him. I'll admit I had been curious for
some time about what Chutsky was, or had been before his accidental amputations.
I knew that he had worked for some government agency which he referred to as
the OGA, but I still didn't know what that stood for.
He turned to face me obligingly. “I have friends
and sources in a lot of places,” he said. “Something like this might
have left some kind of trail somewhere else, and I could call around and find
out.” “You mean call your buddies at the OGA?” I said.
He smiled. “Something
like that,” he said. “For Christ's sake, Dexter,” Deborah said.
“OGA just means other government agency. There's no such agency, it's an
in-joke.”
“Nice to be in at
last,” I said. “And you can still get access to their files?” He
shrugged. “Technically I'm on convalescent leave,” he said.
“From doing what?” I asked. He gave me a mechanical smile. “You
don't really want to know,” he said. "The point is, they haven't
decided yet whether I'm any
fucking good anymore." He looked at the fork clamped in his steel hand,
turning his arm over to see
it move. “Shit,” he said. And because I could feel that one of those
awkward moments was upon us, I did what I could to move things back onto a
sociable footing. “Didn't you find anything at the kiln?” I asked.
“Some kind of jewelry or something?”
“What the fuck is
that?” she said. “The kiln,” I said. “Where the bodies were
burned.” “Haven't you been paying attention? We haven't found where
the bodies were burned.” “Oh,” I said. “I assumed it was
done right there on campus, in the ceramic studio.” By the suddenly frozen
look on her face, I realized that either she was experiencing massive
indigestion
or she did not know about
the ceramic studio. "It's just half a mile from the lake where the bodies
were
found,“ I said.
”You know, the kiln. Where they make pottery?" Deborah stared at me
for a moment longer, and then jumped up from the table. I thought it was a
wonderfully creative and dramatic way to end a conversation, and it took a
moment before I could do more than blink after her.
“I guess she didn't
know about that,” Chutsky said. “That's my first guess,” I said.
“Shall we follow?” He shrugged and speared the last chunk of his
steak. "I'm gonna have some flan, and a cafecita. Then I'll
get a cab, since I'm not
allowed to help," he said. He scooped up some rice and beans and nodded at
me.
“You go ahead, unless you want to walk back to
work.”
I did not, in fact, have any desire to walk back to
work. On the other hand, I still had almost half a milk shake and I did not
want to leave that, either. I stood up and followed, but I softened the blow by
grabbing the uneaten half of Deborah's sandwich and taking it with me as I
lurched out the door after her.
Soon we were rolling through the front gate of the university campus. Deborah
spent part of the ride talking on the radio and arranging for people to meet us
at the kilns, and the rest of the ride clenching her teeth and muttering.
We turned left after the gate and headed down the
winding road that leads to the ceramic and pottery area. I had taken a class in
pottery there my junior year in an effort to widen my horizons, and found out
that I was good at making very regular-looking vases but not terribly
successful at creating original works of art, at least not in that medium. In
my own area, I flatter myself that I can be creative, as I had recently
demonstrated with Zander.
Angel-no-relation was already there, carefully and patiently looking
through the first kiln for any sign of practically anything. Deborah went over
and squatted beside him, leaving me alone with the last three bites of her
sandwich. I took the first bite. A crowd was beginning to gather by the yellow
tape. Perhaps they were hoping to see something too terrible to look at: I
never knew why they gathered like that, but they always
some time about what Chutsky was, or had been before his accidental amputations.
I knew that he had worked for some government agency which he referred to as
the OGA, but I still didn't know what that stood for.
He turned to face me obligingly. “I have friends
and sources in a lot of places,” he said. “Something like this might
have left some kind of trail somewhere else, and I could call around and find
out.” “You mean call your buddies at the OGA?” I said.
He smiled. “Something
like that,” he said. “For Christ's sake, Dexter,” Deborah said.
“OGA just means other government agency. There's no such agency, it's an
in-joke.”
“Nice to be in at
last,” I said. “And you can still get access to their files?” He
shrugged. “Technically I'm on convalescent leave,” he said.
“From doing what?” I asked. He gave me a mechanical smile. “You
don't really want to know,” he said. "The point is, they haven't
decided yet whether I'm any
fucking good anymore." He looked at the fork clamped in his steel hand,
turning his arm over to see
it move. “Shit,” he said. And because I could feel that one of those
awkward moments was upon us, I did what I could to move things back onto a
sociable footing. “Didn't you find anything at the kiln?” I asked.
“Some kind of jewelry or something?”
“What the fuck is
that?” she said. “The kiln,” I said. “Where the bodies were
burned.” “Haven't you been paying attention? We haven't found where
the bodies were burned.” “Oh,” I said. “I assumed it was
done right there on campus, in the ceramic studio.” By the suddenly frozen
look on her face, I realized that either she was experiencing massive
indigestion
or she did not know about
the ceramic studio. "It's just half a mile from the lake where the bodies
were
found,“ I said.
”You know, the kiln. Where they make pottery?" Deborah stared at me
for a moment longer, and then jumped up from the table. I thought it was a
wonderfully creative and dramatic way to end a conversation, and it took a
moment before I could do more than blink after her.
“I guess she didn't
know about that,” Chutsky said. “That's my first guess,” I said.
“Shall we follow?” He shrugged and speared the last chunk of his
steak. "I'm gonna have some flan, and a cafecita. Then I'll
get a cab, since I'm not
allowed to help," he said. He scooped up some rice and beans and nodded at
me.
“You go ahead, unless you want to walk back to
work.”
I did not, in fact, have any desire to walk back to
work. On the other hand, I still had almost half a milk shake and I did not
want to leave that, either. I stood up and followed, but I softened the blow by
grabbing the uneaten half of Deborah's sandwich and taking it with me as I
lurched out the door after her.
Soon we were rolling through the front gate of the university campus. Deborah
spent part of the ride talking on the radio and arranging for people to meet us
at the kilns, and the rest of the ride clenching her teeth and muttering.
We turned left after the gate and headed down the
winding road that leads to the ceramic and pottery area. I had taken a class in
pottery there my junior year in an effort to widen my horizons, and found out
that I was good at making very regular-looking vases but not terribly
successful at creating original works of art, at least not in that medium. In
my own area, I flatter myself that I can be creative, as I had recently
demonstrated with Zander.
Angel-no-relation was already there, carefully and patiently looking
through the first kiln for any sign of practically anything. Deborah went over
and squatted beside him, leaving me alone with the last three bites of her
sandwich. I took the first bite. A crowd was beginning to gather by the yellow
tape. Perhaps they were hoping to see something too terrible to look at: I
never knew why they gathered like that, but they always
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