Percival Everett - Assumption

“You don’t have to think that,” Barry said. “You might choose to think it, but you don’t have to. It might even be your fault, but you don’t have to think it.”

Ogden nodded. “I suppose none of the neighbors saw anything.”

Barry didn’t even bother responding to that comment. “A neighbor did call it in. Good thing she did. She would have died.”

“Jesus.”

“So, tell me, you have any luck tracking down this guy?”

“None. Of course it’s only been a day. Give me a few hundred more and I’m sure I’ll just bump into him on the street.”

“What time did you talk to her?” Barry asked.

“A little after ten thirty.”

“Maybe you should lay off,” she said.

Ogden listened to her words, her tone. “Do you really think that?” he asked.

“I’m required to say it. Doesn’t mean I think it.”

Ogden nodded. He glanced back in at the woman on the table. “I don’t even know her name.”

“Ivy Stiles.”

“What would you do, Detective?”

“I don’t know.”

“There’s a woman out there someplace who is dead or maybe she’s going to be dead. Her name is Carla Reynolds. Carol Barelli tricked me into looking for her and now you might say I’m hooked.”

Barry didn’t say anything.

“I don’t think I can let this go. I’m no detective, but I don’t think I can let it go.”

“Don’t get hurt,” she said.

“That’s my plan, anyway.” Ogden took a breath. “I can tell you what Ivy in there told me. She told me that Carol was involved in a scam. She told me that the one-handed man is named Hicks. She told me that he goes to a place called the Plank. I went there and learned that there is a place called the Plank and that’s about it.”

In the hospital parking lot, Ogden called Bucky Paz and told him everything he knew and didn’t know.

“You can come on home whenever you want,” Paz said. It was both a suggestion that Ogden return and permission to stay.

“Ask Warren to find out anything he can about the cabin, the people who own it, the doctor and his wife.”

“On it.”

“Thanks.”

Ogden closed the phone. Then things went black.

Ogden came to with his head against what he knew immediately was the ridged metal bed of a pickup truck or back of a van. The vehicle was moving. He tried to sit up, but his hands were bound behind his back and his ankles were duct-taped together. The back of his head pounded. He lay still and tried to assess his situation. He could smell the rubber of the spare tire, grease, gun oil, and cigarette smoke. He could hear the clicking of a stone that had gotten lodged in a tire’s tread. The engine was misfiring in one or two cylinders. They were in town, stopping at lights. The driver was slow on the clutch and so the ride was jerky. Finally he heard someone speak.

“I don’t know what the fuck we’ve got him for. What’s he know?” a man said.

“Maybe he found out something,” a second man said.

Ogden struggled to sit up and did. He looked forward at the two men, one driving, the other sitting in the passenger seat. There was no one else. There were no windows in the back of the van. He could see the bright glow of street lamps and fast-food restaurant signs through the glass up front, the arches of a McDonald’s, a Midas Muffler shop.

“He’s a cop,” the driver said.

“He’s a dumbass deputy from New-fucking-Mexico.”

Ogden wasn’t offended. Given his situation, he was in complete agreement with the passenger’s description of the deputy all tied up in the back.

“I want that money,” the passenger said. “If I don’t get that money, then I’m a dead man.”

Ogden looked around the bay. He could not see much in the dark. But he could see that he had access to the door. If he’d had hands, getting out would have been an easy-enough matter. The floor was cluttered with cans and empty cups and some tools. None of the tools was useful and everything else promised to make too much noise if moved.

The van was stopped at a red light. Ogden could hear traffic outside. This was his chance, he thought, even though he wanted to listen in case they said something interesting. But then he remembered that people never said anything interesting, especially when they already knew their story.

He threw his body at the back doors. He made a lot of noise and failed to grab the handle with his hands behind him. The passenger turned to see Ogden and then moved toward him. Ogden saw the tube-sock-covered nub. He gripped a hammer in his left hand. Ogden pushed himself up and back with his bound feet and slammed into the door. He felt a sharp pain in the small of his back as the door handle jabbed him, but it went down. The doors opened and Ogden fell out as the van lurched forward. He hit the pavement hard and looked up to see headlights shining in his face. He closed his eyes, then looked forward, hoping to catch the license plate of the van. The bright lights had blinded him and now all he could see were green afterimages. He lay back and waited for people to run to him and make a fuss and save his life. He closed his eyes. He could feel blood in his mouth. He was pretty certain his left shoulder was dislocated, if not broken. His tailbone was at least bruised. He’d been banged up worse, but not for a long while. He listened to the voices around him while they waited for help, none of them thinking to untie him.

The doctor was just pulling away from Ogden when Detective Barry stepped into the room. Ogden was sitting on the examination table in his underwear. His left arm was in a sling.

“Lucky man,” the doctor said.

“We already had this conversation,” Ogden said.

“I was talking to her.” The doctor walked out.

“So was I,” Ogden called after him. He looked at Barry. “We’re going to have to stop meeting here or people will talk.”

“Let ’em talk,” she said. “You okay?”

“Better than I might be.”

“What happened?”

“Just like I told the officer. Don’t you hate hearing that line? I got whacked on the head, tossed into the back of a van, then fell out onto a busy street.”

“I hate it when that happens.”

“ ‘No concussion,’ they say. I don’t believe them.”

“How would you tell?”

“Funny.”

“At least you get to wear that enormous bandage on your head,” Barry said.

Ogden reached up and touched the wrapping. “I did get hit pretty hard, I guess. Hit it again when I fell out the van.”

“What now?” she asked.

“Well, I know it’s about money.” Ogden laughed. “Told you I’m a sleuth.”

“How’s the arm?”

“Dislocated. Looks worse than it is. My ass hurts like a son of a bitch. It hurts worse than it looks.”

“So you say.”

“Are you flirting with me, Detective Barry?”

“My husband and two sons wouldn’t approve if I were.”

“Well, I can’t tell you anything helpful. But would you mind if I talked to Ivy again?”

“I’ll ask her.”

Ogden was in his room at the Motel 6. He’d filled a plastic bag with ice, stuck it in a pillowcase, and was holding it to his head while he talked on the phone.

“Time to head home,” Bucky Paz said. “Sounds like you were lucky to get out of this in one piece.”

“Not yet,” Ogden said. “And don’t say anything to my mother.”

Bucky sighed. “You need anything?”

“Nothing I can think of.”

“Warren’s on his way.”

“What?”

“He got on a bus an hour ago. He’ll be there in the morning.”

“Jesus.”

“His idea. If nothing else, he can help you drive back.”

“I wish I could tell you I know more than I did the last time we talked. Anything on the doctor in Dallas?”