Free Assumption by Percival Everett Page A

holes, two or so feet deep and the same across.
    “This is creepy,” Fragua said.
    “You think?”
    “Somebody’s looking for something?”
    Ogden said nothing. He wended his way through the holes and mounds.
    “What do you say we get out of here?” Fragua asked.
    “Okay.”
    They walked back along the logging road, then cut cross country back to the trail. The sky remained clear. The air was cold.
    “I have a question,” Fragua said. “To whom do we tell what?”
    “That’s a damn good question.”
    Ogden dropped off Fragua at his house, then drove home. There was a sedan parked in his front yard. There were two men in suits under open parkas knocking on his door. They turned as he set his brake and stepped out.
    “Help you?” Ogden asked.
    “You Deputy Walker?”
    “I am.”
    “I’m Special Agent Clement and this is Special Agent Howell.”
    Howell nodded.
    “Special agents,” Ogden said, weighing the words.
    “We’re the FBI,” Howell said. He was the taller man.
    “FBI,” Ogden repeated.
    “We’d like to talk to you, “ Clement said.
    “And so here you are,” Ogden said. He stepped past them, turned the knob, and opened the door. “I never lock it.”
    The men followed him inside.
    Howell zipped up his parka.
    “Have a seat,” Ogden said.
    The men sat at the little kitchen table.
    “So, what can I tell you about what?” Ogden asked.
    “Emma Bickers.”
    “I’m going to make some tea,” Ogden said. “You want some tea?”
    They said they didn’t.
    “Mrs. Bickers,” Ogden said. “You know she’s dead.”
    “Yes,” Clement said. “We read in the report that you recognized a dead man from another recent murder as someone you’d seen in a photograph belonging to Emma Bickers.”
    Ogden turned the flame on under the kettle.
    “That man was an FBI agent. His name was Terry Knoll.”
    “I see.”
    “Knoll was undercover. We hadn’t heard from him in a month and some days,” Clement said.
    “Okay. What do you want from me?”
    “Anything you can think of,” Clement said. Ogden looked at Howell. “Do you have the photograph?”
    “It’s in the file,” Ogden said.
    Clement looked at Howell, then said, “Cowboy, it ain’t there now.”
    The kettle started to rattle. “I put it there.”
    “It’s not there now,” Clement repeated.
    “What kind of undercover work?” Ogden asked.
    “We’re not at liberty to discuss that,” Howell said.
    “All right. Well, I’ve told you all I know. Sorry the photo got lost, but the last time I saw it, it was in the folder.”
    “He was investigating hate groups,” Clement said. You know, KKK, neo-­Nazis, good folks like that.” Clement took an envelope from his inside suit jacket pocket, opened it, and pulled out several photographs.
    Ogden looked at the pictures. The first was of a man tied to a cross, his body split wide open and empty.
    “He was field-dressed,” Howell said.
    Ogden looked at all the photos. All were of the same man from various angles and ranges. He handed back the pictures. “Well, that’s scary.”
    “He’s a marker,” Clement said. “Some very bad people staked that poor bastard out on the Mexican side of the border to warn people to stay in Mexico.”
    Ogden didn’t know what to say. He tried to press the image of the man out of his head.
    “Hate group,” Ogden said. “Are they around here? What’s the name of this group?”
    Clement sighed. “It’s a very violent, very secret club. They like to kill people. They don’t want to get caught killing people. Rumor has it that a lot of upstanding citizens are members. Call themselves
The Great White Hope.
”
    “Not much for subtlety,” Ogden said. The kettle whistled and Ogden got up to pour his water.
    “These are not your everyday, run-­of-­the-­mill, lunatic-­fringe bad people,” Clement said.
    “What did your undercover agent have to do with Mrs. Bickers?” Ogden asked.
    “You tell us.”
    Ogden just looked at them.
    “Tell