Percival Everett - Assumption

“Any identification?” Ogden asked.

“None. Felton is going through all the missing persons reports from the state, Colorado, and Arizona.”

“I’ll call Texas,” Warren said.

“Do you know how many people go missing every day?” Felton said. “It’s a lot more than you’d think. I mean missing the official twenty-four hours.”

“I need to call Minnesota,” Ogden said. “Where’s Caitlin?”

“I drove her back to her motel,” Paz said.

“Bucky, did you ever get a look at her ID?”

Paz paused to look out the window. “Never thought to ask,” he said. “Funny about that. What are you thinking?”

“Nothing. All I know is I need to call Fiona McDonough’s family and get some sense of what’s going on. That blue Bug is the car that Olivia Mendez saw Fiona driving.”

“Drive on over and get the numbers right now. And check her damn ID. I feel like a big fat fool. I really do hate this job.” Paz walked back into his office and shut the door.

Ogden drove directly to the motel. He stopped at the desk and asked for Caitlin’s room number.

“She was in unit seven,” the clerk said.

“What do you mean was? ” he asked.

“I mean she was in unit seven and now she ain’t,” the short, balding man said. He stroked the tabby cat that slept on the counter. “She checked out.”

“When?”

“Ten minutes ago.”

Ogden looked out the window at the street.

“Drove off with her boyfriend.”

“What boyfriend?”

“You’re not a very good detective, are you? She left with the guy she come with. Been here the whole time.”

“What does he look like?” Ogden asked.

“Normal enough looking fellow. About your height. White guy. Light brown hair. Blue eyes.”

“Did they leave in a car?”

“They did.”

“Can you describe it?” Ogden asked.

“Light blue Honda Civic. Tan interior.”

Ogden was writing everything down now. “Anything else?”

The clerk looked at his desk. “California plate, 5QTH769. I think it was a rental.”

“Thanks.” Ogden turned to leave.

“Did I mention he had only one hand?”

Ogden shook his head. “No, you failed to mention that. Which one did he have?”

“The left one.”

“Was the rest of him there?” Ogden asked.

“Far as I could see.”

“Did he have a prosthetic of any kind? A hook?”

“Nope. His nub was covered with a sock.”

“A sock.”

“A white tube sock,” the clerk said, nodding.

“Any other little details you want to share with me before I start out again?”

“That’s it.”

Bucky Paz couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He shook his head the whole time Ogden was speaking. Warren Fragua stood at the window and peered out at the night. His stomach growled.

“I’ll second that,” Paz said. The sheriff looked at Ogden. “Felton is out there checking the plate. It’s not your fault, Ogden. It’s mine. Never try to be a nice guy; that’s the lesson here.”

Felton came into office. “The motel man was right, the license plate was from a rental car,” he said. “The plate came from a place called Dave Delmonte’s Rent-a-Ride in San Juan Capistrano, California. Except that the car with that plate is suppose to be a yellow Ford Focus.”

Paz twirled around in his office chair. “Probably got a trunk full of plates. Okay, Felton, call Minnesota and see what you can dig up on Fiona McDonough.

“And,” Felton said, “the Volkswagen is registered to a Christopher Banks in Santa Fe.”

“The cabin?” Ogden asked.

“Owned by a retired doctor in Dallas, named Douglass. His wife told me he hasn’t been up there in seven years.”

“You believe her?” Paz asked.

Felton nodded. “She says he’s had a couple of strokes.”

“Did you ask her if they ever let anybody use the cabin?” Ogden asked.

“I did and she said they didn’t.”

“Okay, Ogden, you see what you can dig up on Caitlin Alison. Check the Irish consulate, the State Department, Google her.”

“Well, good luck on that,” Ogden said. “Might as well run a check on Princess Leia.”

Felton left the room.

Bucky stood and came around the desk, sat his wide bottom on the edge of it, pounded his thigh with a fist. “I’m a fat old man who doesn’t like mysteries. You two can’t stop me from eating a cheesecake in the next hour, but you can go figure this out and help me sleep at night. So, get out there and show me how smart you are.”

“No pressure,” Fragua said.

“A shitload of pressure,” the sheriff said.

Warren followed Ogden out and to the front door. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“Back up to that cabin,” Ogden said. “I’m going to turn it upside down and see what I can find.”

“Don’t mess it up for the lab guys.”

Ogden shook his head. “You know better than I do that they won’t find anything.”

“Want me to come with you?” Warren asked.

Ogden shook his head. “One of us ought to get some rest. Besides, you’ve got a wife and a kid. I’ve got a dog and a bonsai. Which reminds me, will you stop by and feed my dog?”

“You got it. Purina and one of your power bars, right?”

“Just the Purina.”

Ogden drove through the dark back to Questa, past the now-deserted diner where he’d had lunch with Caitlin or whatever her name was, and up the treacherous dirt lane, which was at least somewhat less muddy by now. Had it not been for the reflective tape he and Fragua had left stretched all around he might not have found the cabin in the dark. He grabbed his flashlight and went first to the blue Bug. He looked at the flathead screwdriver all by itself in the glove box, then at the folded blue tarp and spare in the forward boot. He wore gloves and found himself trying to disturb things as little as possible, in deference to science. He peeked under the mat on the driver’s side; there was none on the passenger side. There was dried mud on the backseat. He shone his light on it. It was white clay.

Inside the house, he was even more lost. Everything was like it should be in a cabin that had been forgotten for seven years. It was a nice enough place, he thought, wondered how much the old man in Texas might want for it. Especially now that it had been the scene of a homicide. He looked through the cupboards, the medicine cabinet, the closet that didn’t have a door but a blanket stapled to a dowel. There was nothing in the closet but some fishing gear, including a vintage Gary Howells bamboo rod. For a second Ogden toyed with the idea that people were killing over the rod. He put it all back and walked around the cabin again, trying to stay on his own tracks, again in deference to the techs who would be coming up at some point. He went back outside into the muggy dark. His flashlight was less useful out there, the beam diffusing into the trees and mist. He walked the perimeter of the house, then widened his circle until he was weaving through the fir trees. About twenty meters, back into the trees directly behind the cabin, he found a woman’s black and tan leather handbag.

The bag contained a hairbrush, a set of house keys, a car key for a Volkswagen, and a vinyl wallet complete with twenty-seven dollars and an Illinois driver’s license. The name on the license was Carla Reynolds. The picture on the license looked nothing like the woman whom he found, who had just died, but in fact looked very much like the photograph of Fiona McDonough that Caitlin Alison had waved in his face. The key did fit the Bug parked in front of the cabin.

As Ogden drove down the mountain he told everything to Paz over the radio.

The sheriff listened, but said nothing