Silent Approach

by Bobby Cole

  Fueled by frustration, she shuffled through her business cards like a librarian going through an old card-catalog system until she found the one she wanted. The head of security might have talked to John Allen, or at least might have some insight. She quickly dialed his cell phone and hoped he wasn’t a deacon.

  Hoss answered on the third ring. “Hello.”

  “This is Special Agent Emma Haden,” she said. “I hate to bother you on a Sunday morning.”

  “That’s okay,” Hoss responded. “I’m working.”

  Agent Haden was glad someone else was. “Have you spoken to John Allen today?”

  “No, I haven’t. Is something wrong?”

  “It’s just that we talked last night about picking up the subject he sold an illegal artifact to, Winston Walker, and I haven’t heard from him this morning.”

  “John Allen usually doesn’t work on Sundays. I think he works a lot of Saturdays but not Sundays.”

  “I get that, but this was a big deal. Do you think he’s in church?”

  “I don’t have any idea,” Hoss answered. “You say you talked to him last night?”

  “Yes, we talked for about an hour. It was late,” she said, suddenly aware of just how odd that sounded.

  “I can try to call him if you like.”

  “Yes, please, and if you talk to him, tell him to call my cell as soon as he can.”

  Hoss was holding her card, which had been on top of his pile. “I have your number. If I hear from him, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks.”

  They hung up, and Hoss flipped her card onto his desk. He couldn’t imagine John Allen not calling Emma back. He could sense John Allen liked her. However, it was Sunday, and Sunday mornings in the South are easy, just like Lionel Richie sang in his song. People sleep late, but it was true that many others go to church. He checked the wall clock. It was almost 10:00 a.m. Most church services started at 11:00 and hoped to get out by noon, or at least 12:15, if the preacher wasn’t too long-winded. But there was Sunday school prior to that, if John Allen was a Baptist or a Methodist.

  Hoss realized he didn’t know anything about John Allen’s private life. He was probably golfing and didn’t want to be bothered.

  He dialed John Allen’s number and after a few rings got a message, to which he responded with one of his own asking him to call him as soon as he could.

  Leaning back in his chair, he didn’t have time to think about the situation, as his cell phone immediately rang. The casino had a female trying to cash in a $1,000 chip and wanted to know what to do.

  “Stall them, don’t let ’em leave the premises, and I’ll be right there!” he said as he scrambled out of his chair.

  John Allen finally found the strength to sit on his knees. Every bit of movement hurt. Excited to be up, he tried to force his hands under his rear in an effort to pull them in front of him. It would make it easier to break the zip tie if it was in front. He strained, drooping his shoulders to allow his hands to pass, but they wouldn’t.

  He grunted, then screamed in frustration. Surely there had to be a way out of here. He looked around. If there was an exposed nail he could back up to and scrape the zip tie across, he could break it.

  The sunlight drifted softly into the gory shed through small cracks. Inside this room a deer would be hung up, then gutted, skinned, and butchered. Venison was a healthy red-meat choice, and normally John Allen loved it. Grilled tenderloin was his favorite. But right now the smell and stains of dried blood only served to remind him of his mortal peril. He knew Winston and Runt were coming back to kill him. He wasn’t certain why they hadn’t already. Winston was capable of anything imaginable. Runt, though, seemed to be someone who simply did what he was told. If John Allen could get Runt alone, maybe he could talk some sense into him.

  After several excruciating tumbles, he managed to hop his way to the edge of the skinning shed on his battered knees and peer outside through a crack. The sun was visible as it rose in the sky. He marked the direction as east for future reference. He could also see the trashiest trailer he’d ever seen in his life. It wasn’t level, and it was stained from years of mold caused by the hot, humid summers. He could see tires stacked all across the roof, placed there to weigh it down and prevent it from popping at night as the temperature changed. John Allen laughed that he knew that. He had no idea where he’d picked it up.

  There appeared to be another structure past the trailer, but he could only see the chimney. It looked old. The area was overgrown; weeds and small trees were growing everywhere that couldn’t hold a parked vehicle. The grass probably got cut once a year in preparation for hunting season. Some member’s twelve-year-old son was probably forced to do it and was happy to be at the hunting club.

  Looking around inside the shed, he was surprised he didn’t see any knives stuck in cracks between the boards. He knew there had to be some somewhere, waiting to be found. Wearing nothing but his plaid Ralph Lauren boxers, he carefully hopped to the darkest side of the shed in search of something that could be useful. As he hobbled forward, he said a silent prayer.

  Runt had spent the predawn hours doing exactly what he’d been told except for one thing: he forgot to take the plastic liner that John Allen had bled on out of the back of Winston’s Suburban and pressure-wash it.

  He’d gathered up all the illegal drugs—some homemade and some stolen prescriptions, the seed pot still wrapped in the robe, and finally, the two hot burner pistols. He considered hiding them in his trailer, but he didn’t want to take that chance. He lived in a trailer park, and there was always a curious face at a window or someone loitering around the street. So concealing something outside was a gamble. He had a few good hiding spots inside the trailer, but if the cops served a search warrant, none would pass that kind of scrutiny.

  He wrapped the drugs and guns in a black plastic garbage bag and thought about tossing them into the bottom of Winston’s pool. After further consideration, he figured someone would probably drag a skimming net across the bottom just out of curiosity. In a moment of clarity, he realized where he could hide everything: the house had a crawl space. With a flashlight in one hand and the illegal gear in the other, he crawled under until he found the dryer-vent tube. He used a pocketknife to slice the foil lining and peel it back, revealing a dark hole eight or ten inches in diameter. He picked a spot close to where the tube made contact with a PVC pipe, so the silver duct tape he would use to seal it back would not stand out, and hurriedly inserted the drugs, then the pistols. The pot wouldn’t fit in while covered in the robe, so he carefully unwrapped it.

  When he discovered it was a coffee mug, he stared at it in shock for a brief few seconds. He didn’t know what to think. Either Winston or John Allen was behind this, and he figured it had to be John Allen. With no time to waste, he taped up the foil and rubbed dirt on it to make it look weathered. Satisfied, he crawled back out and went inside to tell Winston.

  Winston was feeling little pain from the drugs, which also made him drowsy. When Runt explained about the seed pot, though, he recovered some energy. His eyes narrowed with anger.

  “You’re shitting me,” Winston said, as more of a statement than a question.

  Runt held up the coffee mug. It was huge, big enough to hold two cups of coffee, more than anyone would need—the kind of thing someone would give as a gag gift. It was very similar in size to the seed pot but not quite as wide, now that Winston really looked at it.

  “He’ll pay for that shit,” Winston pledged, grimacing as he adjusted his position on the couch. Anger and desperation flashed in his eyes.

  Runt explained where he hid the guns, and Winston, who always seemed to remember details, reminded him to clean the back of his truck.

  “Right,” Runt said, ready to go. When he was finished at the car wash, he wanted to go see his girlfriend, even if it was the crack of dawn. She lived two streets over from him in the same trailer park, and he wanted to make certain no one had spent the night
with her. There was a high probability someone had.

  Chapter 29

  When Hoss arrived at the casino, he was told that the female who wanted to cash the chip was enjoying the free breakfast they’d offered her while they collected the money for her. They’d explained the delay by claiming the tellers were changing shifts. They’d just asked for a few minutes, and she’d obliged.

  With a tribal police officer in tow, he walked over and sat down with her. When she saw the officer, her eyes widened, and she tried with difficulty to swallow a mouthful of scrambled eggs.

  “Good morning, Miss . . . ?” Hoss asked.

  “Gina,” she said nervously. “Gina Goodson.”

  Hoss didn’t even bother to introduce himself. He summed her up quickly. She wore dirty blue-jean cutoff shorts, flip-flops, and a free T-shirt from Verizon. The track marks on her arms were evident until she became self-conscious and folded them. Probably only twenty-five years old, she looked forty. The dark circles under her eyes made her look exhausted. Hoss had seen it many times before. She used meth and probably heroin. Her purse, a Michael Kors, stood out—it was either stolen or a fake.

  “Can I see your chip?”

  Gina pulled it out and handed it to him.

  Hoss studied it. The hard clay chip was theirs, all right.

  “Where did you get this chip?” he asked calmly.

  “I won it.”

  “Miss Goodson, we’ve reviewed footage of you walking straight in to cash the chip. We know you were not gaming here tonight.”

  Gina was fast on her feet. “I won it a while back,” she said with a straight face.

  “When?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “You don’t remember winning a thousand bucks?”

  Gina looked around the restaurant. There were a dozen people eating brunch. She was hungry, but she was also suddenly nervous. She didn’t have a good track record with the police, and these two were looking at her like she was guilty of something.

  “Did someone give it to you?” Hoss asked.

  Gina mentally cursed her boyfriend, Runt. She should have known something was up with him, giving her a thousand freakin’ dollars.

  Gina didn’t respond; she was thinking about her answer, trying to decide her next move in this chess game she couldn’t afford to lose.

  Hoss shook his head. He didn’t want a scene in the casino. “Miss Goodson, we need you to come with us. We have an issue we need to discuss.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice,” Hoss said emphatically.

  “We’d prefer not to handcuff you in front of all these folks,” the tribal officer added.

  “I really don’t give a shit,” she said with spite.

  Hoss didn’t like the wild look in her eyes. He exhaled and peered straight at her while speaking to the officer. “Cuff Miss Goodson and read her rights.”

  Gina stood up fast, but Hoss was faster and caught her before she could run. She screamed and shouted obscenities, but the officers had little trouble quickly leading her out of the restaurant.

  Once she was secured in the back of the police car, Hoss wiped sweat from his brow and leaned against the unit. The officer lit a cigarette. Every arrest caused a bit of stress.

  “We do everything right?” Hoss asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Do me a favor and call for a female officer to come and be with you through the whole process. This princess might scream that the two male officers took advantage of her,” Hoss said, trying to get in front of a problem.

  After the officer radioed in the request, he leaned against the car with Hoss, who also heard the response and estimated the arrival time of the female officer.

  “I’ll wait until she gets here,” he said. “I wanna interview her as soon as we get to the jail.”

  “No problem.”

  Hoss looked at Gina sitting in the backseat. She was giving him a go-to-hell look.

  “You know,” he said, “if she had gone in and gambled, had that chip busted into smaller chips, we might not have gotten a call.”

  “You think it’s one of the stolen chips?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “That’s good. Only thirty-nine more to go. Hey, I saw your boy and his Porsche this morning.”

  Hoss was deep in thought and answered without thinking about it. “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah, he was up late or early. I saw him about 4:30 a.m., driving past the offices. I love that damn car he has.”

  Hoss was focused now on the officer’s comments. “Where and when did you see him?”

  “He was coming from Philadelphia, headed east,” the officer said, sensing something was amiss. “Like I said, I saw him drive past the offices about 4:30.”

  “You’re sure it was John Allen?”

  “I’m positive. I’d recognize that car anywhere. We don’t see many around here.”

  Hoss was deep in thought once again, now wondering what John Allen could have been doing. Maybe he’d been at the casino all night and was headed somewhere. John Allen didn’t really seem like an all-night gambler, but Hoss knew you couldn’t always pick them out, either. He needed to interview Gina. After that, if he hadn’t heard from him, he would go and check out his GPS location.

  Runt drove back toward the hunting camp to execute and dispose of John Allen. It was almost noon.

  He’d showered, then taken a $1,000 chip and given it to Gina just to watch her eyes light up. She’d been excited, and he knew Gina needed the money. She was a cashier at a convenience store and was struggling with her finances. Any extra money went toward continuing the tattoo sequence she’d started a year ago. That ought to keep her happy for a month or so, he’d thought.

  Then he’d pulled into a gas station and bought a box of fried chicken breasts and a Mountain Dew, a Sunday tradition for him. He knew two guys who were sitting in the shade, and they talked for a few minutes. Runt made an effort to tell them a fabricated story about what he’d done the previous night. He was trying to build an alibi in case he needed it.

  When the chicken was consumed and the bones were picked clean, he’d wanted one more chicken leg but settled for a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. He had much to do, but since he needed the cover of darkness, he wasn’t in a big rush. Winston tried to hurry him, but Runt knew what he had to do and the proper sequence of events to pull it off. He’d prefer to walk John Allen to the mound and kill him there, rather than carry him.

  Now as he drove north, he wondered what Winston was going to do. When he’d checked with him before he left, he’d been talking out of his mind, yammering about leaving town. Runt had never heard Winston want to run from anything. He wasn’t a fighter, exactly—he had others fight for him—but he never ran. He always figured out a way to approach everything head-on, or at least have someone do so on his behalf. When Runt had promised to kill John Allen and cover everything up, Winston had seemed relieved.

  Agent Emma Haden was still furious with John Allen; however, the fury was slowly turning to concern. It was almost 2:00 p.m., and he couldn’t still be in church. She didn’t know what he normally did on a Sunday, but based on the excitement of their call last night, she felt he would’ve talked to her by now.

  She was thinking there had to be a way to find him without driving all the way to Columbus when she remembered: she was a freaking federal agent. She would call the local sheriff and have an officer ride out and take a look at his house.

  After she hung up, she was satisfied she would have some news within the hour. The deputies had located John Allen’s residence in their database and promised to call her back when a deputy was on-site. In the meantime, Emma made a tuna sandwich in the office kitchen and waited for her phone to ring. She used the extra time to shop online, looking at shoes and summer dresses. It hadn’t mattered last week, but suddenly everything in her closet looked ten years old. An ad for a new perfume popped up, and she realized she hadn’t
worn any in so long she didn’t know the name of the latest popular scent. In college she’d worn Obsession, and she wondered whether it was even available anymore.

  When her phone rang, she jumped and answered it immediately. “Agent Haden.”

  A young male voice responded, “Yes, ma’am. I’m at John Allen Harper’s address, and no one’s home. There’s no Porsche here. I see a late-model Jeep. It doesn’t appear to have been driven lately.”

  Agent Haden sighed. “Can you look in a window and see anything out of the ordinary?”

  “No, ma’am,” the deputy responded.

  “You can’t see anything?”

  “There are no windows. Apparently he lives in a barn.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “A barn? Like a red barn?”

  “No, ma’am. Like an old rusty tin barn.”

  An old rusty tin barn was hard for her to visualize as a place to live, especially for John Allen. He was educated. He always dressed well. It didn’t make sense that he lived in a barn.

  “Is the door unlocked?”

  “Stand by, ma’am,” the deputy responded.

  It evidently was unlocked, as she heard some doorknob rattling, then heard him holler, “Sheriff’s department! Mr. Harper? Are you home?”

  A few moments passed, then he again called, “Sheriff’s department!”

  “Officer, what are you seeing?”

  The officer laughed. “You sure can’t judge a book by its cover. From the outside this place looks abandoned, but the inside is really nice. It’s nice and smells new. It’s plain, like maybe he just moved in.”

  “Do a quick search of the premises, please. Be careful.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”