by Thomas Scott
“Trying to find this?” he said. The look on his face was unmistakable.
When Patty turned to run he swung the lug wrench across her lower back and she dropped to her knees, her phone skittering away under the car. The pain was so intense no sound escaped her throat, the look on her face like that of a woman who’d just walked through a plate glass window. Then she took a kick in the stomach and fell forward, rolling onto her side. Two minutes later she was gagged, taped, and strapped down under a tarp in the bed of the truck. The passenger of the truck pulled Patty’s keys from the trunk lock, got in her car and fired it up. He nodded to the truck driver as they drove away.
And just like that, Patty Doyle was gone.
4
Wyatt slept through the plowing, which both surprised and disappointed Virgil. He said something to Sandy about it as they were getting cleaned up. “Maybe we should take him to the doctor and have his hearing checked.”
Sandy, in keeping with the pre-festivities farm theme gave him a flat stare and said, “Maybe your implement isn’t as big as you think.”
“Hey…”
“Relax, Mr. Green Jeans. I’m just messing with ya. Your implement is perfect. In fact, if it was any bigger, I probably wouldn’t be able to walk.” She fanned her face with her fingertips and with a mock southern accent said, “Why, I can barely stand as it is.”
Virgil waved her off. “Yeah, yeah. Keep talking.” He turned to leave but Sandy chased him down and jumped on his back, wrapping him up with her arms and legs. They fell on the bed and rolled around laughing like a couple of kids. They weren’t very loud, but the noise woke Wyatt.
And Virgil thought, hmm…
Sandy went to get their son and as Virgil was pulling on his boots his phone buzzed at him. He grabbed it from his pants pocket, checked the screen and saw it was Delroy.
Delroy Rouche was Virgil’s partner and manager of the bar they owned, a joint called Jonesy’s Rastabarian in downtown Indianapolis. It had always been called Jonesy’s, but when Delroy and their head chef, Robert Whyte, both Jamaicans, came to work for Virgil and his late father, Mason, they turned what would have otherwise been a local tavern into one of the hottest authentic Jamaican themed bars in the city, if not the entire Midwest. On weekends during the summer months, they drew crowds from as far away as Chicago and Cincinnati. When Mason died, he left his share of the bar to Virgil, Murton, Delroy, and Robert, making them all partners.
Virgil knew that Delroy and Robert were the draw, so when Delroy suggested the name change, Virgil said yes. He didn’t really have a say in the matter, as he and Murton didn’t devote much time to the daily operations since he’d gone back to work for the state, taking Murton along for the ride.
“Hey Delroy. What’s up?”
“Dat what I’d like to know, mon. Too bad nobody tell me anyting these days.”
Virgil learned a long time ago that when speaking with a Jamaican you had to let them get to the subject at hand in their own way…and on their own timetable.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Delroy not surprised. Maybe you should come over. Murton’s back.”
“How is he?”
“It getting worse every time he go away, mon. Robert and me, we talk about it. Afraid if he keep going, one day he leave and dat be dat. No more Murton.”
“He seemed fine to me, last time we spoke.”
“When was dat, mon?”
Good point, Virgil thought. He ignored the question. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Don’t let him leave.”
He thought Delroy might give him a smart-assed Jamaican response, something along the lines of, ‘How I do dat, me?’ But he simply hung up.
Virgil frowned at the phone for a moment, then kissed his wife and infant son good-bye, fired up his Ford Raptor and headed downtown. Once he was on his way, he pulled out his phone and punched in the number for Paul Gibson, an agent for Homeland Security.
A few months ago, after wrapping up their case down in Shelby County, Gibson had delivered a message to Murton. He had, in fact, done much more than deliver a message…he’d brought in agency cleaners and disposed of the body after Murton had tracked down Decker and killed him. If that wasn’t enough, the cleaners took care of Decker while Murton and the governor of the state of Indiana sat in a limo and talked about current events.
Gibson didn’t answer his phone, so Virgil left him a voice message and asked him to call back as soon as possible.
The message Gibson delivered to Murton had been, in typical federal form, cryptic. An envelope got passed, the contents nothing more than a residential address in Louisville, Kentucky, and a photograph of Murton’s long lost father, Ralph Wheeler.
According to Gibson, a group of Russians had been backing the play in Shelby County in support of the now defunct fracking operation. Also according to Gibson, the same group of Russians were supposedly involved in the theft of nuclear pharmaceuticals from a compounding company out of Louisville. Virgil spent the better part of a month trekking across the state from South Bend to Evansville and all points in between looking into the theft, checking hospitals and university research facilities, matching actual inventory to shipping records. In the end, it turned out to be nothing more than a line item clerical error on an inventory management spreadsheet.
Virgil had gone to Louisville, hooked up with his Kentucky counterpart and friend, a state detective by the name of Jack Grady, and read the riot act to the pharmaceutical company’s executives. After a bit of toe-in-the-dirt apologies from the executives and their promise of repayment to the states of Kentucky and Indiana for expenses incurred during the investigation Virgil and Grady went away.
“I would have been satisfied with an apology,” Virgil said. “I can’t believe you got them to agree to pay for the investigation.”
Grady shrugged. “I took a shot. My boss wanted me to. Little surprised myself, tell you the truth. Too bad I won’t see any of that money. A bonus would be nice.”
Virgil laughed. “Yeah, like that would ever happen.”
“Go ahead and laugh. Easy for you, isn’t it?”
They were walking out to Grady’s car. He’d give Virgil a ride back to the airport where Cool was waiting with the state helicopter. Virgil stopped. “What do you mean, easy for me?”
This time Grady laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re the talk of the Tri-state, Jonesy. Everyone in the department knows you’ve got fuck-you money.”
Virgil waved his hands. “That’s what everyone thinks, but I don’t. I have the land, but there’s a big difference. It’s not as simple as it sounds. The land is costing me money. I’m about to go broke.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Grady said. “My heart bleeds. You’ve got it made. You’ve got the land, you’ve got a state helicopter at your disposal, your wife is hotter than anything I’ve ever—”
Virgil looked at him. “Easy, Jack. You’re getting a little wound up.”
“You know when the last time I got to fly on Kentucky’s State helicopter? Wait, don’t answer. I’ll tell you. Never.”
“Does Kentucky have a state helicopter?”
“I don’t know. They won’t tell me. Hey, speaking of state helicopters, how is that Cool motherfucker these days?”
Like that, all the way to the airport.
As Virgil drove to the bar, his thoughts remained focused on the photo of Murton’s father. He thought, though he couldn’t prove, Agent Gibson had an agenda, one he was not yet ready to divulge. In the meantime he was dangling bait in front of Murton’s nose, waiting for the perfect opportunity to yank the rod and set the hook.
Enough already.
It was, Virgil thought, time to cut bait and motor back to shore.
An hour later he went in through the back kitchen entrance, said hello to Robert and his sous chefs, then made his way out to the main bar. The patron area of the bar was long and na
rrow with high-back mahogany booths along the entire length of one wall. The bar itself sat opposite the booths with an aisle-way between the two sides. The aisle was wide enough for a row of four-top tables that ran in a single line, front to back. A large mirror filled the entire wall behind the bar and made the whole place look bigger than it actually was. Small stained glass light fixtures hung low over the booths and a soft blue neon sign above the bar mirror advertised ‘Warm Beer & Lousy Food.’ An elevated stage at the back between the kitchen entrance and the restrooms provided just enough room for the Reggae house band that played from midweek through the weekend.
Delroy was tending bar and when he saw Virgil come in he tossed a rag over his shoulder, walked over and bumped fists with him. “Respect, mon.”
“Respect, Delroy.” Then, right to it. “Where is he?”
Delroy was bald, wore small hoop earrings and had dark brown eyes that were as soft as the voice he used with almost every female customer that walked through the door. He had more marriage proposals than anyone could keep track of. If you were a single female in or near Indy and liked to hit a bar every now and again, you knew who Delroy was. He tipped his eyes up at the office area above the main stage. “Up with Becky.” Becky Taylor was Murton’s girlfriend and a contracted agent for the MCU. “It’s quieted down a little. They might be between rounds.”
“That bad?”
Before Delroy could answer the office door opened then slammed shut. Murton took the steps two at a time and walked past Virgil and Delroy without saying a word. He went through the kitchen and a few seconds later they heard the back door slam shut.
Delroy looked at Virgil. “What dat you just ask me, mon?”
“Would you go and check on Becky? See if she needs anything.”
“Yeah, mon, but let me say this first: How many times dat man save your life, you?”
“Too many to count, Delroy. You know that.”
“Maybe it not for me to say, but Murton and Becky, you and Sandy…and now your kids? All of you the only family me and Robert have left.”
Virgil cocked his head. “What are you saying, Delroy?”
“I’m saying you’ve been so taken up with this new land of yours dat you don’t see the ground you’re standing on, mon. It shifting right beneath your feet.”
“What?”
“Our family is coming apart a little bit every day. You don’t see it because you’re not looking.”
Virgil bit the inside corner of his lip. “Delroy, I think you might be exaggerating a little.”
Delroy shook his head and began wiping the bar, more out of frustration than anything else. “Tink what you want, mon. But I tell you this: Delroy not see a man hurt dat much since I watch you bury your father.” Then he turned to go check on Becky. He stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked back at Virgil. “Dat your bredren just walk out dat door. It won’t be long we’ll never see him again.” Delroy made a fist and tapped himself twice on his stomach. “It not simply a gut feeling. Hear me when I tell you this: Someting bad coming our way, Virgil Jones. Maybe it already here.”
Virgil looked at his Jamaican friend for a moment and saw the fear in his eyes. He nodded and walked out back to find Murton, but he was already gone. When Virgil tried to call him, Murton’s phone went straight to voice mail.
5
The crew, together again. It happened only a few times a year, if that. Their last job was over eight months ago, and they were ready. Itchy. They didn’t do side jobs on their own, and they stuck to every plan like it was their religion. So far it had kept them all safe…and made them not quite rich. The not quite part kept them going.
They approached each job as if it were their last, they kept emergency bottom-level identification—passports, credit cards and ten thousand in cash—with them at all times in case things went south. They never had, at least not yet. But the crew was always ready. If someone walked through the door and looked at one of them crooked they’d drop everything and walk away. The passports, credit cards and cash could get them out of the country to destinations they shared with no one, and their numbered accounts in the off-shore banks ensured they could live in comfort until they met up again…or not.
They were building for the future. They were smart about it, and almost there.
They traveled in a different vehicle for each job, a dependable used car purchased with fake IDs and wads of cash. This time it was a ten-year-old SUV with just over one hundred thousand on the odometer. They all lived within an hour of each other near Portland, Oregon, and this job would be their biggest yet. But they had to get there first and they had a long way to go. Flying was not an option, especially with the guns. Too much of a paper trail.
When the last of them was ready and their gear was stowed they headed east, all the way to Kentucky. If the drive didn’t kill them, they’d already decided the job might. But if they pulled it off, they’d be set for life and out of the crosshairs for good. They all knew it going in, so there was no sense in talking about it.
They took I-80 to Cheyenne, dropped down to Denver on I-25 and picked up I-70 all the way to St. Louis, then I-64 into Louisville. They took turns driving, stayed in the right lane with the cruise control set no more than three miles an hour over the limit. Getting pulled over wouldn’t have been the end of the world…for them, anyway. It’d be a different story for the cop.
But the cops left them alone and the entire trip took thirty-nine hours, the only stops along the way for food, gas, piss, and cigarettes. They checked into a motel that took cash and didn’t ask bothersome questions about vehicle tags, place of origin, or the purpose of their visit. They had to meet the old man in twenty-four hours. They went to their separate rooms and slept for twelve hours straight, then, finally, got down to it.
And things went a little sideways right out of the gate.
The leader of the crew, Armon Reif, was born in Germany before the wall came down to parents who were laborers by day, and agents of change by night. Their night work got them killed by the Stasi—one of the most hated and feared institutions of the East German communist government—and Armon, their only child, got shipped off to an Aunt who considered her former brother-in-law a dissident pig. Over the years Reif pieced together that his Aunt was an informer for the Stasi, and later discovered it’d been her that whispered into someone’s ear about his parents. He kept his mouth shut, mostly because he was still a kid, but the pig comments were unbearable. They ate away at him like a little worm, year after year, the Aunt growing crustier with time and age.
When the wall finally fell in ’89, Reif, now a young man, decided he’d had enough. He walked up behind her one evening without much thought at all and put the business end of a meat cleaver through the top of her head as she sat at the kitchen table. She fell face first into her bowl of soup, the cleaver sticking out of her head like an ax from the chopping block out back. She blew one fat bubble in her creamy potato soup that sounded, Reif thought, a little like a wet fart. Then…nothing. She was gone.
With the chaos of the wall coming down and the demands placed on the authorities over the reunification process, nobody really gave two shits about an old lady who turned out to be a Stasi informant. Someone said it looked like she got what she deserved. Someone else thought she might have had a relative living with her…a young man, maybe? Then someone with some authority who was short on both manpower and patience said to hell with it and they buried her, then forgot about her. By that time Reif was halfway across the ocean, headed for North America.
And in the clear.
He landed in Canada, stayed long enough to become an official Canuck, then emigrated to the U.S. and settled in the Northwest with dual citizenship. He spent a few years doing odd jobs, and stayed out of trouble. Feeling safe on the other side of the world, he worked on his language skills by telling stories of the old country, the work and subsequent death of his parents, and one night over too many drinks, the death of his Aunt. The ne
xt day he was introduced to a guy who knew a guy who had a small problem. Reif made the problem go away, collected a nice fat envelope for a few hours work and didn’t give it a second thought.
Reif didn’t know it, but he’d made an impression.
The guy, it turned out, not only had the occasional problem, he had associates who had problems from time to time as well. Reif put a crew together and over the years they handled them all. The jobs got bigger and the envelopes became briefcases, then eventually duffel bags, fatter and heavier every time.
They piled into the SUV, Reif at the wheel, and made their way back west on 64 out to a dry quarry set deep in the hills of southern Indiana. They were rested, but not quite fresh. Reif parked the SUV nose first near the lip of the quarry and they all got out, hovering near the front of the vehicle. The other four, Paul Fischer, Eric Chase, Randy Stone, and Evan Reed had been with Reif for years. Reif had found Chase on his own, and later Chase had recommended Stone, and so on, all the way down to Fischer, who’d been brought in on Reed’s say so.
With the exception of Reif, each of them had a specialty, all thanks to the generosity of the United States military. They each had something else in common, something Reif appreciated and could work with. They’d all been dishonorably discharged from various branches of the United States military. There was, Reif thought, nothing better than a well-trained rule bender.
The quarry was shaped like a lopsided bowl, cliff-steep all the way around, not quite a mile across, with a shallow-banked access area at the end of a wide dirt path, the same path where Reif had parked the SUV. He wanted to site the long guns, and take care of a problem that’d popped up unexpectedly. The problem had been discovered by Chase and passed quietly to Reif a week ago.