Percival Everett - Assumption

Her story was the same as well. “No Yates boy here.”

“Do you have any relatives in the state?”

“Nope.”

“Do you know any other Yateses besides the man I just talked to?”

“Nope.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Are you married?” she asked. She raked her dirty blond hair from her face and settled her eyes on him.

“No, ma’am.”

“Would you like to be married?”

“Pardon me?”

“I have a daughter.”

“Thank you, ma’am, but I’m not looking for a wife.”

“Shame.”

Ogden sat in his rig with the door open. The wind was picking up and, just as his mother had predicted, he felt a change in the air. Dusk was coming on. There would be no snow, but his trailer would feel like an icebox in the morning. Right now, though, he had to face the fact that he’d lost the boy. A lot of bad information from the kid and the so-called uncle had left him with nothing to go on. He called in.

“Sheriff wants to talk to you,” Felton said.

“All right.”

“Ogden?”

“Just what time did you say you saw Terry Lowell up at the hatchery?”

“I left him there at about one, I guess.”

“And he was okay, in control of the situation?”

“He had the guy cuffed. Why?”

“He didn’t report in. Fishery guy found his truck in the lower lot. There was blood on the seats, front and back.”

“Everything seemed okay when I left.”

“Well, come on back.”

“On my way.”

When Ogden walked into the station he felt as if the room was spinning. He wasn’t quite dizzy, but he really could not find the floor with his feet. Felton was at his usual place at the desk and Bucky Paz was standing behind him in the middle of the room with another man. Ogden recognized him as from Game and Fish, but didn’t remember his name. There was also a uniformed state policeman there.

“Have you found Terry?” Ogden asked.

“No,” the state cop said to Ogden. “Have you heard anything from him?”

“No.” Ogden found the man’s question off-putting, especially given that he had just inquired about the man.

“You want to tell us what happened this morning?” the same man asked.

Now Ogden was certain he didn’t like the man’s tone, recognizing it as accusatory. He looked at the crew cut and he thought about the sergeants he’d never liked in the army and then felt the weight of his present uniform, felt suddenly uncomfortable and so unhappy. “Like I told Bucky, Terry decided to arrest a man for poaching. The man’s name was Conrad Hempel. He was with a boy he claimed was his nephew. The boy told me his name was Willy Yates. Neither Hempel nor the boy knew the boy’s father’s address. Terry told me I had to take the boy. So, I brought him down here.”

“And where is the boy now?” the Fish and Game man said.

“He slipped out,” Ogden said.”

“Did you talk to the boy?” the state cop asked Bucky.

“I was in my office,” Bucky said.

The state cop looked at Felton. “I didn’t see him.”

“Were you out of the office?”

“I was sitting right here.”

“But you saw Deputy Walker.”

“Yeah, I seen Walker.”

“But no boy.”

“Could have been a boy,” Felton said.

“But you didn’t see him.”

Felton looked at Ogden, almost apologetically. “No.”

“What’s going on?” Ogden asked.

“They found Terry,” Bucky said. “He’s dead. They found him a hundred yards downstream of the hatchery.”

Ogden felt a wave of nausea that faded quickly.

“He was shot,” the state cop said. “Two times in the chest. May I see your weapon, please?”

Ogden removed his pistol from his holster and handed it grip first to the man.

“A Sig P226. Nice weapon.”

Ogden nodded.

The cop pulled back the slide and sniffed the ejection port. He looked at Bucky and at the Fish and Game man. “When was the last time you discharged this pistol?”

“A couple of weeks ago on the range,” Ogden said.

“You cleaned it?”

“I always clean it after I use it.”

“It’s dirty right now.”

“What do you mean it’s dirty?” Ogden asked.

“It’s been fired, Deputy.”

“That’s not possible.”

“It’s been fired.”

Ogden found a chair and sat down.

“Tell us about this boy,” Bucky said.

“Willy Yates, eleven years old. Looked eleven. Light brown, maybe blond hair, blue eyes. He was wearing a striped T-shirt and jeans, sneakers.”

“What about this Hempel?”

“Average. Maybe six feet. He had a tattoo on his, um, right arm, I think. I don’t remember of what. Receding hairline. Light-colored hair as well.” Ogden stared at the floor. “Terry.”

“What about him?” the cop asked.

“Nothing,” Ogden said. “I can’t believe it.” He looked up to see the state cop putting his pistol into a plastic evidence bag. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“Does it look like I’m joking, Deputy Walker?”

“Why would I shoot Terry?”

“You tell me.”

Ogden looked at Bucky. The fat man looked scared, helpless. “Am I under arrest?”

The cop looked at the sheriff. “Will he run?”

Bucky shook his head.

The cop looked back at Ogden. “You better not run. You’re not under arrest, but I’ll have the ballistics back tomorrow morning and then things might be just a little different.”

The Fish and Game man and the state cop walked out without another word or glance at Ogden or Bucky. Ogden looked at Felton and then at the sheriff. “What the fuck just happened?”

Bucky shrugged.

“I’m going to go grab some coffee,” Felton said. He wouldn’t look at Ogden’s eyes.

“You didn’t see the boy?” Ogden asked him.

“I’m sorry, Ogden.” Felton left.

“Bucky, what am I supposed to do?”

“You need to find that boy or Hempel or both.”

“Okay. That’s what I’ll do.”

“And you’re not going to run,” Bucky said, but it was more of a question.

Ogden looked at him. He was a little disappointed, but he understood. “I’ll find them.”

Bucky turned and walked back into his office, closed his door. Ogden sat at his desk and turned on his computer. He was clumsy with the thing, but what he had to do was simple. Check the DMV and the phone book. There were three Hempels in New Mexico with a license to operate a motor vehicle. All women. Two of them over sixty, one was thirty-one, all three living down in Albuquerque. Ogden called all three and described Conrad and all three claimed to know nothing and he, unfortunately, believed them. There were two more in the phone book, one man in Raton and the other man down in Pilar. He called the man in Raton and it turned out he had died six months earlier. The last man was listed as Cyril Hempel. Ogden called and there was no answer. Pilar was even smaller than Eagle Nest, wedged in the Rio Grande Gorge, a place where you had to look up to look out. It was also close to Embudo and so it was his first choice of a place to look anyway.

Ogden’s sometime partner Warren Fragua walked into the station. “What’s shaking, cowboy?” he said.

Ogden leaned back in his chair and stared at his screen.

“Cold out there,” Warren said.

“Bucky call you?”

“Yep.”

Ogden nodded.

“Sounds bad.”

“Feels bad. Must be bad.” Ogden leaned forward in his chair and held his face in his hands.

“What can I do?”

“I don’t know, Warren. I just don’t know.” Warren stood and walked to the window, looked out at the darkness. “If I hadn’t told it so many times to myself and others, I’d give you an account of everything that’s happened.”