”

Jenny nodded and Simon took a step back. Ogden saw for the first time the.357 he held. Ogden put his jacket around his mother. She coughed and he told her to hang on.

Ogden drove Jenny Bickers’s car. Jenny sat in the back with Ogden’s mother.

“So, what are those numbers?” Ogden asked.

“Shut up and drive,” Jenny said.

“Account numbers? A lot of accounts. What was Emma, treasurer? Club secretary?”

“Just get me the list.”

“How are we going to do this?” Ogden asked.

“Don’t worry about that.”

“Why don’t you let drop my mother someplace, a friend’s house, the hospital, the police station.”

“Just drive.”

Ogden parked in front of his mother’s house.

“You hid it here?” Jenny said.

“It’s been here the whole time. I found it the first day. Didn’t know what it was.”

“Simon, you go in with him.”

Simon nudged his pistol into Ogden’s ribs.

“Don’t do that,” Ogden said.

“Go,” Simon said.

Ogden led the way through the front door into the house. Simon left the door open.

“I think I put it in the desk drawer over here,” Ogden said. He moved to open the drawer.

“Back off,” Simon said. Simon opened the drawer and looked inside. “Where is it?”

Ogden leaned over to look. “Shit, I left it there. I put it right there. I’m sure I did.”

“You’d better stop fucking with me.”

“I don’t know where it is.”

“Get back outside. I ought to shoot you right now.”

“I’m sure I can find it.”

“Outside.”

Ogden walked back to the car. The snow swirled. Simon went to the rear window. He froze. Ogden removed the pistol from his hand. Warren Fragua came out through the back door.

“Where’s my mother?” Ogden asked.

“She’s in my car,” Fragua said.

“Bickers?”

“In the trunk.”

“Nice,” Ogden said.

There was a flash in the swirling white. Ogden responded to a loud noise, pointed the pistol in front of him, but couldn’t see anything. He then saw that Fragua was on the ground. Snow was falling onto the blood he was leaving on the ground. There was another shot and Simon was down, not moving. Ogden knelt down beside Fragua, still trying to find the shooter.

“Toss the pistol over the car,” a man said.

Ogden looked to find Howell, the FBI agent, standing over him. Ogden threw the gun away.

“I’ll take that list,” Howell said.

“What list?”

Howell kicked Ogden in his stomach, then again. “Don’t fuck with me, boy.”

Ogden lay against a rear tire. He looked at Fragua, watched as he blew snow away from his face. He looked up through the blizzard at Howell. There was another report and a flash. Ogden closed his eyes, thinking he’d been shot. He opened his eyes and saw Howell sprawled out on the ground. Clement was standing over him.

“Aren’t you going to kick me, too?” Ogden asked.

“No, Deputy, I’m not going to kick you. It’s over.”

“Thank god.” Ogden crawled over to Fragua. “Warren? Talk to me. Don’t pass out.”

“Next time you call, I’m staying home.”

“Good idea. Good idea.”

MY AMERICAN COUSIN

Ogden Walker looked out the tinted window of his little bullet-shaped trailer and tried to wake up fully. The shadows of the sage were still long and a few rangy rabbits were milling about. It was going to be a hot day and the bunnies were finding all they could eat before they had to seek shelter from the sun. Ogden wished he could have known what the weather would be by looking at the sky or by a smell on the wind or by noticing the behavior of hawks or ants, but instead he knew because the radio had told him. At least he knew how to switch on a radio. “Another hot one,” the crazy, joke-telling disc jockey had said, then added, “Chili tonight, hot tamale,” then howled with laughter before playing a novelty version of “Tea for Two,” a song that seemed already a novelty. He showered, dressed, and drank his morning tea-for-one while he sat on the wooden step outside his front and only door. He tossed the last of the drink out onto the ground, put his mug on the step by the door, and walked over and fell in behind the wheel of his rig. The county and the sheriff’s department had chosen to maintain its modest fleet of late-seventies Ford Broncos instead of buying new vehicles. At twenty years old, his truck still functioned moderately well and handled the ice and snow of winter especially well. The engine was a little temperamental in the summer. This hot morning it took a couple of key turns and a pumped gas pedal before the motor cranked over.

Ogden drove into Plata and parked in a diagonal space in front of the office. When he stepped inside he was greeted by the lanky desk officer, Felton.

“Good morning,” Ogden said.

“You’re half right,” Felton said.

“Late night?”

“I wish. My neighbor decided to go and get herself some peacocks.” He looked at Ogden. “You ever heard a peacock?”

Ogden shook his head.

“It’s a sound from hell. Sounds like somebody put a cat in a washing machine. She has six of them.”

Ogden tried to imagine it. “Sorry.”

“Fuck sorry. I don’t want your useless sympathy. I want you to come over and shoot the damn things.”

Ogden walked to his desk. “Why don’t you shoot them?”

“She’s my neighbor. Plus, she’s cute.”

“I see. Why don’t you ask her to move them to the far side of her property?”

Felton frowned. “They are on the far side of the property.”

“Oh.”

Bucky Paz stepped out of his office. “Ogden. Good, I’m glad you’re here. Come on in.”

Ogden walked past the big man into the room. There was a young woman sitting in the chair in front of the sheriff’s desk. He nodded hello to her and turned to face Bucky.

“Ogden, this is Caitlin Alison. Miss Alison, Deputy Walker.”

Ogden shook the woman’s hand. “Miss Alison.”

“Miss Alison here is trying to locate her cousin. She came all the way here from Ireland and can’t seem to find her.”

“What’s your cousin’s name?” Ogden asked.

“Fiona McDonough,” Bucky answered the question.

“She’s living here in Plata?”

“I don’t think so,” Caitlin said. “I don’t know. I sent letters to her general delivery to the post office in San Cristobal.”

“So, she’s up in the mountains somewhere.”

“Nobody seems to have heard of her,” Caitlin said. “I showed her picture around.”

“May I see it?”

Bucky took the photo from his desk and handed it to Ogden.

“Nobody’s seen her,” Caitlin said.

“Is Fiona from Ireland, too? Does she have an accent?”

“She’s from Minnesota. Born there. I guess she has a Minnesota accent.”

“Point taken,” Ogden said. “I hope my accent isn’t too hard on your ears. Does she have family there still?”

“Her mother.”

“Where in Minnesota?” Ogden asked.

“Minneapolis.”

Bucky shook Caitlin’s hand. “The deputy will find your cousin. He’s my best officer.”

Ogden offered Bucky a quizzical look that went ignored.

“Miss Alison, let’s take a ride.”

In the car, Ogden apologized. He pumped the gas pedal and turned the key again. “When it’s run for a while, it’s fine. There’s no air conditioner. You won’t notice it until about noon. That’s when you’ll start swearing.”

“You mean sweating?”

“No, I mean swearing.”

“I’ve been warned,” Caitlin said. “Please call me Caitlin.”

“Ogden.”

He drove them north. They crested a hill and he pointed at the view. “I never get tired of this. What’s your cousin doing here?”

“She wrote me that she wanted to live someplace beautiful for a while. And different.”

“She picked the right place.”

“She loves it here.”

Ogden nodded. “Is there a man in the picture?”

Caitlin said nothing.

“Or a woman? People sometimes go to a brand-new place to be alone. Most often there’s another person.”

“She didn’t mention anyone.”

Ogden nodded.

“I think she would have said if there was a man.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ogden said. “We’ll find her and you two can catch up and I can go back to chasing speeders.”

Ogden turned his attention to the road. He tried to formulate a strategy for when they reached the hamlet of San Cristobal. They’d go to the post office, of course, but after that? There was no town center. San Cristobal had only one small shop, a snack shop that sold a few curios, attached to a compound of rental cabins. It was not a wealthy place like Angel Fire or even Eagle Nest. It wasn’t trendy like Taos. There were a couple of houses on the road that led up to the D. H. Lawrence Ranch owned by the university, but not much else.

The post office was a long, narrow trailer with a ramped boardwalk that led from the gravel parking yard to the door set far off-center. A peeling decal of the USPS eagle was the only mark on the fiberglass outer wall.

“Everyone gets their mail general delivery up here,” Ogden said as they got out of the car.

Caitlin looked at him.

“They come here to collect their mail. No carriers.”

“I understand.”

They walked over the weathered boards to the door. Inside, a tall, thin man with a long gray ponytail stood poking through a pile of letters on a table. Ogden prided himself on knowing most people in the area, but he couldn’t remember this man’s face and so certainly couldn’t recall a name.

“How do,” the postman said.

Ogden nodded. “I’m Ogden Walker.” He shook the man’s hand.

“Lonzo Pickler.”

Ogden had never met him. He would have remembered a name like that.

“This is Caitlin Alison,” Ogden said. “Here all the way from Ireland, looking for her cousin.”

“Ma’am,” Pickler said.

“Her cousin’s name is Fiona McDonough.”

Lonzo listened and nodded. “Don’t know the name. And I would remember that name. My first wife was a Fiona.”

“Here’s her picture.” Ogden took the photo from Caitlin and handed it to the tall man. “Have you seen her?”

Lonzo shook his head.

“Caitlin here says she received some letters with a San Cristobal postmark.”

“That might be. But I haven’t seen this woman. The post box is outside. People mail stuff all the time and I don’t see them. I postmark a lot of letters.”

“I see,” Ogden said.

“Hey, Reba,” Lonzo called back into the office. “Come out here, please.”

Reba came around the corner. She was a round and short Taos Pueblo woman. Ogden had seen her around.

“Deputy,” Reba said.

Ogden nodded hello.

“Have you seen this woman around?” Lonzo showed Reba the photograph.

Reba looked at the image and then at Caitlin and Ogden. “Maybe. I don’t know. Maybe.”

Ogden took back the picture.

“Did she do something?” Reba asked.

“No, nothing like that,” Ogden said. “Her cousin’s just trying to find her.”

“She missing?”

Ogden could hear the rumors starting already. First it would be a little buzz at the Pueblo and in short order the whole town of Plata would be talking about the woman abducted by a serial killer.

“No,” Ogden said. “We’re just trying to find her because her cousin here lost her address.”

“Oh,” Reba said. She looked disappointed. “Like I said, maybe I seen her, I’m not sure.”

“You might check the Muddy,” Lonzo said.

Ogden thanked them both, then steered Caitlin back out into the bright and hotter day. “Well, that was a bust.”

“What is the Muddy?”

“The Muddy Cabins are down the road. There’s a little store there where all the locals go. Maggie Muddy, and that is her name, runs the place. She’s a bit of a nut, but she’s sweet.”

“Maggie Muddy,” Caitlin said.

“Her married name,” Ogden said.

Caitlin laughed. “And I suppose that her husband is named Marvin Muddy.”

“Was,” Ogden said. “But his name was Mickey Muddy, but of course everybody just called him Buddy Muddy. You know, you can’t make this shit up.”

“This is a colorful place.”

“So to speak.”

The Muddy was named for Buddy Muddy, but it also happened to be situated at the confluence of two arroyos. When it rained in the spring, it was a mess. But in the summer, it was lousy with wildflowers. The cabins were small wooden huts, painted brightly and scattered through a stand of cottonwoods.

“What a sweet-looking place,” Caitlin said.

“It is sweet.” Ogden parked next to the little store. The double screen doors were propped open by cast-iron cats.

“Maggie!” Ogden called out as they stood in the empty store. Refrigerated cabinets lined the far wall and tables in the middle of the room were covered with canned goods, bags of chips, beans, paper plates, and candies.

“Maybe she’s not here,” Caitlin said.

“She’s here. I don’t think she ever leaves.”

“Who’s there?” a woman said. She came through a door beside the refrigerator full of eggs and milk. “Who’s that?”

“It’s Ogden, Maggie.”

“Ogden? Ogden who?”

“Ogden Walker. Eva’s son.”

“Eva Walker? How is she?”

“She’s fine, Maggie.”

“I ain’t seen you in forever,” the old woman said. Her face was absurdly lined, her hair all gray and worn waist-long in a braid. “Is this your wife?”

“No, ma’am. This is Caitlin Alison. She’s from Ireland.”

“My husband’s mother was from Ireland,” Maggie said.

“Maggie, have you seen this woman?”

Caitlin showed Maggie the photograph.

“Yes, yes, I’ve seen her.” Maggie looked out her front doors as if expecting someone. “Everybody comes in here.”

“Did you talk to her at all?” Ogden asked.

“She’s my cousin,” Caitlin said. “Her name is Fiona.”

“Yes, I talked to her. I talked to her for a long time. Buddy talked to her, too.”

Ogden sighed and looked away. “When was this, Maggie?”

“Just the other day. Last week, maybe. She said she was from someplace.”

“Where?” Ogden asked.

“Someplace else. It made Buddy laugh.”

“Did she say where she was living?”

“My hollyhocks aren’t coming up they way they should. Oh, all the volunteers are sprouting up where I don’t want them, but the ones in my garden, no.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ogden said.

“Do you think my soil is too rich?” Maggie asked. “I used a new fertilizer.”

“It’s possible.” Ogden nodded to Caitlin. “Maggie, thanks for talking to us. We’ll be going now.”

“She said she was living up above Questa.”

“Thanks, Maggie.”

As they walked back to the truck, Caitlin asked, “Questa?”

“Might as well be Mars. Maggie’s out of her head. Buddy’s been dead for ten years.”

“I see.”

“I don’t have any better ideas, though.”

Ogden looked up at the intense midday sun.

“Is it far?” Caitlin asked. “Questa.”

“Not too far. But why would she come way down here to mail letters? There’s a post office up there, a bigger one. And why shop here?”

“Because it’s quaint?” Caitlin said.

Ogden shrugged.

“I don’t want to take up all of your day,” the woman said.

“I did promise my mother I’d do something for her. If you don’t mind, I’ll drive you to Questa tomorrow morning. I think it’s a wild-goose chase, but we should check it out.”

“That works for me.”

Ogden dropped Caitlin off at the office of El Pueblo Motel and told her he’d see her early the next day. He then drove to his mother’s house, where he found her washing the stray dog she’d taken in a couple of weeks ago.

“Fleas?” Ogden asked.

“Not anymore.”

“You ready to go pick out a new air conditioner?”

“Thanks for remembering. So, did you find the missing girl?”

Ogden made a decision to not look surprised. “There is no girl and she’s not missing.”

“You found her then.”

“No,” Ogden said.

“Son, that’s what folks around here call missing.”

His mother had a point, but it wasn’t a really a valid one. Ogden said nothing.

“I know, I know,” she said, waving her hand. “You’re not allowed to discuss an ongoing case.”

“There really is no case. So far no one is missing. Besides, I don’t have cases. I write tickets and stumble onto marijuana gardens. Now, let’s go get your air conditioner.”

“Okay. Don’t get your undies all twisted up.”

“And may I ask who informed you about the alleged missing person?”

“A bird told me.” She loved saying that or, I have my sources.

Ogden drove his mother to Manny’s Appliance Depot or MAD as the locals called it. Manny had one of the few billboards in town and most people hated it, if only for its sheer size. Everyone hated it but Manny and Blinky Ortiz, the sign maker. The billboard was a giant hand-painted portrait of Manny with microwave ovens for eyes and a deep freeze for a mouth. Blinky had painted the sign himself and along with it the mural on the side of the store. The mural depicted refrigerators dressed like Indians dancing around a huge, glowing-red convection oven. The scene was modeled after the local corn dance and most people were offended by it, but Blinky, being Native, claimed that every detail was accurate, except for the fact that the dancers were appliances.

Inside, Ogden and his mother were approached by Manny. Manny looked like a loud person. He was a big man in bright clothes, shiny shoes, with long strides and large gestures. But when he opened his mouth, the softest, almost sweet, voice came out. It wasn’t feminine, but it was easy on the ear.

“Hello, Deputy, Mrs. Walker,” he said. He prided himself on knowing the name of anyone who had ever bought anything from him.

“Hello, Manny,” Eva said. “I need an air conditioner. A good one that can run day and night.”

Ogden let his mother wander off with Manny. He would stay out of it, let her make her decision, then carry it home and install it and drive it back when she didn’t like it. Manny was honest and his shop was the only show in town. They could have driven down to Santa Fe, but they didn’t and wouldn’t. Ogden browsed the shelves of hand tools. He stopped and admired all of the saws, daydreamed about making cabinet furniture some day.

“Hey, Ogden.”

Ogden turned around to find Leon Newton, the county clerk. He was a tall, pale white man with an endearing comb-over. “Hello, Leon.”

“Looking at saws?”

“Yes. What brings you in here?”

“Nails. Need nails. I own a house. I always need nails.”

Ogden nodded.

“Anything interesting going on down at the sheriff’s office?”

Ogden shook his head. He picked up a Japanese handsaw.

“That’s beautiful,” Leon said.

“It is.”

“I heard you’re looking for a young woman.”

“You heard that?”

“The girl’s cousin told me,” Leon said. “She was in my office a little while ago. I love her accent.”

“What was she doing in your office?”

“Looking at maps. She said she thought the most detailed maps would be in my office. She was right, of course. She’s smart. I pointed her to the giant one. You know, the big one on the wall opposite the counter. She looked at it for a good long time.”

“She ask to see anything else?”

“Like what?”

Ogden shrugged.

“No, she just looked at the map.” Leon looked at the saw still in Ogden’s hands. “I work with wood, you know. When I’m not trying to hold my house together with nails. I build cabinets. When I need them anyway. Measure twice and cut once, that’s my rule. Still, it doesn’t always work. You like to work with your hands, Deputy?”

“When I get a chance.”

“I think I’m going to build myself a gazebo. A place to sit and watch the sun go down. That’s a big project, but I think I can do it.”

Ogden smiled. “That’s great, Leon. Listen, I’ve got to find my mother.”

“Tell her I said hello.”

“I’ll do that.”

As they drove home Ogden’s mother said, “Manny says this one has plenty of BTUs.”

“That’s a good thing. You wouldn’t want to have too few BTUs,” Ogden said.

“Laugh if you want, sonny, but I know where you’ll be on hot August nights.”

“Nursing my hernia at your house.”

“It’s a little big.”

Ogden nodded in agreement.

“You don’t have to set it up tonight,” she said.

“No, I don’t mind. It’s easier to do it all at once.”

“Suit yourself, but I thought you might like to go out or something.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll go out.”

Ogden installed the machine and switched it on. After a few seconds of tepid air, the stream came out ice cold. “Well, this ought to do it.”

“Thanks.”

“Now, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll go out.”

“That’s why you’re single, because you’re a smartass.”

“And who do you think I got that from?”

Ogden lived in a place where many, if not most, people still smoked and though there was no smoking allowed inside any restaurant, it only took fifteen nonsmoking smokers to make a place reek of cigarettes. It was this fact that he used to talk himself out of driving all the way home to get cleaned up before dropping in at the Blue Corn Café. He walked in and was called to the bar by his friends Rick and Manny. They had been the friends his father warned him to steer clear of when he was a teenager. They nearly got him killed the night before he left for the marines.

Manny and Rick had met Ogden at this very restaurant, the Blue Corn, to try to get him drunk before he took the train to California and Camp Pendleton. They’d failed to get him intoxicated, but they managed to persuade him to drive them north to Questa for a surprise. As he slid to a stop on the gravel yard outside a crummy barn, Ogden had a bad feeling. There were many cars and pickups already there.

“What is this?” Ogden asked. Then he saw a brown and white pit bull standing, barking in the bed of a truck. “Is this a dogfight?” He kicked the gravel. “Jesus Christ! You know I hate shit like this.”

“You gotta see it once,” Manny or Rick said.

“That’s not true,” Ogden said. He was arguing with them as they stood at the tall barn doors. “That’s just not true.” Behind Manny, Ogden caught glimpse of a brindle dog tearing into the side of a white dog. He turned away at the sight of blood and marched back toward his father’s old Jeep Cherokee. He ignored his friends’ pleas for him to come back, then their voices were gone and he knew they’d moved inside. As he passed by the brown and white dog in the back of the pickup, he found he just couldn’t leave her there. He untied the end of the rope attaching her to the truck and led her to his own car, put her in, and drove away. It was all quite surreal as he skidded onto the dirt road, the dog panting and staring forward through the windshield. He understood that he had taken the dog because he was trying to save it from fighting, he understood his act to be theft, yet he didn’t know what he was doing with it or what he was going to do with it. As he skated down the washboard road to the highway he began to grasp the full gravity of his moment of idiocy. This animal belonged to someone, an objectionable someone certainly, possibly a dangerous someone. He drove into Plata and under the lights of the gas station at the flashing signal at the north edge of town. He wanted to consider his options while he pumped his gas, but he could think of none. Then a Ford LTD station wagon filled with a family and a collie pulled up to the pump beside him. The pit bull went wild, barking and throwing himself into the closed passenger-side window, trying to get at and probably eat the collie. The children in the station wagon screamed and cried. The parents stared holes through Ogden as he crawled in behind the wheel and drove away. He was terrified of the dog himself, especially now, but the beast’s attention was focused away from him and so he could drive. As soon as the collie was removed from view, the pit bull became quiet, eerily quiet, staring once again out the front window. He drove all over, afraid of the dog and afraid the dog’s owner would find him. He spotted the car of a state trooper outside a dingy restaurant in Arroyo Hondo and did the only thing he could think of to he tied the dog to the door handle of the trooper’s car and drove away.

Ogden now looked at his so-called friends at the bar and said, “I hate both of you.”

“What’d we do?” Rick asked.

Ogden wondered what he was doing in the tavern at all. He could never last more than an hour, if that long. Just chatting briefly with Manny and Rick made him feel exhausted.

“Warren and his wife are over there,” Manny said.

Ogden looked and saw his fellow deputy sitting at a table at the window. He walked over. “This is what I like to see,” he said.

“What’s that?” Warren asked.

“Lovebirds out at night.”

“Well, it’s our anniversary,” Warren said.

“Happy anniversary,” Ogden said.

“You have fun babysitting today?” Warren asked.

“It is sort of babysitting, isn’t it?”

“A little bit,” Warren said.

“Well, you know, good foreign relations and all that.”

“So, you find her?”

“Not yet.” Ogden smiled at the couple. “Enjoy your evening.” He turned and walked back toward the bar, bumped into Caitlin.

“Deputy,” she said.

“I see you made it out.”

“It’s a beautiful night,” Caitlin said.

Ogden nodded. “Well, I’d better get home and water my bonsai.”

“Your bonsai?”

“Don’t have to walk it. Quieter than a cat. Still, it is my second. I killed my first one.”

“See you in the morning?”

“Pick you up at eight. Have fun.”

The next morning was surprisingly cool, perhaps because of the clear night. Clouds had rolled in and blocked out the sun and some rain was falling. The sage-covered flat ground outside Ogden’s trailer looked unusually glum, though the rain was much needed, as it was always much needed. Ogden drank some orange juice and then drove toward town.

Caitlin was standing outside the little registration office of the motel when Ogden rolled up. He leaned over, pushed open the passenger door, and she climbed in.

“Dreary morning,” she said. “It was difficult to get out of bed.”

“Not my bed. My mattress is lumpy and too soft.” Ogden drove out onto the highway and headed north.

“Why don’t you get a new one?” she asked.

“Then I might not get up.”

“Where again are we off to?”

“Questa. Red River.”

“May I tell you once more how much I appreciate your time,” Caitlin said. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Besides, my boss told me to do it and so it’s my job. My boss tells me to water his garden, I water his garden. I like having a job. Not necessarily this job, but a job.”

“What would you rather be doing?”

“There’s the problem. I don’t know. What do you do back in Ireland? Where in Ireland are you from?”

“Galway. And I’m a librarian.”

“You mean like the public library?”

“Yes.”

“I know this is a stupid thing to say, but you don’t look like a librarian.”

“What’s a librarian look like?”

“I told you it was a stupid thing to say. I’d like to think I don’t look like a deputy sheriff, but I’m afraid I’m not so lucky.”

The rain came and it came hard. Ogden turned the wipers on fast and leaned a bit forward in his seat.

“Wow,” Caitlin said.

“We call this a drizzle in these parts.”

Just as quickly as the rain had come they were driving out of it. Ogden glanced in his mirror to see the edge of the shower behind them. “This will happen on and off today,” he told her.

Caitlin nodded. She looked out her window at the mountains. Ogden imagined her concern for her cousin.

Ogden drove past Questa and on up to Red River. His thought was that they would work their way back. Perhaps in that way hope might start to spiral away, but there might also be a feeling of zeroing in, however illusory. They asked questions at the little stores at either end of the village, showed Fiona’s photo to a gas station attendant and to the clerks in a couple of shops. They had no luck, so drove on down to Questa. Questa was a poor hamlet, not a ski resort like Red River, but a collection of rough adobes and one little restaurant with an attached market. Ogden and Caitlin sat down to lunch.

“This is some of the best food in these parts,” Ogden said. “The real deal.”

A teenage girl brought out a plastic basket of sopaipillas and some salsa. “I heard you were at the county clerk’s office.” Ogden hadn’t meant to wait so long to mention it, but he had forgotten about his chat with Leon. Now he worried that his question made him sound suspicious.

“I went to look at a detailed map. I had to do something.”

Ogden nodded. “See anything helpful?”

“No.”

“Maybe today we’ll find out something,” he said.

“What do you recommend?” Caitlin looked up at the menu on the wall above the counter.

“I like the caldillo, that’s a green chile stew. The enchiladas here are really good. You can’t go wrong.”

“I’ll try the stew.”

Ogden nodded.

The girl came back and stood by their table.

“Caldillo for both of us,” Ogden said. “Have you seen this woman?” Ogden handed the girl the photograph of Fiona.

The girl nodded. “She used to come in here.”

“She did?” Ogden said. “When was the last time you saw her?”

“She came in a few times. Always had the hamburger. Almost nobody has the hamburger. She drove an old blue Bug. I remember because I liked her car.”

“The last time you saw her?”

The girl looked out the window at the gravel parking lot. “She didn’t come in. She drove up, parked for a while, then backed up and drove off. There was a man with her.”

“Did you ever see the man before?”

The girl shook her head.

“Can you describe the man?” Ogden asked.

“He didn’t get out,” she said. “I couldn’t really see him. He had a beard, I saw that.”

“Did anybody else who works here see her?”

“It’s just me and José and he never comes out of the kitchen.”

“Okay, thanks. What’s your name?”

“Olivia Mendez.”

“I’m Deputy Walker.” Ogden shook her hand. “Thanks again.”

“I’ll go put your order in.”

“One more thing,” Ogden said. “Did you notice which way she came from and which way she went when she left?”

“Yeah, she went up the dirt road toward the lake.”

“Thanks again,” Ogden said. He watched the girl walk away. “Well, what do you know about that?”

“This is great,” Caitlin said.

“There are only a few cabins between here and the lake.” Ogden looked out the window and observed the patches of fog floating in. The fog would be thicker up the mountain. “I hope we can see well enough to find them.”

After their meal, they drove up the muddy track that ran parallel to a swollen creek.

“Must have rained real hard last night,” Ogden said.

“And it’s starting up again,” Caitlin said, pointing at drops hitting the windshield.

“Shit. This road is bad enough right now.”

The rain fell harder as they slipped and slid their way up. It was difficult enough to see the road, much less anything set off into the woods like a cabin. Caitlin asked if they were wasting their time.

“Possibly,” Ogden said.

Ogden drove slowly, so they could see better and so he could keep his rig on the road. He hit the brake and fishtailed to a stop.

“What is it?” Caitlin asked.

“Look,” Ogden said. He nodded to the west side of the road. “In that thicket.”

Caitlin looked.

“A blue Volkswagen,” Ogden said.

The rain fell harder as they climbed out and walked toward the car. There was a cabin beyond it. The chimney was smokeless and the front door was ajar. When they stood under the overhang, at the door Ogden had a bad feeling. The rain pounded loudly on the metal roof. He knocked as hard as he could. Then he called out. “Hello, the house,” he said. He knocked while he pushed open the door.

Ogden saw the feet first, a woman’s sneakers. He pushed quickly into the room. The woman was lying near the cold wood stove, facedown, her left arm twisted behind her back so that the back of her hand was on her butt. There was blood under her middle, spreading across the floor and into the bricks under the stove.

“Oh my god,” Caitlin said.

Ogden fell to his knees beside the woman and turned her over. He put his fingers to her neck.

“That’s not Fiona,” Caitlin said.

“What?”

“That’s not Fiona.”

“She’s alive,” Ogden said. “She’s been shot.”

“Oh god.”

“I’ve got to go call for help.” Ogden looked at the injured woman. By the time the medics made it up that muddy road the woman might be dead. No helicopter was going to fly in this weather, even if there was a place to land, which there wasn’t. He stood there, trying to make a quick decision. Should he move her and meet the ambulance at the road? He looked at the wound to her side. She’d lost a lot of blood. “We’re taking her,” he said. “Get the door.”

Ogden picked up the woman and carried her cradled in his arms through the rain to his rig, where he laid her across the backseat. Caitlin sat in the back with her, holding the woman’s head in her lap.

Ogden called in. “Felton, get me an ambulance to the Questa Lake road. I’ve got a woman who’s been shot.”

“Who’s been shot?” Felton asked.

“The ambulance, Felton.”

“On it.”

Ogden tried to get down the mountain as fast as he could, without letting his adrenaline push him to drive and slide into trouble. The rain let up a bit, but the track was truly a mess. He drove with his tires on the center ridge to avoid getting sucked into the mud of the ruts.

“She’s still breathing?” Ogden asked.

“I think so.”

“Do you recognize her?”

“No.” Caitlin was shaking. “Is she going to die?”

“Felton,” Ogden spoke into the radio, again. “Felton, where’s that ambulance?”

“They’re on the way,” Felton said. “Where are you?”

“Still on my way down the mountain. Another ten minutes, I think.”

“Copy that. I’ll let them know,” Felton said.

“Keep pressure on her wound,” Ogden said.

“She won’t stop bleeding.”

Ogden didn’t say anything, but attended to his driving. The rain was letting up even more and though the fog was thicker, it was in patches so he could see well enough. He thought about the volume of blood and the way the wound looked. The woman could not have been shot too long ago, yet they’d passed no vehicles on the way up. Was the shooter on the way up the mountain? Or still near the cabin?

There was an anxious moment as Ogden rounded the last bend and saw the gravel yard of the little restaurant but no ambulance, but then the paramedics rolled in, red light flashing in the fog.

They had the woman out of the rig and in the back of the ambulance in a matter of minutes. Bucky pulled into the yard just after the medics. One of the medics asked Ogden if he knew the woman’s name or anything about her and Ogden said he did not. Then they rolled away, siren screaming. They had wanted the helicopter, but there would be no flying today.

Bucky walked to Caitlin under the overhang of the restaurant boardwalk. “You okay?” he asked.

“I think so.”

“What about you?” Bucky asked Ogden.

“I think so. How’d you get here so fast?”

“I was down in San Cristobal.”

“We found her in a cabin almost to the lake. I’ll be driving back up there now,” Ogden said.

“Wait for Warren. He’s on his way.” Bucky turned to Caitlin. “Young lady, I’ll take you back to town. You can give me your statement and we’ll get you dry and warmed up.”

Caitlin looked at Ogden. She didn’t want to ride back with the sheriff. Ogden understood. People often wanted to remain with the person with whom they’d experienced something profound or frightening. He nodded to her, letting her know it was okay. He looked to the highway for Warren Fragua’s rig.

“See you back at the office, Ogden,” the sheriff said.

Ogden watched them walk through the now light rain and get into Bucky’s car. He stepped inside the restaurant and looked back through the window as they rolled away.

“Can I get some coffee?” he asked the teenager.

The girl was standing beside the register with the cook. “Was that the girl you were looking for?” she asked.

“No.”

“Is she going to be all right?”

“I don’t know,” Ogden said.

“I’ll get the coffee.”

It took Fragua another five minutes and then the two men were traveling up the slick road in Ogden’s Bronco. The rain had stopped and the fog had thinned considerably.

“No idea who she is?” Warren asked.

“None.”

“All I know is I didn’t drive by anyone on my way up and nobody’s driven down since.”

“How’s the girl?”

“Shaken up, like you’d expect.”

“How’s the boy?”

“You mean me?” Ogden asked.

“Yes, you.”

“Shaken up, like you’d expect.”

“I hate guns,” Warren said.

“That’s because you’ve got a brain.”

“Did you notice anything strange when you were in there?” Warren asked.

“Other than the bleeding woman? Nothing. I didn’t even think that I might be in danger until I was headed down the mountain.”

Half an hour up the trail Ogden spotted the blue Bug again. He parked beside it. The men got out and examined the car. Ogden put his hand on the hood; it was cold. He looked under the car and saw that the ground was soaked underneath.

“This spot look flat to you?” Ogden asked.

“Pretty flat.”

This time Ogden approached the cabin with his weapon drawn. Warren had his pistol out as well and they came at the structure wide from either side. The front door was open just as Ogden had left it. They stepped inside.

“Everything looks normal,” Ogden said. “Right down to the big puddle of human blood on the floor.”

“Did you look in this back room?” Warren pointed to a curtain hanging in a doorway.

“Didn’t even see it.”

Warren moved the fabric aside with his pistol and peeked in. “Just a bed.”

“Made or unmade?” Ogden asked.

“No bedding at all.”

“Well, let’s see if we can figure out who’d been living here.”

“I’ll call down and see if Bucky can find out who owns this place.” Warren left and went back to the truck.

Ogden poked around near the sink and cabinets. There were dirty dishes stacked on the counter, two plates and a couple of forks. The residue of eggs and some kind of meat was not dried hard. He sniffed the plastic cups, no alcohol.

He moved over to the long table against the far wall. One of the panes of the window on that wall was cracked, a corner broken out. It looked like old damage.

Warren came back in. “Bucky’s checking on it. Anything?”

“Not yet. I’m going to see if there are any clothes in the bedroom.”

In the bedroom Ogden found a couple of pairs of women’s jeans and a stack of T-shirts. Then he heard a rumble. “Hey, Warren, you hear that?” he asked, stepping back into the main room of the cabin.

“Yeah,” Warren said.

“Shit,” Ogden said running to the door. He got there just as a white van raced by on the muddy road. “Jesus. Warren.”

The men ran to the Bronco and climbed in. Ogden tried to start the engine, but it decided to be uncooperative. “Christ!”

“Just give it a second,” Warren said. Warren got on the radio and told Felton that a white van was about to hit the highway.

Ogden tried again and the engine turned over. He slammed it into reverse and turned around, fishtailing as he turned onto the rutted lane. “Shit, shit, shit,” he said. “We’ll never catch up.”

The Bronco bounced and slipped. Warren put a palm on the ceiling to keep from banging around. When they got down to the restaurant parking lot there was no sign of the van. Ogden skidded to a stop on the gravel and ran into the restaurant.

“Did you see a white van?” he asked the teenager.

“No,” she said.

“Just now?”

“Didn’t see a van.”

Ogden walked back out. Warren was out and looking up and down the highway. Ogden kicked the truck on the front quarter-panel. “Piece of shit,” he said.

Warren ate some piñon nuts, looked up at the sky. “White van, no plate read. Only about a thousand white vans in this county.”

“Did you see anything special about it?”

“No. It was fast.”

“It wasn’t empty,” Ogden said. “It would have skidded out somewhere in that mud if it was empty.”

“That’s probably right. What now?”

“It’s time for me to call Fiona McDonough’s parents in Minnesota. I’m not simply helping a tourist anymore. Of course I only have the tourist’s word that the victim is not Fiona McDonough.”

“The messier things get,” Warren said.

“The messier things get,” Ogden finished.

“So are we driving back up to finish looking around?”

Ogden nodded. “No choice. The state guys will show at some points to take prints. Like that’s going to help anything.”

“You never know. Let’s do it so we can get it done,” Warren said.

Back at the cabin, Ogden left his rig parked across the road. No one would drive by this time. It was a bit of closing the barn door after the cow was out, but he had to do it. They sifted through the cabin again and found little sign that anyone was actually living there. The ashes in the stove were long cold and there were few of them. Dust was on most things, including the floor, but there had been traffic.

“A meeting place?” Warren asked.

“Could be.” Ogden went into the back room. He looked at the bed. “A nookie nest?”

“A bit out of the way. But I guess that’s the point. Married man? Girlfriend going to tell, bang.”

“Pretty disgusting. The mattress is clear of dust. Lots of traffic around the bed.”

“True.”

“Whose place is this? These magazines are six years old.”

“Like my bathroom,” Warren said.

“Newsweek, Time, Southwest Fly Fishing. What do you say we drive up to the lake? For the hell of it.”

“Why not?”

They drove the track all the way to the lake and as they expected with all the mud and mess there was no one there. Warren pointed out the fishing had been off for years, said the locals blamed it on the tailings from the Moly mine.

“Probably true,” Ogden said. “At least it’s closed now.”

“Too little too late.”

Ogden sat in the driver’s seat with the door open. He called in and got Felton on the radio. “You got any word on that woman?”

“She’s not dead, but she’d not good. That’s what they’re telling us. They wanted to move her to Santa Fe, but they didn’t think she’d make the helicopter ride.”

“Is Caitlin there?”

“Left a few minutes ago. Sheriff drove her to her motel.”

“Thanks. Out.”

“Very good. You remembered to say out,” Warren said.

“Crisis and all that.”

Ogden and Fragua drove back down the mountain. No other cars had found their way up to the cabin. Ogden wondered if the state police would send a crime scene team up as early as tomorrow. He didn’t think they would turn up anything useful, but it was a matter of principle and procedure. There had been a crime, a woman had been shot, maybe to death, and somebody ought to find it urgent enough to drive up from Santa Fe. It wasn’t far.

It was near dusk when Ogden parked in front of the sheriff’s station. Warren parked beside him. They walked inside and found Bucky there waiting.

“Well, it’s a murder investigation now,” Paz said. “She died fifteen minutes ago.”

“Any identification?” Ogden asked.

“None. Felton is going through all the missing persons reports from the state, Colorado, and Arizona.”

“I’ll call Texas,” Warren said.

“Do you know how many people go missing every day?” Felton said. “It’s a lot more than you’d think. I mean missing the official twenty-four hours.”

“I need to call Minnesota,” Ogden said. “Where’s Caitlin?”

“I drove her back to her motel,” Paz said.

“Bucky, did you ever get a look at her ID?”

Paz paused to look out the window. “Never thought to ask,” he said. “Funny about that. What are you thinking?”

“Nothing. All I know is I need to call Fiona McDonough’s family and get some sense of what’s going on. That blue Bug is the car that Olivia Mendez saw Fiona driving.”

“Drive on over and get the numbers right now. And check her damn ID. I feel like a big fat fool. I really do hate this job.” Paz walked back into his office and shut the door.

Ogden drove directly to the motel. He stopped at the desk and asked for Caitlin’s room number.

“She was in unit seven,” the clerk said.

“What do you mean was?” he asked.

“I mean she was in unit seven and now she ain’t,” the short, balding man said. He stroked the tabby cat that slept on the counter. “She checked out.”

“When?”

“Ten minutes ago.”

Ogden looked out the window at the street.

“Drove off with her boyfriend.”

“What boyfriend?”

“You’re not a very good detective, are you? She left with the guy she come with. Been here the whole time.”

“What does he look like?” Ogden asked.

“Normal enough looking fellow. About your height. White guy. Light brown hair. Blue eyes.”

“Did they leave in a car?”

“They did.”

“Can you describe it?” Ogden asked.

“Light blue Honda Civic. Tan interior.”

Ogden was writing everything down now. “Anything else?”

The clerk looked at his desk. “California plate, 5QTH769. I think it was a rental.”

“Thanks.” Ogden turned to leave.

“Did I mention he had only one hand?”

Ogden shook his head. “No, you failed to mention that. Which one did he have?”

“The left one.”

“Was the rest of him there?” Ogden asked.

“Far as I could see.”

“Did he have a prosthetic of any kind? A hook?”

“Nope. His nub was covered with a sock.”

“A sock.”

“A white tube sock,” the clerk said, nodding.

“Any other little details you want to share with me before I start out again?”

“That’s it.”

Bucky Paz couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He shook his head the whole time Ogden was speaking. Warren Fragua stood at the window and peered out at the night. His stomach growled.

“I’ll second that,” Paz said. The sheriff looked at Ogden. “Felton is out there checking the plate. It’s not your fault, Ogden. It’s mine. Never try to be a nice guy; that’s the lesson here.”

Felton came into office. “The motel man was right, the license plate was from a rental car,” he said. “The plate came from a place called Dave Delmonte’s Rent-a-Ride in San Juan Capistrano, California. Except that the car with that plate is suppose to be a yellow Ford Focus.”

Paz twirled around in his office chair. “Probably got a trunk full of plates. Okay, Felton, call Minnesota and see what you can dig up on Fiona McDonough.

“And,” Felton said, “the Volkswagen is registered to a Christopher Banks in Santa Fe.”

“The cabin?” Ogden asked.

“Owned by a retired doctor in Dallas, named Douglass. His wife told me he hasn’t been up there in seven years.”

“You believe her?” Paz asked.

Felton nodded. “She says he’s had a couple of strokes.”

“Did you ask her if they ever let anybody use the cabin?” Ogden asked.

“I did and she said they didn’t.”

“Okay, Ogden, you see what you can dig up on Caitlin Alison. Check the Irish consulate, the State Department, Google her.”

“Well, good luck on that,” Ogden said. “Might as well run a check on Princess Leia.”

Felton left the room.

Bucky stood and came around the desk, sat his wide bottom on the edge of it, pounded his thigh with a fist. “I’m a fat old man who doesn’t like mysteries. You two can’t stop me from eating a cheesecake in the next hour, but you can go figure this out and help me sleep at night. So, get out there and show me how smart you are.”

“No pressure,” Fragua said.

“A shitload of pressure,” the sheriff said.

Warren followed Ogden out and to the front door. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“Back up to that cabin,” Ogden said. “I’m going to turn it upside down and see what I can find.”

“Don’t mess it up for the lab guys.”

Ogden shook his head. “You know better than I do that they won’t find anything.”

“Want me to come with you?” Warren asked.

Ogden shook his head. “One of us ought to get some rest. Besides, you’ve got a wife and a kid. I’ve got a dog and a bonsai. Which reminds me, will you stop by and feed my dog?”

“You got it. Purina and one of your power bars, right?”

“Just the Purina.”

Ogden drove through the dark back to Questa, past the now-deserted diner where he’d had lunch with Caitlin or whatever her name was, and up the treacherous dirt lane, which was at least somewhat less muddy by now. Had it not been for the reflective tape he and Fragua had left stretched all around he might not have found the cabin in the dark. He grabbed his flashlight and went first to the blue Bug. He looked at the flathead screwdriver all by itself in the glove box, then at the folded blue tarp and spare in the forward boot. He wore gloves and found himself trying to disturb things as little as possible, in deference to science. He peeked under the mat on the driver’s side; there was none on the passenger side. There was dried mud on the backseat. He shone his light on it. It was white clay.

Inside the house, he was even more lost. Everything was like it should be in a cabin that had been forgotten for seven years. It was a nice enough place, he thought, wondered how much the old man in Texas might want for it. Especially now that it had been the scene of a homicide. He looked through the cupboards, the medicine cabinet, the closet that didn’t have a door but a blanket stapled to a dowel. There was nothing in the closet but some fishing gear, including a vintage Gary Howells bamboo rod. For a second Ogden toyed with the idea that people were killing over the rod. He put it all back and walked around the cabin again, trying to stay on his own tracks, again in deference to the techs who would be coming up at some point. He went back outside into the muggy dark. His flashlight was less useful out there, the beam diffusing into the trees and mist. He walked the perimeter of the house, then widened his circle until he was weaving through the fir trees. About twenty meters, back into the trees directly behind the cabin, he found a woman’s black and tan leather handbag.

The bag contained a hairbrush, a set of house keys, a car key for a Volkswagen, and a vinyl wallet complete with twenty-seven dollars and an Illinois driver’s license. The name on the license was Carla Reynolds. The picture on the license looked nothing like the woman whom he found, who had just died, but in fact looked very much like the photograph of Fiona McDonough that Caitlin Alison had waved in his face. The key did fit the Bug parked in front of the cabin.

As Ogden drove down the mountain he told everything to Paz over the radio.

The sheriff listened, but said nothing

“Did you get any of that, Bucky?” Ogden asked.

“I got all of it. Do you believe in luck?”

“Not really. Why?”

“Well, your blue Honda Civic showed up on the side of the road with a blown water pump.”

“Where?”

“Camel Rock.”

It was midnight when Ogden drove back through Plata on his way to Camel Rock on the other side of the pass. He’d decided that today was easily one of the worst in his life, a mix of embarrassment, failure, and shame. Fear would have been on the list had he known enough to feel it; instead, he was simply mad. He was exhausted, but he was not sleepy. The road seemed exceedingly long, but he was acutely aware of every curve, every set of headlights that flashed past him, and every set of taillights he passed.

Ogden exited the freeway and swung around past the casino. Under the absurdly bright lights of a Valero gas station, Ogden saw a state trooper’s car. The blue light on his roof was idle and the trooper was leaning on the front fender drinking a soda through a straw. Ogden parked beside him and got out.

“So, you had yourselves a murder up there,” the man said.

“Seems so. Did you find anything?”

“I was waiting on you before I opened it up. The way I see it, this is a part of your crime scene.” The trooper gestured that the car was all Ogden’s.

Ogden opened the driver’s side door and shone his light around. He sat behind the wheel. The seat was pulled up close, so Caitlin must have been the driver. He looked at the dash, opened the glove box and found it empty, except for some paper napkins and a service manual. He came out and put the beam on the partially raised hood. “You said it was the water pump?” Ogden asked.

The trooper pointed at the ground under the car. There was a pool in a depression of the concrete.

“I suppose you’re right.” Ogden knelt and looked at the mixture of coolant and water as if it might tell him something. He stood. “Let’s pop the trunk,” he said.

“Let’s use the key,” the trooper said. “It was still in the ignition.” He tossed the keys to Ogden.

“Okay,” Ogden said. He walked to the back of the car.

“What’s wrong?” the trooper asked.

“Oh, just everything.” Ogden opened the trunk.

“That’s not good,” the trooper said.

“That’s kind of the definition of not good,” Ogden said. He moved the hair from the face of the bound woman.

“You know her?”

“Her name is Caitlin Alison. Well, at least that’s what she told me and the sheriff.”

Ogden looked across the parking lot at the lights of the casino. Maybe there was a one-armed bandit with a one-handed killer sitting at it. He watched as the trooper called the Santa Fe County Sheriff’s Office. This one would be their case. A good thing, Ogden thought. He didn’t want to investigate the murder he had, much less another one. But he would do just that. Both of them, tied together as they were. He imagined the man with one hand was well on his way to Albuquerque in the back of a pickup or in the passenger seat of a big rig, or lying dead someplace himself. Still, the casino was close enough he could see it. He wouldn’t bet that the man was there, but he had to look.

He walked over to the trooper. “Listen, I’m going to go up there and look around for the guy who was with her.”

“I don’t think you need to be here,” the trooper said. “They’ll know where to find you.”

“Sadly,” Ogden said.

The trooper laughed.

Ogden walked across the lot of the casino. It was a sad casino, he thought, as if someplace there was a casino that was not sad. It was only a few years old, but poorly designed; shoddy building made it look old, run down, even at night with the abundance of neon lighting masking the scars and flaws. There were consistent jobs for locals there, but no prosperity. He walked passed a couple of men who might or might not have been guarding the big double doors. He stepped up to them and looked at the beers in their hands.

“You guys work here?” Ogden asked.

“I do,” the shorter of the two said. He looked at Ogden’s uniform, seemed to know he was from another county.

“Did a guy come through here with only one hand? White guy, brown hair, my size.”

“You see a guy with one hand?” he asked his friend.

The friend shook his head.

“I have to say,” the man said, “I don’t really look at hands.”

“You should,” Ogden said. “That’s where people usually hold their guns.”

The men laughed.

“I’m going in to look around,” Ogden said.

“Look all you want.”

Inside, the harsh lights did nothing but highlight the sagging spirit of the place, the human drainage, as his father had called it. He wandered through the aisles of slot machines, the cigarette smoke, the sour smell of alcohol wafting from half-empty plastic cups and stale clothing, out of pores. Ogden looked at hands. He had never really looked at hands before either. They were all so different and everyone had two of them, except for two Indian Korean War vets; one had one hook, the other had two. He stopped by the security office and knocked. A round woman opened the door.

“Do you have cameras at the entrances?”

“Yes.”

“You think I can take a look at the last four hours of tape?”

The woman laughed. “We only keep two hours of tape before we loop it through again.”

“Okay, can I see that?” he asked.

“If the cameras worked, I’d let you take the tapes home and watch in your living room.”

“Oh.”

“What are you looking for?” she asked.

“This is security?”

“Yeah. What are you looking for?”

“A man with one hand,” Ogden said.

“About your size?” the woman said.

“Yes,” Ogden said, incredulously.

She looked at the clock. “He came in about two hours ago.”

“Is he still here?”

“He might be,” she said.

“Might be?”

“Well, I’m the only one that stares at those damn monitors and since I’m standing over here having this little conversation with you, I ain’t exactly watching the monitors, am I? So, who knows who walked out that door?”

“I see. Where was he the last place you saw him and when?” Ogden looked back at the gallery.

“I watch them enter, I watch them exit.”

“No one watches the tables?”

“This ain’t Las Vegas.”

“I’m going to look around, thanks.”

The woman disappeared and left Ogden staring at the door. He turned and walked back through the aisles of slot machines to the restrooms. The man was in the building or had just left it or had left it awhile ago; Ogden trusted the security woman’s eyes. He was on edge now. His fingers were twitching. He went into the men’s room and washed his face. He waited long enough to count an even number of hands and then left. He went back to the entrance and looked out at the parking lot. The guard was still there.

“I’ve got twenty dollars for you if you help me search this place for a guy with one hand.”

“Okay.”

The twitching fingers were short-lived as two turns through the casino yielded nothing. The man had slipped out. Ogden had no idea which way to go. Had he boarded a bus, hitched a ride, gotten into a car with someone he knew? None of his guesses really mattered; all that mattered was that the man was good and gone and Ogden didn’t know where to search.

He walked back to the blue Honda. It was now an involved crime scene. The whole gas station was taped off and cops were everywhere. Ogden told the lead investigator all he knew while he watched the coroner pull out Caitlin’s body. The photographers recorded every angle of the scene. No one had seen the car abandoned; it had merely been sitting there too long. Ogden told the Santa Fe County deputy about the man with one hand and she wrote it down and said thanks. Ogden climbed back into his rig and drove north toward home.

The lab techs from the State Police had done their jobs at both scenes. The Santa Fe Sheriff’s Department shared all they had with Ogden. Nothing usually comes to not much of anything and so it was. There were some hairs found at both scenes, a few were not from the victims, but there was not enough for a DNA match even if they had had a sample from a suspect. As usual, fingerprints offered no help. All the blood in the cabin was from the first woman and all the blood in the car, backseat, and trunk was from the second. Ogden took this hollow news along with his hollow belly upstream, driving slowly through the pass. He stopped at an overlook and stared at the gorge as it snaked north through the dark. It was nine and he still hadn’t slept.

“So, what now?” Eva Walker asked. She put a bowl of green chili and some tortillas in front of him.

“I don’t know. I keep telling all of you that I’m not cut out for this work.”

“Pshaw.”

He looked up from the food he hadn’t touched. “Pshaw? You haven’t said that for a long time.”

“Trying it out again. Shame about that young woman.”

“I guess,” Ogden said. “I’m thinking she was no Girl Scout.”

“Still,” his mother said.

“Still.”

“So, what now?” she repeated.

He looked at her. “I think that whatever reason brought those people here is still here. I don’t think they found what they were looking for. They didn’t find Fiona McDonough — rather, Carla Reynolds.”

“Aren’t you going to eat?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t.”

The old woman nodded. “You need a nap.”

“I need a nap.”

Ogden walked into what had been his bedroom growing up and stretched out across the single bed. He looked over at the table where he had tied flies when he was a boy, remembered how he’s struggled with the feathers and hair when he was learning. As difficult as it all was, he knew it would come, that he would get it. But none of this business with the bodies and the one-handed man and the missing cousin would ever come to make sense. This, he believed. He did believe, however, that whatever Caitlin, dead or not, and the man with one hand had come to find was somewhere up that mountain road. If it was important enough to kill for, it was important enough to return for. He shut his eyes and drifted off quickly.

Ogden walked into the station the next morning.

“You look like shit,” Felton said.

“I feel like shit,” Ogden said.

Bucky Paz stepped into view. “Ogden, come in here.”

Ogden followed the fat man into his office.

“Sit down. Santa Fe got an ID on the woman in the car. Her name was Carol Barelli.”

“I take it she wasn’t Irish.”

“Nope. She was Denverish. She was picked up for prostitution up there once. Still no ID on the woman in the cabin.”

“Anything on Carla Reynolds?”

“Last known address was in Chicago. The cops there checked out the address. No one there by that name.”

“Surprise, surprise.”

“Caitlin was a hooker, eh?”

“One of those on the Craig’s List.”

“Craig’s List. Guess I’m going on Craig’s List.”

Ogden sat down in front of the computer on his desk.

Felton looked over. “You on the computer? Who died?”

“A bunch of people,” Ogden said.

Ogden stared at the computer screen. “What is Craig’s List?” he asked. “I typed it in and nothing came up.”

“It’s one word,” Felton said. “No apostrophe. Haven’t you ever bought anything online?”

“As a matter of fact, I haven’t.”

“That’s where I found my car. Got a great deal. What are you looking for?”

“A prostitute.” The page came up and Ogden stared at it. He found the Denver site. He looked in the section of women seeking men and men seeking women, but that just turned out to be people in various stages of loneliness or desperation seeking friends or dates. Then he saw the word “adult” under the heading “services.” There he found not-so-veiled advertisements for prostitutes. Listings with headings like “Curl Your Toes” and “Hot to Trot” and “Your Place in Twenty Minutes” and “Cum on My Face.” Many had pictures of fairly rough-looking women, some looking like addicts, some worse, and pictures of extremely young-looking Asian women. He looked through them all, one at a time. He grew sadder with each face he saw. The rough ones looked sad enough and he could see the futures of the young ones. He was completely and thoroughly depressed by mid-morning. Then he saw the face of Carla Reynolds. The heading read, “Giving Two Heads is Better Than One.” She was posed beside another woman who was holding the camera to take their picture in a mirror. The ad said that their names were Destiny and Petra. Carol Barelli seemed to be the one called Destiny, best he could tell. There was a phone number and no address. Ogden looked around the office, feeling dirty, feeling stupid for feeling dirty, feeling silly for finding himself embarrassed to dial the number. But he did. A woman answered.

“I’m calling for Petra,” Ogden said. He asked for Petra because he believed Destiny to be dead.

“You want to make an appointment?”

“No, I would like to talk to Petra.”

The woman hung up.

“You never have had any luck with women,” Felton said.

Ogden stood and walked to Bucky’s open door. “Sheriff, I think I need to drive up to Denver.”

Bucky Paz studied his desktop. “You want to take Warren with you?”

Ogden shook his head.

“Okay, go ahead.”

Ogden stopped by his mother’s house and told her he’d be gone for a few days. Her house was frigid. “What’s going on in here?”

“I’ve got the damn thing on the lowest setting,” she said about the air conditioner. “And it’s turning the place into an icebox. I want to take it back.”

Ogden leaned over to the look at the control panel. “Well, you do have the fan on low, but you’ve got it set to its coldest.” He adjusted the knob.

“Thanks.” She led the way into the kitchen. “You want to eat before you go?”

“I’m okay.”

“Two young girls. How awful. Is that why you’re going up to Denver?”

“Yes, to see if there’s anything to find out.”

“I made some scones. They’re plain, but they’ll be good road food. Want a thermos of coffee, too?”

“Sure, thanks.”

“You’ll be careful, son?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Four scones enough?”

“That’s great.”

Warren Fragua pulled into Ogden’s yard while he was setting his bag in the back of his pickup. “I hear you’re driving all the way up to Denver for a hooker.”

“I heard that’s where they keep them.”

“I’d offer to go, but, well, you know.”

“Your wife doesn’t approve of you looking for hookers. Doesn’t she know it’s the twenty-first century?”

“She’s a prude.”

Ogden fell in behind the wheel.

“Give a call if you need help,” Warren said.

Ogden nodded.

Ogden drove north out of town and stayed on that road until he came to Interstate 25. It was only a five-hour drive, but he felt like shit by the time he arrived. It was just becoming fully dark at nine o’clock and it was starting to rain. He checked into a Motel 6, stretched out on the bed, and fell asleep for what felt like the first time in weeks.

The next morning he grabbed some of what passed for breakfast at the Waffle House next door and then drove to the Denver Police Department. It was a big city and everyone moved like it was. Still, it was Denver and his cowboy appearance didn’t seem odd to anyone. He stepped up to the desk and asked if he could speak to someone in Vice.

“What, you get rolled by some hooker and her pimp?” the man at the counter said.

“No.” Ogden showed the man his badge. “I’m just the lowly chump deputy from a Podunk little county in New Mexico that got sent up here to find something out about a murdered woman. A woman who was arrested here for prostitution last year.” Ogden felt he’d diffused what contempt or simple ridicule the man might have directed at him with the words chump and Podunk.

The man studied Ogden briefly. “Vice is down that hall. You’ll see it written on the door.”

“Thanks.”

Ogden did find the door and he walked in. A woman detective was seated on the edge of a desk, just hanging up the phone. She was tall, what his mother would have called a horsy woman. She wore her sidearm, a.38 special, butt facing forward on her right side. “What do you want?” she asked.

Ogden introduced himself and noted that she was even less impressed with him than he was with himself. He went on. “We’ve had two murders and I’m here to see if I can find out something about one Carol Barelli.”

“Destiny,” the cop said. “How does she fit into your case?”

“She’s one of the dead people,” Ogden said.

The cop whistled, shook her head.

“You knew her?” Ogden asked.

“Picked her up a few times. Busted her once. She was an alright kid. Smart.”

“Maybe,” Ogden said.

“I’m Detective Hailey Barry,” the woman said. She reached up and shook Ogden’s hand. “Don’t even mention my name.”

“What about your name?”

The woman cocked her head and looked at Ogden. “Halle Berry, the actress?”

“Listen, Detective, I find pot growers and throw sticks for my dog. I don’t know much about movies. I just found out about Craigslist this morning.”

Detective Barry smiled briefly. “So, what happened to poor Carol Barelli.”

“Shot. I believe by a man with one hand. Do you know of anybody with one hand?”

“Sounds like you got yourself a mystery.”

“Could you ask around a little for me? And do you know anyone called Petra? Another hooker, worked with Carol.”

“No.”

Ogden showed her the picture he’d printed from Craigslist.

“Don’t know her.”

“Do you have an address for Carol Barelli?” Ogden asked.

Barry sighed and looked at her computer screen, typed a bit. “I’ve got one here, but I’m sure it won’t do you any good.”

“Mind if I take a look at her arrest report?”

“You sure ask for a lot.”

“Sorry.”

Barry turned the screen so Ogden could see it. He wrote down the address and read quickly through the report. There was nothing that struck him as unusual. “Well, you were right about her being smart,” Ogden said.

“Very bright.”

“I didn’t have her pegged for a hooker.”

“Drugs,” the detective said.

Ogden nodded.

“She really wasn’t like the rest of them,” Barry said. “I shouldn’t say that. She was a lot like the rest of them.”

“You know anything about a guy with one hand?”

“Yes, he’s a drug dealer. They call him, if you can believe it, One Hand.”

“Know where I can find him?”

“No. I’ve never seen him. He’s never been busted here in Denver as far as I know.” Barry pushed herself away from her desk and looked at the ceiling.

“Also, I just wanted to let you know that I’m in town and I’ll be asking some questions, probably pretty clumsily. I don’t mean to step on toes.”

Barry nodded. “Mind if I ask where you’re going next?”

“I guess I’m going to find myself a hooker.”

Ogden used his cell phone that he always refused to use at home. He was sitting in his truck in the police parking lot. He called the number from the Craigslist ad.

“You want to make an appointment?” the woman asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She gave him the address.

He looked up the address in his Thomas Guide and drove the twenty minutes across town. The neighborhood was slightly industrial and the address he’d been given had a small sign that read NO PAIN CLINIC. There was NO PARKING posted on the street, so he drove around the corner. It was just before ten. It seemed an odd time to call on a hooker, but the woman had answered the phone.

There was a buzzer button, but there was no knob or handle on the outer wrought-iron door. The inner wooden door opened. A middle-aged Asian woman looked at Ogden, opened the metal door, and let him in. She didn’t speak, but led him by the hand through a dim room with a couple of sofas and into a room with what might have been a bed or a massage table pushed against the far wall.

“What do you want? Thirty minute, one hour?” the woman asked. She was anywhere from thirty to fifty, with a wide, almost pretty face and hair that was dyed light brown and streaked with a strange red. She wore a light blue smock over sweatpants.

“Thirty minutes,” Ogden said. “I just want to talk.”

“What?”

“Talk.”

“Wait here.” She left quickly.

Just as quickly, a younger woman came in. She was also Asian, pretty, with dark hair pulled back tight. She was dressed like the first woman. “Cindy don’t understand English good,” the woman said.

“I just need to talk to you for a minute,” Ogden said.

“To me?”

“Yes.”

“No, I Mama.”

“I want to see Petra.”

The woman stared blankly at him.

“Destiny,” he said.

Her expression changed slightly.

“I’m looking for a white girl.”

At first Ogden thought she was offended or angry. He could feel her tensing up, like a horse on the muscle. Then she laughed. “Oh, you want white girl.”

“Yes,” Ogden said.

“You don’t want white girl. You pick the girl you want. I bring in, you pick.”

“Do you know a white girl named Destiny?”

“No, no Desny.”

“Carol? Do you have any white girls?”

The woman’s feelings now appeared hurt. She walked out without a word. Ogden sat on the bed and waited. After about ten minutes, ten long minutes, a white woman walked into the room. She was not Petra and she looked none too happy to be there. She looked as if she’d just been roused and told there was a man there to fuck her. She ran a hand through her stringy blond hair and looked at Ogden with weak, blue-green eyes sunk deep into her face.

“Okay,” she said, “what do you want?”

“What’s your name?”

“Shelly.”

“All I want is some information.”

“What? Are you a cop?”

“I am.”

“Ain’t no money changed hands.”

“I’m not interested in arresting you. I’m looking for someone who goes by the name of Petra.”

“What do you want with her? I mean, even if I did know her.”

“Listen, I’m not even a cop from around here. I’m from New Mexico. I’m just looking to ask Petra a couple of questions.”

“She’s not here.”

Ogden nodded. This was at least information. “Do you know where she is?”

“She used to live a few blocks from here. We was never friends. She shared some dope with me once.”

Ogden nodded.

“Do you remember the address?”

She shook her head.

“Can you describe the house, the building?”

“It was big and square and it had windows, like a building, you know. Yellow, it was yellow, hard to miss all that yellow. It’s on a really busy corner and there’s a big cyclone fence with wire on top down the street side.”

“You ever see a man around with one hand?”

“You mean One Hand?”

Ogden smiled. “Yeah, One Hand.”

The woman was either suddenly nervous or needed a fix of whatever fixed her, but she withdrew. “I’ve heard of him.”

“Is he a pimp?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you’ve seen him.”

“Maybe. I don’t remember. Why do you want Petra?”

“She’s a friend of Destiny. Are you a friend of Destiny? Do you know Destiny?” Ogden did what he could to appear nonthreatening. He remained seated. He avoided prolonged contact with the woman’s eyes, looking instead at her shoulders or hair.

“I know Destiny. What’s going on?”

“Destiny’s dead.”

“Oh, fuck, man.”

“She was killed in New Mexico. I’m trying to find out who killed her.” He pulled a copy of Carla Reynolds’s driver’s license from his pocket. “Do you know this woman?”

Shelly shook her head.

“How well did you know Destiny?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you do drugs with her?”

The woman said nothing.

“Thank you,” Ogden said. He didn’t want to scare her any more than he already had. He might need to talk to her again.

~ ~ ~

The big yellow square thing with windows that was a building was easy enough to find. A couple of young, rough-looking men stood by the front door, smoking, leaning, staring at Ogden as he approached. Ogden was scared, but like when dealing with a bad horse, he had to keep his emotions, his fear, in check.

The three men were white, tattooed over most of their arms. One of them had a tattoo on his face, a chevron on his forehead. They wore heavy black boots.

Ogden addressed them clearly, firmly. “Excuse me, gentlemen. Maybe you can help me.”

“Maybe we can,” one of them said.

“Do you know a woman called Petra?”

“Nah, man, we ain’t be knowing no Peta,” the same one said.

“Petra. I was told that Petra lives here.” Ogden looked up at the second floor of the building. “Shelly told me.”

“Who the fuck is Shelly?”

This was not going well. Ogden was glad he wasn’t wearing his sidearm. Nothing gets you shot faster than having a gun, he always thought, and he was sure he wouldn’t have been able to resist the urge to pull it out if he’d had it. He tried to stay cool.

“Shelly is a hooker at the whorehouse around the corner,” Ogden said. He stepped close to them so he could read the names by the buzzers behind them. What few names were there were only last names, mostly Hispanic. There were no hooker pseudonyms.

The most muscular of the three leaned close to Ogden.

“She up there?”

“No. I have a picture,” Ogden said. He showed them the two women.

“You a cop?” the first asked.

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“Let me see your badge,” muscles said.

“Why, you want me to arrest you?” Ogden smiled. “No, really, look at the picture. This one is dead. Somebody shot her. I’m looking for this one.”

They looked at the picture. “I seen her.” Muscles pointed at Carol Barelli.

“Here?”

“Yeah. I ain’t seen the other one, though.”

Ogden looked at the building again. It loomed larger now. He supposed he could ring every bell and knock on every door, but the prospect was not appealing. The three men outside the building had lost interest in him, and though they remained aware of his presence, he didn’t feel threatened by them any longer.

He tried the exterior door and found it locked. He recalled his father saying that a thing would not get done unless you did it. It wasn’t until he reached for the first button that he realized his hand was shaking. He rang bell after bell until someone buzzed him in. It was Hernandez in 104 who let him in.

Ogden went to 104 and an old woman opened the door a crack. She spoke Spanish and eyed Ogden, with every right, suspiciously. He immediately showed her the photograph. “¿Ha visto usted a esta mujer?”

The woman sighed, closed the door, and fastened the chain inside.

Ogden knocked at doors until another old woman answered. This woman was Hispanic as well, but she spoke English. “What do you want?” she asked.

Still, Ogden spoke Spanish, just out of respect. “¿Vive esta mujer aquí?” He pointed.

“No sé,” she said.

“¿La ha visto usted?”

She looked up and down the hall.

“Second floor.”

“Gracias.” He thought he saw her begin to smile, but that didn’t make sense.

On the second floor, no one answered the first five doors. A white woman, maybe thirty, opened the sixth door. Her face was pocked, her eyes red, her dyed blond hair was a nest on her head. She looked at Ogden as if she were expecting him.

“You’re late,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” Ogden said.

It was only then that she realized he was not whom she was expecting. “You’re not Billy.”

“Not for some time.”

She turned and walked back into her hot apartment. Ogden stepped in after her. The room stank of cigarette smoke and a bathroom and maybe sex. The kitchen was part of the front room and it was a cliché of filth.

“I’m looking for Petra,” Ogden said.

“Yeah, me too. She owes me half the rent.”

“When did you last see her?”

The woman turned to look at Ogden. “Ain’t you proper?” She lit a cigarette. “When did you last see her?” she mocked Ogden. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m looking for Petra.”

“Yeah, well, I can see that. What you need her for? I’ll fuck you for fifty bucks.” She sat at the thick-legged table in the center of the room. She was backlit by the light from the curtainless window.

“I’m not looking to get fucked.”

“Then what the hell you want Petra for?”

“I want to talk to her.”

“Now I know you’re lying. I’ve talked to Petra. You don’t want to talk to her. Nobody in his right mind wants to talk to that bitch. Forty dollars.”

“Did you know Destiny?” Ogden asked. He used the past tense on purpose.

“Yeah. What do you mean did?”

“She’s dead.”

“Everybody dies.”

“She was shot.”

“People get shot. You know, you sound like a cop and I want you to leave.”

“I’m really not here to cause you any trouble. I don’t care that you’re a hooker. I don’t care that you use drugs. I don’t care that you dye your hair. I’m just trying to find out why two women are dead and who killed them.”

“I knew she was going to fuck up,” the woman said.

“Who?”

“Carol.”

“Carol Barelli?”

“Yeah. She came in here two weeks ago talking about scoring a lot of money and I told her she was crazy.” She put her cigarette down and lit another one. Now she had two going.

“What kind of score?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about One Hand?”

“One Hand. You mean Hicks?”

“I guess. Does he have a first name?”

“I’ve never heard it. He’s a two-bit pusher.”

“You know where he lives or where I can find him?”

The woman looked at Ogden and shook her head. “You ain’t no cop.”

“I’m a cop in New Mexico.”

“Well, this ain’t New Mexico, cowboy, so up here you ain’t no cop.”

“That’s pretty much how it is,” Ogden said. This woman wasn’t stupid. He imagined Carol Barelli looking like this woman, drugs in control, moving like this woman. Then he wondered what the woman in front of him would look like cleaned up and trying to fake her way through the world.

Ogden pulled out the photo of the dead woman from the cabin. “Do you know this woman?”

“Is she dead?”

“Yes, she is.”

“I don’t know her.”

“Listen, thanks for talking to me.”

“Thirty? Thirty dollars. I’ll do you for thirty.”

Ogden took thirty dollars from his pocket and put it on the table. “Use it how you need to.”

“You know I don’t need your charity,” she said, grabbing the money.

Ogden looked at the window. “I know you don’t. Consider that payment for the information.”

“And I ain’t no snitch.” She had fallen into something automatic and maybe safe for her.

Ogden didn’t press. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“You’re welcome, sir. Yes, sir. You’re welcome.”

“If it matters to you at all, I thought your friend Carol was all right. Until I found out she was lying to me.”

“She was a liar. What can I say?”

Ogden nodded. “Thanks again.” He started for the door.

“Try the Plank,” she said.

“What?”

“It’s a bar. It’s called the Plank. Hicks used to hang out there.”

Ogden nodded.

Ogden found his way downtown and into a restaurant. He ordered a burger with an enormously complex description and when it came it turned out to be a burger. It was large and with a few fries he could manage only half of the meal. He boxed the remainder and walked back toward his truck. He found a cop with his foot on his back bumper, looking at his license plate. Ogden put the food in his ice chest in the bed of the pickup and waited.

The square man looked over at Ogden. “Aren’t you going to whine or say something?”

“Meter expired,” Ogden said. “What’s there to say.”

“True.”

“From New Mexico?”

Ogden nodded.

“You know, I haven’t really started to fill this puppy in,” the cop said.

Ogden nodded, again. “It’s your job.”

The fat man closed his book. “I’ll let you off with a warning.”

“I appreciate it. You know a place called the Plank?”

“Yeah, I know it. It’s not far from the stadium. I think it’s on Wewatta. It’s a real dive; why do you want to go there?”

“Maybe I don’t.”

After a visit to his room at the Motel 6, Ogden found the Plank. It looked like the dive he expected it to look like. It was in a warehouse area and there were no other bars in sight, only long expanses of concrete buildings, loading docks, and semitrailers. It was dusk and there were a few cars parked in front. The only tree for blocks was in the center of the dirt parking area, a large chinaberry with a huge canopy. Ogden thought the tree almost gave the place some character. He walked in and stood at the bar.

“Whatever you have on tap,” Ogden said.

The bartender, a wide man with a blond crew cut, grunted an acknowledgment and grabbed a glass.

Ogden received the beer and looked around the room. Two bikers were playing pool. A tall man sat alone in a booth, his long legs crossed at the ankles and extended out to the nearest table. A couple sat in another booth, on the same side, not talking, just sitting. The bartender wiped his way down the counter.

“Any hookers ever come in here?” Ogden asked.

“Sometimes,” the man said. “How would I know a hooker if I saw one?”

Ogden smiled at him. “You know any of them?”

“I guess.” He stopped wiping and tossed his rag someplace Ogden couldn’t see. “Why you asking?”

“You know a woman named Carol Barelli?”

The man said nothing.

“Here’s her picture. She’s the one on the left. She also uses the name Destiny.”

“What’s your business, buddy? Are you a cop? You don’t look like no cop.” The bartender looked around the room.

“I’m just a friend of Carol’s.”

“You don’t look like no friend of Carol’s neither. Well, anyway, I don’t know her.”

“What about the other one. She goes by Petra.”

The bartender shook his head.

“And this one?” Ogden showed him the picture of the woman from the cabin.

“Nope, nope, and nope. You’re just shit out of luck.”

Ogden was taken by his failure to react to the photo of the dead woman. He looked at the picture himself. “Can you tell that the woman in this picture is dead?” he asked.

“What?”

“Does she look dead to you?”

“Maybe.”

“But you don’t care.”

“I don’t know her. I don’t know our friend Destiny either.”

“She’s dead, too,” Ogden said.

“It don’t pay to know you, does it?”

“Have you ever seen a guy around here with one hand?”

Ogden watched the man closely. He swallowed, he rearranged his shoulders and his chest ever so slightly, he glanced right. “No,” the man lied.

“So, you don’t give a shit about two dead women,” Ogden said. He set down his beer and looked over at the pool table.

“No, not really,” the man said.

Ogden turned back to look at his eyes. He was telling the truth this time, but he wasn’t that comfortable admitting it.

“People die,” he said.

“The woman Destiny was involved in some kind of drug deal with this One Hand.”

“You should write this all down.”

“You think so?”

“Oh yeah.”

“This guy with one hand put one in the back of Carol Barelli’s head. And you don’t care about that.”

The man bit the inside of his cheek.

“What about this woman?” He showed the bartender the picture of Carla Reynolds.

“Never saw her.”

“Thanks for the beer.”

Ogden was striking out. He’d only learned what he already knew. To make matters worse, the longer he drove around Denver asking his stupid questions, the less he knew what he was doing. And he’d only been there a day; how much could he not know in a week? Did he really expect to solve the murder of the woman in the cabin? That was the only one in his jurisdiction. Or was it some ego thing or, worse, some macho thing driving him? He’d been strung along by the now-dead Carol Barelli and he was determined to find some answers. Perhaps, just perhaps, in the process he would accidentally manage to find Carla Reynolds before she turned up dead.

Ogden’s cell phone rang as he sat down behind the wheel of his pickup. He looked at the phone. That it was ringing at all was disorienting. He reluctantly answered.

“This is Detective Barry.”

“Detective.”

“Can you meet me over at St. Joseph’s Hospital?”

“You bet. What’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you when you get here. Come to the emergency room.” She told him the address and hung up.

At the hospital, Ogden parked and walked into the emergency room as instructed. He recognized that it was a relatively slow night for the staff, but it seemed plenty busy to Ogden. He saw a uniformed cop by the door to the treatment area.

“Excuse me, I’m supposed to meet a Detective Barry here,” Ogden said.

“She’s back there.” The policeman stepped aside to let Ogden in. “You’ll see her.”

Ogden walked down the aisle between the rows of curtained examination stations, some occupied, some not, and just like the cop had said he saw Barry.

“Detective.”

“Deputy Walker.”

“What’s going on?” Ogden asked.

Barry pulled back the curtain and Ogden saw a badly beaten woman. It was the woman he’d talked to earlier that day, the one who had sent him to the Plank to look for Hicks.

“How is she?”

“She’s not going to die.”

“Who did it?”

“Don’t know. She managed to say that some cowboy came to see her.”

Ogden stepped into the examination room and looked over the shoulder of the attending nurse. The right side of her face was raw, bleeding, a mess. Her right eye was swollen shut and her left remained closed while he was watching.

“Is she conscious?” he asked the nurse.

“Barely.”

He walked back to Barry. “Whoever beat her only used his left hand,” Ogden said.

“Or only had a left hand.”

“She told me his name is Hicks. I have to think this is my fault.”

“You don’t have to think that,” Barry said. “You might choose to think it, but you don’t have to. It might even be your fault, but you don’t have to think it.”

Ogden nodded. “I suppose none of the neighbors saw anything.”

Barry didn’t even bother responding to that comment. “A neighbor did call it in. Good thing she did. She would have died.”

“Jesus.”

“So, tell me, you have any luck tracking down this guy?”

“None. Of course it’s only been a day. Give me a few hundred more and I’m sure I’ll just bump into him on the street.”

“What time did you talk to her?” Barry asked.

“A little after ten thirty.”

“Maybe you should lay off,” she said.

Ogden listened to her words, her tone. “Do you really think that?” he asked.

“I’m required to say it. Doesn’t mean I think it.”

Ogden nodded. He glanced back in at the woman on the table. “I don’t even know her name.”

“Ivy Stiles.”

“What would you do, Detective?”

“I don’t know.”

“There’s a woman out there someplace who is dead or maybe she’s going to be dead. Her name is Carla Reynolds. Carol Barelli tricked me into looking for her and now you might say I’m hooked.”

Barry didn’t say anything.

“I don’t think I can let this go. I’m no detective, but I don’t think I can let it go.”

“Don’t get hurt,” she said.

“That’s my plan, anyway.” Ogden took a breath. “I can tell you what Ivy in there told me. She told me that Carol was involved in a scam. She told me that the one-handed man is named Hicks. She told me that he goes to a place called the Plank. I went there and learned that there is a place called the Plank and that’s about it.”

In the hospital parking lot, Ogden called Bucky Paz and told him everything he knew and didn’t know.

“You can come on home whenever you want,” Paz said. It was both a suggestion that Ogden return and permission to stay.

“Ask Warren to find out anything he can about the cabin, the people who own it, the doctor and his wife.”

“On it.”

“Thanks.”

Ogden closed the phone. Then things went black.

~ ~ ~

Ogden came to with his head against what he knew immediately was the ridged metal bed of a pickup truck or back of a van. The vehicle was moving. He tried to sit up, but his hands were bound behind his back and his ankles were duct-taped together. The back of his head pounded. He lay still and tried to assess his situation. He could smell the rubber of the spare tire, grease, gun oil, and cigarette smoke. He could hear the clicking of a stone that had gotten lodged in a tire’s tread. The engine was misfiring in one or two cylinders. They were in town, stopping at lights. The driver was slow on the clutch and so the ride was jerky. Finally he heard someone speak.

“I don’t know what the fuck we’ve got him for. What’s he know?” a man said.

“Maybe he found out something,” a second man said.

Ogden struggled to sit up and did. He looked forward at the two men, one driving, the other sitting in the passenger seat. There was no one else. There were no windows in the back of the van. He could see the bright glow of street lamps and fast-food restaurant signs through the glass up front, the arches of a McDonald’s, a Midas Muffler shop.

“He’s a cop,” the driver said.

“He’s a dumbass deputy from New-fucking-Mexico.”

Ogden wasn’t offended. Given his situation, he was in complete agreement with the passenger’s description of the deputy all tied up in the back.

“I want that money,” the passenger said. “If I don’t get that money, then I’m a dead man.”

Ogden looked around the bay. He could not see much in the dark. But he could see that he had access to the door. If he’d had hands, getting out would have been an easy-enough matter. The floor was cluttered with cans and empty cups and some tools. None of the tools was useful and everything else promised to make too much noise if moved.

The van was stopped at a red light. Ogden could hear traffic outside. This was his chance, he thought, even though he wanted to listen in case they said something interesting. But then he remembered that people never said anything interesting, especially when they already knew their story.

He threw his body at the back doors. He made a lot of noise and failed to grab the handle with his hands behind him. The passenger turned to see Ogden and then moved toward him. Ogden saw the tube-sock-covered nub. He gripped a hammer in his left hand. Ogden pushed himself up and back with his bound feet and slammed into the door. He felt a sharp pain in the small of his back as the door handle jabbed him, but it went down. The doors opened and Ogden fell out as the van lurched forward. He hit the pavement hard and looked up to see headlights shining in his face. He closed his eyes, then looked forward, hoping to catch the license plate of the van. The bright lights had blinded him and now all he could see were green afterimages. He lay back and waited for people to run to him and make a fuss and save his life. He closed his eyes. He could feel blood in his mouth. He was pretty certain his left shoulder was dislocated, if not broken. His tailbone was at least bruised. He’d been banged up worse, but not for a long while. He listened to the voices around him while they waited for help, none of them thinking to untie him.

The doctor was just pulling away from Ogden when Detective Barry stepped into the room. Ogden was sitting on the examination table in his underwear. His left arm was in a sling.

“Lucky man,” the doctor said.

“We already had this conversation,” Ogden said.

“I was talking to her.” The doctor walked out.

“So was I,” Ogden called after him. He looked at Barry. “We’re going to have to stop meeting here or people will talk.”

“Let ’em talk,” she said. “You okay?”

“Better than I might be.”

“What happened?”

“Just like I told the officer. Don’t you hate hearing that line? I got whacked on the head, tossed into the back of a van, then fell out onto a busy street.”

“I hate it when that happens.”

“ ‘No concussion,’ they say. I don’t believe them.”

“How would you tell?”

“Funny.”

“At least you get to wear that enormous bandage on your head,” Barry said.

Ogden reached up and touched the wrapping. “I did get hit pretty hard, I guess. Hit it again when I fell out the van.”

“What now?” she asked.

“Well, I know it’s about money.” Ogden laughed. “Told you I’m a sleuth.”

“How’s the arm?”

“Dislocated. Looks worse than it is. My ass hurts like a son of a bitch. It hurts worse than it looks.”

“So you say.”

“Are you flirting with me, Detective Barry?”

“My husband and two sons wouldn’t approve if I were.”

“Well, I can’t tell you anything helpful. But would you mind if I talked to Ivy again?”

“I’ll ask her.”

Ogden was in his room at the Motel 6. He’d filled a plastic bag with ice, stuck it in a pillowcase, and was holding it to his head while he talked on the phone.

“Time to head home,” Bucky Paz said. “Sounds like you were lucky to get out of this in one piece.”

“Not yet,” Ogden said. “And don’t say anything to my mother.”

Bucky sighed. “You need anything?”

“Nothing I can think of.”

“Warren’s on his way.”

“What?”

“He got on a bus an hour ago. He’ll be there in the morning.”

“Jesus.”

“His idea. If nothing else, he can help you drive back.”

“I wish I could tell you I know more than I did the last time we talked. Anything on the doctor in Dallas?”

Paz rustled some papers on his desk, paused, and ate something crunchy. “Sorry, carrot stick,” he said. “Here it is. Doctor Terrence Douglass, seventy-one years old, BA Rice, MD from University of Texas, 1968. Wife’s name is Leslie, sixty-five, maiden name Ortega. No children. Well, no children together; wife has a daughter, Christina.”

“Where’s the daughter?”

“Don’t know.”

Ogden met Warren Fragua at the Greyhound station the next morning at six. He looked like he’d been on a bus.

“That was hell,” Warren said.

“Thanks for coming,” Ogden said.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’ve felt better.”

“You look like shit.”

“That helps, thanks.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

“How bad is that arm?”

“I don’t really need this sling, but it gets me sympathy from the waitress at the Waffle House.”

“Works for me.”

“You’re not going to ask about my head?” Ogden put his hand to the bandage.

“No, I don’t think so.”

Ogden laughed.

“Where to?” Warren asked.

“Hospital.”

Detective Barry met Ogden at the hospital, at the desk of the ward where Ivy Stiles had been put. Ogden introduced her to Warren.

“You going in with me?” Ogden asked Barry.

“Yeah, I think that’s best.”

Ogden nodded. “How is she? Have you been in there yet?”

“I have. She looks pretty bad and I’m sure she hurts all over, but she’s not going to die. She knows that. She knows there’s a guard stationed at her door.”

“That make her feel good or bad?” Ogden asked.

“Both, I think. I haven’t asked anything. I was waiting for you.” She waited for Ogden to look at her. “Professional courtesy.”

“Thank you.”

Ogden followed Barry into the room. Ivy did look bad. The right side of her face was completely bandaged. The left side sagged, with exhaustion perhaps, maybe fear, maybe injury; it was difficult to tell.

“Hello, Ivy,” Ogden said. “I suppose you remember me.”

Ivy stared at him with her working, uncovered eye. She tried unsuccessfully to rearrange herself on the two pillows behind her.

“I’m sorry this happened,” Ogden said.

She looked at the bandage on Ogden’s head and at his sling. “Me too, I guess.”

“Do you feel like answering two or three or twenty questions?” Ogden asked.

Ivy looked at Detective Barry, maybe because she wanted her there, maybe because she didn’t, but Barry remained.

“She’s my friend,” Ogden said. “Where’s Petra?”

“Dead.”

Ogden looked at Barry.

“I’ll start writing this down,” the detective said.

“You mean dead dead, as in no longer alive dead?” Ogden asked.

“Yes.”

“Start at the beginning.”

“That’s not a question,” Ivy said.

“Would you mind starting at the beginning?”

“Carol, Petra, Carla, and Tina decided they were going to rip off One Hand. Petra found out that they collected all the money from the drugs and the pimping once a week. Like three hundred thousand or something crazy like that. They had this whole plan and it went bad, I guess. They killed Petra right there.”

“Where is ‘right there’?” Barry asked.

“I don’t know. Some house.”

Ogden showed Ivy the picture from the Illinois driver’s license he’d found.

“Carla,” Ivy said.

He showed her a photo of the dead woman from the cabin.

“That’s Tina.”

“You have a last name for Tina?”

“No, I don’t know. It was something Spanish.”

“So, they killed Petra at the house. What next?”

“One Hand caught Carol that night and they went chasing after the money. That really is all I know. Then you showed up and then that asshole One Hand came to tell me not to talk to you.”

“One Hand’s name is Hicks? Is that right?” Ogden asked.

“I think so. I don’t know his first name.”

“Do you know the names of any of his boys?” Ogden asked.

Ivy shook her head.

“Is One Hand your pimp?” Ogden asked.

“Not exactly. He comes around and shakes a lot of us down now and then.”

“Why weren’t you in on the robbery?”

Ivy laughed softly. “You saw me. I’m a goddamn drug addict. The girls didn’t want me fucking things up. I guess I might as well have been there.”

“Don’t wish something like that,” Ogden said. “You’d probably be dead now.”

“I’m talking to you. You know what that means, don’t you? I’m probably dead anyway.”

“Where are you from?” Detective Barry asked.

“Portland.”

“When you’re out of here, you’ll be on a plane to Portland.”

“I don’t want to go to Portland,” Ivy said.

“Where then?”

“St. Louis. I know somebody in St. Louis.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks, Ivy,” Ogden said.

Ivy looked out the window.

Out in the corridor, Barry took a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, but didn’t take one out. “Some story.”

“A bloodbath.”

“I guess I’m supposed to find Petra’s body and arrest Hicks and clean up the rest of this town before sundown,” Barry said.

“Pretty much. Maybe after you feed the kids.”

“What about you?”

“Same as before,” Ogden said. “I’m trying to find Carla Reynolds before Hicks does. Maybe not everybody has to die.”

“This messiah thing of yours — you in training or just your natural disposition?”

“Disposition, I guess.”

“Good luck, Deputy.”

Ogden found Warren in the commissary. He was eating a chile relleno that he’d heated in a microwave.

“You know, this isn’t bad,” Warren said.

“It looks awful.”

Warren laughed. “So do I, but my wife loves me.”

Ogden stared at the food. “I’ll be right back.”

Ogden ran back to the elevator and rode it back to Ivy’s floor. He walked back into her room.

Ivy’s head was still turned toward the window. He eyes were closed and she was perhaps about to fall asleep.

“Ivy?”

“Yes?”

“I have just one more question for you. Could Tina’s last name have been Ortega?”

“That sounds right,” Ivy said.

“Thank you. Sorry to wake you. Get some rest.”

Ogden rejoined Warren by the truck.

“I don’t like the look on your face,” Warren said. “I have a feeling we’re not driving home.”

“Nope.”

“Where?”

“Dallas.”

“Texas?”

“Yes, Texas,” Ogden said.

“That’s a long way,” Warren said. He shook his head and looked at his watch. “What is it? A thousand miles?”

“It’s 880.”

“Well, then let’s get going, seeing as it’s just an afternoon drive. You pack your bathing suit?”

“It’s nine hours. If we leave now we’ll be there around noon tomorrow. Sorry about this.”

“Can you even drive with that arm?”

Ogden took off the sling. “Yes.”

It was mid-afternoon when they rolled into Salina, Kansas.

Ogden was just waking. He lifted his hat from his eyes and adjusted to the bright sun. “Wow,” he said. “Where are we?”

“Salina,” Warren said. “You were out.”

“How long?”

“Three hours.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Aren’t we looking to go south from here at some point?” Warren asked.

“Yeah, Interstate 135.” The sign for the highway appeared just as Ogden said it. “There.”

“So you really think the last girl is alive?” Warren said, taking the exit.

Ogden shrugged. “I hope so.”

“You know my wife thinks you’re smart and my daughter thinks you’re cute. They both believe you can do no wrong.”

“What about you? What do you think?”

“You might be smart. I don’t find you cute, so don’t get any ideas. I think you’re a stubborn son of a bitch with a messiah complex.”

“Second time I’ve heard that today. You’re probably right and I need to work on it.”

“Did I mention that you can’t fight worth a damn?”

“Don’t like violence.”

“Yeah, for somebody who doesn’t like to fight you sure rush into the fray awful quick.”

“Character flaw. I’m working on that, too.” Ogden looked at the passing landscape, relentlessly flat and generally uninteresting, except for the dense dark clouds looming ahead of them in the south. “That’s all we need.”

“I really don’t need to drive through a damn tornado today,” Warren said.

“Any of those chips left?” Ogden asked.

“Those were gone long ago.”

“Let’s stop and eat, see what those clouds do.”

They stopped and ordered sandwiches in a diner and watched the weather through the big window. The clouds did little but expand; they spat out some rain and flashed some lightning, but that was it. Ogden was glad to pause awhile. Now they would hit Dallas late enough to know certainly to wait until morning before contacting Tina Ortega’s mother. It was sinking in that he would have to tell the woman that her daughter was dead.

They rolled into Dallas around one in the morning. They slept in the truck in the outer reach of a parking lot at an enormous shopping mall. The morning came with a tapping on the driver’s-side window by Ogden’s head. A uniformed Dallas policeman motioned for him to roll down the glass. Ogden did.

“Sleeping it off?”

Ogden rubbed the sleep from his eyes and glanced over at Warren doing the same. “Mind if I grab my ID?”

“Go ahead,” the cop said.

Ogden handed the man his deputy’s badge and identification. Warren handed over his as well. The man studied them, then looked at their faces.

“We’re here on some business and got in really early this morning,” Ogden said.

The cop gave back their badges. “You’ll have to move on now, though”

“You got it.” Ogden started the engine. “Can you give me some directions?”

Ogden followed the officer’s directions to the Douglass house. He parked and looked over at Warren.

“You’re on your own, cowboy,” Warren said.

“I have a feeling that two of us might be a bit much anyway. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“I’ll be right here.”

Ogden got out and walked past snapdragons and day lilies to the front door. The cement walk was still damp at the edges. The storms of the previous day had left the sky clear, but thick with humidity. He rang the bell.

A woman, maybe seventy, answered the door. “Yes?”

He fell back a half step. “I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am, but is this the Douglass residence?”

“It is.” She was suspicious.

“Are you Mrs. Douglass?”

“I am.”

“Ma’am, my name is Ogden Walker. I’m a deputy sheriff from Plata County, New Mexico.” He fumbled with and then showed her his identification and badge.

“Yes?”

“This is awkward. Would you mind if I came inside?”

“I think I might.”

Ogden nodded. “I understand.” Ogden looked back in the direction of his truck. He was wishing that Warren had come with him.

“What do you want?”

“Do you have a daughter?”

“Christina, yes.”

“Does she also go by Tina?”

The woman nodded. Fear shone on her face.

“Last name Ortega?”

Ogden pulled out the photograph of the woman from the cabin. “Is this your daughter?”

The woman began to cry. She backed away into the house, leaving the door wide open. Against his better judgment, Ogden stepped in after her. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

“I knew it. I just knew it,” she said.

“I’m very sorry.”

“What happened?”

“She was murdered,” Ogden said.

The woman wailed for a few seconds and then stopped, sniffing, straightening herself, pulling her robe tight around her. Ogden didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing for a while. He looked around the house and saw that it looked very much like his mother’s. “I know this is difficult,” he said, finally. He felt stupid saying it. “I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”

“I knew something was wrong when they called about the cabin,” she said.

Ogden nodded.

“Can you tell me anything about the last few weeks and Christina? Did she call?”

“Her friend was here.”

“What friend would that be?”

“Carla something. She was very rough-looking, if you know what I mean. I haven’t seen my daughter in years.”

Ogden couldn’t bring himself to tell the woman that her daughter had been a prostitute. “Why did Carla come here?”

“I’m not sure. She said she was a friend of Tina’s and asked if she could stay here a night or two.”

“That’s it?”

“She seemed so scared that I let her.”

“I see. Did you talk to her at all?”

“I tried. She wouldn’t say much. She wouldn’t talk about Tina. Her clothes were dirty, you know, like a street person.”

“Where did she go from here?”

“I don’t know.”

Ogden looked out the window at the street while the woman sat on the sofa. When her crying paused, Ogden asked, “You say you let her stay here for a couple of nights?”

“One night.”

Ogden didn’t believe her. It was the way she cried while she spoke, the way she had received the news of her daughter’s death. She already knew.

“Carla Reynolds is a prostitute from Denver,” Ogden said, surprising himself with his directness. “She’s a prostitute and I think she has some stolen money.”

“Oh my god.”

“You live here alone, Mrs. Douglass?”

“My husband is in a nursing home.”

“I see. When was the last time either of you visited the cabin in New Mexico?”

“God, it’s been years since he was up there.”

“Have you ever been there?”

“Once, when we first married.”

Ogden looked at a couple of photos on the mantel. One was of a man with a string of trout. “Your husband liked to fish?”

“Oh yes.”

“I can see.” Ogden pointed to the photo.

“Is Carla on her way to the cabin?”

“Yes.” The woman tried to catch her answer, but it was too late, it was out.

Ogden caught her eyes. “Mrs. Douglass, I don’t want to hurt Carla. And I don’t want her hurt. I’m trying to help. Has anyone else been here looking for her?”

“No.”

“Please tell me the truth,” Ogden said.

“No one else.”

“You already knew about Tina.”

She nodded.

“Ma’am, I’m going to try to find Carla before she gets hurt. Is there anything you can tell me that might help?”

“She went back for the money. She said she’d share it with me if I let her come back here and stay for a while. My husband didn’t make good decisions. About money, I mean.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Ogden looked at his watch. It was nine thirty. “How did Carla get here?”

“She hitchhiked. That’s what she told me. She looked like it, too. I let her take one of my cars to go back.”

“When was that?”

“Yesterday.”

“What kind of car is it?”

“It’s a old Cadillac, a red ’72 Seville.”

“Do you know the tag number? The license plate?”

She shook her head.

It didn’t matter, Ogden thought. How many red Cadillac Sevilles were out there? At least one.

“I knew something was wrong.”

“Just what did she tell you happened to your daughter?” Ogden asked.

“Nothing. She just said she was in trouble, but I knew from the way she acted that Christina was dead. I told her that and she finally told me I was right.”

“Why didn’t you call the police?”

“I was afraid to.”

Ogden looked around the house one more time. There was a lot of stuff, but it was all old. The curtains were dingy. There was dust on the surfaces. Ogden had seen it before. There had been money. Now there was none.

“What kind of doctor was your husband?”

“He was a podiatrist.”

Ogden nodded. “I’m sorry about your daughter.”

“Will you be able to help Carla?”

“I’m going to try.”

Ogden didn’t like the feeling of being lied to or of not trusting people. He didn’t feel threatened by Mrs. Douglass, but he did not like her affect. He couldn’t tell whether she had Carla’s best interest at heart and, if she didn’t, was she telling the truth about no one coming around looking for her? What was clear was that the money that three women had so far died for was still in the woods of New Mexico and Ogden believed that Carla was on her way to retrieve it. Mrs. Douglass apparently wanted a share of it; this was a sad thing. Ogden was quiet when he rejoined Warren in the truck.

“Where to now? Seattle?”

“What do you say we go home?”

“What happened in there?”

“She told me Carla left for Questa yesterday.”

“But you don’t believe her.”

“I believe her,” Ogden said.

The drive back to New Mexico was nicely boring but especially long because home was at the other end of it. Ogden dropped Warren at his house and then went to his own to shower and sleep for a couple of hours. He awoke at five and watched first light find the tops of the mountains to the east. He ate some dry cereal, drank a cup of coffee, and waited until six to call Bucky Paz’s house.

“Sorry to call so early,” Ogden said.

“I had to get up anyway to answer the phone,” Bucky said. “Are you okay? How’s that shoulder?”

“I’m fine.”

“I just wanted to let you know that I’m driving back up to Questa this morning. Leaving in a few minutes.”

“Taking Warren?”

“I’ve wasted enough of everybody’s time. I’m just going to look around. I really doubt I’m going find anyone or anything.” Ogden hated lying.

“All right, but be careful. Check in.”

“You got it.”

Ogden hung up the phone and went to his lockbox. He opened it and pulled put his 9mm and holster. He told himself he didn’t like guns. He felt the weight of the pistol in his hand, checked the clip, and pulled back the slide. He carried the pistol out to his rig and put it on the seat next to him. He then drove north.

The restaurant at the bottom of the road that led up to the Douglass cabin was still closed. There had been no rain for a couple of days and so the dirt road showed no obvious sign. He studied it for a while, trying to discern a track that might have been different from the usual pickup or dually, but he was not only wasting his time, but stalling.

Ogden stopped about a quarter mile from the bend in the road next to the cabin. He got out, took his pistol from its holster, and walked the rest of the way. Patches of fog hung in the firs.

There was a flash of white through the trees. He crouched low and approached. There was a white van parked in front of the cabin. Beside the van was a red mid-seventies Cadillac. He thought about running back to his truck, but recalled the truck had no radio in it. He felt the pressure of time. He pulled out his cell phone and, as he suspected, there was no signal.

There was no one near the vehicles. He crept up behind the van and looked inside. It could have been the one he’d been inside in Denver, but he didn’t know. He could see that the Cadillac was empty as well. He walked up to the house, his years of MP training in the service coming back to him. He glanced in through a side window and saw no one. He circled the house and satisfied himself that it was empty. Then he did what he had been trained to do. He did nothing. He squatted and listened. He moved through the woods and stopped again. Again. Then he smelled cigarette smoke. Voices came next, floating on the thin air. The sounds came from the stream that flowed through the woods down the mountain to finally join with the Red River. He sneaked through the trees, dragging his boots through the damp ground cover to be quiet. He heard a woman’s voice, then a man’s. The man’s voice was angry or at least harsh. He could not make out what was being said. He moved closer and saw them. Three people. Two men and a woman standing by an old shed, a derelict structure set high on the bank beside the stream. The sun was cracking the clouds and beginning to penetrate the forest. Ogden could see that one of the men indeed had only one hand and in it he held a revolver instead of a hammer. The other man grunted and worked, digging and scrapping under the shed. From under the shed’s floorboards he pulled a box. The second man was not as big as the man with one hand, but he looked plenty rough. His hands were filled with the box, so at least he was not holding a gun.

“Is that it?” One Hand asked.

The second man removed the lid and looked. “Money.”

“Is it all here?” he asked the woman.

The woman looked strange in the woods, out of place in her bright yellow, spaghetti-strapped sundress.

Ogden studied them. He had a thought to go back to the cabin and wait, but then thought better. If they planned to kill Carla Reynolds, they would do it there, deep in the woods. He moved closer, found a nice fat tree, and put himself behind it. He raised his weapon and pointed it at the man with one hand.

“Would you please drop the pistol!” he shouted, feeling a pang of embarrassment at his politeness.

“What the fuck?” One Hand said.

“Now!” Ogden shouted.

The man raised his weapon, finally seeing Ogden’s arm.

“Now!”

Ogden fired. He’d never liked the 9mm. It just didn’t have the stopping power of a.45, but he caught the man in the upper right chest and he went down fast. He moved from behind the tree. The second man had dropped the box and held his hands ridiculously high above his head.

“Don’t shoot,” the second man said.

“Facedown!” Ogden shouted. The man quickly complied. “You, too,” he said to the woman. “Get down.” He pointed the pistol at her. “Facedown.”

Ogden stepped slowly closer. The man with one hand was lying faceup in a shallow part of the stream. Ogden could see he was alive. He picked up the.38 and stood there for a few seconds, collecting himself, trying to bring his pulse down.

Ogden patted down the man on the ground and satisfied himself that he was not armed. “Okay, stupid,” he said to the man. “You get up and carry your buddy.”

“Carry him?”

“Over your shoulder.” He told the woman to get up. “You, grab the box.”

Ogden followed ten paces behind them as they all marched through the woods back to the cabin. About thirty yards from the cabin Ogden saw movement and then the big shape of Bucky Paz. Ogden called to him and then he saw Warren as well.

“You okay?” Bucky called out.

Ogden realized that firing his pistol had aggravated his injured shoulder and suddenly, the adrenaline worn off, it ached terribly. “I’m fine. Never better.”

Ogden was sitting in the kitchen in his mother’s house. His arm was again in a sling. She had placed a sizeable breakfast on the table in front of him and was demanding that he eat. He ate a few bites and put down his fork.

“Twelve thousand dollars,” he said.

Eva Walker said nothing.

“Three lives for twelve thousand dollars. I mean, I just can’t wrap my mind around it. I guess it wasn’t about the money.”

“What was it about then?”

“That, I don’t know. Power, maybe. You know what, Mom?”

“What’s that?”

“People scare me.”

“They should, son.”

THE SHIFT

Ogden was pressing his way through brush along the Red River. The Red was a river in name only, being little more than ten feet at its widest, where he stood. In the spring the river could seem pretty formidable near its confluence with the Rio Grande, but it was late summer now, August, and the water was low. No one was fishing where Ogden now prowled and this occurred to him as his reason for being there. Up here in this low water there might be a good-sized trout in a pool or holed up behind a boulder, but mostly there were little trout, cagey and easily spooked. He crawled through dry weeds and cast from behind cover. He was using tiny size 22 midges and cinnamon ants bounced off the grassy bank and having pretty good luck, catching one and putting it back before sneaking up on another spot. He hiked back out after a few hours and drove south to the trout hatchery. There he sat on a grassy hill and ate his Stilton cheese sandwich. He stood there and stared down at the parking lot of fish. He finally settled on a gentle slope to have a bite. He watched a man and a boy standing on the pedestrian bridge over the fish ladder about thirty yards away.

“Hey, Deputy,” a man said, sitting down on the ground beside Ogden. It was Terrence Lowell, a game and fish patrolman.

“Terry.”

“How’s business?”

“Slow, thank god.”

“You don’t believe in god,” Terry said.

“How do you know?”

“Your shoes. They’re on the correct feet.”

Ogden laughed. “Well, we’re the only two nonbelievers in this county, you know.”

“I’d bet there’s another one.”

“You mean the Protestant guy over in Arroyo Hondo.”

Terry stared at the man and the boy. “How long have those two been standing there?”

“They were there when I got here. That makes it at least half an hour. The man has been back to his pickup a couple, maybe three, times.”

Terry nodded. Ogden ate the rest of his lunch. Another ten minutes passed.

“You went to the warden academy in Texas, didn’t you?” Ogden asked.

“Yep. Austin.”

“Then why are you here? I don’t mean that in a rude way.”

“Because that was Texas and this is New Mexico. What about you? Where’d you get your so-called training?”

“United States Army military police, I’m ashamed to say.”

“Why’s that?”

“People can say all they want about supporting the troops to make themselves feel better about having other people fight and do their dying for them, but the army is not full of our best and brightest. That just ain’t so.”

“You don’t sound so very patriotic.”

“Hitler was patriotic.”

Terry watched the man and boy again.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Terry said. He got up and walked off toward the fish ladder.

Ogden watched the big game-cop slowly cover the forty yards. Then he had a thought that he should follow, so he did. When the man on the bridge saw Terry approaching he put his hand on the boy’s back and guided him toward the other side of the bridge and the parking area. Terry broke into a trot. He caught up to the pair before either could climb into the cab of the red dually pickup. By the time Ogden walked to them, Terry had the man in handcuffs.

“What’s up?” Ogden asked.

“Got us a poacher.” Terry reached into the bed of the truck and flipped off the lid of a large Styrofoam ice chest. In it were at least ten good-sized trout.

Ogden studied the fish. “How?”

Terry pointed the man’s left leg. “Looky here.” He pulled a line at the top of the man’s waistband; the hook at the other end of it caught the bottom of the pant leg and yanked it up a couple of inches. “He was pulling fish up through his pants and walking them back here.”

“How’d you know?” Ogden asked.

“You catch bandits and speeders. I catch poachers. What I was trained by the state of Texas to do.”

“Still.”

“He left the kid alone too many times. Plus he limped only when he walked away.” Terry laughed. “Trouser trout.”

“You taking him in?”

“He’s got fish from a hatchery. That’s a serious offense.” Terry took the man’s wallet out of his back pocket. “Conrad Hempel. Well, Mr. Hempel, looks like this just isn’t your day.”

“You’re forgetting one minor detail,” Ogden said.

“What’s that?”

“The minor.”

Terry looked at the boy. He was standing next to the wide wheel well. “How old are you, son?” Terry asked.

“Eleven.”

“This here your father?”

“My uncle.”

“Where’s your father?”

“He’s at home.”

Terry looked at Ogden. “The deputy here will drive you home. You know where you live?”

“Of course I know where I live.”

“And where’s that?” Ogden asked.

“Eagle Nest.”

Ogden closed his eyes and slowly shook his head. It would take him at least two hours to get the kid home and then get back to Plata. By then it would be four and his day off would be over, more or less. “What’s your name?”

“Willy.”

“Willy Hempel?”

“No. My name is Willy Yates.”

“And you live in Eagle Nest.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Is there anyone at your house?” Ogden asked. “Are either your mother or father at home?”

“I got no mother.”

“What about your father?”

“I don’t know,” the boy said.

Ogden considered the prospect of driving all the way to Eagle Nest and finding either that the boy had no idea where he lived or his father was not there and nowhere to be found.

“You sure you want to run him in?” Ogden said. “Can’t you just cite him and get this over with?”

“What he said,” the man in cuffs said.

“I wish I could, but you know about the initiative to cut down poaching,” Terry said.

Ogden regarded the boy for a second. “Do you know your phone number?”

The boy shook his head.

Ogden looked at the uncle. “Do you know his father’s phone number? His address?”

“No and no.”

“Then where’d you pick up the boy?” Ogden asked.

“I know where the boy’s house is. That don’t mean I know the address.”

Ogden looked at the boy again. He seemed sort of small for eleven, but he had a big and somewhat annoying attitude. Ogden was pretty sure he disliked that. He was absolutely sure he didn’t like the fact that he was now responsible for Willy Yates.

Ogden took down Hempel’s information from his driver’s license. “Is this your current address?” The man said yes. “You live way down near Embudo?”

“That’s where my house is at.”

“And you picked up this boy in Eagle Nest when?”

“This morning.”

“Why?”

“Because his daddy had something to do.”

“What relationship is the boy’s father to you?”

“None.”

Ogden looked at Terry.

“Then how is it that you’re the boy’s uncle??”

“Because my sister is his mama.”

“Then the father is your brother-in-law,” Terry said. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

“He ain’t married to my sister.”

“Oh.”

“Where’s the boy’s mother?” Ogden asked.

“She moved to Lancaster, Pennsylvania, with some religious biker dude.”

“What’s the father’s name?” Ogden asked.

“Derrick Yates.”

“How did he call you to pick up the boy?”

“He didn’t call me. I just stopped by and he said for me to watch Billy.”

“Willy,” the boy corrected him.

“Whatever,” Hempel said.

“Terry, this is a mess,” Ogden said. Ogden looked at the pair. Was this man the boy’s uncle? Did the boy’s father live in Eagle Nest? Was there a father?

“What are you saying?” Terry asked.

“Okay.” Ogden caved. “I’ll take the boy,” he said. “I’ll find out where his father is.”

Ogden put the boy in his rig and drove south. He was headed back to the station in Plata even though he had asked Felton to try to track down a Derrick Yates in the Eagle Nest area. He stole glances at Willy, wondered what his story was, and tried not to care too much. “What does your father do?” Ogden asked.

Willy looked at him.

“What’s his job?”

“I don’t know. He does things. He’s got a truck. He’s got a ladder on his truck.”

“Does he have tools?”

“I guess.”

“Hammers and saws? Those kinds of tools?”

“I don’t know.”

“What kind of truck does he drive?” Ogden asked.

“Why do you wanna know all this?” the boy asked. “It’s a blue truck, okay?”

Felton radioed. “I got four Yates in the area. Two with the initial D. I called them both, no answer.”

“What roads do they live on?”

“One on Iron Queen, one on B4G.”

“Iron Queen or B4G?” Ogden asked the boy.

Willy just looked out the passenger-side window.

“Thanks. Out.” He looked at his speedometer and saw that he was driving too fast, pulled back. “You really don’t know the name of the street you live on?”

“Don’t live on a street. Live down a road.”

“Okay, kid.”

They walked into the station and Ogden told Willy to have a seat beside his desk. Felton told him there was nothing else to know about a Yates in Eagle Nest.

“Bucky in there?” Ogden asked.

Felton nodded.

Ogden walked into the sheriff’s office.

“So, what’s going on out there?” Bucky asked. The fat man was sitting at his desk, staring at his computer screen. “I hate these damn machines. God, I’m sick of hearing myself say that.”

“I got stuck with a kid. Terry from Fish and Game arrested this guy for poaching trout and he left me with his so-called nephew.”

“So take him home.”

“That’s the problem. Seems the lad doesn’t know his address, not even his street name. Oh, I’m sorry, he doesn’t live on a street, he lives down a road.”

“We should be able to figure something out,” Bucky said. “Bring him in here. I’ve got some cookies in my desk.”

Ogden stepped to the door and looked over at his desk. He scanned the entire room, but didn’t see the boy. “Willy?” he called out. “Felton, where’d that kid go?”

“What kid?”

“What do you mean, what kid?” Ogden said. “The boy I walked in here with. The Yates kid.”

“I didn’t see him. There’s not much I can add to that.”

Bucky stepped out. “What’s wrong?”

“The boy’s not here.” Ogden walked quickly to the door and out onto the street. He saw no kid. He saw no one on the street. Back inside, he said to Bucky, “I didn’t see him.”

“There was no boy,” Felton said.

Ogden glared at the man.

“He’ll find his way home,” Bucky said.

“He’s eleven.”

Bucky looked out the window across the room and sighed. “Well, get out there and find him. You, too, Felton.”

“Jesus,” Felton complained. “I don’t even know who I’m looking for. What’s this phantom boy look like, Ogden?”

“Like an eleven-year-old. Four feet five. Blond hair.”

“And invisible.”

“On and off,” Ogden said.

Ogden walked west and Felton east. Ogden imagined that the kid would have walked to the highway and tried to hitch a ride to Eagle Nest. If he’d been successful, of course, there would be no way for Ogden to know. He met Felton back at the station.

“No sign of a kid,” Felton said.

“Nothing,” Ogden said. “There was a boy.”

“Don’t get your skivvies in a knot. I believe you. It’s just that I didn’t see him, that’s all.”

“Now I have to find his father so I’ll know if he got home. Give me those addresses and I’ll drive over there later.”

Ogden thought it pointless to drive all the way to Eagle Nest before the boy had a chance to get home. He drove through the plaza several times and across the streets around it, eyeing every kid on foot or on a bike. He drove the length of the main drag through town twice. He finally stopped at his mother’s before heading east.

“The weather’s going to turn,” she said as he approached her. She was on her knees in her garden. “These roses will be the end of me. If it’s not black spot, it’s rust. If it’s not rust, it’s aphids.”

Ogden said nothing to this, just watched her popping off the dead heads.

“What’s wrong?” she asked without looking up at him.

“Trying to find a kid.”

“A child is lost?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Whose child?” she asked.

“His name is Willy Yates. I brought him to the station and he slipped out when I wasn’t looking. Right out the front door. It’s my fault he’s lost.”

“If he’s lost. You said that.”

“If he’s lost,” Ogden repeated. “I’m going to drive over to Eagle Nest and check out a few addresses. That’s the thing, we don’t have an address for him. All we have is a maybe-uncle.”

“Are you hungry? You can take a sandwich with you.”

“No thanks.”

Ogden got back into his rig and just sat there in his mother’s driveway. He had a thought that he should talk to Terry about the man he’d taken in earlier or talk to the man himself. Talk to Terry. The warden had taken the man to Santa Fe. For what good reason, Ogden didn’t really know. He’d drive to Eagle Nest, check out the addresses, then he’d contact Terry if it was necessary.

The community of Eagle Nest was very small. The lake was formed behind a dam built around 1920. It had been a site for illegal gambling and hookers around the turn of the century. The police killed all that and left the lake by itself, with a few slot machines and gaming tables at the bottom of it. A plateau at eight thousand feet, there were few trees and so, lake notwithstanding, the landscape looked as barren as the moon. The population was about three hundred and nearly all of them were white. It was on the eastern circumference of the so-called Enchanted Circle, but it seemed apart, certainly less than enchanted.

It took Ogden about an hour to get there and another twenty minutes to find the first address among the few streets and houses. An elderly, overweight man came to the first door and seemed amused, if not pleased, to have a visitor, even if he was a cop.

“What can I do you for?” he asked.

Ogden looked at the man’s overalls, brand spanking new, actually creased down the legs. “I’m looking for the family of a boy named Willy Yates.”

“We’re the Yateses, but ain’t no Willy here.”

“I might have the name wrong,” Ogden said. “An eleven-, maybe twelve-year-old boy. Do you have a grandson or a nephew?”

“So, you think I’m too goddamn old to have a son that age?”

“No, sir, I don’t,” Ogden said.

“Relax, son, I’m just funning you. Course I’m too old. I’m older than the dirt I sleep in.”

“Do you know of a boy around here named Yates?”

“There are two Yates households in this little community. Everybody knows everybody and I’m telling you as sure as pigs got curly tails there ain’t no Yates boy around here.”

Ogden thought better of asking the man if he was certain and so simply thanked him. He thought about not going to the second address, but realized he couldn’t get sloppy or lazy. He drove the thirty seconds across town and found an elderly, overweight woman named Yates. Though not dressed in overalls, the effect was the same. The expanse of yellow shift fell to just above her wrinkled knees.

Her story was the same as well. “No Yates boy here.”

“Do you have any relatives in the state?”

“Nope.”

“Do you know any other Yateses besides the man I just talked to?”

“Nope.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Are you married?” she asked. She raked her dirty blond hair from her face and settled her eyes on him.

“No, ma’am.”

“Would you like to be married?”

“Pardon me?”

“I have a daughter.”

“Thank you, ma’am, but I’m not looking for a wife.”

“Shame.”

Ogden sat in his rig with the door open. The wind was picking up and, just as his mother had predicted, he felt a change in the air. Dusk was coming on. There would be no snow, but his trailer would feel like an icebox in the morning. Right now, though, he had to face the fact that he’d lost the boy. A lot of bad information from the kid and the so-called uncle had left him with nothing to go on. He called in.

“Sheriff wants to talk to you,” Felton said.

“All right.”

“Ogden?”

“Just what time did you say you saw Terry Lowell up at the hatchery?”

“I left him there at about one, I guess.”

“And he was okay, in control of the situation?”

“He had the guy cuffed. Why?”

“He didn’t report in. Fishery guy found his truck in the lower lot. There was blood on the seats, front and back.”

“Everything seemed okay when I left.”

“Well, come on back.”

“On my way.”

When Ogden walked into the station he felt as if the room was spinning. He wasn’t quite dizzy, but he really could not find the floor with his feet. Felton was at his usual place at the desk and Bucky Paz was standing behind him in the middle of the room with another man. Ogden recognized him as from Game and Fish, but didn’t remember his name. There was also a uniformed state policeman there.

“Have you found Terry?” Ogden asked.

“No,” the state cop said to Ogden. “Have you heard anything from him?”

“No.” Ogden found the man’s question off-putting, especially given that he had just inquired about the man.

“You want to tell us what happened this morning?” the same man asked.

Now Ogden was certain he didn’t like the man’s tone, recognizing it as accusatory. He looked at the crew cut and he thought about the sergeants he’d never liked in the army and then felt the weight of his present uniform, felt suddenly uncomfortable and so unhappy. “Like I told Bucky, Terry decided to arrest a man for poaching. The man’s name was Conrad Hempel. He was with a boy he claimed was his nephew. The boy told me his name was Willy Yates. Neither Hempel nor the boy knew the boy’s father’s address. Terry told me I had to take the boy. So, I brought him down here.”

“And where is the boy now?” the Fish and Game man said.

“He slipped out,” Ogden said.”

“Did you talk to the boy?” the state cop asked Bucky.

“I was in my office,” Bucky said.

The state cop looked at Felton. “I didn’t see him.”

“Were you out of the office?”

“I was sitting right here.”

“But you saw Deputy Walker.”

“Yeah, I seen Walker.”

“But no boy.”

“Could have been a boy,” Felton said.

“But you didn’t see him.”

Felton looked at Ogden, almost apologetically. “No.”

“What’s going on?” Ogden asked.

“They found Terry,” Bucky said. “He’s dead. They found him a hundred yards downstream of the hatchery.”

Ogden felt a wave of nausea that faded quickly.

“He was shot,” the state cop said. “Two times in the chest. May I see your weapon, please?”

Ogden removed his pistol from his holster and handed it grip first to the man.

“A Sig P226. Nice weapon.”

Ogden nodded.

The cop pulled back the slide and sniffed the ejection port. He looked at Bucky and at the Fish and Game man. “When was the last time you discharged this pistol?”

“A couple of weeks ago on the range,” Ogden said.

“You cleaned it?”

“I always clean it after I use it.”

“It’s dirty right now.”

“What do you mean it’s dirty?” Ogden asked.

“It’s been fired, Deputy.”

“That’s not possible.”

“It’s been fired.”

Ogden found a chair and sat down.

“Tell us about this boy,” Bucky said.

“Willy Yates, eleven years old. Looked eleven. Light brown, maybe blond hair, blue eyes. He was wearing a striped T-shirt and jeans, sneakers.”

“What about this Hempel?”

“Average. Maybe six feet. He had a tattoo on his, um, right arm, I think. I don’t remember of what. Receding hairline. Light-colored hair as well.” Ogden stared at the floor. “Terry.”

“What about him?” the cop asked.

“Nothing,” Ogden said. “I can’t believe it.” He looked up to see the state cop putting his pistol into a plastic evidence bag. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“Does it look like I’m joking, Deputy Walker?”

“Why would I shoot Terry?”

“You tell me.”

Ogden looked at Bucky. The fat man looked scared, helpless. “Am I under arrest?”

The cop looked at the sheriff. “Will he run?”

Bucky shook his head.

The cop looked back at Ogden. “You better not run. You’re not under arrest, but I’ll have the ballistics back tomorrow morning and then things might be just a little different.”

The Fish and Game man and the state cop walked out without another word or glance at Ogden or Bucky. Ogden looked at Felton and then at the sheriff. “What the fuck just happened?”

Bucky shrugged.

“I’m going to go grab some coffee,” Felton said. He wouldn’t look at Ogden’s eyes.

“You didn’t see the boy?” Ogden asked him.

“I’m sorry, Ogden.” Felton left.

“Bucky, what am I supposed to do?”

“You need to find that boy or Hempel or both.”

“Okay. That’s what I’ll do.”

“And you’re not going to run,” Bucky said, but it was more of a question.

Ogden looked at him. He was a little disappointed, but he understood. “I’ll find them.”

Bucky turned and walked back into his office, closed his door. Ogden sat at his desk and turned on his computer. He was clumsy with the thing, but what he had to do was simple. Check the DMV and the phone book. There were three Hempels in New Mexico with a license to operate a motor vehicle. All women. Two of them over sixty, one was thirty-one, all three living down in Albuquerque. Ogden called all three and described Conrad and all three claimed to know nothing and he, unfortunately, believed them. There were two more in the phone book, one man in Raton and the other man down in Pilar. He called the man in Raton and it turned out he had died six months earlier. The last man was listed as Cyril Hempel. Ogden called and there was no answer. Pilar was even smaller than Eagle Nest, wedged in the Rio Grande Gorge, a place where you had to look up to look out. It was also close to Embudo and so it was his first choice of a place to look anyway.

Ogden’s sometime partner Warren Fragua walked into the station. “What’s shaking, cowboy?” he said.

Ogden leaned back in his chair and stared at his screen.

“Cold out there,” Warren said.

“Bucky call you?”

“Yep.”

Ogden nodded.

“Sounds bad.”

“Feels bad. Must be bad.” Ogden leaned forward in his chair and held his face in his hands.

“What can I do?”

“I don’t know, Warren. I just don’t know.” Warren stood and walked to the window, looked out at the darkness. “If I hadn’t told it so many times to myself and others, I’d give you an account of everything that’s happened.”

“I think I get it.” Warren pointed at the computer. “Doing any good? Where to now?”

“Pilar. I’m looking for a Conrad Hempel. I found a Cyril in the white pages.”

“It’s a C anyway.” Warren bit his lip. “So, let’s go.”

“Bucky tell you to keep an eye on me?”

Warren shrugged. “He wants to make sure you don’t get hurt. After all, one man is dead.”

“Tell you what, why cover the same ground twice? You search and I’ll search and we’ll see if we can’t find Conrad Hempel and an eleven-year-old who might be named Willy Yates.”

Warren didn’t want to agree, but he did. “I’ll call all the schools in the morning. You can’t go to Pilar tonight.”

“I’ll go to my mother’s house.”

“Good.”

Ogden didn’t walk into his mother’s house like he always did. Instead, he tapped lightly on the door and waited for her to answer. She was confused by his knocking. She looked beyond him to see if he was alone.

“What’s going on,” she said. She closed her robe against the cold night air. “Get in here. What do you mean by knocking like that? What is it? What’s wrong?”

“You know Terry Lowell?” Ogden asked. “Works for the Fish and Game Commission?” He followed his mother inside and they sat on the sofa, where they never sat.

“No.”

“Well, he’s dead.”

“Oh my. What happened?”

“Somebody shot him.”

“I’m sorry, Ogden. Was he a friend of yours?”

“I knew him, but that’s not the real problem. For me, anyway. Some people seem to think I killed him.” Ogden watched his mother swallow hard. She pulled her robe even tighter “Now I’m trying to find the man I last saw him with.”

“Oh, Ogden. What can I do?”

“Nothing, nothing at all, thanks.”

His mother hugged him and he hugged her back.

“Do you mind if I sleep here?” Ogden asked.

Eva Walker was puzzled by the question. “Of course you can sleep here. Ogden, are you all right?”

“No.”

“Are you hungry?”

“I can’t eat. But thanks. You go on to bed now, Mom. I’ll be out of here really early, so don’t worry when you wake up and don’t find me.”

She stood, looked down at his face, and sat again. “You’re scared.” It was her way of saying she was scared.

“Yes, Mom, I’m a little scared. I’ll get it sorted out. Don’t worry. Get some sleep.”

Just before daybreak Ogden dressed without showering. He started to strap on his empty holster, but stopped, tossed it onto the high shelf in the front closet. He made some coffee and drank it while he stood in his mother’s kitchen. He held his hand out in front of him to see if he was steady. Not quite. He told himself that he had never liked carrying his pistol, but someone had shot Terry Lowell. Someone out there was dangerous. Ogden went back to the same front closet and found the Colt.32 semiautomatic his father had bought for his mother so many years ago. The so-called hammerless pistol was old, but it had never been fired and so Ogden had no idea if it would discharge now. He loaded seven.380 cartridges into the magazine and slapped it in. It needed oiling, but he didn’t have time. Anyway, if he needed it he hoped it would be for show and not action.

He quietly left the house and drove south toward the pass and to Pilar. His overeagerness had him in the front yard of Cyril Hempel at an inappropriately early hour. He thought it best to wait for some sign of movement or at least seven o’clock before he started knocking. In the draw, the early hour was accentuated by the walls of mountain that blocked out the rising sun. He put his head back on the seat and drifted enough to dream.

Terry Lowell was walking toward Ogden. Ogden was standing on the stream just above the hatchery, far enough away that the hatchery office was out of view. The light of the moon was diffused behind a bank of drifting clouds.

“What are you doing?” Terry asked. The patch sewn to the sleeve of the man’s right shoulder was starting to come away at the top. Threads frayed. Everything was fraying.

“What am I doing?” Ogden said. “What do you mean, what am I doing?”

“Here, with that shovel.”

“You should leave, Terry. Go get in your truck and drive away,” Ogden said. He could feel that his eyes were red. They burned. He looked up and saw clouds moving clear of the ridge. “Really, you should get out of here.”

“What are you doing? What are you doing? What are you doing?” Terry asked again and again.

“Really, Terry,” Ogden said. The water in the stream seemed to slow. A crow landed in a nearby tree and cawed wildly. Ogden pulled his Sig from his holster.

Ogden jumped. He was awake. Light had crept over the top of the mountain and was making the sky pink. A bearded man was looking out through the curtain at Ogden’s rig. Ogden looked at his watch. Seven fifteen.

He got out and walked to the door. The house was little more than a shack. It was set up against a bluff, the huge rock looming over it and making the house look even smaller. There was a rock chimney and a weak pulse of smoke rose out of it. Ogden knocked even though the man had seen him approaching.

“Awful early in the morning,” the man said. He was old, maybe eighty, maybe older.

“Sorry about the hour,” Ogden said. “Are you Cyril Hempel?”

“Who wants to know?”

“I’m Deputy Walker from the sheriff’s department.”

“What you want?”

“Do you have a son or a grandson, a relative, by the name of Conrad?”

“No Conrad.”

“Do you have any male relatives?”

“I got a spinster sister down in Albuquerque.”

“Male.”

“I got a son named Leslie.”

“Does he ever use the name Conrad?”

“Why would he do that?”

“Is he about six feet, light-colored hair, tattooed? Slightly receding hairline?” Ogden tried to see past the man into the house.

“That sounds like my son, but I ain’t seen him in weeks. But that ain’t unusual.”

“Do you have a daughter? A grandson?”

“Hey,” the man said. “What’s this all about. No, I ain’t got no daughter.”

“And you don’t have a grandson named Willy or Billy or William or anything?”

“I’m not sure I’d tell you if I did, but I don’t, so I don’t have to worry about that. Like I said, I haven’t seen my so-called son Leslie in a couple of weeks.”

“You say that’s not unusual?”

“Not really. He’s a drughead. He’s on that meth and he looks like shit that’s been stepped on. If you find him, arrest him for me and then get him straight and I’ll give you a whole American dollar. What do you say about that?”

“Where does Leslie live?”

“Hell if I know. He’s a druggie, like I said. Where do druggies live? I don’t look for him. I stopped looking for him years and years ago. You should see what them drugs done to him. Find him and shoot him and I’ll give you two American dollars.”

“Do you know a boy named Willy Yates? Do you know anyone named Yates?” Ogden heard someone in the house. “Somebody here with you?”

“My girlfriend. Got a problem with that?”

“Mind if I ask her a couple of questions?”

Hempel turned and called into the house, “Penny, put on a robe and come here. Man’s got a question for you.”

A young, almost pretty woman in her mid-twenties came to the door. She clutched an orange robe close to her narrow frame. Ogden looked her bony face, her green eyes and dark hair, then down at her bare feet. The toenails on her left foot were painted black, the toenails on the right were unpainted.

“Do you know Mr. Hempel’s son?”

“I’ve met him.”

“Do you know where he might live?”

The woman looked at Hempel and back at Ogden. “Not really, but there’s a lab in the hills south of Hondo. I think that’s where he gets his stuff.”

“How do you know that?”

“I hear things.”

Ogden looked at Hempel, could see he was getting irritated. “Thank you, ma’am. And thank you, Mr. Hempel. Again, sorry to bother you so early.”

Hempel slammed the door.

Ogden drove back toward Plata. He was sick of the inside of his truck. Then he thought that it was preferable to the inside of a prison cell. He didn’t call in to the station. They would have called him if he was needed to come back. He drove through town and then aimlessly along the back roads east of Arroyo Hondo. He had a notion of where the meth lab the woman was talking about might be. It was an old Quonset hut that some so-called hippies had lived in during the sixties and early seventies. The meth lab was constantly moving and was operated by a rotating stream of Mexican mafia or so popular lore held. Whoever they were, they were scary, scary enough that they were given a wide berth by local and state cops, not to mention the DEA and their famous impotent war on drugs.

Ogden watched the exterior of the structure from about fifty yards, sitting on the hood of his rig. There was no movement except for a tassel-eared squirrel that ran back and forth between two juniper trees. Ogden slid down to the ground, walked around, and reached into his truck, shut off his radio. He took off his uniform shirt and put on a flannel one he kept in the back bay. He walked along the dirt road toward the building. The place and the area around it were still, quiet. The morning was cool and a breeze made it even cooler. He knocked on the old metal door. It had a rainbow-painted window in the middle of it. He knocked hard, with his closed fist, and the loose glass rattled.

A dark-skinned mustachioed man opened the door and glared at Ogden. He wore a red baseball cap with Carhartt written on it. This man wasn’t a meth user. He wasn’t high and he wasn’t sleepy. He was, as Warren would have said, fit and ready to hit. “What you want?” he asked with an accent.

“Hola, amigo. I’m looking for a white man named Leslie Hempel,” Ogden said.

“Don’t know him.”

“He’s got a tattoo on his arm and blond hair. Maybe he goes by the name Conrad.”

“Go away.” The man started to close the door.

Ogden put his left palm flat against the door. His right hand was wrapped around the pistol in his pocket. “No, I need you to think about this.”

“Are you crazy?” the man asked.

“Pretty much.”

After a pause and a look back into the hut, the man stepped from the door. There were two other men inside, as unfriendly and tough-looking as the first. Ogden stepped inside and saw that in fact this was a meth lab. Was a meth lab. They had disassembled their equipment. One man was a little shorter than the first. He wore a flannel shirt not unlike Ogden’s and khaki pants. His sneakers were strangely clean. The third was a flyweight. He wore a white wifebeater and jeans, had a cross branded onto his shoulder, and had a diagonal scar across his face. The mustachioed man stepped in front of the door as Ogden entered. Ogden could feel his pulse quicken as he watched the men’s hands. He was in a bad place and he didn’t wait, couldn’t hesitate. He pulled the pistol from his pocket and at the same time sidestepped the man who had let him in. He grabbed him by the hair and pushed the barrel of the little pistol into the man’s face, past his mustache, into his mouth.

“No estoy interesado en que los hombres.”

“What do you want?” the flyweight asked.

“I’m looking for a man. His name is Hempel.”

“We don’t know anybody’s name, stupid. We sell drugs.”

The man had a point and Ogden understood and even agreed that he was stupid. More so now that he had pulled out a weapon. “I don’t want any trouble with you,” Ogden said and felt ridiculous. “I need you to put your guns on the table.”

The two men pulled pistols from their waistbands and put them down.

“Knives, too.”

The flyweight tossed away a switchblade.

Ogden’s arm was getting tired. The mustache wasn’t fighting, but he was big and heavy. “Where does my friend keep his gun? ¿Dónde está su arma?”

“In his belt,” the flyweight said.

Ogden reached down, grabbed the mustache’s cheap 9mm and pushed him away. “Okay now, I just want to talk. Move over there.” He herded the men toward a corner away from the door, away from their guns. He walked to their weapons. There was a white five-gallon pail of what Ogden was sure was ammonia beside the table and he dumped the guns and knife into it. The men started to protest, but stopped. “Okay. I’m looking for a white male, about six feet, light brown or blond hair, and a tattoo on one of his arms. His last name is Hempel. His first name is Leslie. He might use the name Conrad.”

“We don’t give a fuck what somebody’s name is,” the mustache said. “You don’t know who you fucking with.”

“I’ll ask again. Have you seen anybody who looks like that?” Ogden asked.

“Unless they got boobies they all look like that,” the flyweight laughed.

“Tattoo,” the mustache said to the other two. “¿Que habla Meth-mouth?”

“This dude got no teeth?” the flyweight asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Meth-mouth,” the flyweight said, nodding. “We don’t know his name. He sleeps around here someplace. In the woods, maybe. We don’t know.”

No teeth. Ogden hadn’t noted that the man Terry was arresting had no teeth. He was barking up the wrong tree, he thought. But this was all he had. “I’m going to wait outside,” he said. “If this door opens, I’m going to shoot without looking who it is. ¿Entiendes?”

Ogden backed out through the door and immediately broke into a stumbling sprint toward his truck. He glanced back once he was behind the wheel and saw no one and no movement of the door. He started the engine and drove away, kicking up dust and gravel. Ogden drove back south, then west toward his little trailer. He tried hard to remember every detail of the previous day. He was trembling, even beginning to doubt himself, his memory, to doubt everything. Felton said he had seen no boy, was particularly adamant about that. Ogden found himself wondering if there had in fact been a boy.

Warren Fragua was sitting on the step of Ogden’s trailer, playing with a stick. He didn’t look up when Ogden rolled in, got out, and walked toward him.

“What’s the word, Warren?”

“State troopers are down in Plata,” Warren said, spitting onto the ground between his feet. “A bunch of them.”

“They send you to arrest me?”

“If I see you, that’s what I’m supposed to do.”

“Looking bad, eh?”

“Not looking good.” Warren wouldn’t look up. “What can I do to help? I need to do something.”

“Did you find Willy Yates?”

“If that’s his name, he’s not enrolled in any school in northern New Mexico. No Billy, William, Wally, Wilson. In fact, no boy named Yates. Two girls. One in Santa Fe and the other over in Chama. Both mothers have different last names because of marriage.”

“You’re telling me there is no kid.”

“I’m telling you there is no Willy Yates enrolled in a school. Any ideas how I might find him?” Warren dropped the stick.

“None. I’m going to go to the hatchery and see if the guys up there saw anything unusual.”

“Don’t tell me that.”

Ogden sat beside his friend. He looked at the man’s boots. Fragua always laced his shoes up extra tight. The black leather was covered with dust. The heels were worn on the outside, Warren being slightly pigeon-toed. An inch of white sock shone between his left boot top and his khaki pant leg. Ogden drew a circle on the ground with the stick that Warren had just dropped.

“You were friends with Terry, weren’t you?” Ogden said. “You two were close.”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry.”

“What’s going on, Ogden?”

“Hell, I don’t know. Last I saw, Terry had that guy in his truck and was driving away.”

“Had he called it in, that he was arresting somebody?”

“I thought so. Yeah, I’m pretty sure he did.”

Warren shook his head. “We’ve got to find who did this. For Terry. And for you, ’cause if we don’t, well, you’re shit out of luck, cowboy. They think your Sig fired the bullet that killed him.”

“That’s insane.”

“Maybe, but that’s the story. I guess it’s not conclusive, whatever that means. What do you want me to do?”

“Find that boy.”

“What about the guy? What about Conrad Hempel?”

“Find the boy, Warren. You can’t chase two rabbits.”

Ogden left his county rig and drove away in his pickup but did not go back to the hatchery. He remembered that the main office for some reason had been closed that day and he hadn’t seen anyone walking the fish ladder or the raceways. So there was no reason for him to go the hatchery. Also, he had told Warren that he was going there. Warren was too honest to hold in the truth for too long, especially when Bucky looked him in the eye. He was driving up into the mountains to the yurts. The felt-covered structures had been erected in the sixties, just one in a slew of failed utopias in northern New Mexico. Now, perhaps there were more utopias than anyone had ever dreamed, inhabited as they were by like-minded or no-minded drug users. That was at least the common perception. Ogden was fairly sure the man the Mexicans called Meth-mouth was not Conrad, but he was a Hempel and it was the only lead he had to follow. There were policemen out looking for him, he knew that, but though this was small-town America, the space was also huge. If he wanted, he could get lost forever in these mountains. The thought crossed his mind.

The yurts were relatively high, at about eight thousand feet, too low for the aspens to grow but thick in the firs. Another tassel-eared squirrel ran across the old mining road and reminded Ogden to focus on his driving. Ahead in the trees he saw glimpses of white and yellow, the yurts. He pulled his truck off the road and into some brush, covered it as best he could. He approached the village.

A light drizzle began to fall. It was near midday now, oddly colder than it had been earlier. His empty stomach rumbled. There was a mucky trail and he walked along beside it, his boot prints looking huge next to a pair of small barefoot prints. There was an empty plastic milk jug hanging from a branch, bending the branch over so that the jug almost touched an oily-looking puddle. A few yards away a metal garbage can had been ransacked, probably by a bear, Ogden thought; the lid was still held down by straps hooked onto the can’s handles, but the sides had been folded up and resembled a pair of wings. He could smell the musk of some animal, maybe a bear, more likely a raccoon, certainly not a skunk. The rain fell not so much harder, but in a way that made it seem it would never go away. He would have felt it fully but for the canopy of forest. A couple of magpies landed beside a yurt and pecked at some discarded food. He stepped over a used condom, then stepped cautiously by what he knew was human waste. He approached the nearest yurt. The bold magpies merely hopped away from him,

dragging strings and flaps of food, bread, and some kind of cold cut. Ogden knocked.

A young woman opened the rickety door. She was tall and thin, unhealthy, emaciated, her arms just cords of muscle and skin stretched over bone, her clavicles making deep hollows below her neck. Her green eyes were like sea glass, that sick color of the unwell, not quite clouded. Her lips were chapped. Her sleeveless T-shirt was, however, bright white, clean, the light cotton ribbed and accentuating the length and thinness of her torso. It was her hands that Ogden studied. Her hands were twisted, gnarled, like an old woman’s, her unpainted nails showing bluish in the strange light of the overcast day. “What?” she asked. That was it, only, “What?”

“I’m looking for Conrad or Leslie Hempel.”

“I don’t know either one,” she said. She found her words deliberately, as if each and every syllable was something she was reluctant to let go.

“I was told one of them might be around here.”

“There are a lot of people around here.”

Ogden looked around. There were more yurts than he thought, twenty, twenty-two of them. “One of them might be known as Meth-mouth.”

The woman didn’t exactly freeze, but something happened to her face. Perhaps it was suspicion, perhaps fear, or perhaps, and it was likely given her state, she had just recalled a dream or some substance had kicked in.

“Meth-mouth,” Ogden repeated. “One of them has a tattoo on his arm.”

“Who doesn’t have a tattoo on his arm,” the woman laughed. When she opened her mouth Ogden could see the rotting teeth in the back and the stud piercing her tongue.

“Let’s try this a different way,” Ogden said. He was light-headed. There was a trembling inside his hand as he rested it on the rusty spring of the screen door. He stared at the woman’s feet; her shoes at least were different sizes. “Can you tell me if there are any men around here in the yurts?”

“Yes,” she said. “I can tell you.”

“And?”

“There are some men around here.”

“Are any of them white?”

“Yes.”

“Any of them have light-colored hair?”

She was silent as she thought. “Maybe.” Her eyes rolled into the back of her head and she almost took a step backward.

“Are you all right?” Ogden asked.

“Yes.”

“Do any of the men around here that you’ve seen have tattoos?”

“All of the men around here have tattoos.”

“Do you know where one of these men is? Any man?” Ogden looked around the quiet compound.

“Do you have any drugs?”

“No. What kind of drugs?”

“Any kind of drugs. Meth, heroin, alprazolam. Can you get me some drugs?” Her eyes changed again, from probable suspicion or fear to desperation, anxiety, or even eagerness.

“If you help me I’ll try to find you some drugs,” Ogden lied. What struck him as odd, unusual, was that he did not feel bad lying to this woman. Ogden believed he had never been able to lie about anything. “I promise.”

“I know somebody they call Meth-mouth.”

“Do you know where he is?”

The woman leaned around the door and pointed. “Over there. The light blue yurt,” she said. “The light blue one. Over there. Light blue.” She was close to Ogden. Her lean frame was like a coat rack and she smelled of body odor.

“Thank you,” Ogden said.

“My name is Mary,” she said. “You know, like in the Bible. Jesus’s mother. The light blue one.”

“Got it.”

The light blue yurt was thirty yards away. Ogden zipped up his jacket as he walked. It was colder now, raining still, making noise on his shoulders and head. The light blue yurt didn’t have a door. Someone had been pissing and shitting just yards from the side of the building and it smelled awful. Worse than decomposing flesh, Ogden thought, mainly because it was a harbinger of decomposing flesh, the living conditions of those about to die, those as good as dead.

He stepped through the doorway of the yurt and stood just inside. The weak light from the outside did not penetrate very deeply into the round structure, but the felt walls kept it from being terribly dark. There was a man sleeping in the middle and two women curled up together at the back. There might have been another person, but it could also have been a pile of clothes or blankets. The inside of the yurt stank nearly as bad as the outside. The man sleeping on the floor was not the Conrad Hempel he had met, but he walked over and kicked him in the thigh anyway. Ogden didn’t say anything, but kicked him again. “Hey,” he said. “Hey.” He glanced at the women. They were awake, but weren’t concerned or impressed enough to stand or sit up. The man slowly came around, blinked, and looked up at Ogden. His eyes were blue and red, puffy, and as he rolled completely over onto his back the blanket fell off and revealed his naked body, his ribs showing above a belly covered with bruises. “Leslie Hempel?”

“What the fuck?”

“Are you Leslie Hempel?”

“I’ve seen you before. I know you.” The man nodded.

“What’s your name?”

The man yawned and Ogden saw why he was called Meth-mouth. There was one yellow tooth in the front of his mouth and the rest were decayed nubs. His breath stank from six feet away.

“What do you want?”

“Leslie?”

“My name is Beetle,” he said.

“What?”

“They call me Beetle.” The man smiled without showing his bad teeth.

Ogden studied him, was immediately and completely irritated by him. He couldn’t tell what Beetle’s hair color really was. He had no tattoos on either arm, but a word was written in black ink across his neck. Rose or Rosa. He had probably lost weight and so the last letter had folded in on itself. “It’s like this,” Ogden said. “I’m looking for a man named Conrad Hempel.”

“You’re sure that’s his name?”

“Yes, I think that’s his name.” Ogden watched as Beetle pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a soiled light green T-shirt. He took a step back to give him some room. “Do you know him?”

“Let’s go outside.”

Ogden allowed the man to go first.

Outside Beetle pulled a pack of clove cigarettes from his sweatpants pocket and shoved one into his mouth. “Those bitches won’t let me smoke in there,” he said. He laughed and lit it with a match from a book. “I’d offer you one, but, hey, I can tell you don’t smoke. Do you want to know how I can tell?”

“Tell me.”

“You kept your hands in your pockets while I lit up. Cool, huh? Little things like that can tell you things. I’m almost psychic because of my attention to body language.”

“Cool. Hempel?”

“You sound like you really want to get ahold of this guy.” Beetle smiled ever so slightly.

The smile confused Ogden and he felt an urge to punch the man. He looked up the mountain and saw that more clouds were rolling in, this time from the east and that seemed bad.

“I mean I can probably help you find him, but, you know, he might be a friend of mine and I think I ought to know what kind of mess I’m getting him into.”

“I just want to ask him some questions. So, you know Conrad Hempel.”

“I don’t know if I know him. I run across a lot of people. Do you have anything to trade?”

“Trade?”

“You know, you scratch my back and I scratch yours.”

“What if I just beat the shit out of you?”

“Look at me.” Beetle held his arms up. “What can you do to me that matters, motherfucker? If you beat me up, I’ll probably feel better. You want to find this guy?”

Ogden stood down. “Yes, I do.”

“Then first you can give me a ride. You got a car, right?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“You need to get dressed?”

“I’m as dressed as I get,” Beetle said. “Now just let me grab some shoes.”

Ogden watched him walk back into the yurt. While he waited he turned his face up and let the rain hit him. What was he falling into? He didn’t sound like himself. How long hadn’t he sounded like himself? How long had it been? He was losing track of time, it feeling like days since he’d talked to Fragua, weeks since he’d been at his mother’s house, a year since he’d last seen Terry Lowell.

Beetle came back out and now he was wearing flip-flops that didn’t match.

“Aren’t you cold?” Ogden asked.

“Yeah, yeah, I am. It’s freezing out here.” Beetle grabbed a blanket from the floor just inside the door and wrapped it over his shoulders. “Okay, let’s go.”

“Where are we going?”

“A house up north. Near Red River. Well, just past Red River, but off that road, you know?”

Ogden looked at the mountains. “How far past Red River?”

“I don’t know, man.”

“Red River’s quite a drive.”

“The man I know up there might know the man you want to find,” Beetle said.

“Who’s he?”

“He. You got any money?”

Ogden shook his head.

“That’s okay, that’s okay. Let’s go.”

Nearly as soon as he was seated in the passenger’s seat, Beetle was asleep with a second unlit cigarette stuck to his slack lower lip. Bad weather or not, Ogden was going to do his best to stay off the county roads and highways. He’d driven these mountains his whole life and though it would have been impossible for him to instruct someone on how to get from where he was to Red River, he knew he could do it. Miles and miles of logging, mining, and forest service roads made it possible to get anywhere, though never directly and never never never quickly. Some of the trails were treacherous, a few downright deadly, but they were there and he was going to use them, bad weather or not. He was wishing he’d driven his county rig instead of his pickup. Even though his truck had four-wheel drive it was still empty in the back. After a couple of fishtails over the slippery road, he stopped and began to pile the heaviest wood and rocks he could find into the bed. He shook the truck with a big log and woke up Beetle. Beetle opened his door and got out. He leaned against the wheel well, asked what Ogden was doing. Ogden had half a mind to make Beetle ride in the back, but his weight would have been negligible. Beetle irritated the hell out of him, but the man hardly mattered in the long run and Ogden realized this. But it was annoying how the rain, which was coming down harder now, and the cold didn’t seem to bother him. This, even though he appeared very near death.

“Get back in the truck,” Ogden said.

“Why all the wood?”

“Just get in.”

“You’re a bad man, right?”

“Just get in.”

“Yeah, we understand each other.”

Ogden drove up a forest road that traversed a precipitous slope and really worried that the road might crumble and give way. It hadn’t been used in some time, much less maintained. Beetle was asleep again and it was now afternoon. It would be late afternoon by the time they reached Red River on these roads, maybe dusk, and that was all right with Ogden, though he wanted to be off these deadly dirt tracks before darkness fell. He slipped and skidded down a steep grade into a back valley and dreaded what he might find at the bottom. He had been correct to worry as when he reached the trough there was water there and it wasn’t standing, but moving and rising. He drove slowly into the stream and then the truck dropped down off a shelf he could not have seen and the transmission slipped out of gear, stalling the engine. Ogden turned the key back and tried the engine. It worked to turn over, but wouldn’t. Beetle awoke to see the water flowing in their direction and for the first time showed some kind of concern for something in the real world. He screamed and slapped his palms up against the ceiling of the cab. Ogden got the engine started and the truck in gear and rolled on out and just like that, as if nothing had happened, Beetle was drifting again into a peaceful sleep. The rain let up, but the drizzle continued. The slope back up was not so scary and so Ogden had a moment to catch his breath, which was both good and bad. He was terrified of having been implicated in the murder of Terry Lowell and more terrified that he felt so lost and unsure of what had actually happened and of what he had seen. How could there be no trace of the boy? Warren was good at his job and didn’t miss much, so where was Willy Yates? Was there a Willy Yates? That he could even ask that question made him feel strange and sick to his stomach. He could feel the lack of sleep catching up to him. His head hurt, his gut felt hollow and icy cold, his eyes itched and burned, but even if he could have pulled over and killed the engine he would never fall asleep. He looked at Beetle, who was twisting to make himself comfortable. Why was he going anywhere with this man? What did he hope to find? The answer was a desperate anything. The last mining road down before the steep rise to the highway that would take them through Red River was frightening. Nearer to civilization, someone had gotten a notion to try grading the road and had made a terrible washboard mess that managed to channel the water anywhere but off the track. At one point, when the grade might have been fifteen percent, the pickup began to slide and there was nothing Ogden could do. Ogden pumped the brakes and twisted the wheel in the direction of the skid, but it turned out to be just something to do while disaster approached. Luckily the truck bumped and scraped along the upslope side of the trail and Ogden regained control. His heart raced. His flannel shirt was soaked with perspiration beneath his jacket.

Ogden had to take his mind off the driving and so he punched Beetle in the shoulder. “Wake up.”

“What?”

“Wake up, Beetle. We’re almost to the highway. Which side of Red River is this place?”

“East.”

“You sure you know how to get there?”

“Sure I’m sure.”

The short stretch of trail up to Highway 38 was not so bad after all. Ogden was glad that he didn’t have to find a way across the river, small as it was up there. He halfway expected to find the state police waiting for him when he hit the pavement, but there was nothing there but wet, empty highway.

He drove them through the dead town of Red River. It was too early in the season for skiing and the RV traffic was gone after summer. Like this, the town was dismal and uninviting. The one open restaurant looked lonely, but right at that moment welcoming. Ogden reluctantly drove past it.

“How far?”

“Keep going.”

Ogden did. Now, off the back tracks and on the smooth and monotonous pavement, he began to feel tired and sleepy. He rolled his window down all the way and let the wet, cold wind slap his face. They rolled through the tiny blink Elizabethtown and Ogden realized that just a few clicks away was Eagle Nest.

“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.”

“Did you see anyone else around that morning?”

“I didn’t get here until three. Wilson, I don’t know what time he got here.”

“Is he here now?”

“Yeah, he’s washing some graffiti off the raceway wall. Do you want to talk him?”

“I do, but first can you show me where he found Terry?”

“Sure, this way.”

Baker led the way past the hatchery and past the little dam. He then walked downhill to a trail that led to a shallow muddy beach of the Red River. Baker with his sneakered feet stepped into the mud as if it were nothing and turned to face Warren.

“Here?” Warren asked.

“Right where you’re standing.” Baker pointed with his chin, then his finger. “Faceup, eyes open like he was looking at the sky.” He turned to watch the river.

Warren looked down at his boots. “You notice anything else around here?”

“I didn’t look. But the state police crawled around here on all fours for hours.”

Warren nodded. With all the rain there would be no sign of blood anywhere, but there was possibly a slight depression from where his body had lain. At least he thought he could see something. He felt something. A column of red ants marched through the sand where Warren imagined the dead man’s head.

“Can I talk to Wilson now?” Warren followed Baker back up the way they’d come. “And you didn’t see anybody else that day?”

“Nope.”

Wilson was walking toward the office with a bright yellow five-gallon bucket and cleaning supplies when Baker called out. “Somebody wants to talk to you.”

Wilson put his bucket down outside the door.

“This here is Deputy Fragua.”

“We’ve met,” Warren said. Warren had taken Wilson in for public drunkenness some months back. Thinking that his boss might not have known about it, Warren said, “Mr. Wilson helped me get my truck started one day.”

Wilson shook Warren’s hand. “Deputy.”

“Well, I’m going to go in and do some paperwork,” Baker said.

Warren thanked him.

Baker entered and closed the door.

Wilson said, “Thanks for that.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“What can I do for you?” The large man wore the sickly sweet smell of an alcoholic. That odor mixed with the ammonia of the cleaning fluid made Warren feel queasy.

“I want to hear about the day you found the warden’s body. Tell me what you can remember.”

“Not much to tell. I came to work about one, one thirty, cleaned the men’s room, and then took my walk.”

“Walk?”

“Yeah, man, these chemicals I use to clean these toilets smell real strong. They’re real toxic like. So, I always take a little walk between doing the men’s room and the ladies’ room. Just to clear my head, you know?”

Warren understood.

“So, I walk down to the water and there he is. First I thought he was sleeping. Then I saw the blood. Scared the shit out of me. I mean I didn’t know if the guy with the gun was still around or what.” Wilson started to shake a bit. He needed a drink.

“What time did you find him?”

“You know, I told all this to them other policemen.”

“I know. One more time.”

“Like I said, I just cleaned the men’s room, so it must have been two thirty, something around there, could have been two or three. I don’t wear a watch.”

“Were there any vehicles in the lot before or after you came out of the men’s room?”

“Just the warden’s truck.”

“Where was it parked?”

“Over there in the lower lot.”

“Was there sign of anybody else? Litter? Cigarette smoke? Anything?”

Wilson thought about it. “I did pick up some trash. Lunch trash, you know. A part of a sandwich. A wrapper from one of them yuppie candy bars, a power bar.”

“What kind of sandwich?”

“I didn’t taste it.”

“Thanks, Wilson. That’s all I need.”

Warren walked through the lower and upper parking lots, listening to the birds and staring at the asphalt. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just listening to the birds, waiting for them to tell him something. One of them must have been there that day.

Ogden’s trailer looked abandoned. The place looked as if it had been empty for years. Warren stopped his rig in the front yard and killed the engine, ate a couple of piñon nuts. He looked around for Ogden’s dog and realized he hadn’t seen him for a while. He got out and walked around the trailer. Then he walked inside. Ogden never locked the door.

Inside, Warren sat at the little table that faced the front window. The surface was messy, but he had seen worse. His own desk was an example. There was a glass tumbler on the table, whatever had been inside, probably orange juice, was dried. There was a Denver Broncos mug next to the sink on a little wooden cutting board. The green tea bag was dried hard to the inside wall. He looked out the window at the sage. Where was Ogden?

Eva Walker came out of her house to meet Warren as he stepped from his rig. She didn’t have to say anything for Warren to know what she was asking.

“I’m looking for him,” Warren said.

“Oh, Warren, he told me he was in trouble. He was scared, I never saw him like that. Oh, Warren.”

“Let’s go inside.” Warren helped the woman onto the porch and into the house. She sat on the sofa and Warren stood. He looked out the window at the sky and the weather. That seemed to be all he was capable of doing, looking through glass, windshields, house windows.

“What’s going on, Warren?”

“I don’t know, Eva.” He was not going to tell her about the three dead bodies up north. “Ogden knows how to take care of himself. You just remember that.” Warren looked at the old woman’s eyes. “Did Ogden mention anyone and anything that was worrying him? I don’t mean just the last time you saw him, but recently. Not even recently, did he ever say anything that made you worry or wonder?”

“No.”

“Notice anything different about him, the things he did, a change in habits, shampoo?”

“Not really. He was coming around a little less. He always said he had a headache.”

“I know I don’t need to say it, but I’m supposed to: If Ogden contacts you, in any way, please give me a call.”

“All right, Warren. Find my boy.”

“I’ll find him.”

Warren went back to the station. The medical examiner’s report was sitting on his desk. Cause of death was what everyone knew, gunshot wound to the chest. But there was a note about lividity. The examiner believed that Terry had not been shot there, but somewhere else and moved there. It also placed the time of death at fifteen hours before discovery. Warren closed his eyes and imagined the crime scene he’d visited earlier. With the rain and the trampling there was no way to tell from sign what might have happened. But given where Terry had been lying, the shooter would have been standing in the river. Why put him there?

“You see that report?” Bucky asked. He was out of his office and holding a chocolate doughnut.

“Yep.”

“I’ll tell you what this is, it’s two gallons of shit in a one-gallon bucket.” He bit into his doughnut. “The pictures from today are there, too. Positive ID on Derrick Yates. The little guy was a Mexican named Luis Guerrero. A record as long as my arm. Nobody knows the third guy with the flip-flops.”

Felton stopped by Warren’s desk and picked up the photos. “Hey, I know this guy.”

“Which guy?” Warren asked.

“This one here, flip-flop guy.” Felton handed the photograph to Warren and he looked at it with Bucky. “They call him Bug or something. Gave him a warning a few weeks back about walking on the wrong side of the highway. I gave him a ride back to the yurts. He was drugged up, but I didn’t see no reason to bring him in.”

The yurts. “That’s something anyway,” Warren said. “Do we have a picture of Ogden around here?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure there’s one in his personnel file,” Felton said.

The midday sky was still blue, but the increased activity of the hawks told Warren that more rain was coming. He bumped over the messy track, the mud having hardened into a real kidney buster, and parked close to the yurt nearest the road. He approached and knocked on the frame of the door.

“What you want?” a man asked. He looked about sixty, but sadly was probably only thirty. He was wearing a brown tweed sport suit coat over a tight Grateful Dead T-shirt. That was all. No trousers, no underwear.

“Do you want to finish getting dressed?” Warren asked.

“I’m dressed.”

“Do you know a guy called Bug or something like that?”

“I don’t know any insects.”

“What about this guy?” Warren showed the man the picture of the man’s dead face. “You know him?”

“No.”

“What about these guys?” Warren showed him crime scene pictures of Yates and Guerrero.

The man said nothing, but he reacted, ran a hand through his greasy hair. “All these people are dead,” he said.

“Yes, they are. Dead. Ever seen any of these men when they were alive?” The man shook his head, but Warren knew he was lying. “This guy’s name was Luis. Did he ever sell drugs to you? He’s dead now, so you don’t have to be scared.”

“Never seen him or the other two.”

“And what about this man.” Warren showed the man a photo of Ogden.

The man seemed more afraid than before, biting his lip, swallowing and looking past Warren at the slope of the mountain.

“You know this man, don’t you?”

“He’s a cop, right?”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t know him. I think I’ve seen him around, but I don’t know him.”

“Where did you see him?”

“Around.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“A couple weeks ago, I think.”

Warren took his pad from his breast pocket and his pen. “What’s your name, sir?”

“Listen, I don’t want to be involved. Hey, do you mind if I put on some pants?” When Warren nodded it was okay the man stepped back into the yurt, grabbed some jeans from the floor, and put them on.

“This is just procedure. I have to have your name.”

“It’s Jesse, Jesse Harris.”

“Okay, Mr. Harris. I want to thank you for your help. If you see this man, the cop, you give me a call, all right? His name is Ogden Walker. My name is Warren Fragua and my number’s right there on this card.”

Jesse Harris nodded.

“I’m going to go check your neighbors, okay?”

“Okay.”

Warren moved on to the next structure, knowing nothing more than that he was confused. More so with each piece of this puzzle, if in fact these were pieces, if in fact this was a puzzle. At the next yurt, two women stepped out just as he arrived. They looked enough alike to be sisters. He was struck by how remarkably clean they appeared.

“Excuse me, ladies, before you go, I need to ask you just a couple of questions.”

They stood shoulder to shoulder and faced him.

“Do you know this man?” He showed them the photo of the man he thought might be called Bug.

“That’s Beetle,” one of the women said.

“Beetle,” Warren repeated the name.

“Is he dead?” the same woman asked.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Oh my god,” the second woman cried.

The first woman did not cry. “What happened to him?” she asked.

“He was shot.” Warren pulled out the other photos. “What about these two men, do you know them?”

“That one gave drugs to Beetle to sell.” From the first again. She pointed to the photo of Yates. “And that guy, I think he made meth in a lab over in Hondo. I’m not sure.”

“What about this man?” Warren showed them Ogden.

“He came and talked to Beetle yesterday.”

“He did?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” the second woman said.

“And Beetle went someplace with him. He came back in and grabbed some shoes and said he’d be back.”

“Did you hear what they talked about?’

“No.”

“Had you ever seen him before?”

“I think so,” said the second woman. “Around here a couple of times. He beat up a guy once.”

“This guy?” Warren tapped on the picture of Ogden. “This guy beat somebody up?”

“I think it was him.”

“What was Beetle’s name?”

“Beetle.”

“His real name.”

“That’s what he called himself,” the first woman said.

“Where did he live?”

“Around,” the second said. “He slept a lot of places, but most of the time here with us.”

“Here? Are his things here?”

“Yes.”

“I need to look through them. Do you mind if I go in and look through his stuff?”

The women said it was okay. They gave Warren their names and showed him the pile that was Beetle’s belongings. The pile was in the center of the foul and sour-smelling yurt. Warren picked through the clothes and magazines, mostly humor magazines and a couple of celebrity rags. There was an Idaho driver’s license near the bottom, but the face on it was not Beetle’s. The name on the license was William Yates.

“What about this guy? You know this man?” Warren showed the license to the women.

“That was the guy who got beat up.”

“Where? Where did he get beat up?”

The woman pointed. “Over there, across the road. That was the only time I ever saw him.”

“You?” Warren asked the other woman.

“I never saw him.”

“Thank you.”

“So there is no boy?” Bucky Paz said.

“There’s a man,” Warren said.

“I told you there was no boy in here,” said Felton.

“Not unless it’s a Willy Yates, Jr.,” Warren said.

Bucky turned toward his office. “Warren, come in here.” Bucky flopped down in his chair and spun to face the window. “What the fuck is going on?”

“I do not know.”

“Any guesses?”

“Not one,” Warren said.

“I have a really, really bad feeling,” the sheriff said.

“It’s hard not to have one.” Warren paced away and came back. “Something’s happened to Ogden. I know that.”

“You think he’s dead?”

“No, I don’t.”

Warren sat at his desk, thinking about Ogden, recalling everything he could about his good friend. Ogden was hiding someplace and Warren knew that to find him, he’d have to think like him. Then he saw the small foil-wrapped candy on his desk. He’d lifted a bag of them from his daughter’s Halloween haul one year and had liked them so much that he’d told Ogden to hide them. Ogden would pull one out on occasion and eat it to tease Warren. Finally Warren asked where they were hidden. Ogden showed him. He had placed them on the far corner of Warren’s desk, in plain sight next to an empty wrapper. Ogden had laughed.

Warren went home and found Mary sitting in the kitchen working on a quilt. He sat without speaking.

Mary kept sewing.

Warren looked over at the stovetop. There was a pot of something simmering there. “Is that chili?”

“Yes,” Mary said. “Where is Ogden?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you think is going on?”

“Do you remember when we thought a raccoon was getting into our garbage?”

Mary kept sewing.

“Turned out it was dogs.”

“Would you like some chili?”

“Not right now,” Warren said.

“Are you going out again tonight?” she asked.

“I might be out for a while, so don’t wait up.”

“Is Ogden all right?”

“No.”

It was dark, but Warren knew he had to drive out there. The rain had finally arrived, rolling in first with fog that made the driving difficult, then the rain began to sweep through as if in sheets. Warren turned off his lights as he crossed the cattle guard off the highway. The hatchery office was closed, as it should have been, and it was dark, as it should have been. Warren had a thought that if a person wanted to steal fish, this would be when he’d try. Both the lower and upper parking lots were empty. Warren sat in his rig, his back aching from so many hours in that seat, and tried to control his breathing, concentrating on exhaling, trying to force everything out, everything. He reached above his head and removed the bulb from his interior ceiling light, then opened his door and got out. He walked slowly past the hatchery and past the dam, the wind and rain pushing him forward and then back, unable to make up its mind which way to blow, he thought. The beam of his flashlight raked through the trees and brush. He caught the bright yellow eyes of a raccoon cruising through the wet night on its way to poach a few trout. The animal didn’t bolt, but calmly moved past him. Warren came to the spot where Terry’s body had been found. He shined his light all around and moved on downstream. Another fifty, then a hundred yards. He moved his light slowly, looking for anything that didn’t seem right, anything that made him stop the light. No one ever came down here. The footing was treacherous and that was if you could find a place to stand at all, much less fish. And there were no good lies for the trout, so when Warren saw a part of what he thought was a boot print, a heel, he became nervous. The rain was starting in earnest again now and the print that was dried hard would soon be gone. He got down on his knees and shined the light on every inch of dirt and between rocks and under boulders. He crawled up the bank a few yards and there was a hand, a real human hand, the fingers twisted impossibly, the rest of the body covered with branches and sage. Warren swallowed hard and felt momentarily queasy.

“I had a feeling.” The voice was Ogden’s.

Warren turned around and put the light on Ogden’s face.

“Turn the light off, Warren.”

Warren did. Then the only light was the one Ogden held on him.

“What’s going on, Ogden?”

“Not much. Not much. Why don’t you tell me what you think is going on?”

Warren couldn’t see his friend’s face, not that he would have recognized him if he could. “I think you killed this man right here. Somehow Terry Lowell found you with the body and you shot him, too.”

“That’s pretty much it.”

“Why, Ogden?”

“Because I didn’t want to get caught.”

“No, I mean why you’d kill this guy?”

“Pretty much because I could, Warren.” Ogden sighed. “It was a night sort of like this one. I brought him here and Terry was thinking he’d find a poacher at the hatchery at night.”

“Jesus, Ogden.”

“I’m a disappointment, I know.”

“You killed the men at that house, too.”

“I did. I suppose I did.”

“None of this makes any sense,” Warren said. He wished he could see his friend’s eyes. “What in the world are you into? Are you on drugs or something?”

“Of course it doesn’t make sense. What does make sense, Warren? Nothing in this damn world makes sense. Just look around. I’m out of my fucking mind. I must be. What do you think? Does that have it all make sense for you? I’m an evil man. Live is evil spelled backward or is it the other way around? I’m evil. I suppose that’s what they’ll say. I’m possessed by the devil, lived spelled backward. Does that have it make sense? I wanted some drug money. I’m hooked on meth. Do any of those reasons help this make sense? I was tired of being a good guy. Was I ever a good guy? How about that? Does that have it make sense for you? This is the way it is, Warren, simply the way it fucking is. Sad, sad, sad, sad, sad. Shitty, shitty, bang, bang. Nothing makes sense and that’s the only way that any of it can make sense. Here I am, the way I am, not making any sense. Blood in the water. Blood on my shirt.”

“You know, I’m not stupid, Ogden?”

“I know that, Warren. You’re unlucky, but you’re not stupid. And you found me. I knew you would. That makes you a smart guy, but you are unlucky.”

Warren watched the light as Ogden repositioned himself, adjusted his footing on the slippery rocks. He knew that Ogden had pointed a pistol at him. Warren was cursing himself for not carrying a weapon himself, but he never did and tonight was no different.

“I know you’re not stupid, Warren.”

“Are you going to shoot me?”

“I suppose.”

“I mean, I’m really not stupid, Ogden.”

“I’m counting on that, Warren.”

The shot made animals scurry through the darkness of the brush. It made Warren wince and tighten and his ears rang. Ogden took a step and fell forward.

Warren turned his light back on and looked at the face on his boots. It was not a face he knew. “I hope that’s you, Bucky,” Warren called out into the dark.

“It’s me.”

About the Author

PERCIVAL EVERETT is Distinguished Professor of English at the University of Southern California and the author of eighteen novels, including I Am Not Sidney Poitier, The Water Cure, and Erasure.

Content

Percival Everett
Assumption

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A DIFFICULT LIKENESS

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MY AMERICAN COUSIN

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THE SHIFT

About the Author