Assumption (19 page)

“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.”

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.”