Assumption (17 page)

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?”