Silent Approach

by Bobby Cole

  John Allen woke before dawn and decided to do something he hadn’t done in well over three years. He walked into his extra bedroom where he kept his fishing tackle. Grabbing a bait-casting setup, he looked through his tackle box until he found a floating frog lure and tied it on. He worried that the line might be old and rotten, but he slipped on rubber boots and walked the two hundred yards to the pond’s edge.

  The sun hadn’t yet poked its head over the horizon, but the birds were singing, and the early false light was beautiful. The water was warmer than the morning air, causing a layer of thin fog to swirl over the dark surface. The weight of the rod and its cork handle felt surprisingly good to him. Like shaking hands with an old friend.

  At the water’s edge he looked for snakes but really didn’t expect to see one this early in the morning. He eased closer until he was within casting distance of a big stump that sat quietly in the water. The water depth had to be three or four feet there, which was ideal. Checking the frog lure, he noticed rust on the hooks. And the rubber body was partially dry-rotted, but it would have to do. As he flexed the rod tip a few times, the physical memory of what he needed to do was still there. He intended to land the frog on the exposed top of the stump, then gently pull it off into the water. This would simulate a frog jumping into the pond, looking very vulnerable.

  The hooks weren’t the only things that were rusty, as his cast missed its mark and bounced off the side of the stump, then plopped into the glassy-smooth water. John Allen smiled at how good this felt. The surface ripples expanded quickly away from the frog, and as the biggest of them approached three feet wide, he twitched the rod tip. The frog responded with a quick jump, then rested again. John Allen had missed this part of his life. Topwater was his favorite fishing method for catching summertime bass. There was nothing quite like a bass exploding onto the surface.

  He was still holding that thought in mind and hadn’t even twitched it a second time when the frog disappeared and the water erupted in a vicious strike. John Allen reflexively set the hook. The fish felt good, really good, and he let out a little line when it made a run for deeper water. The rod bowed under the pressure of the bass as it circled just under the water’s surface. Too fat to jump, John Allen thought with excitement.

  The fish continued to fight until John Allen worried the old line would snap under the stress. There was nothing to do but keep his rod tip up and allow the fight. After a few minutes he could tell the fish was tiring, and he gained ground by walking a bit closer and reeling the line in as fast as the bass would allow.

  A moment later, a giant largemouth bass was lying on its side at the water’s edge. John Allen bent down and grabbed the fish by the lower lip. It shook its head one more time, then calmed down enough for him to raise it out of the water and hold it up to admire. It had to weigh seven pounds. The fish was healthy and beautiful, its emerald-green upper body tapering down to a pale-white underside, gills flaring bloodred in contrast. Then, John Allen quickly unhooked the fish and admired it one more time before releasing it back into the water.

  Satisfied with himself, he watched the fog float over the water and realized just how much he had enjoyed that moment. He’d needed that fish. He hadn’t fished since the accident. That was a long time to deny himself such pleasure.

  With one last look at the water, he started back to the barn. He’d accomplished what he’d come out to do. Suddenly he felt like he was living again. In the brief few moments he’d been fighting the fish, while his rod had bowed and the line had stretched, he hadn’t thought about any of his problems or worries. He hadn’t thought about anything but that fish, and that had felt good.

  “Thank you, Sadie,” he said as he looked up at the rising sun and walked to the barn.

  John Allen started his workday by giving a talk on local Native American history to the sixth-grade students at a nearby school. After showing them some artifacts, he wrapped up and was driving to the office around midmorning when his cell phone rang. Hoss explained the situation regarding Rosco Jones.

  John Allen was stunned. “Do you think that Winston Walker could have killed him?”

  “I thought about that, but it sure looked like a suicide to me,” Hoss said, his tone firm. “Plus, I have an explanation, and I’ll tell you about it when I see you.”

  “You can’t tell me on the phone?”

  “We need to do it face-to-face so I can see if you believe me.”

  “Okay, I’ll be there in thirty minutes,” John Allen said, then added, “Hey, we need to tell Agent Haden.”

  Hoss grunted. “I’ll let you do that.”

  John Allen was still excited about the morning’s catch. He planned to eat a fried honey bun for breakfast to celebrate.

  Chapter 18

  Hoss spent an hour with Jamarius, searching Rosco Jones’s house. Rosco’s wife was distraught and welcomed the search because she wanted answers. They didn’t toss sock drawers out onto the floor and make a mess like they usually did in a full search. They looked in the obvious places—in closets, in corners, behind the drapes—while they tried to disturb as little as possible for the sake of Rosco’s wife. They did check the storage building out back, and they even looked in the chicken coop.

  Hoss convinced Jamarius that if Rosco had kept any artifacts at his house, they would be in boxes, stashed someplace like a box of old vinyl records. The house was immaculately clean and had the feel of the home of a hardworking couple who lived within their means and were proud of what they had.

  The two men didn’t tell her what they were thinking but rather gave the impression they were trying to determine what might have pushed or caused Rosco to do what he’d done. Jamarius wanted to provide her with some better answers but not create more pain. Knowing Rosco had committed suicide was obviously just pure pain and raised a lot of terrible questions for her. Hearing that he might’ve been murdered would have been just as painful and would have created just as many difficult questions. It was a no-win situation for both of them. She couldn’t believe her husband had killed himself.

  She answered every question, and both men could tell they were truthful answers. Rosco had been acting differently. Something had been on his mind, but she didn’t know what it was. Her husband had been a very private person. She did explain that just before the ten o’clock news, he’d received a phone call and said he had to go meet someone about work. He never came back. She said he’d received other such calls occasionally. This information intrigued both men, and Jamarius made a note to check Rosco’s phone records.

  Hoss asked questions that might give insight into Rosco’s relationship with an artifact reseller, and Jamarius listened carefully, observing the woman’s body language. But neither man came away with an answer that yielded any serious insight into the situation. They wrapped up the search after Rosco’s wife received a call saying she was needed down at the funeral home, as it would take the home a while to prepare the body, and they had questions, too. Money would be one of them, Jamarius knew, and he assured her the church would take up a love offering to help. He would personally call the preacher and see that it was done. She cried and hugged him while Hoss stood awkwardly to the side. His only offering was that he would check with the tribe and make sure she got any pay Rosco was owed. She thanked him, also.

  The men walked to their vehicles, promising to stay in touch and to share information. Jamarius wanted to trace that incoming phone call before making any decisions. But he had to admit that he’d been spooked the whole time he was in there, a fact that made Hoss’s theory feel more plausible to him. The thought even occurred to him that the spirit had lured Rosco away from home with that call, but he quickly dismissed it. He didn’t want to investigate anything that was in the same league as voodoo.

  Standing in the gravel driveway and looking at the modest house, the detective thought about where Rosco would hide something. They’d checked only the obvious places. Maybe Rosco had returned the artifacts, but that scenario
felt like wishful thinking. Maybe Rosco had thrown them into the river. Then Jamarius’s eye fell on the garden on the side of the house. Tomatoes, okra, squash, and corn. The ground would be soft and easy to dig in. I would have buried them there, he thought. He would come back without Hoss and look, but it was a huge garden. It would take time.

  Once John Allen heard Hoss’s explanation for Rosco’s suicide, he spent some time thinking it through. He didn’t know whether he believed in spirits. The spooky stories were common enough, though—he’d heard many during his short time working for tribe. While growing up, John Allen had heard all sorts of tales about ghosts that supposedly resided in many of the old southern houses, and he hadn’t known what to make of those, either. He’d never encountered a ghost, but that didn’t mean they didn’t exist. Indian spirits making someone commit suicide, though, was pushing the limits of credibility.

  He sat staring out the window in his office, wondering what to believe. He also wanted to know who’d called Rosco the night before. Obtaining that information sounded like it could be a promising lead.

  As he contemplated the scratches the bass’s raspy teeth had left on his right thumb, he realized he still needed to call Agent Haden and bring her up to date. He was glad to have an excuse to contact her.

  Agent Haden answered on the third ring, and he explained the whole Rosco situation to her. He went on to say that if there had been a crime scene, it had already been processed and disassembled by the sheriff’s department. Her response was a bit saltier than he expected, but her spunk made him smile.

  “He wasn’t the big fish,” she said. “We still gotta get Winston.”

  “Let’s do it,” John Allen said, realizing he was trying to impress her with his enthusiasm. That’s really all he had—he didn’t know what else to do.

  “I’m glad you called,” she said. “I think I have the perfect bait. I called in a favor with an FBI contact, and I got hold of an old skull. It was never identified, and they think it’s at least a hundred and fifty years old. It’s just been sitting in storage. It’s stained and partially fragmented.”

  “That sounds perfect. There was no way I was going to get one from the tribe.”

  “I suspected that,” she said. “Can you can come down here so we can work out a plan to get you in front of Winston? You might need to spend a few days.”

  “Let me touch base with the boss, but I don’t think it will be a problem.” John Allen made an effort to keep his growing excitement in check.

  “Make whatever preparations you need. The Bureau will put you up in a hotel.”

  “When do you need me?”

  “As soon as you can get here. Let me know when you’re an hour out. I’ll be here at the office unless something comes up.”

  “Unless the chief surprises me and puts on the brakes, I’ll be there in a few hours.”

  “Oh, and John Allen? Be sure you come in that fancy sports car.”

  John Allen smiled. “No problem.”

  Hoss and the chief sat in her office and discussed the latest events, including Hoss’s thoughts regarding them.

  She knew of the stories about people being haunted by the spirits attached to the artifacts. She believed in those spirits and knew that if they had, in fact, scared Rosco Jones enough to commit suicide, he’d been doing something that caused him to deserve it.

  The belief in spirits was a fundamental part of their culture. But of all the stories she’d heard, none had included suicide. Most could be passed off as a dream or a figment of a tortured imagination. And as far as non–Native Americans were concerned, there had always been a reason to doubt such an explanation and provide an alternative theory.

  The fact that something like this was happening under her watch concerned her, and it wasn’t like she didn’t already have a full plate of responsibilities. While in the last twenty years unemployment among members of the tribe had gone from 4 percent to over 90 percent, the poverty and despair that had not so long ago plagued her people had abated under the watchful eyes of past chiefs. She was committed to improving on that progress, especially regarding education and health issues, which were her passions.

  The chief swirled her Starbucks coffee pensively. “You don’t think the artifacts are at Mr. Jones’s house?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am. We looked in the obvious places. I don’t think he knew we were on to him, which makes me think they would have been tucked away somewhere we could find. That’s assuming he still had them. And I expect to know about the phone call sometime soon.”

  “I respect your agreement with the detective, and I understand protecting family. The daughter, she sounds like a good girl—and I don’t want to unnecessarily tarnish her daddy’s image even if he was stealing from us. That could have a big impact on her. But right is right, and we have to protect what is ours. Let me know who called him.”

  Hoss slowly nodded and agreed with the chief’s wisdom.

  “I’d tell you to search the house again during the funeral, but if you were caught, it could get ugly for us,” she said.

  “And, anyway, they live in Philadelphia and not on the reservation,” Hoss pointed out. “We don’t have any jurisdiction there.”

  The chief nodded. “While John Allen is working with the FBI, go talk to the tribal police, the Philadelphia police chief, and the sheriff, just so they know what we have going on. The only ones who will care will be the tribal. The rest are too busy with their own crimes.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Hoss stood up to leave.

  Chapter 19

  John Allen walked into the FBI office in Jackson, Mississippi, brimming with anticipation. He was about to play a role in apprehending a suspected murderer and artifact trafficker. He would also get to spend time with the woman who’d been on his mind for the last several days. She’d stirred something in him, but he didn’t even know whether she was married. He really didn’t know anything about her. As he waited for her in the secure lobby, he wondered what lay ahead for him. The generic government wall clock showed that it was almost 3:00 p.m.

  A heavy door cracked open, and Agent Emma Haden stuck her head out. “Hey, you,” she said with a smile. “How was the trip down?”

  “Thank goodness for air-conditioning.”

  “Come on back to our conference room. I have two other agents I had hoped would be here to help us, but they just got called to the capitol. An unknown substance was found on an envelope.” She shrugged. “It’s the world we live in now.”

  John Allen nodded and glanced at her left hand. Still no ring. He thought she noticed him looking, but he wasn’t sure. She didn’t break stride.

  A brown box that had been opened sat on the table in the glass-walled conference room. The agent reached in and gently removed a skull. It looked as if it had spent the last hundred years in a swamp.

  “It looks real.”

  “It is real,” she replied.

  “I meant—”

  “I know. It’s real; it’s just not an authentic Native American.”

  “It sure is creepy-looking,” John Allen said, not wanting to touch it.

  “Do you think he’ll be able to tell the difference? You’re an expert at these things, aren’t you?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say ‘expert.’ I’ve had a crash course in arrowheads, spear points, and pottery, but not bones, and especially not skulls.”

  Agent Haden gazed down at the skull in her hands. “I don’t see how he could tell. Not immediately, anyway.” She placed it back into the box. “It’s not every day that you handle one of these.”

  John Allen’s phone vibrated, and he read a text message from Hoss saying that the call to Rosco had come from a burner phone, but that they were still trying to trace it. He told John Allen to keep him informed about what their plans were for the sting.

  Agent Haden noticed the look on his face and pulled out a chair. John Allen placed his phone on the conference table and sat down, repeating the gist of the message
for her.

  “Dammit. I’ll bet you money it was Walker.”

  “Can you guys step in and help?” John Allen asked. “The local sheriff would probably welcome your assistance.”

  “Don’t be so sure. We can’t get involved unless they ask us to,” she said with a sigh. “But I’m betting our current investigation eventually comes back to it, and then we’ll get involved with both feet.”

  “Good.”

  “Thank you for doing this, John Allen. You know it could be dangerous. Is your wife okay with you doing this undercover work?”

  “I guess you don’t know,” he said, exhaling deeply. “My wife was killed in a car accident about two years ago.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said. “That’s awful. I just assumed when I saw your ring.”

  John Allen looked at his wedding band and spun it around on his finger. “Yeah, I know. I just haven’t taken it off.”

  “I’m sorry for prying.”

  “That’s all right.” John Allen saw this was his chance to learn about her. “What about you? Does your husband mind what you do?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m not married. I got divorced a few years back. I don’t make good choices in men,” she added with an embarrassed chuckle.

  “It happens,” John Allen said, trying to calmly process the information.

  Steering the conversation back to the matters at hand, Agent Haden opened a folder that had Winston Walker’s photo clipped to the edge. Inside was a stack of papers.

  “How are we going to make contact without him getting suspicious?” she asked.

  “That’s what concerns me.”

  “We learned from Jim Hudson’s widow that he hangs out at a bar every evening with a couple of guys who work for him. We have their names, and we think you could approach one of them in hopes they would take you to Winston.”

  “Okay. So who are these guys?”

  Agent Haden shuffled through the folder to a photograph and slid it across the table to him. “This is a guy they call Runt. He’s a meth head. Probably one of those diggers you guys refer to. He’s Walker’s right-hand man.”