Percival Everett - Assumption

The lab techs from the State Police had done their jobs at both scenes. The Santa Fe Sheriff’s Department shared all they had with Ogden. Nothing usually comes to not much of anything and so it was. There were some hairs found at both scenes, a few were not from the victims, but there was not enough for a DNA match even if they had had a sample from a suspect. As usual, fingerprints offered no help. All the blood in the cabin was from the first woman and all the blood in the car, backseat, and trunk was from the second. Ogden took this hollow news along with his hollow belly upstream, driving slowly through the pass. He stopped at an overlook and stared at the gorge as it snaked north through the dark. It was nine and he still hadn’t slept.

“So, what now?” Eva Walker asked. She put a bowl of green chili and some tortillas in front of him.

“I don’t know. I keep telling all of you that I’m not cut out for this work.”

“Pshaw.”

He looked up from the food he hadn’t touched. “Pshaw? You haven’t said that for a long time.”

“Trying it out again. Shame about that young woman.”

“I guess,” Ogden said. “I’m thinking she was no Girl Scout.”

“Still,” his mother said.

“Still.”

“So, what now?” she repeated.

He looked at her. “I think that whatever reason brought those people here is still here. I don’t think they found what they were looking for. They didn’t find Fiona McDonough — rather, Carla Reynolds.”

“Aren’t you going to eat?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t.”

The old woman nodded. “You need a nap.”

“I need a nap.”

Ogden walked into what had been his bedroom growing up and stretched out across the single bed. He looked over at the table where he had tied flies when he was a boy, remembered how he’s struggled with the feathers and hair when he was learning. As difficult as it all was, he knew it would come, that he would get it. But none of this business with the bodies and the one-handed man and the missing cousin would ever come to make sense. This, he believed. He did believe, however, that whatever Caitlin, dead or not, and the man with one hand had come to find was somewhere up that mountain road. If it was important enough to kill for, it was important enough to return for. He shut his eyes and drifted off quickly.

Ogden walked into the station the next morning.

“You look like shit,” Felton said.

“I feel like shit,” Ogden said.

Bucky Paz stepped into view. “Ogden, come in here.”

Ogden followed the fat man into his office.

“Sit down. Santa Fe got an ID on the woman in the car. Her name was Carol Barelli.”

“I take it she wasn’t Irish.”

“Nope. She was Denverish. She was picked up for prostitution up there once. Still no ID on the woman in the cabin.”

“Anything on Carla Reynolds?”

“Last known address was in Chicago. The cops there checked out the address. No one there by that name.”

“Surprise, surprise.”

“Caitlin was a hooker, eh?”

“One of those on the Craig’s List.”

“Craig’s List. Guess I’m going on Craig’s List.”

Ogden sat down in front of the computer on his desk.

Felton looked over. “You on the computer? Who died?”

“A bunch of people,” Ogden said.

Ogden stared at the computer screen. “What is Craig’s List?” he asked. “I typed it in and nothing came up.”

“It’s one word,” Felton said. “No apostrophe. Haven’t you ever bought anything online?”

“As a matter of fact, I haven’t.”

“That’s where I found my car. Got a great deal. What are you looking for?”

“A prostitute.” The page came up and Ogden stared at it. He found the Denver site. He looked in the section of women seeking men and men seeking women, but that just turned out to be people in various stages of loneliness or desperation seeking friends or dates. Then he saw the word “adult” under the heading “services.” There he found not-so-veiled advertisements for prostitutes. Listings with headings like “Curl Your Toes” and “Hot to Trot” and “Your Place in Twenty Minutes” and “Cum on My Face.” Many had pictures of fairly rough-looking women, some looking like addicts, some worse, and pictures of extremely young-looking Asian women. He looked through them all, one at a time. He grew sadder with each face he saw. The rough ones looked sad enough and he could see the futures of the young ones. He was completely and thoroughly depressed by mid-morning. Then he saw the face of Carla Reynolds. The heading read, “Giving Two Heads is Better Than One.” She was posed beside another woman who was holding the camera to take their picture in a mirror. The ad said that their names were Destiny and Petra. Carol Barelli seemed to be the one called Destiny, best he could tell. There was a phone number and no address. Ogden looked around the office, feeling dirty, feeling stupid for feeling dirty, feeling silly for finding himself embarrassed to dial the number. But he did. A woman answered.

“I’m calling for Petra,” Ogden said. He asked for Petra because he believed Destiny to be dead.

“You want to make an appointment?”

“No, I would like to talk to Petra.”

The woman hung up.

“You never have had any luck with women,” Felton said.

Ogden stood and walked to Bucky’s open door. “Sheriff, I think I need to drive up to Denver.”

Bucky Paz studied his desktop. “You want to take Warren with you?”

Ogden shook his head.

“Okay, go ahead.”

Ogden stopped by his mother’s house and told her he’d be gone for a few days. Her house was frigid. “What’s going on in here?”

“I’ve got the damn thing on the lowest setting,” she said about the air conditioner. “And it’s turning the place into an icebox. I want to take it back.”

Ogden leaned over to the look at the control panel. “Well, you do have the fan on low, but you’ve got it set to its coldest.” He adjusted the knob.

“Thanks.” She led the way into the kitchen. “You want to eat before you go?”

“I’m okay.”

“Two young girls. How awful. Is that why you’re going up to Denver?”

“Yes, to see if there’s anything to find out.”

“I made some scones. They’re plain, but they’ll be good road food. Want a thermos of coffee, too?”

“Sure, thanks.”

“You’ll be careful, son?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Four scones enough?”

“That’s great.”

Warren Fragua pulled into Ogden’s yard while he was setting his bag in the back of his pickup. “I hear you’re driving all the way up to Denver for a hooker.”

“I heard that’s where they keep them.”

“I’d offer to go, but, well, you know.”

“Your wife doesn’t approve of you looking for hookers. Doesn’t she know it’s the twenty-first century?”

“She’s a prude.”

Ogden fell in behind the wheel.

“Give a call if you need help,” Warren said.

Ogden nodded.

Ogden drove north out of town and stayed on that road until he came to Interstate 25. It was only a five-hour drive, but he felt like shit by the time he arrived. It was just becoming fully dark at nine o’clock and it was starting to rain. He checked into a Motel 6, stretched out on the bed, and fell asleep for what felt like the first time in weeks.

The next morning he grabbed some of what passed for breakfast at the Waffle House next door and then drove to the Denver Police Department. It was a big city and everyone moved like it was. Still, it was Denver and his cowboy appearance didn’t seem odd to anyone. He stepped up to the desk and asked if he could speak to someone in Vice.