Percival Everett - Assumption

“What was it about then?”

“That, I don’t know. Power, maybe. You know what, Mom?”

“What’s that?”

“People scare me.”

“They should, son.”

Ogden was pressing his way through brush along the Red River. The Red was a river in name only, being little more than ten feet at its widest, where he stood. In the spring the river could seem pretty formidable near its confluence with the Rio Grande, but it was late summer now, August, and the water was low. No one was fishing where Ogden now prowled and this occurred to him as his reason for being there. Up here in this low water there might be a good-sized trout in a pool or holed up behind a boulder, but mostly there were little trout, cagey and easily spooked. He crawled through dry weeds and cast from behind cover. He was using tiny size 22 midges and cinnamon ants bounced off the grassy bank and having pretty good luck, catching one and putting it back before sneaking up on another spot. He hiked back out after a few hours and drove south to the trout hatchery. There he sat on a grassy hill and ate his Stilton cheese sandwich. He stood there and stared down at the parking lot of fish. He finally settled on a gentle slope to have a bite. He watched a man and a boy standing on the pedestrian bridge over the fish ladder about thirty yards away.

“Hey, Deputy,” a man said, sitting down on the ground beside Ogden. It was Terrence Lowell, a game and fish patrolman.

“Terry.”

“How’s business?”

“Slow, thank god.”

“You don’t believe in god,” Terry said.

“How do you know?”

“Your shoes. They’re on the correct feet.”

Ogden laughed. “Well, we’re the only two nonbelievers in this county, you know.”

“I’d bet there’s another one.”

“You mean the Protestant guy over in Arroyo Hondo.”

Terry stared at the man and the boy. “How long have those two been standing there?”

“They were there when I got here. That makes it at least half an hour. The man has been back to his pickup a couple, maybe three, times.”

Terry nodded. Ogden ate the rest of his lunch. Another ten minutes passed.

“You went to the warden academy in Texas, didn’t you?” Ogden asked.

“Yep. Austin.”

“Then why are you here? I don’t mean that in a rude way.”

“Because that was Texas and this is New Mexico. What about you? Where’d you get your so-called training?”

“United States Army military police, I’m ashamed to say.”

“Why’s that?”

“People can say all they want about supporting the troops to make themselves feel better about having other people fight and do their dying for them, but the army is not full of our best and brightest. That just ain’t so.”

“You don’t sound so very patriotic.”

“Hitler was patriotic.”

Terry watched the man and boy again.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Terry said. He got up and walked off toward the fish ladder.

Ogden watched the big game-cop slowly cover the forty yards. Then he had a thought that he should follow, so he did. When the man on the bridge saw Terry approaching he put his hand on the boy’s back and guided him toward the other side of the bridge and the parking area. Terry broke into a trot. He caught up to the pair before either could climb into the cab of the red dually pickup. By the time Ogden walked to them, Terry had the man in handcuffs.

“What’s up?” Ogden asked.

“Got us a poacher.” Terry reached into the bed of the truck and flipped off the lid of a large Styrofoam ice chest. In it were at least ten good-sized trout.

Ogden studied the fish. “How?”

Terry pointed the man’s left leg. “Looky here.” He pulled a line at the top of the man’s waistband; the hook at the other end of it caught the bottom of the pant leg and yanked it up a couple of inches. “He was pulling fish up through his pants and walking them back here.”

“How’d you know?” Ogden asked.

“You catch bandits and speeders. I catch poachers. What I was trained by the state of Texas to do.”

“Still.”

“He left the kid alone too many times. Plus he limped only when he walked away.” Terry laughed. “Trouser trout.”

“You taking him in?”

“He’s got fish from a hatchery. That’s a serious offense.” Terry took the man’s wallet out of his back pocket. “Conrad Hempel. Well, Mr. Hempel, looks like this just isn’t your day.”

“You’re forgetting one minor detail,” Ogden said.

“What’s that?”

“The minor.”

Terry looked at the boy. He was standing next to the wide wheel well. “How old are you, son?” Terry asked.

“Eleven.”

“This here your father?”

“My uncle.”

“Where’s your father?”

“He’s at home.”

Terry looked at Ogden. “The deputy here will drive you home. You know where you live?”

“Of course I know where I live.”

“And where’s that?” Ogden asked.

“Eagle Nest.”

Ogden closed his eyes and slowly shook his head. It would take him at least two hours to get the kid home and then get back to Plata. By then it would be four and his day off would be over, more or less. “What’s your name?”

“Willy.”

“Willy Hempel?”

“No. My name is Willy Yates.”

“And you live in Eagle Nest.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Is there anyone at your house?” Ogden asked. “Are either your mother or father at home?”

“I got no mother.”

“What about your father?”

“I don’t know,” the boy said.

Ogden considered the prospect of driving all the way to Eagle Nest and finding either that the boy had no idea where he lived or his father was not there and nowhere to be found.

“You sure you want to run him in?” Ogden said. “Can’t you just cite him and get this over with?”

“What he said,” the man in cuffs said.

“I wish I could, but you know about the initiative to cut down poaching,” Terry said.

Ogden regarded the boy for a second. “Do you know your phone number?”

The boy shook his head.

Ogden looked at the uncle. “Do you know his father’s phone number? His address?”

“No and no.”

“Then where’d you pick up the boy?” Ogden asked.

“I know where the boy’s house is. That don’t mean I know the address.”

Ogden looked at the boy again. He seemed sort of small for eleven, but he had a big and somewhat annoying attitude. Ogden was pretty sure he disliked that. He was absolutely sure he didn’t like the fact that he was now responsible for Willy Yates.

Ogden took down Hempel’s information from his driver’s license. “Is this your current address?” The man said yes. “You live way down near Embudo?”

“That’s where my house is at.”

“And you picked up this boy in Eagle Nest when?”

“This morning.”

“Why?”

“Because his daddy had something to do.”

“What relationship is the boy’s father to you?”

“None.”

Ogden looked at Terry.

“Then how is it that you’re the boy’s uncle??”

“Because my sister is his mama.”

“Then the father is your brother-in-law,” Terry said. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

“He ain’t married to my sister.”

“Oh.”

“Where’s the boy’s mother?” Ogden asked.

“She moved to Lancaster, Pennsylvania, with some religious biker dude.”

“What’s the father’s name?” Ogden asked.

“Derrick Yates.”

“How did he call you to pick up the boy?”

“He didn’t call me. I just stopped by and he said for me to watch Billy.”