Assumption, page 20
“I’m looking for him,” Warren said.
“Oh, Warren, he told me he was in trouble. He was scared, I never saw him like that. Oh, Warren.”
“Let’s go inside.” Warren helped the woman onto the porch and into the house. She sat on the sofa and Warren stood. He looked out the window at the sky and the weather. That seemed to be all he was capable of doing, looking through glass, windshields, house windows.
“What’s going on, Warren?”
“I don’t know, Eva.” He was not going to tell her about the three dead bodies up north. “Ogden knows how to take care of himself. You just remember that.” Warren looked at the old woman’s eyes. “Did Ogden mention anyone and anything that was worrying him? I don’t mean just the last time you saw him, but recently. Not even recently, did he ever say anything that made you worry or wonder?”
“No.”
“Notice anything different about him, the things he did, a change in habits, shampoo?”
“Not really. He was coming around a little less. He always said he had a headache.”
“I know I don’t need to say it, but I’m supposed to: If Ogden contacts you, in any way, please give me a call.”
“All right, Warren. Find my boy.”
“I’ll find him.”
Warren went back to the station. The medical examiner’s report was sitting on his desk. Cause of death was what everyone knew, gunshot wound to the chest. But there was a note about lividity. The examiner believed that Terry had not been shot there, but somewhere else and moved there. It also placed the time of death at fifteen hours before discovery. Warren closed his eyes and imagined the crime scene he’d visited earlier. With the rain and the trampling there was no way to tell from sign what might have happened. But given where Terry had been lying, the shooter would have been standing in the river. Why put him there?
“You see that report?” Bucky asked. He was out of his office and holding a chocolate doughnut.
“Yep.”
“I’ll tell you what this is, it’s two gallons of shit in a one-gallon bucket.” He bit into his doughnut. “The pictures from today are there, too. Positive ID on Derrick Yates. The little guy was a Mexican named Luis Guerrero. A record as long as my arm. Nobody knows the third guy with the flip-flops.”
Felton stopped by Warren’s desk and picked up the photos. “Hey, I know this guy.”
“Which guy?” Warren asked.
“This one here, flip-flop guy.” Felton handed the photograph to Warren and he looked at it with Bucky. “They call him Bug or something. Gave him a warning a few weeks back about walking on the wrong side of the highway. I gave him a ride back to the yurts. He was drugged up, but I didn’t see no reason to bring him in.”
The yurts. “That’s something anyway,” Warren said. “Do we have a picture of Ogden around here?”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure there’s one in his personnel file,” Felton said.
The midday sky was still blue, but the increased activity of the hawks told Warren that more rain was coming. He bumped over the messy track, the mud having hardened into a real kidney buster, and parked close to the yurt nearest the road. He approached and knocked on the frame of the door.
“What you want?” a man asked. He looked about sixty, but sadly was probably only thirty. He was wearing a brown tweed sport suit coat over a tight Grateful Dead T-shirt. That was all. No trousers, no underwear.
“Do you want to finish getting dressed?” Warren asked.
“I’m dressed.”
“Do you know a guy called Bug or something like that?”
“I don’t know any insects.”
“What about this guy?” Warren showed the man the picture of the man’s dead face. “You know him?”
“No.”
“What about these guys?” Warren showed him crime scene pictures of Yates and Guerrero.
The man said nothing, but he reacted, ran a hand through his greasy hair. “All these people are dead,” he said.
“Yes, they are. Dead. Ever seen any of these men when they were alive?” The man shook his head, but Warren knew he was lying. “This guy’s name was Luis. Did he ever sell drugs to you? He’s dead now, so you don’t have to be scared.”
“Never seen him or the other two.”
“And what about this man.” Warren showed the man a photo of Ogden.
The man seemed more afraid than before, biting his lip, swallowing and looking past Warren at the slope of the mountain.
“You know this man, don’t you?”
“He’s a cop, right?”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t know him. I think I’ve seen him around, but I don’t know him.”
“Where did you see him?”
“Around.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“A couple weeks ago, I think.”
Warren took his pad from his breast pocket and his pen. “What’s your name, sir?”
“Listen, I don’t want to be involved. Hey, do you mind if I put on some pants?” When Warren nodded it was okay the man stepped back into the yurt, grabbed some jeans from the floor, and put them on.
“This is just procedure. I have to have your name.”
“It’s Jesse, Jesse Harris.”
“Okay, Mr. Harris. I want to thank you for your help. If you see this man, the cop, you give me a call, all right? His name is Ogden Walker. My name is Warren Fragua and my number’s right there on this card.”
Jesse Harris nodded.
“I’m going to go check your neighbors, okay?”
“Okay.”
Warren moved on to the next structure, knowing nothing more than that he was confused. More so with each piece of this puzzle, if in fact these were pieces, if in fact this was a puzzle. At the next yurt, two women stepped out just as he arrived. They looked enough alike to be sisters. He was struck by how remarkably clean they appeared.
“Excuse me, ladies, before you go, I need to ask you just a couple of questions.”
They stood shoulder to shoulder and faced him.
“Do you know this man?” He showed them the photo of the man he thought might be called Bug.
“That’s Beetle,” one of the women said.
“Beetle,” Warren repeated the name.
“Is he dead?” the same woman asked.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Oh my god,” the second woman cried.
The first woman did not cry. “What happened to him?” she asked.
“He was shot.” Warren pulled out the other photos. “What about these two men, do you know them?”
“That one gave drugs to Beetle to sell.” From the first again. She pointed to the photo of Yates. “And that guy, I think he made meth in a lab over in Hondo. I’m not sure.”
“What about this man?” Warren showed them Ogden.
“He came and talked to Beetle yesterday.”
“He did?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” the second woman said.
“And Beetle went someplace with him. He came back in and grabbed some shoes and said he’d be back.”
“Did you hear what they talked about?’
“No.”
“Had you ever seen him before?”
“I think so,” said the second woman. “Around here a couple of times. He beat up a guy once.”
“This guy?” Warren tapped on the picture of Ogden. “This guy beat somebody up?”
“I think it was him.”
“What was Beetle’s name?”
“Beetle.”
“His real name.”
“That’s what he called himself,” the first woman said.
“Where did he live?”
“Around,” the second said. “He slept a lot of places, but most of the time here with us.”
“Here? Are his things here?”
“Yes.”
“I need to look through them. Do you mind if I go in and look through his stuff?”
The women said it was okay. They gave Warren their names and showed him the pile that was Beetle’s belongings. The pile was in the center of the foul and sour-smelling yurt. Warren picked through the clothes and magazines, mostly humor magazines and a couple of celebrity rags. There was an Idaho driver’s license near the bottom, but the face on it was not Beetle’s. The name on the license was William Yates.
“What about this guy? You know this man?” Warren showed the license to the women.
“That was the guy who got beat up.”
“Where? Where did he get beat up?”
The woman pointed. “Over there, across the road. That was the only time I ever saw him.”
“You?” Warren asked the other woman.
“I never saw him.”
“Thank you.”
“So there is no boy?” Bucky Paz said.
“There’s a man,” Warren said.
“I told you there was no boy in here,” said Felton.
“Not unless it’s a Willy Yates, Jr.,” Warren said.
Bucky turned toward his office. “Warren, come in here.” Bucky flopped down in his chair and spun to face the window. “What the fuck is going on?”
“I do not know.”
“Any guesses?”
“Not one,” Warren said.
“I have a really, really bad feeling,” the sheriff said.
“It’s hard not to have one.” Warren paced away and came back. “Something’s happened to Ogden. I know that.”
“You think he’s dead?”
“No, I don’t.”
Warren sat at his desk, thinking about Ogden, recalling everything he could about his good friend. Ogden was hiding someplace and Warren knew that to find him, he’d have to think like him. Then he saw the small foil-wrapped candy on his desk. He’d lifted a bag of them from his daughter’s Halloween haul one year and had liked them so much that he’d told Ogden to hide them. Ogden would pull one out on occasion and eat it to tease Warren. Finally Warren asked where they were hidden. Ogden showed him. He had placed them on the far corner of Warren’s desk, in plain sight next to an empty wrapper. Ogden had laughed.
Warren went home and found Mary sitting in the kitchen working on a quilt. He sat without speaking.
Mary kept sewing.
Warren looked over at the stovetop. There was a pot of something simmering there. “Is that chili?”
“Yes,” Mary said. “Where is Ogden?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you think is going on?”
“Do you remember when we thought a raccoon was getting into our garbage?”
Mary kept sewing.
“Turned out it was dogs.”
“Would you like some chili?”
“Not right now,” Warren said.
“Are you going out again tonight?” she asked.
“I might be out for a while, so don’t wait up.”
“Is Ogden all right?”
“No.”
It was dark, but Warren knew he had to drive out there. The rain had finally arrived, rolling in first with fog that made the driving difficult, then the rain began to sweep through as if in sheets. Warren turned off his lights as he crossed the cattle guard off the highway. The hatchery office was closed, as it should have been, and it was dark, as it should have been. Warren had a thought that if a person wanted to steal fish, this would be when he’d try. Both the lower and upper parking lots were empty. Warren sat in his rig, his back aching from so many hours in that seat, and tried to control his breathing, concentrating on exhaling, trying to force everything out, everything. He reached above his head and removed the bulb from his interior ceiling light, then opened his door and got out. He walked slowly past the hatchery and past the dam, the wind and rain pushing him forward and then back, unable to make up its mind which way to blow, he thought. The beam of his flashlight raked through the trees and brush. He caught the bright yellow eyes of a raccoon cruising through the wet night on its way to poach a few trout. The animal didn’t bolt, but calmly moved past him. Warren came to the spot where Terry’s body had been found. He shined his light all around and moved on downstream. Another fifty, then a hundred yards. He moved his light slowly, looking for anything that didn’t seem right, anything that made him stop the light. No one ever came down here. The footing was treacherous and that was if you could find a place to stand at all, much less fish. And there were no good lies for the trout, so when Warren saw a part of what he thought was a boot print, a heel, he became nervous. The rain was starting in earnest again now and the print that was dried hard would soon be gone. He got down on his knees and shined the light on every inch of dirt and between rocks and under boulders. He crawled up the bank a few yards and there was a hand, a real human hand, the fingers twisted impossibly, the rest of the body covered with branches and sage. Warren swallowed hard and felt momentarily queasy.
“I had a feeling.” The voice was Ogden’s.
Warren turned around and put the light on Ogden’s face.
“Turn the light off, Warren.”
Warren did. Then the only light was the one Ogden held on him.
“What’s going on, Ogden?”
“Not much. Not much. Why don’t you tell me what you think is going on?”
Warren couldn’t see his friend’s face, not that he would have recognized him if he could. “I think you killed this man right here. Somehow Terry Lowell found you with the body and you shot him, too.”
“That’s pretty much it.”
“Why, Ogden?”
“Because I didn’t want to get caught.”
“No, I mean why you’d kill this guy?”
“Pretty much because I could, Warren.” Ogden sighed. “It was a night sort of like this one. I brought him here and Terry was thinking he’d find a poacher at the hatchery at night.”
“Jesus, Ogden.”
“I’m a disappointment, I know.”
“You killed the men at that house, too.”
“I did. I suppose I did.”
“None of this makes any sense,” Warren said. He wished he could see his friend’s eyes. “What in the world are you into? Are you on drugs or something?”
“Of course it doesn’t make sense. What does make sense, Warren? Nothing in this damn world makes sense. Just look around. I’m out of my fucking mind. I must be. What do you think? Does that have it all make sense for you? I’m an evil man. Live is evil spelled backward or is it the other way around? I’m evil. I suppose that’s what they’ll say. I’m possessed by the devil, lived spelled backward. Does that have it make sense? I wanted some drug money. I’m hooked on meth. Do any of those reasons help this make sense? I was tired of being a good guy. Was I ever a good guy? How about that? Does that have it make sense for you? This is the way it is, Warren, simply the way it fucking is. Sad, sad, sad, sad, sad. Shitty, shitty, bang, bang. Nothing makes sense and that’s the only way that any of it can make sense. Here I am, the way I am, not making any sense. Blood in the water. Blood on my shirt.”
“You know, I’m not stupid, Ogden?”
“I know that, Warren. You’re unlucky, but you’re not stupid. And you found me. I knew you would. That makes you a smart guy, but you are unlucky.”
Warren watched the light as Ogden repositioned himself, adjusted his footing on the slippery rocks. He knew that Ogden had pointed a pistol at him. Warren was cursing himself for not carrying a weapon himself, but he never did and tonight was no different.
“I know you’re not stupid, Warren.”
“Are you going to shoot me?”
“I suppose.”
“I mean, I’m really not stupid, Ogden.”
“I’m counting on that, Warren.”
The shot made animals scurry through the darkness of the brush. It made Warren wince and tighten and his ears rang. Ogden took a step and fell forward.
Warren turned his light back on and looked at the face on his boots. It was not a face he knew. “I hope that’s you, Bucky,” Warren called out into the dark.
“It’s me.”
PERCIVAL EVERETT is Distinguished Professor of English at the University of Southern California and the author of eighteen novels, including I Am Not Sidney Poitier, The Water Cure, and Erasure.
Assumption has been typeset in Dante, a font created by Giovanni Mardersteig and Charles Malin in the mid-1950s. Design and composition by BookMobile Design and Publishing Services, Minneapolis, Minnesota. Manufactured by Versa Press on acid-free 30 percent postconsumer wastepaper.
Percival Everett, Assumption
