The airport parking lot was mostly empty. Cooley was waiting for him by a bright blue kiosk with a sheltered overhang.
“Hey, boss.”
Thumps hadn’t been to the airport in a while.
“This new?”
“It is,” said Cooley. “According to the guy at the rental desk, this is the latest innovation in car rentals.”
Under the kiosk was a stand of metal lockers. Each locker was numbered. Off to one side was a central keypad.
“It’s really neat,” said Cooley. “You make a reservation, and they send you a code. So when you arrive, you just come here, punch the code into the keypad, and the appropriate locker opens. Inside is the rental agreement and the keys to the car.”
“You don’t have to go to the main desk?”
“Nope,” said Cooley. “Skip the line. And when you return the car, you just drop the keys in the drop box, and Bob’s your uncle.”
“Show me.”
Cooley punched in a number and locker number twelve on the far end snapped open.
“This Greeley’s locker?”
“It is,” said Cooley. “The great thing is that the locker is yours for as long as you have the car.”
“So you can store things in the locker.”
“Yep. Let’s say you have stuff you don’t want to carry around with you, you can leave it here until you return.”
“And Greeley stored some stuff ?”
Cooley nodded. “He did. Take a look.”
Inside the locker was a cellphone, a folder, and an automatic pistol with a suppressor screwed onto the barrel.
“Phone’s cheap but new,” said Cooley. “I think it’s a burner. Only has one number programmed into the memory.”
“You try the number?”
“It’s long distance,” said Cooley. “Texas area code. Figured I’d give you the honours.”
“And the folder?”
“Photographs,” said Cooley. “Bunch of people.”
There were eleven photographs in all. Thumps recognized a younger Nora Gage and a younger Cisco Cruz.
“Isn’t that your buddy?” asked Cooley. “Looks different in a suit and tie.”
Thumps would never have imagined Cruz in anything but black leather, yet here he was, suited and tied, buzz cut, ramrod straight, apple pie and the dawn’s early light. A model for a military recruitment poster.
“That the Gage woman?”
“It is.”
“How about the rest of them?”
“No idea.”
Cooley turned Cruz’s photo over. “Call PK” was written in tight, precise letters on the back. “Guessing we don’t know who PK is either.”
“Which leaves the pistol.”
“Staccato 2011,” said Cooley. “Cute little compact.”
“Nine millimetre?”
“It is,” said Cooley. “And not cheap.”
“So, we got a sniper rifle in the trunk and a pistol with a suppressor in the locker.”
“All we need,” said Cooley, “is Colonel Mustard in the library with a candlestick.”
Thumps double-checked the locker, in case Cooley had missed anything. “So, you rent the car online or by phone, pay for it with a credit card, come here, open the locker, get the key. Everything completely anonymous.”
“That’s about it.”
Thumps shielded his eyes. “That a camera?”
“A dummy,” said Cooley. “The guy at the rental desk called it a deterrent. You know, like those Beware of Dog signs when you don’t have a dog.”
“You check the credit card information?”
“I did,” said Cooley. “Car was rented by a Sarah Croce.”
Thumps walked out to where he could see the rental cars. And then he walked back to the kiosk. “Any of this make sense to you?”
“Nope,” said Cooley, “but then I’m only a probationary deputy.”
Thumps slipped the burner phone into his pocket. “Scoop staying over tonight?”
“Deanna has graveyard,” said Cooley. “Think she plans to use the holding cell.”
Thumps shut the locker. “You know, it’s not a hotel room.”
“Maybe we could rent it out,” said Cooley, “when we’re not arresting people, that is. Might help with the budget shortfall.”
The lights in the parking lot came on. Somehow the late afternoon had slipped into evening.
Cooley zipped up his jacket. “I hear Claire and Ivory are moving to Calgary.”
Thumps shoved his hands in his pockets. “Tomorrow morning, drive up to Shadow Ranch and arrest Cruz. I’ll meet you at the jail.”
“What’s the charge?”
“Being annoying.”
“We can arrest someone for being annoying?” Cooley gave a low whistle. “He’s not going to like that.”
“Yeah,” said Thumps. “I know.”
THUMPS WASN’T SURE why he was driving to the reservation or what he was going to do or say when he got to Claire’s place. He slowed as he came onto high ground. And stopped.
Below, the house was dark, the barn silent, the driveway empty, the Russian olive in the moonlight a ghost in a graveyard.
So, she and Ivory were really gone.
Thumps got out of the car, leaned against the hood, and started counting stars. By the time he got to twenty, he realized that he had lost track of where he was in the sky and had to start again. After the third attempt, he gave up.
He thought about going down to the house, checking the rooms and closets. The bathroom. How much stuff had Claire taken with them? What might that tell him about how long she planned to stay? Did she expect to return?
And then again, maybe it was better not to know, better to leave hope alone. And alive.
What was the bog in The Pilgrim’s Progress called? The Slough of Despond? The nasty bit of swamp where the protagonist sinks under the weight of his sins? The perfect place to spend an evening such as this. Under a sky such as this.
The phone in his jacket began ringing and vibrating at the same time. Thumps wasn’t sure which he hated more.
“DreadfulWater. Where are you?”
Duke didn’t sound happy, and he didn’t sound depressed.
“At home in bed.”
“No, you’re not,” said Duke. “You’re on the reservation. At Claire’s place.”
Thumps looked at the phone. “Are you tracking me?”
“If I wasn’t tracking you,” said Duke, “how would I know you were on the reservation?”
“Jesus.”
“Grow up. Everybody tracks everybody. Hell, Amazon knows what you had for dinner.”
“I haven’t had dinner.”
“Well, when you do, they’ll know.”
In the background, Thumps could hear a dog. Not barking. Not whining. Low moans and grumbles that sounded more like conversation.
“You staying with Claire tonight?”
“No.”
“In that case,” said Duke, “you need to stop by the house on your way home.”
“Your house?”
“Yes, my house.”
Thumps took one last look at the dark house, the barn, the tree in the driveway. “You want to give me a hint?”
“Why spoil the surprise.”
“I don’t like surprises.”
“How about that,” said Duke. “Neither do I.”
DUKE’S BUNGALOW WAS a house on fire. House lights, porch lights, security floods. Party central. All that was missing was loud music, a keg set up on the porch, and people dancing on the front lawn.
Thumps was halfway up the walk when the front door opened.
“Get in here.”
Duke was dressed in a pair of dark pyjama bottoms with little yellow ducks. And a Marshall Tucker Band T-shirt.
“What took you so long?”
Thumps was humming the chorus of “Fire on the Mountain” as he came up the walk. “Just how old is that T-shirt?”
“Never mind the smart questions,” said Duke.
Thumps didn’t remember Duke’s living room all that well, but he was reasonably sure that the last time he was here, the sofa had not been ripped apart. There was a lamp smashed on the floor as well, and it looked as though the baseboards along one wall had been attacked by a beaver.
“What happened?”
Duke put his hands on his hips. “Howdy.”
“Your dog did this?”
“He’s not my dog,” Duke snarled. “I go out to get groceries, and when I come back . . .”
In terms of damage, the dog had played no favourites. In addition to the sofa and the lamp and the baseboards, Howdy had chewed through a chair leg, knocked a vase off the dining room table, and ripped a corner off the rug.
“Wait until you see what he did to the bedroom.”
“He was probably lonely. He missed you.”
“And the kitchen.”Duke wrinkled his nose. “He peed all over the kitchen floor.”
Thumps looked around. “Where is he?”
“Hiding,” said Duke. “He knows I’m not happy.”
“He just wants your attention. So he does stuff he shouldn’t.”
“And now you can help me find him.”
Thumps held up his hands. “I have to get home.”
“You take a step toward the door,” said Duke, “and I’ll shoot you before you make it to the porch.”
“If you talk to him gently, tell him he’s a good boy, he’ll probably come out of hiding.”
“He’s not a good boy,” said Duke. “He’s a bad boy.”
“Where is he?”
“You might have noticed the hole in the screen door,” said Duke.
“So, he’s outside?”
Duke handed Thumps a flashlight. “He could be in Budapest for all I care.”
IT TOOK THE TWO of them the better part of an hour to find the dog. Howdy had wedged himself in the crawl space beneath the back deck.
“He’s scared. You need to reassure him.”
“Me?”
“He knows you’re angry with him.”
Duke got down on his knees next to Thumps. “Come on out, you little shit.” Duke pitched his voice high in a singsong rhythm that was all sunshine and unicorns. “So I can wring your neck.”
Howdy pulled back further into the shadows.
“He knows you’re not sincere.”
“You got any ideas?”
“We could try food,” said Thumps. “My cats are suckers for food.”
“You want me to give that mutt a treat for tearing my house apart?”
“You never liked that sofa anyway.”
Duke found a package of hot dogs in the freezer, heated them up in the microwave.
“Probably not good for dogs,” said Duke. “Probably give him diarrhea.”
It took more coaxing and soft words, but Howdy finally wiggled out from under the deck, his eyes filled with remorse. As he crawled close to Duke, he began beating his tail against the ground and moaning.
“See,” said Thumps. “He’s sorry.”
Howdy crawled onto Duke’s lap and began licking his face.
“And he lovey, lovey, loves you.”
Duke reared back, tried to get out of the way of the dog’s tongue.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry.”
“Jesus, DreadfulWater.” Duke gathered Howdy up in his arms, carried the dog back to the house. “Would you shut up.”
Thumps helped Duke pick up the pieces of the sofa, put them into a garbage bag.
“Can’t believe he chewed through a table leg.” Duke pulled back the ruined baseboards. “Real wood. Not that plastic shit they put down in new homes. Why couldn’t he have wrecked something I didn’t like.”
Thumps swept up the remains of the lamp. “Such as?”
“Might as well leave everything as is.” Duke grabbed Howdy by the ears and swung the big dog’s head back and forth. Howdy started moaning and shaking all over. “Until we come to an understanding.”
“He just wants your attention.”
Duke rolled Howdy over on his back, began whacking the dog’s tummy. From a distance, the affection might have been mistaken for a beating.
“Well,” said Duke, “now he’s got it.”