Percival Everett - Assumption

Paz rustled some papers on his desk, paused, and ate something crunchy. “Sorry, carrot stick,” he said. “Here it is. Doctor Terrence Douglass, seventy-one years old, BA Rice, MD from University of Texas, 1968. Wife’s name is Leslie, sixty-five, maiden name Ortega. No children. Well, no children together; wife has a daughter, Christina.”

“Where’s the daughter?”

“Don’t know.”

Ogden met Warren Fragua at the Greyhound station the next morning at six. He looked like he’d been on a bus.

“That was hell,” Warren said.

“Thanks for coming,” Ogden said.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’ve felt better.”

“You look like shit.”

“That helps, thanks.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

“How bad is that arm?”

“I don’t really need this sling, but it gets me sympathy from the waitress at the Waffle House.”

“Works for me.”

“You’re not going to ask about my head?” Ogden put his hand to the bandage.

“No, I don’t think so.”

Ogden laughed.

“Where to?” Warren asked.

“Hospital.”

Detective Barry met Ogden at the hospital, at the desk of the ward where Ivy Stiles had been put. Ogden introduced her to Warren.

“You going in with me?” Ogden asked Barry.

“Yeah, I think that’s best.”

Ogden nodded. “How is she? Have you been in there yet?”

“I have. She looks pretty bad and I’m sure she hurts all over, but she’s not going to die. She knows that. She knows there’s a guard stationed at her door.”

“That make her feel good or bad?” Ogden asked.

“Both, I think. I haven’t asked anything. I was waiting for you.” She waited for Ogden to look at her. “Professional courtesy.”

“Thank you.”

Ogden followed Barry into the room. Ivy did look bad. The right side of her face was completely bandaged. The left side sagged, with exhaustion perhaps, maybe fear, maybe injury; it was difficult to tell.

“Hello, Ivy,” Ogden said. “I suppose you remember me.”

Ivy stared at him with her working, uncovered eye. She tried unsuccessfully to rearrange herself on the two pillows behind her.

“I’m sorry this happened,” Ogden said.

She looked at the bandage on Ogden’s head and at his sling. “Me too, I guess.”

“Do you feel like answering two or three or twenty questions?” Ogden asked.

Ivy looked at Detective Barry, maybe because she wanted her there, maybe because she didn’t, but Barry remained.

“She’s my friend,” Ogden said. “Where’s Petra?”

“Dead.”

Ogden looked at Barry.

“I’ll start writing this down,” the detective said.

“You mean dead dead, as in no longer alive dead?” Ogden asked.

“Yes.”

“Start at the beginning.”

“That’s not a question,” Ivy said.

“Would you mind starting at the beginning?”

“Carol, Petra, Carla, and Tina decided they were going to rip off One Hand. Petra found out that they collected all the money from the drugs and the pimping once a week. Like three hundred thousand or something crazy like that. They had this whole plan and it went bad, I guess. They killed Petra right there.”

“Where is ‘right there’?” Barry asked.

“I don’t know. Some house.”

Ogden showed Ivy the picture from the Illinois driver’s license he’d found.

“Carla,” Ivy said.

He showed her a photo of the dead woman from the cabin.

“That’s Tina.”

“You have a last name for Tina?”

“No, I don’t know. It was something Spanish.”

“So, they killed Petra at the house. What next?”

“One Hand caught Carol that night and they went chasing after the money. That really is all I know. Then you showed up and then that asshole One Hand came to tell me not to talk to you.”

“One Hand’s name is Hicks? Is that right?” Ogden asked.

“I think so. I don’t know his first name.”

“Do you know the names of any of his boys?” Ogden asked.

Ivy shook her head.

“Is One Hand your pimp?” Ogden asked.

“Not exactly. He comes around and shakes a lot of us down now and then.”

“Why weren’t you in on the robbery?”

Ivy laughed softly. “You saw me. I’m a goddamn drug addict. The girls didn’t want me fucking things up. I guess I might as well have been there.”

“Don’t wish something like that,” Ogden said. “You’d probably be dead now.”

“I’m talking to you. You know what that means, don’t you? I’m probably dead anyway.”

“Where are you from?” Detective Barry asked.

“Portland.”

“When you’re out of here, you’ll be on a plane to Portland.”

“I don’t want to go to Portland,” Ivy said.

“Where then?”

“St. Louis. I know somebody in St. Louis.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks, Ivy,” Ogden said.

Ivy looked out the window.

Out in the corridor, Barry took a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, but didn’t take one out. “Some story.”

“A bloodbath.”

“I guess I’m supposed to find Petra’s body and arrest Hicks and clean up the rest of this town before sundown,” Barry said.

“Pretty much. Maybe after you feed the kids.”

“What about you?”

“Same as before,” Ogden said. “I’m trying to find Carla Reynolds before Hicks does. Maybe not everybody has to die.”

“This messiah thing of yours — you in training or just your natural disposition?”

“Disposition, I guess.”

“Good luck, Deputy.”

Ogden found Warren in the commissary. He was eating a chile relleno that he’d heated in a microwave.

“You know, this isn’t bad,” Warren said.

“It looks awful.”

Warren laughed. “So do I, but my wife loves me.”

Ogden stared at the food. “I’ll be right back.”

Ogden ran back to the elevator and rode it back to Ivy’s floor. He walked back into her room.

Ivy’s head was still turned toward the window. He eyes were closed and she was perhaps about to fall asleep.

“Ivy?”

“Yes?”

“I have just one more question for you. Could Tina’s last name have been Ortega?”

“That sounds right,” Ivy said.

“Thank you. Sorry to wake you. Get some rest.”

Ogden rejoined Warren by the truck.

“I don’t like the look on your face,” Warren said. “I have a feeling we’re not driving home.”

“Nope.”

“Where?”

“Dallas.”

“Texas?”

“Yes, Texas,” Ogden said.

“That’s a long way,” Warren said. He shook his head and looked at his watch. “What is it? A thousand miles?”

“It’s 880.”

“Well, then let’s get going, seeing as it’s just an afternoon drive. You pack your bathing suit?”

“It’s nine hours. If we leave now we’ll be there around noon tomorrow. Sorry about this.”

“Can you even drive with that arm?”

Ogden took off the sling. “Yes.”

It was mid-afternoon when they rolled into Salina, Kansas.

Ogden was just waking. He lifted his hat from his eyes and adjusted to the bright sun. “Wow,” he said. “Where are we?”

“Salina,” Warren said. “You were out.”

“How long?”

“Three hours.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Aren’t we looking to go south from here at some point?” Warren asked.

“Yeah, Interstate 135.” The sign for the highway appeared just as Ogden said it. “There.”

“So you really think the last girl is alive?” Warren said, taking the exit.

Ogden shrugged. “I hope so.”

“You know my wife thinks you’re smart and my daughter thinks you’re cute. They both believe you can do no wrong.”