Assumption (7 page)

“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.