by Bobby Cole
Careful to check for John Allen’s position in the shed before he walked straight in, Runt saw him leaning against the side and could tell he wasn’t in good shape. His feet were purple from the zip ties.
“How we doing, sport?” Runt asked with a laugh.
John Allen glared at him. He could see a cold beer in Runt’s hand and imagined how good it would taste.
“I hope you’ve enjoyed our hospitality,” Runt said as he pulled out a pocketknife. “I’m gonna cut the ties on your ankles. Don’t you go doing something crazy like you did to Winston, now.”
“Why are you doing this?” John Allen asked in a wrecked voice.
“We’re just protecting our way of life. You tribal guys come around and want to stop us from selling artifacts that you don’t own. Nobody owns them. We got as much right to ’em as anybody.”
Runt stood silhouetted in the doorway as he opened the knife. He was wearing a worn-out Saints tank top, cut-off jean shorts, and nasty sneakers that looked as if he’d had them for years. John Allen could also see a semiautomatic pistol on his hip. It looked big. He guessed it to be a .45.
“You don’t have to do this,” John Allen said, trying to stand up straight. “I can pay you. You can have my car.”
“Yeah, well, I wished you had offered that last night before we saw if it could float,” Runt said with a laugh. “Guess what? It don’t float. Did you know that?”
“Seriously, just think about it. We can work this out.”
“Nah, there ain’t nothing to talk about.” Runt stepped close and bent down to cut the zip ties around John Allen’s ankles. “There you go. I need you to be able to walk. We got a boat ride and hike ahead of us.”
“How much money do you want?”
“Winston said you would try and trick me. I ain’t stupid, mister.”
“I’m not trying to trick you,” John Allen said as he stared at his feet. They looked awful. They were the color of an uncooked steak that had spoiled.
“Can you walk?”
“I don’t know.”
Runt peered out the door at the sky. “Well, you got about thirty minutes to get yourself together; then we’re going on a boat ride.”
So that’s how he’s going to kill me, John Allen thought. Even if I were strong enough to swim, with my hands tied there’s no way I could hope to.
“Just sit right down,” Runt said, eyeing him carefully. “I’ll turn on the water, and you can have a drink from the hose.”
John Allen sat down and thought about Runt. He looked like he only weighed about 150 pounds, but he was wiry like the guys on American Ninja. John Allen probably weighed 185, and he was six inches taller than his captor. If he wasn’t debilitated from the zip ties, he could take him. But with his feet, hands, and shoulder injured, it wouldn’t be easy.
When the water first flowed from the hose, it was scalding hot. John Allen let it run until it was cool, then drank until he almost threw up. He wanted more, but Runt cut the water off.
The BMW was hugging County Road 21 as Emma pushed the accelerator harder, crossing a solid yellow line and passing two log trucks.
She’d seen the thunderstorm brewing in her rearview mirror moments before as she’d told Agent Garner where she was headed. Garner and crew were at least an hour out, and he’d begged her to wait for them to arrive. She imagined he knew she wouldn’t.
Before she’d left the building, she’d learned that they hadn’t found John Allen’s body in the car and had wanted to shout for joy. But she hadn’t. What she really wanted was to find Winston Walker and put a pistol to his head.
Once she was on the road, she’d called Agent Garner, then Hoss. She’d told him what she’d learned, and Hoss had informed her that because the land around the mound wasn’t tribal, he would be calling the Neshoba County sheriff to ask him to send deputies to assist her. If for some reason she ended up at the mound itself or at the cave, then that was indeed tribal land. He’d be on his way there as soon as they hung up, he said.
Emma guessed she’d arrive in fifteen or twenty minutes. She drove hard and looked for 393, the number for the county road she remembered she’d need to make a hard left onto.
During the drive, she went through a mental checklist: she had a bulletproof vest and a twelve-gauge pump shotgun in her trunk, a small pistol in an ankle holster, plus her duty piece on her hip.
She also went over the possible scenarios she might encounter, and she didn’t like any of them. That thought only made her more determined.
Runt stood over John Allen and was enjoying imposing his dominance. John Allen was the kind of guy he and Winston hated. Not because he was a cop, but because he was clean-cut and had an honest job. He was everything they weren’t, and they hated him.
“You rich or something?” Runt asked, then took a pull of cold beer. He knew from Winston that this type of guy either was mortgaged to his eyeballs or was spending his daddy’s money.
John Allen tried to sit up. “No, not by normal standards.”
“What’s that mean? You being a smart-ass?”
“Well, what does rich mean?”
“It means you gotta shitloada money. Enough to burn a wet cow,” Runt said with a laugh.
“No, I don’t. I’m just a working stiff.”
“That’s a fancy barn you live in. That was pretty cool, and that car was sweet. Man, I woulda loved to have had that thing.”
“I would have given it to you.”
Runt laughed again. “What did it cost?”
John Allen was encouraged that they were talking. He figured this was the best thing he could do at the moment.
“About ninety grand.”
“Holy shit, man. What’s the payments on that cost you?”
“I honestly don’t know; it belongs to the Choctaw Nation. They lease it for me.”
Runt laughed out loud. He was enjoying himself immensely. “I hope they got insurance on it.”
John Allen shook his head. “So, tell me, did you guys kill the Choctaw agent who disappeared about two years ago?”
“He sat right here, just like you,” Runt said with little care and no emotion. The thought sent chills down John Allen’s spine. “He was trying to stop us from digging, just like you.”
“I never realized. I don’t guess any of us realize how serious you guys are.”
“Shit, we dead serious, man, and it ain’t just us. There’s folks all over the country chasing artifacts and will kill you to protect what they’re doing. You ever been up there in North Alabama along the Tennessee River?”
John Allen grunted and nodded. He’d been on the river several times, fishing for smallmouth bass.
“All those divers you see—the ones that claim they’re diving for zebra mussels? Most of ’em ain’t. They’re diving the bottom for artifacts. They find lots of stuff along the river bottom where the bank erodes. They tie ’em up in a bag under the bottom of the boat in case the Man comes along.”
“All I know is the Choctaw people want their artifacts back. They’re spiritual to them,” John Allen said.
“We don’t give a shit.” Runt gave his hip a small kick. “Come on, it’s time to get up. We gotta walk down to the creek and go for a boat ride.”
John Allen was feeling better now that he’d gotten some water. He was going to take a shot at Runt. He’d wait for the best time, and he hoped he’d know it when he saw it. As he struggled to his feet, Emma flashed through his mind. Was she looking for him yet? He knew she’d be worried that he hadn’t been available today. Worried, or just plain mad.
“So as long as you gonna kill me, tell me: did Winston murder Jim Hudson on that quail hunt?”
Runt backed up a step and laughed. “You heard about that?”
John Allen nodded. He’d made it to his feet now and leaned back against the shed wall.
Runt smiled while he shook his head in admiration. “Shit! That was genius, and all Winston’s idea. He told me that there was no way to
prove it wasn’t a hunting accident, and guess what?”
“They couldn’t prove it.”
“That’s right. And they had everybody looking at it. They wanted like crazy to pin it on him, and after all that police work, they couldn’t.”
John Allen’s spirit sank a little deeper. He thought about the effort it must take to get away with murder. Winston was no doubt as evil as Emma had warned. He decided to push for one more answer.
“What about Rosco Jones?”
Runt cocked his head. “Who?”
“Rosco Jones. He was a janitor at the Choctaw offices.”
“What happened to him?”
“He either was murdered or committed suicide.”
Runt thought and half smiled. It sounded to him like Rosco had crossed Winston.
“I ain’t got no idea.” Fumbling with his holster, Runt growled, “Come on, let’s get going.” Then he pointed his pistol at John Allen.
Chapter 33
Winston drove south on US Route 45, heading toward Mobile. His leg was stiffening up, and he took another pain pill. He decided he wasn’t going to sleep in his truck tonight. He needed to stretch his leg out, maybe even prop it up. He had the credit card from the organic-fertilizer hippie folks. If he could keep the desk jockey from asking for an ID, he’d get a room at a Hampton Inn or someplace like that in Fairhope. It was a nice place, and he wouldn’t have to worry about getting robbed. And there was a Hooters right close at hand.
He had a little cash in his emergency getaway bag. He’d actually prepared, figuring this day would eventually come. He could make it to Key West without using his own credit cards—they would be watching those. He’d have to get a new identity and cards. But he knew that could be done and guessed it would be even easier in South Florida.
Emma perked up when she passed over a creek named Nanih Waiya, and within a few hundred yards she saw the famous mound on the right. It was much larger than she’d imagined it would be, but she didn’t give it another thought as she drove on. “Second gravel road on the left,” she kept saying to herself, looking for the turn.
Just past the mound she saw an open field, then the first gravel road, marked by a sign reading BRIDGE OUT. Emma slowed even more after she’d left that behind, not wanting to miss the upcoming turn, but ended up traveling two more miles before she found the second road just as she came into a turn.
Stopping even with it, she saw an old metal gate that was much older than the one at John Allen’s. This has to be it. She pulled in up tight to the locked gate. With the engine still running, she got out to see what would be involved in unlocking the gate. Too much, she quickly realized. There was a heavy lock that held two thick, rusted pieces of chain together. There’d be no way to unlock it without a bolt cutter or a blowtorch.
Standing at the gate, Emma looked down the road. The edges were overgrown with brush, and thick pine trees lined either side. Studying the ground, she could see fresh tire tracks in the disturbed gravel and a fresh cigarette butt tossed at the base of the metal pole that held up the gate. This has to be it, she thought again. This gate was clearly meant to keep people from driving up to the hunting camp.
Hurrying back to her car, she opened the trunk and pulled on her protective vest. Then she picked up her Benelli M4 Tactical twelve-gauge shotgun and loaded it methodically as she stared down the road ahead. When she’d finished, she placed the shotgun atop the car and pulled her ponytail through the back of a black FBI-logo cap, then settled it onto her head. She reached in, turned the car off, and locked the doors.
Pulling out her cell phone, she saw she barely had enough bars to do what she wanted. Navigating to her mapping app, she dropped a pin at her location, then satisfied it was correct, texted the image to Agent Garner and replaced the phone in her pocket.
Preparations complete, she exhaled and looked left, then right, hoping to see help coming. She saw and heard nothing, however, except the threatening rumble of a Mississippi thunderstorm. She was alone, and the sun was almost down. She knew her fellow agents were coming, and Hoss had called the local sheriff. But waiting didn’t feel like an option. Not knowing how far away the camp was, she grabbed the shotgun and a flashlight and climbed over the gate. Agent Emma Haden had a job to do.
Off to the southwest, Hoss could hear a thunderstorm building in the sky and turned to see the ominous clouds. Storms like this were very typical this time of year and all throughout the summer. He hoped the sheriff’s department would have time to drag the corner of the lake before the threat of lightning forced them off the water.
There wasn’t much left to do here. He had already requested that the wrecker driver haul the soaked car to the Tribal Law and Order Building and not let anyone disturb it.
His mind kept returning to Agent Haden. The thought of her heading to a remote hunting camp by herself was unsettling. After calling a tribal officer over and making him promise to contact him immediately if they found anything related to John Allen, Hoss climbed into his unmarked car and left so he could determine the exact location of the hunting camp that had intrigued the FBI agent.
Fifty miles southeast, Garner and the three other agents were already driving toward the area that Agent Haden had described, every one of them deeply concerned about her safety.
Agent Garner cussed the way this was going down. He was riding shotgun and trying to understand the pin she’d dropped. He’d never been to this remote area before and was struggling to map the fastest way to get there.
They’d left Walker’s home more confused about the man’s whereabouts than before they’d arrived. If they hadn’t been called away, they would have taken him to a federal interrogation facility. But the thought of their colleague facing Walker on her own easily trumped questioning a simpleminded drug addict.
With even a little luck, the all-points bulletin on Walker would yield results. If he was driving around anywhere, somebody in law enforcement would see him. The Meridian police especially knew what to look for, and where. They were Agent Garner’s ace in the hole.
The skinning shed was stiflingly hot inside. Runt wiped the sweat from his face with his left hand and held the pistol on John Allen with his right. It was getting darker, and he heard thunder rumbling in the distance, so he was ready to get moving. He stepped over behind John Allen and kicked him in the butt.
“Come on, get going,” he said.
John Allen tried to take a step and caught himself on the door as a crippling spike of pain shot up his leg. His feet were a mess. After hours of constriction, his blood flow wasn’t back anywhere close to normal. But he knew Runt was determined to get him moving, even if it meant stumping all the way to where they were headed, so he ground his molars against the pain and kept at it, leaving the shed behind for the first time in God knew how many hours. The air outside the skinning shed was remarkably clear and fresh even though it was hot. John Allen breathed deeply, filling his lungs.
“Where we going?” he asked, hoping to distract Runt from how slow he was moving.
“You see that boat down there on the creek?”
John Allen saw it. The aluminum johnboat pulled up on the bank was in rough shape from years of running the creek. Very little of the dark-green paint remained, and John Allen could see dents from his distance.
As if reading his thoughts, Runt said, “Don’t look like much, but I love that old boat. That little twenty-horsepower Mercury never doesn’t start.” Something hard shoved against John Allen’s shoulder—the back of the blade of a shovel Runt had picked up. “Not like you,” he said with a chuckle. “Get moving.”
“My feet feel like they’re on fire,” John Allen complained, looking for something to use as a weapon even though he didn’t know how he’d grab it.
“I don’t care. Move your ass.”
“You don’t have to do this,” John Allen said again. The gravel on his ravaged bare feet was making it even more difficult to walk.
“I done told you we protec
t what’s ours.”
“Just let me go. I won’t say anything to anybody, and I’ll turn a blind eye to what you’re doing.”
“I don’t trust you, and Winston would never agree to it, so shut up and walk.” This time it was the pistol Runt pushed into his back.
“You do everything he tells you?”
“What’s it to you?” Runt asked.
John Allen stumbled and fell on one knee. A clap of thunder shook the woods around them, and the wind began to blow a cool breeze.
“Believe me, Winston knows what he’s doing,” Runt said as he studied the storm. He didn’t mind getting wet, and it would provide him even better cover. Nobody would be out at the mound tonight in a thunderstorm. This is perfect, he thought.
Pushing himself back to his feet with the help of a pine tree he backed against, John Allen started walking again. “Yeah, I’ll say he does. I don’t see him here. He’s got you doing the dirty work. I promise you when the shit hits the fan, he’ll have an alibi for where he was. He’s setting you up.”
“That ain’t true. He’s not here because you jacked up his knee.”
John Allen was in too much pain to smile, but the thought of Winston’s knee offered a small bit of consolation. “And because he needs an alibi.”
“Just shut up.”
The two men finally arrived at the boat. John Allen’s boxers were freshly soaked in sweat. As he stood there panting, he watched Runt pull a set of keys from his pocket. John Allen’s mind raced as he realized the boat was locked to a tree. John Allen knew this was his chance, maybe his only chance. He had to get Runt off his feet, then . . . then he didn’t know what he would do.
When Runt bent to unlock the boat, John Allen called on all his strength and jump-kicked him, driving one heel into the small of Runt’s back and knocking him onto the ground. Then John Allen, lacking any better ideas, screamed at the top of his lungs and threw himself on top of Runt in an effort to pin him down. Runt thrashed under him, cursing, but was able to push John Allen off without much trouble and get to his knees, since John Allen couldn’t use his arms. John Allen lunged at him again, but this time Runt punched him in the face, then jumped to his feet.