“Toss the pistol over the car,” a man said.
Ogden looked to find Howell, the FBI agent, standing over him. Ogden threw the gun away.
“I’ll take that list,” Howell said.
“What list?”
Howell kicked Ogden in his stomach, then again. “Don’t fuck with me, boy.”
Ogden lay against a rear tire. He looked at Fragua, watched as he blew snow away from his face. He looked up through the blizzard at Howell. There was another report and a flash. Ogden closed his eyes, thinking he’d been shot. He opened his eyes and saw Howell sprawled out on the ground. Clement was standing over him.
“Aren’t you going to kick me, too?” Ogden asked.
“No, Deputy, I’m not going to kick you. It’s over.”
“Thank god.” Ogden crawled over to Fragua. “Warren? Talk to me. Don’t pass out.”
“Next time you call, I’m staying home.”
“Good idea. Good idea.”
MY AMERICAN COUSIN
Ogden Walker looked out the tinted window of his little bullet-shaped trailer and tried to wake up fully. The shadows of the sage were still long and a few rangy rabbits were milling about. It was going to be a hot day and the bunnies were finding all they could eat before they had to seek shelter from the sun. Ogden wished he could have known what the weather would be by looking at the sky or by a smell on the wind or by noticing the behavior of hawks or ants, but instead he knew because the radio had told him. At least he knew how to switch on a radio. “Another hot one,” the crazy, joke-telling disc jockey had said, then added, “Chili tonight, hot tamale,” then howled with laughter before playing a novelty version of “Tea for Two,” a song that seemed already a novelty. He showered, dressed, and drank his morning tea-for-one while he sat on the wooden step outside his front and only door. He tossed the last of the drink out onto the ground, put his mug on the step by the door, and walked over and fell in behind the wheel of his rig. The county and the sheriff’s department had chosen to maintain its modest fleet of late-seventies Ford Broncos instead of buying new vehicles. At twenty years old, his truck still functioned moderately well and handled the ice and snow of winter especially well. The engine was a little temperamental in the summer. This hot morning it took a couple of key turns and a pumped gas pedal before the motor cranked over.
Ogden drove into Plata and parked in a diagonal space in front of the office. When he stepped inside he was greeted by the lanky desk officer, Felton.
“Good morning,” Ogden said.
“You’re half right,” Felton said.
“Late night?”
“I wish. My neighbor decided to go and get herself some peacocks.” He looked at Ogden. “You ever heard a peacock?”
Ogden shook his head.
“It’s a sound from hell. Sounds like somebody put a cat in a washing machine. She has six of them.”
Ogden tried to imagine it. “Sorry.”
“Fuck sorry. I don’t want your useless sympathy. I want you to come over and shoot the damn things.”
Ogden walked to his desk. “Why don’t you shoot them?”
“She’s my neighbor. Plus, she’s cute.”
“I see. Why don’t you ask her to move them to the far side of her property?”
Felton frowned. “They are on the far side of the property.”
“Oh.”
Bucky Paz stepped out of his office. “Ogden. Good, I’m glad you’re here. Come on in.”
Ogden walked past the big man into the room. There was a young woman sitting in the chair in front of the sheriff’s desk. He nodded hello to her and turned to face Bucky.
“Ogden, this is Caitlin Alison. Miss Alison, Deputy Walker.”
Ogden shook the woman’s hand. “Miss Alison.”
“Miss Alison here is trying to locate her cousin. She came all the way here from Ireland and can’t seem to find her.”
“What’s your cousin’s name?” Ogden asked.
“Fiona McDonough,” Bucky answered the question.
“She’s living here in Plata?”
“I don’t think so,” Caitlin said. “I don’t know. I sent letters to her general delivery to the post office in San Cristobal.”
“So, she’s up in the mountains somewhere.”
“Nobody seems to have heard of her,” Caitlin said. “I showed her picture around.”
“May I see it?”
Bucky took the photo from his desk and handed it to Ogden.
“Nobody’s seen her,” Caitlin said.
“Is Fiona from Ireland, too? Does she have an accent?”
“She’s from Minnesota. Born there. I guess she has a Minnesota accent.”
“Point taken,” Ogden said. “I hope my accent isn’t too hard on your ears. Does she have family there still?”
“Her mother.”
“Where in Minnesota?” Ogden asked.
“Minneapolis.”
Bucky shook Caitlin’s hand. “The deputy will find your cousin. He’s my best officer.”
Ogden offered Bucky a quizzical look that went ignored.
“Miss Alison, let’s take a ride.”
In the car, Ogden apologized. He pumped the gas pedal and turned the key again. “When it’s run for a while, it’s fine. There’s no air conditioner. You won’t notice it until about noon. That’s when you’ll start swearing.”
“You mean sweating?”
“No, I mean swearing.”
“I’ve been warned,” Caitlin said. “Please call me Caitlin.”
“Ogden.”
He drove them north. They crested a hill and he pointed at the view. “I never get tired of this. What’s your cousin doing here?”
“She wrote me that she wanted to live someplace beautiful for a while. And different.”
“She picked the right place.”
“She loves it here.”
Ogden nodded. “Is there a man in the picture?”
Caitlin said nothing.
“Or a woman? People sometimes go to a brand-new place to be alone. Most often there’s another person.”
“She didn’t mention anyone.”
Ogden nodded.
“I think she would have said if there was a man.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Ogden said. “We’ll find her and you two can catch up and I can go back to chasing speeders.”
Ogden turned his attention to the road. He tried to formulate a strategy for when they reached the hamlet of San Cristobal. They’d go to the post office, of course, but after that? There was no town center. San Cristobal had only one small shop, a snack shop that sold a few curios, attached to a compound of rental cabins. It was not a wealthy place like Angel Fire or even Eagle Nest. It wasn’t trendy like Taos. There were a couple of houses on the road that led up to the D. H. Lawrence Ranch owned by the university, but not much else.
The post office was a long, narrow trailer with a ramped boardwalk that led from the gravel parking yard to the door set far off-center. A peeling decal of the USPS eagle was the only mark on the fiberglass outer wall.
“Everyone gets their mail general delivery up here,” Ogden said as they got out of the car.
Caitlin looked at him.
“They come here to collect their mail. No carriers.”
“I understand.”
They walked over the weathered boards to the door. Inside, a tall, thin man with a long gray ponytail stood poking through a pile of letters on a table. Ogden prided himself on knowing most people in the area, but he couldn’t remember this man’s face and so certainly couldn’t recall a name.
“How do,” the postman said.
Ogden nodded. “I’m Ogden Walker.” He shook the man’s hand.