Percival Everett - The Body of Martin Aguilera

He left Española and stopped along the side of the road outside of Santa Fe. He would have to think this through. There was not only a great deal of traffic in Santa Fe, but the freeway began here. And it was getting dark. There were just too many ways they could miss each other, so he decided to get through town as quickly as possible, drive to Cochiti and turn back.

It was dark when he finished the loop and was again in Santa Fe. He continued toward home, still scrutinizing the roadside. Then, at Camel Rock, parked with the last tourists’ cars, was a small, maroon pickup. He stopped, got out and approached the vehicle. It was a Mazda. It was Maggie’s.

He walked across the road to the Camel Rock. A woman was yelling at her husband that it was too dark to take a picture. A teenager had almost finished his climb to the top of the Camel’s head. Lewis called out.

The highway patrolman didn’t seem all that concerned. Of course, it was not his friend who was missing. He walked around the truck, shining the beam of his flashlight at the tires, into the cab, at the grill. He studied the hood, then bent to see more closely.

“What is it?” Lewis asked.

“I don’t think she had any kind of engine trouble,” the officer said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Look at the dust on the hood. Hasn’t been disturbed. Even people who don’t know anything about cars open the hood when something’s wrong. If she had opened it, she’d have left prints, smudges in the dust.” The patrolman seemed pleased at his deduction.

“So, what do you think?”

“I’d say she stopped here, met someone and left with that person or persons-unknown.”

“What now?”

“If she doesn’t call or show up in twenty-four hours, she becomes a missing person.”

“She’s a missing person now,” Lewis said. “You find somebody’s car abandoned on a highway a hundred miles from her home and that somebody is also overdue after having told a friend when she expected to arrive and that somebody’s car has not failed her in any apparent way and that somebody is not missing? Is that what you’re telling me?”

The patrolman leaned against Maggie’s truck. “I understand what you’re saying and you and I are well aware that each set of circumstances is unique, but the law can’t take into account every individual case. The rule says that a party must be missing for twenty-four hours before considered missing. In some places it’s forty-eight hours.”

Lewis looked at him. “You said that very well. In the meantime, while I’m waiting for my lost friend to become missing, what do you suggest I do?”

“Go home and wait. She’s probably waiting for you.” The officer looked at the truck. “She may have heard a sound that she wasn’t familiar with, knew she couldn’t fix and didn’t bother to raise the hood.”

“She would have called.”

The patrolman shrugged.

Lewis was wishing that he had lied about how long Maggie was overdue. The younger man gave him a “keep steady” slap on the shoulder and went to his patrol car where he sat with his door open and his dome light on and used the radio. Lewis looked at the highway. The silhouette of Camel Rock stood against the lavender night sky.

The patrolman came back. “Listen, unofficially, we’re considering your friend missing. We’re keeping our eyes open, but no one is assigned to finding her. Okay?”

Lewis nodded. “Thanks.”

“We’ll just leave the car here. She might come back for it.”

Lewis got into his truck and headed home.

Lewis didn’t think there was any chance Maggie would be waiting for him. Perhaps she’d had car trouble that she recognized, like the cop said. Maybe she hitched a ride with a crazed rapist. Lewis shook his head and wondered what other kind of rapist there was. He started up the mountain. The night seemed darker than usual. Lewis had never felt so lost, so helpless. All of it was his fault, too. He parked by the corral and looked at his house. He remembered leaving a light on, but it was pitch black. He climbed the steps, opened the door and walked in. He paused, his finger on the switch to the light in the kitchen, and listened. Nothing. He turned on the light.

The phone rang and startled him. Then he ran to it. “Hello.”

“Papa?” It was Laura.

“Hi, Sweetie.”

“I’m home.”

“You made it safe and sound, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Are you doing fine?”

“Yes. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Mommy wanted me to call and tell you I got here.”

“I’m glad you did. I miss you a lot.”

“I miss you. Do you want to talk to Mommy?”

“No, I’ll talk to her later, okay? Bye, honey.” Lewis hung up. He went into his living room and sat on the sofa with his shotgun. He held the cold barrel against his face. The night was dead still, dead quiet. Lewis kept seeing in his mind the body of Martin Aguilera, naked and bloated, burns on the legs, and he could see the procession of men marching around the ugly sight of death, beating themselves, bleeding and hurting and for a second he understood, for a second would have been able to strike himself in the same manner. He took a deep breath and tried to think more useful thoughts.

Peabody was the next step. Lewis reviewed all his suspicions of the man. If he was involved in whatever was going on, then Lewis had to confront him. If the man was not a part of it, then Lewis would only make a fool of himself. He could live with that, was quite used to it.

He went to the kitchen and put on water for tea. Why had they taken Maggie? If indeed they had. Some unrelated crazy might have abducted her. The thought was no less disturbing. He fell into a chair at the table. The water boiled and the kettle whistled. Lewis cried.

Lewis managed a couple of hours of sleep. The phone remained silent in bed next to him. He showered and dressed in the morning, ate a bowl of oatmeal, dumped the horses’ trough and put in fresh water. He got out into his truck and drove down the mountain. He skidded to a stop in the dirt lot of Peabody’s office. He found the front door ajar. The assistant was not at her station. The room was dim and so Lewis opened the blinds. Peabody appeared in the doorway behind the desk.

“I thought I might be seeing you this morning,” Peabody said, stepping fully into the room.

Lewis just looked at him. He was afraid. He looked at the man’s hands to see if he was armed. He felt dumb for not having brought his shotgun.

“How is your friend Maggie?”

“You tell me.”

Peabody smiled and sat at the desk. “Please, Lewis, have a seat.”

Lewis sat on the fake-leather-covered bench.

“Yes, we have your Maggie.”

“Please don’t hurt her.”

“Whether we do is up to you, Lewis.”

Lewis looked at the man’s face. He wasn’t the same Cyril Peabody, for the eyes were cold, the face hard. “Who are you? What’s going on?”

“I don’t see that you’re entitled to any answers here. If you want your friend back, then you’ll tell me what you know about Martin Aguilera’s corpse. You told me you got a look at it. I want it.”

“I assume you had it at one point.”

“That doesn’t matter. Where is it?”

“This has something to do with the burns on him, with the squirrel, with the missing animals.”

Peabody looked at his watch. “I’m not into all these deadlines like other people, you know. We have your friend. That’s what you need to understand. And we want the old man’s body. You can tell me where it is or you can get it for me.”

“I have no idea what’s going on, but I know that I’ve seen the burns and I know that you want me dead.”