9 More Killer Thrillers

by Russell Blake

  “Want to know where this goose chase gets interesting?” I said, smiling back.

  “It gets interesting? Yes. Please. Let’s get to that part.”

  Humor.

  “Somebody stole Rodney’s meteor.”

  “Huh,” Beth said. “I did not see that one coming. We’re sure it’s been stolen and that Rodney isn’t just jerking our chains?”

  I noticed the change in pronouns and grinned. It wouldn’t have been appropriate to comment, though. So I didn’t.

  “I don’t know about Costa’s assessment,” I said, “but I’m pretty sure Rodney isn’t faking. He’s not subtle enough to be convincing on the fly.”

  Beth thought for a moment.

  “So I would guess the FBI will be sending a forensics team out to Rodney’s farm to look for trace evidence. If Rodney hasn’t gotten sick from handling the meteor, it’s probably too early for a HazMat team. But we’ll need to pick up the meteor’s trail somewhere. It seems that Rodney’s farm is the logical place to start.”

  “I agree one hundred percent,” I said. “But I baited the hook yesterday. I asked Bull to do some reconnoitering out near Holton’s. If we’re lucky, he was there when the meteor disappeared.”

  I checked the time on my cell. “He should be here any minute.”

  “Oh, that’s nice,” Beth said. “Bull’s one of favorite people.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Suburban Minneapolis, Minnesota.

  The sign on the side of the light grey panel van read: “Park Heating and Cooling.” Johnny Shin Cho’s father-in-law had started the commercial HVAC business nearly forty years ago with a family loan and a solid work ethic. He’d grown the company, bit by bit, into a Korean-American success story. At its peak, Park employed a crew of thirty-two field technicians and an office staff of three.

  That was in 2007, before the American housing bubble burst, gutting the construction trades.

  Two years later, in 2009, the company founder had succumbed to a heart condition, exacerbated by a long term smoking habit and the stress of economic contraction. As the only family member working in the business, Johnny had been Park senior’s obvious successor.

  After assuming the helm, he had piloted the sinking enterprise through several rounds of layoffs, voluntary furloughs, and finally, a union strike. The latter ordeal had resulted in severe losses to the already dwindling pool of regular customers, and by 2010, had effectively shuttered the business.

  Now, with Johnny as its only fulltime employee, Park Heating and Cooling was undergoing what sports analysts would call a rebuilding phase. A part time receptionist scheduled appointments while Johnny juggled three contract installers from one short-term project to the next.

  Johnny Shin Cho was reasonably satisfied with the business in its current state. He was able to work some of the job sites himself, which was what he really enjoyed doing anyway. And his income sufficed to cover his middleclass household’s monthly bills, with a reasonable amount to spare for discretionary purchases.

  Johnny’s wife, Sun-Hi, was not as thrilled with their economic status. She had enjoyed the benefits of her father’s six figure income through her teens and early twenties. When she married Johnny in 2005, she had every expectation that Johnny would eventually take over the family business, the steady cash flow would continue, and she would go on living the lifestyle to which she had become accustomed.

  Her husband’s current wage was not satisfactory – not satisfactory at all.

  Johnny couldn’t help but recognize Sun-Hi’s desires for higher living, and of course, he felt responsible for her happiness. The business had gone down on his watch, after all.

  That was why, on this afternoon, Johnny’s panel van carried a special package – a charred orb which he understood to hold an opportunity for considerable wealth, and his wife’s undying gratitude. He hadn’t been advised as to the sphere’s exact contents other than it held, at its heart, a fragile capsule of some sort. He had been told to proceed one step at a time concerning this project, then await further instructions.

  Loyal and obedient fellow that he was, Johnny was on the way to his workshop to cut the thing open.

  He had gleaned from previous conversations that the object and its contents were almost certainly illegal. That didn’t pose a problem for him, though. Crime, he understood, was the most reliable way for someone to make a large sum of money in a short period of time. So he was pleased to find the shop locked and deserted . . . with no one present to observe or interrupt him while he executed his first illicit assignment.

  He had no idea what sort of material the shell of this object was made of, so the first step was to make a visual evaluation. He used a lighted swing-arm magnifier to scrutinize the object's exterior. The surface, he noted, though generally uniform, was filled with tiny pits, as if the entire object had been subjected to intense heat. Perhaps some sort of ceramic?

  On the other hand, the entire package was quite light for its size. Ceramic should be heavier, unless the ceramic was only a very thin crust. Perhaps the interior was a molded polymer?

  His visual inspection revealed no obvious path to the sphere’s inner chamber, so Johnny first attempted the least invasive approach – he tried scoring it with a box cutter. The knife made a line in the blackened surface, but nothing more. When he pressed harder though, the blade penetrated the hardened exterior and sank in its full length – about an inch. He carved a small wedge of material off the sphere to make a better assessment of its composition.

  Although the outside fraction of an inch was hardened and brittle, the interior of the shell was like a dense foam, or maybe a comparison to balsa wood was more accurate. In any case, cracking this nut shouldn’t pose a problem, as long as he exercised care not to damage the “fragile capsule,” whose dimensions he did not know.

  Switching to a coping saw, Johnny began methodically carving off slices around the exterior of the shell, reducing the object’s diameter as he worked from the outside in.

  After whittling the sphere down to the size of duckpin ball, Johnny thought he caught a glimpse of something shiny inside. This must be the capsule. It looked metallic. Perhaps not as fragile as he had been informed. So much the better.

  Trading the crafting saw for a plastic rasp, he continued removing the shell material, sending a flittering of tan particles to the concrete floor with each stroke until the silvery capsule came into focus. He removed the final remnants of the shell casing by surrounding the softball size interior capsule with a coarse cloth, holding it in both hands and rubbing vigorously. After a few minutes the cleaned capsule emerged, silver, shiny, and weighing about a pound.

  As much as he wanted to examine the capsule further, there was a dusty mess in the shop that needed to be cleaned up first. Using an industrial ShopVac, he set about erasing all trace of his afternoon activities.

  CHAPTER 18

  Red Wing, Minnesota.

  Beth had gone back to examining haute couture in her magazine and I had begun scanning this week’s issue of Time when there was a soft knock at our screen door. I looked up. It was Bull – all six-foot-four, 235 pounds of him – grinning like a fox. How he had managed to sneak up on us as we sat on the front porch, literally ten feet from where he now stood, was beyond me. I took a quick glance out to the street, and sure enough, Bull’s red Jeep Cherokee was parked right in front.

  “Who’s there?” I called, cupping a hand beside my mouth.

  Bull leaned away from the door.

  “You gonna let me in?” he said.

  “Just kidding, my friend,” I said as I stood. “You can let yourself in, or I’ll be there in a second.”

  Bull elected option one and accepted my hand as he entered.

  Beth had gotten up, too, and now greeted the large Indian.

  “Bull,” she said, smiling. “It’s great to see you.”

  Beth took two prancing steps from the settee, and standing on her toes, threw a broad hug around Bull�
�s chest.

  Bull kept his arms at his sides, declining to engage with Beth. He wasn’t being rude. He was just embarrassed. In fact, I thought I noticed his cheeks flushing red – though with an American Indian, it can be hard to tell for sure. Bull was never comfortable with such enthusiastic welcomes, but Beth repeated the ritual every time he visited our home. She insisted he would get used to it. Bull didn’t appear to be used to it yet.

  Bull’s real name was Terry Red Feather. I don’t remember when I first heard Terry called Bull. But the name fit his imposing stature, and his tendency toward stubbornness as well. So I adopted the nickname and had called him by it ever since – probably more than seven years now. He didn’t seem to mind.

  A full-blooded Mdewakanton Dakota American Indian, born on the local Prairie River Reservation, Bull left his home and family at the age of sixteen to join the army. At the time, he was required to be at least eighteen to enlist, but documentation of his birth on the reservation was nonexistent. And he was big enough and strong enough, so the army was pleased to have his assistance.

  After he left the Rez to ‘be all that he could be,’ Bull’s family and friends heard nothing from him for more than twenty years. Based on Terry’s behavior as a teen, they assumed he had been killed in a knife fight at some bar.

  Then one day about ten years ago, he had shown up on the doorstep of his parents’ home on the Rez. Bull never told his family or friends where he had been for twenty years. And after a few altercations, folks quit asking. I only found out myself a couple years ago when his former Sergeant came to Red Wing looking for Bull.

  It turns out he had been in the Army Rangers, with a specialty in EOD – that’s Explosive Ordnance Disposal. Only EODs seldom disposed of ordnance. Mostly, they blew things up. Bull had learned that skill, and many more. I was thankful to have his assistance on investigative projects, such as Rodney’s meteor, when he was available . . . which was almost always.

  Bull didn’t live on the reservation anymore. He owned a custom built, log-style house on a Wisconsin bluff overlooking the Mississippi River valley, together with forty acres of wooded land to spare. A modern-day Native.

  Beth released Bull from her bear hug and beamed a smile up at him.

  “It’s been a while, Bull,” she said. “How’ve you been?”

  “Good,” he said. Then remembering his manners, he added, “Thanks.”

  Bull was never much for extraneous chatter. I decided to rescue him from a polite session of small talk.

  “Shall we go inside and enjoy the AC, or stay out here on the porch.” I indicated a sturdy wicker armchair for Bull.

  “AC,” he said. “It’s hot.”

  “Inside it is.” I led the way through the front entry and into the living room, where Bull selected one of the leather armchairs and made himself comfortable.

  “Would you care for some iced tea, or Coke, or maybe a beer?” Beth asked, ever the attentive hostess.

  “Beer . . . please.” Bull said.

  “I’ll have one, too, Beth, if you don’t mind.”

  “Ice cold beer coming up,” Beth said as she headed for the kitchen.

  When she returned, I noticed she held three dark, longneck bottles in one hand. I assumed she’d decided to share a beer with us. But as it turned out, the extra bottle was a second for Bull.

  “He looked thirsty,” Beth whispered, as she sat down beside me on the red leather sofa.

  It had been a good call on Beth’s part because Bull downed the first bottle without pausing for air.

  “Thank you,” he said to Beth. “That was good.”

  “Shall we get started?” I said. Bull nodded and Beth waited.

  “First off, how the heck did you sneak up on us while we were sitting on our front porch . . . in a red Jeep, to boot?” I really wanted to know.

  “I pretended to be the neighbor’s lawn mower,” Bull said, as if that explained anything.

  Bull never gave me straight answers to these types of questions. I don’t know why I kept asking.

  “Okay,” I said. “Tell me what you were up to last night. Were you watching Benny?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well . . . what was he doing?” I prodded.

  “Surveillance, mostly.”

  “What did that look like exactly?” I asked.

  “He mostly spied on Holton’s farm. He started out in a tree, then crawled through the grass, then behind some big round hay bales, then more grass and more trees.” Bull looked at me like I was asking boring questions. “You know how surveillance goes. That’s what he was doin’.”

  Bull took a pull on beer number two.

  “Did he do anything suspicious?” I asked.

  “You don’t think all that tree climbing and crawling around is suspicious?”

  He had a point.

  “Anything else suspicious? Did he go inside any buildings? Mess with the cattle? Anything like that?”

  “Not as far as I could tell,” Bull said.

  I needed to try another angle. “Was there any time when you weren’t able to keep your eyes on Benny?”

  Bull rested the beer bottle in his lap, surrounding it with two massive hands.

  “About 1:30 in the morning, he got in his car and drove off. He was gone about an hour. He wasn’t dressed for visiting, still wearing his night camo and black stocking cap. He must have been steaming in that getup. Last night was hot.”

  “What were you wearing?” I asked, hoping for a useful tidbit.

  “Me? I didn’t wear much,” he said. “My people blend in.” Bull smiled . . . at least I thought it was a smile. He might have just been baring his teeth at me.

  “Anyway . . .” Bull continued, “Benny came back around 2:30 and started surveilling again. Just like before.”

  “That’s it? You didn’t notice anything at all unusual?” I had hoped for more.

  “Besides what I already told you?”

  “Yes,” I said through gritted teeth. “Anything unusual besides that.” Sometimes Bull could really piss me off.

  “Hell, yeah.” He said, then looked at Beth who been patiently listening this whole time. “Oops. Sorry for my language.”

  “That’s okay,” Beth said, with a grin. “I’ve been to Langley.”

  Bull nodded comprehension.

  “Anyway . . .” I said.

  “Anyway . . .” Bull went on, “there was lots of unusual stuff out there. Holton’s got a black bear living in his woods, for one. Plenty of scat around if you’re lookin’ for it.”

  Well what do you know, Rodney had a bear out there after all.

  “That’s nice,” I said. “Did you leave Yogi a pick-a-nick basket?” My wry humor was lost on Bull. He continued.

  “There’s a rock quarry near Holton’s and somebody was in and out of there with a car in the last week or so. Footprints lead from there toward Holton’s.”

  That was interesting. “About a week ago, you say?”

  “Yeah. Give or take a day or two.” Bull lowered his eyebrows at me. “It ain’t easy to read tracks on rock.”

  “No. No,” I said, backpedaling. “That’s just fine. I was just thinking out loud. Approximately a week is great.” Sheesh!

  Bull crossed his legs with one ankle resting on the other knee and drank another swallow of beer.

  “Anything else worth mentioning?” I said. “Anything at all?” This was like pulling carpet tacks.

  “Yeah. There’s one more thing. Holton’s cattle are sick.” Bull tipped the bottle, emptying it.

  “How do you know they’re sick? I was out there this morning and helped Rodney pen a lame steer. I didn’t notice anything.”

  Beth stood. “Another beer, Bull?” Three beers for the big man equaled one for most folks.

  “Hang on, Beth,” I said. I hadn’t touched my beer. I stood and offered it to Bull. He accepted it with a “Thank you.”

  Beth sat down and patted my knee. “Thanks, Babe.” I smiled, but my mind
was busy with Bull’s observation about Rodney’s sick cows. “Uh, sure. No problem, Hon.” I patted her hand. “So Bull, how do you know the cows are sick?”

  “If you penned one lame one this morning, there’ll be at least four or five more tomorrow. That’s how many I saw favoring one hoof or the other. ‘Course the cattle weren’t all standing. Could be more lame ones lying down. And at least three of the steers were drooling and slobbering. Prob’ly mouth sores.”

  “You got all that while you were watching Benny?” I asked.

  Bull shrugged. “I’m good at watching,” he said.

  Bull was definitely good at watching. He’d proven it on many occasions. Still, I wasn’t sure what to make of the sick cattle.

  “Do you have any idea what made the cows sick? Or what they’re sick from?” I asked.

  “I may be a good watcher, but I ain’t no veterinarian. I got no idea what’s ailing them cows.”

  “Rodney was going to have a vet look at the steer we penned up this morning,” I said. “Maybe he found out something. I’m pretty sure I’ll be at his place again tomorrow anyway. I’ll ask.”

  “You need me for some more watching again tonight?” Bull asked. His tone implied neither eagerness nor reluctance. It was a simple question.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “But I’ll keep you in the loop. Okay?”

  Bull shrugged again. “Okay.”

  I looked at Beth to see whether she had any questions for Bull. She gave her head a subtle sideways turn.

  “You wanna tell me what’s goin’ on at Holton’s place?” Bull asked after a moment.

  “Somebody took Rodney’s meteor from his chicken coop,” I said. “Probably last night.”

  “Must be a pretty sneaky thief,” Bull said. “I didn’t see nobody else around Holton’s last night.”

  “Well, I didn’t ask you to watch Holton’s place. I asked you to keep an eye on Benny.”

  That was my mistake, I figured.

  “True,” Bull said. “Any idea why somebody would steal a meteor?”