STATE OF X

VIRGIL JONES MYSTERY THRILLER SERIES

BOOK 24

THOMAS SCOTT

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For Rusty

I hope the road ahead leads you home

— Also by Thomas Scott —

X /ĕks/

noun:

A symbol denoting an unknown or unnamed factor, thing, or person.

“As a child, I felt in my heart two contradictory feelings, the horror of life and the ecstasy of life.”

– Charles Baudelaire

“We’re all just walking each other home.”

—Ram Dass

“It makes no sense to mourn what you’ve not lost.”

—Mason Jones

CHAPTER ONE

KINGSTON, JAMAICA: 1971

A song of water sailed from the western coast of Africa and traveled across the Atlantic Ocean, as if God and the devil had sat down at a table and crafted a binding agreement on behalf of anyone who ended up caught in the wrath of what was headed their way from across the distant shores. The storm moved slowly at first, no different from a child who takes their first wobbly steps, their footing unsure, their balance left to forces hidden and unseen, incomprehensible, and well out of reach. Yet with fits and starts, the storm slowly grew from a mere depression into a powerhouse of misery, despair, and destruction…a warrior without a face, a perpetual relentless machine conceived by beings undefined, one in which its victims were no more significant than a grain of sand barely worth the effort to recognize before it is washed out to sea.

Jamaica—Kingston, in particular—may as well have had a giant X painted across the island, as if the onset of the assault had re-established the nation’s flag and stamped its mark upon the saddle of land.

Paradise was about to become hell on earth, the people be damned.

Dante Whyte held a belief that every single person on the planet has either had—or if they haven’t yet, will have—a defining moment in their life. It would be the singular point in time they could reference and say everything and anything that occurred in their life—either good or bad—happened after the curtain was raised and the actors took the stage, then played out their parts before moving on to the next scene. The belief was one that came to him after he actively embraced the beliefs and practices of the Rastafari movement in Trench Town, spreading the word of his god, Jah, to his fellow Jamaican citizens. But more importantly, Dante’s moment arrived when he was only twenty-one years old and was fortunate enough to meet the love of his life, a beautiful young Jamaican woman by the name of Jada Rose.

Jada was like no other woman Dante had ever known or interacted with. She was quick to laugh at his jokes even though they weren’t very funny, slow to anger when others sought to insult or injure, and, most importantly, she held a belief that everything in her life came from the hand of the Almighty. After a short and intense courtship, in January of 1971, Dante married the woman of his dreams, and Jada Rose became Jada Rose Whyte. Two months later when Dante walked through the door of their Trench Town home, Jada delivered the news to her husband with a smile in her eyes and tears on her cheeks that sparkled as if the bright and shining sun had just crested the early morning mountain treetops.

“You maybe want to know someting, you?”

“Of course, my love,” Dante said. “What is it?”

Jada looked away for a fraction of a second, then met her husband’s eyes, squared her shoulders, and said, “I pregnant, me.”

Dante’s mouth formed a button like he was about to blow out the candles on a birthday cake. He wanted to say the right words, but for a moment they simply wouldn’t come. He wrapped his wife in a long, loving embrace, gave her a kiss, then held her at arm’s length before finally saying, “You sure, you?”

“Of course I’m sure. Dey tings a woman know. Late I am, now. More dan five weeks, you see?”

Dante gave her another hug, wiped the corner of his eye with his thumb, then ushered Jada over to the sofa where they sat down together, their hands and fingers intertwined. “Da doctor say dis to you?”

“No, mon, not yet. I see him tomorrow. It don’t matter none, though. You going to be a proud papa, you. We gonna have ourselves a baby before Christmas comes. You wait, you see.”

Dante tipped his head back with delight, his long dark dreads nearly touching his waist. When he looked back at Jada, Dante bit down on his lower lip as he smiled. “I don’t have to wait, me. I believe you. We are blessed, no?”

Jada put her hand on her stomach and smiled. “Blessed is right.”

They stayed up well past midnight…talking, dreaming, laughing, and thinking about baby names. Just before they went to sleep, Dante and Jada got down on their knees and prayed, giving thanks to Jah for the gift He had provided.

Then time had its way…the months rolling by ever faster, the clock and the calendar taking on lives of their own. As the weeks and months flew by, Dante and Jada would come to learn two very important things: Not all prayers are answered in the way they are asked.

And the other?

Everything is connected.

During that same year, with Jada five months pregnant, Dante received news from a friend and had to leave for Spanish Town to bless the birth of a child, something he looked forward to doing in just a few more months for his own baby. With a storm on the way, he didn’t want to leave Jada alone in Kingston for long, and under any other circumstances he might have sent someone else in his place, but Dante and Jada were long-time friends with the parents—Raja and Hazel Rouche. The child he was going to bless was a baby boy named Delroy Rouche. Dante rode the bus in peace with his fellow travelers, safe in the knowledge that he’d be back home that evening to be with his pregnant wife.

When the bus finally pulled to a stop, Dante asked the driver a question before he stepped out onto the lot. “What time I need to be back, me?”

The driver looked out the window, then at his wristwatch. “Dey say dat storm coming quick. Da last bus back to Kingston is in tree hours. If you don’t make it, you stay put, mon. Da radio people say it gonna be another bad one.”

Dante nodded like he’d heard it all before, mainly because he had. “Yeah, mon. But it depend on which radio you listen to, no? Some say it miss da island altogether.”

The driver gave him a skeptical look. “It up to you, but is dat a chance you willing to take, mon?”

Dante nodded. “I be back, me. Don’t worry.”

By the time he made it to his destination, Dante’s clothes were dripping with rainwater. He apologized to his friends for his appearance, then reached up and removed his hat, his long dreads spilling across his shoulders. “Show me dis beautiful little boy of yours.”

Raja Rouche wasn’t a Rasta—a religion in its own right—and he wasn’t interested in anything outside the traditional preachings of his Protestant faith. But he and Dante had known each other since childhood, so he went along with the idea, mostly because Hazel had insisted.

Outside, the wind was picking up strength by the second, the rain sliding through the air in rippling horizontal sheets. Though he didn’t say anything to either Raja or Hazel, Dante feared that they might end up having a guest for the night. He picked up little baby Delroy and held him in his arms, then remarked how beautiful he was to the Rouches, before he offered God’s blessings, his voice his own, his words from the Almighty.

When he was finished he gently passed Delroy back to Hazel, then turned to her husband. By then the wind was howling with such intensity that when Dante spoke he had to shout. “Raj, I need to use your telephone. I have to call Jada and make sure she okay, mon.”

Raja shook his head and shouted right back at his friend. “We try if you like, mon. But dis wind and rain probably knock da lines down already.”

Hazel stayed with Delroy in the bedroom while the two men went into the kitchen. Raja picked up the receiver, listened for a moment, then shook his head. “It too late, mon. You gonna have to ride dis one out here. Da phone isn’t working. Even if you go out, dat bus not gonna show in dis weather.”

Dante never got a chance to answer because that’s when the roof tore loose from the house, half of it flying away in the wind, the other half collapsing inward. When the rafters started falling, Raja looked up just in time to push Dante away from certain death, his own end a foregone conclusion in the process. All this while the directors of souls pretended to be something less than they were, indifferent to a future not yet known by anyone other than the deities who’d just slipped away against a backdrop of darkness, forever hidden, even as the flashes of lightning ripped across the sky, threading the clouds with a promise of revealing the heavens…not for what they were, but for what they lacked.

In the bedroom, Hazel screamed.

As bad as it was for Dante—he’d managed to get Hazel and little Delroy to safety at a neighbor’s house—Jada had it much worse in Kingston. The storm produced multiple landslides that obliterated homes, businesses, churches, and everything and anyone caught in their wake. Roads were left washed out and impassable, trees were scattered like toothpicks, and people were running from something that seemed to have no directional boundaries. Jada—along with many others from Trench Town—had tried to seek higher ground to escape the tidal surge, but most didn’t make it. Jada got pulled out to sea, the riptide after the storm’s passage far too strong to resist. She did manage to cling to a small skiff that almost knocked her unconscious when it hit the back of her head.

With no small amount of effort she was able to climb into the stern of the flat-bottomed boat, but with no motor and no oars, she was at the mercy of the sea. She tried to row toward the shore with her hands, but the water was too rough and she didn’t want to fall from the boat, so she did the only thing she could do: She hung on for herself and for the child she carried in her womb, all while watching the shoreline slip farther and farther away until eventually it was lost altogether.

Six agonizing days later, delirious and severely dehydrated, she was rescued by a merchant ship on its way to Cuba. Unable to care for herself or her unborn child, she spent the rest of her pregnancy in a Cuban hospital. With no identification, she wasn’t allowed to return to Jamaica for months. Then, at last, with the help of the Jamaican foreign minister in Cuba, Jada finally made it back to her homeland, nearly a full year after her baby was born.

The first thing she did was go to her home in hopes of finding Dante. When she arrived, her house was gone, with another built in its place. The new owners said they’d never heard of anyone named Dante Whyte. After that she walked through the areas where Dante had normally preached. The entire town was in shambles, and efforts were being made to rebuild, but one of the Rastas who’d taken over in Dante’s absence had no idea where he’d gone, or what had happened to him after the storm. Finally, in desperation, she begged enough money to buy a bus ticket for herself and her child to travel to Spanish Town, the last place she knew her husband had gone.

It took her three days to find Hazel Rouche. After they’d told their stories to each other, Jada looked her friend in the eyes and said, “I need a favor, me.”

“Anyting, sister. What you need, you?”

“You have to look after my baby for me. I need to find Dante.”

“Yes, yes, go,” Hazel said. “But don’t you be gone long, you. I leave on da bus in four days.”

“Leave in four days, for where, now?”

“To Lucea. I’ll be staying with my auntie until I find work. She’s not long for dis earth, and she already told me da house will be mine when she passes. I her only family.”

Jada gave her a sharp nod. “I’ll be back. You take good care of Robert for me.”

“Don’t you worry about dat, you. Delroy and Robert will be like brothers.” She reached for her purse and pulled out her billfold and gave Jada a few bills. “I don’t have much, but I tink it enough for a bus ticket to Lucea.” Then she wrote out an address on a slip of paper and handed it to Jada along with the cash. “If I’m gone when you get back, take da bus and meet me at dat address. We will figure the rest out as we go.”

Jada hugged Hazel, kissed Robert goodbye, then walked out the door to do anything and everything she could to find her beloved husband, Dante.

But she never did. Three days later the police found her dead in a back alley in Trench Town, her body pocked with bullet wounds—the victim of crossfire of rival gang members protecting their turf during the most riotous years the island had ever seen. Her purse and other belongings had been stolen, and when no one claimed her body she was buried in a grave marked only by a wooden cross that listed nothing other than her gender and the date she was found.

Dante searched for Jada for months. The only break he ever took was to sleep, and even then he was lucky if he got more than four or five hours a night. The hospitals had no record of her, and the police couldn’t help with the search as they were too busy trying to maintain control of the streets in and around Kingston. Finally, after six long months, he found her name listed in a public record of death as one of the people who had been washed out to sea and killed by the hurricane. It wasn’t true, of course, but Dante had no way of knowing that.

He grieved for weeks, then months, and when he could no longer bear living in the place where he thought his wife and unborn child had died, he booked passage to the United States…all while Jada was still trying to get home from Cuba with their son. He hoped never to see Jamaica again.

But much like faith, hope is its own sort of unique animal, and the interconnectedness of the universe had plans for Dante…the kind he couldn’t even begin to comprehend. In short, Dante was in for a surprise. He just didn’t know it.

CHAPTER TWO

HANOVER PARISH, JAMAICA: PRESENT DAY

As the highest-ranking detective with the Indiana State Police, Virgil Jones, together with his adopted brother, Murton Wheeler—a former undercover FBI agent—ran the state’s Major Crimes Unit, reporting to, and essentially working directly for, the governor of the state, Cora LaRue.

Cora had started her career as a street cop, eventually working her way up the political ladder, first as an aide to governor Hewitt (Mac) McConnell, then as the lieutenant governor under Virgil’s wife, Sandy, who—as Mac’s lieutenant governor—stepped up and took over the seat via the state’s constitutional laws after Mac resigned with only six months left in his final term. Mac’s resignation wasn’t politically motivated—it came about as the result of the death of a man by the name of Rick Said.

Said had owned a publicly traded holding company, which was named, quite naturally, Said, Inc. Over the years, Said’s company, the state, and Virgil and Sandy, along with the Pope twins—Nicky and his sister, Nichole—all became wonderfully tangled together, both personally and professionally, after Virgil and Sandy inherited two thousand acres of rich farmland in Shelby County, Indiana. The problem was, Virgil didn’t know how to farm, nor did he have the time…much less the desire. But Said proposed that they use the land as a testbed for his new sonic drilling technology, and the offer was too good to refuse. The land, they discovered, was rife with high-grade shale, the tech worked as planned, and Virgil and Sandy ended up wealthy, set for life as minority stakeholders in both the drilling operation and in Said, Inc.

But after Said was murdered, his multibillion-dollar corporation was left without its captain, and Said’s only living heir—his niece, Patty Stronghill—didn’t want to run the company. So Mac stepped up, folded Sandy under his wing once again, and with the help of the Pope twins took the company from public to private. All that went well—a few minor hiccups aside—until two former board members, William Duke and Alex Branch, decided that they had been severely wronged and thought a little payback was in order.

The payback came by way of a multi-state coordinated attack on Said, Inc.’s private estate in Kentucky, both Virgil’s and Murton’s homes, and the complete destruction of the MCU facility—an old post office building located not far from the city’s infamous Spaghetti Bowl. And even though the Major Crimes Unit, along with help from Kentucky’s Criminal Apprehension Bureau, got the whole thing wrapped up within a matter of days, it didn’t come without its costs. Mac and Sandy lost two board members along with two of their private security personnel, and the Major Crimes Unit suffered the devastating loss of their lead crime scene investigator, Mimi Phillips, who died from injuries she sustained when the bomb that destroyed the MCU facility exploded.

The coordination of the attacks was well-planned, and Virgil and Murton decided that it’d be best for their wives, children, and several others who were part of their extended family to go down to Jamaica and stay at the Popes’ estate until the MCU could put everything to bed. They did exactly that, and once it was over, everyone ended up at the Pope estate in the hills of Hanover Parish to take a few weeks to rest and recover…in complete luxury.

Well, almost everyone.

Three of Virgil’s detectives stayed in the states. Rafael Ortiz was still recovering from a hip injury he had sustained on a previous case, so he couldn’t make the trip, and Ortiz’s regular partner, Oscar Mayo, stayed behind to keep an eye on the demolition of the MCU facility and handle anything else that might need to be addressed in the interim. And Virgil’s latest hire, Emily Baker, stayed for personal reasons…said reasons being Nichole’s twin brother, Nicky, who’d been in Indianapolis to help out with the tech side of the case since Becky had left the country along with everyone else.

Nicky decided to stay in the states because he found himself quite attracted to Baker. And Baker—who’d formerly been Cora’s personal bodyguard and detail driver—decided that she not only liked the attention, she felt the same way. So Baker stayed behind to be with Nicky while she could, and that left the rest of the crew on a temporary hiatus until they could figure a few things out—chief among them, where they were going to operate from when they returned to the states and got back to work.

Virgil and Murton were sitting on the deck of the Popes’ guest house talking about just that—among other things—over breakfast. Murton popped a fresh strawberry into his mouth, tucked it inside his cheek and said, “As usual, I think you’re making it more difficult than it needs to be.”

Virgil looked at his brother, gave him a friendly frown, and said, “Have you ever noticed that when you refer to something I just said, you often preface it with the words as usual?”

Murton chewed his strawberry, and a bit of juice slipped out of the corner of his mouth. He dabbed at it with a napkin, then said, “Only because it’s true. Someone has to maintain a measure of reality around here. I do what I can to keep the people happy.”

Virgil was about to launch a verbal counter-assault, but Murton’s own words stopped him. “Speaking of happy, have you spent any time with Robert since we’ve been here?”

Robert Whyte was the head chef and part owner of the bar Virgil and Murton owned in downtown Indianapolis, a joint called Jonesy’s Rastabarian. Virgil and his late father, Mason, had started the bar years ago, not long after Virgil’s mother passed, and the two men thought they’d create a regular cop bar…somewhere the local officers could go to be among their own kind. But fate shuffled the deck when Virgil met and hired two Jamaican men—Delroy Rouche and Robert Whyte—who turned it into a popular Jamaican-themed bar and restaurant. Both ended up as part owners years ago, after Virgil’s father, Mason, was shot to death inside his own establishment when he took a bullet that was meant for Virgil. The shooting still haunted Virgil…in more ways than one.

Murton looked out over the hills of Hanover Parish and the ocean beyond. “I have. And if I’m reading it right, he’s not been his usual happy self of late.”

“I think that’s true,” Virgil said. “The problem is, I’m not sure why.”

“Neither am I. Have you talked to Delroy about it?”

Virgil gave his brother a lazy shrug. “I didn’t think it was any of my business.”

That got a laugh out of Murton. “When has that ever stopped you?”

When Virgil didn’t respond, Murton filled the void by saying, “What is it, Jonesy?”

“We’re going to have to come up with a new temporary location to operate out of until the MCU facility is rebuilt. I spoke with Cora yesterday and she wants us to sort of hurry up and get to it.”

Murton was underwhelmed. “What’s the rush?”

“She didn’t say with any specificity, but I don’t think she likes it that we’re operating out of the bar.”

“Here’s three things, favorite brother of mine⁠—”

“That’s not a very high bar. I’m your only brother.”

“Okay, make that four things,” Murton said. “It’s impolite to correct someone, especially when said someone—that’d be me, by the way—is giving you a compliment. Second, Cora has enough on her plate to keep her busy without worrying about where we park a temporary desk or two. Third, every single one of us down here right now has enough vacation time in the bank to stay almost as long as we want.”

“That’s only three things,” Virgil said.

Murton snickered. “Nice to see you’re keeping up with the big dog. Fourth is this: How about we stick with the subject at hand?”

“Believe it or not, I’m capable of holding more than one thought in my head at the same time,” Virgil said. “You should try it. Rumor has it that it’s good for you. Sort of like cardio for the brain.”

“You know how I’m always giving you grief about your cop humor?”

“Yeah. What of it?”

“I’d like to now and forevermore retract part of that statement.”

“Which part?”

Murton smiled. “Take the word ‘cop’ out. I stand by the rest of it. By the way, have you heard anything from that ATF guy…what’s his name again?”

“Agent Rob Parks,” Virgil said.

Parks had been put in charge of overseeing the demolition of the MCU facility on behalf of the state and the federal government due to the fact that the building housed weapons and ammunition that no one wanted to see lost or in the wrong hands. Everyone knew the weapons were most likely rendered useless when the bomb destroyed the building, but it didn’t hurt to be careful in that regard.

“I have heard from him,” Virgil said. “He matched everything from Sarah’s inventory list, so all the weapons are accounted for. He also told me that none of them are in working order.”

“I’m not surprised,” Murton said.

“Tell you what else he found,” Virgil said.

“What’s that?”

Virgil smiled and said, “My desk. He dropped the Bible and Ed’s badge at Cora’s office. She’s holding them for me.”

“That’s sort of amazing,” Murton said, “that he was able to find them.”

“I know, right? Here’s something else: He says most of the rubble has already been hauled away and the outer walls have been brought down. That means the reconstruction process is going to start any day now.”

“That’s good news,” Murton said. “But regardless of what I said earlier, I’m sort of with Cora on this one. We can’t keep the bar closed for too long. We’ll lose our customer base.”

“I know. And you’re right. Not to worry though. Delroy’s backup staff already has us up and running.”

Murton gave Virgil a silent Ah, then said, “Didn’t know that. Anyway, Robert?”

Virgil shrugged. “I don’t have a different answer for you, Murt. Have I noticed? Yes. Do I know what it’s about? No.”

“Perhaps some detecting would be in order,” Murton said. “A second ago you used the word, rumor. And I personally believe there’s a rumor going around that we’re actually pretty good at our jobs. I say we look into it.”

“Define looking into it,” Virgil said. He made little air quotes with his fingers when he spoke.

“Please don’t do that,” Murton said. “It’s visually distracting and frankly, not very manly…like when you put your hands on your hips to make a point. Eat up. Your eggs are getting cold.”

“I’m already full,” Virgil said. He pushed his plate away, then refilled his coffee mug. “I don’t know how we’d go about it without offending him. You know how Jamaicans are when it comes to respect. It’s like their credo, or something.”

“Look, Jones-man, I’m not saying we lock the guy in a dark room and shine a light in his face.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m simply suggesting that, as his friends—friends who happen to have an eye for detail, I might add—with a careful approach we should be able to figure out what’s eating at him. The truth is, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Robert more miserable since the day I met him, other than...” Murton let his statement trail away.

Virgil took a sip of his coffee, then said, “Other than what?”

“I misspoke. It’s not worth mentioning.”

“I’m not sure I believe you.”

“Look, the guy has got his head wrapped around something,” Murton said. “And it doesn’t feel or look like he’s going to let it go anytime soon.”

Virgil did the same thing Murton did a few moments ago. He turned and looked out over the hills. They sat in silence for a few minutes, then Virgil finally got the message. He looked at Murton and said, “You were going to say when I was on the pills, weren’t you?”

“Maybe.”

Virgil’s eyes went dark, but he did his best to keep his voice light. “Maybe, my ass.”

Years ago, during the same case that ended up getting his father killed, Virgil got the snot beat out of him and nearly died…and he would have were it not for the man he was having breakfast with right now. But that wasn’t the problem. The problem was what happened afterward. Virgil got hooked to the gills on prescription pain meds, and in doing so, nearly lost every single person he cared about. It was that bad. When he thought about it, which he found himself doing less and less over the years, Virgil knew it was the people in his life who had helped him, both the living and dead…even the not-yet-born.

“I really don’t want to walk this road again, Murt.”

“Nor do I, but the truth of the matter is this, Virgil: You were hurting people…deeply. And one of them was Robert.”

“He seems to have recovered nicely,” Virgil said. “I wonder if you have.” When Virgil saw the look on his brother’s face he instantly regretted his own words. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

Murton smiled with his eyes. “I know that, Virg. Forgiveness is an absolute between you and me as far as I’m concerned. All I’m trying to say is that you weren’t in any sort of condition to recognize how bad it was for the people who love you. And that includes Robert. Do you remember what he did that night when we were all standing down by your pond? It was when Small told you to your face that you were literally killing yourself with the pills. If I’m remembering correctly, it was right after Delroy said that your leg was healed but it was your heart that was broken.”

Virgil did remember. His father had just died and the pills had become nothing more than a way to numb his mind so he wouldn’t have to deal with the grief. He looked at Murton and said, “You’re right, of course. I recall thinking that what Robert did was both odd and beautiful at the same time. He walked away from the rest of us, dropped his shirt in the grass, and waded hip-deep into the pond before cupping the water in his hands. Then he raised them above his head and let the water trickle down each arm. When I turned to Delroy, he said Robert was praying for me.”

Murton leaned forward and looked his brother in the eye. “Finish it.” There was no mistaking his tone.

“You told me that you’d do anything in the world for me except look the other way.”

“If memory serves, and I assure you it does, I also told you to stop jerking me around because you were the only family I had left.”

Virgil visibly swallowed before he spoke. “That’s not the case anymore though, is it?”

“That’s not my point,” Murton said. “And it doesn’t negate what I said…either then, or now.”

“Have you been reading Psychology Today again?” Virgil said. Then, “Wait, never mind. What, exactly, is your point?”

“The only family Robert has left are all of us, yet here he is, back in his native land, and he’s miserable.”

“What about Chip?” Virgil said.

Chip Lawless was the MCU’s other crime scene investigator, and he and Mimi had been dating—and on the verge of moving in together—prior to her death. “What about him?” Murton said.

“He hasn’t exactly been the picture of happiness himself.”

“And we all know the reasons behind that. Why are you bringing Chip into this?”

“Because in case you haven’t noticed, ever since we arrived, Robert and Chip have been all but inseparable,” Virgil said.

Despite the topic at hand, Murton smiled. “See, there you go.”

“There I go, what?” Virgil said.

“You’re detecting. And to give credit where credit is due, you’re holding more than one thought in your head. I’m proud of you, Virg.” Then Murton stood, dropped his napkin on the table and said, “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Where else? To help a friend in need.”

“That would make us friends indeed,” Virgil said. Then before Murton could respond: “Yeah, yeah, I heard it myself even as I was saying it. It’s like an affliction or something.”

“Can’t argue that point,” Murton said. “Maybe you need more brain cardio.”

As they were walking up to the main house, Virgil elbowed Murton in the ribs. “When you said you were proud of me, you were sort of layering it on there, weren’t you?”

Murton gave Virgil a wink, but didn’t answer.

Brothers, through and through.

CHAPTER THREE

INDIANAPOLIS, INDIANA: 1972

Mason Jones, a rookie Marion County Deputy Sheriff, was sitting at a common desk in the department’s bullpen area while finishing up his paperwork for the evening. As a rookie, Jones had the night-shift schedule, and while the hours weren’t ideal, Mason liked the work he was doing for his community…helping to not only enforce the laws, but actually doing good for people in need. He pulled the final piece of paper from the typewriter, then leaned back in his chair to re-read what he’d just written. The sheriff was a bit of a stickler for detail and he hated typos.

For Mason, the night had been relatively quiet…four domestic disturbances, a single vehicular accident where the driver had fallen asleep at the wheel and nearly driven through the front window of a house—a large walnut tree saved the house but not the car—one bar fight, five traffic violations, and one drunk and disorderly not connected to the bar.

Yeah, that was considered a quiet night for Marion County in the early seventies.

The truth was, Mason liked the night shift. The city and its surrounding suburbs seemed more interesting at night…and it was definitely more dangerous, though the danger itself was mitigated by proper training and good situational awareness. Mason had both, so he never really worried about his own safety, although the bar fight had left him with a bruised cheek right below his eye when he had to take control of two men who seemed hell-bent on beating the living daylights out of each other—all because one of the men had eaten the last boiled egg the bar had to offer. When the bartender said they were out of eggs, the two men began to argue, then started calling each other names before they were both kicked out and sent on their way.

But the fight didn’t end there. If anything, it intensified. Unfortunately for the two men—who were rolling around on the sidewalk trying to get the better of each other—Mason just happened to turn the corner in his patrol car and witness the fight. He pulled over, took out his baton from the chrome loop attached to his duty belt, hit the trashcan on the street corner to get their attention, then said, “Hey, guys, that’s enough. Knock it off before you both end up getting hurt.”

Neither man seemed to hear Mason or take note of the fact that he was an officer of the law. Mason let out a sigh, then stepped forward and bent over to pull the two men apart. When the man on top spun around, he accidentally elbowed Mason in the face. Mason dropped his baton on the sidewalk and put his hand up to his eye.

The men finally realized what had happened, and one of them—the guy who was actually getting his ass kicked—ran away and was out of sight before Mason could do anything about it. The one who’d thrown the elbow got to his feet, then bent down to pick up the baton. Mason saw what was about to happen and put his boot down on top of the club and said, “If you touch that, I’ll take you to jail and charge you for assault on a sheriff’s deputy.”

“I was going to pick it up and hand it to you, Officer.”

“Did you hear what I just said? It’s Deputy, by the way, and I’m not sure I believe you.”

The man took one step back, held out his hands, his palms facing Mason, then said, “I didn’t mean to hit you with my elbow. It was an accident.”

“I know that,” Mason said. “I was there when it happened.” He picked up his baton and placed it back in its loop. “What the hell was going on with you guys?”

“That fella who just ran off? He ate the last boiled egg. It was mine.”

Mason looked at nothing for a few seconds, then said, “You’re telling me that you guys were out here rolling around on the ground over a boiled egg?”

The man studied the tops of his shoes for a few seconds, shrugged, then said, “Yeah, I guess so…but in my defense, they’re really good eggs.”

“How much have you had to drink?” Mason said.

“A couple of beers.”

“Are you aware of the fact that it’s illegal to lie to a law enforcement official?”

“I am now. I might have had a couple of shots with the beers.”

“Might have?”

“I mean I did. Are you going to take me to jail?”

“You have any kids?”

“Yeah, a boy and a girl. Why?”

“I’ll ask the questions, sir. Let me see some ID.”

The man pulled out his wallet and handed over his driver’s license. Mason studied it for a moment, then said, “Ever been in trouble with the law?”

“Nothing serious. I had a few speeding tickets when I was younger, but nothing in the last twenty years or so.”

Mason pointed with his chin and said, “See that light pole to your right?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“I don’t think you heard me a moment ago. I ask the questions, and you answer them. Not the other way around. Walk over to the pole.”

The man did as Mason asked, moved next to the pole, and before he even knew what was happening, he found his hands in cuffs, his arms wrapped around the light post.

“Wait here,” Mason said. “I’ll be right back.”

The hour was just past midnight, but there were still people milling about on the street, some of them laughing and pointing at the man who looked like he was dancing with a steel post. Mason got on the radio and called the man’s information in, then waited for a response.

A few minutes later the call came back. “No wants, no warrants.”

Mason acknowledged the dispatcher, then walked back over to where the man stood. He took the cuffs off, then said, “It’s your lucky night. Go home to your family.” Then, just to make his point, Mason finished with, “A boiled egg?”

“It wasn’t one of my better moments, I’ll grant you that. Is your eye okay?”

“I’ll survive it,” Mason said. “Take off before I change my mind.”

“You’re allowed to do that?”

“Which one? Let you go, or change my mind.”

“Both, I guess.”

“Yeah, I’m allowed,” Mason said.

The man stuck out his hand to shake. “Thanks. I guess that makes you one of the good ones.”

Mason shook the man’s hand, then, while he still had hold of him, he said, “That other guy who took off. You know who he is?”

“I’ve never seen him before in my whole entire life.”

Mason squeezed the man’s hand a fraction harder and said, “You sure about that?”

“Positive. Said he works for the railroad. He sort of smelled like it too.”

Mason let go of his grip and said, “What’s a railroader smell like?”

“I don’t know. Creosote, I guess. Said his name was Ralph something. I don’t remember his last name.”

“You’re getting a break for three reasons. One, you didn’t run off on me, two—the fight over the egg notwithstanding—you seem like a decent enough guy, and three, you don’t have any wants or warrants. Wait, make that four reasons. The paperwork with this job is a drag, and I’d get laughed out of the station house if I had to write up a report over how the fight started. Don’t let me see you behaving in that fashion again. And if you ever run across Ralph Something, you might want to mention I’ll be keeping an eye out for him.”

“No pun intended, right?”

“Are you fit to drive?”

“I live four blocks from here. I walked.”

“Have a good night, sir.”

The man turned to walk away, and right before Mason got back in his squad car he heard the man ask him another question.

“Deputy?”

Mason looked back. “What?”

“I’m not entirely sure, but I think he said his name was Wheeler. Ralph Wheeler.”

Certain his paperwork was in order, Mason dropped everything into the proper basket on the dispatcher’s desk, then turned to go to the locker room to shower and change into his civilian clothes. He never even made it out of the bullpen.

The dispatcher hung up the phone, then looked at Mason and said, “Wait at the desk. We’ve got a preacher coming in…if that’s what you want to call him.”

“I’m not very religious, Cap.”

“Me either, but you still gotta wait. How’d you get the eye?”

Mason smiled. “I was born with it. Both of them, actually.”

“Your cop humor sucks. How about you give me a real answer?”

“I caught an elbow. It was an accident so I kicked the guy loose.”

“Rookies aren’t supposed to make those sorts of calls.”

Mason shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you, Cap. I was the only one there, so I let the guy go.”

“How’d you get elbowed?”

“Couple of clowns were having an argument. It was no big deal.”

“What were they fighting about?”

“A boiled egg.”

“You put it in your report?”

“The fight? Yes. The egg? No.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t think it was worth mentioning. Plus, it cuts down on typewriter ribbon and paper costs.”

“Still not funny.”

“Still not trying,” Mason said. “What’s with the preacher?”

“Wrong question, Jones. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the preacher, but what do I know? Rasta seems to be all the rage in the modern world. I’ve met him before. He seems nice enough…once you get past the hairdo.” The dispatcher shuffled through some paper, then handed the stack to Mason. “Read through these reports while you’re waiting. A nursing home burned to the ground earlier tonight down in Shelbyville. The Shelby County cops faxed us everything they have, including a positive ID on one of the nurses who died. She lives up here, so they need us to make the death notification.”

“You get a name?” Mason said.

“It’s in the report. That’s why I said to read it. You ever make a DN before?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything, and you’re about to inform a family they’ve lost one of their own. My advice? Be direct, professional, polite, get to the point as quickly as possible without appearing like you’re late for dinner, then get the hell out. If you’re lucky, the preacher will do most of the hand-holding.”

“I’m off shift, Cap.”

“You got something against overtime?”

“I guess not. Do me a favor?”

“What is it?”

“Run a guy by the name of Ralph Wheeler for me, will you? Address unknown.”

“Who’s he?”

Mason reached up and rubbed his eye. “The other half of the boiled egg.”

The dispatcher scratched at the back of his head with a pencil. “I think we need to reevaluate our hiring practices around here. How about you get out of my bullpen?” He said it with a smile, though.

When the preacher arrived, he wore traditional American clothing, the singular exception being his hat, which was multi-colored and stuffed full of long dark dreads. Mason saw him walk up to the desk, then saw the dispatcher point with his pencil.

Mason stood and extended his hand. “Good evening, sir. I’m sheriff’s deputy Mason Jones. On behalf of the department, I’d like to thank you for coming in at this hour. I’m sorry if you’ve been inconvenienced.”

The preacher shook hands with Mason and said, “God’s work is never an inconvenience.”

Mason took measure of the man standing before him. He was tall, broad-shouldered, had a neatly trimmed salt and pepper beard…but more than that, there was an air of a sadness when he spoke, and Mason had the impression the sadness didn’t have much to do with his duties tonight. When he introduced himself it sounded almost like an apology.

“My name is Dante Whyte.”

Mason thought the accent was either Dominican or Haitian. He was wrong on both counts.

On the drive over, Mason looked at the preacher and said, “Have you ever done this sort of thing before?”

“Too many times, I’m afraid. It is never easy, no?”

“I don’t know, sir. I’m afraid this is my first time.”

“Please, call me Dante.”

Mason smiled, then like a dope, reached over and shook hands with Dante once again. “It’s Mason for me.”

“As you wish, mon.”

“May I ask where you’re from, Dante?”

“Trench Town. It is part of Kingston, Jamaica.”

“I had it wrong, then,” Mason said.

Dante was reading through the report to familiarize himself with the family they were about to speak with. He placed a finger on the page to mark his place, then turned toward Mason. “Had what wrong?”

A modest rain shower had started, and Mason turned on the wipers but kept his eyes on the road as he spoke. “I thought you were from either Haiti or the Dominican Republic.”

“A forgivable mistake. Both islands are part of the Caribbean, and while there are slight differences in the dialect, the Dominican Republic is a Caribbean nation that shares the island of Hispaniola with Haiti. Jamaica, as you well know, I’m sure, is one country on one island.”

Mason smiled and said, “Hey, one love, right? I dig your hat.”

Dante answered while staring out the passenger-side window of the squad car. “Yeah, mon. One love.”

When Mason looked at Dante’s reflection, the rain on the window made it look as if he might be crying.

They drove in silence for a few minutes, then Mason asked Dante a question. “What brings you to the United States?”

Dante chose to ignore the question, and instead asked one of his own. “Are you married, Mason?”

“No, I haven’t had much luck in finding the right woman.”

“Forgive me, I don’t mean to be overly personal. Are you a religious man?”

“I’m afraid not,” Mason said. “I mean, I guess I believe in God and all, but I don’t go to church or anything like that.”

“You said you’ve never had to inform a loved one of their loss.”

“That’s right. My dispatcher told me if I was lucky, you’d do most of the talking. He also said to be direct, professional, polite, then get the hell out as fast as possible.” Then, “Uh, sorry. About the hell thing.”

“I’ve heard much worse. May I offer some advice?”

“Of course,” Mason said.

“What we are about to do will change you. It will change your life in ways you can’t yet imagine. You will be a different person after tonight, mon.”

“No disrespect, Dante, but is it possible you’re overstating the depth of my involvement? I mean, for the family, I get it. I understand they are about to receive devastating news. And I know that it won’t be easy to deliver, but how will it change me?”

“You wait, you see.”

“That’s not much of an answer.”

“Earlier you ask Dante if he ever had to do dis before, no?”

“Yes,” Mason said. “And you told me it had been too many times.”

“Yeah, mon. Dat right.”

“When was the first time, if you don’t mind me asking?” Mason said.

“No, I don’t mind. It was when I finally look in da mirror, me.”

Mason let a few minutes slide by in silence, then said, “I don’t think you ever answered me when I asked why you came to the United States.”

Dante looked at the side of Mason’s face. “Same answer, mon.”

After that they rode without speaking, the rain hitting the windshield in big fat droplets, the sound like a rhythmic beat of a snare drum.

Mason found the right address, then pulled his squad car to the curb. As he reached for the door handle to step out of the vehicle, Dante stopped him by grabbing his arm. “You must be ready for anyting, Mason.”

“What do you mean?”

“You believe more den you might tink. Or perhaps Dante wrong, but I tink not. Tonight, dis night, it will follow you to your grave and beyond. Your words, your actions…from dis night forward will change your life in ways dat will both bless and curse you.”

Mason didn’t know why, but for some reason Dante’s words reminded him of the fight he’d broken up earlier in the evening. More so, it made him think of the man who ran away. “How could this night bless and curse me at the same time?”

“I do not know, mon…only to say dat I do. If you will allow me, Dante will say a silent prayer on your behalf.”

Mason looked at the darkened house and wondered about the people inside. “Maybe your prayers would be better spent on the people we’re about to meet.”

“Dey too will be prayed for, but right now it is you who need da help whether you know it or not.” Then Dante closed his eyes, his lips moving slowly, the breath of his words unheard. When he finally pulled his hand from Mason’s arm it was shaking.

Then Dante did something that surprised Mason. He placed his hand at a particular spot on Mason’s chest, and closed his eyes again without speaking. Right before he finished, a single tear ran down Dante’s cheek.

Mason didn’t have a clue as to what was happening, or why, and decades would pass before he ever did.

CHAPTER FOUR

In Jack Bellows’s mind, he’d walked far too many people home over the years. Some were family, some were friends, and others were a beautiful combination of both. Jack’s entire family—his father, Claude; his mother, Elizabeth; and his twin brother, Joe—all crossed the bar on the very same day. Jack was only sixteen years old when they passed over to the higher side of life, and even though he’d lost more people for whom he cared since then, the day his brother Joe slipped from the roof and fell to his eventual death remained tattooed on his brain, much the way a first kiss lingers on the mouth long after lips have parted. That awful day…that was the defining moment for Jack, and he carried it with him like sackcloth and ash for decades on end.

It started when he and Joe were up on the roof with their father, helping him fix a leak that managed to chart a course for his entire family in ways he never would have thought possible. When Joe fell from the roof that day, it was a two-story drop that ultimately cost him his life. If Jack thought about it, as he often did, he found it beyond comprehension to acknowledge that he’d now lived well over three times as long as his twin bother had. What wasn’t beyond his grasp were the memories of that terrible day.

He had ridden with Joe all the way to the hospital, his brother’s crushed skull cradled in his lap for a good portion of the trip. There wasn’t room in the ambulance for Claude and Elizabeth, so they followed in Claude’s pickup truck. Jack always thought his father knew in his heart that he alone was responsible for Joe’s death, because Claude was the one who held the safety cord, and when it slipped through his hand, Joe went over the edge.

But Jack knew that placing blame on his father for Joe’s death dishonored them all, and that wasn’t his intent. The dishonor, Jack knew, was his alone because just before his parents climbed into their pickup to follow the ambulance, Claude looked him in the eyes and said, “I love you, son.”

Jack never answered his father that day, although he wished he had. He didn’t tell him he loved him until the graveyard workers lowered his father’s body into the earth next to his brother and his mom. You see, as his parents were driving to the hospital, Jack’s father suffered a heart attack, lost control of his vehicle, and rolled the truck down into a ditch. Jack’s mother was ejected from the cab, and both were pronounced dead at the scene. In the span of less than twenty-four hours, Jack Bellows had lost his entire family.

Alone and afraid, Jack set out on his own, and in doing so, let himself be used by people unworthy of any misplaced trust he foolishly and freely gave away. That trust got him mixed up with both the Mob and the FBI, and when he and his wife, Hana, decided to take their chances on their own, he lost another friend, a man by the name of Howard Byrd, who was perhaps one of the bravest men Jack had ever met. Howard and Jack both served in World War II, Jack as a seaman aboard the USS Enterprise in the South Pacific, and Howard as a fighter pilot in the same theater of conflict.

Things came to a head when Jack and Hana found themselves running for their lives, racing across the waters of Lake Michigan, trying to make the opposite shoreline while the Mob and a crooked FBI agent intent on stopping them at all costs gave chase. But Howard came to the rescue when he flew his Hellcat fighter into the side of the trailing boat and killed everyone on board. Howard gave his own life so that Jack and Hana could live…free from the burdens both sides of the law had dropped in their laps…or so they thought.

Days later, Jack and Hana set dozens of roses afloat in Lake Michigan to honor Howard, and also Jack’s family. But they soon discovered the FBI and the Mob weren’t quite done with them yet. That particular entanglement led to the death of FBI agent Paul Weston, a death Jack deeply regretted almost as much as that of the other people he’d lost because Agent Weston had been trying to be his friend, and Jack never did quite trust him until it was far too late. But, like Howard, Weston gave his life so that Jack and Hana could be free.

And finally they truly were free. They moved to Indianapolis, Indiana, where Jack took up writing and became moderately successful, and Hana continued her nursing career at a home for the elderly and disabled. When she became pregnant with twins they took it as a sign that their futures were not yet written in stone as they’d previously feared, but theirs to choose, their path free of obstructions, any impediments far behind them. They had nothing to fear, and it felt like the world belonged to them alone.

Jack and Hana prayed every night that they would be graced with a boy and a girl, and most of their prayers were answered. Their daughter, Elizabeth Ann Bellows, was born first…followed by their son, Joseph Howard Bellows. But not all dreams come true, and not all prayers are answered the way people want. Their son, Joe, was stillborn, and Jack walked him home as well. He did it by himself, cradling his baby’s tiny casket in both arms like he might have just returned from an apple orchard, his bushel full, the harvest complete. But to whom did the harvest belong? God? Jack didn’t have the answer, but he knew this: The harvest wasn’t his.

More than once when they were still young, Jack had promised Hana a life others could only dream of. But the death of a child is something no parent should ever have to endure, and while Jack and Hana both carried that burden, they never quite managed to do so together. It wasn’t for lack of trying…because they did try, although they always seemed slightly out of sync, their lack of focus on each other clouded by thoughts of their son Joe and what should have been, both then and now.

Hana Bellows tried not to dwell on the problems in her life. It felt selfish to do so, and it made her ashamed of her own deeds and actions. She had a wonderful, loving husband, and a beautiful daughter who was working part-time as a secretary while also taking as many college courses as possible to get her Bachelor’s degree. And because Elizabeth had taken the hard road—she refused to accept any money from her parents for her tuition costs—Hana knew that Elizabeth was demonstrating the fact she was her own woman. And even though it might be too late, Hana decided it was time to stop punishing her daughter over something she had no way of controlling.

The problem—the one that wouldn’t seem to go away—was that every time Hana looked at Elizabeth, she was reminded of Joe. She grew to resent her own daughter for living when Joe did not. Over the years, Hana and Elizabeth had somehow managed to settle into a vicious cycle of petty arguments, both of them saying and doing hurtful things to each other, all over the loss of Joe.

Elizabeth took the brunt of it, mainly because she knew her mother was now, had always, and would forevermore rather grieve the loss of her dead son instead of cherish the daughter she had. Elizabeth couldn’t exactly remember how or when she came to know what she did, but it mattered little. Hana and her daughter were all but estranged from each other, even as they lived together under one roof. But Hana’s life—the one she’d been promised by Jack…the one others could only dream of—was about to change yet again, and Hana would learn the hard way that sometimes dreams are just wishes unfulfilled; desires laid to rest by the cold blanket of a dirt-covered grave.

It happened this way: Elizabeth worked twenty hours a week at her job, nearly twice that attending to her scholarly endeavors, and spent the rest of her time trying to squeeze in enough sleep to make it through the next day. Hana, on the other hand, who normally worked the regular day shift at a Shelby County nursing home, was filling in for the night shift supervisor who was home on maternity leave. Bottom line? When Elizabeth was home, Hana wasn’t. Those were the thoughts going through Hana’s mind when she noticed one of the patients under her care still had his room light on well after midnight.

Hana knocked quietly on the doorframe, then stepped into the room. The patient—an elderly man who suffered from a list of maladies so long Hana had to consult the chart nearly every day just to remind herself of his troubles—was lying in bed, wide awake and shivering like he’d just gone for a swim in the middle of February.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Bowman? Are you having trouble sleeping?”

“It’s the temperature in here. I’m freezing.”

“I can see that,” Hana said. “Would you like me to get you another blanket?”

“Yes, and I’d also like you to do something about the furnace.”

Hana got another blanket out of the closet and covered Bowman. “You know what? Now that you mention it, it is rather chilly in here. Let me talk to Maintenance and see if we can crank up the heat a bit. Would it be all right if I turn off your room light?”

Bowman raised a feeble hand at her. “Yes, yes, just get the heat going, please.”

Hana promised she’d look into it, then took the stairs down to the basement. The nursing home itself was old—a mansion built at the turn of the century and converted into a private convalescent center in 1946—and the heating system was always giving them fits, even though it had passed a state-mandated inspection only a few months ago. Hana secretly wondered if the inspector was operating from his own code book instead of the state’s.

When she got to the basement, she found the maintenance man asleep in his chair, his feet atop his desk and crossed at the ankles, his chin resting on his chest, an empty whiskey bottle on his lap. The furnace was right behind him against the back wall, next to the coal chute. Hana grabbed one of his boots and gently shook him awake. She had to swallow before she forced his name across her lips. “Joe? Hey, Joe…wake up, will you?”

Joe blinked his eyes a few times, then looked at Hana and said, “What’s wrong with you? I just got to sleep.”

“You’re not supposed to be sleeping. You’re supposed to be working. You might want to lay off the sauce while you’re here as well.”

“I work if something is broken. I nap if it ain’t. The booze is none of your business. What is it this time?”

“The third floor feels like a meat locker. It’s bad enough that I have to work the night shift, but I do, so it’d be nice if we could keep a reasonable temperature in the building.”

“You could always get another job,” Joe said.

“Or you could simply do yours. How about you stoke the coals, or shovel some more in, or whatever you have to do to warm the place up?”

Joe stood and walked over to the furnace. When he looked through the grate that gave view to the fire chamber he saw that Hana was right. He turned back, a sleepy drunken look on his face and said, “Sorry. I’ll get it fired up again.”

Hana turned and went back upstairs without answering. And Joe, who wanted to keep shoveling coal all night about as much as he wanted another hemorrhoid, decided if he could stuff enough coal into the firebox, he might be able to sleep through the rest of his shift.

Less than an hour later, the back wall where the furnace’s main vent pipe was located started to overheat. Five minutes later it began to glow bright red, and soon after that the surrounding insulation ignited like someone had just dropped a Zippo lighter on top of a pile of straw. The fire raced up all the way to the third floor and the entire building was totally engulfed in flames inside of fifteen minutes. Most of the victims were invalids trapped in their beds or patients upstairs who were overcome by the flames and suffocating smoke. The entire nursing staff got as many patients out as possible, and that’s when Hana noticed that Mr. Bowman was nowhere to be seen.

The police and firemen were arriving, but there was little they could do. One of the county cops, a young man named Ben Holden who’d just recently joined the force— mainly because he didn’t want to work in his father’s dry-cleaning business—tried to grab Hana to keep her from re-entering the building, but she brushed him off, covered her face with the tail of her blouse, and ran back inside. She’d only made it four or five steps through the door when the entire building fell in on itself and crushed Hana to death, along with her hopes of a life others could only dream of.

Holden watched as the nursing home flattened itself into a pile of flaming rubble, then uttered the words, “Oh dear mother of God.”

Two hours later, just as Mason Jones was finishing his report for the evening, a fax was sent to the Marion County sheriff’s department detailing the events, along with a request for a death notification for Hana Bellows’s next of kin.

CHAPTER FIVE

The knock on the door came shortly after three in the morning. In his sleepy state, Jack Bellows thought that perhaps Hana had somehow managed to lock herself out of the house. The notion wasn’t too far-fetched. It had happened before. He got up out of bed, put on his robe and slippers, then made his way downstairs as quickly as possible in hopes that the relentless pounding on the door hadn’t wakened his daughter, who was working herself to the bone with both her job and her studies at the university.

Then another thought occurred, one that angered him to no end. Hana had locked herself out, and her pounding on the door was yet another attempt to disrupt their daughter’s life. If that was the case—and by the time Jack made it to the bottom of the stairs he’d convinced himself that it was—Hana was going to get an earful. It was time for the two women in his life to patch things up so they could finally have some peace in their household.

As Jack unbolted the lock and opened the door, the words were already pouring from his mouth, his voice a harsh whisper. “How much longer do you think it will be until the two of you come to your senses and⁠—”

When he saw the two men standing on his porch, Jack almost apologized for his minor outburst. One of the men was a uniformed Marion County sheriff’s deputy, and the other a dark-skinned man wearing a multi-colored hat that seemed stuffed with hair. For a moment, Jack thought the deputy was going to inform him that the man in the knit cap was some sort of burglar…a thief the police had apprehended during an attempted break-in.

Mason stepped forward slightly and said, “Mr. Bellows?”

When Jack didn’t respond, Mason tried again. “Excuse me, sir. Are you Mr. Jack Bellows?”

Jack swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “Yes. Yes, that’s me.”

“May we come inside, sir?” Mason said.

From the bottom of the staircase, Elizabeth said, “Daddy?”

No matter the past struggles of his life, Jack had been taught at a very early age to believe that God was gracious and good. And through it all—the death of his brother and parents, the loss of his friends and other good people he knew, even the death of his own son—Jack still believed. But a belief is no more than a hypothesis or a judgement, something that is conceived in order to hold doubts at bay and affirm a thought process as if it were somehow more than the sum total of what is true and right and just. That was what Jack Bellows thought.

Until he didn’t.

Mason stood there like a fool…a court jester in a clown suit who pretended to have all the answers even though it seemed no one was capable of asking any questions. “Sir, we need to speak with you. May we come inside?”

Jack’s brain finally got the message. He looked at Dante and said, “You’re a man of God, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Mr. Bellows. Dat I am.”

A single tear ran from Jack’s eye. He looked at Mason and said, “Hana.” It was more statement than question.

Mason stepped forward and put his hand on Jack’s shoulder before he spoke. “Yes, sir. I’m so very sorry for your loss. Perhaps if we can step inside, we’ll be better able to explain what happened.”

But Jack was already outside of himself in that moment, his actions not his own, and for reasons he’d never quite be able to readily explain, he clenched his fist and tried to punch Mason in the jaw. But as Dante had told Mason earlier, he had to be ready for anything, and Mason, who thought one black eye was enough for the night, was ready. He turned his entire body to the side—almost casually, like he was watching a car drive down the street—and the punch slipped past his jaw where it caught nothing but air. With his hand still on Jack’s shoulder, the momentum spun both men around and they ended up in an awkward embrace. Mason held tight until he felt the fear and anger drain out of a man who’d just lost his wife because he knew Jack would—just like Dante—carry this moment with him for the rest of his days.

When Jack finally got himself together, he looked back inside through the front door and saw his daughter sitting on the stairwell landing, her elbows on her knees, her face buried in her hands. As she wept, the sound reminded him of his mother’s cries when she learned of Joe’s fall from grace.

“Did she suffer?” Jack asked.

Dante took charge and ushered everyone inside.

Elizabeth sat next to her father on the sofa, her hand squeezing his so hard Jack thought she might break his fingers. But he ate the pain and as soon as the other two men were seated, Jack—still in shock and not yet ready to properly grieve—said, “This is my daughter, Elizabeth. I don’t think I got your names.” His voice was flat, monotonic in nature, and Jack felt like someone other than himself was speaking.

“My name is Mason Jones, sir. I’m a Marion County sheriff’s deputy.” He gestured to his right and said, “This is Dante Whyte. He’s, uh, well, he’s a…”

Dante knew Mason was having trouble finding a proper descriptor, so he finished the thought by saying, “I am a man of God. It is in times like these that a family often seeks comfort from the hand of the Almighty.”

Elizabeth looked at Mason and said, “Please, tell us what happened.”

Mason thought Elizabeth Bellows might have been the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Even with her hair askew and her face still lined with sleep, she was gorgeous. Then he had the thought that perhaps it was more her vulnerability that attracted him. When that thought popped into his head he got his thinking straight, shuffled through the paperwork in his hands, and said, “We’re working with limited information sent to us by another department, so please bear with me if I don’t have all the facts.

“At approximately 1:45 this morning, the nursing home where Mrs. Bellows was employed caught fire and burned to the ground. The Shelby County fire department hasn’t given us an exact accounting of how the fire started, though there is some speculation that it was either due to a faulty electrical circuit or a problem with the heating system. There aren’t many other choices in that regard. The department is working closely with the nursing home administration staff to try to determine the number of fatalities, and that information has not yet been released.”

“How do you know my mother died?” Elizabeth asked. The front of her pajama top was speckled with teardrops, her upper lip smeared with mucus.

Mason wanted to reach out and take Elizabeth’s hand, or even pat her on the knee, but he knew it was wrong, so he kept his hands to himself. “She was spotted by one of the other nurses—who has given us a positive ID—running back into the building to try to save more patients. A Shelby County deputy tried to stop her but was unsuccessful. Seconds after Mrs. Bellows re-entered the building, the entire structure—which at that point was totally engulfed in flames—collapsed in on itself. Everyone inside the building at that point was lost. I’m so very sorry, Miss.”

Jack rubbed his face with both hands, then choked out a sob. When he looked at Mason his face was drawn in on itself as if the pall of death had once again reached into his chest and chiseled away yet another piece of his heart. “You’re sure she’s gone?”

Mason gently nodded his head. “There’s no question.”

“Your wife died a hero, sir,” Dante said.

Jack pointed a finger at Dante, jabbing the air with each word he spoke. “Well, that’s just perfect, isn’t it?”

“Forgive me, but why should that anger you?” Dante said.

“Because most of the people I’ve ever known who died as heroes did so either out of foolishness or lack of forethought. Probably both. This sounds exactly the same.”

Elizabeth turned to her father and pulled her hand from his, her face suddenly a mask of anger. “Daddy! Don’t you dare say those kinds of things about my mother.”

Jack ignored Elizabeth and instead stood from his seat and said, “Who do I contact in Shelby County? Excuse me, Deputy? I asked you a question. I’m also wondering if you have the ability to peel your eyes away from my daughter and answer it. Would that be too much to ask?”

Mason felt himself redden. “I’m sorry, sir. I meant no disrespect in this difficult time.” He stood, reached into his pocket and offered his card to Jack. “Tomorrow, uh, later today, I guess is what I mean…if you’ll call that number, our department will be able to answer any further questions and direct you to the proper authorities down in Shelby County.”

“Later today, my ass,” Jack said. “My wife is dead. My daughter and I will be going down to Shelby County right now.”

Mason still had his card out, but Jack hadn’t yet taken it from his hand. “Sir, I don’t think that’s wise. You’re upset. You’re not thinking clearly. Perhaps if you⁠—”

Jack ripped the card from Mason’s hand and threw it down on the floor. “Perhaps if I what, Deputy? Go back upstairs and return to bed like this is some sort of bad dream…like everything will look better when the sun comes up? You’ve no idea the things my wife and I have had to endure over the years. The people we’ve lost and the battles we fought simply to survive.”

“Daddy?”

But Jack wasn’t listening anymore. “Not one fucking idea. Who the hell are you to come into my home in the middle of the night and tell me where I can or cannot go? Get out. Both of you. This is family business now.”

“Daddy?”

“Go upstairs and get dressed, Elizabeth. We’re going.”

“Daddy, sit down. You’re scaring me. You don’t look well.”

Jack turned his entire body and faced his daughter. “I’m scaring you? This is not how my life was supposed to go. It wasn’t how your mother’s life was supposed to go either. I promised her a life that others could only…I promised⁠—”

And that’s as far as Jack got before history repeated itself and his left arm began to tingle and throb before going numb, like it was no longer part of his own body. His breath caught in his throat and no matter how hard he tried, his lungs didn’t seem to be able to draw breath. Then a bolt of lightning shot through his chest before he fell to his knees and toppled over onto the carpet, his face landing right next to the card Mason had tried to offer.

It was the first heart attack of many that Jack would have over the course of his life, but this was the one he’d always remember as the worst, not because of the pain he felt, but the fear. But the fear wasn’t of dying…it was from living a life where he had deluded himself for decades into thinking that God was gracious and good, when in fact, Jack was no longer certain that He was. God, Jack thought, was nothing more than a stage director in a comedic tragedy, or perhaps a third base coach who decided to change the call after Jack had already stepped off the bag and was halfway home, caught somewhere between what was behind him and what waited up ahead. What was that called again? A pickle. Yes, that was it…a pickle. As he blinked through his pain he saw Mason’s card on the floor right next to his face. He grit his teeth and said, “Would someone please call me an ambulance? I seem to be caught in a pickle.”

Yes, that was what Jack said. He was certain those were the words that crossed his lips.

After that horrible night, neither Jack, his daughter Elizabeth, nor Mason ever saw Dante again. And why would they? He was a missionary, spreading the word, doing his deeds for others in their times of trouble and despair in different places all across the country. But over the years, each of them would come to learn that Dante was more than what they’d all thought. Much, much more. And Mason in particular would learn the terrible mistake he’d made.

Jack Bellows recovered from his heart attack, and less than a year after he buried the love of his life, he walked someone home again. But this time it wasn’t to take them to the grave…it was something else entirely. When the music began to play, he took hold of Elizabeth’s hand, tucked it into the crook of his elbow and walked her down the aisle where Mason Jones stood tall and proud before the altar, his face glowing with joy. As both men shook hands, Jack leaned close and whispered in Mason’s ear. “If you ever hurt my daughter in any way—cop or not—I’ll end you.”

Later, when the wedding photographer was reviewing the pictures before sending them to Mason and Elizabeth Jones for approval, try as he might, there wasn’t one single picture he could find where Jack Bellows had a smile on his face.

Then the years rolled on as years tend to do, but as they did, Jack somehow managed to find himself again. He had two grandsons, one of his own blood, the other not, and Virgil and Murton brought a joy he had never thought possible back into Jack’s life. He even finally managed to ask for Mason’s forgiveness.

“I’m not exactly sure what I’m supposed to forgive,” Mason said.

Jack, now too old and weak to spend much time out of bed, his congestive heart failure worsening by the day, let out a weak laugh, then coughed, and said, “For not wanting you to steal my daughter away, you fool.”

“You’re welcome,” Mason said.

“What kind of answer is that?”

“The best one I have to offer. Look what it’s brought you…a happy, loving family. Maybe not the one you envisioned as a young man, but a wonderful family nonetheless.”

Jack closed his eyes, and for a moment, Mason thought his father-in-law was going to fall asleep. Then he opened them wide and said, “Virgil and Murton leave tomorrow?”

Mason visibly swallowed. “Yes, sir. They do.”

“A parent should never outlive their children,” Jack said. “It brings a form of misery that becomes a demonic traveling companion for the rest of your days. It killed my parents, it destroyed much of my life, and in some ways I believe it took Hana from me well before her time. Over the years, I’ve often wondered if she ran back into that building as a means to end her own suffering.”

Mason wasn’t sure how to respond, so he said, “They’re going to fight for their country, Dad. The bus to Fort Benning leaves tomorrow. It’s out of my hands.”

“I always liked how you call me that.”

Mason smiled. “Me too.”

“How bad is it?”

“How bad is what?” Mason said.

“Dammit, Mason, I’m old and I’m dying. Don’t start insulting me now.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Is that how you want me to remember you? Or better yet, is that how you want to remember me…a man who accepts an insult followed by a lie? Don’t bother answering. It doesn’t matter. Do the boys know?”

“Not yet. I think they suspect something, but I can’t say for sure. Elizabeth doesn’t want them thinking about it while they’re fighting for their own lives halfway around the world. I agree with her.”

“Well, at least we’re all on the same page then,” Jack said.

“How’d you know? About Elizabeth’s cancer?”

“I’ll tell you something, son, and it’s not exactly a state secret. When you get older, you begin to see less with your eyes and learn to listen more with your heart. Do whatever you have to do to keep her alive until the boys get back. This is my daughter we’re talking about. Promise me.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Send the boys in please. I need to say goodbye.”

Virgil and Murton sat with their grandfather for over an hour. They both promised that they’d be careful, watch each other’s backs, and, in short, do everything they could to come home healthy, well, and whole. The next morning before they left for the bus station, they went into Jack’s room one more time to see him. The hour was early, and Jack was sleeping peacefully, so they decided not to disturb him.

“Are you sure?” Murton said. “He isn’t well, Jonesy. This might be our last shot.”

Virgil looked at his grandfather, and for perhaps the first time in his young life felt the weight of losing someone he held so dear. “I think it’s for the best, man. We said our goodbyes yesterday. He needs his rest.”

Virgil leaned down and kissed Jack lightly on his forehead, and Murton placed his hands on Jack’s blanketed feet. Then they walked out of the room.

Neither of them ever saw their Grandpa Jack again.

As they pulled the door closed behind them, Jack opened his eyes and tried to call out to his grandsons, but he was too weak and they were already gone. Then he whispered a single name. It wasn’t Elizabeth, Joe, or even Hana. He reached under the blanket, placed his hand over his heart and said, “Dante.”

CHAPTER SIX

HANOVER PARISH, JAMAICA: PRESENT DAY

As Virgil and Murton were walking away from the guest house, Virgil pointed at one of the maintenance personnel and said, “Look at that.”

Murton looked over where Virgil was pointing. “So what? It’s a guy on a riding mower.”

“I can see that,” Virgil said. “But what do you hear?”

Murton tipped his head to the side like a dog who didn’t understand the command. He listened for a few seconds, then said. “Quietest tractor I’ve ever heard. Must be electric. You should get one.”

Virgil looked at his brother, tucked his chin and said, “Me? Why?”

“Because the one you have now is about to explode. It backfires and belches so much smoke it’s like watching one of those goofy Civil War re-enactments.”

Virgil shook his head. “It’s not that bad.”

“Then how come every time I hear it, I’m reaching for my gun? C’mon, let’s go take a closer look.”

They walked over to the grounds-keeper, who saw them coming. He shut down the mower—though it was hard to tell because the thing was so quiet—then said, “Good morning, mon. Everyting irie?”

Virgil nodded and said, “Yeah. Sorry to bother you.”

“It not a bother,” he said with a smile. “What you need, you?”

“I wanted to ask you about your riding mower. It’s electric, right?”

“Yeah, mon.” He lifted the cowling and showed the batteries to Virgil and Murton. There were six batteries total, each about the size of a small shoe box. He pulled one out of its slot and handed it to them. “Best invention since jerk chicken, you ask me.”

“What makes it so special?” Virgil said.

“How about I show you?”

Murton shrugged and said, “Sure.”

The man reached inside the cowling and pulled two more of the batteries out of their slots and set them on the ground. Then he lowered the cowling, hopped back on the seat, fired up the tractor and began to mow again. He made two full passes on the patch of ground he’d been working, then stopped right next to Virgil and Murton, and said, “Dat what make it so good, mon. It only need tree batteries to run.” He opened the cowling again and said, “When tree run out, da next tree automatically take over, den da whole process keeps repeating. I got tree on the charger right now. When I get down to fifty percent, I swap out the old ones and put tree fresh ones in. I can mow all day like dat, me. It like a well dat never run dry.”

And Virgil thought, Huh.

After they were done speaking with the guy on the mower, Virgil looked at Murton and said, “I’m gonna get one. Want to go in for half with me?”

Murton made a face. “No. There’s nothing wrong with my tractor. I’ve only had it for a year.”

“Plenty of positives,” Virgil said. “No more gas cans to lug around, no more oil changes, no more air cleaners or fuel stabilizers. What’s the downside?”

Murton dropped as much boredom into his voice as possible and said, “I promise I’ll think about it if you quit asking me.”

When Virgil and Murton stepped inside the main house, they heard all the kids running around in the playroom Nichole had set up. And in typical Nichole fashion, she’d spared no expense. A large room on the ground floor of the estate house had been converted into a play center that was the modern-day equivalent of a Chuck E. Cheese—without the smell. There were slides, ball pits, mini golf, Skee-Ball and pinball machines, and everything else the kids would ever need to keep them entertained.

It was a good move on Nichole’s part, as there were plenty of kids. Virgil and Sandy had two boys, Jonas and Wyatt; Murton and Becky had a little girl, Ellie Rae; Delroy and his lover, Huma Moon, had a daughter named Aayla; and the operations manager of the MCU, Sarah Palmer—who was the live-in girlfriend of one of Virgil’s detectives, Andrew Ross—also had a daughter, Olivia, whom everyone called Liv.

When Virgil and Murton stuck their heads in the room they saw Ross pop up from the ball pit with Jonas in his arms, then dive back under, Jonas howling with delight. When he popped back up again, he looked over at Virgil and said, “Hey Boss-man. You need something?”

“No, but you look like you need to rest for a minute. You’re sweating like you just finished a marathon. You’re also getting all the balls wet.”

Ross wiped his face with the tail of his T-shirt and said, “My sweaty balls notwithstanding, I’m fine. Holler if you need me.” Then he dove back under and snaked around, trying to find another victim. Three other women—staff workers—were playing with the other kids, while Sarah was pushing Liv back and forth on an indoor swing set. She smiled and waved at both men. They returned the wave, then stepped out of the room.

“I wonder who’s having more fun,” Murton said. “The adults, or the kids.”

“It’s probably a tie. Let’s go downstairs to the security center. Tony should know where Robert and Chip are.”

Tony was the security chief for the entire estate, and in charge of everyone’s safety. He had a team of highly trained guards who worked with him, most doubling as groundskeepers tending to various duties. And even though the estate itself rarely had any problems, if an intruder ever tried anything he would find himself taken down in about two seconds by someone who looked like a gardener or a swimming pool cleaner. Virgil and Murton made their way down to the lower level, then gave Tony’s door a polite little knock before stepping inside.

“Hey, Tony. How’s it going?” Virgil said.

“It is going well, my friends. How may I be of assistance?”

“Can you give us a location on Robert and Chip?” Murton said.

“Of course. One moment please.” As Tony worked his keyboard, Virgil and Murton took note of all the monitors in the room. With all the screens mounted on the wall, it reminded Virgil of the Kennedy Space Center. Every single inch of the estate—both inside and out—was covered, the singular exceptions being the bathrooms. Tony looked up from his computer monitor and said, “Mr. Robert is still in Kingston for the day. Mr. Chip is in the library working on something with his laptop. A package arrived for him this morning, by the way. I’m not sure of its contents. Mr. Rosie and Miss Lucy are at the pool, along with Mr. Delroy and Miss Huma. Mr. Rich and Dr. Julia are touring Lucea. Miss Becky is over in the computer center building with Mr. Wu.”

“Ask you something?” Virgil said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you call him Mr. Wu when we’re not around?”

Tony smiled. “Heavens no, sir. I’d never hear the end of it.”

“What do you call him?”

“I call him Wu, like everyone else.”

“Do you know his first name, by chance?” Murton said.

“I am afraid that particular piece of information is something which I am not allowed to disclose.”

“What’s the big deal?” Virgil said. “It’s just a name.”

Tony leaned back in his chair. “Have you ever had the opportunity to witness Mr. Wu’s…mmm…self-defense skills?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact we have,” Virgil said. “They are impressive.”

Tony gave them a polite nod. “Thank you. He remains my best student.”

“You taught Wu how to fight?” Murton said.

“Yes. In fact, we practice with great regularity.”

“What you’re really saying is, quit asking, right?” Virgil said.

“In the most polite way possible, sir.”

“Okay,” Virgil said. “What about Mac and Sandy?”

“They are in the business suite, working remotely. Miss Nichole is with them.” He pointed behind himself and said, “If you look at monitor number seventeen, you’ll notice that Mr. Mac does not appear to be in the best of moods.”

“I can see that,” Virgil said. “I wouldn’t want to be the person on the other end of the phone.” Mac was jabbing his index finger at the phone’s speaker as he spoke.

They all watched for a few seconds, then Murton said, “Any idea when Robert is returning?”

“I was not given a specific timeline. Would you like me to contact our helicopter pilot and make an inquiry?”

Virgil shook his head. “That’s okay, Tony. We’ll talk to him when he gets back.”

“Very well. Please let me know if you require any further assistance.”

Both men said they would, thanked Tony, then walked back upstairs. Once they were clear of the room, Murton said, “How’d you like to be on the wrong side of that guy?”

“No thanks,” Virgil said. “He’s one of the nicest and most polite guys I’ve ever met. The problem is, I’ll bet he could rip your ears off without standing from his seat. Remember how he handled himself when we came down here to rescue Huma and Delroy from Brenner’s property?”

Murton, who himself had a knack for not letting anyone get the better of him, said, “Do I ever. I’ll bet you any amount of money you care to wager that his heart rate never even increased.”

Virgil chuffed and said, “No bet.” Then he stopped walking.

Murton suddenly realized he was walking away from his brother, so he stopped, turned back, and said, “Jonesy?”

“Do me a favor, will you?”

“Sure. What is it?”

“Go ahead and talk to Chip. See what’s what. I need to have a word with Mac.”

“About what?”

Virgil wiggled his eyebrows at Murton. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been detecting.”

When Murton walked into the library, he found Lawless sitting at a desk, staring at a computer screen. “Hey, Chipster. What are you working on? This is supposed to be a mini-vacation for us.”

“Pretty hard to have a good time when you just lost the love of your life.”

“Mind if I have a seat?”

“Suit yourself,” Lawless said.

Murton wasn’t quite sure where to start, so he sat quietly for a minute or so, then said, “Chip, Mimi was⁠—”

Lawless held out his hand, palm first. “Murt, you’re one of the best guys I’ve ever known, but please don’t try to explain what Mimi was or wasn’t to me. I need to work through this in my own way, and on my own timetable.”

“Fair enough,” Murton said. “And for the record, that’s not why I’m here. But know this: Mimi was special to all of us in different ways. I know it’s hardest on you, but we all miss the hell out of her, Chip.”

Lawless gave Murton a nasty look. “Why? Because her voice was the equivalent of an eight-hundred thread count sheet?”

“You want the truth?”

“Yeah, that would be absolutely fan-fucking-tastic, man.”

Murton ignored the sarcasm and said, “The short answer is yes, and let me tell you why. It was part of who she was. It was part of what made her the unique person we all knew and loved.” Murton held his thumb and index finger a millimeter apart. “But it was only a fraction of who she was. She had a beautiful smile, a wonderful sense of humor, was dedicated to her work and colleagues, great at her job, and she was, without question, one of the kindest and smartest women I’ve ever had the pleasure to know and work with. My heart—all of our collective hearts—ache with her loss, and always will. She was part of our family, and in a certain sense continues to be. As much as I miss her myself, I’m deeply sorry for the loss you’ve had, and will, in your own way, have to endure forever. I hope you can take some measure of solace knowing that the people responsible for her death have either been captured or killed.”

Lawless seemed to soften after listening to what Murton had to say. “Thanks, Murt. Really. Sorry I’ve been sort of an ass.”

“Often times it’s allowed, my friend. This certainly qualifies. Let me ask you something: Out of every single person you know, who do you think could help you the most right now?”

“When you say ‘single,’ are you asking about single people, or are you using the term as in ‘singular?’”

“In this case, mostly singular,” Murton said.

“You’re saying I should talk to Rosie?”

Murton turned his palms up. “To be honest, I guess it’s not for me to say. But he’s been through it—as has Sarah, by the way—and I’m certain either one of them would be willing to help you navigate what is, without question, one of the hardest paths you’ll ever have to follow. Like you, they both lost the love of their lives. But look at them now. They’re happier than they’ve ever been. Did they have to walk through the fire to get there? Yes, absolutely. But they did it. They did the hard work—work, I might add, that is yours and yours alone—but there isn’t one single thing wrong with asking for help or guidance along the way, especially from someone who’s been through it.”

“What…and drag them back down with me? I’m not that kind of guy, Murt.”

“You wouldn’t be dragging them back down, Chip. You’d be helping them stay afloat. I know for a fact that Sarah loves Ross with her entire being. But do you think she doesn’t still think about Gary and what might have been? The same goes for Rosie. He’s head over heels with Lucy, but Carla will always be a part of him. I’ll tell you something else I know: When Rosie was struggling, he went to Sarah for help. Just think about it, huh?”

Lawless said he would, then asked Murton a question. “Do you know a guy by the name of Rob Parks?”

“I don’t know him personally, but we have met…if we’re speaking of the same guy. Is he an agent with the ATF?”

“That’s the one,” Lawless said.

“What about him?”

“Apparently he’s pretty good at his job. Or maybe I should say he’s very thorough.”

“Not sure I’m following you,” Murton said.

Lawless spun his laptop around so Murton could see the pictures he was looking at. Murton clicked through a bunch of photos of Chip and Mimi, then said, “These are some great shots. Is this when you and Meems went down to Brown County?”

Lawless narrowed his eyes. “Yeah. How’d you know about that?”

“Mimi told me she was going. She didn’t say anything about you, but now it’s sort of obvious. What does Agent Parks have to do with these photos?”

“Prior to the demolition process, Mimi’s car got hauled away. It was a total wreck, as you might imagine, but Parks had to make sure there weren’t any weapons in the car. He tracked it down at the salvage yard and found my camera in the trunk. The camera, just like the car, was totally destroyed, but he found my contact information in the bag, then pulled the memory card and sent it to me. I thought I’d lost the photos forever.”

Murton looked away for a moment, then said, “Can you tell me what’s been bothering Robert?”

“I think in his own way he’s been trying to help me. And in fact, he has helped. But I suspect it brought back some difficult memories of how he lost his own family. That’s why I said I was afraid to speak with Rosie or Sarah.”

“I know he was raised by Delroy’s mom, but I’m not familiar with how he lost his family,” Murton said.

Lawless closed down his laptop, stood, and said, “Let’s go get a beer, or maybe something stronger, and I’ll tell you a little story.”

“Kind of early to hit the bottle, isn’t it?”

“Not for me,” Lawless said. “And after you hear Robert’s tale, you might change your mind.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

DECATUR COUNTY, INDIANA: PRESENT DAY

Bobby Palmer—no relation to Sarah, the MCU operations manager, much less the famous golfer, Arnold, or the drink named after him—and Marty Grant were born on the wrong side of the tracks and never bothered to step across the rails as adults to see what might be waiting on the other side. Grant always somehow managed to skirt the law, but Palmer did a ten-year bit straight out of high school for possession with intent to distribute, then a few years later, like a dope, he tried to rob a liquor store. He wasn’t after the money, but he did want a taste of the good stuff. So, Bobby being Bobby, came up with a plan and decided he could stick a bottle of Jameson Irish whiskey down the front of his pants and walk right out the door like a big swinging dick.

But the owner of the liquor store had known Palmer most of his life and was watching him on the monitor behind the counter when Bobby made his move. Palmer got caught, pled to the crime, and during his sentencing hearing the Decatur County judge—who knew of Palmer’s troubled past—had a few questions.

“Mr. Palmer, did you actually expect anyone to believe that your manhood was the size of a whiskey bottle?”

“It’d been a long day, Judge. I just wanted a drink.”

“You could get a drink at the bar, son, and your statement doesn’t exactly answer my question, now, does it?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, sir, I didn’t think anyone would notice, what with the baggy pants and all.”

“You didn’t think the security cameras would see you?”

“I guess I didn’t think that part of the plan all the way through, sir.”

The judge eyed Palmer over the top of his reading glasses and said, “It would seem so. You’ve pled to the crime, so that means you’re guilty as charged. Do you understand what that means?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“I’m giving you eighteen months probation, but only because you didn’t try to run when you were caught. That, and the fact that you’ve made restitution with the store owner.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me just yet,” the judge said. “Because if you ever have to stand in front of my bench again, I’m not going to be quite so lenient. Guilty is guilty, son. That’s twice now for you, no matter the sentence. But the thing to remember is this: It’s three strikes and you’re out.” The judge tapped his gavel on the block, then said, “Bailiff, take him away.”

The bailiff took hold of Palmer and led him toward the side door of the courtroom for processing. Just before he disappeared through the door, the judge said, “Hey, Bobby?”

Palmer turned around and said, “Yes, sir?”

“I may have misspoken a moment ago. What I should have said was, three strikes and you’re in…for the ride of your life. If that’s not clear enough for you, maybe this is: You’ll be stacking serious time in the federal pen with the big boys. Get your act together, son. If you don’t, with God as my witness, you’re going to get eaten alive.”

Palmer said he’d try.

Marty Grant waited for Palmer outside the courthouse like any good wingman would, and when Palmer stepped out of the side door, Grant handed him a pack of hard dogs, a lighter, and a cold beer.

Palmer shook a cigarette from the pack, stuck it in his mouth, sparked up, and took a long hard drag. Then he cracked the beer and chugged half the can in one long drink. “Man, you’re the best.”

“What’d you get?” Grant said, ignoring the compliment.

“Exactly what the lawyer said I would. Slap on the wrist. Let’s go, huh? I’ve been sitting in county lock-up for a week. I need a shower.”

Palmer and Grant lived on a small farm just outside of Letts, Indiana. Letts was known for exactly two things: Their tractor pulls, and the volunteer fire department’s fish fries. The official town slogan was, ‘Blink and you’ll miss us.’ Their unofficial slogan was, ‘Letts get the hell out of here.’ Palmer and Grant made their living by raising and selling goats…at least that’s what everyone thought. On the drive home from the courthouse, Grant was giving Palmer grief about his mistake.

“That was one of the stupidest things you ever done, Bobby. It’s not like we couldn’t afford a bottle of booze. Why’d you do it?”

Palmer—who was sitting in the passenger seat because the last thing he needed was to get pulled over with beer on his breath—gave Grant a half-shrug and said, “You’re the one who’s always saying don’t be flashing any cash around.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. I was talking about buying a new truck or some damned thing, which I know you want to do. Hell, I do too. But we can afford to buy a bottle of whiskey if we want one. The truth is, we can afford a lot of things, and one day soon we’re going to have everything we ever wanted. But right now we have to keep a low profile.”

“Yeah, yeah. I fucked up. It’s not like you ain’t never made any mistakes.” When Grant didn’t respond, Palmer said, “What?”

“I had a little trouble with the last shipment,” Grant said.

“What kind of trouble?”

“They’re doing some sort of construction on 74, right up by Shelbyville, so I had to take a detour through town on the way back.”

“So what?”

“The latch on the trailer gate broke, and one of the goats got out.”

“You get it back?” Palmer said.

Grant shook his head. “Couldn’t. It happened right in front of the sheriff’s station. Traffic was all jammed up because of the detour, I guess, and by the time I got pulled over to the curb and got the gate secure, some crazy woman came running out of the building and had already scooped up the goat. Then the next thing I knew, all sorts of cops started showing up, the fire department and EMS people were there, and the whole damned place turned into a madhouse. I had to let it go.”

“Man…Doc is going to be pissed.”

“No, he ain’t,” Grant said. “It’s not like he don’t have more.”

“It was a stupid idea to begin with. Everything has been going smooth for months. The product stays on ice at the front of the trailer behind the false wall, and the goats are perfect decoys if we ever get stopped. You know it, I know it, and Doc does too. Let me guess: He got greedy again and tried to up the shipment.”

“Yeah, that about says it because it has been a busy week, but I’m telling you man, you’ve got to be more careful. It’s his farm we’re living on. How long do you think that’s going to last if we don’t keep up our end of the bargain?”

Palmer wasn’t bothered by any of it. “We have been keeping up our end of the bargain. We bring him what he needs, he does his part, then we transport the product. The goats have been the best idea yet because no one even looks at us.”

“Yeah, except now the cops have one of Doc’s goats. If he doesn’t keep his livestock inventory up, the feds are going to start sniffing around because he’s ordering too much medication.”

“Fuck the feds,” Palmer said. “Let ‘em sniff.”

“Don’t you get it, man? He has to account for his inventory to order what he needs for the process. If he can’t get it, the curtain comes down on the whole show.”

“I know. All’s I’m saying is it’s just one goat.”

“Look, none of it matters anyway,” Grant said. “Doc already knows where the goat is. He says he wants it back, but he can’t do it himself.”

“Why not?”

Grant looked at Palmer like he was an idiot. “Because it’s at that cultural place where they let them Injun freeloaders live. The same freeloaders Doc has been using to supply his customers lately. He wants to talk to us about the whole thing.”

“He knows I’m out?” Palmer said.

“Yup. Had to tell him, man. You know what that guy is like. If I lied to him, he’d tell those East Chicago Jamaicans to cut our nuts off. And I’ll tell you something else⁠—”

“Yeah, I hear ya. They’d do it without blinking. So how do you want to handle it?”

“I ain’t sure,” Grant said. “But you know Doc…if we don’t do what he wants, we might end up at the front of the trailer instead of driving the truck. Either that, or he’ll take his losses out of our cut.”

Neither man wanted to lose their share of the profits—not to mention their nuts—so they talked it back and forth all the way home. By the time they arrived, they hadn’t come up with anything.

But Doc had.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Carl Johnson was, and always had been, a farmer. He also worked—in a muddy, roundabout way—for Virgil, and for Said, Inc., as the foreman who oversaw the operational end of the sonic drilling units on land formerly owned by the Joneses. The land got folded into a somewhat complex deal between Said’s company, the state, the Pope twins, and the Shelby County Cultural Center, a non-profit organization run by Patty Stronghill.

As a cultural anthropologist, the center was Patty’s baby, and one of its mission objectives was to bring in Native Americans—most coming from the Isabella Reservation located in the central part of Michigan—and teaching those who wanted free of the reservation a skilled trade they could take with them out into the world. While they were there, the center provided food, housing, clothing, classroom education, and hands-on training—all free of charge—to those who wanted to work hard at bettering themselves. Patty’s husband, Tony, was a federal Bureau of Indian Affairs agent, and he oversaw security for the entire center.

The center had had its share of troubles over the years, but most of them had smoothed out, mainly because Tony ran a tight ship, and the center didn’t have a three-strikes-and-you’re-out policy. It had a policy that said if you don’t like how we do things, you get shipped back up to the rez to take your chances there.

Anyhoo, Carl Johnson: There was something he needed to speak with Patty about, so he walked inside the center’s admin building, over to Patty’s office, then rapped the side of the doorjamb with his knuckles, stuck his head in and said, “Hey, little lady, got a second?”

Patty was sitting at her desk, half her face hidden behind her computer monitor. She leaned sideways, smiled, and said, “Of course, Carl. C’mon in.”

“Whatcha working on? Hope I’m not interrupting.”

Patty made a very unladylike noise with her lips that reminded Johnson of a cow fart, then said, “One, it’s never an interruption to speak with you, Carl, and two, right now I welcome anything or anyone who can take my mind off of what I’m doing.”

Johnson took the bait. “What’s that?”

“Mainly trying to figure out why I, as the single largest shareholder of Said, Inc., have been tasked with doing what any reasonable person would describe as grunt work.”

Johnson knew about grunt work. All farmers did, although most of Johnson’s got handed off to his farmhand, a young man named Mike Grey. Johnson turned the corners of his mouth down, pushed out his lower lip, then said, “What sort of grunt work?”

Patty set the question aside for a second and asked one of her own. “Have you ever noticed that the expression you just made is common among farmers?”

“I didn’t even know I made a face. What’d I do?”

Patty tried to imitate Johnson’s expression, and when she did, Johnson laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Patty said.

“Two things. One, you are, without question, one of the prettiest young ladies I know. Don’t tell Tony I said that, by the way.”

“Why not? He feels the same way.”

Johnson tipped his chin at her. “That’s sort of my point.”

“What’s the other thing?”

“Don’t make that face. It doesn’t work on you.”

“Okay, fair enough. But it does for you…and every other farmer I’ve ever seen or spoken to. It’s like you guys have a secret farmers-only expression or something.”

Johnson made the face again and said, “Tell you the truth, I never gave it much thought until right now. My pap always done it, so I guess it just sort of stuck. Besides, that ain’t how you can tell if a fella is a farmer or not. Usually it’s with your nose because we all smell like pig flop, horse flop, cow flop, chicken flop, or any combination of the previously mentioned flops.”

“Carl, you don’t smell bad. In fact, I can’t remember one single time where I ever thought you did.” Then, “Hey, is that little shadow of yours still following you around?”

The shadow was a baby goat that ended up under Johnson’s care after the Shelby County sheriff, Ed Henderson, passed it off to his new dispatcher, Lucy Hall. Lucy was the girlfriend of one of Virgil’s detectives, Tom Rosencrantz. Johnson nodded and said, “Yup. That thing follows me around like a lost puppy. Matter of fact, he’s wandering around outside right now…probably nibbling on your flowers. Mind if I ask you something?”

“What’s that?”

Johnson tipped his head at Patty’s computer. “Can you play any music on that thing?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Because I figured if we was gonna dance, there ought to be some music playing. That’s my way of saying it sounds like you sure don’t want to talk about what your grunt work is.”

Patty turned her palms up. “When you’re right, you’re right. But I will tell you this: The company that Mac runs? The one you work for? The one where I actually own the majority of shares?”

Johnson smiled. “I may have heard mention of it from time to time. What about it?”

“They have an entire floor of accountants. I’m not talking about just a few people to balance the books, or whatever the hell it is accountants do. They have nearly a hundred people in the accounting department alone.”

“And that affects you…how?” Johnson said.

“I’ll tell you how,” Patty said. “They want me to do a cost benefit analysis on the overarching mission of the cultural center.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“It’s complicated, but that’s not the point.”

“What is the point?”

“My plate is full just running this place. Plus, I’m not an accountant. And if that isn’t enough, the whole thing is nearly impossible because of the ties between the state, Virgil and Sandy, the Isabella, and anyone else who has their hands in this particular pie.”

“You’re speaking of Nicky and Nichole.”

“Yep,” Patty said.

“So tell them to blow it out their collective butts.”

“I can’t do that, Carl. These people are my friends. Jonesy saved my life…twice if you’re keeping track. And Mac, along with Nicky and Nichole, saved the company after Uncle Rick died, so⁠—”

Johnson made his farmer face again, then said, “That ain’t who I’m talking about.”

“Who, then?” Patty asked.

“All them accountants you just mentioned.”

“Carl, they’re the ones who need it. The request came from some state agency, got passed on to Mac, who in turn gave it to Sandy. Then Sandy gave it to someone else who handed it off to another someone else, and that particular snowball kept rolling down the hill getting bigger and bigger as it went, until the accounting department got hold of it. Once that happened, they told me to get cracking.”

“So you don’t want to do it because you’re afraid of disappointing the people you care about.”

“Something like that,” Patty said.

“How about I handle it for you?”

Patty had purple streaks in her hair that matched her violet eyes, and when she smiled, her irises glowed in delight. “Carl, I love you, but I think this might be a little out of your wheelhouse.”

“You’d be surprised what a man like me can do when he sets his mind to it. Remember that fish and the tree story you once told me?”

“Of course.”

“So hire me as your assistant, and I’ll have the whole thing under control before I walk out of your office…which I’m fixing to do in about five minutes.”

Patty decided to humor Johnson. “Okay, Mr. Big Shot. You’re hired. Why’d you want to see me, anyway?”

“In a minute. Ever hear the expression, always feed your animals before you feed yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“Then switch seats with me. It’s time to break open a few bales of hay.”

Johnson took a seat behind Patty’s desk, pulled a pair of reading glasses from his pocket and perched them on the tip of his nose. Then he picked up the receiver from its cradle and said, “Which one of these fancy buttons connects me to corporate? Wait, never mind. I see it.”

“Carl?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got this. Be careful what you wish for.” When the line was answered on the other end, Carl said, “Accounting department, please.” As he was waiting, he put his glasses away, then gave Patty a wink. “Yes, to whom am I speaking?” Johnson said into the phone. He waited for an answer, then said, “I see. Well, Mary, my name is Carl Johnson and I am Patty Stronghill’s new assistant. I just started today. No, no, not that Carl Johnson. That guy is nothing more than a pig farmer who thinks a spreadsheet is something you put on a mattress. We simply have the same name. Now, let me ask you a question, Mary. Who in the everlasting world of all that is right and just thought they could direct—and in fact insist—that the director of the Shelby County Cultural Center has to do a cost benefit analysis regarding its overarching mission? Oh, is that right? So you’re telling me that as the director, it’s her job, is it? Yes, uh-huh, that makes perfect sense. But here’s a little fact I’d like you to consider: Mrs. Stronghill is also the majority shareholder of the company you work for. Not only that, she is a cultural anthropologist, not an accountant. That being the case, I’d say it’s your department’s job, wouldn’t you agree, Mary? Could you answer that for me please, because I can assure you that Mrs. Stronghill is not someone you want walking into your office and asking you herself. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Good. See that you do. What? I’m not sure. Hold the line.”

Johnson punched the Hold button, looked at Patty—who’d made a tent out of her hands and was covering her mouth and nose—then said, “When do you need it, little darlin’?”

Patty shook her head, and through her laughter said, “It doesn’t matter to me.”

Johnson punched the line again, and in a commanding tone, said, “Noon tomorrow.” Then he hung up.

Patty was laughing so hard she had tears streaming down her cheeks.

When they finally stopped laughing at Carl’s performance, Patty said, “You should have been an actor.”

Johnson smiled. “I was…decades ago in high school. Had the lead part in the senior class play.”

Patty smiled right back. “I can believe it. So, I take it you actually wanted to talk to me about something.”

Johnson’s smile went away. “Yeah, I do. I already spoke with Tony about it, but two of the Native Americans weren’t cutting it with the livestock.”

The cultural center had its own mini-farm, where they raised and trained horses that were later sold to ranchers all across the Southwest. It worked out well for everyone because the Native Americans not only liked the work, they were good at it. Most of them, that is.

“In what way?” Patty said.

“It was like they ain’t never seen a horse before, which, being Indians, I find a little hard to believe. And I ain’t trying to be racist by saying that, neither.”

“I know that, Carl. What were their jobs…specifically?”

“Mainly mucking out the stalls, no different than anyone else who starts out on the ranching program.”

“Not exactly the most glamorous job in the world.”

“Well, they were also tasked with feeding, watering, bathing, learning how to properly shoe, and all different kinds of things as they progressed through the program. They even worked with the vet every time he showed up. Bottom line, the two I’m talking about? I had to send them packing just yesterday. They weren’t very happy.”

Patty knew it was within Johnson’s purview to let someone go who worked for him, but she asked the question anyway. “Are you certain there was no other way?”

“I wouldn’t have done it if there was,” Johnson said. “Them two weren’t right in the head to begin with. If I’m wrong—and I ain’t sure I ain’t—I think they was doping.”

Patty let the double ain’t go and said, “That’d be pretty hard to get away with around here. Tony has everyone tested before they start school, then he follows up with regular weekly tests.”

“Maybe they found a way around the system,” Johnson said. “Dunno. But I can tell you this: They was both a danger to anyone who worked around them.”

“Did you give them vouchers for the bus back to the Isabella?”

“Tried to, but they said they didn’t want them. They cleaned out their bunks and that was that. Counting those two, that’s a total of eight we’ve lost over as many weeks. The other six just took off.”

“If they don’t go back to the rez, we’re required to notify Ed’s department,” Patty said.

“Tony already called him. I guess Ed’s going to either send someone over to get their files, or come get them himself. At least that’s what he told me.”

“Okay, let me speak with the new volunteer equine educational director. Maybe he can figure something out.” When Johnson didn’t respond, Patty said, “Carl?”

“The volunteer director...he’s that vet from down in Decatur County, right?”

“Yes. Doctor Sam Hammond. Why?”

“No reason, really, except I seen him give them boys a lift after we parted ways.”

Patty didn't know what to make of that, so she simply said, "Well, everyone needs a ride every now and then, right?"

Johnson nodded. "Yup. I suppose they do. Want me to ask where he dropped them?"

Patty shrugged. "I'm not sure what good it would do. If they didn’t fit into our program, it's really out of our hands." Then, because Patty had work to do: “Was there anything else?"

Johnson stood. “Nope. That’ll do it. Thanks for the help.”

Patty laughed. “You too.”

Just as Johnson got to the door, Patty called out and stopped him. “Hey, Carl?”

Johnson turned back. “Yeah?”

“I mean this in the nicest possible way, but you’re fired…as my assistant, I mean.”

“Thank God. I think I used up all my good words with one phone call.”

CHAPTER NINE

Virgil found Sandy, Mac, and Nichole right where Tony’s security monitor had shown them to be…in the business suite, working away on behalf of Said, Inc. He stepped in and said, “Hey guys.” Then he walked over and gave his wife a kiss. “How’s it going?”

Mac answered, even though Virgil had been speaking directly to Sandy. “It’s not going very well at all.”

“What’s the matter?” Virgil said.

Mac grabbed a binder from the table and wiggled it in the air before letting it drop with a thud. “What’s the matter is this.”

“You don’t like binders?” Virgil said.

The men had been friends with each other for years, so Mac took the comment in stride. “If you tell him I said this, you and I are going to have a problem, but Murton is right. Your cop humor is sub-par.”

Virgil pulled out a chair and sat down. “That was just regular humor, thinly disguised as sarcastic banter. Besides, Murt no longer thinks my cop humor sucks.”

Nichole looked at Virgil and narrowed her eyes. “I find that hard to believe.”

“No, no, I’m serious,” Virgil said. “He told me earlier.” Then before anyone could ask any questions, he continued with, “So what’s in the binder that has everyone looking so glum? We’re supposed to be on vacation, remember?”

“One that’s nearly over, I’m afraid,” Mac said. “We’ve got another day…maybe two, before we have to go back.”

“What’s the rush?” Virgil said.

“Did you know that I spoke with Cora earlier this morning?” Mac said.

Virgil shook his head. “No. What’d she want?”

Mac frowned at Virgil. “Let me ask you something, Jonesy. When I was the governor and my name was mentioned in certain circles when you were present, is that how you responded? And before you answer, remember, I was your boss.”

Virgil gave his friend a lazy shrug. “Well, technically, when you were the governor, Cora was my actual boss.”

“It’s a simple question,” Mac said.

“Then I stand by my answer.”

“You haven’t given me an answer yet.”

Virgil took off one of his flip-flops and scratched the bottom of his foot. “I know. So, c’mon, really, what’d Cora want?”

“She wanted me to tell you to gather your detectives and go home.”

Virgil examined his flip-flop before putting it back on. “Why? Is something afoot?”

Mac massaged his forehead with his thumb and index finger. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but where is Murton when I need him?”

Virgil turned serious and said, “For the record, right where he’s always been. That’s by your side, if you understand what I’m saying.”

Sandy, who knew her husband better than anyone sensed the conversation was about to go south. She cleared her throat and said, “Virg?”

“I’m just making sure that my partner—emphasis on the word partner—remembers who his friends are.” He was looking at Mac when he spoke. “Not everything has to be about business. Look at yourself. You’re down here in paradise, and you’re wearing a suit, for Christ’s sake. Take a day off. Relax. Get some sun. Live a little. Did you know that Sandy and I…along with the boys, of course, are thinking of moving down here?”

Sandy pulled her chin in. “We are? I didn’t think you were serious.”

“It’s not as hard as you might think,” Nichole said.

Mac shook his head. “Take a day off, he says.” Then, “Listen, Cora wants you guys back at work.”

“Kind of hard to do if you don’t have a base of operations anymore,” Virgil said. “If you recall, ours was blown to smithereens.”

“You could work out of the state police post,” Mac said.

Virgil visibly shuddered. “Too much oversight.”

“What about the bar?”

“Can’t do it. We’ve already opened back up.”

Mac gave Virgil a frown. “Without your head chef and bartender…the two guys who actually make the place what it is?”

Virgil smiled. “We’ll survive it. The sous chefs have all been there for years, each of them trained by Robert, and Delroy has the backup bartenders under control. But let me ask you this: Why are you trying to be my boss again?”

“I’m not trying to be your boss, Jonesy. I’m simply trying to help out a friend.”

“But I don’t need any help, Mac. Wait, that’s not true. Actually I do.”

“I wasn’t speaking about you. I meant Cora.”

Nichole looked at Sandy and said, “Want to know something?”

“Sure.”

“You know that thing that Virgil and Murton are always doing?”

“You’re speaking of their verbal back and forth sparring matches?”

Nichole nodded. “Yes. I always thought it was a friendly duel between brothers, but now I’m beginning to wonder if your husband might be the instigator of the whole thing.”

“Oh, he definitely is,” Sandy said. “He has this way of sort of dragging you into something, and before you know it, you’re caught in the matrix.”

Virgil ignored the women—even though he knew that it came with a risk—looked at Mac and said, “Mayo and Baker are keeping their ear to the ground, and with the help of Nicky—may he rest in peace—they’re monitoring Becky’s system. There are currently no major crimes happening in the state that justify our presence at the moment…at least that we know of. When that changes, we’ll go back to work. In the meantime, Cora knows that every single one of us down here have enough stored vacation time to retire if we wanted to, which, by the way, we don’t.”

Nichole looked at Virgil and said, “Why did you say that about Nicky? May he rest in peace?”

Virgil laughed. “Because Baker has her hooks in him and I think the only time you’ll ever see your dear brother again is when you fly back to the states.”

Nichole laughed right along with him. “That’s certainly one way of looking at it.”

Virgil felt like he’d just walked into a trap…mainly because he had. “What’s another way of looking at it?”

“What if your lovely Emily decided to come back with Nicky? She could live here in luxury. As I understand it, she doesn’t have any family. If they are serious about each other, she could move down here with Nicky and live the kind of life others could only dream of.”

When Nichole said that, something clicked in the back of Virgil’s brain. He actually heard the sound in his head as if someone had just snapped their fingers. But he ignored the click and instead thought, Oh, shit…Nichole might be right.

Virgil let Nichole have her fun, then said, “I don’t think she’d do that. She was in charge of Cora’s security, and as soon as she passed the detective’s exam, she came straight to us for a job.”

But the conversation wasn’t over. “So she has no qualms about moving on if the right opportunity becomes available,” Mac said.

Virgil pointed a finger at Mac. “Look who’s talking. And for the record, that’s not what I meant. She was simply trying to better herself.”

Mac looked around the room. “Good for her. As far as I’m concerned, you can’t do much better than this.”

Sandy joined in as well. “I agree.” Then she turned to Nichole and said, “What I mentioned earlier? About moving down here? I’m not saying we’d actually live here full-time, but the Indiana winters do start to wear on you. I could see us having a second home, especially if we could find the right spot.”

Virgil tried to stop it, but the train had already left the station. “Guys, I think⁠—”

They all ignored him, and Nichole said, “We already have the perfect spot. Remember Roje Brenner’s property…the one we turned into a park?”

“Of course,” Sandy said. “It’s beautiful up there.”

“It is,” Nichole said. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t get used as much as we’d anticipated—which is to say, hardly at all. I think the history of the place keeps people away. No matter. We gated it off, the permits for construction have already been approved, and the property is simply waiting for the right buyer to come along.”

Mac raised his eyebrows, and said, rather dryly, “A gated property, you say? Why, that sounds right up Virgil’s alley.”

Virgil slowly lowered his forehead and let it rest on the table.

Sandy looked at Nichole and said, “How much would a property like that go for?”

“I suppose it depends on any number of factors. It would have to be exactly the right buyer, though. We wouldn’t want the kind of people who lived there before.”

Sandy was actually getting excited about the idea. “Isn’t it nearly twenty acres?”

“It is,” Nichole said. “And every square inch is prime real estate, so there’d be room for at least two houses…you know, if somebody’s brother and sister-in-law wanted to build there as well.”

Virgil still had his head on the table. “Sandy?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Shouldn’t you and Mac be working right now?”

“No, we’re on vacation, remember? You said so yourself. Now, leave the specifics of the deal to me, sweetheart. I love you with my whole heart, but we’ve all heard the stories about what happens when you try to negotiate.” Then to Nichole: “So, how much?”

Nichole looked at nothing for a few seconds, then picked up a pen, wrote a number down on a slip of paper, then slid it over to Sandy.

Sandy studied the figure for exactly two seconds, then said, “Would it be all right if you and I stepped out of the room for a moment?”

Once the women had left, Mac punched Virgil lightly on the shoulder and said, “You’ve put your foot in it this time.”

“You don’t think she’s serious, do you?”

“Who? Sandy or Nichole? And before you answer, let me tell you something. Nichole has been talking to me about this for quite some time. All of it. All of us, Virgil.”

When Virgil heard Mac address him by his proper name, he raised his head. “What do you mean?”

Mac stripped off his tie, laid it on the table, then unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. “I’m speaking of Nichole. The things she’s told me of their childhood…hers and Nicky’s. What they had to endure was something of a horror show. You know some of it, I’m afraid.”

Virgil pointed a finger at Mac. “That’s not fair. It’s not even accurate. I was doing my job.”

“Virgil, calm down. I’m not being critical. Yes, you were doing your job when you killed Nichole’s father. But she is a remarkable woman. Don’t you get it? You’ve become the father she never had…or at least the father figure she always dreamed of having. When you killed James Pope you did it because you didn’t have a choice. But had that not happened, where do you think Nicky and Nichole would be today? Give me your gut answer.”

Virgil swallowed, then said, “Either in jail or dead.”

“Exactly. And look at her now. Her and Nicky both. Look what they’ve made of themselves and how they’ve turned their lives around. They have true generational wealth, they’re happy, healthy, and living the dream, my friend. And that’s on you.”

“You’re making my inclusion in their story something bigger than it actually is, Mac.”

“And you’re doing the same thing Murton always does, which is to downplay your involvement regarding the feelings, trust, and commitment you engender in others. How about you knock it off once in a while? Now might be a good time to start.”

Virgil wasn’t quite sure how to respond, so he asked a question. “Earlier you said the problem wasn’t with the binder, which, by the way, I already knew. So what’s the problem?”

“The problem is that Said, Inc. is going to take a massive hit on our electric vehicle battery extension program. We’re probably going to scrap the entire thing. I had to fire the project manager.”

“Why?”

Mac laughed, but there was no humor in his voice. “Why? Because he couldn’t get the job done. His engineers kept saying that Nicky and Wu’s code was wrong, and Nicky and Wu kept saying that the code wasn’t the problem. Bottom line, he couldn’t find the solution, so we’re going to give it one more shot, but we need a new leader.”

“Maybe you don’t,” Virgil said. “How about you help me, and I help you?”

This time there actually was humor in Mac’s laughter. “Jonesy, you’re the best. I mean that sincerely. You’re the single smartest detective I’ve ever known. But even you have to admit that this problem is outside the scope of your knowledge.”

Virgil tipped his head to the side. “Maybe. But have you ever wondered what actually makes someone a good detective?”

Mac gave Virgil a shrug. “Not really. I mean, you have to know the law and how to track down criminals and whatnot, but other than that, I’m afraid I don’t.”

Virgil leaned back in his chair and interlaced his fingers behind his head. “I once had a conversation with Becky at the bar. This was after you sent Pearson and Cora to fire me, by the way.”

“Ancient history, my friend, and one of the worst mistakes of my life.”

Virgil gave Mac the brow. “Was it, though? Never mind. Don’t answer. After Ron Miles took over, Becky was in the bar one day, and she was wearing a frilly little sleeveless dress and a pair of black platform flip-flops. She looked spectacular. Anyway, she was upset about how Ron was doing things in my absence. Or maybe upset isn’t the right word, but she was having some difficulty adjusting to Ron’s way of operating. So we started talking about it, and I told her to give it some time because Ron was a great detective. Know what she asked me?”

Mac was interested in Virgil’s tale, so he mentally set aside his work-related troubles and said. “What’s that?”

“She asked if he was a better detective than me.”

“What’d you tell her?”

“The truth. I told her he was. But I also remember telling her that he was very methodical in nature…something to the effect of A leads to B leads to C and so on. I was never that way, and I never have been. I notice things. I pay attention to the small stuff, the little things on the fringes that sometimes go unnoticed. When I do, things sort of become obvious to me. That’s the way I’ve always been and it works well for me.”

“So how does that make you less of a detective than Ron was?”

“I think less is the wrong word,” Virgil said. “We just did things differently. Anyway, she asked me for an example and I gave her one.”

“What was it?”

“I closed my eyes and told her precisely how many people were in the bar at that particular moment, and you know what? I was exactly right. When she asked me how I knew, I told her I notice things and they tend to stick with me.”

Mac thought about what Virgil had just told him, then said, “So the thing that makes you, personally, a great detective is that you notice things others might miss?”

“Something like that,” Virgil said. “So are we going to help each other or not?”

“What do you need?”

“Operational office space of my choice until the Major Crimes Unit facility is rebuilt.”

“I might be able to do that,” Mac said. “What are you offering?”

“A solution to your battery problem.”

Mac barked out a laugh. “Jonesy, if you have a fix for this problem, I give you my word that you can use the executive suites at our office building for as long as you need. Hell, I’ll let you, personally, have my own office for the duration.”

“It’s not your office I want,” Virgil said. Then he stuck out his hand to shake.

Mac shook Virgil’s hand, then said, “Okay hotshot, what’s your idea?”

Virgil stood and walked over to the large whiteboard that Mac, Sandy, and Nichole had been using and studied it for a moment. “Is this your handwriting? It’s worse than mine.” He picked up an eraser and said, “I hope none of this is important.” Then he wiped the board clean.

Mac had a look of horror on his face. “Jonesy, you just erased nearly a week’s worth of work.”

“So what? Did it get you any closer to the solution than you were a week ago?”

Mac had to admit it didn’t.

“That’s what I thought.” Then Virgil drew a large square on the board, capped the marker, and stood back to admire his work. “Let’s say this is the vehicle’s battery.”

“Okay. What of it?”

“Nicky and Wu’s code, along with your generators—for whatever reason—can’t seem to keep up with the demand.”

“Yes, yes,” Mac said. “We’ve been through this a thousand times. The demand is greater than the recoverable energy. You’re not giving me a solution, you’re simply restating the problem.”

Virgil pointed the marker at Mac and said, “See, that right there is why you need a vacation. You’re too wound up. Anyway, the car is driving down the road, the battery is getting drained, regenerative braking helps, but not enough power is going back in, right?”

Mac, who didn’t often swear, said, “Virgil, for fuck’s sake, get to it.”

Virgil smiled at Mac, picked up the eraser, and started over. This time he drew two identical squares side by side, that together equaled the same size as the first drawing. “There’s your solution, Mac.”

Mac looked at the board and said, “I don’t understand.”

Virgil gave his friend a sympathetic grin. “Sometimes the answer is so clear a person can be blinded by the obvious. What I’m saying is this: Instead of one big battery, use two of equal size. Then have Nicky and Wu rewrite the code for the computers. Send the power from the generators to one battery while the other is being used to power the vehicle. You’ll end up pulling power from one battery while the other is charging.”

For a moment, Mac was so stunned by Virgil’s solution he was speechless. When he stood up, he headed for the door without speaking.

Virgil was confused, and said so. “Hey, Mac?”

Mac stopped and turned back, his hand still on the doorknob. “What?”

“Where are you going? It’s a good idea, right?”

Mac walked over to Virgil and grabbed him by the shoulders. “I’ll answer both your questions, just not in the order you asked. Your idea? It’s absolutely brilliant.”

Virgil smiled. “Thanks. I thought it might work. So, where are you going?”

“Where else? I need to pack. You should too. It’s time to get back to work. By the way, you said you didn’t want my office space, so what do I owe you?”

“I didn’t say that. I said I didn’t want your office.”

“So what’d you have in mind?”

“When was the last time you were in the bar?”

Mac closed his eyes in thought for a few seconds, then said, “Honestly, with everything that’s been going on with the company, I don’t recall. Why do you ask?”

“Because I wanted to know if you were aware of the fact that the building next door—the one the bar shares a common wall with—is vacant and up for sale.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t know that.”

Virgil gave Mac a smile. “So, now you do. That’s where I want the MCU facility. Get Turkis to make it happen, will you?”

“What do you think Cora will have to say about that?”

“I’ll smooth it over with Cora, but in the meantime, I want Allen to lock it down. The cost of the building, along with some minor renovations, will be covered by the insurance company once they pay the state for the loss on our old facility.”

“And you want Said, Inc. to float a loan to the state until that happens?”

“No, I’ll cover it. Have Allen put everything under the bar’s name, and I’ll figure the rest out later. But I both want and need that building available to us by the time we get back. Have him set up a temporary lease with an option to purchase.”

“Consider it done, Jonesy. I’ll make the call to Allen right now. Get with everyone else and let them know we’ll be leaving first thing in the morning.” Then he turned away and left Virgil alone, who suddenly realized he’d just cut everyone’s vacation short.

They’re all going to kill me, Virgil thought.

CHAPTER TEN

Doctor Sam Hammond was sitting on a wheeled metal stool in his large-animal exam room, which was located on fifty acres of land he owned in Decatur County. He was speaking with the two Native Americans Carl Johnson had fired. When Palmer and Grant walked in, he barely acknowledged them, but the look on Hammond’s face told both men what they needed to do, so they gathered what they needed before leaving the room.

Doc went on speaking with the Native Americans without skipping a beat. “See, the thing you guys have to remember is this: Nobody gives two genuine shits about either of you. Don’t get me wrong, I do—otherwise I wouldn’t have given you a lift out of that hellhole they call a cultural center—but other than me, no one really cares. Why do you think they had you out in the barn shoveling shit all day?”

One of the men had glanced over his shoulder at Palmer and Grant right before they walked out. He looked at Hammond and said, “Who were those guys?”

“Never mind them for now,” Hammond said. “They work directly for me. And they earn a hell of a good living doing it, I might add. Veterinary medicine pays very well if you have the type of education and training I have. I, in turn, like to spread the wealth, so to speak. In working for me, those two fine young men earn more money in a single day than most people do in a month. That’s why I’m offering the two of you the same arrangement.”

“You still haven’t told us what we’d be doing,” the other man said. “And why is it so cold in here?”

“We’ll get to the specifics of your participation in just a moment,” Hammond said. “The room temperature is set for optimal conditions should we ever have to do emergency surgery on any of our livestock, or on an animal someone brings to us. If an animal is in need of surgery, we can’t sit around and wait for the room to cool, now can we?”

The two men looked at each other and shrugged. “I guess not,” one of them said. “But what does the room temperature have to do with surgery?”

“It helps stave off infection during the procedures,” Hammond said. “I think I just said as much. Maybe I could have been more clear. The fault is my own, I’m sure.” He stood from his stool and walked over to a tall green metal cabinet and unlocked the doors. He pulled out two small leather bags, then left the doors hanging open. When he returned to his seat, he handed each man a bag and said, “Don’t open those just yet. I’d like to ask you both a question: How much did the cultural center pay you to work with the animals?”

“It wasn’t much,” one of the men said. “Fifty dollars a week after taxes, but they did give us room and board. So, fifty bucks, free rent, and free meals too.”

Hammond put his hand to his chest and pretended to be astounded. “My goodness, did they give you all that while looking you in the eye, or did they bend you over first? You’ll have to forgive the vulgarity of my statement, but you boys were getting the wrong end of the broomstick, if you take my meaning. Did you know that for every single one of you who comes down from the reservation, the state, along with a few private parties, pays the cultural center nearly twenty times that amount? There’s an actual contract. It’s legalized slavery, you ask me. But none of that matters now…if you want to work for me, that is.”

“What would we be doing?” one of the young men asked.

Hammond leaned forward and let his elbows rest on his knees. “I’ll tell you what you won’t be doing: You won’t be shoveling shit. Go ahead and take a look inside those bags I just gave you.”

Both men opened the bags and peered inside. They glanced at each other, then back in the bags, then finally at Hammond. Neither of them spoke.

“I can see you’re intrigued by the prospect of working for me. You can count it if you like, but you’ll find there is five thousand dollars in each bag. And that’s just for saying yes. You’ll get the same amount every month—in cash, by the way—if you decide to take the job. There’s only one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You have to be inoculated first.”

Both men looked at each other, then back at Hammond. “We don’t know that word.”

“I have to give both of you a shot. It helps prevent infection—for you, and for the animals we work on here. We need our clients happy, and we don’t want you to get infected by anything the animals might have in their system. Ever heard of mad cow disease? Or what about the pig flu? Never mind. That’s just a little vet humor. Anyway, what do you say, boys? You can bunk here—we’ve got plenty of room—and you can start tomorrow. The money is yours for the taking. That’s assuming you accept my terms.”

“You mean getting the shot?”

“Yes, yes. Come on, roll up your sleeves and take the money. You’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m a doctor, remember?”

The two men looked at each other and smiled, then did as they were asked.

Hammond clapped his hands together and said, “Wonderful. Let me slip some gloves on—we can’t be too careful these days now, can we—and I’ll get you both taken care of right away.” Then he leaned close and said, “I’d pocket that money, I was you. Those other fellas you saw earlier? They’ll flat-out try to steal it from you. Hey, I’m only kidding. They’re great guys.” Then Hammond stood up and wheeled over an IV stand with two clear bags of fluid hanging from the top.

“What is that?” one of the men asked.

“It’s the medicine we spoke of. It’s not really a shot. You have to take the whole bag. Here, let me get one of you started with an IV line. And before you ask, that’s just like a shot. I’ll put a small needle in your vein, then hook the bag up to that. Once the bag is empty, you’ll be all done and ready to go. You won’t believe how much your lives are about to change.”

After Hammond got both men hooked up, he gave them each a friendly pat on the back and said, “Stay in your seats. Sometimes the medication can make you dizzy.” Then he snapped his fingers and said, “In fact, let me make sure you don’t slip out of your chairs.” He went to the cabinet and returned with two large belts. He wrapped one around each man and buckled the belts loosely. “There you go. You’re not claustrophobic, are you?”

Both men shook their heads. “Good, good. If you do start to feel too restrained, simply unbuckle the belt. But really, I advise against it. I’ll be back in just a few minutes to check on you.” Then he left the room without another word.

Once Hammond was outside, he walked over to where Palmer and Grant were waiting by the livestock pen. He checked his watch and said, “Get your gear on and be ready in ten minutes.” When he saw the look on Grant’s face, he said, “What?”

“Why can’t we just whack them on the back of the head and be done with it, Doc? This whole song and dance routine you’re doing seems pointless.”

“Martin, we’ve had this conversation before. When the body goes through a severe trauma—like a blow to the back of the head—a host of chemical reactions takes place, none of which are good for the organs. We want our subjects feeling happy, relaxed, and well-cared-for. A happy donor is always the way to go.”

“Doesn’t seem like a big deal to me,” Grant said.

“Do you have any medical training?”

“No.”

“Then how about you leave the particulars to me?” Hammond said. “If we flood the body with the type of chemical reactions induced by trauma, by the time the organs are delivered, they will not be nearly as healthy as they could be. Can we work around it? Yes. But the question is, why bother? So let’s do the math again, shall we? Ten grand for each kidney, and twenty for each liver.” Hammond turned and pointed back at the exam room. “If my math is correct, and I assure you it is, that’s eighty grand we have sitting in there, and it’s ours for the taking. That’s eight grand apiece for each of you. Now, please get suited up and get ready.”

“You said we was gonna talk about raising our cut,” Palmer said. “The split don’t seem fair.”

“Do you have the medical expertise to do what I do, Robert?”

Palmer looked at his shoes. “No.”

“Did you invest any of your money into the portable cryogenic coolers we use to keep the organs viable and healthy for an indefinite period of time?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. Besides, with that little stunt you pulled at the liquor store, you’re lucky I’m keeping your cut where it is. We do not need the attention. Are you hearing me on this?”

“Yes, sir,” Palmer said.

“Good. Let’s get to it. Our patients await.”

After Hammond was out of earshot, Palmer looked at Grant and said, “I don’t like the way he uses our proper names.”

Grant shook his head. “I love you, Bobby, but you’re a fucking moron. Come on, we got work to do. Counting the drive, we’ll be lucky if we’re back by midnight.”

Palmer and Grant put plastic coverings over their boots, then each man put an ankle-length rubber apron around his neck, tied it off at the waist at the back, then walked into the exam room where the two Native Americans were sleeping in their respective chairs, their chins resting on their chests, the belts holding them in their seats. Hammond was dressed in full medical gear, including a clear plastic face shield, and was waiting patiently with a large syringe in his hand.

Grant looked over and said, “Which one first?”

Hammond smiled pleasantly. “Dealer’s choice.” Then he cackled like the madman he was and said, “Oh wait, that’s me, isn’t it? Let’s go with the one on the left. C’mon, we don’t have all day. Did you lock the door?”

“Yeah, yeah, we locked the door,” Palmer said.

“That’ll be enough with the tone, Robert. Get him up on the table now.”

Palmer and Grant disconnected the IV line, got the belt unhooked, then lifted the man up and placed him on the table.

“Gently, now,” Hammond said. “We’ve got quite a lot of money riding on these men.”

“We’ve got it, Doc,” Grant said. And they did, because this wasn’t the first time they’d done it. In fact, they’d harvested so many organs that Grant had lost count. Both men used surgical scissors and methodically went about cutting the clothing away and removing the socks and shoes. When they were done, Hammond had a perfectly naked body to work with.

“Don’t forget to recover the cash from his pants,” Hammond said. “Put it back in the cabinet for next time. Are we ready?”

“Looks like it, Doc,” Palmer said. “I’m gonna wait outside.”

Hammond nodded. “As you wish.” Then he gave the man on the table a shot in his neck, looked at Grant and said, “Start the clock.”

Grant slapped a button on the wall and started the countdown. There was no real need for the clock; Hammond just liked to keep track of his operating time. As soon as the man stopped breathing, Hammond picked up the scalpel and started cutting. He was humming some sort of tune while he worked.

Grant didn’t know what it was, and he didn’t ask. When it came to working with Doc, there were certain things best left alone.

An hour later they were done. Hammond packed the four kidneys in one cooler and the two livers in another. Then he closed the lids and powered the coolers up with the battery packs. He looked at Palmer and Grant and said, “I know I probably don’t have to tell you this, but keep an eye on those batteries. Stop and change them out if you need to.”

“We know how to do our part, Doc,” Grant said.

“I know you do, Martin. I’m simply trying to facilitate a smooth transaction. Our Jamaican friends will be waiting at the usual drop-off point in East Chicago. Do not, under any circumstances, release the product until you’ve received payment and our other set of coolers back. Those units are extremely expensive.”

“We won’t,” Grant said. “It hasn’t ever been a problem.”

“And the livestock is loaded at the back of the trailer?”

Palmer let his shoulders droop. “C’mon, Doc. We know what we’re doing.”

“On your way then,” Hammond said. “I’ll dispose of the bodies after dark.” He glanced at his watch and did a little math in his head. “Counting travel and transfer time, I’ll expect you back before midnight.”

“We might stop and get a bite to eat on the way back,” Grant said.

Hammond got right in his face. “No, you will not. There are to be no stops along the way. None. Martin had his difficulties last time—although I leave room for those types of situations since he had to go alone—but we simply can’t afford to make any mistakes. Remember, I’ve got a trackers on your cell phones and I’ll be watching the entire time. If you stop, you’re going to answer for it. Do you understand?”

Grant held his hands out, palms first. “Okay, Doc, okay. Jeez, lighten up, will you?”

When Hammond didn’t respond, both men got in the truck and drove off. Hammond watched them until they were out of sight, then returned to the exam room. There was still plenty of work to do…the bodies had to be prepped for burial, another hole had to be dug—thank God for Kubotas—and the exam room had to be washed down with bleach. Still, with the money he was making, it was worth it.

But Hammond knew he also had a bit of a problem. So far he’d managed to get eight Native Americans away from the cultural center. If too many more disappeared, people might start asking the wrong kinds of questions. He either needed to slow down, or come up with a new plan.

It was something to think about.

Four hours later, Palmer and Grant hooked up with the East Chicago Jamaicans at an abandoned industrial site near Railroad Avenue, and the transfer went off without a hitch. The money was handed over, the coolers were swapped, and less than ten minutes after they’d pulled into the lot, Grant and Palmer were headed back to Decatur County, and the Jamaicans disappeared into the night like they’d never been there at all. During the entire affair, no one had said a single word.

But across the street, an old man sat in his darkened living room, his curtains parted just enough to watch through a pair of binoculars, and he saw the entire exchange happen. He wrote down the date and time, the license plate number of the trailer, along with the make, model, as well as the license plate number of the vehicle the Jamaicans were driving. All the information went into the notebook he used to keep track of what he’d witnessed. This was the seventh time he’d watched the transfer in as many weeks. The exchange happened on a predictable schedule, and the only variation he’d noticed was that on the previous meetup, the driver of the truck had come alone. He didn’t know if that meant anything or not, but he had written it all down nonetheless.

Something was happening, and the old man felt like it was his duty to figure it out. His previous attempts to report the suspicious activity to the local authorities went unheard. They were much too busy to listen to an old man prattling on about mystery men in a parking lot. Since that was the case—and it certainly seemed like it was—he’d continue to try to figure it out on his own. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do. He was retired, lived alone, and had no family to care for. He’d already followed the Jamaicans after the last two exchanges, so he knew where they went. It was the same every time. They drove out to the Gary airport and handed off whatever they’d received to a pilot, who then flew away. To where, the old man had no idea. Next time, he’d follow the men in the truck to see what he could find out. The thought of it all excited him. It made him feel like a young man again. He clicked on his hall light, then made his way into his bedroom. The hour was late and he needed to rest.

What the old man didn’t know was this: He was about to make a discovery that would change not only his life, but the lives of countless others as well.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Virgil was still sitting in the business suite by himself, pleased that he’d given Mac a solution to his battery issue—even though he really couldn’t take much credit—the answer had been there all along, the only problem was that no one had bothered to look at it in a particular way. But more than that, he was thinking of what Nichole had said…or more precisely, what she’d been saying for the past few years: It’s not as hard as you might think.

Could he and Sandy uproot their family and live nearly one third of the year in Jamaica? Short answer: Yes, because Virgil knew on a very fundamental level they could do it. Money wasn’t the issue, and that alone freed up many of the barriers. The boys were still young enough that they’d be able to make the adjustment, and in fact, would probably love the idea. He also thought that Murton and Becky would as well. The problem wasn’t with the logistics…it was the tethers that kept Virgil bound to his Indiana home: Things like his job, his friends, his coworkers, the bar, his own property he’d built up over the years…and when he thought about it all at once, he couldn’t quite get his head wrapped around the whole thing.

He was seated at the end of the table with his back to the door, and when it opened behind him he was sure it was Sandy. But it wasn’t.

Nichole placed her hands on Virgil’s shoulders, leaned down and gave him a light kiss on the side of his face, then pulled out a chair and took a seat next to him. “Mac tells me you guys will be leaving soon. He also told me you solved his battery dilemma.”

Virgil smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “I got lucky. And for the record, I didn’t solve anything. Whoever designed those electric riding mowers your maintenance crew uses gets the credit. All I did was think about it for about thirty seconds. Figured if it works for lawn mowers, surely it could somehow work for electric passenger vehicles.”

“Still, in all likelihood, you’ve saved the company millions of dollars, and made Mac very happy. Me too, since a fair chunk of my money is tied up in the venture as well.”

“Glad everyone is satisfied,” Virgil said. “Let’s hope it all works out.”

Nichole waved him off. “That would be nice, but you know what? Who really cares?”

Virgil tipped his head to the side and said, “I’m sort of surprised to hear you say that.”

“Here’s something about Mac…and I know you already know this: He doesn’t like to lose…at anything. He wouldn’t walk away from this project unless it was completely and utterly hopeless, and even then, he’d be looking over his shoulder.”

“I can see that,” Virgil said.

Nichole ran her fingers through her hair and gave it a fluff. “I, on the other hand, have a more realistic attitude about the whole thing. In other words, worst-case scenario, the project gets scrapped, and the whole thing gets written off as a tax deduction. We could sure use a few more of those.” Then: “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Virgil opened his mouth to answer, then closed it and gathered his thoughts before he responded. “I don’t mean to be too personal, but Mac said something to me when you and Sandy stepped out, and I’d like to speak with you about it if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” Nichole said. “What is it?”

Virgil stood up and walked over toward the hallway and stuck his head out to look around, then closed the door before returning to his seat. “Where’s Sandy?”

“She took a scooter up the hill to look at the Brenner property.” Then Nichole made a face, and finished with. “I hate it when I do that…refer to that place as the Brenner property.”

“Can’t be helped sometimes. You just need to rewire your brain a little. Besides, you can call it whatever you want. It is yours, after all.”

Nichole gave Virgil a sly grin and said, “Is it?”

Virgil laughed out loud. “What? Did my lovely wife negotiate a deal without me?”

“There was no need to negotiate, Jonesy. I wrote down a number, we stepped out to discuss it, and Sandy said yes.”

Virgil was suddenly a little irritated. “Before speaking about it with me?”

Nichole patted him on his forearm. “Relax, tough guy. She said yes, but with the caveat that she wanted to talk it over with you first.”

Virgil did as Nichole asked, and relaxed. He chuckled and said, “Must have been a pretty good number.”

“Oh, it was,” Nichole said. “More than fair, I’d say. But I’ll let her tell you. She’s waiting for you up there, by the way.” Then, with no segue at all: “You said there was something you wanted to ask me?”

“It’ll keep,” Virgil said. “Maybe another time.”

Nichole dropped a whisper of exasperation into her voice and said, “Virgil?”

The use of his proper name didn’t escape Virgil. He looked away for a moment, then said, “Okay, after you guys left the room, the battery program wasn’t the only thing Mac and I talked about.”

“I gathered as much,” Nichole said. “So, come on, let’s hear it.”

“You and Nicky…do you guys still think about it?”

Nichole kept her voice neutral, but she shot the question right back, almost before Virgil had finished asking. “Do you?”

When Virgil answered, he tried to hide the quiver in his jaw. He wasn’t sure if he pulled it off or not. “More than you might imagine. He was your father, Nichole, and I took him from you…from both of you. I shot and killed him to save someone who didn’t deserve to be saved.”

“That’s simply not true, Jonesy. You didn’t save Bradley Pearson that day. You saved me and Nicky.”

Virgil pulled his mouth into a grim line and looked at nothing for a few seconds. “Mac asked me a question, and I’ll tell you how I answered in a minute, but I’d like to ask you the same thing. I hope you’ll be honest with me.”

“Of course I will,” Nichole said.

“Had that day not happened…if I hadn’t killed your father, where do you think you guys would be in your lives right now?”

Nichole didn’t hesitate. “Either dead or in jail. Probably both, although not in that order.”

Virgil nodded slowly, his thoughts going back to his first day riding solo as an Indiana State Trooper. “I remember when I arrived on scene. You guys were sitting in that pickup with your hands and faces pressed against the rear window, watching the whole thing play out. Your expressions of fear and familiarity are what I remember most.” Then he laughed without humor, and finished with, “That, and the fact that you called me a miserable prick before you walked out of the bar twenty years later.”

“Jonesy, I saw what you did through the eyes of a child. I didn’t know you then, and I still didn’t know you twenty years later. But I know you now. And I’ll tell you something else: I knew you when you let us take Carlos from the hospital. I knew from that moment on our lives would somehow be intertwined forever. Tell me you didn’t feel the same.”

“I can’t.”

“You’re the father I never had, Virgil. We’ve talked about this before. I forgave you on the hospital’s helipad, and to directly answer your question, yes, I still think about it. Yes, Nicky and I still talk about it. And do you know where we always end up? Right where we are now. Grateful. Not necessarily because of what you had to do, but because you did the hard thing that needed to be done in the moment…and it saved us. There isn’t enough love or money in the world to ever repay you for how everything worked out because you and Sandy are part of our family now. Sandy and Becky and Huma are like the sisters I never had.”

“You know, with everything Sandy went through, and what Nicky and Wu did to save her life, I think we can call it even.”

“We’ll call it even when you grab a scooter and motor on up that hill. Go talk to your wife, Virgil. Listen to what she has to say. Who knows how things will turn out? Life’s full of surprises.” Then Nichole stood, tousled Virgil’s hair like he was a little boy, then headed for the door. Just before she walked out, she stopped, turned back, and said, “You never answered the question. Where do you think Nicky and I would be right now if you hadn’t killed James Pope?”

It wasn’t lost on Virgil that Nichole had just referred to her biological father as if she had no familial bond to the man. When he answered, his voice was flat. “Same thing you said. Dead, or in jail.”

When Virgil got to the top of the hill, he drove his scooter through the gate and then stopped to look around. The park hadn’t changed much since he’d last seen it, but there were small hints of neglect if you looked closely enough. He held his hand up to shield his eyes from the sun, and that’s when he saw Sandy sitting in a chair under two pond apple trees.

Virgil drove over, parked his scooter next to hers, then took a seat under the tree. “This really is a hell of a nice property. Nichole told me you were expecting me.”

“You’re right,” Sandy said. “On both counts. Ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“What do you see when you look around this place?”

The question wasn’t one Virgil was expecting. “In what context?”

“I mean do you see a park, or do you still see the place where you guys rescued Delroy and Huma?”

Virgil didn’t hesitate with his answer. And why would he? It was the truth. “Some of both, I guess, but mostly I see a park. I have ever since they tore down Brenner’s mansion and converted this property into what it is now.”

“How bad was it? The night everything went down up here?”

“Well, we’ve talked about it before, you know?”

“I do know, Virg. But we’ve never talked about it in this particular place.”

Virgil closed his eyes in thought and let the memories of that night come back. “To be honest, I don’t think about it much, mainly because it all worked out…in more ways than one. I remember the predominant feeling I had was that we were either all going to make it, or we were all going to die. There was a sense of urgent chaos about the whole thing because there wasn’t much time to properly plan for what we were about to do.”

“It was dangerous, wasn’t it?” Sandy said.

Virgil nodded. “Yes. Very much so.”

“And the people who were with you—the people you love and care about—were right there, fighting by your side.” It wasn’t a question, and Virgil knew it.

“That’s right. What are you driving at, sweetheart?”

“Nichole made us a very generous offer on this piece of land.”

“I’m aware, although she didn’t tell me what it was. She told me to ask you. She also told me you said yes, but wanted to talk with me about it first.”

Sandy smiled. “Would you have it any other way?”

“You answer my question, and I’ll answer yours,” Virgil said.

“Okay, here’s what I’m driving at: You and Murton fought in the war together, and for the last fourteen years you’ve been fighting side by side. I’m not being critical, but look at what it has cost us, Virgil. You were beaten within an inch of your life. Pam and Ed Donatti—two of our dearest friends—are gone. Ron Miles is dead. Rick Said, one of the best men you’ve ever known in your whole entire life is gone as well, and I know you still grieve his loss. We’ve been assaulted at our home on multiple occasions, so much so that you wanted to put up security gates at the intersection. Our children—Jonas in particular—have been through things no one should ever have to experience, let alone a child. Another woman had to die so that I could live…and not only that, some of the people I love and cherish actually risked their lives and their very freedom to make it happen.”

“Sandy—”

“I’m not done, Virg. Please…you’ve got to let me finish it. Sarah almost lost Ross when he was shot. Rosie has been shot as well. When he was abducted he nearly died. And if that wasn’t enough, he also lost Carla and their unborn daughter in an absolutely horrific manner and it almost destroyed him. I killed Murton’s biological father to save our son. We nearly lost Huma and Delroy twice. I don’t know if it was the universe, God, or simply fate, but my father died to save your life when you were a child, and your father’s death saved you and me as adults. The MCU building is gone. Mimi is dead. Where does it end? You and Murton have done your bit for queen and country. And here we sit, in a garden at the top of a hill in Hanover Parish. It’s paradise, Virgil. It’s peace and tranquility all rolled into one. Why not take the same advice you gave Mac a little while ago? Relax. Enjoy yourself. Life’s too short. What are we waiting for? Can you give me an answer I can accept?”

Virgil took hold of his wife’s hand and looked her in the eye. “I honestly don’t know. But I’d like you to trust me with something: Trust me that I’ll know when I’m done. I’m just not there yet.”

Sandy sat quietly for a few minutes and Virgil let her. Finally she said, “I do trust you. I always have. But it’s time to start planning for our family’s future, and those types of plans need to be made together. I understand about not being there yet. I also understand about walking away from something you’re good at. I did it myself when I was the governor. So did Mac, by the way. But we went on to something better.” She reached into her pocket and handed Virgil the slip of paper Nichole had written her price on.

When Virgil saw the number he didn’t understand. “What does negative zero mean?”

“It means Nichole is prepared to deed this piece of land over to you and me, free of charge, and cover the costs of anything we want to build here. That’s how grateful she is for the things you’ve done for her and Nicky, and for their entire crew. If they’ll go along with it, I think we should then do the same for Becky and Murton, Delroy and Huma, and Robert. It’s her gift to all of us and it’s ours for the taking, Virg. How do you say no to something like that? That’s why I told her yes. There’s enough room up here for everyone to have the home of their dreams, and then some. We can spend our winters here, and the rest of the year back home in Indiana. So, are we in, or are we out? What do you think?”

Virgil chuckled. “I’m thinking I need to be more careful with my questions.”

That got him a punch on the shoulder. “Okay, I guess I also need to be more careful with my answers too. Let me think about it, huh? You know how I am. I need to sort of let it all sink in.” Then: “Hey, where are you going?”

“Back down to the Pope estate. I’m going to get us packed, and for the time being, I’m going to let you be you. I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but it’s time to go home, Virgil. In the meantime, start processing, will you please? It’s not like we’d be moving to Mars. It’s a second home in a place you’ve always loved.” Sandy climbed on her scooter and started the engine. “And in case you haven’t made the connection yet, it’s also a place where the rest of our extended family lives. I love you with my whole heart, Virgil Jones.” Then she hit the gas and started to drive away.

“I love you too, Sandy.” But Virgil knew his wife didn’t hear him, the engine noise of the scooter scattering his words in the wind as if he hadn’t spoken them at all.

Virgil remained seated in the chair and watched Sandy until she was out of sight. After she was gone, he spent nearly an hour walking the grounds, looking at the beauty of the island, the ocean off in the distance, and then finally the spot where Roje Brenner’s mansion used to sit. Virgil knew he’d downplayed his answer to Sandy when she asked about the danger. He hadn’t lied…in fact he’d told her the truth, but just enough to answer the question. The fact of the matter was this: Virgil never thought they were going to make it out alive. Delroy and Huma were being held prisoner, they were outmanned and outgunned, and had it not been for the entire Pope crew’s involvement, Virgil knew he wouldn’t be standing where he was. Sandy would be a widow, and his sons would grow up without their father, much the way Sandy herself had.

He was walking back over to the pond apple trees, not really paying much attention to anything other than his own thoughts. When he got close to the trees, he looked up and saw his father sitting in one of the two chairs, his expression a mixture of peace and something else Virgil couldn’t quite define. Acceptance, maybe? In any event, he walked closer, the whole time thinking, I should have known.

But if Virgil thought he knew what was about to transpire, he couldn’t have been more wrong.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Virgil took a seat next to his father and waited for him to speak. Mason’s appearance remained the same…shirtless, as always, the scar on his chest from the bullet that killed him still pink and fresh, as if the healing process was not yet complete. Virgil often wondered if his father appeared to him in that way—not because they’d buried the shirt he died in under the willow tree—but as some sort of reminder of how he died, and for whom. But those types of thoughts never got Virgil’s mind anywhere he wanted it to be, so he pushed them aside and said, “How are you, Dad?”

Mason was looking around the property, and when he answered, it was with a question of his own. “This place has a lot of history, doesn’t it, Son?”

“Yes, it certainly does.”

“I don’t think you need to beat yourself up, Virg.”

“Excuse me?”

“The things Sandy told you are all true. But the thing to remember is this: None of the difficulties you’ve had to endure over the course of your career are your fault.”

“Aren’t they?”

“I wouldn’t have said so if I thought otherwise,” Mason said. “History has its own sort of marker, Virg. When viewed through a specific lens, just about anyone can convince themselves things could have gone differently.”

“Maybe because they could have. The future isn’t exactly chiseled in stone.”

“Isn’t it?”

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re trying to say.”

“It’s not polite to mislead someone who’s trying to help,” Mason said. Then, before Virgil could respond: “Let me ask you this…do you still blame yourself over what happened with Ed all those years ago?”

Virgil curled his lip in frustration and looked away. “If I hadn’t asked him to come with me to check on Murton and Becky the day we had that party, he’d still be alive, and Pam would too. Jonas wouldn’t have had to endure the loss of his biological parents.”

“Is that right?” Mason said. “How do you know? Answer honestly.”

Virgil raised his hands slightly, then let them fall to his lap. “Okay, the truth is, I don’t know.”

“Then how does placing blame on yourself over something that happened over a decade ago help you if you’re not sure of an alternative outcome? Why not look at it this way: Had he not gone, you, Murt, Becky—and by extension, Ellie Rae—might not be alive right now.”

“What about Rick Said?”

“What about him?” Mason said.

Virgil gave his father a look. “That one is on me, and you know it. I missed something I should have seen, but I wasn’t paying attention.”

“You’re not paying attention right now, either.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Virgil said.

“It means that things are happening all around you, Virg, and you’re not seeing them for what they are. Don’t get upset, I’ve made the same type of mistakes myself.”

“Really? Like what?”

“Let’s set that aside for now. Did you ever wonder why your Grandpa Jack and I had such a strained relationship?”

“Yes, I did. I never said anything though because I didn’t think it was my place.”

Mason tipped his head from side to side. “Maybe. Maybe not. In any event, he had a very difficult life, your grandfather. You know some of it, but not nearly as much as you might think.”

“Care to enlighten me?” Virgil said.

Mason smiled, but didn’t answer.

“I thought as much,” Virgil said. “I don’t know why I bother to ask sometimes.”

“Probably because you care. The things Sandy said are all true—I believe I’ve made that clear—but they’re not necessarily the entire story.”

“What’s your take on the whole thing?”

“You know why I retired from the sheriff’s department, right?”

Virgil was, as usual, having trouble tracking the thread of the conversation. “Of course I do. You retired to care for Mom because she was dying.”

Mason shook his head. “Nope. I retired to be with my wife. Period. I’d have done the same even if she wasn’t sick. The truth is, we’d been talking about it before we ever found out she wasn’t well.”

Mason’s comment caught Virgil off guard. “I didn’t know that.”

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know yet, Virg.” Mason spread his arms wide and said,” This place and its history…it isn’t defined by the people who once lived or died here. No one has placed a giant X on the property and declared it off-limits to you or anyone else. If anything, it’s the opposite.”

Virgil was looking around the park instead of at his father when he spoke. “You’re losing me, Dad.”

Mason smiled in a melancholic way. “You’ve got that part exactly backward, son.”

When Virgil heard that, he snapped his head back at his father so fast he heard his neck click. “What does that mean?”

Mason’s smile faded away before he spoke. “I have to tell you something, Virg, and it isn’t easy. I have some work to do. I need to atone for something I did a long time ago. That means it’s possible we might not be seeing each other for a while.”

Virgil stood up, then sat right back down. “Why? What does that mean? What do you⁠—”

Mason held out his hand to stop Virgil from speaking. “The conversation you had with Nichole about killing her father? That’s not what I’m talking about, but it’s a fine analogy. By doing the right thing, the hard thing, you ended up changing everyone’s lives for the better. And you did it when you were exactly one day past being a rookie. I, on the other hand, made a mistake as a rookie deputy and it’s one that I can’t ignore any longer. To do so would continue to bring pain and suffering to someone I deeply care for.”

“Dad, I don’t want to lose you again.”

“It makes no sense to mourn what you’ve not lost.”

Virgil’s fear was turning to anger. He pointed his finger at his father and said, “That’s not fair. You know exactly what I mean.”

“Presumption of knowledge on behalf of another is an insult to both parties, Son.”

Virgil couldn’t help himself. “Oh, yeah? Look who’s talking.”

Mason ignored the comment and said, “Nothing on earth lasts forever, Virg. Want to know why? Most of it is due to neglect. Sandy is right. Life is short. It’s time to move some pieces around on the chess board, Son. I’m not saying you have to sacrifice your queen, but you do need to let things play out naturally. Make the right choices going forward and everything will be fine. In fact, if you do the right thing, you’ll be helping your old man more than you know. Tell me something: Have you ever wondered how it is that you and I are able to communicate like this?”

Despite his fear, Virgil managed a chuckle. “Only four or five times a day.”

“It doesn’t come from me or you. In a roundabout way, it came from your mother, through Grandpa Jack.”

Virgil tipped his head. “How?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Mason said. “You have exactly one person in your life who holds the answer. Wait, that’s not entirely accurate. What I should have said is this: There is only one person who can answer the question and bring us back together again. It’s the same person who allowed us to be together like this to begin with. When that happens…if that happens, then like the song says, Every little ting gonna be all right.”

Virgil lowered his head and looked down at the ground. “I don’t understand what’s happening. Why are you doing this?”

“Why is why, Virg.”

“That makes no sense at all,” Virgil said. But when he looked up, Mason was already gone, and just like when Sandy drove away on her scooter, Virgil was pretty sure his father never heard him.

Virgil decided to walk back to the Pope’s estate, and when he returned, he found his brother in the garage getting ready to take a scooter out.

“I was just coming to find you,” Murton said.

“Mission accomplished,” Virgil said, his voice flat.

“What happened to your scooter?”

“Nothing. I wanted to walk back. I needed to clear my head.”

Murton caught his brother’s tone and said, “You okay, Jones-man?”

“No, not really.”

“You want to talk about it?” Murton asked.

“Maybe later, okay?”

“Sure.” Murton pushed his scooter back into its spot in the garage, then said, “I heard we’re all heading back in the morning. Mac says you solved his battery problem.”

The two men walked outside into the daylight, then Virgil parked himself against the side of the garage. The bricks were warm from the sun, but Virgil didn’t mind. “Something like that. It wouldn’t have happened if we hadn’t stopped to talk to that guy on the mower. I got lucky, is all.”

“You’re a lucky guy,” Murton said. “You always have been.”

Virgil turned and faced his brother. “Have I, though?”

“Not sure I’m following you.”

“I just had three disparate conversations. One with Nichole, then one with Sandy up at the Brenner property, and one with you-know-who. Each of them—in their own way—got me thinking that maybe I need to examine my own thoughts a little more often. I think my priorities might need to be realigned.”

“At the risk of having you give me grief for repeating myself, still not sure I’m following you.”

“Let’s take a walk, huh?” Virgil said.

“Sure. Where to?”

“Where I just came from. I need to bring that scooter back anyway, and I want to show you something.”

Murton gave his brother a shrug, then Virgil pushed himself off the wall and they both began the trek up the hill. They walked in silence for nearly a mile before Virgil finally said, “I feel like I’m at a fork in the road.”

“How so?”

Virgil wasn’t quite sure how to answer, so he teed up the conversation with a little misdirection: “Tell me something about Ralph Wheeler I don’t know.”

Murton shot Virgil a quick look, then took a long time to answer…not because he couldn’t think of anything, but because he knew his brother was driving at something that mattered. Nearly a quarter-mile later into their walk, Murton said, “In his own way, he was like Grandpa Jack.”

Virgil was so surprised by his brother’s statement he stopped in the middle of the road. “What? Explain that.”

Murton didn’t slow down or turn back. He simply waved his arm in a big circle…a hurry-up motion, and kept walking. Virgil caught up and said, “How can that be? Those two were nothing alike.”

“That’s not entirely accurate,” Murton said. “I heard a lot of stories about my old man’s childhood when I was a kid. This was all before I ended up with your family, but he had a hell of a time when he was younger…just like our gramps did. He lost both his parents when he was only twelve. That’s where the comparison stops, by the way.”

Virgil saw Murton’s posture change, his shoulders drooping as he spoke.

“What’s the rest of the story?” Virgil said.

“He got bounced around in the system until he couldn’t take it anymore,” Murton said. “You think the way Child Protective Services handles things is bad now? From what I heard, it was downright torture back in the day. Before he landed a job with the railroad, he spent nearly ten years living on the street, getting by any way he could. I think that’s what turned him into the kind of evil man he ultimately became. No one can live on the street that long—especially a kid— without suffering the consequences. I think he knew he was missing something. The problem was, he could never find it because he didn’t know what he didn’t have…if that makes any sense. So he grew up scared and alone. Every single day of his life back then was a fight for survival. When I think about him now, I realize he was an angry little boy who never had the chance to grow up. As a result, he lived his entire life in fear until the day he died. It must have been a miserable existence.”

“Think you’ll ever be able to forgive him?” Virgil asked.

“Think it matters?”

“I do, Murt. I think it matters more than you realize. The forgiveness isn’t for him. It’s for you.”

“Believe it or not, I’ve managed to piece that much together,” Murton said. “In any event, I’m inching up on it…if inches are miles, that is. I’ve still got a long way to go.” Then: “Why’d you ask, anyway?”

“Honestly? It’s because I’ve always sort of deluded myself into thinking that I’m a pretty selfless person, and now I’m beginning to think I’ve been selfish instead.”

“How so?” Murton said.

Virgil spent the rest of their walk up to the Brenner property telling Murton about the conversations he’d had with both Nichole and Sandy, along with the deeper meaning behind each one. Murton listened carefully and quietly without interrupting. When Virgil finished, they talked it back and forth the rest of the way up the hill, and right before they got to the gate, Murton stopped and pointed a few steps ahead. “Hey, look at that.”

“Look at what?” Virgil said.

Murton walked over to the side of the road, then bent down and picked up a plastic fork someone had discarded. The handle was snapped in half, and two of the four tines were missing. When he stood back up, he turned back and said, “This.” He held the plastic utensil up so his brother could see it. “Weren’t you saying something about being at a fork in the road?”

Virgil looked at it for a second, then said, “Not much of a fork.”

Murton slipped the fork into his pocket, then said, “I know. That’s sort of my point.”

They ended up over by the pond apple trees where Virgil had left the scooter. Murton sat down on one of the chairs and said, “You’re not selfish, Jonesy. You’re committed to the work you do, both for yourself and, more importantly, your family.” Then he looked around and said, “I could see us all spending our winters up here. I think Small is right. Life is short. Why not have some fun along the way?”

“Think Becky would go for it?”

Murton laughed and said, “I think she’d find ways to make the rest of your life miserable until you said yes.”

“What about the MCU?” Virgil said.

“What about it? We’re here right now and the world hasn’t stopped turning. And as far as I know, the state is doing just fine. Look, we’re two guys, Jones-man. Neither of us needs the money, we’d still have the bar and our private investigator business to keep us busy when we’re back home. Besides, you don’t think Ross and Rosencrantz could step up and fill the void?”

“Yeah, I’m sure they could. That’s not really the issue though.”

“Then what is?” Murton said.

“We’re not done yet. I’m sure of it.”

“What makes you say that?”

“An observation you once made,” Virgil said.

“I’ve made plenty of those over the years, Virg. A little specificity would go a long way right about now.”

“You once told me that the only times Dad ever speaks to me is when we’re working a difficult or unusual case.”

“Here are two things,” Murton said. “One, that’s not exactly what I said, but it’s close enough for state government work. And, two…” Murton let his thought go unfinished and looked away.

Virgil could practically see the wheels in his brother’s head spinning. “That’s right. I said I had three conversations.”

“Tell me,” Murton said.

Virgil spent the next ten minutes telling Murton about the conversation he’d had with his father. When he was finished, Murton looked him in the eye and said, “How do you feel about all of it?”

It wasn’t the question Virgil expected, and he looked away before he spoke. When he answered, it was in bullet points. “Confused. Sad. Angry. Scared. Abandoned.”

Murton wasn’t trying to be unkind to his brother, but he did want him to hear the truth. “I’ll give you the first four, but I’m calling you out on the fifth.”

“You’re saying my feelings aren’t valid?”

“Not at all. I’m saying that you’ve been living with this incredible, mystical, unexplainable gift for a long time now. And by extension, the rest of us have too. For the record, based on what you’ve told me, it doesn’t sound like it’s over. Instead, it sounds like we’ve got work to do, and once we’ve done it, things might change.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then they don’t, Virgil. It’s as simple as that. You can’t accept a gift in perpetuity. It doesn’t work that way.” Then, because Murton didn’t want to go down the same road any more than Virgil did, he shifted the conversation. “What do you think he meant…right there at the end when he said, ‘Why is why’?”

Virgil shook his head. “I don’t know. Most of the time I never know until after the fact.”

Murton gave his brother a big toothy smile and said, “So let’s go home and see what’s what.”

As was often the case, Virgil found himself feeling better after the conversations he had with his brother. “It almost sounds like we don’t have a choice.”

Murton laughed as he stood, and said, “Boy, for a guy who didn’t want to talk about it, you really let loose with the whole thing.” Then he walked over and climbed on the scooter and fired it up.

“What are you doing?” Virgil said.

Murton gave his brother a frown. “What’s it look like? I’m driving. C’mon, hop on. As usual, I’m waiting on you.”

Ten minutes later they turned in to the Pope’s driveway, where they found almost everyone waiting on them. Ross and Rosencrantz, along with Becky, Sarah, Lucy, Delroy and Huma, Cool and Julia, and Jonas and Wyatt were all standing in a line across the driveway. Each of them had their arms folded over their chests, their expressions less than welcoming.

Murton killed the engine on the scooter, and after they’d hopped off, Rosencrantz stepped forward and said, “I speak for the entire group when I say none of us are very happy about tomorrow’s departure.”

Virgil wasn’t intimidated. “That’s fine. As far as I’m concerned, any of you can stay as long as you like. But know this: Tomorrow’s flight back home is free of charge on a luxurious private aircraft, complete with catering fit for a king. So feel free to return at your leisure—on your own nickel, I should add—via the airline of your choice. The emotional support animals notwithstanding, I don’t think coach seating is nearly as bad as everyone makes it out to be. And if you’re lucky, no one will have a peanut allergy, so there should be plenty of snacks available. And look, even if they’re not, the layover in Charlotte will give you a chance to stretch your legs and grab a doughnut or something…if the plane is on time, that is.”

Everyone seemed to shrink just a bit. Then, without a word, they all turned around and walked away…except for Jonas.

Virgil looked at him and said, “What is it, buddy?”

Jonas walked up to his father. “This isn’t over. You’re in big trouble.”

Virgil smiled at his son. “Is that right?”

Jonas held his ground. “It is. We all love it here.”

Virgil shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you, pal. It’s time to go home. Don’t worry, we’ll be back soon enough.”

Jonas gave his father a deadpan stare. “Hold out your hand, please.”

“Why?”

“Because you owe Mr. Tony in security two bucks.”

Virgil frowned and said, “No I don’t.”

“Yeah, you sorta do, because I had to borrow it from him. C’mon, give me your hand.”

Virgil held out his hand, and when he did, Jonas reached into his pocket and pulled out two singles. He slapped them in Virgil’s hand and said, “This is for the swear jar. Uncle Murt made you ride sissy, huh?”

Virgil smiled at his son. “Yeah, I guess he did. But sissy—while not exactly the type of word anyone wants to hear or be called—isn’t really worthy of the swear jar.”

Jonas said, “Huh. I thought maybe it was.”

Virgil walked right into the trap. “Well, if you’d have said he made me ride bitch, that would be an entirely different story.”

Jonas snatched the two dollars from Virgil’s hand and stuck them back in his pocket. Then he pointed down toward the water, shook his head in a sad sort of way and said, “There’s a whole ocean out there, and I’m still shooting fish in a barrel. Don’t forget about Mr. Tony, Dad. That guy is pretty cool, but I get the feeling he can be a mean motor scooter if he needs to be.” Then he turned and ran off.

Murton was bent over, his hands on his knees, his shoulders bobbing up and down, his laughter leaving teardrops on the asphalt.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Late in the evening, after all the kids were in bed, and while the adults were giving Virgil grief about cutting their time in Jamaica short, nearly fifteen hundred miles away in Decatur County, Doc Hammond was working his Kubota backhoe in a remote location at the tag end of his property. He worked slowly and methodically, digging a hole deep enough to hold the two bodies he had harvested the organs from before he dumped them both into the pit. This, Hammond thought, was the worst part of the job…the disposal and clean-up. But it had to be done, and given the amount of money he was being paid by the East Chicago Jamaicans, it was worth it.

Once he had the bodies where they belonged, he pulled out a pocket knife and cut open two bags of lye, then dumped the contents on top of his victims, making sure they were completely covered. With that done, he climbed back into the cab of the Kubota, filled the hole about halfway up, then got back down and emptied another two bags of lye into the hole. Then he continued to replace the dirt, compacting it as best he could, before spreading some grass seed over the area. Was it overkill? Hammond thought not, because you simply couldn’t be too careful when it came to the disposal of human remains.

Four hours later, the bodies had been disposed of, and the exam room was as clean as the day it was built. Hammond opened all the doors and windows to let the smell of bleach dissipate, then removed his face mask and stepped outside for some fresh air. He was just getting ready to pull out his phone and check on Palmer and Grant when a pair of headlights swept across his face as the truck and trailer pulled into the drive.

Once Palmer and Grant were out of the truck, Hammond walked over and said, “How’d it go?”

“Like clockwork,” Grant said.

“Did you get our other set of coolers?”

Palmer nodded, then opened the side door of the trailer near the front and pulled out the coolers, along with a duffle full of cash. “We’re all good, Doc.”

Hammond opened the bag, looked inside, then did a quick, down-and-dirty count. Once he was satisfied, he peeled off the correct amount he owed Palmer and Grant, handed them the money, then said, “Excellent work, men.”

“Thanks, Boss,” Grant said.

“Thank you,” Hammond replied. “I take it no words were spoken?”

“Not a peep,” Palmer said. “I think those guys are paranoid, or something.”

Hammond gave him a thoughtful nod. “Perhaps. But the more likely explanation is that they have been instructed by whomever they work for to keep their mouths shut, because the less said the better…for everyone. It is not beyond the realm of possibility that they suspect you might be wired up.”

Grant looked at Hammond and said, “If we don’t talk to them, and they don’t talk to us, how do you know when it’s time for another shipment?”

“Martin, please do not trouble yourself with things that are not your concern.” Then as if maybe he’d overplayed his part, Hammond let out a sigh and said, “I receive a simple text message on a burner phone. It gives me the date and time the next shipment is due. As it happens, I already have the details for our next delivery, but we may have a problem.”

“What kind of problem?” Palmer asked.

“We have less than a week to procure another four kidneys and two livers. That means two more subjects. I do not want to take anyone else from the cultural center…at least not for a while. I believe we are inching up to the edge, so to speak, in terms of our exposure over there.”

“So, what are we gonna do?” Grant said.

“For now, remove the goats from the trailer and return them to their pen. Once you’re done with that, go home and get some rest. You’ve both earned it, and I could certainly use some myself. We’ll talk more tomorrow. I have a few thoughts regarding our next steps. But don’t worry about any of that right now. We’ll be just fine. Oh, and Robert?”

Palmer grit his teeth and managed to respond without showing his annoyance over what he knew was coming next. “Yeah, Doc?”

Hammond walked over to the Kubota’s cab and pulled out a bottle of Jameson Irish whiskey. He handed the bottle over and said, “We do not need a repeat episode of what happened before. That’s a bottle of the good stuff, as you call it. Behave yourself, will you?”

Palmer smiled. “Hey, thanks, Doc. I appreciate you.”

“My pleasure,” Hammond said. “I took the cost of the bottle out of your cut, by the way. Do us all a favor and spend the rest of the night in the bunkhouse, if you would.”

The next morning everyone was packed and ready to head back home to Indianapolis. Nichole had rented a shuttle bus so they could all ride over to the airport in Montego Bay together, and once all the luggage had been loaded, Virgil looked at Nichole and said, “I take it you’re coming with us?”

“I am,” Nichole said. “So is Wu. Since Nicky is already up there, Mac wants him and Wu to rework the code at his facility to help expedite the process. It’s actually a good idea because instead of working remotely, they’ll be on-site, working side by side with the engineers.”

Virgil didn’t get a chance to respond because Mac walked over and said, “Let’s get moving, shall we? I’m eager to get started.”

Nichole gave Virgil a wink and said, “Sometimes I wonder who he loves more…me, or his precious company.”

Mac wrapped his arm around Nichole’s waist and said, “Don’t be ridiculous. Besides, it’s Patty’s company—as you well know—and I simply run it on her behalf.”

Nichole looked at Virgil and said, “Did you notice how he just sidestepped my statement? I think he still has a little politician in him.”

“I sidestepped nothing,” Mac said. “Just say the word and I’d throw it all away to be with you.”

Virgil happened to glance at his wife as Mac spoke to Nichole. Sandy tipped her head to the side just so and raised her eyebrows a fraction. The message was clear.

Once everyone else was on board, Tony walked over to where Virgil and Murton stood, then cleared his throat. Virgil turned around and stuck out his hand to shake. “Thanks for everything, Tony. Hopefully we’ll see you again soon.”

Tony smiled, took Virgil’s hand, and said, “Always a pleasure, Detective.”

Virgil gave him a nod and turned to move toward the bus, but Tony held fast to his hand.

“Before you go, there is still a small matter to discuss. It’s actually rather trivial, but honor is honor, sir. If I’m not mistaken, you owe me two genuine United States dollars.” Then he let go of Virgil’s hand.

Virgil reddened slightly as he reached for his wallet, “Jeez, thanks for reminding me. I almost forgot. Boy, that Jonas is something, huh?”

“Indeed he is, sir.”

Murton looked at Tony and said, “He didn’t forget.”

Virgil patted the pockets of his shorts, then realized that he’d given his wallet to Sandy for safekeeping. “I, uh, don’t have any cash on me at the moment.” He turned to Murton and said, “Pay the man, will you. I’m good for it.” Then he quickly turned and got on the bus.

Once Virgil was out of earshot, Tony removed his sunglasses, looked at Murton and said, “It seems the stories you’ve told me were accurate.”

Murton nodded. “They are. It’s sad, really. I’ve been working on him for quite a while now, but I’m not seeing any significant progress.” Murton reached into his pocket and started to peel off two dollars for Tony, but he didn’t get very far.

“Your money is no good with me, Murton. I will, however, take your counsel regarding the vigorish.”

That got a smile out of Murton. “Tony, I think you and I are going to be friends for a long, long time.”

After Murton had told him how much to charge Virgil, Tony said, “That seems rather steep. I’m simply trying to make a point…not rob the man.”

Murton patted him on the shoulder. “Trust me, he can afford it. See you next time, huh?”

“I look forward to it. Safe travels, Murt.”

Once Murton was on the bus, Virgil leaned across the aisle and said, “What was that all about?”

“Nothing,” Murton said. “Just a couple of guys discussing a common interest.” Murton put a little emphasis on the word interest.

“Why is it I don’t believe you?” Virgil said.

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know.”

“You paid him, right? Hey, c’mon, Murt, quit fooling around. Did you pay him, or not?”

Murton took a pair of sunglasses out of his shirt pocket and slipped them on as the shuttle bus began to drive away. “I’m going to miss this place.”

Sandy leaned across Virgil’s lap and said, “Not if I have any say in the matter.”

“Same goes for me,” Becky said.

Nichole, who was sitting one row forward of Virgil, Sandy, Murton, and Becky, simply smiled.

Once they were on the plane and headed home, Sandy, Becky, and Huma sat with Nichole in the forward cabin, while Virgil, Murton, and everyone else took seats just behind them in the center section of the plane.

Virgil looked at Murton and said, “You know what they’re talking about, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” Murton said. “They’re planning our future. I’m all for it.”

The divider between the two cabin areas was partially closed, and since Virgil was in a rear-facing seat he had to turn around and lean into the aisle to get a better look at the women. “Don’t you think we should be involved?”

Murton took a quick peek as well, then said, “As a matter of fact, I don’t. Let me ask you this: Do you like my current house?”

Virgil didn’t hesitate. “Of course I do. It’s beautiful.”

“And what about the extra wing you guys added on for Delroy, Huma, and Aayla? You happy with how that turned out?”

“Yes. Absolutely. What are you getting at, Murt?”

“Just this: Becky’s skills aren’t limited to all things computer-related. She designed our house…right down to the smallest detail. I’m not kidding. She looked at ten different shades of grout for the tiles in the kitchen. That’s how much attention she put into the whole thing. Tell you something else, when she was looking at those different shades, they all looked pretty much the same to me.”

Virgil was impressed, but not overly so. “Okay, well, good for her. What does any of that have to do with the wing at my place?”

Murton gave his brother a long blank stare, his eyes heavily lidded.

Virgil chuckled and shook his head. “Nice try. Sandy hired an architect.”

“Did she, though?”

“Yeah, Murt, she did.”

“Didn’t you tell me not long ago that Sandy handles the money for your household? Pays all the bills, and that sort of thing?”

“Yes, she does. She’s good at it, I’m not, and it bores me to tears, so she takes care of the whole thing. What of it?”

“So, you don’t actually know who she hired to design Delroy and Huma’s wing?”

“Yes I do,” Virgil said. “I mean, I don’t recall their company name off the top of my head, but it was a professional crew, and they did great work. I saw the plans, and I watched the workers very closely. To be honest, I couldn’t have been happier with how everything turned out.”

“Glad to hear it,” Murton said. “But you’re speaking of the actual construction crew. I’m talking about who designed it…right down to the smallest of details, if you’re paying attention to what I’m saying.”

Virgil was paying attention, but suddenly remembered that while the wing was being added to his house, Becky had taken more than a casual interest in the project. In fact, the more he thought about it, he remembered actually taking some of Becky’s advice on different aspects of the construction project. “You’re telling me that Sandy paid Becky to design the addition of our home?”

“No, I’m not saying that at all. It was a gift, Jonesy. She didn’t charge you and Small a dime. Just like you guys did with your plot of land for me and Becky, and what Nichole is now offering all of us.”

Virgil looked out through the plane’s passenger window for a few seconds, then said, “This is happening, isn’t it?”

Murton shrugged. “Who knows? Why not let the universe decide? Right now everyone is simply talking about it, and if you let yourself, I think you’ll find that there’s nothing wrong with the idea. What was it you said Dad mentioned? If I remember correctly, it was that Small was right when she said life is short. There was also something about letting things play out naturally.”

“You’re cherry-picking certain parts of the conversation to make your point.”

“So what?” Murton said. “The context of it is still true. When I said let the universe decide, I wasn’t being flippant. Look how many times we scraped through something by the skin of our teeth. At some point you’ve got to admit that enough is enough, already.”

Virgil was starting to get upset, and even though he tried to hide it, when he spoke, it was with a clenched jaw. “Yeah, well, I’m not ready to admit that yet. I simply want to do my job, and no one seems to give two genuine shits that I do.”

When Jonas heard his father swear, he started to unbuckle his seatbelt, but Murton looked at him and shook his head. Jonas got the message and strapped himself back into his seat.

“You want my opinion?” Murton said.

“Not really.”

Murton, now a little irritated himself, said, “Too bad. You’re going to get it anyway. No one, especially me, is telling you not to do your job. But the type of work we do is dangerous. It affects our lives and the lives of everyone around us, including our children. So ask yourself this: Are you doing it for yourself, or for someone else?”

“If I stop, I might never see him again, Murt.”

Murton unbuckled his seatbelt and stood. “That’s not a good enough answer, Virgil. Even if it is, then that’s the price…and there is a hell of a difference between price and cost.”

“I’m really not up for a lecture right now, Murt.”

“It’s not a lecture. I’m stating facts…ones that you refuse to accept. I hate to say it, Virgil, but sometimes talking to you is like having a conversation with a brick wall.”

Two rows farther back, Robert heard the whole episode between his friends play out, and because it was simply his nature, he began to pray, but no matter, neither Virgil nor Murton spoke to each other for the rest of the flight back to Indiana.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Palmer and Grant were driving through Shelby County on their way to pick up Doc Hammond’s goat over at the cultural center. Hammond had spoken with Carl Johnson—who knew the vet had a tribe of goats but never actually put two and two together—and when they talked about it over the phone, Johnson ended up offering Hammond a genuine apology.

“I gotta tell you, Doc, I’m sorry about keeping the kid as long as I did. It’s sort of embarrassing. The thought never occurred to me that it might belong to you.”

“That’s probably because I haven’t been at the cultural center very long, and as you know, I’m only there a few hours a week. The fault is mine, I’m sure. If I’d have seen the thing up close, I would have said something earlier. The fact of the matter is I’ve been so busy lately I don’t know which way is up. Anyway, how about we chalk it up to no harm done? As it happens, I have two of my hands on their way to the center right now to pick it up. I hope that’s okay.”

Johnson chuckled. “Well, it is, and it ain’t. Mostly ain’t.”

“How do you mean?”

“That little fella follows me around like a lost puppy. When I left the center yesterday I took the goat back to my place because I knew I couldn’t tend to it today. We’re moving one of the drill rigs and I didn’t want the thing underfoot because I didn’t want it to get injured, or worse yet, cause one of the rig operators to get hurt. Tell you what, though…I’ll radio my farmhand and have him run it out to your place. He’s going down that way later to pick up some parts we need for our feeder. Couple of hours be okay?”

“That’ll be fine, Carl. I’m here all day. I appreciate the help.”

Johnson laughed. “Thanks for not ratting me out to the sheriff.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Hammond said. “I’ll keep an eye out for your man. Thanks again.”

Once he was done with Johnson, Hammond called Grant. “Where are you?”

“Getting ready to turn in to the cultural center.”

“Don’t bother. The goat isn’t there. It’s going to get dropped off to us in about two hours. That means you’ve got time for some breakfast before you head back here. If we play this just right, we may have our next subject. So, grab something to eat if you want, then get back in time to help me out.”

Grant told Hammond they’d be there. Then he ended the call, looked at Palmer and said, “Doc says the goat ain’t there, and somebody is bringing it out to his place. Told us to get something to eat and be back in two hours, but since we already ate, we’ve got a little time to kill. Got any ideas?”

Palmer smiled, then opened the glove box of the truck and pulled out a .357 revolver. “Did you see that old abandoned barn a mile or so back?”

“Yeah, what of it?”

“Let’s go have some fun and put a few more holes in it. Hell, if our aim is good enough, by the looks of that thing we might be able to knock it over.”

“Works for me,” Grant said. “You got any extra ammo?”

Palmer reached back into the glove compartment and pulled out a brand new box of ammunition. “Yup. Let’s go make some noise.”

Bill Kelly, the undersheriff of Shelby County, walked into his boss’s office and said, “You wanted to see me, Ed?”

“Yeah,” Henderson said. “Couple of things, but first, are you busy right now?”

“Not really. I’ve got us caught up on the paperwork, then I’m headed out on patrol. And speaking of paperwork, when does Lucy get back, anyway?”

“She called me yesterday. They’re flying up this morning. Says she’ll be ready to go by tomorrow, or maybe even later today. I told her either way is fine. Listen, Tony Stronghill has some reports for us. I guess they had a couple of Native Americans leave, and by the looks of it, they aren’t headed back to the rez.”

Kelly rolled his eyes. “Great. More paperwork.”

“You’d better get used to it,” Henderson said.

“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”

Henderson stood. “C’mon, let’s take a ride out to the center. We need those reports from Tony, and I’ve got something I want to run by you.”

As they were walking out of the office, Kelly looked at his boss and said, “Where’s your gun?”

Henderson stopped. “Don’t need it. Every time I sit in a squad car, the damn thing tries to bite my hip off. Besides, you’ve got yours, and I don’t think anyone at the center is going to start shooting at us…Betty.”

“That’s a low blow,” Kelly said. Then as they were walking out: “Do you miss her?”

“Not for one single second,” Henderson said.

“Right, so we’re lying to each other now.”

“Ah, she was a giant pain in the ass. Good at her job, but still a pain. I think the thing that bothers me the most is the fact that she died because of a goddamned goat.”

Kelly nodded in agreement. “That was something, I’ll give you that. But, you know, what are you gonna do? When it’s your time, it’s your time.”

Henderson unlocked his squad car, then said, “Yeah, I hear ya. Let’s go, huh?”

They made small talk on the drive out to the cultural center, and when they were about a mile away, Henderson pulled over to the side of the road and killed the engine.

“Why are we stopping here?” Kelly said.

Henderson turned to his undersheriff and said, “Look, I didn’t want to talk about this at the station because there’s always someone listening.”

Kelly nodded. “That’s true enough. Anyway, what’s up?” Then before Henderson could respond, Kelly said, “Do you hear that?”

Henderson buzzed his window down and listened. “Sounds like someone is getting in a little target practice.”

“Maybe we should go check it out,” Kelly said.

“In a minute. Besides, out here? Everybody and their brother likes to pop off a few rounds once in a while. If they’re on their own property and their background is clear, there’s no law against it.”

“Okay,” Kelly said. “So, what’s the story?”

Henderson let out a heavy sigh, but now that he’d made his decision to speak with Kelly, he found himself more relieved than anything. “I’m going to put in my papers. As you know, I scraped through that dereliction of duty charge not long ago, and ever since, the county council seems to have lost faith in my abilities to do the job. They say and do all the right things, but you wouldn’t believe the amount of political bullshit that comes with being the sheriff.”

“It can’t be that bad, Ed.”

“Ah, that’s not all of it. If I’m being honest, I only got this job after what happened to Carla Martin. That never really sat very well with me—or the council, for that matter—mainly because when they held the special election and Carla ran against me, I lost. But after she died and I was sworn in, I knew from the jump no one was very happy about the whole thing. The council ended up with the candidate that lost, then that idiot deputy, Reynolds—a guy I hired, by the way—tried to kill Rosencrantz, and now Betty is gone…and to be honest, I guess my heart just isn’t in it anymore.”

“The council isn’t without its faults, though,” Kelly said. “That Louder broad nearly gave you the boot, and she was as crooked as they come.”

“Yeah, I’ll give you that, but the thing is, Carla knew something was off in the department. She knew something was going on, and you know what? I never saw it. Didn’t even have an inkling that anything was wrong. She was ten times the sheriff I ever was. I know it, the county council knows it, and I’m sick to death of the whole damn thing. That’s my way of letting you know that I’m done. I’m out. That means the job is yours if you want it.”

Kelly laughed. “Well, with a sales pitch like that, how could I say no? I hope you’re not planning on going into the used-car business.”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’ve got a few bucks in the bank, so I can live for a little while without jumping into anything right away. Hell, who knows, I might even stay in law enforcement. Find me a nice little Podunk town that needs a marshal. I could see myself sitting on the front stoop, my hat tipped low, nodding at folks as they walk by. But right now I’m not worried about me. What I want to know is this: All used-car jokes aside, do you want the job or not? Because if you don’t, I’ll have to figure out how to handle it with the council.”

“I’d hate to see you go, Ed.”

“That makes one of us, and it doesn’t really answer my question.”

“Of course I want the job. I just want to make sure that you know what you’re doing.”

Henderson smiled and said, “Don’t worry about me. For the first time in years I feel like I’m doing exactly the right thing.” He started the squad car’s engine, then said, “C’mon, let’s go see who’s doing all the shooting. Hell, I haven’t been to the range lately, and if it’s someone we know, maybe we’ll join them.”

“You didn’t bring your gun,” Kelly said.

“Yeah, but you did. And since I just offered you my job, I’m guessing you’ll let me borrow yours.”

Palmer and Grant had already gone through half the box of ammunition shooting holes in the dilapidated barn. Palmer handled the unloading and reloading of the gun, carefully placing their spent cartridges back in the box. The last thing he needed were his prints on a bunch of shell casings lying around in the dirt. Both men were laughing and pointing at the barn, their backs to the road, their hearing temporarily gone because neither one of them had bothered to wear earplugs, and the .357 made one hell of a bang.

When Henderson and Kelly pulled in behind them, neither Palmer nor Grant heard their arrival.

Both men got out and parked themselves against the hood of the squad car. Just to be safe, Kelly pressed the release button that held his weapon in place. He didn’t think they’d have any trouble, but it never hurt to be prepared. Then he cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted at them. “Hey, guys, give it a rest for a minute, will you?”

When neither man responded, Henderson leaned close to Kelly and said, “They can’t hear anything, Bill. C’mon, let’s go talk to them.”

Both men stuck their index fingers into their ears to protect their hearing, and once they were behind the men, Kelly reached down and pulled his weapon as a precaution. Then he tapped Palmer on the shoulder, and shouted, “Hey!”

Palmer was mid-squeeze on the trigger of the .357’s double-action revolver—which had a hell of a pull—and when he felt the tap he jumped in surprise, turned, and then everything went to hell in a fraction of a second.

Palmer, who knew Grant was standing right beside him because he was clearly visible, spun around, the gun still leveled, his finger still squeezing the trigger, the hammer already inching it’s way back, ready to snap forward, and when it did, the gun went off just like it was designed to do, and Kelly took a 125-grain jacketed hollow point right on the bridge of his nose. And Palmer, now operating from the lizard part of his brain, turned the gun on Henderson and shot at him as well.

But Henderson—who’d just witnessed his deputy’s death—was already moving. He ducked when Kelly went down, saw the gun swinging his way, and Palmer’s shot went right over his head and buried itself in the radiator of the squad car. In one smooth motion, Henderson kept moving, rolling across his friend’s body to grab his gun.

And he almost made it.

He’d just gotten his hands around the grip and was still rolling, the gun coming up, when a bolt of lightening shot through his knee, causing him to drop the weapon. Palmer fired a fourth time, and either by luck or simple fate, the final round took out Henderson’s other knee. The last thought Ed Henderson had before he passed out was, I’m going to die the same way Ben Holden did…with two bad knees.

Palmer—still in a panic—was pulling the trigger over and over, but the hammer was landing on nothing but spent cartridges. Grant pulled him back and began shouting. “What the fuck, Bobby? What the genuine fuck? You just killed two cops.”

Palmer dropped the gun in the dirt, his eyes rimmed with moisture. “I didn’t mean to. I done it on accident. Ain’t nobody supposed to sneak up on a guy with a gun like that. They scared the shit out of me. I didn’t know what I was doing. C’mon man, we gotta get the fuck outta here.”

Grant was shaking his head back and forth like a dog who’d just jumped out of a river. “No. Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. We gotta fix this, man. We can’t just leave.”

Palmer, who was so scared he couldn’t think straight, reached down and picked up Kelly’s gun and pointed it at his friend. “I’m going. Right now. And so are you.”

Grant walked right up to him and slapped his friend in the face. “What? You going to shoot me too?” Then he reached out and took the gun from Palmer and stuck it in the back of his belt. “Point a gun at me, you dipshit…I’m trying to save us, and you’re gonna try to shoot me? What’s the matter with you?”

“I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean it. I’m freaking the fuck out here.”

“Go get some gloves out of the truck’s cab. Bobby? Are you hearing me? Go get the gloves.” But Grant finally realized that his friend was in shock, and if they were going to make it out of this, he’d have to handle everything. “Never mind. Wait here. I’ll do it.”

Grant ran over to their vehicle, hopped into the cab, then pulled up next to the dead deputy. Palmer still hadn’t moved. When Grant got out of the truck, he handed Palmer a pair of gloves and said, “Put these on. C’mon, man, get ‘em on. We need to take care of this and get the hell out of here.”

Palmer finally got with the program and slipped the gloves on. “What are we doing?”

“We’re gonna load the dead one in the trunk of his squad car. Grab his body cam.”

Palmer stripped the body cam from Kelly’s chest and tossed it in the bed, then helped Grant get the deputy loaded into the trunk. “What about the other one? He ain’t dead.”

Grant looked over at the barn, then back at the squad car. “Hang on, let me get some cuffs. We’ll lock him up in the barn.”

“He seen our faces, man.”

“I don’t think so,” Grant said. “Everything happened too fast. Even if he did, he’s going to bleed out anyway.”

“Man, we’re gonna fry for this,” Palmer said.

Grant got the cuffs and said, “No we ain’t. C’mon, take an arm.”

They each grabbed one of Henderson’s arms and dragged him inside the barn, propped him against one of the support beams, then cuffed his hands behind his back.

As they hurried out of the barn, Grant said, “C’mon, we’re not done yet. We gotta rip out the dash cam and hide the car behind the barn. It won’t buy us much time, but it might be enough.” Once they had that done, both men climbed into the truck, then headed back toward Doc Hammond’s place. They stopped at the side of a riverbank, and Palmer, who was holding the dash cam on his lap, said, “Why are you stopping?”

Grant took the dash cam from his friend’s hands, then said, “Give me your gloves.”

Palmer handed the gloves over, then Grant jumped out of the truck and threw everything into the river. Once he was back in, he hit the gas and sped off, watching his mirrors as much as the road ahead.

The entire way back, Palmer kept muttering the same thing over and over. “We’re gonna fry, man. We’re gonna fry.”

Grant was gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white. He looked at Palmer out of the corner of his eye and thought, One of us is, that’s for sure.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Cora LaRue was sitting behind her desk, deep into a meeting with her lieutenant governor, and the meeting itself wasn’t going as well as she’d hoped.

The lieutenant governor, a former Indiana state senator by the name of Lance Irwin, looked his boss in the eye and said, “You picked me for this job because you knew—should it ever be required—that I could step in and fill your shoes, so to speak. Tell me I’m wrong.”

Cora looked at Irwin for a few moments before she answered. He was right, of course…she had picked Irwin because of his political skills and the influence he held with the other members of the state’s legislative body. It didn’t hurt that he looked exactly like a politician should. His clothes were immaculate, his close-cropped white hair looked like he had it barbered every other day, and his smile—when he chose to use it—made him look like someone straight out of a GQ magazine article. He even had a slight chip in one of his front teeth, which gave him a boyish charm that only added to his charisma.

“I can’t tell you you’re wrong, Lance,” Cora said. “I know you can do the job. It’s how you want to do it that troubles me.”

Irwin wasn’t bothered by Cora’s statement, mainly because this wasn’t the first time they’d had the conversation. “I don’t know why it should,” he said. “The Major Crimes Unit has been a thorn in everyone’s side since its inception. Jones and the rest of his crew operate like they are above the law, but they’re not. By your own admission, you’re letting them pick their own cases, and they answer to no one except you.”

“That’s not entirely accurate, and you know it,” Cora said. “I don’t believe they were a thorn in anyone’s side when they saved Mac’s life. They certainly weren’t when they saved mine. In fact, look at all the cases they’ve worked…every single one, then try to tell me that the state isn’t better off because of the type of work they do.”

“I’d love nothing more than to do exactly that, but well over half of the records regarding things they have done are sealed, available to only you or the DHS. Tell me, why is that? What are they hiding? What are you hiding, Madam Governor? Because if you can’t answer those questions, then the whole group of them appears to be nothing more than hired thugs. I know the MCU has been your baby since its inception, but facts are facts, and your baby has grown into something that is leaving a sour taste in the mouths of the state’s legislative oversight committee.”

Cora remained calm, mainly because she didn’t want to appear defensive. “I can handle the committee, Lance. I know you can as well. Are certain records sealed? Yes. And for good reason. But the thing to remember is this: They weren’t sealed by the state. They were sealed by the DHS for any number of reasons, because to not do so would have long-lasting negative repercussions for not only the state, but this office as well, going all the way back to when Mac first sat in this chair.”

Irwin knew he was never going to win the debate, so he shifted back to the main reason they were meeting to begin with. “What have you heard?”

Cora knew exactly what Irwin was referring to. “You know how these things go at the federal level, Lance. Washington is its own animal.”

“Yet here we sit. And that’s not much of an answer, by the way.”

“It’s the answer I have,” Cora said. “Every talking head in the media always asks the same question: ‘As President, what will you do on day one?’ It’s the most ridiculous question anyone could ask, and here’s why: No one wants to tell the truth, because the first thing the president does on day one is start campaigning for the next election cycle.”

Irwin waved the statement away. “Yes, yes, I know. Still, it seems a little early for Gretchen to be making her move.”

“I disagree,” Cora said. “If anything, we’ve waited too long. Two years from now this country is going to pick a new president. Our neighbors to the North in Michigan have always been very good to us. Gretchen thinks she has a legitimate chance—particularly in the swing states—and she wants me for her VP. I intend to say yes. What I need from you is your word that the MCU stays intact if I step down.”

“I’m not sure I can do that, Ma’am.”

“Why not?”

Irwin actually laughed. “Why not? Look at how many people they’ve killed, then balance that against the number of cases that actually went to trial.”

“That’s a gross misrepresentation of basic facts,” Cora said. “Every single death of the criminals they’ve dealt with has been deemed justified as righteous actions by a law enforcement officer defending his or her own life or the lives of others.”

“This isn’t the Wild West anymore, Governor. The Major Crimes Unit is, in my opinion—and the opinion of others—outdated, over-funded, and quite simply out of control.” Irwin stood, buttoned his jacket and said, “I suppose the choice is yours, Ma’am. Take your chances with the VP spot, or stay where you sit right now. But know this: Should you choose to leave, you can’t control the actions of your replacement once you’re gone.”

Cora looked Irwin in the eye and said, “You’re making an enemy out of a friend.”

Irwin placed his palms on top of the desk, then leaned close to Cora and smiled, though there was no boyish charm in his expression. “So be it.” Then he turned and left the office without another word.

Once Irwin was gone, Cora checked the time, then picked up her phone and made a call. When it was answered, she said, “Baker, it’s me. How are things going over there?”

“Hello, Ma’am. That sort of depends on your definition of where ‘there’ is. We’re still homeless.”

Cora knew what Baker meant, and said so. “I’m aware. What I really should have asked is this: Are you busy at the moment?”

“No, Ma’am. Things are quiet. In fact, they’ve been very quiet while the rest of the crew has been in Jamaica.”

Keep those sorts of comments to yourself, Cora thought.

“What was that, Ma’am?”

“Nothing. Listen, I need a favor.”

“Sure. How can I help?”

“In a moment,” Cora said. “Do you have their itinerary?”

“I spoke with Sarah this morning right before everyone boarded the plane. They should be at the Million Air facility by noon, or shortly after.”

“Good. How’d you like a trip down memory lane?”

“Ma’am?”

“Can it with the ma’am business, Baker. It’s Cora. Would you be willing to act as my driver for a short while today?”

“Of course, Ma’am…uh, I mean, Cora. Whatever you need. Is your regular driver unavailable?”

“No, he’s here and at the ready. This has more to do with optics than anything else.”

“What time do you need me?”

Cora checked the time again, then said, “Pick me up in one hour. We’ll be going to the airport.”

“I can do that. Is there anything else I need to know?”

Plenty, Cora thought. “No, that’ll do it for now, Baker. See you in an hour.”

Mike Grey turned in to Hammond’s drive, a bumper pull horse trailer attached to the back of his truck. Hammond walked out to greet him, and once they’d introduced themselves, Grey said, “This sure is a right nice place you got here, Doc. Is goats all you raise?”

Hammond nodded. “Yes. But I raise and breed only the best. Once they’re of age, I sell them all over the country.”

Grey reached up and scratched the side of his cheek. “Didn’t think there was much money in goats.”

Hammond gave him a thoughtful nod and said, “There isn’t, really. It’s mostly a hobby…like gardening, or whatnot. Mr. Johnson mentioned that you’ve got some other errands to run, so let me get the pen opened up. If you’ll unload the kid, we’ll get it inside and you can be on your way.”

“Sounds fine to me,” Grey said. He went to the rear of the trailer, opened the door, got the goat untied, then walked it over to the pen. Once it was inside, Grey unhooked the collar and leash, then reached up and scratched his face again.

“I don’t mean to speak out of turn, but I notice you keep scratching a particular spot on the side of your face. Did you get bit, or stung by a bee, perhaps?”

Gray dug around inside his big orange beard and gave his cheek another scratch, then looked at the spot of blood on his fingertip before wiping it on the side of his jeans. “Nah, I don’t know what the hell it is. I got me this one spot, and every now and again it just starts to itch for no reason. If I leave it alone it scabs over, but then it flares back up again about every week or so like clockwork.”

“Have you been to the doctor for a proper exam?”

Grey chuckled. “No, sir. Figured they’d laugh me right out of the building if a growed man such as myself walked in and said his face had gone to itching.”

Hammond kept his expression neutral and said, “I’ll tell you something you probably don’t want to hear, but red-headed people such as yourself have to be more cautious of melanoma than others.”

“I don’t know that word…melon what?”

Hammond let a small grin form before he stepped closer and squinted at the side of Grey’s cheek. “Not melon…as in watermelon. It’s called melanoma. I don’t mean to alarm you, but it’s a form of cancer, and it can be very serious.”

Grey looked at nothing and said, “Huh. Well, I’ll get to this pesky cheek of mine as soon as I can.”

“That sounds like you don’t really intend to do anything about it.”

Grey shrugged. “I don’t really know when I’d find the time. Mr. J keeps me right busy.”

“Well, since you’re here, how about this: Come inside my exam room and let me get a better look at it under the proper lighting conditions. Your beard is so thick I wouldn’t be able to tell you anything out here.”

“Ah, that’s okay, Doc. I’m sure you got better things to tend to.”

“It’s no trouble at all, I assure you…especially after the way you and Mr. Johnson have cared for one of my animals. At the very least, I can give you some antiseptic cream to ensure you don’t get an infection. Come along. I insist.” Then Hammond turned and headed toward his exam room without looking back.

Grey watched him walk away, then after a few seconds he began to follow. Once they were inside, Hammond pointed at his exam table and said, “Hop up there and have a seat. Let me get some gloves on, and I’ll take a quick look. And listen, I need to ask you a favor.”

“Sure,” Grey said. “What is it?”

“Let’s keep this little exam to ourselves, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all. Kinda wondering why you do, though.”

“Well, I’m a DVM. That stands for doctor of veterinary medicine. If anyone ever found out that I was examining a human, that could mean trouble for me down the line.”

Grey laughed. “Heck, Doc, if anyone ever found out a vet examined me, they’d probably think it was only natural.”

Hammond laughed right along with him. “Wry self-deprecation is a sign of intelligence. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Not that I recollect,” Grey said.

“Tell you what, go ahead and lie down on the table if you would, and turn your head to the side so I can get the light up close. My eyesight isn’t what it used to be.”

Gray did as asked, then said, “How’s this?”

“That’s just fine.” Hammond pulled the overhead surgical light close. He dug around in Grey beard for a few seconds, then said, “Oh, my.”

“What is it?”

“You work with hogs. Do I have that right?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Well, there’s good news and bad news. Here’s the good: This doesn’t look like melanoma at all.”

Grey kept his head still and looked up at Hammond through the corner of his eye. “What’s the bad news?”

“You’ve got an infection, and from the looks of it, it appears to be spreading underneath the skin.”

“Can you put some of that cream on there you was talking about?”

“No, I’m afraid not. What you need is a shot of penicillin. If you go to the doctor they can fix you right up. Do you have health insurance?”

“Nope. Ain’t never had need of it. I don’t even have me a regular doctor.”

Hammond sighed like he’d heard it all before. “Medical costs these days…they’re becoming more and more outrageous. Even if you went to one of those quickie-clinics, they’d charge you an arm and a leg.”

“Cain’t you just give me the shot?”

Hammond made sure he was within Grey’s line of sight before he spoke. He bit down on his lower lip, then looked away for a few seconds. “Tell you what…I can and I will, but you have to give me your word that this stays between us. Not even Mr. Johnson can know. Will you agree to that?”

Grey thought about it, then said, “Mr. J has been good to me over the years. I’d hate to lie to him.”

“I don’t think you’d have to lie at all. You could simply say that you and I had a nice little chat after you dropped the goat off—which is all true, by the way—and leave it at that. I very much doubt that Mr. Johnson is going to ask if I gave you an exam.”

“That’s probably true,” Grey said. “Okay, let’s do it.”

“Good, good,” Hammond said as he turned toward his medicine cabinet. “Lie still, and I’ll get the shot ready.”

“You want me to roll up my sleeve or something?”

“No, that won’t be necessary. Since the infection is in your face, I’ll give you the shot in the side of your neck. Just a little pinch. You’ll barely feel a thing.”

And Hammond was right, because less than five minutes later—at the same time that Baker stepped into Cora’s office to give her a ride to the airport—Mike Grey didn’t feel anything at all.

And he never would again.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Baker knocked on the side door of the governor’s office, then cracked it open, stuck her head in and said, “I’m ready whenever you are, Cora.”

Baker got the wait-a-minute finger from Cora as she finished making a note to herself, then a few seconds later she stood, grabbed her purse, and said, “I’m ready now. Let’s get going.”

Once they were in the car and on their way to the airport, Cora leaned forward and said, “Anything I need to know about?”

Baker touched eyes with the governor in the rearview mirror for a fraction of a second, then refocused on the road. “No. As I mentioned earlier, it’s been quiet for the last week or so.”

“I heard you the first time, Baker, and that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“I afraid I don’t understand.”

“I think you do. We’ll get to that in a moment. How’s Ortiz doing?”

“He’s up and around. He’ll probably need another month…maybe two. That’s what he told me anyway. Says the doc told him that one of the fractures isn’t coming along quite as quick as they’d like.”

“They’re not going to have to go back in, are they?”

“He didn’t say, so I’m not sure.”

“Well, let’s hope they don’t.” Cora settled back in her seat and watched the traffic slide by for a few minutes. “How are we on time?”

“I checked with the Million Air FBO just before I came up to your office. If we can get through the lunch hour traffic okay, we should arrive at the same time the jet does.”

“Pick it up a little, if you would. I’d like to make sure we get there before the plane lands.”

Baker reached over and flipped a switch on the Town Car’s dash that illuminated the flashing blue lights behind the grill. Once she did that, the traffic in front of them began to clear out.

“Let me ask you something, if you don’t mind,” Cora said.

“Not at all.”

“When did you begin to think about taking the detective’s exam?”

“A few months before I took the actual test.”

“So at the end of the day, it was a snap decision on your part?”

Baker thought about her answer before she responded. “I don’t think I’d frame it that way. It’s more like I get an idea in my head, and then, once the seed is planted, it feels like there’s no turning back. Do you ever feel that way?”

“More often than you might imagine,” Cora said. “Are Jonesy and Murton treating you okay? Feel like you’re happy with the choice you’ve made?”

When Baker spoke, her tone didn’t match the words she used. “Yes, very much so.”

Cora caught the tone and said, “To the best of my knowledge, you’ve never lied to me before, Baker, and now you’ve done it twice during the same conversation.”

Baker felt her face flush slightly, then said, “I’m being truthful. Everyone has been very kind and welcoming. Murton in particular.”

“I’m not surprised,” Cora said. “I give Wheeler a harder time than I should. There’s a duality in him that I often wonder how he manages to balance. In many ways he has the pure heart of a child. But then there are times he can shed his skin and do things other men would run from. He killed the man who shot me…and you.”

Baker nodded. “I’m aware.”

“I know you are. But you’ve made a move—one that Wheeler stuck his neck out to make happen—and now you’re already thinking of leaving.” It wasn’t a question.

“How do you know that?”

“I have my sources,” Cora said.

“Care to elaborate?”

“It’s not that difficult to comprehend, Detective. Nicky speaks to Wu on a daily basis, and Wu doesn’t keep secrets from his wife, Linda. If you keep following the chain, you’ll discover that Linda and Nichole are very close, and because the state and the Popes are connected on multiple levels, I speak with Nichole quite often. All that to say this: Are you going to accept Nicky’s offer, or not?”

“I want to,” Baker said. “But what I don’t want to do is to leave the MCU—and more specifically, Murt and Jonesy—in a lurch. You said it yourself. Murt stuck his neck out for me. How do you think he’d feel if after all that I went to him and Jonesy and said, ‘Hey, listen, I really appreciate what you’ve done for me. But as it turns out, I met a guy, who, by any measure, is the man of my dreams. Oh, he lives in another country by the way, so I’m going to have to say thanks, but no thanks to this wonderful job you’ve given me.’”

“So, you believe in love at first sight?” Cora asked.

“I never have before. I don’t think anyone really does until it happens to them.”

“You might be wrong on that account. When Jonesy and Sandy first met, I thought I might have to buy him a drool rag.”

“Yes, that may be,” Baker said. “But there’s a lot of backstory there as well.”

“That’s very true,” Cora said. “But it’s not your backstory, is it? That’s my way of saying you have to do what works for you. And if you’re interested in my opinion, I think the two of you would be a perfect match.”

“I’d like to make an observation if you don’t mind,” Baker said. “It’s more of a question, really, but I don’t want to offend you.”

Cora smiled. “I can handle it, I’m sure.”

“Are we talking about me and Nicky…or something else entirely?”

“A little of both, I suppose,” Cora said. “Why do you think I wanted you to drive me to meet everyone at the airport?”

“You said it had something to do with optics.”

“Optics are everything in the political arena, Baker. I wanted you to drive me to the airport so that Jonesy—and more specifically, Murton—can see you as they have before…not as the detective you are now. It might not be much, but on a subliminal level, there’s no downside. That’s really the nature of the work I do. The choices I make as governor are a never-ending battle to minimize the downside.”

“What choice are you referring to…specifically?”

Cora turned and looked out the side window again, as if her own reflection in the tinted glass might hold the answer she was looking for…even though she knew in her heart the choice had already been made. “You’re about to find out. And don’t worry about disappointing Jonesy or Murton. I’ll be handling that for you.”

By the time Grant got them back to Doc Hammond’s place, Palmer was a mess. He was babbling like a child…saying things that didn’t make sense, and alternating between fits of hysterical laughter and bursts of tears. Grant had never seen anyone lose their mind, but he secretly thought Palmer might be well on his way. When he saw the unfamiliar truck and trailer sitting between the goat pen and the exam room, Grant turned to Palmer and said, “Bobby, wait here. I gotta see who Doc is with. Whoever it is, they can’t see you like this. Hey, Bob. Are you hearing me, man?”

Palmer mumbled something unintelligible, then moved his head in what Grant hoped was a nod. “Keep your seatbelt on. Do not get out of the truck.”

Grant pulled the keys from the ignition, then jumped out and headed for the exam room. When he tried the door, he discovered it was locked. He pressed the button next to the handle, then looked up at the security camera. Nearly thirty seconds later the buzzer finally went off and the magnetic lock holding the door in place was released. Grant yanked the door open and started speaking before he realized what was going on. “Doc, we got a prob⁠—”

That’s when he saw Hammond in his black rubber apron, a bloody scalpel in his hand, and a body on the table. Hammond didn’t even bother to look up when he spoke. “Lock the door, Martin. As you can see, I’m quite busy at the moment.”

Grant locked the door by slapping a button on the wall, then stepped farther into the exam room. “Who the hell is that?”

“Does it matter?” Hammond said. He set the scalpel aside on the tray next to him, then gently lifted Grey’s liver from his body before placing it in one of the coolers. He’d already finished with the kidneys, so he stripped off his gloves, then said, “What were you saying as you walked in?”

“Don’t kill the messenger, okay? We’ve got big trouble.”

“Where’s Robert?”

“He’s out in the truck. I told him to stay put.”

“What kind of trouble, Martin?”

Grant knew one of the worst things you could do where Doc was concerned was lie, so he told him the complete truth. “Me and Bobby stopped on our way back because you said we had time. There’s this old abandoned barn about a mile or so away from the center, and Bobby wanted to pop a few holes in it with the .357. We was almost done and getting ready to head back when a couple of county cops showed up. They sort of snuck up on us, and we couldn’t hear them because of all the shots we let off. One of the cops tapped Bobby on the shoulder and it scared the shit out of him. When he spun around he ended up shooting the cops. One is dead, and the other is probably dying as we speak.”

Hammond took it all in, then got right in Grant’s face and poked him in the chest with his index finger—hard, his voice filled with rage. “How many times have I told you both to keep a low profile? How many, Martin? Answer me, will you please, because it seems every time Robert walks out the door he finds a way to screw himself. That means I get screwed over in the process.”

“We was keepin’ a low profile, Doc.”

“By firing a pistol at a barn in broad daylight?”

“Bobby said there weren’t no harm in it.”

“Robert is a fucking idiot. I’m beginning to wonder about you as well. Why is he still in the truck?”

“I think there might be something wrong with him.”

“Wrong, how?” Hammond said.

“He’s freaking out about the whole thing. I think after he shot them cops, something went haywire in his brain.”

Hammond walked over to the monitor that gave him a view of his entire lot. When he saw that Palmer was still sitting in the truck, he managed to put his anger aside, though it wasn’t easy. But he knew in the moment they had to work, and they needed to be quick about it. He pointed back at Grey’s body and said, “We have to get that man’s truck and trailer out of here. Is Robert able to drive?”

“Doc, I don’t think Bobby is capable of anything right now. It’s like he’s taken a break from reality. He can barely talk.”

Hammond swore under his breath, then said, “Where’s the gun?”

“It’s in the glove box of the truck.”

“Did you leave any shell casings lying about?”

“No, we was real careful about that.”

Hammond felt like beating the living daylights out of Grant, but he knew this wasn’t the time or place. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do: I want you to go out to the truck and bring me the gun.”

Grant didn’t understand what was going on. “Why?”

“Now isn’t the time for questions, Martin. Now is the time for action. Get the gun out of the truck. While you’re doing that, I’ll take care of Robert.”

“You think he’s okay…Bobby?”

“I’m about to find out. Now get some gloves on, and get me that weapon. Who is it registered to?”

“I ain’t sure. We bought it from a pawn shop. It was one of them places that didn’t ask too many questions, if you know what I mean.”

Hammond didn’t like the sound of that, but he also knew there wasn’t anything he could do about it, either. “Very well, keep your gloves on, wipe the gun down, and bring it to me.”

Grant did what he was told, and while he was cleaning the gun, Hammond led Palmer inside the exam room and sat him in a chair. When Grant walked inside, it was just in time to see Doc give his friend a shot in the side of his neck.

“There you go, Robert. That should get you calmed down. Things will be looking better in no time at all. Here, let me help you lie down on the floor. It’s a bit cold, but I don’t want you falling out of your chair.”

Grant watched it all play out, and with a note of anxiety in his voice, said, “Doc?”

Hammond held up his hand to silence Grant while simultaneously checking Palmer’s pulse. Less than a minute later, Palmer was unconscious.

“What’d you give him?” Grant said.

Hammond stood and said, “Don’t worry, it’s just a sedative. Your assessment of his condition wasn’t far off the mark. He’ll be out long enough for us to get rid of that truck and trailer. We can’t very well leave it here now, can we?”

“Where are we taking it?”

“The one place that will take all the pressure off of us and put it on someone else.”

Grant, not the quickest thinker in the world, said, “Where’s that?”

“Back where you and Palmer just came from. You can find the barn, can’t you, Martin?”

“Yeah, I can find it.” Grant might not have been the quickest thinker in the world, but it didn’t slip past him that Hammond had just referred to Bobby by his last name. Not a good sign, Grant thought.

“Good. Give me the gun, then get that goat loaded back in the trailer.”

Grant hesitated for a fraction of a second, then handed the .357 over to Hammond, who took it in his gloved hands and wiped it to make sure it was clean, then carefully wrapped Grey’s hand around the grip and placed his index finger on the trigger. With that done, he looked at Grant and said, “You lead the way, and I’ll follow in Johnson’s truck. We’ll attend to Mr. Grey’s remains and deal with Robert when we return.”

“How, exactly, are we going to deal with Bobby?”

Hammond checked his watch. “Let’s go. We don’t have much time. We’ll talk about it on the way back.”

As they walked out of the exam room, Grant looked back at Palmer, and thought, We don’t have to talk about anything. I know exactly how you’re going to deal with it.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

As the jet taxied into its parking spot, Murton looked out the window and noticed the black Town Car sitting on the tarmac, just outside the main hangar door. When he saw the plate, he turned and looked at Virgil. “I think Cora might be here.”

Virgil leaned over and glanced out the window as well. “Looks like it. Something must be up.”

The flight attendant walked over and handed Virgil a note from the pilot. Virgil read it, then looked at Murton and said, “She’s waiting for us inside.”

“Well, it was fun while it lasted,” Murton said. “But all good things come to an end eventually. It looks like it’s time to get back to work.”

“Yeah, I guess. Listen, Murt⁠—”

But that’s as far as Virgil got. “Let it go, Jones-man. I heard you loud and clear, and I’m pretty sure you did the same with me. These things have a way of working out. It’s been my experience that if you let them, everything usually turns out better than you ever thought it would.”

Virgil squinted an eye at his brother. “Usually?”

Murton chuckled. “How did I know that’d be the one word you would focus on? Never mind. C’mon, let’s go see what’s what.”

Everyone piled off the plane, and as they did, the ground crew started to unload the luggage. Sandy and Becky began directing the unloading, stating which bags went to which vehicle. Virgil and Murton walked over to their wives, and Virgil said, “You guys can head home without us. It looks like Cora is here. I’m guessing she wants a word with me and Murt.”

“Is something going on?” Becky said.

Virgil shrugged, and Murton said, “We don’t know. See you at home, soon as we can.” Then he gave Becky a kiss.

Sandy turned to Virgil and pulled him aside. “I might have overplayed my hand. I’m sorry. I know it seems selfish of me, but I want us to live our own lives, Virg. All of us. What Nichole is offering is a chance to start actively moving toward that goal.”

“It’s not selfish, and you don’t have anything to apologize for. I heard what Mac said to Nichole, and I caught the look on your face when he did. I may not be ready to walk away from the MCU just yet, but you’re right. After everything we’ve all been through, I know my time is close. Murt just got done telling me that things have a way of working out if we let them. I intend to do just that.”

Sandy smiled and gave her husband a rib shot. “So you’re going to get out of your own way?”

Virgil gave Sandy a kiss, then said, “Well, there’s a first time for everything, right? I’ll see you in a little while.”

Virgil and Murton told the kids and everyone else goodbye, then just before they walked inside the building, Ross and Rosencrantz stepped over. “I take it Cora is here,” Ross said. He was holding Liv in his arms.

“She is,” Virgil said.

“Want us to hang here for a minute?” Rosencrantz said.

“Nah, you guys can go ahead and get home…get some rest. If anything is happening, I’ll give you a call.”

As Virgil and Murton were walking away, Ross looked at Rosencrantz and said, “It’s good to be back.”

“I could have used a few more days, myself,” Rosencrantz said. “The whole trip felt a little rushed, or something.”

“It’s all good,” Ross said. “I’ll take what I can get. Sarah and I are going to swing by Ortiz’s place on the way home and make him feel like shit because he couldn’t go. Want to join us?”

Rosencrantz shook his head. “Nah. Tell him I said hey, and I’ll check in with him later. Lucy is a little antsy to get back to work. I think she’s afraid Ed’s going to give her new job away. She wants to get in there this afternoon and show her face.”

“Good enough,” Ross said. “Watch your back, huh?”

“Always,” Rosencrantz said. “Catch you soon.”

When Virgil and Murton walked into the conference room, both men were a little surprised to find Baker waiting with Cora.

“Hey, Em,” Murton said. “All quiet on the midwestern front?”

Baker wasn’t quite sure how to answer, so she simply said, “Hey Murt. Jonesy. Cora asked me to drive her over here. I think she misses me. You guys have a good time?”

“It’s sort of hard not to when you’re in Jamaica,” Virgil said.

“So I’ve heard…numerous times, by the way,” Baker said. She was looking at Murton when she spoke. Then she stood, and said, “I’ll be outside whenever you’re ready, Ma’am.”

Cora cleared her throat, then said, “Stay put, Baker. I told you that you were about to find out, and I meant it. Everyone, please, take a seat.”

Baker sat back down, then Virgil and Murton gave each other a look before doing the same. Once they were all seated, Virgil looked at Cora and said, “I’ve found a new home for the MCU Facility. Turkis is wrapping the deal already. I told Mac that I’d cover the cost until the insurance comes through, and he told me that Allen can get it done right away. And knowing how Allen works, I’d be surprised if the keys aren’t already waiting for us.”

“Good to know, Jonesy,” Cora said. “But you may have jumped the gun.”

“In what way?” Virgil asked.

Cora looked at nothing and began to tell them her plans. “I’m sorry I didn’t inform you sooner, but it couldn’t be helped. What I’m about to tell you stays in this room. I’ll allow exceptions for spouses, the rest of the MCU for reasons that will become clear in a moment, and any significant others.”

Virgil hated to interrupt, but he couldn’t help himself. “Are you okay, Cora?”

“I’m fine. But I’ve been struggling with a difficult decision for quite some time now, and the issue is beginning to come to a head. Some time ago—this was right after Sandy was recovering from her kidney transplants—I had an exploratory meeting with my Michigan counterpart. She came down here and we talked about the future. Her future…and mine. The governor of Michigan has big plans, I think they’ll work, and she wants me to be a part of them.”

“What kind of plans are we talking about?” Virgil said.

“The kind that lead to our nation’s capital.”

Everyone let the statement soak in for a few seconds, then Murton, nobody’s idiot, put it together right away. “She wants you to be on her ticket as VP.”

Cora stood and began pacing the room. “She does. My ego aside, I think it’s a wise choice on her part. As neighboring state governors from the Midwest, she believes, as do I, that we would have a very good chance of taking the highest office in the land. I’ve looked at the issues on which she’s building her platform, and together, I firmly believe that she and I cannot only win, but actually make a difference. We’ve both done it for our respective states, and now it’s time to do it for the country.”

Cora had just finished her remark as she passed behind Virgil’s seat. He reached out and took hold of her arm, then stood and faced his boss. “Cora, I can’t think of anyone better suited to take on that sort of challenge other than you. I assume you’re going to say yes.”

“I am.” Cora visibly swallowed, then placed the flat of her palm against Virgil’s chest. “But it comes with a cost.”

Murton let a sad grin form on his face. “It usually does.” He was looking at Virgil when he spoke.

Hammond placed the .357 in the glove box, then followed Grant over to the abandoned barn. He dumped Johnson’s truck and trailer close to the barn before getting in the passenger seat of his own truck. He looked at Grant and said, “Quiet now. Not a peep. I have to make a quick call.” Hammond pulled out his phone, dialed Johnson’s number, and when it was answered, he said, “Carl? Is that you? It’s Sam Hammond.”

“Hey, Doc. Is everything okay?”

“That’s what I was going to ask you,” Hammond said. “Are you at home right now?”

“Nope. I’m in the middle of moving a drill rig. You get your goat back?”

“No, actually,” Hammond lied. “That’s why I’m calling. Your man never showed.”

“That don’t sound like Mike at all. When I ask him to do something, he gets it done.”

“Okay, well, I’ll keep an eye out for him, but maybe you should give him a call or something and make sure he’s okay.”

“Can’t do it,” Johnson said. “He’s the last of his kind.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“That’s my way of saying he don’t carry no cell phone. He might have had a breakdown or some such. I’ll check on him soon as I can. Don’t worry…we’ll get your goat back to you one way or another.”

Hammond looked at Grant, pointed out the front window of the truck, and mouthed, Go. “My concern is for your worker, Carl…not the goat. Anyway, just give me a ring when you hear from him.”

“Will do,” Johnson said, then ended the call and went back to work, the whole time wondering why Grey hadn’t done as he’d been told. Johnson thought maybe something had somehow gone wrong at the farm, so once the rig was set he told his men he had to leave, but he thought he’d be back shortly.

Except he wouldn’t.

Once Virgil and Cora had retaken their seats, Virgil looked at the governor and said, “What type of costs are we talking about?”

“Instead of directly answering Virgil’s question, Cora turned and looked out the window. When she spoke, it was with her back to the room. “What’s your impression of Lance?”

“The lieutenant governor?” Murton said.

Cora spun her chair back around and gave him a dull look. “No, Wheeler, the infamous former Tour de France champion.” Then, remembering what she’d told Baker on the ride over to the airport about being too hard on Murton, she softened her tone and said, “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. To properly answer your question, yes, I’m speaking of our lieutenant governor, Lance Irwin. Anyone have any thoughts on the man?”

Virgil and Murton glanced at each other, then Virgil said, “I’ve not had that many interactions with him. He seems like a nice enough guy. Good in the political arena, and all that.”

“I like him,” Murton said. “He’s a clothes horse, same as Mac.”

Despite what she’d thought just a moment ago, Cora wasn’t going to let Murton have that one. She chuckled and said, “Look who’s talking.”

Murton waved it off. “Nothing wrong with looking your best. I believe ZZ Top said it best. Anyway, I pretty much agree with what Jonesy said. He seems nice enough and appears to be a good politician. I think I’ve spoken to him on maybe three occasions…all of them about ten seconds each.”

Cora looked at both men, then said, “You might have a change of heart regarding how you feel about the man in a moment. When I picked him for my lieutenant, I thought we were operating from the same playbook. And for the most part we were. His influence with the legislative body is stronger than mine ever was, so he became a natural choice for me and the agenda I wanted to put in place for the people of our state. But it didn’t take long before he made his feelings clear on one particular topic. I’ve been able to hold him at bay, but if I make my move, things are going to change, and God bless me, there doesn’t seem to be anything I can do about it.”

“What’s going to change?” Virgil said.

Cora let out a heavy sigh, then said, “It’s time to read the writing on the walls. Irwin is on record with me—and others, I’m sure—that should I vacate the office of governor for the state of Indiana and make a run at DC, his first order of business is going to be the complete dismantling of the MCU.”

They all sat quietly and let that sink in for a few seconds. “What are his reasons?” Murton said.

Cora shook her head. “Does it matter? I’m sure he has an entire PowerPoint presentation he could show you, but the bottom line is this: He doesn’t like the way the MCU handles its caseload.”

“You’re speaking of our conviction record, aren’t you?” Virgil said.

Cora pointed a finger at Virgil. “You guys do the hard things that no one else has the patience or intellect for, much less the stomach. So to answer your question, I’m not speaking of your conviction record, but Irwin is, and once he’s in the chair, the MCU will be on the chopping block.”

Virgil thought about the conversations he’d had with Sandy and Murton, then said something that surprised Cora…and Murton. “He’s not wrong, you know. Some of the things we’ve had to do—and endure—were only ever going to play out a certain way.”

They talked it back and forth for nearly an hour…the cases they’d worked, the people they’d lost, the criminals they’d killed, and even the things that only a handful of people in the world knew of. Baker sat quietly and listened to the entire conversation without saying a word.

Murton glanced at Baker, then asked Cora a question. “How long do we have? We’re going to have to move some people around.”

“He’s right,” Virgil said. “Rosie will be fine because he’s got his twenty-five in, but Baker, Ross, Mayo, and Ortiz don’t.”

Cora looked at Baker and said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but when you gave Ortiz that shove to save his life, you also helped him hit the jackpot. Given his total time of service with both the city and the state, he’ll be able to draw seventy-five percent disability because of his shattered hip. And with his cumulative pension benefits, he’ll limp away making more than he does now.”

There was just a hint of sarcasm in his Virgil’s voice when he spoke. “That sounds vaguely familiar.”

Cora gave Virgil a look, but let the remark go. “I’ve had a discussion with the superintendent of the state police. He’s given me his assurances that any qualified law enforcement official working for the MCU will be welcomed with open arms as a senior detective in the district of their choice. That means he has your backs, and though it might not look like it, I do as well.”

“No one in this room is questioning your loyalty to our unit,” Virgil said.

Cora looked at Virgil and said, “You’re taking this much better than I expected.” Then she looked at Murton. “You too, Chucklehead.”

“We’re not worried,” Murton said. “And for obvious reasons. Jonesy and I are both set financially, and to be honest, there’s been some talk of taking a step back. There’s more to life than chasing a bunch of idiots around the state.”

“You never really did answer the question,” Virgil said. “How long do we have?”

“I can’t give you an exact date,” Cora said. “I wish I could. My immediate plan is to have it both ways. I can run for the spot and hold my current office for the time being. But the day is coming when I’ll have to walk out of the state building for the final time, and when it does, don’t expect Irwin to sit around and weigh the pros against the cons of keeping the MCU active, because he won’t.”

Virgil hated to do it, but he asked the question anyway. “Do you have anything on him?”

Cora shook her head. “There’s nothing to be had. If there was, he wouldn’t be my lieutenant governor. I had that guy vetted all the way back to kindergarten.”

Murton cleared his throat. “No offense to your political staff, but Becky⁠—”

Cora didn’t want to hear it. “Don’t go there, Wheeler. Yes, Becky has her talents, and she might even be able to find something my people missed. But ask yourself this: If she did find something to leverage him with, how do you think that would work out down the line? It’d be like putting a Band-Aid on a bullet wound. You’d simply be delaying the inevitable, and quite possibly putting yourselves at risk in the process. My advice? Take care of your people the best way you can and let everything else go. It’s better to walk away of your own accord than to be shown the door against your will. Talk to Rosie…and the rest of the squad…including Chip and Sarah. Show them their options. No one needs to get hurt, and no one will. We’re simply shuffling the deck.”

“There’s a difference between shuffling the deck and closing the casino,” Virgil said.

“And that doesn’t sound like the kind of statement someone would make if they were ready to…how did you put it? Take a step back?”

Virgil tipped his head to the side. “Murt said it, not me, and while I’m not disagreeing on a very basic and fundamental level, I, uh, have it on good authority that we still have some work to do.”

“What sort of work are you talking about?” Cora said.

Then, as if the universe itself was sitting in on their conversation, Virgil’s phone started to vibrate.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

When Hammond and Grant returned from Shelby County, they walked into the exam room and found Palmer right where they’d left him. The only noticeable change was the puddle of drool next to his cheek.

Grant walked over and tried to wake up his friend, but after a few attempts it was clear that Palmer wasn’t ever going to regain consciousness. His breathing was shallow, and his heartbeat was almost non-existent. Grant turned to Hammond and said, “I thought you was just going to calm him down.”

Hammond began to slip his black rubber apron on. “He looks rather calm to me. He’s certainly not bothered by whatever nastiness took place while the two of you were doing everything in your power to destroy what I’ve built.”

Grant let his shoulders slump. “C’mon, Doc...that’s not what we was doing. I already done told you that we was simply⁠—”

“Martin, please. We discussed this quite thoroughly on the ride back. There is simply no other way. Besides, we need another set of organs to fulfill our obligations, and now we have just that. How much longer do you think we could go on like this if we continue to let Robert play his stupid little games, hmm? A week? A month?”

“I ain’t sure, Doc, but Bobby and me was friends. I’ve knowed him my whole entire life.”

Hammond ignored Grant’s comments…and his grammar. “Help me get him up on the table, please.”

Grant did as he was told, mainly because he knew he didn’t have a choice. If he went against Doc now, he’d find a needle in his own neck when he least expected it. After they got Palmer up on the table, Hammond took a pair of surgical scissors and cut Palmer’s clothing away, letting it fall to the floor in the process. Hammond examined the body with a clinical eye and said, “It seems Robert had something of a difficult life.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Grant said. “His pap was one of the meanest bastards I ever did meet. He used to belt-whip Bobby regular if he didn’t do exactly what he was told. Not only that, but he’d burn him with the tip of his cigar if he mouthed off...and as far as his pap was concerned, if he said anything at all, he was mouthing off. Bobby come a long way to better himself after his old man died.”

“That may be, Martin, but he didn’t come quite far enough now, did he? Look at it in this light: In death, he’ll be giving life to someone who needs a second chance.”

“What about Bobby’s second chance? I can turn him around, Doc. I know I can.”

“Robert has had more than his fair share of second chances, Martin. I’m afraid he’s wasted every single one of them away. There’s a profound sadness in all of this, and don’t think I’m not aware of it. But, one must admit that in a certain sense, Robert will still be with us after he’s gone. That’s what you need to focus on. This is a good and just thing we’re doing. We’re not only ending Robert’s misery, we’re helping someone less fortunate than him, and in the process, we’re saving ourselves all at the same time. Everybody wins...including you.” Then Hammond prepared a second injection—the killing shot—and said, “If you wish to say goodbye, now would be the time. Study after study has shown that the unconscious mind can hear the words of their friends and loved ones at the end. That means I truly believe that on some level, Robert will hear you. Come along now. Don’t be shy. I won’t think less of you if you share your feelings during this glorious time.”

“I’m going to go wait outside. I can’t watch this.”

“As you wish,” Hammond said. “While you’re waiting, gas up the truck and hitch the trailer, if you will. You’ll be making solo runs from now on. As such, going forward, you’ll be getting Robert’s share of the take as a bonus. That means you’ve just doubled your income. How does that sound?”

Like I’m goddamn Judas Iscariot, Grant thought as he walked outside. It wasn’t an odd feeling to have. When you were born on the wrong side of the tracks, the Bible was the first thing you learned, usually because you’d literally get beaten over the head with it. It made Grant think of that old Bob Marley song…something about redemption, and fulfilling the book.

When Virgil’s phone buzzed, he looked at the screen and saw it was Rosencrantz calling. He didn’t want to interrupt the meeting with Cora, so he silenced the buzzing and let it go to voicemail. Less than twenty seconds later it began to vibrate again, and when Virgil looked at the screen once more, this time he hit the speaker button and said, “What’s up, Rosie? We’re still in the meeting with Cora.”

“We’ve got a developing situation down in Shelby County.”

Why am I not surprised? Virgil thought. “Tell me. Start at the beginning.”

“Lucy and I were going to go straight home to unpack and unwind. But we were driving right past the sheriff’s department in Shelbyville, and Lucy thought it might be a good idea to stop in and let Ed see her face…let him know that she was back and would be ready for work bright and early tomorrow morning.”

Virgil had to force himself not to roll his wrist at the phone—a bad habit he was trying to break. “Okay, nothing wrong with that.”

“Yeah, I thought the same thing,” Rosencrantz said. “But when we walked inside—I wanted to say hi to Ed myself—you could tell right away that something was off.”

Murton leaned forward and said, “How so?”

“There was only one deputy in the entire building—some new guy…Lucy says his name is DeWitt, or DeWayne, or something like that—and he was sort of freaking out. Said the entire department is out running a grid and looking for both Ed and the undersheriff, Bill Kelly. The only information we have right now is that they left about three hours ago—I guess they were going out to meet with Tony at the cultural center—and neither of them are answering the radio or their individual cell phones. I’ve already spoken with Tony and Patty, and both of them said they never showed.”

“Ask Lucy if she knows if Ed ever followed through with his promise of installing trackers on the squad cars,” Murton said.

“I already did,” Rosencrantz said. “She says he was going to, but when he looked at the cost again, he changed his mind.”

Virgil swore under his breath, then looked at Murton and made a circular motion with his index finger. As he was doing that, he said, “Hang on, Rosie,” before he punched the Hold button on his phone.

Murton knew exactly what his brother wanted. He pulled out his phone and stepped from the room. As he was doing that, Virgil looked at Cora and raised his eyebrows.

“We’ve covered everything we need to for now,” Cora said. “Go do your thing. I’ll get in touch with the superintendent of the Indiana state police and see if he can run a couple of units out that way. Better safe than sorry.”

Virgil turned to Baker. “Get Cora back to the statehouse. On your way, call Mayo and have him meet you there, then head down to the Shelby County sheriff’s department. Murt and I will be on our way in just a few minutes.”

Baker gave Virgil a nod, then she and Cora left the room. Murton came back in and said, “Cool is on his way, but he says it’s going to be thirty minutes until he arrives, and at least another thirty to get the chopper ready to go.”

“Okay, looks like we’re driving. Call him back and tell him when he gets down there to start flying a grid between the cultural center and the station house. If we can get Tony on board with him, it’ll be two sets of eyes. See if you can make that happen, will you?”

“I already did, Jonesy. Tony is ready and waiting.”

Virgil felt like sometimes Murton could read his mind. “Good, good. Get someone from the front desk to pull my Rover out of the hangar.”

“That’s done as well,” Murton said.

Virgil glanced out the conference room window and saw his Range Rover parked on the tarmac, the driver’s door open, the engine idling. “What about Ross?”

Murton was already bringing up the number on his phone. “He’s my next call.”

Virgil hit the Hold button on his phone again and said, “Rosie, you still there?”

“Go ahead,” Rosencrantz said.

“Everyone we have is heading your way. With Henderson and Kelly missing, as of this minute you’re in charge of the department. Let the deputies know the governor is aware of the situation and that the state is involved. If you get any pushback, which I don’t think you will, tell everybody the order came through me, directly from Cora. We’ll be down there as soon as we can. Cool is going to grab Stronghill from the cultural center and start his search from there.”

“Want me to run the route from here?” Rosencrantz asked.

Virgil and Murton were walking out of the FBO and headed for the Range Rover. “Hang on,” Virgil said. They got into the vehicle, buckled up, and then Virgil switched over to the Rover’s speaker while shifting into Drive, the blue lights behind the grill already flashing as he pulled through the gate and onto the airport road. “It’s your call, but right now what that department needs is leadership, and you’re it. You know Ed better than anyone, but I think it’s best if we let the guys who have local knowledge of the county handle the search until we can get some sort of coordination in place. We can talk about it more when we’re together. If you and Lucy could start pulling the deputies’ individual daily reports, we might find something that happened while we were gone. If you come up with anything that ties in, it could give us a direction moving forward.”

“I’m on it,” Rosencrantz said. “See you soon.”

Virgil killed the call and focused on his driving. Once they were on 465, Murton looked over at his brother and said, “I don’t know about you, but⁠—”

Then Murton got cut off because Virgil’s phone rang yet again, and just before he answered, he glanced at the screen and said, “Carl, whatever it is, it’ll have to wait.”

“I don’t think this can wait, Jonesy.”

Murton saw the look on his brother’s face when Johnson spoke, so he took over the call. “Carl, it’s Murt. You’re on speaker with both of us. We’ve got a little situation developing down in your neck of the woods. We’re headed that way now. Jonesy is driving. Talk to me.”

When Johnson spoke, the relief in his voice was evident. “Thank God. I knew I could count on you guys. Who told you what was happening?”

“Rosie called us not long ago. We’ll be there in less than an hour.”

“Rosie? How the hell did he find out?”

Murton was suddenly confused. “Carl…what, exactly, are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Mike,” Johnson said.

Virgil and Murton exchanged a quick glance before Virgil refocused on the road and said, “We don’t know anything about Mike, Carl. We’re working something else that just came up. Ed Henderson and the undersheriff are both missing.”

“Then they ain’t the only ones,” Johnson said. “I can’t find my farmhand, Mike Grey. I told him to take care of something for me and it’s like he got sucked right off the face of the earth. I’m at my place right now, and Grey ain’t nowhere to be found.”

“Did you try to reach him on his cell?” Murton said.

“He don’t carry one. Never has.”

“Where does he live?”

“He rents an old farmhouse from me…about a half-mile down the road. And before you ask, I already been there and didn’t find hide nor hair of him.”

“Did you go inside?” Murton asked.

“Of course I did. I own the place. It don’t matter though, because he ain’t there.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Murton saw Virgil shaking his head in dismay. “Okay, listen, Carl, we’re on our way. Stay put at your place and we’ll get there as soon as we can.”

Johnson said he would, then ended the call. Murton looked at Virgil and said, “What the hell is it with that place? It’s like the entire county is cursed or something.”

Virgil bumped his speed up, then said, “Get with Mayo. Have him and Baker run out to Johnson’s place first and take a look around before they meet us at the station. I don’t know what’s going on, but I hope Henderson and Kelly didn’t walk into something.”

“Even if they did, how would Grey fit into any of it? He runs Carl’s hog farm.”

Virgil didn’t have an answer. Who would?

CHAPTER NINETEEN

As they drove, Murton put a call in to his wife and said, “Are you home yet?”

Becky could hear the tension in her husband’s voice. “Yes, we are. What’s the matter?”

“We’ve got some people missing down in Shelby County. Rosencrantz called it in. He and Lucy are at the station house now, and the rest of us are on our way.”

“Who’s missing?”

“Henderson, along with his undersheriff…a guy named Bill Kelly. Also, Carl Johnson can’t find his farmhand, Mike Grey.”

“What do you need from me?” Becky said.

“Head over to your office at the bar. I’m going to text you Ed’s number. See if you can ping his phone. I’ll get you Kelly’s as soon as we arrive, or you can call Lucy. She probably either has it, or knows where to find it.”

“I’ll make the call and get moving right now. Let me drop Ellie Rae off with Huma, and I’ll go straight in. What about Grey? Does anyone have his number?”

“Carl told us he doesn’t carry a cell phone—probably the only guy on the planet who doesn’t—so I’m not sure how we’re going to work that angle.”

“Okay, let me get going,” Becky said. “I’ll shoot you a text when I get there.”

“Good enough,” Murton said. “I know Nichole is staying in town for at least a few days, so that means Nicky should be available to help you out…if you need it.”

“I’ll call him as soon as I get Ellie Rae settled,” Becky said.

“Good enough. Be careful, Becks.”

“Always.” And then Becky was gone.

Grant did everything that Hammond had told him to do, then waited outside by the truck and trailer. He couldn’t stand to watch his only friend get carved up as spare parts for someone else. An hour later, Hammond opened the door, stepped outside, then walked over to where Grant stood. “Our East Chicago friends will be waiting for you tonight. Same place and time. That means you don’t have to leave right away.”

“So what am I supposed to do in the meantime?” Grant said.

“Martin, you don’t sound very happy for a man who just doubled his take-home pay.”

“Maybe because it has something to do with how it happened.”

“I understand,” Hammond said. “I really do. But sometimes life only gives you so many choices, and we did what had to be done. He murdered two police officers.”

“He only kilt the one. The other just got shot up in the legs.”

“Nevertheless, if we were to let any of that lead back here, our own lives would be over. Ask yourself this: Would you rather let Robert go, or spend the rest of your days sitting in a cell on death row, waiting to be strapped down to a table with a needle in your vein?”

“I don’t think them are the only two options. We could have found someone else.”

“You’re missing my point, young man. Could we have found someone else? Yes, I believe we could have. But that comes with its own risks, and given the nature of Robert’s decline in discipline and his lack of good choices, I’m positive we’ve made the right decision.” Hammond put his hand on Grant’s shoulder and said, “I feel for you, and your loss. I really do. But with our own lives on the line, it’s every man for himself at this point, and that includes you.”

“I don’t want to talk about it no more, Doc. I don’t even want to think about it.”

Hammond dropped his hand from Grant’s shoulder. “I understand, Martin. By this time tomorrow everything will look different. Right now though, we need to load the bodies and a few bags of lye in the front bucket of the Kubota. While you’re digging the grave, I’m going to clean out the exam room. And speaking of the grave, make sure you make it deep enough for two bodies. Once we’ve finished all that, it’ll be time for you to make the delivery. You’ve done it by yourself before when Robert was incarcerated, so I don’t anticipate any problems in that regard. Let’s focus on the task at hand, Martin. It’s our only way forward.”

Grant walked away without saying a word. He climbed up on the Kubota’s seat and started moving the tractor over toward the exam room’s overhead door. Hammond watched him the entire time, all the while wondering if by solving one problem, he had just created another.

It was something to think about.

Huma took Ellie Rae, and as Becky was driving toward the bar she brought up Nicky’s number and gave him a call.

“Hey, Beck-a-roo,” Nicky said. “I already know something is going on because Mayo took off out of here like his hair was on fire.”

“So you’re at the bar?”

“Yup. Sitting here waiting for Emily to get back, which I’m also guessing won’t be anytime soon.”

“Don’t really know yet,” Becky said. “Is my system up?”

“Yeah, it is. How can I help?”

“We’ve got three people missing down in Shelby County. One is a civilian, and the others are Ed Henderson and Bill Kelly. Henderson is the sheriff, and Kelly is his second-in-command. The only number I have right now is Henderson’s, but I’ll be getting Kelly’s very soon. I’m going to send you Henderson’s and I’m hoping we can get a location.”

“What about the third number?”

“There isn’t one,” Becky said.

“Okay, how far out are you?”

“Probably fifteen to twenty minutes. Listen, I’ve got back doors into all the major carriers, so…”

Nicky wasn’t surprised. “Yes, I saw that. I don’t know if you’re aware of this or not, but you left a little trail in Verizon’s system. Nothing major, but I did a little housekeeping and cleaned it up for you.”

“Thanks,” Becky said. “The number will be on its way in about two minutes. Figure out which carrier he uses, and get what you can.”

“I’m on it,” Nicky said, then ended the call.

On the drive down to Shelby County, Murton spent the time telling Virgil the story of Robert’s past. He finished by saying, “So that’s the genesis of how Delroy and Robert became like brothers.”

Virgil was intrigued by the tale. “I always knew there was more to his story. I mean, that’s true of just about everyone, but I didn’t know how Robert lost his mom, or that Delroy’s father died saving Robert’s dad. To be honest, all I ever knew was that Delroy’s mother raised both of them until they were young men.”

“Delroy never spoke to you about any of it?”

“Not really,” Virgil said. “He told me about how he lost his mother, Hazel. This was years ago, way back when I was working the original case against the Wellses and the Pates. Anyway, he told me about how Hazel died. In fact, now that I think about it, they weren’t even young men at the time. I think he said they were only fourteen when she was killed.”

Murton nodded. “Yeah, I remember you telling me that part of the story after everything got put to bed with the case. How’d you like to be just fourteen years old and living on your own? It’s amazing those guys turned out the way they did.”

“They might not have made it if they didn’t have each other,” Virgil said.

“The same could be said about you and me, Virg.”

Virgil glanced over at his brother. “Yeah, at least twenty times over, by my count.” Then to keep them on track, Virgil added, “So, did Chip say anything else about Robert’s father?”

“No, he didn’t. I don’t think there was really much more to say. The bottom line is no one really knows what became of the man. The common consensus is that he either died during the hurricane, or was caught up in the riots. I guess it was pretty bad back then, especially in and around Kingston.”

They’d just crossed into Shelbyville and were getting ready to turn in to the sheriff’s station when they heard the thump of rotor blades overhead. Murton ducked down in his seat and looked out the side window of the Range Rover. “There goes Cool. Looks like he’s running hard.”

“Let’s hope he can spot something. Looking for missing cops from the ground is about as tough as it gets.”

Virgil dumped the Rover right at the front door of the station house, then he and Murton ran up the steps and into the building.

When they made it inside, the look on Rosencrantz’s face told them everything they needed to know. “We’ve got nothing,” Rosencrantz said. “Ed’s gun is in its holster and hanging from a branch of the coat tree in his office. Neither he nor Kelly signed out when they left, so we don’t have the exact time.”

“Did you check with Patty about why they were going out to the center?”

“Yeah…no help there,” Rosencrantz said. “At least none that I can see. I guess some of the Native Americans had left recently without returning to the rez, and when that happens, Tony has to file a report with Ed’s department. It’s really just a clerical thing. I can’t quite figure out how it factors into anything, other than the fact that Henderson and Kelly went out together to pick up the paperwork. Sort of a waste of resources in my opinion.”

“Why would they both go?” Murton asked.

“I have no idea,” Rosencrantz said. “And before anyone asks, we don’t know what to make of Grey’s disappearance. There’s no way to tell if he’s connected to any of this, or it’s all one giant coincidence.”

Virgil turned to Lucy and said, “What about the daily reports. Is there anything at all that could point us in the right direction?”

Lucy shook her head. “Rosie and I have been going through them, and we haven’t seen anything that jumps out at us. It’s all pretty basic stuff. Traffic stops, the usual domestics, some court appearances for a few of the deputies, a couple of minor vehicular accidents…like that. Certainly nothing anyone could point to and say, ‘Yep, here it is.’”

Ross jogged into the lobby and said, “Here what is?”

“A whole lot of nothing,” Virgil said. “Welcome to the party, young man.”

“Where do you want me?”

Virgil turned to Rosencrantz, who said, “I just spoke with Mayo. He and Baker are interviewing Carl Johnson right now, so we’re good there. I think the best use of resources at this point is to get as many people out looking as we can. Ross and I can go together, and Jonesy, if you and Murt can start as well, we’ll have four more sets of eyes out there.”

Virgil looked at Lucy. “You okay to run the show here?”

“Yes, absolutely,” Lucy said. “I’ll keep trying their phones.”

Rosencrantz gave his girlfriend a quick kiss goodbye, then all four men headed out. Just before they got into their respective vehicles, Virgil went over to Ross and Rosencrantz and said, “Rosie, you know Ed better than any of us. Give me your gut on this one. Do Henderson and Kelly tie in with Grey?”

Rosencrantz looked at nothing for a few seconds, then said, “I have exactly zero proof to back up what I’m about to say, but I’m leaning 60-40 toward yes.”

“Why?” Virgil said.

Rosencrantz shook his head. “I can’t answer that, other than to ask you this: How is it that three guys we all know—or at the very least, know of—go missing on the same day, within hours of each other?”

“Okay, you and Ross head over to Johnson’s and see if Baker and Mayo have anything. If they don’t…if there’s nothing to be had in the moment with Grey, we’ve got to let him go for now. You don’t have to let Carl know that, but Henderson and Kelly are the priority.”

Ross gave Virgil a look. “That almost sounds like we’re writing him off…Grey.”

“No, no, no,” Virgil said quickly. “I shouldn’t have used the word priority. But the fact of the matter is this: Henderson and Kelly were together when they left, so chances are they’re still together. Let Baker and Mayo focus on Grey.”

“In what way?” Ross said.

Virgil knew where Ross was going, and didn’t want to entertain the idea. “Ross…”

Ross held his palms out. “I’m simply saying that we’ve got two cops and one civilian missing all at the same time. So ask yourself this: In what other scenario would we not look at the civilian through a very specific lens?”

Rosencrantz was nodding at Virgil. “I hate to say it, but⁠—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Virgil said. “You’re right. But go easy on the whole thing will you? It won’t sit well with Carl, and for good reason. Let’s not overplay our hand.”

Both men assured Virgil they’d handle the situation as delicately as possible, then headed out toward Johnson’s farm.

When Virgil climbed into the Rover, he saw that Murton had the nav screen up and it was showing two different routes from the station house out to the cultural center.

Virgil quickly filled Murton in on the conversation he’d had with Ross only seconds ago. “What do you think about what he said? Ross, I mean. I’m having trouble imagining a scenario where Grey gets mixed up with two missing cops.”

“I can’t either,” Murton said. “But just because we can’t imagine it doesn’t mean it isn’t true. That’s my way of saying for better or worse, Ross’s statement is, at the very least, accurate. Who knows, maybe they’ll be able to eliminate Grey somehow right out of the gate.”

“Let’s hope,” Virgil said. “Although, that doesn’t necessarily mean Grey’s situation—if he has one—is going to be much better.”

“Is what it is, Jones-man.” Murton pointed at the Rover’s nav screen. “I thought we’d run one route out, and take the other back. Gonna need to go slow and check the ditches. Any thoughts on which one to try first?”

Virgil looked at the routes for a few seconds, then said, “Tell me the first three things that pop into your head about Henderson as a sheriff.”

“On the plus-side, I’d say loyal above all else. On the negative-side, I’m going to have to go with overwhelmed in the position, and under-appreciated by not only his deputies, but his superiors on the council.”

“That about sums it up,” Virgil said. “Let’s take the indirect route.”

“What’s your thinking?” Murton said.

Virgil got buckled in and said, “Sounds like maybe Ed wanted to get out of the office for a while and have a talk with Kelly.” He dropped the Rover in gear, then turned out of the lot.

“Sounds like a crapshoot to me.” Murton said.

Virgil nodded. “It absolutely is. But it’s all I’ve got. Besides, remember what you told me in Jamaica just before we walked up to the Brenner property?”

“Yeah, I do,” Murton said. “I said that you’re a lucky guy. Let’s hope it’s true.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

All pilots are trained to navigate in the same way regardless of which type of aircraft they might be flying, and in that regard, Richard Cool was no different from any other aviator. So when he touched down at the Shelby County cultural center, he did the same thing Murton had done in the Range Rover before leaving the Shelby County Sheriff’s Station. He plotted out the two most obvious routes that Henderson and Kelly would have taken…the only real difference was that the aviation map display in the helicopter had much more sophistication and detail than that of the Rover. When Cool checked the distances, he saw that one route was slightly longer than the other, and the pilot part of his brain told him to do what he’d been trained to do from the first time he ever sat in an aircraft: He took the most direct route available.

He’d just finished punching in his coordinates when Tony Stronghill climbed into the back of the helicopter, closed the door, got himself buckled in, and put on a headset. He pulled the microphone close to his lips, tapped Cool on the shoulder and said, “Ready when you are.”

Cool got the helicopter’s engine wound back up, and ten seconds later they were airborne and following the country roads at no more than twenty feet above treetop level, back toward Shelbyville, searching for Henderson’s squad car. Stronghill watched both sides of the road, while Cool made sure they stayed clear of any obstacles. When they got to the first intersection, Cool hovered in place for a few seconds, letting the helicopter rotate in a slow 360-degree turn to check the crossroads, and when he heard Stronghill say, ‘Clear,’ Cool banked to the left and kept going right down the center of the road, giving Stronghill a perfect view of both ditches on either side of the craft.

As the crow flies—or in this case, the state’s helicopter—they missed the old abandoned barn by exactly one half of a country mile.

When Ross and Rosencrantz turned in to Carl Johnson’s drive, they saw him talking with Baker and Mayo, his body language and gestures indicative of a man who was genuinely confused. He kept pointing at his barn, then off in the distance, then back at the barn, the whole time removing and then replacing the faded green John Deere hat on his head.

When Johnson saw them pull in, he walked over to the squad car and said, “You guys find anything on Mike yet?”

Ross and Rosencrantz climbed out of their vehicle before either man spoke. Ross looked at Johnson and said, “Nothing yet, Carl, but the deputies have all been made aware of the fact that he’s missing, and they’re searching for him just as hard as they are for Henderson and Kelly.”

“It just don’t make no sense to me,” Johnson said. “It’s like I told Virgil on the phone. When I ask Mike to do something, he does it. He don’t ask no questions, or give me no truck about anything…ever. He just does it. In fact, the only time he does ask any questions is if he don’t understand something, or if he needs my permission to spend some money out of the operational fund.”

Rosencrantz was taking notes as Johnson spoke. He finished writing down what he’d heard, then said, “Carl, we’ll find him. I’m sure of it. But catch us up, will you? Tell us about Mike’s day.”

Mayo cleared his throat and said, “Baker and I already got the background, Rosie.”

Rosencrantz didn’t want to step on anyone’s toes, so he nodded his approval at Mayo, then said, “Thank you. Good work. But I’d like to hear it for myself just to make sure we’re all on the same page.” Then to Johnson: “Carl?”

“I been out at the drill site all day because we was moving a couple of rigs. Before I left this morning I had a talk with Mike about exactly two things: One, we discussed how many of the hogs was ready to go to the slaughterhouse, and two, Mike told me that we needed a new part for the automated feeder system. Before I left to go to the cultural center, I told him to move the hogs we was gonna transfer into a separate pen, even though he knows to do that anyway. I also told him once he had that done to run down to the supply house over in Decatur County to get the parts we needed for the feeder.”

“And did he do all that?” Ross said.

“Sort of. He got the hogs separated…I noticed that first thing when I got back here to check on him. I thought maybe he’d gotten himself injured or some such, but when I seen the farm truck and one of the trailers missing I decided I got all worked up over nothing. But that didn’t make no sense either because when the vet called me, he made it sound like something was wrong.”

“What vet?” Baker said. “You didn’t mention a vet to us.”

“That’s because the vet was just the messenger. I know him from the cultural center. He started there not long ago.” Then he turned to Rosencrantz and continued with, “Anyway, that goat…the one that caused Betty to have her heart attack? Ever since you and Lucy brung it to me, that little thing has been following me around at the center like a duckling that lost its mamma. It never bothered me much because if we ain’t moving a rig, I spend most of my time in the shop.”

“Still not seeing how the vet works into anything,” Ross said.

Johnson sighed like a kid who’d been asked to explain something when it wasn’t necessary. “Ain’t you keeping up? That’s how I knew something was wrong. Doc—he’s the vet, in case you ain’t put them particular parts together yet—called me and said the goat was actually his. We had a little laugh about the mixup and how it all happened because I was sort of embarrassed by the whole thing, but we got it sorted out.”

“How, exactly?” Mayo said.

“He told me he was sending two of his farmhands out to the center to fetch it from me, but I told him not to bother because the goat stayed here today on account of I was working out in the field, and I didn’t want it to get underfoot. So I told him I’d have Mike drop it off at his place since he was going over to Decatur County anyways. Told him it’d be a couple of hours, but Doc called me about three to four hours later and said Mike never showed. That’s why I called Virgil.”

Baker—who wasn’t completely up to speed on the nuances of everyone’s relationships—asked Johnson a question. “Is that something you’d normally do, Mr. Johnson?”

“I ain’t sure what you’re asking.”

“I understand your concern regarding your farmhand, but I’m wondering why your first call would be to the lead detective with the state’s Major Crimes Unit.”

“Virgil wasn’t my first call. I called the sheriff’s office, but no one answered the phone. And since Virgil, in a roundabout way, is my boss in the drilling operation, I just went straight to the top...and here we are.”

Rosencrantz looked at Johnson and said, “I was told you went to Mike’s house and he wasn’t there. Do I have that right?”

“You do, and he ain’t,” Johnson said. “And since I know you’re gonna ask, before I called the sheriff’s office—and then Virgil, I checked with the supply house and they say Mike never showed up.”

Rosencrantz turned to Mayo and said, “Give the supply house another call. He might have simply had a flat tire or some other sort of breakdown. See if maybe he’s come and gone since Carl called.”

“Waste of time,” Johnson said. “Since Mike don’t carry no cell phone, we use two-way radios. If he’d had a breakdown, he would have contacted me that way, and since he ain’t, I don’t think he did.”

“Let’s make the call anyway,” Rosencrantz said. “It never hurts to be thorough.”

Mayo made the call to the supply house—which took all of sixty seconds—then looked at Rosencrantz and shook his head.

Rosencrantz turned to Baker. “Get with Becky and see if she can run a quick check with the area hospitals…both in Shelby and Decatur counties.”

Baker said she would, then stepped away to make the call. Less than a minute later she was back. “Becky says she’s on it. I guess Nicky is helping her at the bar, so they should know pretty quick.”

“Good enough,” Rosencrantz said. He turned to Johnson and said, “Carl, I’d like you to wait here at your place in case Mike shows up. I assume you’ve been trying him on the two-way?”

“I have,” Johnson said. “But he ain’t answering.”

“Okay, well, keep trying,” Rosencrantz said. “The rest of us are going to go out and join the search.”

Ross leaned close to his partner and said, “Can I have a word?”

Both men stepped away…out of earshot of the others. Once they were clear, Ross said, “Aren’t we going to push him?”

“Not yet,” Rosencrantz said. “There’s no upside to it…at least none that I can see. Carl has given us everything he has, and if we start to implicate his man before we find Henderson and Kelly, the whole thing will go south on us. I think we should leave it alone for now. We can always come back to it if we need to.”

Ross wasn’t quite ready to give up. “Look, I know it isn’t very likely, but what if Grey actually is involved in the disappearance of Kelly and Henderson?”

“I’m not arguing against your point, partner. What I’m saying is that if he is involved, pumping Carl for information he probably doesn’t have isn’t going to help. We’ve got to let this one play out naturally.”

Ross didn’t like it, but he knew his partner’s thinking was sound. “Okay. I hope you’re right.”

They walked back over to the group, and Johnson looked at Ross and said, “What was all that about?”

“An unrelated personal matter,” Ross lied.

Johnson looked at no one and said, “I ain’t got a good feeling about any of this. I think something bad is happening.”

Since Virgil and Murton had taken the more indirect route from the sheriff’s station out to the cultural center while Cool and Stronghill had taken the shorter route, they all ended up within a mile of each other back near the center itself, mainly because the search from the air went much quicker than the one on the ground.

Murton saw the helicopter approaching up ahead and pointed out the front window.

“Yeah, I see him,” Virgil said.

They were less than a mile from the cultural center when Murton just happened to glance to his left and noticed a truck and trailer sitting next to an old abandoned barn about fifty yards back from the road, the driver’s door hanging open, and no one in sight. “What color are Johnson’s farm trucks?”

“Green, like everything else he owns and wears,” Virgil said with a smile. Then the nav screen on the Range Rover’s center display went away and showed an incoming call from Becky.

“Stop the car, Virg,” Murton said. “Take a look out your side window.”

Virgil did as Murton asked while he answered the phone by pushing the button on the Range Rover’s steering wheel. “What is it, Becky?”

“We’ve got their phones. Nicky and I are looking at the overlay as we speak. You guys are practically right on top of them.”

Virgil’s smile didn’t last long.

Cool saw Virgil’s vehicle up ahead, then watched as it turned down a dirt lane that led back to a barn…one that looked like if the wind blew just right, the entire structure would be reduced to a pile of rubble. He let the helicopter crab sideways toward the barn, and as soon as they were about halfway there, Stronghill, in a voice that sounded like someone might have just asked him the time, said, “Got it. Eleven o’clock. Tucked up tight, right behind the barn.”

When Cool heard that, he let his altitude bleed off—not that he had much to play with anyway—and banked hard to line the helicopter up with the back of the barn. Virgil and Murton drove right past the truck and trailer and dumped the Rover near the side of the structure just as Cool touched down. Stronghill jumped out, ran over, and reached the squad car about five seconds ahead of Virgil and Murton. He was careful not to touch anything, but he leaned close enough to look inside the vehicle. “Nothing. It’s empty. Keys are still in the ignition.”

Murton ran back to the Range Rover and grabbed a handful of gloves. He gave a pair to Stronghill and Virgil, then slipped into his own. Cool locked down the controls of the helicopter, left the engine running, then ran over. “You got them?”

Stronghill circled the squad car and stopped at the rear of the vehicle. “The dash cam has been stripped out. We’ve got blood on the trunk and rear bumper.”

Virgil—who’d been clenching his jaw without realizing it—said, “Fuck,” through his teeth. Then to Murton: “Grab the keys. We gotta pop it.”

Murton opened the driver’s door, pulled the keys and tossed them to Virgil. By the time he got to the back of the car, the lid was just coming up, and all three men found themselves staring at the lifeless body of Undersheriff Bill Kelly.

Cool turned away, then turned right back. “Where’s Ed?”

“He’s here,” Virgil said. “He’s gotta be here. Becky said we were right on top of him. Cool, you and Tony go check out that truck and trailer. Try not to contaminate the area. Murt, let’s check the barn.”

Everyone ran toward the front of the barn, but then they all stopped at once because it was obvious what they were looking at. Virgil and Murton had driven right past without noticing.

Two bloody heel tracks led straight toward the door. When they yanked it open, they saw Henderson leaning against the support beam, his hands behind his back, his legs soaked in blood, his chin against his chest, and as Virgil took it all in he felt his heart begin to form another scar. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard Sandy’s voice and the words she’d spoken while they were still in Jamaica. It’s not like we’d be moving to Mars. It’s a second home in a place you’ve always loved.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Murton pushed past his brother and ran over to Henderson and got right down in the dirt with him. He put two fingers to the side of his friend’s neck for a few seconds, then turned and shouted at Cool. “Give me your belt, Rich, then get that chopper as close as you can to the front door.”

Cool stripped off his belt, tossed it to Murton, then ran outside.

“Both of his knees have been shot out,” Murton said. “It looks like he’s lost a lot of blood, but he’s still got a pulse. It’s very weak, but it’s there.” Then to Virgil and Tony: “Belts, both of you, right now. Then find me four pieces of wood, or whatever you can to make splints. Broomsticks, slats, pipe, anything. About two feet in length. Make it quick.”

Both men pulled off their belts and dropped them next to Murton, then began grabbing anything they could find that would help keep Henderson’s legs straight. Tony found an old push broom, then swung it hard against the side of a vertical support beam, snapping the business end of the broom off. Then he held it in both hands and cracked it over his knee like a major league ball player who’d just struck out with the bases loaded at the bottom of the ninth.

Virgil yanked two of the barn’s slats from the interior wall, driving a splinter into his right palm in the process. Then Murton unbuckled his own belt and went to work. “Okay, one leg at a time.”

Virgil noticed that Henderson’s hands were bound behind his back. “Maybe we should un-cuff him first and get him flat.”

Murton knew his brother was simply trying to help, but it wasn’t what he wanted in the moment. “Not yet. If he wakes up from the pain—and he probably will—we need him restrained for a minute because he’ll probably try to fight against us.”

Virgil got down next to Henderson on the opposite side of Murton and said, “Tell us what to do.” In the background, they heard the level of noise change as Cool repositioned the helicopter closer to the front of the barn. As soon as he touched back down, he locked the controls, then got the side door open and ready.

Murton put the splints on either side of Henderson’s left leg, then slid one of the belts under and around the sheriff’s leg, just below his knee, then ran it through the buckle and pulled it tight. Then he did the same with his other leg before he began to secure the tops of the splints to both thighs. As he was doing that, he looked at Virgil and said, “Jonesy, I need one more belt to keep his legs together. Get Ed’s unbuckled. C’mon, let’s not waste any time here.”

Virgil got Henderson’s belt undone and pulled it free. He handed it to Murton and said, “He isn’t waking up.”

Murton slipped the last belt around Henderson’s knees and said, “He’s about to.” Then he pulled the belt tight, pinning Henderson’s shattered knees together against the splints.

Henderson lifted his head and bounced it back—hard—against the beam, his eyes wide with shock and pain. Then he screamed…a long painful wail, before he passed out again.

Murton unhooked the cuffs, and together—as gently as they possibly could—they all carried Henderson over to the helicopter and got him on board. Murton climbed in and said, “Tony, I’m going to need you with me. We’ve got to keep him still and we may have to do CPR.” Then he looked at his brother. “I gotta leave you alone, Virgil.”

“I’ll have plenty of people out here in about ten minutes,” Virgil said. Then he looked at Cool, and as he was pulling the door closed, he shouted, “Go, go, go.”

As soon as they were airborne, Cool half-turned in his seat and said, “I know the Shelbyville Hospital is closer, but I called Julia when I repositioned the chopper. She’s on her way right now and will have a full surgical team waiting at Methodist. It’s your call, Murt.”

Murton ripped off his headset and put his ear on Henderson’s chest. He knew in the moment that his friend needed the best possible care, but he also needed to be stabilized quickly or he’d be in real trouble. Then, as if he were channeling Virgil’s being, he lifted his head from Henderson’s chest and said, “How long?”

Cool—who was flying straight north—told him, and when Murton heard the answer, he put his ear against Henderson’s chest again, listening as best he could to Henderson’s lungs and heart.

“C’mon, Murt,” Cool said. “I either need to make the turn, or keep going north. What’s it going to be?”

Murton knew it was a gamble, but he thought Henderson could make it. He put his headset back on, looked at Tony, said, “Call Lucy right now at the station house. Tell her to get into Ed’s personnel file and get his blood type. Once she has it, have her call Julia.”

Cool heard it all through the comms, and poured the power on, taking them right up to the red line on the airspeed indicator. Then he got on the radio and contacted Methodist and told them to make sure the helipad was clear.

Virgil started to work the phone. His first call was to Becky. “We’ve got them, Becks. It isn’t good.”

“Tell me.”

Virgil was walking toward the truck and trailer as he spoke, being careful to stay well clear of both the bloody path that led to the barn and what appeared to be the area where the shootings took place. “The undersheriff, Bill Kelly, is dead. Single GSW to the head. Someone shot him and then stuffed him in the trunk of the squad car. Henderson was hit in both of his knees. He’s alive, but it looks like he’s in pretty bad shape. Murt and Tony are with him in the helicopter. I don’t know if they went to Shelbyville, or up to Indy.”

There was a note of sadness in Becky’s voice when she spoke. “I’ll find out and let you know.”

“Do that,” Virgil said. “But first, get ahold of Chip and get him down here as soon as possible. That’s your first call. I need Chip. Then get Ross and Rosencrantz. Tell them what’s going on, and get them headed this way. Mayo and Baker as well.”

“Got it. What else?”

“Hang on a second.” Virgil had walked a wide arc from the barn over to the truck and trailer. He knew for sure who the truck belonged to as soon as he saw the door because the name was stenciled right on the side, just below the window: JOHNSON’S FARM & LIVESTOCK.

Virgil stuck his head inside the cab of the truck without touching anything. The only thing he saw was a handheld two-way radio. The radio’s display was dark, so Virgil thought it was either turned off or the battery was dead. He circled the front of the truck and though he knew he probably shouldn’t do it—the crime scene techs would have an outright conniption if they found out, but he let that thought go—he opened the passenger door, and as carefully as possible popped the glovebox open.

And the gun was right there. Virgil leaned over and sniffed the barrel—not the most scientific test in the world—but he could tell the gun had been fired recently. He left everything open and carefully backed away before bringing the phone up to his ear. “You still there?”

“I am,” Becky said. “I sent everyone a text message. They’re headed your way now. Chip said he’d be there within the hour at the latest.”

Off in the distance, Virgil could hear the faint sounds of sirens. They were still a ways off, but getting louder by the second. “Okay, listen…” Virgil let his voice trail away, mainly because he himself couldn’t believe what he was about to ask Becky to do.

“You there, Jonesy?”

“Yeah, sorry. I want you to do something, and I can’t begin to tell you how wrong I hope I am.”

“What do you need? I’ll get started right away.”

“I want you to run a deep dive on Carl Johnson’s farmhand, Mike Grey. I’m not sure what you’ll be able to find. The guy’s sort of a simpleton.” Then Virgil visibly winced at his own description of someone he thought was probably one of the most honest and genuine people on the planet. But Virgil also knew he’d been fooled before, so the wince went away almost as quickly as it appeared.

“You made that sound like he’s more of a suspect than a missing person,” Becky said.

“I know, Becks. I know. But I’ve got a dead Shelby County cop on site, another who is critically injured, and I’m standing next to one of Carl’s trucks. There’s a gun in the glove box that’s been recently fired, and Grey is nowhere to be found.”

Becky let out a sigh and said, “Okay, I’ll get started right now.”

If Virgil felt bad about Grey, what he said next made him feel even worse. “One more thing: You have access to the live feeds from the drill rigs, right?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Go back through today’s footage and make sure Carl Johnson was where he said he was.”

“Oh, Jonesy…”

“I know, I know. I don’t believe it any more than you do, but we absolutely have to check. It’s part of the job. If he was where he said he was, then we don’t have to mention it to anyone, okay?”

Becky said she’d look into it, then ended the call.

Virgil walked up the dirt path toward the road and as he was doing that, he put a call in to Cora. “How many troopers can you get me…as in right now?”

“You’ve got two down there as we speak. I can probably get the superintendent to give you a few more. Not sure how long it will take.”

Virgil gave Cora his exact location, then said he’d take whatever she could make happen.

“What’s going on?”

When Virgil told her what was happening, along with his thoughts on everything, she immediately understood. “I’ll make the call right now.”

Ross and Rosencrantz arrived first. Virgil held up his hand to stop the squad car before it turned onto the dirt path. Ross, who was at the wheel, buzzed his window down and said, “What gives? Becky told us to get out here right away.”

Virgil quickly filled both men in on the situation, then said, “Ross, you’re with me. Rosie, I need some things done, and they have to be done fast.”

“Whatever you say, Jonesy, you know that. But before you say anything else, what’s it looking like for Ed?”

“The truth is, I don’t know. Murt says he’s got a chance, but that’s all I’ve got right now. Hopefully we’ll know more before too long. In the meantime, I need you and Lucy at the station house. You’re still in charge of the entire department until you hear otherwise. Chip is on his way down here to print a weapon. I don’t know if it’s the gun that killed Kelly and took out Ed, but it’s been fired not long ago. As soon as that’s done, I’ll sign the chain-of-custody form and bring the gun and the prints to you. In the meantime, when you arrive at the station house, put out a radio call and get all the deputies back to the station and off the search. After you’ve pulled them in, have them wait there until I arrive. I need to sell them a story.”

“Why do you have to sell them on something?” Ross said.

“Because I’m trying to prevent a bunch of county cops from going rogue on us,” Virgil said. He turned slightly and pointed over his own shoulder. “Their undersheriff is dead, and Henderson is either going to make it or he won’t. That’s out of our hands. But that truck over there? It belongs to Carl Johnson, and I’m guessing that Mike Grey was driving it at one point today. If we end up with a bunch of cops breathing down Carl’s neck, or if Grey turns up and had nothing to do with any of this, we could have a real problem, and I don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

Ross got out of the driver’s seat, then Rosencrantz slid over and left the scene without saying another word.

As they were walking back toward the truck and trailer, Ross looked at Virgil and said, “You really think the county guys are going to give us trouble?”

Virgil shook his head. “It’s not us I’m worried about. It’s Mike and Carl.”

Virgil didn’t know it at the time, but there was someone else he needed to worry about, and they weren’t even on his radar. Not yet, anyway.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Mayo and Baker arrived a few minutes later and Virgil got them up to speed as well. Once that was done, he listened to their verbal report, then said, “Okay, I need the two of you to do something for me, and you’ve got to make it look like it’s no big deal.”

“What do you need?” Mayo said.

“Hang on. I’ll help you out with part of it.” Virgil pulled out his phone and called Johnson. “Carl, it’s Jonesy. Anything from Mike yet?”

“Nothing. He still ain’t answering his radio.”

I know, Virgil thought. I’m looking at it right now. “Keep trying every five minutes or so.” Virgil hated to do it, but he had to drop a couple of minor fibs into his next few statements. “Baker and Mayo are still actively looking for Mike. That’s their singular focus. I spoke with both of them not long ago and they mentioned that Mike’s residence actually belongs to you. Do I have that right?”

“Yeah, what of it?” Johnson said.

“I’d like your permission to search his place.”

“What for? I already told them, and I’m sure they told you, that I done went and looked. He ain’t there.”

Virgil was nodding into the phone as if Johnson could actually see him. “I know, Carl. But I don’t want them to search for Mike at the house. I need trained detectives to go through his place and look for anything they might be able to find that will help us locate him. Do I have your permission to do that?”

“Virgil, I ain’t no cop, but it seems like a waste of time, you ask me.”

“I’m looking for a yes or no here, Carl.”

“Yeah, yeah, go ahead and send them over. I hope they don’t tear the place up though. Believe it or not, Mike likes to keep things tidy.”

“They will be very respectful of his personal belongings and the property. Is the place locked up?”

“Not right now it ain’t. I got a key, and when I went over there earlier I left the back door open.”

“Good enough,” Virgil said. “I’ll let you know if they find anything at all that helps.” Then Virgil ended the call before he had to lie to his friend any further.

“What are you up to, Jonesy?” Baker said.

Virgil looked inside the truck again before he answered. “I’m trying to prove myself wrong.”

“In what way?”

“Carl told us that Mike was going to drop that goat off at the vet’s place, but instead here it sits—in Johnson’s trailer, hooked to his truck, no less—right in the middle of a murder scene. There’s a gun in the glove compartment that has been fired recently, and no one can find Mike Grey.”

Baker might have been new to the unit, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t do basic math. “You want us to go out to Grey’s place and get something that has his prints.” It wasn’t a question.

Virgil tipped a finger at her. “Yes. Glove up, get me whatever you think will work. A hairbrush, a tube of toothpaste, silverware, whatever. In fact, bring a bunch of everything. Bag it all separately and get it back here. As soon as Chip prints the gun, the items you guys gather will be used for comparison. I’m really hoping they don’t match.”

“What if they do?” Mayo said.

“Then we do what we’ve always done,” Virgil said. “Our jobs. Get going, and get it done quick, then get back here as fast as you can.”

“What do we do if Johnson shows up?” Baker said. “It’d be pretty hard to sell a guy on the idea that a tube of toothpaste, or whatever, is going to help us find Grey.”

“I told Carl to stay at his farm in case Mike shows up. I think he’ll do that because he’s genuinely worried about him.”

“And if he doesn’t take your advice?” Mayo said.

“That’s why I said be quick about it. In and out, then back here.”

Baker and Mayo said they’d handle it, then left Virgil and Ross alone to wait on the state troopers…and Chip Lawless.

While they were waiting, Ross looked at the bullet holes in the barn, then stepped inside. It only took him a few minutes to find a slug buried in one of the beams. He carefully removed it with his pocketknife, then dropped it into an evidence bag. As he was doing that, Virgil called Sandy and told her everything that was happening, and that he probably wouldn’t be home until late in the evening. “Tell the boys I’ll see them in the morning, will you? I’m sure they’ll be asleep by the time I get home.”

“Quite a way to end a vacation,” Sandy said.

“Yeah, I get it,” Virgil said. “I really do. Is everything okay at the house?”

“Everything is fine, Virg. What have you heard about Ed?”

“I haven’t spoken with Murt since he left, and he isn’t back yet, so nothing more than what I’ve already told you. Hopefully we’ll be getting some news soon.”

They spent a few more minutes talking about nothing in particular, then Virgil said, “I want you to know that I’m doing what you asked. I’m thinking about it. All of it.”

“I know you are, Virgil. But maybe you should let it go for now. Concentrate on your job. The last thing I want is for you to be distracted and end up getting hurt.”

“I’m fine. And I’m being careful. I promise.”

“Keep it up, mister. I love you.”

“I love you too, Sandy. Everything is going to work out just fine.”

Sandy sighed, then said, “Famous last words. Listen, I spoke with Becky, and she filled me in about everything as well. Huma is with the boys, and I’m already on my way over to the hospital to check on Ed.”

“Might be a wasted trip,” Virgil said. “I’m sure he’s still in surgery.”

“Maybe so, but he doesn’t have anyone there with him other than Murton, and it sounds like that won’t be for long. No one should be by themselves when they’re going through what Ed is.”

“And you wonder why I love you so much,” Virgil said.

Sandy laughed again and said, “No I don’t.” Then she hung up on her husband.

Virgil didn’t even have a chance to put his phone back in his pocket before it started buzzing at him. He smiled, then like a dope, answered without checking the screen. “See, you actually do wonder why I love you so much.”

There was a brief pause, then Allen Turkis said, “I’ve never actually let myself explore the possibility, and while I admire your tough-guy swagger and your intellectual prowess, I’m afraid you’re simply not my type. Since we’re both adults, I’m hopeful you won’t take it personally.”

Virgil felt himself turning red. “Uh, sorry, Allen. I thought you were someone else.”

“Your lovely wife or a close relative, I hope.”

“I just got off the phone with Sandy. And to be honest, I’m in the middle of something. How can I help you?”

“By wiring the money to the title company for the vacant building located next to your downtown watering hole.”

Virgil had already almost forgotten about what he’d asked Mac to do while they were in Jamaica, mainly because it seemed like a lifetime ago, even though it wasn’t. “Yes, yes, of course. Sorry. As I said, I’m working a case. How much do you need, and when?”

When Turkis told him the amount, Virgil nearly dropped his phone. “What? That can’t be right. That place used to be a dry cleaning business and has been sitting empty for nearly a year. Did you try to negotiate?”

“You didn’t leave me much room…or time, for that matter,” Turkis said. “According to Mac, you told him to have me—and I quote—lock it down and put everything under the bar’s name with a temporary lease that included an option to buy. If I’m not mistaken, you said you wanted it done by the time you returned from Jamaica. You are back from Jamaica, I take it?”

Virgil sighed and said, “Yes, Allen. I’m back.”

“Good. So wire the money to the title company and the building will be yours.”

“What’s the deadline?”

“End of business today.”

“Okay, send all the particulars to Becky, will you? I’ll have her take care of it.”

Turkis said he would, then ended the call.

Ross walked over and handed an evidence bag to Virgil.

“What’s this?” Virgil said.

“It’s what we in law enforcement like to refer to as evidence. It says so right on the bag.”

“Ross…”

“I dug it out of one of the support beams in the barn. Looks like a .357.”

Virgil looked at the slug, and said, “Yeah, it sure does.”

“What was all that on the phone? It sounded like bad news.”

Virgil shook his head. “Ah, it was just me, taking myself to the cleaners.”

Ross chuckled and said, “You’re speaking figuratively I hope.”

“Yes and no…in more ways than one.”

“That makes exactly zero sense,” Ross said.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re beginning to sound more and more like Murt?”

Ross shook his head “Nope. But ask yourself this: If you think the conversations between you and I are beginning to sound like the conversations between you and Murt, then I think we can solve the problem by reducing the whole thing down to the lowest common denominator.”

Virgil turned and saw the state troopers pulling up. He started that way, and over his shoulder said, “I don’t do fractions.”

Virgil was pleased to see four troopers, each with their own squad car. He didn’t recognize three of them, but he knew the fourth. He introduced himself to the other men, then turned to Dan Ringer—whom he’d worked with before—and said, “How are you, Troop?”

“Tired, unappreciated, overworked, and underpaid. I’m thinking of putting in for a transfer to your unit.”

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Virgil said. “We might be on the chopping block.”

“That’s the rumor,” Ringer said. “Can’t really believe it’s true.”

Virgil shrugged and said, “Politics. What can you do?” Then, without waiting for an answer: “Is there really a rumor going around?”

Ringer tipped his head slightly to the side. “Certain circles, if you know what I mean. Most of us don’t pay much attention to it. Your guys know yet?”

“No. I’m going to talk to everyone first chance I get.”

“I wouldn’t wait too long. Anyway, we got the word about the sheriff and his man. Sorry to hear it. What do you want from us?”

“You’re not going to like it, but I need guard duty more than anything right now. Two of you at either end of this road. No one gets through except MCU detectives and personnel until I say otherwise.”

Ringer, no dummy, said, “You’re locking the county guys out?”

“Don’t really have a choice at this point,” Virgil said. “Henderson is shot to hell…I don’t even know if he’s going to make it, Kelly is dead, and I’ve got one of my detectives running the Shelby County guys for now. We’ve got exactly one lead, and if they find out who it is, I don’t want a bunch of cops going off half-cocked and looking for revenge. The lead is a little iffy, and based on what we know at this point, it could all be a big bag of nothing.”

“That sounds like you’ve got it worse than us,” Ringer said. “I’ll stick with the drunks and speeders. I hereby withdraw my pseudo thought-request for a spot with the MCU.” Then he turned at the sound of an approaching vehicle.

The sun was getting low on the horizon, and when Virgil looked that way, he had to shield his eyes with his hand. As the car got closer, he said, “That’s my crime scene guy. Let him through, then take up your positions. With a little luck, you’ll be out of here before nightfall.”

Ringer poked Virgil in the chest and said, “The quicker the sooner, hotshot.” Then they all got in their squad cars and took up positions to block the road at both ends.

When Ringer called him hotshot, it made Virgil think of his long lost friend, Rick Said, and all the sadness that had come with the job. As Lawless pulled up, he lowered his window and said, “Becky says you’ve got something that needs to be printed right away? Hey, Jonesy? You okay?”

Baker and Mayo did exactly as Virgil had asked. When they got to Grey’s house, they went in with a handful of evidence bags and collected a number of personal items from nearly every room in the house. Once they were done, they had twelve things they thought would be usable, and ended up getting in and out in under twenty minutes. By the time they returned to the murder scene, Lawless had lifted the prints from the gun and had already sent digital copies to Becky so she could run them through the state’s database.

She and Virgil were on the phone talking it over. “Do you know if Grey has ever been printed?” Becky asked. “I’ve got a sequence running on him for background, but it’s not finished yet.”

“I have no idea,” Virgil said. “I’m guessing no. He’s never been in any trouble that I know of, and he’s always struck me as a pretty decent guy. I know for a fact that he never served in the military because he’s been working for Carl ever since we first met…way back on the Decker case, and he wasn’t yet old enough to drive.”

“Man, I don’t even like to hear that guy’s name,” Becky said. “Anyway, the prints from the gun have been uploaded, so I’ll let you know if we get a hit. The hospitals don’t have any record of Grey being admitted.”

“Okay, thanks, Becks. I gotta go.”

“Hold on, I’m not done yet. Would you mind explaining to me why Allen Turkis wants an insane amount of money wired to a title company on behalf of the bar?”

“It’s for the building next door…the one that’s vacant. We’re buying it.”

“Why?”

“I’m beginning to wonder that myself.”

“You’re not making any sense. Did you bump your head again?”

“No,” Virgil said. He dragged the word out into four syllables. “The building is a place for the MCU to operate out of since we can’t keep using the bar. I thought it was a good idea.”

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the idea,” Becky said. “What I’m wondering is this: Why does the money have to come out of the bar’s operating fund?”

Virgil shrugged, even though Becky couldn’t see him. “I wanted it to happen quickly. If we waited for the insurance to pay out on the old building, we’d be working out of a state police post. I don’t want that, and I’m pretty sure no one else does either, so send the money by end of business today—which is approaching rapidly, I might add—and we’ll figure out the particulars later. Allen said it won’t be a problem.”

“That’s because Allen doesn’t know how much money we have in the account,” Becky said. “That’s my way of saying not enough.”

“How short are we?”

“Eighty grand, and we need it in the next ninety minutes.”

Virgil flapped his free arm in the air. “Becky, I can’t get my hands on that kind of money right now. I’m down in Shelby County. I’d have Sandy handle it, but she’s on her way to the hospital to check on Ed.”

“Don’t worry, Jonesy. I’ll cover it.”

“Ah, the trust fund baby saves the day yet again,” Virgil said. “Have I ever told you how much I admire your parents?”

“I’ve suddenly changed my mind.”

“Becky…”

“Don’t worry. I’m just kidding. In fact, I’ve already sent it.”

“Jeez, thanks, Becks. Listen, get with Sarah and have her handle the building. We need desks, chairs, computers, phones, the works. Have her put in a requisition with the state so we can be up and running over there in the next day or two. If they try to stall, have her drop Cora’s name into the conversation. That should take care of it.”

“I’ll call her right now. She can probably get the request in yet today.”

“Good, good,” Virgil said. “And don’t worry about the money…I’m good for it. Hello? Becky?”

Virgil shook his head, then stuck his phone in his pocket and walked over to Lawless, who had his face buried in an iPad. “Were you able to get decent prints from the stuff Baker and Mayo brought?”

“Yeah. Better than decent. I’ve got very good ones, and I’m looking at them now. Give me about five minutes and I’ll have a comparison for you.”

Virgil thanked him, then walked back behind the barn, where he found Ross peering into the trunk of Henderson’s squad car. “What are you doing?”

“Detecting,” Ross said. “It’s not only in my job description, it’s part of my title.”

Virgil crossed his arms over his chest. “What have you detected?”

“The way Kelly’s body is jammed in there, it’s hard to tell from this angle, but I think his gun is missing. Either that, or it’s underneath his side. I think his body cam is gone too.”

“Hang on a second,” Virgil said. He ran back over to where Lawless was working and said, “How bad would it be if we had to move Deputy Kelly’s body a little?”

“Very bad,” Lawless said. “Why?”

“Because we think his gun and body cam might be missing.”

“If they are missing, does that change the course of your investigation or whatever you would do within the next hour?”

“No, but⁠—”

“Then leave him be. I’ll get to it as soon as I’m done here.”

Virgil’s lack of math skills notwithstanding, he knew better than to test the odds of arguing with a crime scene investigator…even his own, so he let it go. When he returned to the county squad car, he looked at Ross and said, “Chip says we can’t move him.”

Ross didn’t get a chance to respond because that’s when Cool flew overhead and turned the helicopter into the wind before touching down. Murton jumped out, then to Virgil’s surprise, he turned and helped Sandy step out of the helicopter. When they walked over, Sandy had dried tear streaks on her face, and Murton’s posture looked as if he might have had the weight of the entire county strapped across his shoulders.

Virgil ran his fingers through his hair, then hugged his wife. “Thank you for coming. You didn’t have to, you know.”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay when you heard the news,” Sandy said. “Cool said he’d give me a ride back home.”

Virgil looked at his brother and said, “Murt?”

“Julia said they could have saved his legs, but the blood loss was simply too much. They had two central lines pumping him back up and I’ve never seen a team of doctors working better or faster, but the neurologist said even if they could have kept him going, his brain waves were flat. He was already gone before we ever got there.”

Virgil wiped the corner of his eye with his thumb, then turned away, mainly because he didn’t have the words. But when he did, he found himself face-to face with Lawless. Virgil jumped back a little and said, “Christ, Chip, you scared the hell out of me.”

“Sorry. I’ve got your results. There’s no question, Jonesy. The prints on the gun are a perfect match from the items collected from Grey’s house.”

Virgil felt like he was being overloaded with too much bad news at once. He grabbed Lawless by his arms and pulled him close. “You’re positive? As in court-of-law positive?”

Lawless gently untangled himself from Virgil’s grasp. “I’m sorry, Jonesy. But based on the slug Ross recovered from the barn, and bullet wound to Kelly’s forehead, unless the coroner finds something other than a .357 slug buried in his brain, it’s looking like Mike Grey is your main suspect.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

After Virgil said goodbye to his wife, she climbed aboard the helicopter and flew away with Cool. Virgil asked Baker and Mayo to stay at the scene with Lawless. “Murt, Ross, and I are going to go back to the Shelby County Sheriff’s Station. When the coroner arrives and they pull Kelly’s body out of the trunk, I need to know if his gun is on his body or not. Once you have that information, meet us in Shelbyville and we’ll go from there.”

“We’ll handle it, Jonesy,” Baker said. “Are you okay?”

When Virgil answered he focused on nothing at all and said, “No, Em, I’m not.” Then out of the blue, he asked a question….mainly because just for a second or two he wanted to focus on something else. “How are things between you and Nicky?”

Baker’s eyes lit up and she started to smile, then caught herself and looked away. When she didn’t answer, Murton turned to Lawless and said, “The Shelby County crime scene techs will be out shortly. Hand everything you have over to them, then send your report to Becky over at the bar. She’ll get it to Sarah at some point.”

“You sure you don’t want me to work with the locals?” Lawless said.

Virgil glanced at Kelly’s body in the trunk of the squad car, and thought of his friend, Henderson, who was now part of what seemed like an ever-growing list of people he’d lost. He patted Lawless on the shoulder without answering as he walked toward his Range Rover.

Virgil stopped his vehicle next to Ringer’s squad car, and both men lowered their windows. “Have two of your guys tighten up close to the barn. The county cops will probably turn this into a parade, but we’re going to have to let them. Expect the coroner and the Shelby County crime scene people as well.”

“Will do,” Ringer said. “What’s the word on the sheriff?”

Virgil turned his head and looked straight ahead when he spoke. “Didn’t make it.”

“Sorry about that, Detective.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“Anything else?”

“I’d like you and the trooper of your choice to go out to Carl Johnson’s place and sit on it for a while. Maybe stay about a quarter-mile away on either side of his property. How long are you on duty?”

“We’re good until midnight,” Ringer said.

“End of shift, then,” Virgil said.

“You got it. Piece of advice from someone who’s been there?”

Virgil finally turned and looked directly at Ringer. “What?”

“Let your partner drive. You look a little distracted.”

Virgil pointed his finger out the window, and when he spoke, it was through his teeth. “I do not want or need to be told when I should or should not—” Then he took a deep breath and held it until his anger lost its color. He nodded at nothing before slowly unbuckling his seatbelt and stepping from his vehicle. “You’re right. Sorry about that, Dan. I appreciate you.”

Murton walked around the front of the Rover, patted the top of Ringer’s squad car, then got in the driver’s seat. Virgil and Murton made the drive back to the station house in silence, both men lost and alone with their thoughts of Henderson and Kelly…and what they needed to do.

When they arrived at the station house in Shelbyville, they found Lucy behind her desk and Rosencrantz trying to maintain a sense of order with the Shelby County deputies. They weren’t being disrespectful or acting out of place, but they were concerned, and many of them suspected that Rosencrantz knew something he wasn’t telling them, even though he didn’t know the full story. Not yet anyway.

Murton and Ross stood next to Henderson’s office door on either side like guardians of a sacred space. Virgil went behind the half-wall where Lucy’s desk was, leaned down and whispered in her ear. “Don’t speak. Just nod or shake your head. Did Rosie tell you the location?”

Lucy nodded.

“Are any of the county’s crime scene people here at the station house?”

Lucy looked up out of the corner of her eye and shook her head. The movement was so slight Virgil almost missed it.

“Go into the sheriff’s office, close the door, get on the phone, and send them out to the scene. Lawless is out there and waiting. Do it quickly and quietly, please.”

When Lucy did as Virgil asked, one of the deputies stepped forward and spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. “How about one of you guys tell us what the hell is going on. Why aren’t we out looking for our men?”

Murton moved from the door of Henderson’s office and approached the deputy. He kept his voice low and calm. “We’re about to do just that, Deputy. Show some restraint, please. I’m sorry to say that it doesn’t take too much imagination to figure out why we’ve called you all in here.”

The deputy let out a groan, said, “Ah, fuck me,” then turned away.

Virgil walked over to where Rosencrantz stood, then said, “Is everyone here?”

Rosencrantz ignored the question and asked one of his own. “What do you have?”

“In a minute, Tom. Is this everyone?”

Rosencrantz nodded. “Mostly. All of the day shift guys are here except for two. One is on vacation, and the other is out sick. The entire night shift is here and ready to take over. “What’s the latest on Ed?”

“Let’s step into his office for a second, huh?”

When Virgil opened the office door, Lucy was just getting up from the chair behind Henderson’s desk. She looked at Virgil and said, “They’re on their way out to the scene right now.”

“Thanks, Lucy,” Virgil said.

“I better get back out there.”

“Stick around for a second,” Virgil said. “We’ve got some news.” He turned and looked directly at Rosencrantz. “I know you and Ed were close⁠—”

Rosencrantz had never been one to openly display outrage, but when he heard his boss refer to Henderson in the past tense he turned away and kicked one of the wooden office chairs so hard it hit the door and snapped in half.

Ross—who was still standing out in the common area with the deputies—his back to the door, jumped at the sound. None of the deputies said a word.

It felt like the air had been vacuumed out of the building.

Lucy walked over and put her arms around Rosencrantz and held him tight. They spent two long, painful minutes that way, and when she finally let go, Lucy looked up and said, “Tell me what you need.”

Rosencrantz put his arm around her shoulder, turned to Murton and said, “I need to hear it. I need to hear the words.”

Murton curled his lip, then said, “The loss of blood was just too much. Tony and I did everything we could to keep him going, but even with the chest compressions and rescue breathing he wasn’t getting enough oxygen or blood to his brain. He was gone by the time they got him hooked up and on the table. It was my call to go to Methodist. Maybe if we would have gone to Shelbyville…I don’t know.”

Rosencrantz wasn’t having it, mainly because Murton had saved his life on more than one occasion. “It’s not your cross to bear, Murt. You’ve brought me back from things no one should ever have to endure—and I know you know what I’m talking about. If you did what you thought was best, we’re going to leave it at that.”

Murton wiped the bottom of his nose with his index finger, and Virgil had the thought that it somehow made him look like a little boy. But each of the men in the room had all left their innocence on the playground long ago, and what remained of them as individuals was as difficult to define as it was to witness.

Virgil cleared his throat and stepped into Rosencrantz’s line of sight. “We’ve got to tell the deputies, Rosie.”

Rosencrantz waved the statement away. “You think they don’t already know?”

“I’m sure they do, Tom. But you said it yourself just moments ago. You needed to hear the words. That means they do too. I’ll do it if you want, but given your history with both Carla and Ed, you know those guys out there better than anyone. I think they’ll take it best from someone they know and trust.”

“Give me all the details.”

Together, Virgil and Murton told Rosencrantz everything he needed to know. When they were finished, Rosencrantz looked at Lucy and said, “See if you can get everyone together, will you? We’ve got guys all over the building.”

Lucy said she’d handle it, then moved to the door. But when she pulled it open, they discovered it wasn’t necessary. All thirty-two deputies stood before them in perfect formation, eight men per row, four rows deep. Every single one stood at attention, their eyes fixed on nothing, their cheeks lined with tears.

Rosencrantz put his hand on Lucy’s shoulder and gently pulled her back. Then he stepped forward, walked into the common area, and said, “Earlier today, while riding together and for reasons not yet known, Sheriff Ed Henderson and Undersheriff Bill Kelly, were both shot at the site of an abandoned barn not far from the Shelby County Cultural Center. Bill was hit once in the forehead and died instantly. Ed was critically injured—shot in both his legs—then dragged into the barn by an unknown person or persons, where he was restrained and left to die.

“As you know, myself and the rest of the state’s Major Crimes Unit were made aware of the situation as it developed, and we were able to locate the sheriff’s squad car, which had been hidden out of sight behind the barn. Undersheriff Kelly’s body was found in the trunk of the vehicle, and Sheriff Henderson was in critical condition when he was airlifted to the hospital.”

Rosencrantz had to stop speaking for a moment to let the quiver in his jaw dissipate. When he was able to continue, he finished with: “Despite the efforts of the detectives who found him, along with the doctors and nurses at the hospital, he did not survive his injuries.”

The room remained dead silent for nearly a full minute, then the foundation of the rank and file went away and the questions seemed to come from every direction all at once.

As Rosencrantz was speaking to the deputies, Virgil felt his phone buzzing in his pocket. When he checked the screen, he saw that it was a text message from Becky, along with a video clip. Virgil didn’t watch the video, but when he read the message, he thought, thank God for technology. He sent a quick text back to Becky, then put his phone away and watched Rosencrantz as he fielded the barrage of questions.

Murton looked at his brother and said, “What’d you get?”

“Proof that Carl Johnson didn’t have anything at all to do with Henderson and Kelly. Becky has video from the drill site. He was out there all day.”

One of the deputies climbed up on top of a chair and shouted, “If it was Johnson’s truck out there, then we need to go out and arrest him. Proof is proof. And I’ll tell you something else, back in the day, he hung out with Cal Lipkins and the rest of them co-op people. Most of them was bent from the day they was born. Johnson probably isn’t any different. I say we go out there and have a little talk with the man. Who’s with me?”

“You going to do anything about this?” Murton said to Virgil.

“Maybe. Let’s see how Rosie handles it.”

Rosencrantz didn’t seem to be listening to the deputy, or anyone else for that matter. He was staring at his phone. He read the text message from Becky, nodded once to himself, then walked over to where the deputy was standing on the chair. He looked up at him and said, “Step down from there.”

“Says who?”

“Me,” Rosencrantz said. “You’re not helping, and as a point of fact, you’re wrong.”

“The hell I am. We’ve got two of our own men dead, and Johnson’s vehicle is at the scene. What would you do?”

Rosencrantz remained cool and calm when he spoke. “Ed was a personal friend of mine. After some of the things I’ve been through—some of which you probably aren’t even aware of—he was there for me. He kept me propped up and helped show me the way forward when I was at my worst.” As he spoke, the other deputies began to quiet down, until Rosencrantz was the only one speaking. “The loss of Ed Henderson and Bill Kelly is a burden each of you will have to carry and work through in your own way, and on your own timetable. No one can do it for you, just like no one can do it for me. But I will tell you this: The best possible way to honor the lives of Ed and Bill is to do your jobs and do them well. It certainly isn’t going over to Carl Johnson’s place and harassing an innocent man. C’mon, step down now.”

The deputy climbed down from the chair, then said, “But it was his truck, Detective.”

“You don’t have all the facts yet,” Rosencrantz said. “We have irrefutable proof that Carl Johnson is not the responsible party. We also have forensic evidence from the scene…”

Rosencrantz let his statement go for a second and glanced at Virgil, who simply gave him a nod. “We have forensic evidence from the scene that suggests someone else was driving Johnson’s truck.”

One of the deputies shouted, “Who?”

Murton turned to Virgil and said, “Are you seeing what I am?”

Murton was speaking about Ross, who had been inching his way over toward Rosencrantz the entire time he was speaking.

Virgil nodded. “It’s kind of hard to miss. He’s watching his partner’s back.”

“C’mon, Detective,” another deputy yelled out. “Who are we talking about here?”

Rosencrantz knew he couldn’t lie to the men if he wanted to earn their trust. “I’ll answer that in a minute. Day-shift deputies raise your hands.”

A little more than half the hands in the room went up. Rosencrantz looked at them, pointed to the far end of the common area, and said, “Okay, all of you move over there. Night shift, step to the other side please.”

Everyone got themselves situated, then Rosencrantz said, “Day shift: You’re relieved. Go home and get some rest. But before you do, remember this: The murders of Bill and Ed are now, and will remain, a state investigation. There is absolutely no wiggle room on that. If I catch even a whiff of any of you harassing Carl Johnson—who we know for a fact is innocent—I’ll have your badge.”

One of the night-shift deputies looked at Rosencrantz and said, “You still haven’t told us who you’re looking for. If it ain’t Johnson, then who is it?”

“The other person you’ve been looking for all day,” Rosencrantz said. “Carl Johnson’s farmhand, Mike Grey. His prints were found on what we believe to be the murder weapon. He’s still missing, and the state has a BOLO out on him. If you want to find out who killed the leaders of this department, find me Mike Grey. That’s all for now. Night shift, you’re up. Everybody else clear out.”

Then Rosencrantz, along with Ross, walked into the sheriff’s office and closed the door.

As everyone was filing out of the common area, Virgil put a call in to Mayo. “Are you guys still out at the scene?”

“Yeah. The Shelby County crime scene techs are having a little meeting with Chip. He’s filling them in. Once that’s done, we’ll see you at the station.”

“Don’t bother,” Virgil said. “There isn’t much more we can do tonight. Once Chip finishes up, if the county people don’t have any more questions, head home. We’ll start fresh in the morning. Let’s meet back here—at the sheriff’s station—by nine.”

“Good enough,” Mayo said. “By the way, Chip says Kelly’s gun and body cam are missing. They weren’t on his person, and no one can find them anywhere at the scene…and we’ve all looked. They aren’t there.”

“Okay, thanks, Mayo. Catch you in the morning. I gotta run.” Virgil ended the call without waiting for a response, then whistled through his teeth at one of the last deputies walking out the door.

The deputy turned around and said, “Yes, sir?”

“What kind of weapon did Undersheriff Kelly carry?”

“Same as the rest of us…a Glock 9 mil. Why?”

“Because it’s missing,” Virgil said. “Watch your back out there tonight, young man.”

“I will,” the deputy said. “Mind if I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead.”

“What’s going to happen with the department? I mean, who’s going to be the sheriff?”

Virgil spread his palms. He didn’t have an answer…at least not yet. When he turned and walked into the sheriff’s office, he heard Murton say, “You did a good job, Rosie. It was a tough situation…one that you handled exactly right, in my opinion.”

Virgil closed the door behind himself and said, “I couldn’t agree more.”

Rosencrantz was sitting at Henderson’s desk. “I felt like a little bit of a hypocrite, if I’m being honest about the whole thing.”

“In what way?” Ross said.

“Because I was essentially telling those guys not to do the very thing I’ve done myself, which is to take the law into your own hands.”

“You’re speaking of Carla and the little housekeeping trip we made to Jamaica?” Ross said.

Rosencrantz nodded. “Yup.”

“Different set of circumstances,” Murton said.

“It’s also a debate for another time,” Virgil said. “If ever. For now, nothing has changed. We’re looking for Grey, and since we still don’t have a base of operations, we’ll be working this case out of here. Everyone go home, get some rest, and we’ll pick it back up in the morning. Mayo and Baker will be showing up at nine.” Then, “You okay, Rosie?”

Rosencrantz had his eyes closed and was running his fingers across the top of the desk like a blind man searching for something just out of reach. “Yeah, I was just thinking about the people who’ve sat at this desk. Carla was one of them, you know?”

Lucy stood in the office doorway looking at her lover, all the while wondering how to compete with a ghost.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

That night, as Virgil and Murton were having a late meal with their wives out on the back deck, Becky looked at her husband and, very casually said, “Your dear brother owes us eighty thousand dollars.”

“He does?” Sandy said. She was chewing a bite of salad and an errant shred of lettuce almost slipped out of her mouth when she spoke. She caught it with her napkin, then turned to her husband and said, “Virgil?”

“It’s not a big deal,” Virgil said. “We needed to get the building next door to the bar locked down because the MCU needs a base of operations. The insurance money will eventually come through, and once it does, everyone will be reimbursed by the state.”

“Hope it’s not a waste,” Murton said.

“Why would it be?” Becky asked.

Virgil pushed his plate away. “Well, we had a meeting with Cora after we got off the plane. This is really the first chance we’ve had to mention it.” Then he and Murton took turns filling their wives in on the governor’s plans, Irwin’s position regarding the Major Crimes Unit, and what their futures might look like.

By the time they were done telling the story, the women were thrilled.

Virgil and Murton? It was hard to tell…both men balancing the wishes of their families against not only the work they did, but how the foundation of their bond to each other might somehow be at risk. Virgil glanced down at his father’s cross by the pond.

Mason wasn’t there, and though he was loath to admit it—even to himself—Virgil wasn’t at all surprised.

At the same time Virgil and Murton were speaking with their wives about everyone’s future, Grant was just turning in to the lot up in East Chicago. The Jamaicans were already waiting, and the transfer went off without a hitch, just like it always did. Grant handed over the coolers that held the organs, and the Jamaicans gave him a duffle of cash, along with the empty set of coolers from the last exchange.

When Grant got back in the truck, he sat for a moment and watched as the Jamaicans turned out of the lot and disappeared into the night, off to wherever they went with the organs. Grant was temped to follow them…not because he wanted to learn more about their end of the operation, but because they were carrying the last living part of the only real friend he’d ever had in his entire life. The thought of it all repulsed him to no end. Why didn’t he try harder to keep Doc from doing what he did? And more to the point, what did that say about himself as a man?

Grant was literally sick with grief over what he’d done. It was so bad he felt like he was going to vomit, even though he hadn’t eaten. He got out of the truck, bent over and began to heave. That’s when the gun he had tucked into his waistband—the gun he and Bobby had taken from the dead cop—began to dig into his spine. With little forethought, he pulled the gun free and let it drop onto the gravel before heaving again.

Once all the acid had been purged from his stomach, he stood up straight and looked around, thinking that this wasn’t the kind of place he should be alone in the dark, especially with a bag of cash that held eighty grand. He needed to move…to get back on the road and get home. He needed to somehow put all this behind him.

Grant was so consumed with grief and anxiety that when he climbed into the cab of the truck and drove away, he forgot all about the gun. But right across the street, an old man sat in his own vehicle, and crept forward with his headlights off. He’d watched it all again, only this time he wouldn’t be following the Jamaicans. That was a dead end. This time he was going to do something else. He pulled into the lot, quickly grabbed the gun from the ground and stuck it under his seat, then began to tail the truck.

Grant was only five minutes into his return trip when he remembered the gun. He swore out loud, then hit the brakes, the trailer hooked to the back of the truck swaying violently from side to side. He found a place to turn around, then hurried back to the drop-off point.

The old man who’d been following drove right past, a small smile forming on his face. He parked along the side of the street, killed his headlights, then simply waited, his eyes glued to the rearview mirror the entire time. He knew he wouldn’t have to wait long.

If Grant had anxiety before, after he turned back in to the lot he was in the midst of a full-blown panic attack. It was so bad he could barely breathe. The gun was gone. In less than ten minutes, it had disappeared from where he dropped it, like it had never been there to begin with. He got out of the truck and looked again to make sure, but there was no doubt that someone had already taken the weapon. The walking helped ease his anxiety, and after a few more minutes of searching he said, “Fuck it,” out loud and climbed back into the truck. Did the gun have his prints on it? Yes, but so what? Unlike Bobby, he’d never been printed before, and even if the cops ever got their hands on it—an unlikely event in this part of the state—it would have been handled so many times his prints would have been completely wiped away.

Grant turned around and started back home again, the whole time telling himself he had nothing to worry about, his anxiety almost gone now. By the time he hit the interstate, the gun was nothing more than a bad memory, one that would eventually fade away.

But Bobby? That was another story…one that would follow him for the rest of his life. He was so consumed with his own thoughts he never noticed the car following him.

Virgil and Murton were sitting by themselves, having an after-dinner drink. Sandy and Becky were inside, already coming up with ideas for their winter homes on the island. Murton looked at his brother and said, “Think you can do it…walk away?”

Virgil took a drink, mainly to give himself some time to form a response. “To be honest, I really don’t know. I mean, sure, I’m capable of doing it, and I can even picture it in my mind. But when I think about the work—we’re basically a couple of guys who really like to hunt—I think it would be extremely difficult to just toss someone the keys and say, adiós. It’d be like a guy who lives to fish deciding to sell his boat.”

“We might not have a say in the matter. By the way, did you know that the word adiós is actually a way of saying, ‘to God,’ or more figuratively, ‘go with God?’”

“Fascinating,” Virgil said. “But our wives are inside right now…probably looking at house plans.”

“So what? Let them look.”

“I’ve noticed that you’ve been taking the whole thing rather calmly.”

“I take everything, calmly, Virgil…unless it becomes necessary to do otherwise.”

“And this isn’t one of those times?”

“We’ve already talked about it,” Murton said. “So let me ask you this: What are you really afraid of?”

Virgil felt his frustration beginning to bubble up to the surface, and when he next spoke, his tone said as much. “I am not afraid, okay? Of anything.”

Murton caught the tone, smiled at his brother, and said, “Clearly.”

They sat quietly for a few minutes, then Virgil said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. And you’re right. The truth is I am worried. I feel like the job is something that keeps us going…like it’s the glue that holds us together.”

Murton downed the last of his drink in one long swallow, pushed his chair back, then stood up.

“Where are you going?” Virgil asked.

“To collect the love of my life and walk us home. But before I do, hear me loud and clear, Virgil: The job has nothing to do with it. You’re basing your feelings on how we found each other again, not where we are now. I made the mistake long ago of distancing myself from you. I think in my own way it was to protect you from the kind of man I thought I was. As it turns out, I was wrong about how I saw myself. Want to know who taught me that, and how to let it all go? It was Small, and she did it when you were trying to kill yourself with those pills. The hell of it is, she did it by simply being present…for you, and for me. I owe her a debt I don’t think I’ll ever be able to repay. Who would?” Then Murton leaned down and rested his forehead on top of Virgil’s scalp. He stayed that way for a few seconds, then stood up and said, “I trust you, Virg, but I think the wind is blowing a certain way and there’s nothing we can do to stop it. To use your fishing analogy, maybe it’s time to sell the boat. If nothing else, it’s time to talk to everyone else about it. I don’t think it’s necessary, but I’d like to be on the same page when we do.” Then he ruffled the top of Virgil’s head and walked inside to find Becky.

Despite how he’d felt earlier about giving up his friend’s organs, by the time Grant was nearly halfway back to Doc’s place down in Decatur County, he discovered that he was hungry. His blood sugar was low, and his hands were beginning to shake as he gripped the steering wheel. The problem was, Doc had a strict rule about the runs up to East Chicago and back: No stops.

Fuck Doc…and his rules, Grant thought. A little more than a mile later he took the next exit, the roadside sign just east of Lafayette letting him know that he had plenty of options to find something to eat. When he turned in to the truck stop, he parked the truck and trailer between two semis, made sure the cash was under the seat and out of sight, then locked the truck and went inside. He found a table that gave him a limited view of the front of the truck, and Grant thought that was good enough. People were coming and going, most of them long-haul truckers, and the place was busy enough that Grant didn’t think he had anything to worry about.

A waitress walked over and made her presence known when she snapped her gum. “What can I get you, handsome?”

A do-over on life, Grant thought.

“What was that?” the waitress said.

Grant hadn’t even bothered to look at a menu. “Gimme the special.”

“You want coffee?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Grant said. “I’m sort of in a hurry, if you don’t mind.”

The waitress gave him a double snap that sounded like two firecrackers exploding back-to-back. Grant thought she probably practiced it at home in her spare time. He watched her walk away, all the while wondering what a miserable life she must lead. What kind of path had she taken to wind up as a waitress working the night shift at a greasy-spoon? Then he silently laughed at his own thoughts because he knew he could ask himself the exact same question. All he had to do was substitute the word waitress with murderer. And for what? A few measly grand?

Then another thought occurred. Why not keep all the cash for himself? Doc was going to get caught eventually, and Grant knew when that happened, he’d go down with him. But there was a problem, and it was a big one. He lived in the bunkhouse at Doc’s place, and that’s where he and Bobby had hidden their stash of cash they’d made from all their previous runs. And since Bobby was dead and buried, that meant Grant could take his cash as well, and it was no small sum. Together they’d managed to save over one hundred thousand dollars. Except he couldn’t get to that money without handing over the eighty grand he’d just collected for Doc, who knew where he was at all times because of the tracker on his stupid cell phone.

When his food arrived, he ate while working out the problem. Did the tracking device on his phone still work if he turned it off? Grant didn’t know. But then he had an idea…one that would either work or it wouldn’t. If it did, he’d be free of Doc and all the trouble and misery that went with him. If it didn’t, well…Grant knew he’d either end up as spare parts for someone else just like Bobby had, or he’d wind up in prison. Either way, it was worth the risk, because if Grant knew anything, it was this: He couldn’t go on living with himself if he kept on doing what he was doing. It was time to make some changes.

Grant took a few more bites of his meal, then dropped some cash on the table to cover the charge. Right before he left, he stepped into the men’s room, washed his hands as he waited for two other people to step out, then buried his cell phone in the trash chute. Then he walked out to his truck, hopped in, and began to head toward Doc’s place. For the first time in years, Grant felt like he had a chance.

Another dreamer…born on the wrong side of the tracks, about to roll the dice.

While Grant was still eating his meal, the old man pulled into the truck stop and gassed up his car. He didn’t know how far he’d be traveling, and at the rate they were going, he knew if he didn’t get any fuel now, it could be a wasted trip down the road if he ran out of gas. Once his tank was full, the old man drove around the building and parked behind the truck and trailer. Then, with his heart beating so hard he could hear it in his ears, he approached the truck and quickly looked inside through the passenger window. He thought it foolish to do so, but he wanted to know if there was anything worth seeing…something that could explain what he’d been witnessing for weeks now. When he didn’t see anything he began to move toward the trailer. He could hear the animals inside and he knew right away that the trailer was filled with goats. Why? He didn’t know.

When he’d finally decided that there was nothing to gain and was just getting ready to go back to his own vehicle, he happened to glance in the truck’s bed. A spare tire was bolted to the bed—which didn’t surprise the old man. What did surprise him was the small black rectangular box that had wedged itself up against the tire. He’d watched enough TV crime shows and movies to recognize the box for what it was. When he glanced toward the diner, he saw the young man coming out the front door. Without thinking—if he had, he probably wouldn’t have done it—he quickly reached inside the bed of the truck and grabbed the box, then hurried back to his car.

Once he was safely inside his vehicle, the old man looked at the back of the body cam and saw a sticker that read: Shelby Co. SD stamped on the back of the unit. He didn’t know where Shelby County was, but he did know this: SD obviously stood for Sheriff’s Department, and he’d be able to find out where the county and its department were by doing a simple web search. He put the body cam in the glove compartment, then, as the truck he was following began to drive off, the old man started his car and crept forward, his heart still hammering away like a Mexican jumping bean on meth. He didn’t know why he was doing what he was, but he knew there was meaning in it all. There must be. He’d lived and worked his entire life with dignity and honor…a law-abiding citizen who always tried to do and be the kind of man he thought would make his parents proud. He wondered if they were with him now in spirit, then somehow knew that they were, watching him and helping him do something that was right and just and true.

Those were the thoughts running through the old man’s head as he drove past the truck stop diner’s front door. It’d be the last thing he remembered of the night because that’s when his heart seized up, and his car veered to the right and hit another vehicle parked in the lot. The old man slumped forward, his face against the steering wheel, the onlookers rushing over, most with their phones already out and dialing 9-1-1.

Grant, now out of the lot and merging onto the highway, never noticed. Less than two hours later he parked the truck and trailer on the side of a dark country road, exactly one mile away from Hammond’s farm. He grabbed the bag of cash, hiked through two fields, jumped a small ditch, then finally climbed the fence at the back of Hammond’s property where all the bodies were buried. He snuck into the bunkhouse, kept the lights off, yanked up the loose floorboard underneath one of the beds, grabbed Bobby’s cash—and his own—then snuck back out. He paused at the back of the building and looked up toward Hammond’s house. All the lights were on, but the house itself was too far away to tell where Doc was. Not that Grant really cared. He now had nearly two hundred grand stuffed in his backpack and hanging from his shoulder. Grant shot Hammond the bone, even though he knew Doc wouldn’t see it. Then he slipped his arm through the other strap and took off.

When he got back to the truck, he unhooked the trailer, set the goats free—if he ever saw another goat in his life, Grant thought he might scream—then hopped in the truck and headed south.

By the time he’d left the county he felt like he could breathe. When he crossed the Ohio River and was in Kentucky, he started to laugh. He found a roadside motel, dumped the truck across the street behind an old abandoned gas station, paid cash for a room, then fell asleep on the bed, still wearing his clothes…a smile on his face…the bag of cash the most comfortable pillow he’d ever used.

In other words, Grant was gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Hammond was—in a word—livid. He’d been up all night trying to determine what had gone wrong. When he had contacted the East Chicago Jamaicans they assured him that everything went well on their end, and the drop had gone off without any problems at all. And Hammond was sure they were telling the truth because he’d been tracking Grant nearly the entire time on his cell phone.

The problem was, Grant had done something he wasn’t supposed to do. He had made a stop on the way back. Hammond knew the truck’s gas tank had enough capacity to make the round trip without refueling, so the only reason Grant would have stopped would be if he had a breakdown of some kind, or if he wanted to get something to eat. The breakdown was acceptable because those types of things could and did happen. But stopping to eat was unacceptable. There were too many variables to control…especially when you’ve got a bag of cash containing eighty thousand dollars.

When Hammond tried to call Grant, he didn’t get an answer. When he sent a text, he got no response. And since Hammond was a proactive type of guy, he decided to take care of business himself. He zoomed in on Grant’s location and saw that he was at a truck stop just off of the interstate, near Lafayette. And with his cash on the line, Hammond did the only thing he could. He climbed into his car and headed that way.

Nearly three hours later he pulled in to the truck stop parking lot, but as he drove around the building, he couldn’t find his truck and trailer. When he looked at the screen—he hadn’t bothered to check while he was driving—he saw that Grant was now somewhere else. The map function on his phone didn’t tell him what the location was, only where. And since it wasn’t far, Hammond headed that way. Less than twenty minutes later the navigation system in his car told him he’d arrived at the destination. When Hammond saw the gate he suddenly realized Grant had ripped him off.

It wasn’t the gate that helped him come to the conclusion he had just made. It was the sign that hung just to the left, attached to the fence. The one that read: Tippecanoe County landfill.

Grant, Hammond decided, had ditched his phone in the trash at the truck stop, and at some point during the night, the trash had been hauled out to the landfill by a garbage truck. He beat his steering wheel in frustration until he realized the only thing that would result in would be bruised hands.

With nothing else to do, Hammond drove back home as fast as he could, and by the time he arrived back at his place the sun was just cresting the horizon. Hammond went straight to the bunkhouse and kicked the door open. When he saw the loose floorboard under one of the beds, he knew he’d been right all along. Grant had taken as much cash as he could get his hands on and disappeared. When Hammond did the math in his head, he thought Grant must have made off with somewhere close to two hundred thousand dollars, not to mention a perfectly good truck and trailer. When he thought of the truck, it made him even more mad because that thing alone was as expensive as a luxury automobile.

Hammond walked back inside his house, sat down at the kitchen table, made a pot of coffee, and began to think. He wasn’t about to let some lowlife piece of shit steal from him. He’d somehow find Grant and make him pay.

In more ways than one.

That same morning, Bill Woodall—a Decatur County probation officer—sat at his desk, tapping the tip of a pencil on his blotter while looking at four things over and over and over. First the calendar on his computer screen, then the clock on the wall. Then he looked from the clock to his open office door. After the door, he glanced at his phone on the desk. He did that for exactly fifteen minutes—like a metronome in perfect 4/4 time—computer, clock, door, phone. And when the fifteen minutes were up, Woodall did what the law not only allowed, but what it mandated that he do.

He picked up the phone, made a call, and had the department administrator inform the county courthouse that they had another no-show. The clerk of the court did what was supposed to be done, and a bench warrant was issued for the arrest of Robert Palmer for failure to appear at his first probation meeting.

After Woodall finished his phone conversation with the administrator he thought of his favorite comedian he’d been watching on Netflix…a guy who once famously said: You can’t fix stupid.

He laughed, shook his head, collected his weapon and handcuffs, then set out for the courthouse. Once he had the warrant, he’d go pay Palmer a little visit and help him understand what it’s like to spend twenty years or more with the big boys in gen-pop at the state prison.

At the same time Woodall was ruminating about the general inability to rectify stupidity, down at the Pope estate in Jamaica, Tony—the head of estate security—got an alert on his computer. Nicky and Wu had a program that tracked all incoming and outgoing private flights to the island. They weren’t spying on anyone in particular, but they did like to keep their fingers on the pulse of what was happening, mainly because history had proven it was a good idea.

When the computer dinged at him, Tony looked at the monitor and read through the report. A pattern had developed, one that in and of itself wasn’t alarming, but given both the frequency and the aircraft’s point of origin, Tony did what he was paid to do: He began to investigate…all from the comfort of his air-conditioned office.

Just another day in paradise.

Virgil and Murton were the last to arrive at the Shelby County sheriff’s office, and when they walked in, both men were surprised to find Ortiz waiting with everyone else. Despite the gravity of the situation, Virgil smiled and said, “What the heck are you doing here?”

Ortiz shook hands with both Virgil and Murton, then said, “Nice to see you, too.”

Virgil gave him a friendly frown. “You know that’s not what I meant. Aren’t you supposed to be swimming laps, or going for long, slow walks?”

Ortiz nodded. “Yeah, I am. But I’ve spent so much time in the pool I’m starting to look like a raisin, and you can only walk around the block so many times before it makes you want to scream.” Then he jerked his thumb at Mayo and finished with, “That’s my way of saying I’m bored out of my proverbial gourd, and this one told me what was happening. Thought I’d show my face and listen in if you don’t mind.”

“Don’t mind at all,” Virgil said. “But since you’re not cleared for active duty, that’s about all you can do.”

“Beats sitting around watching Judge Judy re-runs. Sorry about Ed, man. It’s starting to feel like this county is cursed.”

Virgil glanced at Murton. “So I’ve been told. How are you feeling?”

Ortiz wiggled his head around in a non-communicative way and said, “I’m getting there. Julia says I’ve got one fracture that isn’t healing quite right. Mornings are the worst after being asleep all night. Once I’m up and around though, I start feeling better.”

“What is she going to do about the fracture?” Murton asked.

“I’ve got two choices,” Ortiz said. “Wait and see how it develops, or have them go back in and plate it. I think I’m going to wait it out.”

“Any downside to that?” Virgil said. “The waiting?”

“Julia says a longer recovery and a very slight limp. Something about my hips not being even, which will make it feel like I got one leg shorter than the other. Where’s Baker, by the way? I’d like to toss her down the stairs.”

“She’s in the can,” Mayo said. “And I wouldn’t.”

Just then the door to the women’s restroom opened, and Baker said, “Wouldn’t what?”

“Ortiz says he wants to toss you down the stairs,” Murton said.

Baker walked over to Ortiz, lightly punched him on the shoulder and said, “Oh, sorry, I hope I didn’t just break your arm. We all know how brittle you can be. Maybe you should drink more milk or something.”

Rosencrantz, who was in no mood for anyone’s banter given what had happened to Henderson and Kelly started to stand, his face already a mask of disgust. But Lucy—who knew what was about to happen—gently placed her hand on Rosencrantz’s arm, then she leaned over and quietly said, “Take it easy, Rosie. We talked about this last night. You better than anyone know how these things go. No one is disrespecting Ed, this department, or you. Everybody works through their own feelings in a certain way, and you have to let them.”

Rosencrantz looked at his girlfriend, took a deep breath, then said, “You’re right. This one is just a little harder for me.”

Virgil couldn’t hear what was being said, but he caught the context in their body language. “How about we all go into the conference room?” Then before anyone could answer, he finished with, “Lucy, are you good out here?”

“I’m fine, Jonesy. You guys go ahead and get to work. I’ve got plenty to do to get myself caught up.” She gave Rosencrantz a quick kiss before he stood, then busied herself as everyone else walked past the holding cell and down the hall.

Murton reached out and held Virgil back before they stepped inside the conference room. “Let me run something by you before we go in there.”

“Give me just a second,” Virgil said. He poked his head into the room and said, “You guys all know why we’re here, and what we need to do.” Then, specifically to Rosencrantz: “Tom, make sure everyone is on the same page. Murt and I will be right in.”

Rosencrantz said he would, then Virgil pulled the door closed and slid over to where Murton stood. “What’s up?”

“We have a choice to make.”

“Not really,” Virgil said. “We talked about this on the drive down here this morning. If Cora goes, Irwin steps up, and the MCU is going to be shut down. And since Cora has already said she’s moving forward, the end result is a foregone conclusion.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Murton said. “As of right now, we still have a job to do. You and I both know it, and so does everyone in that room. The question is, do we tell them about Cora’s move—and by extension, the dismantling of the MCU—right now, or do we wait until we catch whoever killed Henderson and Kelly? I can see the pros and cons of both sides.”

Virgil folded his arms across his chest and said, “Tell me.”

“If we let everyone know right now, it could be a distraction. If we don’t, they’re going to find out eventually, and that’s assuming they haven’t already gotten wind of it. Hell, Ringer knows. And so does Baker, for that matter. How long can we keep everyone else in the dark?”

Virgil thought about it for a few seconds, then said, “I think we gotta tell them, Murt. We need to get out in front of it. Will it be a distraction? Maybe, but those are our people in there, and every single one of them is a professional. We’ve always operated as a team. I don’t think there’s any logical reason—or benefit, for that matter—to wait until the time is right. Hell, the time will never be right. All distractions aside, they deserve to know the truth because it affects their futures.”

“Good enough,” Murton said. “Just needed to hear you say the words. Let’s go get it over with.”

Hammond ran through a bunch of different scenarios in his head, none of which seemed to work out. He knew he couldn’t call the police…that was simply out of the question. So how to find Grant…and the truck?

Then he remembered something. When he bought the truck, the salesman had tried to upsell him on a subscription service that did all kinds of things…for a small monthly fee. They talked it back and forth and because the salesman was either very good at his job, or simply persistent—Hammond didn’t know or care—he had finally broken down and agreed to take the service just to shut the guy up so he could get out of the dealership.

“I think you’ll be happy with your decision, Doctor Hammond,” the salesman had said. “With the type of system you have, you’ll be able to start the truck remotely with your phone, or find it if you forgot where you parked, disable the entire system should it ever be stolen, get alerts when it’s time for maintenance…like that. It’s all run by satellites so it doesn’t matter where you are, you can always be connected to your brand-new vehicle.”

And Hammond, who was still sitting at his kitchen table, thought if the salesman was standing in front of him, he’d give him a kiss right on the lips. He pulled out his phone, downloaded the app, then began the agonizing process of giving up practically all his personal information, only to discover that he now had to create an account with a username and password before he could log in to the system. That whole process took him nearly an hour…mainly because the app wouldn’t let him use a simple password. He needed to use a complex series of numbers, letters—some uppercase, some lowercase—and at least one special character. Then he had to choose between a variety of security questions to answer should he ever forget his credentials—mother’s maiden name, first pet, high school mascot, what street he grew up on—the list seemed endless. Once he’d finally gotten in, he had to provide the truck’s VIN, and when Hammond saw that he tipped his head back and nearly screamed.

He stomped down the hall to his office, dug through his paperwork until he found the original invoice for the truck, entered the VIN—he got it wrong on the first two attempts because he couldn’t differentiate between the numeral zero and the letter O—and almost threw his phone against the wall before he forced himself to calm down. But after all that, he was finally able to locate his truck. Grant had driven it across the river and into Kentucky. When he brought the location up on his computer, he saw that it was close to a roadside motel.

Hammond smiled at himself, pleased with his progress. But the smile went away almost as quickly as it had developed. If he drove down and found Grant, he’d be stuck in another state with two vehicles…and that simply wouldn’t do.

He was trying to work through the problem when his doorbell rang. He checked the time…it was a little after nine, and he wondered who it could be. When he pulled the door open, he found himself standing face to face with a large black man who looked like he could bench press a house without breaking a sweat. When he glanced at the yellow badge sewn into the man’s polo shirt, he saw the words Decatur County Probation Officer.

The man smiled and said, “Good morning, sir. My name is Bill Woodall. I’m a probation officer with the Decatur County court system.”

“I can see that,” Hammond said. “How may I help you, Officer?”

Woodall made a show of checking his notes, then said, “Are you Doctor Hammond?”

“I am.”

“Our records indicate that a man by the name of Robert Palmer lives at this address and is under your employ. Do I have that right?”

“You do,” Hammond said.

“Is he here, by chance? I need to have a little chat with him. As a point of fact, I need to place him under arrest for violation of his probation agreement.”

Hammond stuck a finger in his ear and wiggled it around. “You’d better step inside, Officer. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

“Is Palmer here, sir?”

“No, but I know of his troubled past. I can probably help if you’ll let me.”

Woodall subconsciously reached down and placed his hand on the butt of his weapon. Hammond caught the movement and said, “I assure you, Officer…Robert is not here. You’re free to search the house if you want. As a matter of fact, if you find him, I’d like to have a word with him myself.”

“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because it seems Robert’s past follows him wherever he goes. That’s my way of saying I think he stole my truck.”

Woodall nodded like he’d heard it all before, mainly because he had. He relaxed a fraction, then stepped inside.

And Hammond thought, problem solved…maybe.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Once they were in the conference room, Murton took a seat as Virgil walked over to the whiteboard, uncapped a marker, then turned around and said, “I’m going to write something on this board and I’ll tell you right up front, it isn’t going to make sense to anyone, but I want you all to think about it.” Then he turned his back, faced the board, and at the very top wrote exactly three words.

When he was finished, he capped the marker, sat down and said, “I can’t really explain how or why I know this, but those three words up there are going to help us figure out this case.”

Ross made a rude noise with his lips and said, “No disrespect, Boss-man, but how does the phrase ‘Why is why’ help us?”

Virgil shrugged. “I don’t know, other than to say it will come into play at some point, so just keep it in the back of your brain for now.”

“We will,” Rosencrantz said. “But according to all the evidence we have at this time, it’s looking like Mike Grey is the one who killed Ed and Bill.”

Virgil nodded at the group. “That is true, but I find it extremely hard to believe that Grey would be capable of doing something so horrific. He’s Carl Johnson’s farmhand, for Christ’s sake. I’ve had any number of interactions with that young man over the years, and while the evidence is very damning—there’s no denying that—I simply can’t figure out any logical scenario where Grey ends up at a murder scene…let alone doing the actual shooting himself. It doesn’t fit with who he is.”

Mayo cleared his throat. “We can’t base our investigation on your personal feelings or observations of the man, Jonesy.”

“You’re mostly right,” Virgil said. “We can’t include my feelings about Grey as if they are evidence. In fact, I don’t think we should. But we can take my observations and opinions into account. If we do, then there are other possible scenarios that could explain some things. Maybe he somehow stumbled onto the scene, found the weapon, then panicked and took off.”

When Ross spoke, the skepticism in his voice was clear. “Why would he flee on foot? And furthermore, why not call it in?”

“He doesn’t have a cell phone,” Murton said. “I’m with Jonesy on this one. I don’t see Grey as the shooter.”

Baker rapped her knuckles on the table. “Then how do you, or any of us for that matter, explain the fact that his prints were not only on the weapon, but the gun itself was found inside the vehicle he was known to be driving?”

Murton had a thought. He looked at Rosencrantz and said, “Does Lucy know anything about guns?”

Rosencrantz shook his head. “No. We’ve talked about going to the range for a few lessons to bring her up to speed, but we haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

“So, she’s what you’d call an average citizen when it comes to firearms,” Murton said.

Rosencrantz let out a chuff. “In this country? Hardly. But I know what you mean.”

“Why are you asking?” Ross said.

Murton pulled out his gun—a Sig 226—and let it hang by his side. “I want to try something. It’s completely unscientific and won’t prove a thing, but it might make a point.” Then to Rosencrantz: “Ask Lucy to come in here, will you?”

Rosencrantz stood and said, “Sure.”

“Don’t tell her why, just ask her to step in.”

Rosencrantz waved over his shoulder—an acknowledgment of Murton’s request.

“What are you doing, Murt?” Virgil said.

“Testing out a theory. It’ll take about five seconds.” Then he ejected the clip from his gun, cleared the firing chamber, and made absolutely certain the gun was safe before releasing the slide and setting it gently on the floor. He had just finished when Rosencrantz and Lucy entered the room.

Lucy looked at Murton, her face a question. “Rosie said you needed something?”

“I do,” Murton said. “It’s a little goofy, but just play along, okay? I’m testing a theory.”

Lucy smiled and said, “Sure. What do you need me to do?”

Murton stepped out of the way and pointed at his weapon on the floor. “Pretend you’re walking down the sidewalk or through a parking lot, or something like that…it doesn’t matter. So, as you’re walking along you see a gun, just like that one lying on the ground, and no one else is nearby. You know you can’t just leave it there, right? I mean, what if some kid comes along and finds it? It could mean the difference between life and death.”

Lucy nodded. “No, I don’t think I’d just leave it.”

“What would you do?”

“I’d pick it up.”

“Show me,” Murton said. “Don’t think about it, just do it.”

Lucy shrugged, walked over to where the gun was, then bent over and picked it up. Her hand was wrapped around the grip, and her index finger was on the trigger. “Now what?”

Murton stepped over to her side, gently took the gun from Lucy’s hand, and said, “That’s all. Thanks for your help.”

Lucy gave him a frown and said, “Want me to look under the table for some bullets?”

Murton smiled and said, “No, that’ll do it. I just needed to demonstrate something.”

Once Lucy had left the room, Virgil looked at his brother and said, “That was a lot longer than five seconds.”

“Who cares?” Murton said. “It proves a point. Lucy’s prints are now on my gun, and you saw how she was holding it. It’s almost a natural thing to do…to put your finger on the trigger. It’s so natural in fact, that if you don’t, the gun feels awkward in your hand.”

“You’re saying maybe Grey found the weapon at the murder scene, then picked it up and stuck it in his truck for safekeeping?” Mayo asked.

“No, that doesn’t fit,” Murton said. “The common consensus in the room is that he took off, remember?”

“Okay, so why’d he do that?” Rosencrantz said.

“Some of you in this room know what I’m about to say, and some of you don’t. When Jonesy and I were working the original case down here in Shelby County…I’m speaking of the murders of Charlie and Martha Esser, among others. I was set up when someone broke into my house and stole one of my weapons to make it look like I was a suspect in the murder of Pam Donatti. And you know what? It almost worked.”

Ortiz was having a hard time fitting the pieces together. “So you’re saying that Grey is in hiding, scared because he either saw or stumbled onto a murder scene?”

Murton shook his head in a sad sort of way. “No, I’m saying that someone used Mike Grey as their patsy to point us at him instead of the real killer or killers.”

Baker was running the scenario through her head, and when she spoke, it was more to herself than anyone else in the room. “So, if Murton is right, and Grey was being used to cover someone else’s tracks, that means the only reason no one can find him…” She let her statement trail off and looked up Virgil.

Virgil drew his mouth into a thin line, then said, “Yeah. It’s no wonder he hasn’t turned up. My money is with Murt. I think Grey is dead, and whoever killed Bill and Ed is still out there.”

Rosencrantz looked up at the whiteboard and said, “Maybe the whole why is why thing you wrote up there is about Grey.”

“In what way?” Virgil said.

Rosencrantz walked over to the board, picked up a marker, and wrote: Y is Y. Then he looked at Virgil and said, “ Grey’s name ends with a Y. What do you think?”

Virgil stared at the board for a few seconds without answering. He didn’t know. No one else did either, but as it turned out, Rosencrantz was half right.

Hammond poured two cups of coffee, then handed one to Woodall. He had the thought that if the timing was better, he could have spiked Woodall’s coffee and used him as his next donor. But Hammond knew that came with a whole host of problems, chief among them being the fact that Woodall was an officer of the court, and even if he did manage to subdue the man, it’d be all but impossible to drag him out to the exam room all by himself. Then there was the issue of his vehicle, not to mention that his superiors probably knew where he was. All things considered, the risk was simply too great. Hammond let it all go and said, “You’re free to look around anywhere you like, Officer. I’m a licensed veterinarian, and I assure you, I have nothing to hide. Palmer stayed out in the bunkhouse with another employee of mine, a young man by the name of Martin Grant.”

“I don’t need to search your residence, sir. But I will probably want to see the bunkhouse. Is Mr. Grant available for questioning?”

“I’m afraid not,” Hammond said. “At least not for another week or so. He’s on vacation. I’ll be sure to have him call once he returns.”

“Could I have his phone number?”

Sure, for all the good it will do you, Hammond thought. “Of course.” Then he pulled out his own phone and brought up the number, then spun it around so Woodall could see it.

Woodall wrote the number down in his notes, then said, “That’s fine. Where did he go on vacation?”

Hammond closed his eyes as if he were trying to remember. “You know, now that I think about it, I don’t believe he ever mentioned it to me. Nowhere exotic, I’m sure. I think he was simply going to visit his parents or other relatives.”

“I see. And when was the last time you saw Mr. Palmer?”

“The last time I saw my truck, and the trailer that was hitched to the bumper.”

“Sir?”

Hammond waved the question away. “Sorry, my mind is going in about ten different directions at once. When the doorbell rang, I thought you were a sheriff’s deputy. I believe that I may have misplaced my trust when it came to Robert. I do try to give the underprivileged a fair shot at redemption, but last night my truck and trailer were parked in the driveway, and as of this morning I can’t find Robert or my truck. I’ve reported the theft and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to imagine who is behind it all.”

“I guess it doesn’t,” Woodall said. “Is the bunkhouse locked?”

“No, it’s open. Would you like me to accompany you?”

Woodall closed his file folder and said, “I think I’ll take it from here, Doctor Hammond. Thanks for the coffee. Sorry for your troubles. Please call me if Palmer turns up.”

“I will,” Hammond said. “Anything to support local law enforcement.”

Woodall stepped outside and made his way over to the bunkhouse. When he opened the door, he spent ten or fifteen minutes looking through the personal belongings of both Palmer and Grant, though it was hard to tell what items belonged to which man. When he was sure there was nothing of substance to be found, he stepped back outside and closed the door. When he looked toward the rear of the property, he noticed the bare spots clustered together. Some areas had fresh grass growing, while others were mounded over with dirt. When he looked closer he could tell that a tractor of some kind had been repeatedly driven back and forth across the property. He made a mental note of it all, then headed back to his vehicle.

Just as he was getting ready to drive away, a Decatur County squad car turned in to the driveway. Woodall got back out and waited for the deputy to exit his vehicle.

As a probation officer, Woodall had interacted with every single deputy in the county at one time or another, so he knew the cop who’d just arrived. He walked over, smiled and said, “Hey, Chuck. You got the call, huh?”

The deputy—a guy by the name of Chuck Freeman—looked up at Woodall, a mild look of confusion on his face. “What call are we talking about?”

Woodall jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “About Doc Hammond’s truck being stolen. Looks like Palmer hasn’t learned his lesson yet. I came out here on a bench warrant to pick him up for failure to appear at his first probation meeting, but he isn’t here. Neither is Hammond’s truck. He told me he called it in.”

The deputy shook his head. “Don’t know anything about a stolen truck. I’m here because one mile to the West there’s an abandoned livestock trailer sitting on the side of the road. When I ran the plate, it came back to this address.”

“Hammond just told me that the trailer was hooked to the truck when it was stolen.”

The deputy said, “Hang on,” then typed a few commands on the keyboard of the laptop in his squad car. After thirty seconds or so, he turned back and said, “We don’t have a record of anyone calling about a stolen truck and trailer.”

“Is that right?” Woodall said. He was looking at Hammond’s house as he spoke.

“Nothing in the system,” the deputy said. “How do you want to handle it?”

Woodall sighed. Sometimes he thought he had about the worst job in the world. It was bad enough dealing with the probation idiots all day, but when the people who presented themselves as upstanding citizens started getting in the way, it was all but intolerable.

When Woodall didn’t answer, the deputy said, “Bill?”

Woodall rolled his shoulders, then said, “Let’s go have another word with him. Now that I think about it, some of his answers were a little vague.”

Virgil and the rest of the crew talked it around for a few minutes, but ultimately decided that they still didn’t know what the phrase why is why was about. When there was a natural pause in the conversation he took a deep breath, puffed his cheeks, then let it out before he said, “Murton and I have some news to share with all of you. It isn’t easy, we don’t like it any more than you will, but sometimes life goes a certain direction and all you can do is go with the flow.”

Baker looked away and kept her face as blank as possible because she knew what was coming.

“What is it, Boss-man?” Ross said.

Virgil looked around the table and locked eyes with each man and held them for a few seconds. “I know I speak for Murton as well as myself when I say that every single one of you are, without question, the absolute best detectives we’ve ever had the honor and privilege to work with. We’ve fought together, laughed together, and propped each other up when things didn’t go the way we thought they might. Every detective in this room has either saved my life or the life of someone I love. There’s no way in the world to ever repay any of you for the things you’ve done on behalf of the state, the MCU, and especially me. I hope you all know that.

“When we returned from Jamaica, Murton and I had a meeting with Cora at the airport. During that meeting she informed us that it is her intention to step away from the governor’s office to work with her Michigan counterpart as they begin to pave their way toward a run at the White House in the next election cycle. Gretchen wants Cora as her VP, and she’s agreed to do just that. Cora doesn’t have an exact timeline for any of this yet, but once her office is vacated, the lieutenant governor, Lance Irwin will be stepping up to fill her seat. I don’t know much about the man, but I do know this: He has made it very clear that should he take office—and it looks like he will—under his authority, the Major Crimes Unit will cease to exist.

“The governor has assured me and Murt that every single person in this room will be taken care of, and I have every faith that she will keep that promise. She’s never failed me before and I don’t expect her to now. Everybody will be offered detective spots with the ISP in the district of your own choosing. Ortiz, I’ll want you to consider another option, and we’ll talk about that privately. Rosie, the same goes for you.”

Ross looked at Virgil and said, “What are you and Murt going to do?”

“Live a little,” Murton said.

Baker stood without saying anything and started to walk out of the room. When she passed by Murton’s chair, he reached out and said, “Em?”

Baker patted him on the shoulder. “I’m good, Murt. I’ll be up front.” Then she leaned down and whispered something no one else could hear. Murton listened, then simply nodded at her before she walked away.

Then the rest of them started in with the questions.

And as sad as it was, Virgil didn’t have very many answers.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Hammond was looking out the window and trying to not be too obvious about it when the county squad car pulled into his driveway. He watched the probation officer and the deputy speak for a few minutes, then when they started to approach, he went to the front door, opened it up, then stepped out onto the porch. He glanced at the deputy, then focused on Woodall. “Was there something else, Officer?”

“Mind if we step in, sir?”

Hammond could tell the dynamic had changed, but he didn’t know why. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you ignored my question, Officer Woodall. I asked if there was something else. You answered with a question of your own.”

“It’s a simple request, Doctor. And to answer your question, yes, there is something else. So I’ll ask again: May we come in?”

Hammond didn’t want to overplay his hand, and he didn’t know why the deputy had shown up, so he said, “Yes, of course. Forgive me, please.” He pushed the door open wide, smiled, and said, “The coffee is still hot and fresh.”

The deputy looked at Hammond and said, “After you, sir.”

Hammond was about a half second from telling both men to piss off because he knew they were trying to intimidate him. Cops always did that kind of thing. They ask the questions. They take charge. They point you down a path and give you no other option. To not do what they say is all but indicative of guilt in their eyes. He pushed all those feelings down, smiled, then led them inside.

Once everyone was in, Hammond turned around and said, “Was there something else you wanted to know about Mr. Palmer?” When he asked the question, he noticed the deputy scanning the interior of the house. Before Woodall could respond, he looked at the cop and said, “We’re alone, Deputy, I assure you. Feel free to look around if it makes you more comfortable. I don’t believe I got your name.”

“It’s Freeman,” the deputy said. Then he pointed at his own chest. “It says so right here on my name plate.” Then he began to walk down the hallway toward the rear of the house.

“Where are you going?” Hammond called out.

Freeman stopped and turned back. “To look around. You just gave me permission to search your home, sir.”

“I was trying to be polite,” Hammond said. “Would one of you kindly explain what’s going on here? I’ve done nothing wrong.”

The deputy kept his face blank. “No one said you did, Mr. Hammond.”

“It’s Doctor. Do not patronize me, please.”

“Are you upset about something, sir?” Woodall asked.

“What kind of question is that? Of course I’m upset. Weren’t you listening earlier? I told you that my truck and trailer have been stolen. And not only that, I also informed you my thoughts regarding who was behind the theft.”

Freeman had walked back and positioned himself opposite of Woodall, and Hammond was now stuck between both men. When they started asking more questions, he had to turn away from one to answer the other.

“Oh, I was listening to you, sir,” Woodall said. “Every single word. In fact, listening carefully is one of the key elements of my job.”

“Are you aware of the fact that it is illegal to lie to a law enforcement officer?” Freeman said.

Hammond spun around. “Please step back, Deputy. You’re violating my personal space.”

“Answer the deputy’s question, Doctor,” Woodall said.

When Hammond spun back around, he found Woodall had stepped closer as well. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on here, okay? All I wanted to do was report my missing truck and trailer in hopes that they could be recovered. I know who did it, I think you do as well, but for some reason the two of you have me practically pinned in my own hallway and are accusing me of not being honest.”

“No one has accused you of anything, sir,” Freeman said.

Hammond huffed like a teenage girl. “Yes, you are. You implied as much when you asked me if I knew that lying to a police officer is illegal. As a point of fact, I do know that, so please don’t insult my intelligence.”

“You’re making it hard not to, sir,” Woodall said. “There’s a difference between an accusation and an implication. But let’s not debate semantics. Earlier you told me that you reported your truck and trailer stolen. Do I have that right?”

“Yes, yes,” Hammond said. “We’ve covered that already. When you arrived, I also mentioned I was expecting you to be a sheriff’s deputy. I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”

“I’m not making a fuss, sir,” Freeman said. “But you certainly are.”

Hammond actually stomped his foot on the floor when he spoke. “I am not. State your business here, Deputy, or kindly leave.”

“You see, that’s the thing, Doc,” Freeman said. “When we were outside, Officer Woodall told me you called in and reported that your truck and trailer had been stolen. The problem is, when I checked our system, I found that no call was actually made. What I did find—purely by chance while on patrol—was your trailer. It’s about a mile away, abandoned along the side of the road. What do you make of that, sir?”

Hammond flapped his arms up in the air and let them fall to his sides. “I don’t make anything of it. I can only speculate that for reasons unknown by me, Palmer must have decided to abandon it.”

“How is it that Deputy Freeman and the Decatur County sheriff’s department have no record whatsoever of you placing a call regarding the theft of your truck and trailer, sir?” Woodall said.

“Because I didn’t call the county,” Hammond said. “I reported the theft to the state police. I didn’t think Mr. Palmer would steal my equipment to simply go for a joyride around the county.”

Woodall nodded in a thoughtful way. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Listen, I’ve got one more question for you, and then we’ll get out of your hair. When I was out at the bunkhouse near the back of your property, I couldn’t help but notice that you’ve got quite a few spots back there where fresh grass has been planted. Some of the spots are mounded over, and if I’m being honest with you, sir, they sort of look like graves. Would you care to explain that?”

When Hammond answered, he knew it was wrong, but he couldn’t help himself. The way he was being treated in his own home was not only disrespectful, but an absolute disgrace. Enough was enough. Time to get a few shots of his own in. “I can see why they’ve put you in probations, Officer Woodall. You’d make a less than competent detective.”

Woodall gave Hammond a genuine grin and said, “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“I’m a doctor of veterinary medicine. Furthermore, I specialize in the treatment of large animals.”

Woodall’s grin went away, and when it did, he said, “So, how does that make me a lousy detective?”

“Because it doesn’t take too much imagination to figure out that those spots you mentioned are in fact gravesites. Not every animal I care for survives their injuries or illnesses. The ones that don’t are buried at the back of my property.”

Hammond still had his back to Freeman, and as he was speaking, Woodall caught the deputy’s look. Time to shut it down.

“Okay, that makes sense,” Woodall said. “I guess that’s all for now.” Then he looked past Hammond, and finished with, “Anything else, Chuck?”

“Yeah,” Freeman said. “One more thing.”

“What now?” Hammond asked.

“Get your trailer out of the road before it causes an accident.” He brushed past Hammond and moved toward the front door. “If it’s still there this time tomorrow I’ll have the county tow it to the impound lot. Have a nice day, sir.”

By the time Hammond got them out and the front door closed, he could feel the sweat running down the center of his back.

As they were walking toward their vehicles, Freeman said, “Follow me back over to where I found that trailer. I don’t want him to see us talking to each other.”

When they arrived at the trailer, both men got out of their vehicles, and Woodall said, “Did you get the same read that I did?”

“Yeah, pretty much. I know you deal with the same kind of liars I do on a daily basis. The only difference between you and me is that you get them on their way out of the system, and I get them on their way in. That guy is hiding something. Why lie about who he called when the truck and trailer were stolen?”

“Is it possible he was being truthful about who he called?” Woodall said. “I’m not completely aware of how the calls are handled.”

Freeman shook his head. “Not unless someone at the ISP botched the reporting.”

“How often does that happen?”

“I’ve never experienced it, so my guess is never. Besides, ask yourself this: If you wake up and realize your truck has been stolen, who are you going to call? And remember, you’re just an average Joe.”

Woodall knew where his friend was going. “I get it. I’d call 9-1-1.”

“Right,” Freeman said. “And when you do, even though in this particular instance it wasn’t actually an emergency—I mean, the guy didn’t have a child in the truck, or whatever—the dispatcher would still take a very basic report, hit a few keystrokes, and when that happened, both the county and the state would know about it. And since I didn’t know, that means one of two things.”

Woodall wasn’t a patrol cop, but he was keeping up. “He either called the state police non-emergency line, or he never made the call.”

“Exactly,” Freeman said.

“Did you buy his story about those graves?”

Freeman shrugged. “I don’t know, man. It seems logical enough. I’ve never really given it much thought, but on the one hand, if you’ve got a dead horse, what are you gonna do? On the other, if a guy lies about one thing, it makes you wonder what else he’s hiding.”

“I’ll tell you this: He said he has two guys working for him. Palmer, who he says stole his truck, and some other guy, Martin Grant. The thing is, neither of them were there…Palmer, because Hammond says that’s who took the truck, and Grant, because he’s on vacation.”

“Did you believe any of it?”

“At first I was only mildly suspicious, but after the little talk we just had with him, I feel like he could be lying about everything. Maybe he’s trying to run an insurance scam.”

“One step at a time,” Freeman said. “I know a guy who’s a detective with the state. Let me have him check and see if Hammond ever actually called it in. Who knows? Maybe the state botched the reporting, and we’ve got a big bag of nothing.”

“How long will that take?”

“If he answers his phone? About two minutes.”

Virgil and Ortiz walked down the hall and into the sheriff’s office. Virgil sat behind the desk, and Ortiz remained standing. “Take a seat,” Virgil said.

“I’d rather stand if you don’t mind,” Ortiz said. “The up and down is the second hardest part.”

“Sure, I get it, mainly because I’ve been there myself. Listen, I’d like to ask you a personal question. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“You don’t have to ask, and you’ve got nothing to worry about, Jonesy. I had morphine while I was in the hospital, but since I’ve been out, it’s been over-the-counter meds only. I don’t touch the hard stuff. I’ve heard too many horror stories. Besides, I know they’re going to piss test me when I’m ready to come back.”

“Yeah, about that...coming back. I want you to know that you’ve got options. That’s the good news. The bad news is that I’m not sure of Cora’s timeline, and neither is she.”

“Not sure I’m following you,” Ortiz said.

“Cora and I talked about it…about you. The MCU will hang on for a while—and as I said, how long is anyone’s guess—but when the time comes, everyone has to have already decided where they want to be. We ran the numbers, and you’ve got enough time in. That means if you take your benefits along with a disability payout, you can retire and make more money now by walking away. The choice is yours to make, but here’s what we can’t do: We can’t keep you on the roster and let you decide later, because fit for duty means fit for duty. If you return to the job as a detective with the MCU until we’re shut down, then transfer over to an ISP district, you’ll be doing so without the added benefit of the disability pay.”

Ortiz thought about it for a few minutes and Virgil let him. Finally, he looked up and said, “What do you think I should do?”

“Not for me to say, man.”

“Yeah, but I’m asking.”

Virgil glanced away for a second, then looked back. “Honestly, I’d take the money and run. You’re always talking about your family up in Chicago. Move back home, spend time with the people you love. I know it’s hard, but you can’t let this job define you as a person. In other words, go live your life and see what it actually looks like.”

“Do you need an answer right now?”

“It works to your advantage if you can give me one.”

Ortiz laughed without humor. “Free at last, huh?”

Virgil gave him a grim smile. “Something like that. Say the word, and I’ll tell Sarah to start the process.”

“I have always wanted to travel the world. So, you know, fuck it. Let someone else deal with the lowlifes and the rest of the scum. Life’s too short, right?”

“That’s what everyone keeps telling me,” Virgil said. He stood, then stuck out his hand to shake. “It’s been an honor to have you as part of the Major Crimes Unit, Detective. Even if you do move back to Chicago or end up traveling the world, take a trip back down here every once in a while. Stop in at the bar and have a drink. It’ll always be on the house.”

Ortiz shook with Virgil, then opened his mouth to speak, but he had a hard time getting the words out. “Thanks for everything, Virgil. You’re the best boss I’ve ever had.” Then he turned and walked out, closing the door softly behind himself.

Virgil felt like he could have wept, and he might have, but then his phone started buzzing at him. He checked the screen, saw who it was, then answered by saying, “Hey, Cora. What’s up?”

“You talk to your people yet?”

“As a group, yes. Individually, I just finished with Ortiz.”

“You sound like someone just shot your dog.”

“That’s sort of how it feels,” Virgil said.

“How’d he take it?”

“Like a man. He’s going to walk away.”

“Did you have to push him?”

“I may have given him a nudge.”

“Okay, well, keep me up on everyone else. What’s the latest on Henderson and Kelly?”

“We have a working theory that Mike Grey was set up to take someone else’s fall. The problem is we don’t know who.”

“Okay, stay on it.”

“We will,” Virgil said. “Anything else?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. I just finished speaking with the president of the Shelby County common council.”

“Cora, I just said we’re on it. Tell the council president that if he thinks he can do a better job, then he can come down here and⁠—”

“Jonesy?”

“What?”

“How about you let me finish my sentence before you jump off the deep end?”

Virgil took a few seconds to collect himself, then said, “Sorry. Go ahead. What did the council president have to say?”

Cora laid it all out for him, and by the time she was finished, Virgil was actually smiling.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

When Virgil stepped out of the sheriff’s office he looked around the common area for Rosencrantz, but didn’t see him. He walked over to Lucy’s desk and said, “Where’s Rosie?”

“He’s still in the conference room. I think he’s going through some of Ed’s files.”

“Okay. Tell him to come find me when he’s done. Any idea where Murton is?”

“Out in the lobby.”

“What’s he doing out there?”

“Trying to talk some sense into Mayo.”

Virgil didn’t understand, and said so. “What’s wrong with Mayo?”

Lucy smiled and said, “You should probably speak with your brother about it.”

Virgil stepped through the double doors and out to the lobby. “What’s going on?”

Murton shook his head. “Mayo heard about Ortiz.”

Virgil turned to Mayo and said, “I know it’s rough, but when you consider all the factors it really is for the best, man. Retire and walk away with a raise? It doesn’t get much better than that. He’s getting a sweet deal.”

Mayo opened his eyes as wide as possible and said, “I know.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I can’t get Murt to push me down the stairs. That means I’m going to spend the rest of my career sitting at a desk, investigating potholes and roadkill, or whatever the hell a regular ISP detective does…all while my former partner is living large off the state’s teat.”

“You could shoot yourself in the foot,” Murton said. “Accidental discharge is among the most common reasons amongst law enforcement officers for taking disability. You’d practically be a shoo-in.”

Mayo looked at Virgil. “Is that true?”

“No, it isn’t. He’s making it up.”

“Am I, though?” Murton said. “Of course there’s also the possibility that the injury would be so severe they’d have to amputate your foot.”

“You guys still have your private investigations firm. You’ll probably end up doing a bunch of high-end corporate security stuff. Maybe I could work for you. Becky says I’m actually pretty good with the computers and the internets.”

“That’d be internet,” Virgil said. “As in singular.”

“So you’ve never been on the dark web, huh?” Mayo said.

“I feel like I’m caught in one right now,” Virgil said. “How about you get to work?”

“So you’ll think about it?”

Virgil dropped his chin to his chest. “Mayo, I’ll do you one better. Remember what I wrote on the whiteboard?”

“Yeah…why is why. What about it?”

“Figure out what it means, and you can come work for me and Murt.”

“He can?” Murton said.

Virgil gave his brother a look, then turned to Mayo. “Go on. Start detecting.”

Mayo smiled. “Thanks, Boss.”

Once he was gone, Murton looked at his brother and said, “What if he figures it out?”

“No chance,” Virgil said. “By the way, what did Baker say to you in the conference room before she walked out?”

“That we don’t need to worry about her.”

“Why not?” Virgil said.

“Because she’s taking a leap of faith.”

“What do you mean?” Virgil asked.

“I’m surprised I have to say it. She’s going to move down to Jamaica with Nicky.”

Virgil thought about it for a few seconds, then said, “Man, that’s a big leap. Are they that serious about each other?”

“Life’s a mystery, Jones-man. Speaking of, do you have any thoughts on our next steps regarding Henderson and Kelly?”

“Yeah, I do. If you’re up for it, I’d like you to take Baker and go talk to Carl Johnson. Go through the whole thing again and get every last scrap of information out of him that you can. I feel like we might have glossed over something.”

Murton shrugged. “I can do that. Any particular reason why you want me to take Baker instead of Ross or Rosie?”

“Yeah, a couple of reasons, actually. I think Carl will open up more with Baker there. She sort of gives off this vibe. I can’t quite define it, but she has a calming presence. Have you ever noticed that?”

“I have,” Murton said. “It’s one I’ll miss when she’s gone.”

“Well, it’s not like we’ll never see her again.”

Murton smiled. “That’s true enough.” Then: “Before I go, let me ask you something. What are we going to do about Chip? And Sarah, for that matter.”

“I was thinking we’d take Sarah with us, if she wants to make the jump. What do you think?”

“Absolutely. It’ll free up Becky. And the Chipster?”

“He’ll get the same deal Cora offered, I’m sure. I’ve never met a more dedicated crime scene guy. He’ll fit in anywhere he decides to go, and wherever that is they’ll be lucky to have him.”

“Good enough,” Murton said. He started to walk away in search of Baker, then stopped and turned back. “A minute ago you said there were a couple of reasons you wanted me to take Baker, but you only mentioned one. What’s the other?”

Virgil told his brother what Cora had said on the phone. After he’d laid it all out, Virgil said, “Think he’ll go for it?”

Murton considered the question carefully. “Given the history of everything that’s happened in this county, I could see it going either way. Tell you this, though: It’d be a perfect fit.”

“I thought the same thing,” Virgil said. “Let me know how it goes with Carl, huh?”

When Virgil walked back into the common area of the sheriff’s department, he found Ross and Rosencrantz chatting with Lucy. Ross caught Virgil’s eye, and tipped his head down the hall before starting that way.

Virgil followed his detective, and once they were out of earshot, Ross said, “I want you to know that I’m sorry about how all this is turning out. Why are you smiling?”

“Because I’m thinking about something,” Virgil said. “A couple of somethings, actually.”

“Going to let me in on it?” Ross asked.

“I was remembering the first time we met—back when you were still with Jon Mok and SWAT—and how I chewed your ass out for no good reason.”

Ross chuckled. “Yeah, that was a pretty good waste of a proper ass-chewing.”

“I was also thinking about the time that you showed up to take Sarah out on her first date after Gary White…”

Virgil let his statement trail away, and Ross watched as his boss’s eyes seemed to go out of focus. “Hey, Jonesy? What’s the matter?”

Virgil blinked rapidly for a few seconds, then said, “Have you ever experienced the feeling that you know something deep down inside part of your brain…I mean like you know you know it, but you can’t get it up to the surface?”

Ross gave Virgil half a shrug. “I guess so. Why?”

“I don’t know,” Virgil said. “But when I mentioned Gary White’s name, it triggered something.”

“Gotta let it go,” Ross said. “You can’t chase it. It’ll either come or it won’t.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Anyway, I was also thinking about that first date you and Sarah had, and how much I disappointed you with the things I said.”

“Those kinds of things make you smile?”

“Hardly,” Virgil said. “But they are the kinds of things that make me realize how lucky I’ve been to have you around all these years. In many ways I feel like I’ve watched you grow up. I want you to know I consider that a privilege. You, Andrew Ross, have made me a better person. You push and you fight back and you get in my face, and I’m telling you as I live and breathe, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Ross smiled with pride. “Thanks, Boss-man. Really. I can’t begin to tell you how much that means to me.” Ross looked away for a second, and when he turned back, he said, “So, is this the part where we exchange rings, or something?”

Virgil started laughing. “Fuck you.”

“Got a favor to ask,” Ross said.

“Name it.”

“I’m thinking of approaching Jon Mok, and I’m hoping you’ll grease the wheels. Think he’d take me back?”

“He’d be a fool not to. But let me ask you for a favor. Hold off before you do that.”

And Ross, being Ross, got right to the point. “Why?”

“Give me some time. Can you do that? It shouldn’t be more than an hour or two. I’m working something and you might have another offer on the table. Don’t ask me what because there are too many moving parts, but if you can wait, I promise it won’t hurt you. If it doesn’t work out, I’ll personally speak with Mok about taking you back. Deal?”

“What are you up to?”

“Trying to take care of my family,” Virgil said. “And that includes you.”

Murton and Baker were driving out to Carl Johnson’s place, talking about all the changes, and Baker said, “How’d he take it?”

“Who? Jonesy?”

Baker gave him a look. “No, the janitor. Of course I’m talking about Jonesy. I don’t want him to be disappointed with me.”

“He took it fine, Em. And quit worrying about what other people think. That kind of nonsense will keep you up at night. It’s your career, not mine, and certainly not Jonesy’s. You get to decide what’s right for you.”

“I know, I just don’t want any ill will floating around out there.”

“Don’t know how there could be,” Murton said. “In fact, when you think about it, the timing couldn’t be better.”

“Believe it or not, that’s part of the reason I’m so concerned. I actually told Nicky yes while you guys were still down in Jamaica. Then, when Cora told us what was going on, it made me feel guilty.”

“Let it go, Em. Jonesy is happy for you, and I am as well. Besides, with you on the island, every time we show up it’ll be like old times.” Murton’s phone beeped at him, and since Baker was driving, he pulled it from his pocket and said, “Wheeler, MCU.”

“Murton Wheeler, when was the last time someone called you a giant shit bag?”

Murton laughed and said, “I think it was about three years ago when I last spoke with you. How are you, Chuck? Hey, before you answer, did you know that the governor calls me Chucklehead? I’m not sure if it’s a compliment or not.”

“Oh, it definitely is,” Freeman said. “Us chuckleheads are everywhere. I hope you’re not dragging us down as an institution. And to answer your question, I’m doing well. But I do need a quick down-and-dirty favor.”

“Those are the only kind I do,” Murton said. “What do you need?”

“I’m looking at something weird. It definitely involves a parole violation, and there might be an insurance scam attached.”

“That doesn’t sound like down and dirty. It sounds more like sleepy and dopey. I can barely keep my eyes open just hearing the words.”

Freeman gave him a fake laugh. “Ha. Ha. Ha. I got a guy who’s giving me the runaround on a stolen truck down here in Decatur County. Can you tell me if the state took a call⁠—”

“Hang on a second, Chuck,” Murton said. Then to Baker: “Right there, you’re about to miss your turn.”

Baker hit the brakes…maybe a touch too hard, then said, “Jeez, sorry about that.”

Murton brought the phone back up and said, “I can’t, Chuck, because I’m out in the field and just getting ready to talk to a guy. But I’ll text you the number of our researcher, who, as you know, happens to be my lovely wife, so play nice. She can get you whatever you need. I’ll give her a quick call and let her know you’ll be in touch. Good luck.”

“Thanks, Chucklehead.”

“Hesitate to call every time,” Murton said. Then he ended the call and got in touch with Becky, and told her to expect a call from Freeman.

“Yeah, that’s no problem,” Becky said. “By the way, the sequence on Grey is done. That guy is so clean he’s squeaky.”

“Well, on paper anyway,” Murton said. “We also think he’s dead. Listen, I gotta run because we’re about to talk to Johnson. Give Freeman whatever he needs, and I’ll talk to you soon. Love you, Becks.”

“You better. Love you too, baby.”

Virgil found Rosencrantz as he was coming out of the men’s room. “Got a second?”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“I want to run something by you,” Virgil said. “In private. Let’s go into Ed’s office.”

Once they were inside with the door closed, Virgil took the chair behind the sheriff’s desk as he had when he was speaking with Ortiz, and Rosencrantz sat down on one of the chairs that fronted the desk. “How’s Lucy taking all this?” Virgil said.

“She’s mostly all right. Better than me, for sure. She didn’t get a chance to really know Ed, but I can tell it’s weighing on her.”

“On all of us,” Virgil said. “We’ll get them, you know?”

Rosencrantz nodded. “If it’s the last thing I ever do.”

“I believe you,” Virgil said. “Did you hear about Ortiz?”

Rosencrantz nodded. “Yeah. He seemed pretty okay about it. I mean, how could you not? This job…sometimes it just takes more out of a guy than it should.”

“I know what you mean,” Virgil said. “The truth is, I don’t think I’ve ever let myself really think about that particular aspect. I’m speaking of what the job takes versus what it gives back. Lately...or, I don’t know, maybe it’s just my age talking, but I’m starting to feel like everything we’re faced with right now might be a good thing. The MCU has had its run, and we’ve done some good work. I would have liked to see a few things play out differently than they did, but on the whole, I’d say we can walk away with our heads up.”

“Sure wish Ed Donatti was around to see it through to the end with us.”

“Who says he isn’t?” Virgil said.

Rosencrantz didn’t seem to have a response to that, so Virgil pushed forward. But when he did, he made sure all the facts were on the table. “Ben Holden. Ron Miles. Carla. And now Henderson.”

“I’m aware, Jonesy.”

“I know you are. You more than anyone.”

“I feel like you’re trying to make a point,” Rosencrantz said.

“That’s because I am. You’ve got enough time stacked to walk out the door when they pull the plug on us...whenever that might be.”

“I’m not walking away from anything until I find out who killed Ed. I’ll do it on my own nickel if I have to.”

“What if you didn’t have to? Do it on your own nickel, I mean.”

Rosencrantz shook his head. “I’m not going to take another state detective job, Jonesy. Use whatever cliche you want…the handwriting is on the wall, the fat lady is singing, it doesn’t matter. The last thing I want or need is some twenty-five-year-old kid as my boss.”

“That’s not the only option.”

“What are you saying?”

“Cora has spoken with the county council. This department has lost its entire leadership. None of the deputies currently serving have the skill set and résumé that you do. Because of your relationship with Carla and Ed, you know practically every cop in the department. I’m not trying to sell you on anything—particularly if you consider the outcome of your predecessors—but I can’t imagine a better fit for you or the county. That’s my way of saying that the sheriff’s job is yours if you want it. You’d have Lucy at the front desk, and if you put about two seconds worth of thought into it, there’s a young man out there right now who’s been at your side ever since he joined the MCU. I think he’d make one hell of an undersheriff. So, what do you say?”

Rosencrantz stood, shoved his hands into his pockets, then walked over to the window without saying a word. He looked out at the town, and its people walking the streets as if they didn’t have a care in the world. He stood there for five long minutes, and when he spoke, it was to Virgil’s reflection in the window glass. “I’ve known you for a long time. You and I have walked through the fire together, and I’ll always be grateful for the things you’ve done for me…including the times you looked the other way. So, please don’t take what I’m about to say personally, because it’s not a reflection on you as either a person, or a cop.”

Virgil knew he was beat, but at least he’d given it a shot. “I won’t, Rosie.”

But Virgil was about to learn that even when you’re crowding the plate, sometimes life throws you a hanging curve ball.

When Rosencrantz turned around he had a smile on his face. He pointed at Virgil and said, “Get the fuck out of my chair.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Becky took the call from Freeman, who told her what he needed. Becky listened, wrote everything down, then said, “You want to hang on? Either that, or I can call you right back.”

“It’s fine,” Freeman said. “I’ll hold.”

Becky set her phone down, checked the database, and discovered that Hammond hadn’t made any calls whatsoever regarding his stolen truck. When she picked the phone back up, she said, “I don’t know what you’re up against, but this Hammond guy didn’t report anything to either the county or the state.”

“That’s weird,” Freeman said. “We thought maybe he was trying to run an insurance scam on the truck.”

“Pretty hard to do that if you don’t have a police report to back up your claim,” Becky said.

“I’ll tell you something else that’s weird,” Freeman said. “I was right there…at his house. If the truck really was stolen, it seems like he’d want to let me take the report.”

“So, maybe not an insurance thing after all,” Becky said.

“Yeah, I guess. But the guy feels wrong somehow.”

“Want me to do a little digging…see what comes up?”

“Maybe. But let me get with Murton first. I don’t want to tie up state resources without going through the proper channels.”

“Don’t bother,” Becky said. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Might want to give him a minute. He said he was out in the field getting ready to talk with someone.”

“Yeah, I know. He’s speaking with Carl Johnson over in Shelby County.”

“Okay, well, keep me in the loop, will you? I don’t want to waste any time with this Hammond guy if I don’t need to. Appreciate the assist.”

“No problem,” Becky said. “Talk to you.” And then she was gone.

Murton and Baker were speaking with Johnson, and the conversation wasn’t going nearly as well as Murton had hoped.

“I don’t know what else to tell you guys,” Johnson said. “I don’t have any idea why Mike would have stopped at that spot. It don’t make no sense to me at all.”

Murton thought about it for a few seconds, then said, “Is it possible that he was going out to the cultural center to speak with you about something? That barn isn’t very far from there.”

Johnson scratched the back of his head. “That just don’t make no sense because Mike had a busy day. Our automated feeder was busted, and the part we needed was over in Decatur County. Fixing that feeder was going to take up the rest of the day. He wouldn’t have been wasting time driving in the wrong direction to come out to the cultural center. He barely had time to drop that little goat over at Doc’s place. The only reason I told him to do it was because I felt bad about the mixup between me and the Doc, but I already done told you guys that.”

“Is it possible that the vet couldn’t take the goat for some reason?” Baker said. “Maybe Hammond wasn’t home when Mike got there, so he decided to take the goat back out to the center.”

Johnson was already shaking his head. “That don’t work neither.”

“Why not?” Baker said.

“Because Mike knowed that I was moving rigs that day. It’s the whole reason I didn’t bring the little fella with me to begin with. Besides that, the part we needed was in Decatur County, and he never picked it up. Mike ain’t the sharpest pitchfork in the haystack, but he ain’t dumb. That’s my way of saying even if Doc weren’t at his place, Mike wouldn’t go all the way over there, then decide to come back without first stopping to get the parts we needed.”

“What’s the vet’s name?” Murton said.

“Sam Hammond. Why?”

“Because there’s no such thing as too much information,” Murton said. “What’s your take on the guy?”

Johnson sort of shrugged and said, “I don’t know him regular. Patty and I talked about him a little bit, and all I can tell you is what I told her. The⁠—”

Murton held his palm out and stopped Johnson. “Wait a second. What’s Patty have to do with any of this?”

“Nothing,” Johnson said. “I was just making a point.”

“What point was that, Carl?” Baker said.

Johnson sighed. It felt like no one was listening to him, and when he spoke, his voice was filled with exasperation. “Doc Hammond does volunteer work at the center. He teaches the Indians about horses and such. That’s how I met him. And when I seen Doc giving two of the Indians a ride, I mentioned it to Patty.”

Murton turned to Baker. “You guys keep talking. I want to make a couple of calls.” Baker said she would, and Murton walked back over to the squad car. He took out his phone, brought Rosencrantz’s number up, then hit the Call button.

“Hey, Murt. What’s up?”

“I’m out at Johnson’s place with Baker. When Jonesy and I first arrived in Shelby County, didn’t you say something to the effect that Patty and Tony had some of the Native Americans go missing from the cultural center?”

“Yeah. I also told you that I couldn’t figure out why both Ed and Bill would go out there together to collect the reports.”

“I remember,” Murton said. “Just wanted to make sure I’ve got my facts straight. I’ll get back with you.”

“Have you got something?”

“Don’t know yet,” Murton said. “I’ll let you know.” Then he ended the call and put another one through to Patty. “Hey, Pickle Chick. Need two minutes of your time.”

“Hi, Murt. How can I help?”

“Tell me everything you know about Doc Hammond.”

“Well, he’s a veterinarian, he volunteers here at the center, and he lives over in Decatur County. He’s sort of new, so I don’t know him all that well.”

“Did Tony do a background on him before he started?”

“Of course. He came back clean.”

“Carl Johnson told us that you and he had a little talk about the man.”

“Something like that,” Patty said. “When Carl had to send two of the Native Americans packing, he said Doctor Hammond gave them a ride.”

“And how many people have you lost?”

“Eight altogether. Why?”

Murton ignored the question. “Over what period of time?”

“About eight weeks,” Patty said.

“And when did Hammond start volunteering at the center?”

“A couple of months—” Then Patty put it together. “Oh, Murt, you don’t think Hammond…”

“I don’t know what to think…yet. But do me a favor: Keep Tony close, and if Hammond shows up, lock the door and call 9-1-1. We don’t have anything on him, but better to apologize after the fact. You got me?”

“I’ll call Tony right now,” Patty said, then hung up without another word.

Murton got Becky on the line. “I might have something. Get me everything you can on a guy named Sam Hammond. He’s a veterinarian out⁠—”

Becky finished her husband’s statement. “Yeah, Decatur County. I already know, Murt.”

Murton was confused. “How do you know about him?”

“Because that’s the same guy Chuck Freeman wanted to know about. Didn’t he tell you?”

Murton swore under his breath. “I didn’t give him the chance. I’m going to call him back right now. Start on Hammond, and give us everything you can as you get it. Send it to Lucy at the sheriff’s station. I gotta go.”

“Murt?”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful. Please.”

Murton promised his wife that he would, then jogged back over to where Baker and Johnson were still talking. He looked at Baker and said, “Anything else?”

“No, not really.”

“Okay, let’s go.” Then to Johnson: “Carl, we might have caught a little break. I’ll fill you in as soon as I can, but right now we’ve got to run. Let us know if you hear from Mike.”

Johnson said he would, then as they were driving away, Murton called Freeman. “Tell me everything you think is wrong about Hammond.” After Freeman explained in detail what he and Woodall saw and experienced out at Hammond’s residence, Murton said, “Are you still with Woodall?”

“Yeah, but he’s not very happy. He just got his ass handed to him by his boss over the phone. I guess Hammond called and made all kinds of threats…harassment, abuse of power, the whole nine yards. So now he’s getting ready to go face the music, and I’m about to head back out on patrol.”

“Start heading toward the Shelby County Sheriff’s Station instead, and bring Woodall with you.”

“I can’t, Murt. I’m working, and I’m pretty sure that Woodall needs to get back if he wants to keep his job.”

“Don’t worry. Unless I miss my guess, you’ll both be getting a call from your supervisors in a few minutes.”

“What’s going on?”

“One of two things,” Murton said. “Hammond is either the unluckiest guy on the planet, or he’s a monster in disguise.”

“Well, here’s hoping he’s a monster. See you in an hour. Maybe less.”

Once Murton was finished with Freeman, he called Virgil and told him what he needed and why. Virgil said he’d handle it, then said, “Nice work, man.”

Murton laughed without humor. “Yeah, we’ll see.”

Baker had managed to piece everything together by listening to Murton’s end of the conversations. Once he was off the phone, she glanced at him and said, “Why didn’t you tell Carl about the fact that we think Mike was set up…along with our suspicions that he’s probably dead? All you did was give him false hope.”

“I once said there’s no such thing as false hope. I’m sure I wasn’t the first to use the phrase, but sometimes you do what you need to do to get by.”

Baker thought about that for a minute, then said, “Still, it seems cruel.”

Murton turned away. “I know, Em. I know.”

Rosencrantz pulled Ross into the sheriff’s office, then closed the door.

“What’s going on?”

“I’d like to talk to you about something,” Rosencrantz said as he sat down behind the desk. “See if you’re willing to entertain the idea.”

“Sure,” Ross said.

“Have you thought about where you’re going to land after everything shakes out?”

Ross shrugged. “I spoke with Jonesy earlier. I don’t really want to take a random detective position with the state.”

“Why not?” Rosencrantz said.

“I don’t know. I just don’t think my heart would be in it, especially after the type of work we’ve been doing. I’ve only ever worked two places with the kind of camaraderie I enjoy. One was with Jon Mok, and the other was with the MCU. I can’t really picture myself sitting in a cubicle at a state police post. I’m hoping Jon might take me back.”

“Think he will?”

“Don’t know,” Ross said. “I’m pretty sure he’d want me back, but if he doesn’t have the room, he doesn’t have the room. Jonesy said he’d be willing to make the ask on my behalf, but he said something else might be in the works. I’m supposed to give it a couple of hours. Maybe less. That’s what he said, anyway.”

“He tell you what it is?” Rosencrantz said.

Ross shook his head. “Nope.”

“Want to hear a little story?” Rosencrantz said.

Ross sat down and said, “Sure. What is it?”

“You never got the chance to meet my old partner, Ed Donatti.”

“No, but I’ve heard all about him,” Ross said. “Most of it from you and Murt. It sounds like he was a hell of a guy.”

Rosencrantz nodded. “He was. After he died, I was really sad for a long time. No one knows this, but I actually had a few sessions with a shrink…you know, to try to get my head straight.”

“Did it help?”

Rosencrantz laughed through his nose. “No, not really. Want to know what actually did help?”

“Of course.”

“It was when the MCU hired a new guy…you know, the one who eventually became my partner. He was pretty green, but I persevered, and eventually molded him into shape. It wasn’t easy though.”

Ross laughed. “Are you giving me a compliment, or trying to insult me?”

“Neither, actually,” Rosencrantz said. “I’m trying to tell you that I’ve got enough time in to retire, but I’m not going to. Not yet, anyway, and I’m hoping that you’ll forget about Mok, and come work with me.”

Ross gave his partner a frown. “Work with you where?”

Rosencrantz propped his elbows on the desk and spread his arms. “Where else? I know it’s a tired old line, but I’m going to use it anyway: There’s a new sheriff in town.”

Ross’s frown turned to a grin. “You’re shittin’ me.”

“I shat not upon thee. I need an undersheriff and there isn’t one single person on the planet I’d rather have by my side than you. What do you think?”

“That means you’d be my boss.”

“I’ve always been your boss,” Rosencrantz said.

“No, we’ve been partners. You said it yourself about one minute ago.”

“Still, in this gig, I’d be your boss. So, in or out?”

“Of course I’m in,” Ross said. “Have to talk with Sarah about it, but yeah, definitely.”

Rosencrantz laughed. “Want me to write out a permission slip and pin it on your shirt? When you get home Sarah can sign it.”

“Fuck you, I quit,” Ross said. Then he turned serious and said, “What about the county council? Are they on board with it?”

Rosencrantz waved it off. “Council, schmouncil. They’re a bunch of bureaucrats who don’t know the first thing about law enforcement.”

“That doesn’t really answer my question,” Ross said.

“Then this will: They’re in a pickle, they know it, and Cora has already greased the skids for us.”

“What’s it pay?”

Rosencrantz shrugged. “Beats me. I’m not worried though. I’ve got my state pension to fall back on.”

“Lucky you,” Ross said. “What are the hours like?”

“Long and boring.”

“Has anyone ever mentioned that you should be in sales?”

Rosencrantz smiled. “I know, right?” Then he stood and said, “Don’t think I could do it without you, man.”

“Won’t have to,” Ross said. “This county will never be the same.”

Rosencrantz looked around the office, the very place his former lover had occupied, and also a very good friend whom he’d just lost. “You’ve got that right.”

Mayo was sitting in the conference room by himself, trying to work out the why is why problem. He’d written a bunch of notes on the board, but none of them seemed to fit into any logical pattern, nor did they connect in any way whatsoever to the case they were working. The longer he worked the problem, the more frustrated he became, until he finally said to hell with it and reached for the board’s eraser to start over.

It was such a simple little thing…to grab the eraser, but Mayo was mad, not paying attention to his own actions and movements, and when he reached out to grab the eraser—it was sitting on a little tray that was built into the whiteboard’s aluminum frame—the side of his right hand caught the corner of the platform and sliced it open with almost surgical precision.

Mayo yanked his hand back, hissed at the pain, then cupped his left hand under his right to keep the blood from dripping all over the floor. The cut wasn’t very long, but it was deep. By the time he made it to the hallway, his pants were spotted with blood, and that’s when he ran into Virgil.

Virgil saw his hand and said, “Christ, Mayo, what’d you do?”

“Slit the side of my hand on the whiteboard’s tray. Grab me some paper towels or something, will you?”

Virgil ran into the mens’ room, got a handful of nearly worthless disposable hand towels from the bin, then took them out to Mayo. “Here you go. Put some pressure on it. I’ll go find you some bandages from the first-aid kit.”

Mayo pressed the towels against his hand, and they were soaked through by the time Virgil got the supplies from the kit.

“Let me see it,” Virgil said.

“Uh, no offense, but where’s Murt?”

“I’m right here,” Murton said. He and Baker had just walked in. “What happened?”

“Mayo tried to amputate his hand to get the same deal as Ortiz,” Virgil said.

“I did not,” Mayo said. “I caught the edge of the whiteboard.”

“That little tray?”

“Yup.”

“Those things are like razors,” Murton said. “Let me see the cut.”

Mayo pulled the soaked towels away, and when Murton saw the gash in his friend’s hand, he said, “Oh, boy, that’s going to need some stitches. Hang on, let me stop the leaking.” He took the supplies from Virgil, then put fresh gauze pads over the cut and wrapped everything tight before taping it up. Once he was done, he said, “There, that should hold you for now. Get over to the Emergency Department at the hospital and enjoy the nice long wait. The rest of us have work to do.”

“Ah, I’m okay,” Mayo said. “Besides, I don’t want to miss anything.”

Murton shook his head. “Sorry, buddy, but that cut can’t wait. Go get it stitched.”

“Can you drive?” Virgil said.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Christ, I’m not gonna get in on any of the good stuff.”

What Mayo didn’t know—what none of them knew—was this: Mayo was about to cement his own future…and change a few lives in the process.

CHAPTER THIRTY

When Freeman and Woodall arrived at the Shelby County Sheriff’s Station, Murton made the introductions, then everyone went into the conference room. They all talked it around for nearly an hour, and by the time they were finished, everyone was convinced that Hammond was, at the very least, involved somehow in the deaths of Henderson, Kelly, and Grey.

“How do you want to work it?” Freeman asked Virgil.

“Our helicopter pilot is on his way, and should be here any minute. I want to see it from the air before we do anything.” He looked at Woodall and said, “Give me your gut, scale of one to ten. Are those graves, or not?”

“Yes. There’s no question. I think Hammond was lying through his teeth about almost everything he said, but I saw those areas and he even admitted they were graves. The question is, what’s really buried out there…or who.”

“Gonna need a warrant if we want to do it right,” Rosencrantz said.

“I’ve already set that in motion,” Virgil said. “The governor herself says we’ll have it before the end of the day.”

“We might not need it,” Woodall said.

“Why is that?” Murton asked.

“The first time Hammond let me in when I was looking for Palmer, he gave me permission to look wherever I wanted. It was pretty obvious that Palmer wasn’t there, but that’s when I saw the graves. Anyway, Chuck and I sort of rattled his cage when we spoke with him together, and that’s when he started in with the lies. The guy was practically tripping over his own dick every time he said something.”

“How does that get us back in?”

“Not us,” Woodall said. “Me…with you guys close by as my backup. Hammond was so mad after we left that he called my boss and really let loose. Then my boss gave me a shit-ton of grief about the whole thing.”

“Still not seeing how that gets you back in,” Virgil said.

“It might not, but here’s what I’m thinking: I can go out there and tell him exactly what happened. I won’t even have to lie…not very much, anyway. I’ll say my boss chewed me out, and I came back to apologize. If he buys that—and based on my previous interaction with the guy, I think he will—I’ll ask him if I can look around again. If he says yes…”

Virgil looked at Murton. “What do you think?”

“Beats waiting for a warrant. Worst-case scenario is Hammond tells Woodall to go pleasure himself, a couple of us watch him from a distance, and everyone else comes back here and waits for the warrant.”

Virgil turned to Rosencrantz. “Get Officer Woodall set up with our comms. Once that’s done, I want everyone to start heading down to Hammond’s place.” Then he looked at Freeman. “Is there someplace close by where we can stage?”

Freeman nodded. “There’s a volunteer fire station about a mile away, right at the intersection. The place sits empty all the time, unless…you know, there’s a fire.”

“Pull it up on the map for us, if you would,” Virgil said. Then he gave Freeman his number. “Send it to me, and I’ll get it to my guys. Are your crime scene people any good?”

Freeman nodded. “Some of the best in the state.”

“Better give them a call and have them standing by. If we do uncover anything out there, we’re going to need them. Everybody gear up and get ready. With a little luck, we’ll be done and home in time for dinner.”

Everybody groaned, and Virgil looked around the room and said, “What?”

Ross shook his head. “Whenever you say that kind of thing it usually turns into something else…like a three-day manhunt.”

“Not this time,” Virgil said. Then he quickly added: “I hope.”

Tony, who was by any measure, a very good security chief for the Pope crew, had gotten as far as he could with tracking down the owner of the aircraft that had been making regular and frequent flights to and from the island. Though he didn’t want to admit it, Tony knew his limitations, so he finally picked up the phone and called Nicky.

“And you think it’s worth looking into?” Nicky said.

“I’m not entirely sure, but it is an anomaly. If one weighs the pros and cons, I cannot find a downside to at least following up on it to ensure we’re not missing something.”

“Okay,” Nicky said. “The Wu-ster and I are about ready to wrap it up with the new battery coding for Mac, so we’ll get on it in as soon as we can. Keep an eye out in the meantime.”

“Certainly.”

“Hey, Tony?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Emily said yes.”

“That’s wonderful news, sir. Do you have a timeline?”

“Not yet. But it won’t be long now…”

Hammond had worked himself into a rage. He felt like everything was falling apart all around him. Palmer was dead, Grant was gone, the cops were hassling him, and the East Chicago Jamaicans had just placed another order. But he didn’t have any help, his truck was still sitting in Kentucky, and his trailer was about to be towed away.

He was pacing around his house, trying to work through it all, but the more he thought about it, the madder he became. He poured himself a glass of bourbon, drank it down in three huge swallows, then sat down to think. The booze helped calm him, and the calmness gave him an idea. Was it risky? Maybe. But with an order to fulfill, no donors available, and his truck out of the state, Hammond thought he could solve all his problems at once. He picked up the phone and made a call.

“Carl, it’s Doctor Hammond. I’m calling to see if the authorities have made any progress locating Mr. Grey.”

“I don’t rightly know, Doc. They swoop in, ask me things they already know the answers to, then leave. All I ever get is more questions than I had before they showed up.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. I know our law enforcement officials are overworked and underpaid, but sometimes it feels as if they simply don’t care about the likes of people such as you and me…or Mr. Grey, for that matter.”

“I’ll tell you something, Doc, and I can’t believe I’m about to say it because I’ve known some pretty decent cops over the course of my life, but you might be right. The world is changing right before my eyes, and I’m getting left behind. You ever feel that way?”

Hammond laughed. “I sure do. I know you’ve got bigger issues to deal with, but you wouldn’t believe what’s happened to me.”

Johnson was curious, so he said, “Try me.”

“One of my own hands, a young man who I tried to help after he had some trouble with the law, has stolen my truck. Can you believe that? And not only did he steal my truck, he dumped the trailer along the side of the road. Now the police are telling me that if I don’t move it, they’re going to tow the thing away. How am I supposed to move my trailer if I don’t have my truck?”

“I’ll tell you what, Doc: Sitting around here waiting for Mike to show up is about like to drive me crazy. I never did get the part I need for my feeder from the supply house down your way. How about I swing by in one of my trucks and pick that trailer up for you?”

“Oh, Carl, I don’t want to take advantage. You have your own problems right now.”

“That’s my point, Doc. And the solution to one of them is about five miles past your place. I’m coming that way as it is. Hitching your trailer will only take a couple of minutes. I’d be downright ashamed of myself if I didn’t help you out. Tell me where it is and I’ll bring it over.”

“Carl, I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Hammond said. He gave Johnson the trailer’s location, then finished with, “When should I expect you?”

“It’ll be at least an hour, if that’s okay. I’m waiting on the slaughterhouse people to show up and collect my hogs. Them folks are about as timely as the cable company.”

“That’s fine, Carl. I’ll be ready and waiting.”

Cool touched down in the Shelby County Sheriff’s Station parking lot, and just before he got on board, Virgil looked at Murton and said, “Take everyone else out to that fire station, and get ready. I’ll let you know if we can see anything from the air.”

“If they are graves, it should be pretty obvious,” Murton said. “But, you know, the guy already said they were, so I’m not sure what you’re really going to be able to determine.”

“Probably not much” Virgil admitted. “But I can at least get a count, and also see if there are other escape avenues at the back of the property in case the guy tries to run. I’ll see you at the firehouse.”

Once his brother was on board, Murton closed the door, then moved out of the way as Cool lifted off. Then he and everyone else piled into their vehicles and headed out as well. And since the helicopter was about five times faster than the squad cars, Virgil and Cool were above Hammond’s place in no time at all.

Cool had to stay higher than Virgil would have liked—they didn’t want the noise from the helicopter to alert Hammond—but the helicopter was equipped with a high-power infrared system, and when Cool zoomed in on the area where Woodall had spotted the graves, Virgil pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of the display. The photo itself wouldn’t win any awards, but it was good enough.

Hammond didn’t know if he was being paranoid or if the cops had somehow figured out what he’d been up to. He heard a helicopter high overhead, and when he stepped out through his back door and looked up, he saw the craft off in the distance. Were they doing some sort of aerial surveillance? Hammond thought it was unlikely, but it never hurt to be prepared.

He went back inside, pulled open his desk drawer and removed a Kimber 1911 model Super Jägare 10mm semi-automatic pistol and tucked it into the back of his belt. The Kimber was a beautiful handgun with its utilitarian design, and the 10mm rounds were flat-out deadly. He pulled his shirttail out to cover the gun, then went outside and walked over to his exam room to prepare for Johnson’s visit. He’d have to make the next run up to East Chicago by himself, but he’d done it before, so he wasn’t overly concerned about the whole process.

The only problem now was everything would take twice as much time, if not more. He’d have to remember that, and let the Jamaicans know. He couldn’t very well leave a body lying around for someone to discover. That simply wouldn’t do. He’d have to handle the burial, the clean-up, and the delivery…so he’d essentially be doing the work of three people. Maybe it was time to renegotiate with his buyer. It was something to think about. Being your own boss wasn’t as simple or as easy as most people thought.

When he looked up at the sky before stepping inside the exam room, the helicopter was gone. Maybe he was being paranoid. But then he remembered that old line…something about it not being paranoia if you’re right.

Hammond got the room prepped, then walked back to his house to wait for Johnson. He’d have to lure the man into the exam room somehow…Johnson was far too big to handle alone. But he’d come up with something. Hammond knew he often did his best thinking in the moment…just like he’d done with that orange-haired goon, Mike Grey.

Everyone had parked their squad cars close to the firehouse, and that gave Cool plenty of room to land. Virgil passed his phone around and let everyone have a look at the photo, and when Murton saw it, he said, “You know, once this is all over, maybe we could use that new space we just purchased next to the bar as a photo art gallery. You could have your own show. You know…one of those minimalist things.”

Virgil ignored his brother, looked at Freeman, and said, “Did you contact your sheriff and let him know that we’re operating out here?”

“I did,” Freeman said. “The crime scene techs are ready—if we need them—and all the other deputies have been instructed to remain clear of the county square until told otherwise.”

“Good enough,” Virgil said. Then to Woodall: “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

Woodall didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely. You wouldn’t believe some of the types of situations I’ve walked into over the course of my career. Everyone thinks a PO job is nothing more than sitting at a desk and pushing paper, but it’s not. I could tell you some stories that would shrivel your nutsack.”

“I believe you,” Virgil said. “But here’s the thing: If you feel like something is off, or if you start to get a bad vibe out of Hammond, do us all a favor and walk away. I’d rather wait for the warrant than have to tell your wife you got hurt or killed because you went in alone.”

“That’d be ex-wife,” Woodall said. “And telling her would probably result in the county’s biggest man-hater party in history.”

“You good with the comms?” Ross asked.

Woodall stuck a finger in his ear and made sure the device was fitted properly. “Yup.”

“We’ve got it set up to record, so anything he says will be captured on tape,” Virgil said. “Remember, all you need to do is get him to give you permission to enter the premises. We’ll be less than a quarter-mile away, so once that happens, we’ll come running. It wouldn’t hurt to look surprised when we show up. If he tries to make a move, just take him down, get him cuffed, and wait.”

“I’m ready,” Woodall said. “Let’s do it.”

Virgil looked at Ross and said, “I want you in the air with Cool. I don’t think it’s absolutely necessary, but if Hammond tries to make a run for it, I’d like you to have our backs.”

“You got it, Boss-man.”

Sixty seconds later Cool and Ross lifted off and flew in a direction that would allow them to gain enough altitude before circling back toward Hammond’s place.

Virgil looked at everyone else and said, “Okay, let’s tighten up on this guy. Woodall, go ahead and go now. We’ll hang back out of sight. Do your job, and we’ll be right behind you.”

Woodall gave him a nod, got into his car, and took off down the road. He hadn’t been out of the lot for more than ten seconds when Rosencrantz pointed at the road and said, “Oh, shit. Look at that.” A truck and trailer had just pulled through the intersection, then made a turn toward Hammond’s place, one mile away.

Everyone turned, and Virgil shouted to Murton, who was already moving. “Go get him. Pull him over before he gets any closer.”

“I got him,” Murton said.

But as it turned out, it wasn’t necessary.

Johnson had found the trailer right where Hammond said it would be, and after he’d gotten his truck maneuvered into position, he hopped out, got the trailer hooked to the hitch, then climbed back in and started down the road. When he got to the intersection, he made the turn, the entire time watching his mirrors to make sure he had swung wide enough because the Stop sign was mounted close to the pavement, and the ditches were deep. The last thing he needed was to get Hammond’s trailer all scratched up because he scraped the sign’s post, or worse yet, let the damned thing slip off the road and roll down the embankment.

He was through the turn and just about to start down the road when he caught sight of all the unmarked squad cars sitting in the fire station’s lot. One of the vehicles looked like Virgil’s Range Rover—because it was—and when Johnson saw that, he hit the brakes, put the truck in Park and turned on his emergency flashers before climbing out and walking back toward Virgil and everyone else.

“What the heck are all you guys doing out here?” Johnson said.

Virgil walked him over toward the group of cars and said, “I was just about to ask you the same thing, Carl. Is that your trailer?”

“Nope. It’s Doc Hammond’s. He said his truck got stoled, so I told him I’d fetch it because I had to come down here anyways.”

“Hang on a second, Carl,” Virgil said. Then into the comms: “Woodall, are you hearing this?”

“I’ve already pulled over.”

“Hold in position for a minute,” Virgil said. “Ross?”

“Loud and clear. We’re holding three miles out.”

“Who the heck are you talking to?” Johnson said.

Virgil waved Baker closer as he answered Johnson. “Never mind all that, Carl. I’ll explain as soon as I can. In the meantime, I want you to wait here with Baker.”

“Why?”

“We have a suspect who we believe is at the heart of Mike’s disappearance.” Then to Baker: “Stay here with Carl, and stay on the comms.”

“Why me?” Baker said.

Because Nicky would kill me if you got hurt, Virgil thought. “Because I asked you to. Once we’ve got Hammond in custody, you’ll know it.”

Johnson pointed down the road and said, “Are you sayin’ that sumbitch is behind whatever happened to Mike?”

Virgil put his hand on Carl’s shoulder. “Stay put. We’ll know more in about ten minutes.”

But Virgil was only partially right, because it wouldn’t take ten minutes. The entire thing would take weeks before they finally figured it all out.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Cool tried to take the blame for what happened, but Virgil assured him that it wasn’t his fault. “It was sort of a dumb idea to begin with,” Virgil said. “And that’s on me. We really didn’t gain anything by taking that initial look. Hammond must have heard us. We probably spooked him.”

“Yeah, but I’m the one who knows how close or how low we could get without giving ourselves away,” Cool said.

Virgil waved it off. “It doesn’t matter now. What does matter is what we find.” Then Virgil’s phone buzzed at him. He checked the screen and saw it was Becky calling. “I gotta take this. Don’t worry, Rich. We’re good.”

“Yeah? Tell it to Woodall...or Ross for that matter. Murt is right. If Hammond isn’t our guy, this is going to go down as one of the biggest clusterfucks of our careers.”

“We’ll know soon enough,” Virgil said. Then he hit the Answer button on his phone. “Hey, Becks. What have you got?”

It happened this way:

Over the comms, Virgil told Woodall to go, and everyone else pulled up tight, as close as they could get to Hammond’s place without being seen. Cool began to descend and moved closer as well. Ross was at the ready, his long gun out, the helicopter’s side door open.

Less than thirty seconds later, Woodall walked up to the front door of Hammond’s house and politely knocked. He waited nearly a full minute, then knocked harder with the side of his fist.

Hammond pulled the door open, then let a scowl form on his face. “What are you doing back here? This is the third time by my count. You should know—if you don’t already—that I’ve put in a call to your superiors and have filed a verbal complaint regarding your conduct and actions here at my home.”

Woodall nodded, then looked at his shoes. “Yes, sir. I am aware. It’s the reason I’ve returned. I’m not sure what you said to my boss, but whatever it was, it hit the mark. He informed me that if I wanted to keep my job, the only thing I could do was come back out here and offer my apologies. I’m here to do just that. Bottom line, I’m asking…not only as a law enforcement officer, but as a man.”

Hammond tipped his head to the side. “Asking what?”

“If I can step inside. I’d like to properly offer my apologies…not only on behalf of myself, but the county as well.”

Murton turned and looked at Virgil. “You hear that? Woodall is good. If Hammond says yes, technically he’ll have just agreed to let us all in…”

Hammond looked past Woodall and out at the road. “Where’s your deputy friend?”

Woodall shook his head. “I’m not exactly sure. Back on patrol, I guess. Look, Doctor Hammond, I have a little confession to make. I always wanted to be a sheriff’s deputy, but they never would take me. I’m not sure why. What I’m trying to say is that when the county cop showed up and we came back inside, I let my ego get in the way of my job. I was backing the deputy without even realizing it, and that placed you in an untenable position. So, what do you say? How about we have that coffee you offered earlier, and I’ll properly apologize. May I come in, sir? My job is on the line here. I guess you could say my fate is in your hands.”

Hammond smiled, but there was no light in his eyes. “Yes, of course, Officer. Please do come in.” Hammond pulled the door open wide, stepped back to leave room, and that’s when Woodall made a mistake.

He stepped through the entrance and moved past Hammond, and before the door was even closed, Hammond reached for his gun, pulled out the Kimber, and shot Woodall in the back.

Woodall hadn’t even hit the ground before Virgil started yelling into the comms. “Shots fired. Everybody go. Move, move, move.”

Cool and Ross got there first, and Cool held them in a hover between Hammond’s house and his exam room building. Virgil and Murton and everyone else had just turned in to the drive when Hammond heard the helicopter. He ran past Woodall and headed for his back door. As soon as he stepped out, he pointed his gun at the helicopter and began to fire. But his shots were wild and the Kimber’s magazine only held eight rounds—one of which he’d used on Woodall—and he missed the helicopter with the other seven.

Ross’s rifle held thirty rounds, and he had a choice of single fire, three-round burst, or full auto. He had the rifle set to fire a single round at a time, and even as Hammond was still blasting away, Cool held them steady. When Ross took aim, he only fired once because true to his reputation, Ross didn’t miss.

Virgil and Murton ran inside to check on Woodall, while Rosencrantz and Freeman made their way to the back to secure Hammond. When Cool touched down, Ross jumped out and began walking over toward Hammond, his rifle locked down and safe because he knew it wouldn’t be necessary to do any more shooting. His shot had hit Hammond right in the center of his breastbone, and he’d fallen backward onto the ground, his arms and legs spread out like he was trying to make a snow angel in the grass.

Freeman, who didn’t know Ross, looked at him and said, “A leg shot would have done it.”

Ross looked at Freeman, and in a calm yet very direct voice said, “If those are the types of thoughts you entertain when someone is shooting at you, Deputy, you might want to consider a different line of work.”

Freeman’s adrenaline was still running and he started to get in Ross’s face, but Rosencrantz did a little sidestep and blocked his path. “That’ll do, Deputy. My partner is right. Get on the radio and inform your crime scene people that they are needed here. It probably wouldn’t hurt to inform your sheriff as well.”

Freeman didn’t like it, but he did as Rosencrantz asked. After he was out of earshot, Rosencrantz looked at Ross, and said, “You okay?”

Ross slung his rifle over his shoulder and said, “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be? Freeman seems a little wound up though, you ask me.”

Virgil and Murton got Woodall’s vest off, checked his back to make sure the round hadn’t slipped through—both men knew it happened sometimes—and when they saw that it hadn’t, Murton reached into one of his side pockets and pulled out an ammonia packet, then cracked it open right under Woodall’s nose.

Woodall groaned and tried to roll away, but his breathing was ragged, and when he coughed, he spit up some blood.

“Hold still, partner,” Murton said. “You’ll be okay. I think you’re down a lung. That means you’ve got a cracked rib. We’ve already got the medics headed this way.”

Freeman stepped in and said, “What can I do?”

Virgil looked up and said, “Hammond?”

“Dead.”

“How long does it take the county medics to respond out this way?” Virgil asked.

“Twenty minutes. Maybe more.”

Virgil looked at Murton who simply shook his head.

“Okay,” Virgil said. “Let’s get him up. Freeman, pull your squad over as close as you can to the door.”

The deputy ran back outside, and together, Virgil and Murton got Woodall on his feet…no easy task for a man of his size.

“Christ, that hurts. Feel like I can’t breathe.” Woodall had his arms wrapped around Virgil’s and Murton’s shoulders, and they half-walked and half-dragged him outside and got him in the squad car.

Murton looked at Freeman and said, “Lights and siren all the way. Call it in to the hospital. Fractured rib with a punctured lung.” Then to Woodall: “Hang in there, big guy. You’ll survive it.” Then he slammed the door, pounded on the roof, and Freeman took off.

Over the comms, Baker said, “Everybody okay?”

“We’re good, Em,” Murton said. “Stand by.”

Cool walked over and Murton noticed his tac comms were already out of his ears. Then he looked at his brother, removed his own comms and shut them down. Virgil did the same, and once they were no longer being recorded, Murton said, “Sure hope we find something other than dead donkeys, or whatever, buried back there.”

Cool had a few words with Virgil, and finished with: “Murt is right. If Hammond isn’t our guy, this is going to go down as one of the biggest clusterfucks of our careers.”

“We’ll know soon enough,” Virgil said. Then he hit the Answer button on his phone. “Hey, Becks. What have you got?” Virgil listened for two full minutes without saying a word, his expression relaxing with each passing second. “Boy, that’s great news. Listen, get in touch with Mayo and send him up that way to collect everything, will you? He should be done getting stitched up by now.”

Becky said she would, then ended the call.

“What have we got?” Murton said.

“Remember when you told me I was a lucky guy?”

“Yeah, what of it?”

“Turns out you were right. The Tippecanoe County cops found Bill Kelly’s gun…and his body cam. Mayo is going to go up and collect everything, but the Tippecanoe sheriff’s department already sent the footage to Becky. She’s running the faces through the recognition system. It’ll be a day or so, but we’ve got clear footage of the guys who killed Henderson and Kelly. C’mon, let’s go check out those graves.”

Cool, Ross, and Rosencrantz cleared the rest of the buildings, then walked to the back of the property where Virgil and Murton were looking at the ground. “I’ll tell you something,” Murton said. “Those are graves all right, but they don’t look big enough for large animals. Humans, yes. Horses…or whatever? No way.”

“There’s a nice Kubota backhoe in the barn,” Rosencrantz said. “The crime scene people aren’t here yet, so I was thinking maybe we should start digging.”

Virgil thought about it for a second, then said, “Does anybody know how to run a back—” Then he stopped himself, took out his phone, and called Baker. “You still have Johnson?”

“Yeah. Want me to send him on his way?”

“No,” Virgil said. “Put him in your squad car and bring him over here. We need his help.”

Baker and Johnson showed up less than five minutes later. Virgil walked over to his friend and said, “Carl, I need you to do something for us, if you would.”

Johnson, who often sounded like a country bumpkin—but was actually one of the sharpest people Virgil had ever known—looked at the graves, then at Hammond’s body in the grass, then back at Virgil and said, “Hammond killed Mike, didn’t he?”

Virgil knew in that moment no matter how things shook out with the MCU or his future, this was the one part of the job he’d never miss. He put his hand on Johnson’s shoulder and said, “The truth is, we don’t know yet, Carl.”

“But you think he done it.”

“Yeah. That’s what we think. Now we need to find out, and you’re the only one here who can operate the backhoe with the kind of, uh, delicacy we need. Are you up for that?”

Johnson turned away for a moment and wiped the corners of his eyes. Then he turned back and said, “Where’s the hoe?”

Johnson dug where Virgil told him, and he was only about ten minutes into the process when he noticed the dirt he was pulling up was a different color. He climbed down from the operator’s seat, picked up a handful of dirt and gave it a sniff.

“What is it?” Virgil said.

“It’s lye,” Johnson said. “Only one reason for that. Step back, now.”

Virgil got out of the way, and stood on the opposite side of the hole Johnson was digging. Five minutes later, he waved his hands over his head, and yelled for Johnson to stop. Virgil put a pair of gloves on, then climbed down into the hole. He brushed some dirt away, then shook his head.

He was staring at the side of Mike Grey’s face. One eye was open and it looked like Grey’s body was begging to be set free.

Johnson muscled past everyone else and got down in the hole. When he saw Grey, Virgil witnessed something he’d rarely seen over the course of his entire life, and it was something he hoped never to see again.

Carl Johnson tipped his head back and screamed.

After Johnson had let his first wave of emotion pass, he climbed out of the hole, walked over to the side of the Kubota and pulled a hand shovel from its mounting bracket. When Virgil realized what Johnson was about to do, he stepped in front of his friend and said, “Carl, I can’t let you do that.”

“Can’t usually means don’t want to,” Johnson said. “Out of my way now.”

“Carl, I’m not only asking as an officer of the law, I’m asking as your friend. The crime scene people are on their way. They’ll take it from here.”

“The hell they will,” Johnson said. “You and me have knowed each other for a long time, Virgil. That’s my way of sayin’ I admire you as a regular fella, appreciate the type of work you do, and I recognize that sometimes it ain’t easy. This is one of them times. Now here’s what’s gonna happen: I’m fixin’ to climb down in that hole, and I’m gonna get Mike outta that dirt. He’s been like a son to me, and the only way you or anybody else here can stop it from happening is to put a bullet in me.”

Murton leaned over and whispered in his brother’s ear. “Let the man dig, Virgil.”

Virgil visibly swallowed, looked his friend in the eye, then gave him a nod, and Johnson got to work. It took him nearly thirty minutes of digging by hand, but when he finally got enough dirt out of the way, Johnson leaned down and picked up his friend’s body and carried him out of the hole. He’d no sooner laid him on the ground when the Decatur County sheriff showed up, along with his crime scene technicians.

“Would someone please tell me what the hell is going on here?” the sheriff said. He pointed at Johnson. “Is that man a civilian?”

“Easy does it, Sheriff. I’m Detective Murton Wheeler with the state’s Major Crimes Unit.”

“I don’t care if you’re Jesus H. Christ. That man is destroying a crime scene. On whose authority did he pull that body out of the ground?”

“Mine,” Murton said without looking at the sheriff.

“Then you’re in big trouble, Detective. I’ll have your badge for this.”

“No you won’t.”

“Oh, yeah?” The sheriff said. “Why’s that?”

Murton finally turned and faced the Decatur County sheriff. “Because someone already beat you to it. Now back the fuck up.”

Johnson looked at one of the crime scene people and said, “Could one of you fine folks get my friend a blanket, or something? He’s freezing cold.” Then he sat down on his butt and started to cry.

Virgil thought it was over…and most of it was.

But not all of it.

EPILOGUE

Three weeks would pass before the medical examiner’s reports were completed. A total of fifteen bodies had been removed from Hammond’s property. Mike Grey and Bobby Palmer were two, and eight others were identified as the Native Americans from the cultural center. The remaining five still hadn’t been identified, but their DNA went into a national database, and the medical examiner was confident that eventually his department would be able to make positive IDs.

The medical examiner also reported that each of the bodies recovered from the site was missing its liver and both kidneys. Thanks to Tony—the Popes’ security chief—and a little digging by Nicky and Wu, the pilot of the aircraft was eventually located. He sang like a squeaky hinge, and two doctors in Kingston were arrested. The East Chicago Jamaicans were rounded up in a sting operation conducted by both the FBI and the Indiana State Police, thanks to one brave old man who’d been trying to tell everyone about it all along.

The body cam footage clearly showed that Palmer was responsible for the shooting deaths of Ed Henderson and Bill Kelly. Grant—who was also seen on the footage—was eventually identified through records obtained from Hammond’s residence, where he was listed as an employee of Hammond’s veterinary practice, and when Becky dug his driver’s license photo out of the state’s database, a warrant was issued for his arrest. Further forensic investigation of Hammond’s computer showed that someone—presumably Grant—had driven Hammond’s truck out of state. The truck was recovered. Grant was not. Authorities in Kentucky were confident they’d be able to track him down, but after three weeks, everybody began to move on.

Well…almost everybody.

Rosencrantz was sworn into office as the Shelby County sheriff by the governor herself. The ceremony didn’t happen in the county courthouse. Instead—at Rosencrantz’s request—it took place outdoors, across the street from the statehouse in Indianapolis, on the very spot where Carla Martin had been killed.

The entire MCU was there...as was Lucy, who stood by Rosencrantz’s side, along with Ross, who was also sworn in as undersheriff.

When the ceremony was finished, Virgil pulled Ross and Rosencrantz aside and said, “I want to tell you guys three things: Watch your fucking backs. If something ever happened to either of you, I don’t think I could live with myself. That’s thing one. Here’s thing two: If you ever need anything, call me. I’ll be there for you.”

“We know you will, Boss-man,” Ross said.

Rosencrantz cleared his throat, looked at Ross and said, “Uh, I’m your boss now.”

Ross ignored him and said, “What’s the third thing?”

“I’m proud of you both. And don’t forget about tomorrow night. The bar is going to be closed for our own private going-away party.”

“Hope it doesn’t feel like a wake,” Rosencrantz said.

Virgil smiled. “It won’t. Life goes on, you know?”

Rosencrantz pulled Lucy close and said, “Yup. It sure does.”

That night, as Virgil and Sandy were having a family dinner with Murton and Becky and all the kids, Mayo was doing what he did best.

He was detecting.

He sat alone at his kitchen table and re-examined all the evidence they’d collected, along with the MCU’s case notes, and something he’d dug out of the archives earlier in the day. Something wasn’t adding up, and Mayo had never been one to just let things go. He looked at every scrap of paper that had been generated over the last three weeks until his eyes started to blur. He knew the answer was right there. All he had to do was fit the proper pieces in place. But he was exhausted and he knew the answer wouldn’t come to him so late in the evening. He left everything as it was, then turned out the lights, made his way to the rear of his house, and went to bed.

At nine the next morning Mayo took a quick shower, then started going through all the case work again. He’d been at it for less than an hour when the answer he was looking for seemed to jump out and slap him in the face. It’d been there all along. All anyone had to do was look at it in a certain light. His first call was to the hospital. When they told him what he wanted to know, his second call was to the county jail. Mayo identified himself, then asked about the inmate. The officer on the phone transferred him to the administrator in charge of the jail, who, unfortunately for Mayo, was a stickler about the rules. But Mayo—who actually knew what was at stake—didn’t give in. “Stay by your phone. Unless I’m wrong, you’ll be getting permission in fifteen minutes or less. Will you at least do that?”

“There’s only one person in the state who can give me the kind of permission you’re looking for, Detective, and I mean no disrespect when I say this, but you don’t strike me as the kind of guy who can pull that weight.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Mayo said. “Fifteen minutes? You can change more than one person’s life.”

“It better not be sixteen,” the administrator said. Then he hung up.

Mayo quickly made another call, explained the situation as briefly and concisely as he could, then said, “So what do you think? Will you make the call?”

“And you’re sure it’s him? As in one hundred percent sure?”

“I am,” Mayo said. “Short of a DNA test, there’s no question. I’m looking at the guy’s picture right now. It’s him. I know it is. Factor in the typo by the Marion County deputy who notified the family, and it all adds up.”

“But if you’re wrong…”

“I’m not. But even if I am, there’s no downside. I’ll take the guy back to jail and that’s that.”

“I’ll do it on one condition.”

“Name it.”

“I want to be there when it happens.”

“Tonight at six,” Mayo said. “At the bar.”

“See you then. Don’t start without me.”

Mayo laughed. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Before Cora hung up, she said, “Hey, Oscar?”

“Yes ma’am?”

“You’re a good person…and a hell of a detective.”

Mayo climbed into his squad car and headed out. He hadn’t yet made it down to the end of his own street when his phone buzzed at him.

“Mayo, MCU.”

“I guess I should re-evaluate how much weight you can pull,” the administrator said. “There’ll be enough paperwork that you’ll want to scream.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mayo said. “I know about paperwork. I’m two hours out.”

The administrator of the jail hadn’t been kidding; there was a lot of paperwork. Mayo was shown to a private windowless room at the Tippecanoe County jailhouse, and spent two hours filling out forms, typing up any number of affidavits and explanations that would satisfy both the county officials and the state’s attorney general.

Once he’d finished, he had to wait another hour for all the paperwork to be reviewed, then approved. Even after all that, the jail took nearly two hours to process their prisoner for release. When the old man was finally brought out, Mayo was tired and a little pissed off. “Get those fucking handcuffs off of him.”

The guard gave Mayo a dirty look, but he did as he was asked. Once they were out of the building and through the gates, Mayo looked at the man and said, “My name is Detective Oscar Mayo, with the state’s Major Crimes Unit. Have you been mistreated in any way while you were in custody, sir?”

“No, but it wasn’t a pleasant experience. I have never before been arrested. Where are we going, and why are you driving so fast?”

“I’m driving fast because it took longer than expected at the jail. We need to be somewhere by six, and I’d like to stop and get you some new clothes. A shower wouldn’t hurt, either. We can take care of the shower at my place, if that’s all right with you.”

“A shower is fine, but I do not have any money for new clothing.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mayo said. “The guy who’s going to cover the bill can afford it.”

When the front door of the bar opened, two uniformed state troopers entered the building, followed by the governor. Two more uniformed troopers entered the bar through the back and took up positions on either side of the kitchen entrance. Most of the bar’s four-top tables had been pushed together to make one giant table to accommodate everyone. The Popes and Wu were there, as was nearly everyone from the MCU, along with their significant others. Huma was helping Delroy by taking everyone’s drink orders, the kids were all running around playing some sort of game none of the adults could understand while Robert and his sous chefs were in the kitchen putting the final touches on the food.

When Virgil and Murton—who were leaning with their backs against the bar—saw Cora come in, they both walked over toward the front door. Virgil smiled and said, “I’m glad you could make it.”

“So am I,” Cora said. She looked around the room for a moment. “Where’s Mayo?”

The question sort of surprised Virgil. “Uh, I’m not sure. Everyone else has already arrived, so he should be here any minute. He’s usually pretty punctual. Get you a drink?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Murton said. Then he looked at Cora. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but this is a private party. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to vacate the premises. If you go quietly, there won’t be a problem. Please don’t make me get security involved.”

Cora turned to one of the troopers, pointed at Murton, and said, “Arrest that man. He’s been a thorn in my side since the day we met.”

Murton gave the governor one of his big toothy grins. “Ah, mission accomplished.”

The trooper tried to suppress a smile but didn’t quite pull it off.

Cora gave the trooper a fake scowl, then to Virgil, said, “If I have to have dinner with Chucklehead, I’ll take that drink now.”

“We arranged the seating chart so you and I can sit next to each other,” Murton said.

Cora reached out and grabbed Virgil’s jacket before he got away. “Make it a double. In fact, bring the bottle.”

Virgil laughed and said he would, but as he was walking away, the front door opened again, and the whole night turned into something none of them could have ever imagined.

Except for Cora and Mayo, that is.

Virgil heard the door open, and when he did, he turned back, ready to give Mayo a little good-natured grief for being late, but that all went out the window when he saw the man who followed him in. Virgil looked at him, started to say something, then stopped himself. He looked back at the kitchen, then walked over and stood before the man without speaking.

Murton was just as amazed as his brother, and his expression said so.

Cora and Mayo simply smiled at each other.

Finally, the man stepped up closer to Virgil and said, “The resemblance is remarkable, mon. I almost thought you were Mason.”

Virgil was finally able to get the words out. “I’m Mason’s son. My name is Virgil. And there’s more than one remarkable resemblance here, Mr. Whyte. I am correct, aren’t I? You’re Dante Whyte.”

Delroy, who couldn’t help overhearing the conversation, dropped a glass and it shattered on the floor.

“Yes, dat is me,” Dante said. “I do not know why I am here, though.”

“I think you’re about to find out,” Murton said.

Delroy turned to Huma and said, “Go get Robert. Hurry, you.”

Huma ran into the kitchen, and ten seconds later she walked out holding Robert’s arm with both of her hands. “There’s someone you need to meet.”

“I have still have more food to prepare, me,” Robert said. “Besides, I know everyone here.”

The room had gone silent, and everyone was standing huddled together between the bar and the tables. Huma and Robert squirmed their way through, and when Robert emerged from the crowd, the old man named Dante saw his son for the first time in his life and began to weep. He walked up to Robert, put his arms around him and said, “My son. My boy. All my life I search and pray for you.”

Virgil turned and looked at Delroy and saw the tears streaming from his eyes. But it wasn’t the sight of Delroy that caused Virgil to move toward the bar.

It was Mason. He’d just ducked out of sight as he stepped into the walk-in cooler.

Virgil walked down to the end of the bar, then followed his father inside. “You made this happen, didn’t you?”

“I wish I could take the credit, Virg. But I made a mistake so long ago now, and that one simple error kept a father and son from each other for their entire lives.”

“What mistake?”

“The same one I told you I needed to atone for. The night I met Dante, he went with me to help deliver the news to your Grandpa Jack, and⁠—”

“Mom,” Virgil said.

“That’s right, son. Your mother caught my eye the moment I saw her. Looking back, I behaved poorly, but I simply couldn’t help myself. Elizabeth Bellows was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. And it all came on the heels of delivering devastating news to both of them.”

“You’re speaking of the death of my grandmother, Hana?”

Mason nodded. “Yes, I am.”

“But what was the mistake? I mean, okay, you had some pretty lousy timing by having your eye on Mom, and I get how that might have been a sore spot for gramps, but⁠—”

“It happened that very same night, Virg. I was so smitten with your mother, I wasn’t thinking clearly. When I filled out the report, Dante was sitting right next to me in my squad car. It was such a tiny little thing, but I never asked him how to spell his last name. I made an assumption I shouldn’t have and spelled his last name with an I instead of a Y.”

Virgil smiled and said, “Y is why.”

“That’s right,” Mason said. “Go be with your friends and family, Virg. And listen to Dante’s story. By the way, I’d keep Mayo close. That guy is smarter than he lets on.”

When the sous chefs heard what was happening, they banded together and collectively decided that Robert would spend the rest of the night as a customer instead of an owner and chef. Everyone ate and drank and laughed and cried, and through it all, Dante told them his life story. When he spoke of his wife, Jada, it was if she were sitting in the room with them. Together, Delroy and Robert helped fill in the blanks for Dante regarding how Robert was born in Cuba, and sadly, how Jada had died in the Kingston riots.

But no matter the sadness of events past, the night was filled with the type of joy Virgil felt he hadn’t witnessed in a very long time. At one point, near the end of the evening, Virgil and Murton were back where they’d started the night, leaning against the bar by themselves. “So, what are you thinking for the space next door?” Murton said. “Keep it, or let it go?”

“We’ve got options,” Virgil said. “But I think the best way to handle it is to turn the whole thing over to Becky. We’re going to need the room if we want to do private investigations properly. We can let Delroy and Robert take the upstairs office here for themselves—they could certainly use more space—which leaves you and Becky and me plenty of room to operate out of.”

“You talk to Sarah yet?”

“Thought we’d do it together,” Virgil said. “Hope she’ll join us.”

“Ah, she will,” Murton said. Then he lowered his voice, and continued with, “Speaking of joining…”

Mayo walked over toward Virgil and Murton, thanked them, and said goodnight. Just before he headed out, Virgil said, “Hey Mayo?”

“Yeah?”

“That was some fine detective work. Wheeler and Jones Investigations could use a guy like you.”

Mayo stepped back over. “Well, I am exploring all of my options. Make me a named partner and you guys would probably move to the front of the line.”

“There’s no line,” Virgil said.

“Yeah, I know. I just thought we could negotiate a little.”

When Murton heard the word negotiate, he quickly put his arm around Mayo’s shoulder and started walking him toward the door to get him away from Virgil. “We’ll work out the particulars in a day or so. Drive safe, buddy.” Then Murton walked back over to the bar and said, “Hell of a night, huh?”

Virgil nodded. “Sure is. I can’t really explain it, but it gives me hope for the road ahead.”

“Speaking of, I have something for you,” Murton said. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a thin rectangular-shaped box wrapped with a silk ribbon. He handed it to his brother and said, “It’s not much, but I believe it says something about you…not as a cop, but as a person, a husband, a father, and a brother. You always manage to find a way forward, Virgil. I heard what you said to Ross and Rosencrantz when they were sworn in, by the way. Now I’m going to say the same: I’m proud of you.”

Virgil took the box and when he opened it and saw what was inside, he couldn’t find the words, even though they were right there, waiting to be said. It felt like he was holding his entire future in his hands. It also reminded him of the time he’d woken up in the hospital years ago and discovered that his long-lost brother had finally walked back into his life.

Murton must have had the same thought, because he placed the flat of his hand on his brother’s chest and said, “It’s okay, Virg. I love you too.” As he turned to walk away, he saw Sandy headed toward them. Murton stopped, gave her a hug, then went in search of Becky.

Sandy walked up to Virgil and gave him a proper kiss. When she leaned back, she said, “What’s in the box?”

“The rest of our lives,” Virgil said. “Take a look.”

Sandy opened the box, pulled out the plastic fork Murton had found along the side of the road while in Jamaica, then said, “I don’t get it.”

Virgil told her of the talk he and Murton had during their trek up the hill, and how Murton had found the fork. “I saw him put it in his pocket, but I thought he was just going to throw it away.” Then he handed her a small piece of paper folded neatly in half. “This was in the box as well.”

Sandy took the note, opened it, and saw that it simply read:

Here’s to the road ahead. I can’t wait to see where it leads us. —Murt

Sandy smiled, handed the note back to Virgil and said, “How about we grab the boys and go? I wouldn’t mind showing you some plans for our winter home.”

Virgil wrapped his wife in a hug and said, “I can’t think of one single thing I’d rather do.”

Thank you for reading State of X. If you’re enjoying the series, then there’s good news:

Virgil and the gang will be back late Summer of 2025 in:

State of Yield

Visit ThomasScottBooks.com for further information regarding the Virgil Jones Mystery Thriller Series, release dates, and more.

— Also by Thomas Scott —

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Thomas Scott is the author of the Virgil Jones Mystery Thriller series, and the Jack Bellows series of novels. He lives in northern Indiana with his lovely wife, Debra, and his trusty sidekicks and writing buddies, Lucy the cat, and Buster the dog.

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Virgil and the gang will return soon in: