by Thomas Scott
They formed the trust and put a name to it for two reasons: One, the lawyers and accountants told them no matter what they ended up doing with the land—there was no shortage of options—it’d be less of a tax hassle if they did it from a business perspective as opposed to a personal one. The other reason was simpler: They were all tired of referring to it as ‘The Land.’
So Virgil and Company was born, which ended up making scant little difference. They still had tax issues to deal with, actual mounds of paperwork that sat on Virgil’s desk growing higher by the month, and no one called it Virgil and Company. They all just kept calling it ‘The Land.’
Virgil was at home, sitting at his desk reviewing one of the mounds. Wyatt, now four months old, was tucked in a bassinet next to his desk, his arms batting playfully at the tiny multi-colored stuffed animals that hung from a mobile that swirled just out of reach. Every once in a while he’d let out a little giggle and it made Virgil smile.
Virgil and Wyatt were alone in the house. Their live-in housekeeper and nanny, a fine lady by the name of Huma Moon, was at the movies with Jonas. Sandy was at the doctor getting what they hoped would be her final check-up before having her medical restrictions lifted. She’d been restricted because of the surgeries she had after Wyatt was born.
An Indiana National Guardsman Virgil had been hunting had viciously attacked her. The soldier, a guy named Decker, had injured her so badly that she had to have a field C-section on the floor of their own living room. During the procedure she almost bled out, but was saved by a last minute blood transfusion from the governor’s pilot, Richard Cool, as he made an emergency run to the hospital in the state helicopter. All together, the entire ordeal put a whole new take on the saying ‘Keeping up with the Joneses.’
Anyhoo…the land.
The problem with the land wasn’t so much the land itself, it was what to do with it…and when. The ‘when’ part of the equation turned out to matter. Spring was right around the corner and over the holidays Virgil and Sandy had entertained a number of offers from farming operations both large and small, some of whom Virgil knew from his previous case. The list had finally been narrowed down to two entities. Sunnydale Farms was one. The other was the remaining members of the Shelby County Co-op.
As the ‘when’ part of the equation crept closer by the day, they knew they had to make their decision soon or the land would simply sit there all year earning them absolutely nothing. That was entirely unacceptable because Virgil and Sandy had to mortgage their house to pay the inheritance and back taxes on the land. If they didn’t get someone to plant for them this spring, Virgil and Company would be no different than most any other farmer: Dirt poor and land rich. They could already feel the pinch.
It was an odd sensation to him…the money. While he had no actual money, he did have the land which appraised close to eight thousand dollars an acre which meant Virgil and Company’s assets were close to sixteen million dollars. Just the thought of it made his head swim. They’d put it on the market almost immediately, but there hadn’t been any serious offers…yet. So in order to minimize his tax bill, Virgil would have to declare himself a farmer—something that Murton seemed to enjoy to no end—to qualify for the farm tax credit. And because Virgil didn’t know winter wheat from Shredded Wheat, it meant he’d need to get someone to plant and tend the harvest for at least one year. Maybe more. And it had to be someone he could trust. It was either that or they’d slowly go broke.
So. Virgil sat at his desk reviewing the proposals. The bids were all based on yield—how many bushels of corn, beans, wheat or whatever that could be harvested per acre—minus expenses. The yield mattered because it set a baseline for the future. If he could find a buyer who wanted to farm the land, he’d net roughly eight to ten million dollars after taxes.
But if he sold the land for other uses—housing, retail commercial ventures, industrial warehousing and manufacturing—then the value of the land would skyrocket. He wouldn’t be looking at a sale amount of eight thousand an acre. He’d be staring down the barrel of thirty thousand per acre or more. And that math really made his head spin. He wouldn’t just have money…
He’d have fuck-you money.
Virgil was so caught up in land management issues that he didn’t hear Sandy come in. She had her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail and wore a colorful sleeveless spring dress and a pair of white Chuck’s with no socks. She slid up behind him, placed her hands on his shoulders and ran them down inside his shirt, all the way to his stomach, then bit him on the earlobe.
Virgil relaxed back into his chair. He was so deeply in love with his wife he sometimes thought he might burst. But he wasn’t beyond having a little fun with her, either. He dropped the papers on his desk, grabbed her arms and said, “Huma, I’m a happily married man. We can’t keep going on like this.”
He thought it was hilarious.
Sandy almost bit his ear off. “Very funny, mister. Maybe the three of you should run off to the islands together.”
Virgil spun his chair around. “The three of us?”
Sandy sat down in his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Yeah. You, Huma, and that big toothed weather person you never miss in the morning.”
“There is nothing wrong with a little morning meteorology to start the day, especially since it looks like we’re going to be farmers.”
Sandy shook her head at him. “Then get up at four in the morning and start watching the Farm Report. Virgil, I love you. You’re good at whatever you put your mind to. But we are not going to be farmers.”
“We are on paper. Need to be for the tax credits. And don’t let Murton hear you say that. I don’t think he’s had this much fun since…ever.”
“He’ll get over it.” Then, “Ask me about my doctor appointment.”
“How did it go?”
Sandy smiled at him. “He lifted the restrictions.” Then, as if she’d not quite made her point, she added, “All the restrictions, Virgil.” She bit her lower lip and raised her eyebrows at him.
He stood from the chair with Sandy in his arms.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m doing what any other farmer in my position would do,” Virgil said as he carried her over to the sofa. “I’m going to plant some seeds.”
She almost rolled her eyes at him, the remark was just that corny. But it had been longer than they’d ever gone without sex, spring was in the air, and the bottom line was this: Farmers or not, it was time to plow.
3
Patty Doyle, a senior at Indiana University in Bloomington, decided to skip her final class of the day, a three hour mind-numbingly tedious lecture on the ethical and moral ramifications of ancient archaeological excavations. She’d spent the past three-and-a-half years learning everything the school had to offer regarding archaeology and was almost done. She’d received a fine education, and now, in her final semester before graduating, she was winding down.
Patty thought the class itself was a joke. For three years they taught you everything you needed to know to be part of a team that traveled the world, exploring and recovering artifacts from places that hadn’t been seen for thousands of years, then, right when you were about to graduate, they hit you with a full semester of ethics and morals.
The class may as well have been called Here’s how to do it and why you shouldn’t-101. The premise of the entire class was elementary, both in substance and presentation. Modern archaeology was about history, but it was also a bit of a money grab. The grab usually went something like this: The major digs were funded through grants, a tomb or historical site with some significance was revealed, the site packed with precious metals and jewels often valued in the hundreds of millions of dollars. These finds were pulled out of the ground and then out of the country, carted off to various museums and universities, usually in the U.S. But plenty of money managed to change hands along the way.
So what? Patty thought. Isn’t that why they called it capitalism? He
r job dealt with the discovery, not the political or social-economical ramifications of what happened afterwards. She’d let others worry and debate the ethics of the whole affair. The space program had managed to turn the moon into a giant dumping ground but no one accused NASA of littering, did they? In any event, no class today. Besides, the point had been made during the first hour of day one. Everything else had been so repetitive Patty thought she might have to wear a neck brace and prop her eyes open with toothpicks to stay upright and awake.
So instead of going to class Patty decided to take some time to herself. She had a package coming in at the post office and it needed her signature. She’d take care of that and then go for a run.
She dressed in her running clothes, got in her car and headed out to the woods. She often did her workouts on the city streets around the Bloomington area, but every once in a while she enjoyed the extra challenge of the beautiful wooded trails Brown County offered. Today was one of those days. Besides, the homeless population in and around Bloomington had gotten to the point that if you were out on the streets for five minutes you got hit up for food or money every half-block. No thanks. Today was going to be enjoyed the way it should…in the woods, with Mother Nature.
The way it turned out, Patty Doyle should have stuck to the streets and dealt with the mendicants and moochers. Or better yet, gone to class. After her stop at the post office—the package still hadn’t arrived—she headed out of town toward the Yellowwood state forest not far from the quaint little town of Nashville. She failed to notice the vehicle following her. She might have if she’d been paying better attention, but she had too many things on her mind, chief among them, how to gently, but effectively rid herself of her boyfriend, Nate Morgan. That was another thing that was winding down. It had in fact, already unwound. Nate, god bless him, hadn’t noticed.
She did five miles through the wooded trails, barely breaking a sweat. She was in the prime of her life and in the best shape ever. It hadn’t always been that way. By the end of her first year she wasn’t worried about the so-called freshman fifteen—the extra fifteen pounds that everyone says freshmen put on from bad food and too much beer—she was worried about the freshman fifty. So she buckled down, started eating healthy, and took up running. It’d taken her two years to get the extra weight off and now she not only felt great, she looked it too. Patty Doyle would turn your head if she happened by.
She liked it…her ability to turn heads. Nate Morgan didn’t like it at all. Patty thought Nate was an okay sort of guy, but it wasn’t like they were going to get married. He’d been there for her when she’d struggled with the weight and that mattered to her. But he was going to be a doctor—a general practitioner, no less—and she was going to travel the world. Not a good mix. Plus, ever since she’d lost the weight and gotten herself in shape, she wasn’t just turning heads, she was getting offers. Serious offers. She liked it; the attention.
And Nate, well, he was a whiner. Every time another man even looked her way, Nate would whine about it in his nasally voice. She was so tired of it she wanted to scream every time he opened his mouth. They were going out to dinner tonight. She’d do her best to let him down easy.
He’d still whine though.
Whatever. Time to move on. Their lives were moving in different directions and it was time to get up and get on with her own.
But when Patty Doyle got back to her car, she suddenly discovered she wasn’t going anywhere, at least not right away.
She had a flat tire.
She leaned against the side of her car, opened her water bottle and drank the entire container dry. Might need the hydration after all.
Her car was parked outside the entrance to the state forest and no other vehicles were in sight. When she unlocked the glove box and checked her phone she couldn’t get a signal. Who would she call anyway? Nate? No thank you. He’d whine about missing class and the fifteen-mile drive out to get her. Then he’d whine about changing the tire. He’d whine until Patty slit her own throat just so she didn’t have to listen to it anymore.
Easy Patty, she told herself. Slit your own throat? Maybe she’d waited a little too long to give Nate the old heave-ho. She’d skip dinner and talk to him as soon as she got back.
She’d never changed a tire before, but how hard could it be? She’d seen her uncle do it more than once. She unlocked the trunk with her keys and then removed the jack, lug wrench, and spare. The jack was some sort of scissor contraption with a nub that stuck out on one side. She placed the jack behind the wheel and turned the nub with her fingers until the jack expanded and met the frame. But there was a problem. The lug wrench didn’t fit the nub, and even if it had, she’d only be able to twist it a half-turn at a time. That couldn’t be right. Wasn’t there supposed to be a crank to raise the jack? She thought so. When she dug around in the trunk she discovered she didn’t have it. Now what?
She checked her phone again. Still no signal. She was about to put everything back in the trunk and start jogging down the road when an old pickup truck turned in and stopped next to her.
Her first thought was she could be in real trouble here…out in the middle of nowhere, alone with a flat tire. She held the lug wrench in her hand and gave the truck a hard stare, half of her wanting it to continue on its way, the other half glad it stopped. There were two men in the truck. The driver rolled down his window—the truck was so old he actually had to crank the window down by hand, the gears inside the door creaking as the glass screeched into the door frame. The noise reminded her of Nate’s voice.
With the window down the glare of the sun against the glass went out of her eyes and she could see the men clearly and almost laughed at the absurdity of her own thoughts only moments ago. If she’d ever seen two more harmless looking men than these, she couldn’t recall where or when.
“Looks like you’ve got a little problem,” the driver said. He smiled when he spoke, his eyes fixed on the flat tire. “Take some help from a couple of old geezers?”
Patty relaxed her grip on the lug wrench, embarrassed by the hard stare she had given the men when they pulled over to help. “I guess I’m not in much of a position to say no. Don’t ask me how, but it looks like I’m missing the crank for the jack.”
The driver’s smile remained in place, his eyes occasionally checking the rear-view mirror. The passenger seemed to be looking at everything in sight except Patty. He stepped out of the truck without saying a word and walked around the front of the vehicle and inspected the tire.
When he returned from the rear of the pickup he carried a hydraulic floor jack, the kind you see in an automotive repair shop or on pit-road during a NASCAR racing event. He set it under the frame, inserted the handle and began to take the weight off the wheel. When Patty turned to watch him work, the driver stepped out and moved to help his partner. He looked at Patty.
“Mind if I borrow that lug wrench? Got to loosen the lugs before the tire comes off the ground. I’d use my own, but the lugs on the truck are sized differently than yours. Miss?”
Patty glanced at the truck’s wheels. Were they sized differently? She couldn’t tell. She suddenly had a funny feeling. She didn’t want to give up her only means of protection and at the same time she didn’t want to offend the very men who had stopped to help her in her time of need. She looked at the wrench in her hand as if the answers lie there instead of her gut. Then she thought, give it a rest, girl. The world is full of kind and decent people who only want to help. Two of them are demonstrating that right now. Besides, both men had to be at least sixty-five years old. If nothing else she’d be a half mile down the road before they could turn their truck around.
“Sorry. Here.” She held the wrench out. The driver took it gently, winked at her and then started in on the lugs. Five minutes later the tire was swapped out. The truck’s passenger twisted the handle of the hydraulic jack and Patty’s car settled down to the pavement.
“There you go,” the driver said. “Fit as a fiddl
e. Boy that makes me sound old doesn’t it? What is it kids say these days? Good to go, or something like that? Come on, let’s get the flat in your trunk and you can be on your way. I don’t see any sidewall damage. You must have picked up a nail along the way. I’ll bet they can patch it up and you can use it for your spare. The tire we put on looks brand new. Still got the teats on it. Might want to think about getting a crank for that scissor jack, too.”
The driver of the truck was a talker, Patty thought. The other man hadn’t said a word the entire time. Maybe he had a speech impediment, or something. No matter, she was grateful for the help. “Thank you, I will.” She grabbed the useless scissor jack, moved to the rear of her car and tossed it in the trunk.
The driver of the truck let out a chuckle. “Hold on there,” he said, placing the lug wrench and flat tire on the ground behind him. “The tire’s got to go in the wheel well first. If you don’t, everything will rattle around back there and make a hell of a racket every time you hit a bump or turn a corner.” He reached in and pulled out the jack and handed it to her. The other man was putting the floor jack back in the bed of the truck.
The driver picked up the flat and centered it in the well of the trunk, then grabbed the jack and set it in the center of the wheel before closing the lid.
Patty turned and looked at the ground. Where was the lug wrench? Had he placed that in the trunk already? No, she was sure he hadn’t. A sickness rolled through her gut with tremendous speed. Patty realized the sickness had been there all along. She simply hadn’t been paying attention. She reached for her phone but it was too late. The passenger of the truck was on her, moving much faster than a man his age should have been able to move. When he finally spoke, Patty feared it might be the last words she ever heard in her life.