by Bobby Cole
John Allen felt Billy sizing him up.
“They ain’t for sale.”
John Allen shook his head, truly disappointed. “That’s too bad.”
“Those points are too nice to sell,” Billy added.
John Allen looked Billy in the eyes. “What I really want is skulls and certain bones. You know where a guy could buy some?”
Billy’s eyes had widened. Indian skulls went for big money. Not everybody wanted one, but those who did paid well for the opportunity. “That’s illegal,” he said, looking around to see whether anyone else was watching. “I told you, we don’t do no illegal shit.”
John Allen rubbed his nose and bent over to pick a business card off Billy’s table. It had a cell-phone number on it that could prove to be useful.
“Do you know anyone who might? I’d pay top dollar,” John Allen said, then added, “And I’ll pay a finder’s fee.”
Judging by Billy’s old jeans and Walmart T-shirt, whoever he was working for wasn’t paying him much. “No,” he said, “but if you’ll leave me your name and number, if I run across something I’ll call you.”
John Allen smiled. He pulled a business card out that only had his name and cell-phone number printed on it and handed it to Billy.
The show wasn’t a big one, maybe four or five aisles of guns, knives, beef jerky, and ammo. “Are there any more artifact collectors with booths here?”
“Nah, man, just me.”
“Do you get many folks bringing in artifacts to sell?”
“You’d be surprised. After they see our sign and remember their grandparents have a shoe box full of points collecting dust, they come back. Occasionally some country folks will have a five-gallon bucketful.”
John Allen nodded in equal amounts of surprise and understanding. “Well, if you ever want to sell anything, as I say, I pay top dollar.”
Billy watched John Allen walk off, then discreetly took a picture of his profile as he stopped at the next table. Ignoring two young kids asking him questions about his arrowheads, Billy watched him walk out the front door.
Through the windows he watched John Allen climb into a shiny black Porsche, and his interest in the stranger suddenly increased. Billy saw dollar signs in his head.
After the gun show, John Allen decided to visit his parents since he was already in Jackson.
They still lived in the same house John Allen had grown up in. His father was a respected orthodontist who put braces on all the wealthy kids’ teeth. His mother spent her days making sure her family was at all the right places to be socially accepted. John Allen and his younger sister both attended Jackson Prep School, then he went on to Mississippi State and studied accounting while she stayed in Jackson to attend Millsaps College.
He found his mother listening to NPR and eating a pimento-cheese sandwich on the sunporch. She’d been planting her fall flowers while his dad played golf with his buddies.
“I wish you would play golf with your father sometime,” she said once he’d settled in with her.
“I just haven’t felt up to it lately.”
“You should, though. He’s worried about you. We’ve all been worried about you.”
“I’m okay, Mom.”
“Have you thought about dating anyone? You know you have to move on with your life.”
“No, Mom.”
“I’m just worried about you being alone and changing jobs.”
“I’m happy, Mom.”
His mother smiled. That’s all she wanted for him, happiness. “You need to tell me what you want for Christmas or you’re gonna get underwear and T-shirts again.”
“Christmas is three months away, Mom.”
“Which means I may see you two more times before then if I’m lucky, and if I don’t start now I’ll never get a list from you.”
John Allen’s mother was a list-maker. She loved checking off items. In fact, a list had gotten him in big trouble with her as a very young boy. When asked one year, he’d gladly provided her with an “Xmas” list. When his mother had seen that he’d left “Christ” out of “Christmas,” she’d lectured him for an hour. He never made that mistake again.
“I’ll make you a short list. A Christmas list.”
She looked him up and down. “I can tell you’re eating better. I’m glad to see that.”
John Allen smiled. “I’m fine, Mom.”
“Come on, dear. I’ll make you a sandwich,” she said with a mother’s smile. She was always happy for the chance to take care of him.
As he followed her into the kitchen, he thought about dating again. The very idea of it was still a little shocking to him. Following the one-year anniversary of Sadie’s death, a few of his friends had begun trying to fix him up with their single friends, but he’d resisted vigorously. Sadie had been his sweetheart since his last years of college, and they’d had a strong love, the only true love he’d ever known. He honestly couldn’t imagine loving someone else, or even wanting to. His friends were keeping at it, and although he appreciated their efforts and knew they meant well, the issue was uncomfortable for him. To avoid it, he’d stopped going to church and the places he regularly saw old friends. He’d unplugged himself from everything that reminded him of Sadie and immersed himself in his new job.
Chapter 9
After a couple of months of quietly investigating Winston Walker, the FBI special agents were at a dead end. They were positive that Winston was a world-class creep and up to no good, but catching him at it was something else again.
Much of their information came from the Kemper County sheriff’s office, which had suspected something odd about Jim Hudson’s death but hadn’t been able to prove anything. The sheriff also didn’t have the manpower to stay on the case. As more crimes occurred, his small staff was just spread too thin, and the case file was buried ever deeper. The FBI agents were essentially studying a cold case, and it would be up to them to solve it.
Once the FBI started examining the case notes, it became obvious that the scene of the shooting hadn’t been processed the way they would have liked. There had been no witnesses, and the person who’d arrived first, the guide, had been hired by the shooter, or at least he got big tips from Winston Walker, so he wasn’t completely credible.
Still, the guide had raised some interesting questions. For instance, he was perplexed that somebody like Walker would have been so sloppy as to allow his shells to spill from his vest. Walker always had blood in his eye when he hunted, and someone like that tended to keep a very close eye on the tools required for accomplishing his undertaking. He also hadn’t been shooting the gun he normally did. In the past, he’d always shot a twenty-gauge, but on this hunt he’d shot a borrowed twelve-gauge, which anyone who hunted as often as Winston did would know was too much gun for the little birds.
Just to try and make sense of it all, he and the sheriff had even backtracked and hadn’t found any spilled shells.
These were just circumstantial tidbits that didn’t incriminate him but certainly raised eyebrows. The FBI made a living of chasing leads that caused their eyebrows to rise, but still, the good guys needed a break, if not a miracle, to help them prove that Winston Walker had killed Jim Hudson.
They’d learned early on that he’d changed his name from Fred Walker to Winston Walker when he was twenty-two years old. They guessed he felt the name Fred was holding him back, and Winston sounded more dignified.
Walker’s reported income was higher than most but had been dropping off the last few years. They studied his house and his business deals, and each gave the appearance of somebody making more money than Walker was actually reporting.
The notes also revealed that Walker spent a great deal of time in Philadelphia, Mississippi, only about an hour from Meridian, where he lived, and assumed he was gambling at the Golden Moon Casino there. Gambling made sense for someone with his tendencies.
They knew that Walker was having financial difficulties, but just how bad they were was diff
icult to ascertain. The agents did know that many on the ad-sales team had quit soon after Jim’s death, and that had made things even tougher for Walker. Jim had been his sales manager and worked directly with the sales team each day. He had been well liked, and once he was gone, several team members left immediately, not trusting Walker to honor their deals. The reps were pretty sure he hadn’t paid for the printing of the last two issues, and that had them worried. With the printer calling daily, looking for his payment, the team was selling ads for a magazine that might not even get printed. Everyone held on to the slim hope that Walker would talk some printing press into printing the next issue on credit. If anyone could, it was Walker.
Another interesting discovery the agents made was that Walker and a select group of close allies were known to be buying and selling Indian artifacts to a group of Japanese collectors. The agents couldn’t place a dollar figure on their operation, but as they dug around and talked to people, it became obvious that this was a top priority for Walker. The agents made a note to contact the Mississippi Choctaw Nation to see if they could learn more.
Chapter 10
John Allen was intrigued to meet with the FBI today at the tribe’s offices. He was really enjoying his job. It was much more exciting than accounting.
The fact was, though, that purchasing artifacts for the tribe was proving more difficult than he’d thought it might be. People just didn’t talk about their artifacts and generally didn’t want to sell them. He’d come to realize that it typically took an owner passing away and the next generation not having any affection for the deceased’s framed display of arrowheads or a shoe box full of what appeared to be just rocks. If certain individuals went to the trouble of searching fields and creeks for artifacts, then found some, they usually didn’t want to sell them. They were immediately attached to them in a way that wasn’t easy to explain. The people John Allen had met were like an underground cult when it came to their hobby. When they found an arrowhead and realized they were the first people to touch it for perhaps three hundred to two thousand years, it had a powerful hold on them. It was a hold that often cash couldn’t break.
The chief of the Choctaw tribe had personally called John Allen and asked him to attend the meeting. When he’d received the call, John Allen had been meeting with a Mississippi Delta farmer whose family had been farming the same ground for three generations. Though the man had shown John Allen a few artifacts, he sensed there were more that the man was keeping to himself, a hidden stash of the best stuff. But since corn and beans were at all-time highs, the farmer wasn’t interested in selling. John Allen made a note to watch commodity prices and farmer input costs. At some point in the future, the man would need some cash to help pay the bills.
The FBI meeting was held in a secure room in the third story of the Tribal Council’s office. The security there was on a par with that of any federal judicial building, complete with walk-through metal detectors and a pair of security officers who searched briefcases and purses. One entire floor of the building was dedicated to processing and storing all the cash from the casino and the tribe’s other businesses. John Allen had been there several times as an outside auditor and accounting adviser.
The basement held a giant state-of-the-art, climate-controlled room with metal racks for the storage of artifacts. The room had password-protected entry. John Allen had been shown the room when he’d first started his new job, and several times since had been allowed access to store recently purchased artifacts. Struck by how much empty space was left in the room, he figured it was his job to fill it up.
When the phone rang in the conference room, announcing the FBI’s arrival, John Allen sipped his coffee and watched the facial expressions of his boss. The chief smiled frequently, but John Allen could tell she carried a great burden on her shoulders. She took the job of representing her people seriously. He figured the fact that she was the first female chief in the history of the Choctaw tribe meant she had to work even harder to make sure progress was made. John Allen knew she didn’t trust many outsiders, but one would never know it from her demeanor. She appeared very cooperative on the surface, but behind the scenes she vetted everyone through her contacts. John Allen was proud to work for her. She cared about her job, its responsibilities, and her people. But he could tell the job was demanding more of her than anyone could likely imagine.
The two other Choctaw tribal executives in the room were often seen with the chief. They were trusted advisers, each responsible for various programs the tribe ran. John Allen had met one of them, the head of security, several times.
“Escort them up,” said the head of security into the phone, then hung up. He turned in John Allen’s direction. “Be careful what you tell these people. I don’t really know what they want yet, but the governor’s aide called, asked that we meet with them, and hoped for cooperation.”
John Allen nodded and took another sip from his coffee, which was growing cold. “I’ll follow your lead,” he said, then looked at the other two and nodded again.
There was a brief knock on the door. Everyone stood as it opened, and two FBI agents walked through. The first person to come in was a remarkably pretty female who appeared to be in her midthirties; the second person was a balding man whom John Allen guessed to be in his early fifties, which meant he was probably getting close to retirement in the federal system. A security guard with dark skin and classic Native American features nodded at the chief and closed the door.
Introductions were made, and the chief extended a welcome. In John Allen’s previous career, at the beginning of a business meeting everyone would typically introduce themselves and tell a little about what they do, then there would be a few minutes of polite chitchat before any business was discussed. He’d always hated the chitchat. Today, names and cards were quickly exchanged, then everyone got down to business. It was refreshing.
John Allen studied the two FBI business cards. Though Special Agent Emma Haden was all business, he thought he saw a special smile pass between her and the chief. Perhaps it was a female-to-female acknowledgment of respect.
“Thank you for seeing us,” Agent Garner began. “We have a frustrating case that we think you can possibly help us with.”
“We always want to help where we can,” the chief said with a smile.
As Agent Garner bent down to retrieve some paperwork from his briefcase, John Allen caught Agent Haden looking at him. She smiled and looked back at the chief. She’s wondering what a white man is doing in here. John Allen got that a lot.
Agent Garner straightened up and passed out four folders, one to each of them. John Allen was impressed that they’d done their homework and had known how many would be in attendance.
“We’ve been investigating a man from Meridian named Winston Walker,” Agent Garner said. “We understand that he frequents this area, probably to gamble.”
“That may be,” the chief agreed, “though lots of people spend time here, for all sorts of reasons. We have great restaurants and attractions.”
Agent Haden smiled. “Yes, but let me tell you a bit about this man.”
So for the next ten minutes she spoke without interruption, painting a thorough picture of the man’s activities, which were both criminal and unpleasant. John Allen took notes. When the agent began discussing Winston Walker’s stolen artifacts possibly being from the Moundville Museum, John Allen heard the chief take a deep breath. It was as though the air had been sucked from the room.
“And how do you know about the Moundville artifacts?” the chief asked.
“Jim Hudson’s widow told us about it. So far she’s proven to be a very credible source.”
“That’s interesting to us,” the chief replied, looking at her advisers, then at John Allen. “John Allen, have you heard of this theft?”
“No, ma’am.”
The chief leaned back in her chair. “Thirty or more years ago, the Moundville Museum was robbed of its most valuable pieces. Something like two h
undred and fifty culturally significant artifacts were stolen, and to my knowledge have never been recovered. They say it’s the largest crime of its kind in the South, and everyone believes it was an inside job. The thieves basically stole the best of the best and were coming back for more when someone discovered the stash of artifacts in boxes ready to be moved. We are reminded of the crime and try to take precautions to protect the treasures that we have. The FBI investigated, but nothing ever turned up, and no one was charged.”
The Indian advisers nodded in agreement. Clearly everyone remembered or had heard of the unfortunate crime.
The chief nodded slowly, thinking. “And you say this man with this connection to the Moundville heist, this Winston Walker, is from Meridian, Mississippi?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Agent Haden.
“That is also very interesting to us. We have a frustrating case of our own. Mr. Harper’s predecessor, Wyatt Hub, has been missing for almost two years now. It’s like he vanished into thin air. And the last place he was known to have traveled was Meridian.”
“Do you guys have any leads?” Agent Garner asked with a furrowed brow.
“No, nothing at all. We suspect he may have run into some unsavory folks, who we have since learned frequent the black-market artifact business. Your office should have a folder on him. We petitioned your assistance for our missing man.”
“What did this man do for the Choctaw Nation?” Agent Haden asked the chief.
Looking at John Allen with a confident, prideful air, she explained, “Just like Mr. Harper here, he was employed to act as our agent and to recover any Indian artifacts from Mississippi or wherever they may be located. We want to get back as many as we can. These artifacts hold great spiritual significance for our people.”
“So how do you recover them, exactly?”
“We purchase them with cash. We probably overpay, but we want them all. They are very important to our culture.”
“I could see how this could put your man into contact with some potentially dangerous people,” Agent Haden said, looking again at John Allen.