by Thomas Scott
“You mean we’d have to go all the way north to get them?” Johnny said.
“No, man. But you better get used to going north anyway, because that’s where all our customers are, even if they don’t know it yet. So anyway, this chick? Her boyfriend—if that’s what you want to call him—works out of a distribution center just north of Indy. She used to tell me all about it. I know where the place is and everything. Play our cards right and we could have enough product to last us a year or more.”
“And how are we going to get our hands on this truck?” Dakota said. “Just walk up, smack the guy around and drive it away?”
Johnny took a long drink of his beer, looked at his friends, and said, “Why not?”
It took them an extra day because they all agreed that while the truck they’d gotten from Wilbur as part of the deal, wasn’t exactly the kind of thing you’d want to take on the highway without a little tire balancing. Maybe a tuneup as well. They got a local mechanic in the town of Flatrock to do the work, and the next morning they pulled out of the barn nice and early, the truck humming down the highway like it probably hadn’t done in over a decade. When they got to the distribution center, they made a slow pass and parked about a quarter-mile away from the rear loading docks. All three men were jammed into the truck’s front seat.
“Too bad the old man didn’t have a crew cab or something,” Dakota said. “It’s a little crowded in here.”
Johnny shrugged. “Is what it is. Couldn’t bring the new van. It only has two seats. Besides, if this works, a month from now you’ll be paying cash for any kind of truck you want, right off the dealer floor.” Then, to Kono: “How are we going to recognize this guy?”
“I’ll recognize him,” Kono said. “I seen his picture. It was sitting right on her nightstand. I was practically staring at the guy’s face every time we got it on.”
Dakota laughed at his buddy’s statement. “You were doing his chick and staring at his picture? Sounds a little weird, if you ask me.”
“I ain’t asking,” Kono said. “Besides, she wasn’t all that. Starting to lose some teeth.” He had a pair of high-powered binoculars pressed to his eyes. “There he is. Getting in the second to the last truck on the left. Looks like he’s going to come right past us.”
Johnny got the truck turned around and drove about a mile away from the distribution center. Then he parked in the middle of the road at a slight angle, leaving no room for the big boxy delivery vehicle to pass. “Get down in them weeds in case he gives me any trouble.”
Dakota grabbed a tire iron from the floor of the pickup, then he and Kono scrambled out of the truck, while Johnny raised the hood and stood there with one hand on the grill, the other scratching the back of his head. As he stared into the engine compartment, he could hear the big truck coming up behind him.
At first, the driver gave a polite little beep of the horn as he approached the ancient pickup. When it didn’t move, the next beep wasn’t quite as polite. Johnny turned, pointed at the engine of his truck, then tossed his hands in the air.
The driver got down and said, “What’s the problem?”
“I’m not exactly sure,” Johnny said. “I think the water pump locked up or something. Or maybe it’s the transmission. I don’t know much about motors and all that, but I do know I can’t get it to move. If I put it in neutral, would you help me push it off to the side? At least you’ll be able to get through.”
The driver sighed, the sigh indicative of how his day was going already. “Yeah, yeah, let’s get to it. I’ve got a hell of a schedule today.”
Johnny dropped the hood and said, “Thanks, man. I’ll take the wheel and push from up here. If you could take the rear we’ll go right over there, next to that pole. That should give you enough room to get by.”
The delivery driver walked to the rear of the pickup and said, “Ready when you are.” Although he didn’t know it, those were the last words he would ever speak.
Dakota came out of the weeds with the tire iron and swung the socket end of the wrench. The driver heard him coming and turned just in time to take the open end of the wrench in his eye. He felt a blinding flash of pain and might have even heard the sucking noise the wrench made as Dakota pulled it free before hitting him again, this time at the base of his skull, snapping his spine. He was dead before he hit the ground, one eye reduced to a bloody pulp.
They tossed his body into the back of the pickup and covered it with a tarp. Then Johnny took the delivery truck, leaving the pickup to Dakota and Kono. They found a quiet gravel road no more than five miles away—though they’d later all admit it was a tense five miles—and got to work. They pulled the dead driver from the pickup’s bed, then turned it around until the two trucks were back to back. It took them a little longer than they expected, but in the end, they got it done. When their pickup was completely full, they tossed the dead driver into the back of his own truck, closed the door, then peeled off their gloves and drove away in the pickup, their load tied down and covered with the same tarp they’d used on the driver’s body. They stuck to the back roads and kept their speed where it belonged. Three hours later, they were back in the barn, and Johnny, smiling to himself thought, Janitor my ass. He looked at Kono and said, “This chick…the one you were doing?”
“What about her?”
Johnny looked at him and tipped his head without saying anything.
When Kono finally understood, he said, “Oh man…can it wait until tomorrow? I’m beat.”
“Yeah, but tomorrow it gets done.”
Chapter Three
Virgil Jones, the lead investigator for the state’s Major Crimes Unit, had a thought he couldn’t let go. The thought had popped into his head last year while working a case and trying to keep one of his best friends healthy and safe. Delroy Rouche, was part owner of Virgil’s downtown bar, a joint called Jonesy’s Rastabarian, where he acted as the general manager and head bartender.
Delroy and his lover, a beautiful woman named Huma Moon—Huma was also Virgil’s and his wife, Sandy’s live-in nanny—had recently had a baby girl, and Delroy was feeling the exhaustion of trying to manage the bar and make sure his newborn daughter didn’t die in her sleep. He’d lost his first daughter years ago to Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, and he wasn’t going to let that happen again. He was working during the days and watching his baby breathe at night.
They’d gotten the whole thing sorted out by implementing a simple rotational schedule so that Huma and Delroy’s baby girl, Aayla, would never be alone when she slept. They certainly had enough adults in the house to do so. Huma and Delroy lived with Virgil and Sandy, as did Sarah Palmer and her young daughter Olivia, whom everyone called Liv. And with Virgil’s brother and partner at the MCU, Murton Wheeler, and his wife, Becky living right across the pond in their own newly finished house, the schedule turned out to be a no-brainer.
But before the schedule was ever in place, Delroy’s level of exhaustion became so bad that he’d managed to plow into Virgil’s truck with his own car, totaling both vehicles. Huma decided enough was enough and called Doc Bell over to the house to give Delroy an exam, both because of his exhaustion, and the wreck in the driveway. Bell was not only their family physician, he was a helicopter pilot who once saved their lives by flying the entire crew out of harm’s way from Freedom, Indiana. Virgil had also called Bell, who, as it turned out, was already on his way over. Bell had said something to the effect of “Permission to land in your backyard?”
And Virgil thought, Why not? Everyone else does.
So: The thought. When the exam was finished, the two men spoke for a few minutes before Virgil, who was really only thinking out loud, looked at Bell and said, “I’m thinking of putting in a pad for you and Cool.”
So now, early on a Saturday morning, Virgil and Murton were in the backyard working on prepping the pad area. They’d gotten the specifications from Richard Cool, the governor’s chief pilot, who told them if they wanted to do it right,
the pad itself should be large enough to not only cover the area where the skids would sit, but also extend out far enough to cover the length of the rotor blades plus the tail rotor. “That way, you never have to worry about anyone getting too close. If someone is on the pad, the engine stays off until the pad is clear.”
“And how big is that?” Virgil asked.
Cool turned the corners of his mouth down. “No more than forty by forty square.”
Virgil gave him a blank look. “You’re talking about a sixteen hundred square foot area.”
“Didn’t you tell me once that math wasn’t your strong suit?” Cool was smiling when he spoke.
“I don’t recall,” Virgil said, sort of dry.
“I do. It was when we were looking for Stronghill out in that cornfield. I was talking about the equation for measuring the area of a circle—you know, Pi times the radius squared—which you compared to—”
Virgil waved him off. “Yeah, yeah, I remember.”
Cool laughed at the memory. “Well, if you’re going to do it, and it sounds like you are, here are two things to consider: First, the pad itself has to be at least eight inches deep—with steel rebar—or it won’t handle the weight of the helicopter, and you’ll end up with nothing but a busted up square.”
Virgil let his eyes glaze over. “Great. What’s the other?”
“It’s a lot of dirt to move. In fact, if my math is right, sixteen hundred square feet at eight inches deep is just shy of forty cubic yards of dirt.”
“That’s a lot of dirt,” Virgil said.
“Yeah, and a lot of concrete, too. That stuff isn’t cheap.”
“How much?”
Cool shrugged. “Last time I looked into it, the going rate for the men and materials was about one fifty per yard.”
Virgil shook his head. “One hundred and fifty bucks per? That’s crazy. What is that? That’s like, uh…”
“About six grand,” Cool said.
Virgil got suspicious. He narrowed his eyes then said, “And when was the last time you checked, by the way? That was some pretty quick math you just did.”
Cool glanced away, sucking on his cheeks. “When the governor asked me to look into it. Mac thought a pad on your yard would be better than always landing in the grass.”
Virgil pointed a finger at Cool and was about to say something, but Cool beat him to the punch. “Don’t get all twisted up about it, Jonesy. It’s not like you can’t afford it.”
Cool was right. He could afford it. Virgil and Sandy were sort of rich. But it was also a little beside the point. “It feels like you guys are spending my money for me.”
“Tell you what I’d do,” Cool said. “I’d go ahead and do it, then when it’s all said and done, drop it into your discretionary budget as a line item on behalf of the governor’s safety. Didn’t you say you need to use that money or you’d lose it?”
And Virgil thought, huh. Pretty good idea.
So Virgil and Murton were doing the work. They wouldn’t do it all, of course—the actual pouring of the concrete or any of that—but they chose the area…near the side of the pond, between their two houses. Once they had it all staked out, Murton looked at his brother and said, “What about the dirt?”
“What about it?”
“That’s what I just asked you,” Murton said. “Where are we going to put it?”
Virgil opened his mouth…a silent, ah. “I forgot to tell you. I’ve got Carl Johnson coming up with a backhoe and a dump truck. He’s going to take it. Said they could spread it around the fields down there. He should be here any minute. Patty told me he runs that thing like a pro and I hope she’s right, because the concrete guys are coming later today.”
“It’s not concrete guys, it’s cement guys. Cement is one of the products, that when combined with the others, produces hardened concrete. What? I just got done building a house. You learn things along the way.” Then Murton looked at his brother and said, “When you say, ‘they’ you’re not talking about just Carl, are you? He’s going to bring that little orange-headed smart assed kid, isn’t he?”
Virgil shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure he’s pulling the hoe on a trailer behind the dump truck.”
When they heard the truck pull into the drive, both men looked that way, even though the house and garage blocked their view. “I guess we’re about to find out.”
Virgil walked up to the drive and waved at Johnson, a follow-me gesture. Johnson pulled the truck and trailer straight into the backyard and stopped right next to the area Virgil and Murton had staked out. He killed the engine, climbed down from the cab of the truck, and said, “Hey Jonesy. How are you?”
“I’m well, Carl,” Virgil said.
Johnson looked at Murton. “Good to see you again, Mr. Taylor. How’s married life treating you?”
Murton laughed. “So far, so good. And I’ve only heard that one about two hundred times. How you doing, Carl?”
“I’m good, though I’m not sure that I’ve completely recovered from the reception yet,” Johnson said.
Murton was still laughing. “Yeah, you sort of let loose. Didn’t think you could dance like that.”
Johnson snorted through his nose. “Me either. I think the alcohol helped some.”
“Some?” Murton said. “I’m surprised you didn’t end up in a twelve-step program.”
“It’s still under consideration. Probably look into it after I’m finished with the chiropractor.”
Virgil looked at the backhoe for a few seconds, then said, “Patty tells me you run this thing pretty well. She said you could scoop the ice cream out of a cone, or something like that. I don’t really remember the analogy.”
Johnson bobbed his head. “That isn’t quite right, but close enough. Let me get the hoe off the trailer and we’ll get right to it.”
“I really appreciate you coming up here on a Saturday, Carl.”
Johnson snorted. “After everything you’ve done for me, with the gas and all, you could have asked me to come up in the middle of the night on a Sunday.” Then, “Stand back now.”
Virgil and Murton moved out of the way, while Johnson got the backhoe unloaded. He parked it right next to the far edge of the dig site, the bucket hanging vertically in the air. He let the engine idle, then walked over and said, “How deep are we going?”
“Cool told me eight inches.”
Johnson nodded to himself, pulled a tape measure out of his pocket, then reached into the cab of the dump truck and pulled out a can of spray paint. He measured seven inches from the bottom of the bucket’s edge, then painted a line on both sides of the bucket.
Virgil, who was a bit of a control freak, watched the process, then said, “I think you’re an inch short there, partner.”
Johnson winked, then said, “Here we go. Stand back now. Don’t want you guys getting hit…or run over.”
Virgil and Murton moved well out of the way and watched Johnson work. In fact, he was running his machine so fast and hard, they moved over near Mason’s cross and sat down in the lawn chairs to watch.
Virgil’s boys, Jonas and Wyatt, came running down to the pond to watch as well, but Virgil being the proper father he was, made them watch from the deck. They both stomped away in defeat, Jonas’s stomps real, and Wyatt’s nothing more than an imitation of his big brother.
Johnson was a pro. “I’ll tell you something,” Murton said. “I know it’s just a machine, but when you’ve got someone like that running it…someone who really knows what he’s doing, you’ve got to admit, it’s impressive.”
“It is,” Virgil said. “In a way, it reminds me of Ross.” Andrew Ross was the newest member of the MCU, a sniper who Virgil had stolen from SWAT a few years ago.
“I can see that,” Murton said. “How’s the whole situation with him and Sarah…and you, by the way?”
“It’s going well, I guess. I try not to pry. But what did I just hear there? You had a particular tone.”
&nb
sp; “Did I?” Murton said. He looked away before he spoke.
“Murt?”
Murton puffed out his cheeks, then looked back at his brother. “Okay look, I’m going to share something with you about Ross and Sarah, even though I know I shouldn’t. But you’ve got to promise me, Jonesy, that you didn’t hear it from me.”
“You know better than that, Murt.”
“I need you to promise because they said they wanted to tell you themselves, but you’re my brother, and I don’t want to keep anything from you.”
“Okay, okay, I promise. Now spill it.”
“You’re going to lose Sarah.”
Chapter Four
Virgil couldn’t believe the words Murton had just spoken. “What? Why?”
“Well, let me rephrase that,” Murton said. “You’re not going to lose her as Huma’s assistant or whatever her job title is, but she’s going to move out of your house.”
“When?”
“Pretty soon, I think. Maybe a week or less.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think? Sarah and Ross are in love. They want to move in together.”
Virgil wasn’t upset, but it was exactly the type of situation he’d been trying to avoid back when they first decided Sarah should stay. Huma was pregnant at the time, and with Virgil going anywhere in the state on a moment’s notice, not to mention Sandy’s job as the lieutenant governor, they needed the help around the house with the boys, and now Aayla. But he’d warned everyone that sooner or later all the kids were going to start to feel like siblings, no matter who their parents were.
