Assumption (20 page)

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.