by Thomas Scott
Robert Whyte, the head chef at the bar made lunch for Virgil and Murton, and by the time they were done eating, Becky had enough information on Chase Dakota to get them started.
“I can’t tell you where he is,” Becky said. “But I can tell you where he was not more than a couple of months ago. He worked at an RV factory up in Elkhart County.” She printed out the information and gave both Virgil and Murton a copy. “His last known address is on there as well.”
“How long did he work there?”
“Not quite a full year. Fired for insubordination.”
“Prior to that?” Murton asked.
“I don’t know. He listed his previous address as the Isabella Reservation, up in Michigan.”
“That’s gonna be tough to look into,” Murton said. “It’s clearly outside our jurisdiction.”
“Not necessarily,” Virgil said.
Murton looked at him and said, “Stronghill?”
Virgil shrugged. “Why not? He’s a federal BIA agent. If he’s not doing anything, he could get us on the Rez.” He took out his phone, brought up Stronghill’s number, and made the call. “Hey Tony, it’s Jonesy. How are you?”
“I’m well. Long time, huh?”
“Too long,” Virgil said. “You have anything pressing right now?”
“I’ve got a minor mystery I’m working for Patty, but nothing earth-shattering.”
“What’s the mystery?” Virgil said.
“I don’t know. It’s weird, man. We’ve had six Native Americans walk away over the past few days. They simply cleaned out their living units and left without notice.”
“Not exactly illegal to quit your job,” Virgil said.
“So I’ve been told…by about thirty people. But it is sort of crazy. I mean, we check these people out pretty well before we take them on, and when we do, they’re offered everything they ever wanted. A place of their own, free education, food, shelter, the works. I just don’t get it.”
Virgil knew it was a long shot, but he asked anyway. “Are any of the ones who left named either Brian Kono or Chase Dakota?”
“Hold on, let me check the sheet.” After a few seconds, Stronghill said, “Nope. Why?”
Virgil rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah, we’re operating and we need to find one of those guys. The first one—Brian Kono— is dead, but we like this Chase Dakota guy for murder, among other things.”
“Well, other than interviewing the people we’ve got left to find out what they know—which isn’t much, let me tell you—and looking for replacement candidates from the Isabella, I’m not doing much. What do you need?”
“A little BIA federal help, if you’re up for it.” Virgil laid out his plan for Stronghill.
“Listen, Jonesy, no disrespect, but the tribal police don’t exactly like whites coming onto their land and asking questions.”
“How about if we hang back and let you do the asking? We’re not trying to get in anyone’s business on the Rez, Tony, but it is outside our jurisdiction.”
“When would you want to do it?”
“Hold on for a minute, will you?” Virgil looked at Murton and said, “Get Cool on the line.”
Murton took out his phone and made the call. When Cool answered, he said, “Hey Motherfucker, Murton here. You busy?”
“Nope. Just finished lunch with Julia.” Doctor Julia Evans was Cool’s girlfriend. She was also the one who pinned his leg back together after he took an arrow during the battle in Freedom.
“Hang on a second,” Murton said. He looked at Virgil and gave him a nod.
Virgil got back with Stronghill and said, “If I had Cool down there in an hour, he could pick you up, if that works.”
Stronghill told him it did. Virgil ended the call and told Murton to get Cool started that way. “Tell him to pick us up on the way back, and we’ll all go up together.”
Angus Mizner and Basil Graves had just finished lunch at Nick’s Kitchen in Flatrock. Both men, against their own better judgment, had ordered the special.
“I don’t know why we keep going there,” Graves said. “Every time we do, we end up with heartburn so bad it feels like they mix it in with the food as a secret ingredient or something.”
Mizner was driving and kept his eyes on the road as he spoke. “You get heartburn no matter where we eat, and since neither of us has anyone who’ll cook for us anymore, our choices are a little slim.”
Mizner and Graves were former members of the now-defunct Shelby County Co-op, their land a part of an area controlled by Virgil’s and Rick Said’s sonic drill operation. The drilling was a safe and effective way to extract natural gas from the land, a technology invented by Said’s company that was revolutionizing the fracking industry. The drilling had made Virgil and Sandy, and Carl Johnson rich, Rick Said even richer, and Mizner and Graves comfortable…not to mention a little bored. Everyone had gotten a piece of the pie, though Mizner’s and Graves’s slices weren’t nearly as big. Still, they came out smelling like roses instead of pig flop and moldy corn.
“Maybe we should buy Nick’s kitchen and hire a new chef,” Mizner said. Then, “Hey, look at that.” He pointed out the window and said, “Looks like Wilbur finally decided to fix up that old barn. Got a new roof and everything. I thought for sure he was going to let that place go. His truck is there. How about we stop in and say hello?”
“Might as well,” Graves said. “We could walk off some of this heartburn.”
They slowed, then turned up the gravel path that led to the barn.
Cool landed the helicopter right next to the cultural center’s equipment storage facility, and Stronghill climbed in. Once he was buckled up and had his headset on, he gave Cool a nod, and they took off, headed back toward Indy, where they’d pick up Virgil and Murton, then continue on north to the center of Michigan, and the Isabella Reservation.
Stronghill looked at Cool and said, “Jonesy tell you what’s going on?”
“Not really, other than where we’re going. Sometimes it feels like I’m just the bus driver.”
Stronghill looked around the interior of the helicopter. “Pretty nice bus, though. Man, that day you were bleeding out in the back when Bell flew us out of Freedom…”
Cool waved him off. “I don’t like to think about it.”
They’d just finished loading the van at the back of the barn when Johnny looked at Dakota and said, “Hear that?”
“Sounds like someone coming up the path.”
Johnny grabbed a shotgun from right inside the barn door, a wicked Ithaca pistol-grip shotgun, then said, “I told that old man not to come nosing around here.”
“Maybe it’s not him,” Dakota said.
“Don’t matter. Can’t have anyone knowing we’re here or what we’re doing. Whoever it is, they ain’t leaving.”
Graves and Mizner got out of the truck and walked up to the barn’s Judas door. When Graves turned the handle the door didn’t budge. “Must be locked from the inside.” He beat on the door with his fist and called out, “Hey Wilbur? You in there?”
At the rear of the barn, Johnny covered his mouth with the crook of his elbow and yelled, “I’m in the back.”
Mizner looked at Graves and said, “What’d he say?”
“I think he said he’s out back. Christ, what’s that smell?”
Both men walked to the side of the building and turned to make their way to the rear of the barn. When they turned the final corner, they saw the Ithaca come up in Johnny’s hands, and both men froze. They were only ten feet away. Graves found his voice first. “Who the hell are you guys, and where’s Wilbur?”
“Who we are isn’t any of your business, old man. What are you doing here?”
“I just told you. We’re looking for Wilbur.”
“He ain’t here,” Johnny said. “And neither are you.”
The first shot took out their legs. The second took care of their heartburn.
When the other men working inside the barn heard the sh
otgun blasts, they came running outside. Johnny, a little amped up from just killing two men swung the gun their way and said, “Get inside and back to work.” Everyone did what they were told. Then he turned to Dakota and said, “Call your guy and tell him you’re going to be an hour late. We gotta take care of this before you leave.”
Dakota made the call, put on a pair of gloves, then pulled Mizner’s truck around back, and with Johnny’s help, tossed the bodies in the bed. When Dakota searched the glovebox, he found out where Mizner lived. He showed Johnny the address and said, “Any idea where that is?”
“Not exactly, but I know the road. It ain’t far. Maybe four or five miles. I’ll head that way in Wilbur’s truck, and you can follow. Maybe this guy has a barn or something. We’ll park it in there and leave it. Keep them gloves on.”
“What about the batch we’ve got cooking right now? You want to leave those guys in there to their own devices?”
Johnny shook his head. He should have thought of that. “Okay, you stay here. I’ll get one of those idiots to drive the other truck. Let me have them gloves.”
Cool touched down at the Million-Air fixed base operations center where he found Virgil and Murton waiting. Once everyone was on board, Cool got his departure clearance, and they were all headed north. Virgil leaned forward and said, “How long?”
Cool looked at Stronghill and said, “Told ya.” Then to Virgil, “About two hours. Relax and enjoy the ride.”
“Two hours? Maybe we should have taken the jet.”
“Don’t think the Isabella has a runway, Jonesy.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Virgil sat back and stared out the window.
“You need to relax a little,” Murton said. “As long as the fuel pump holds out, we’re good. Take a nap or something.”
Chapter Fifteen
Johnny found Mizner’s place without too much difficulty and was more than a little relieved when he saw that the man did indeed have a barn, and from the looks of it, a nice one. They made a slow pass, then when they were a half-mile away, Johnny pulled over and walked back to the other truck to speak with the driver. “Here’s the thing: We don’t know if this guy is married or has anyone living with him, or whatever. I want you to go back there and knock on the front door and see if anyone is home.”
“What if they are?”
“Just make some shit up…like you’re lost or something. Tell them you’re looking for the new cultural center.”
“Hell, man, everyone knows where that place is.”
“Not if they just arrived,” Johnny said. “Use your head, will you?”
“What if no one answers?”
Johnny had to fight the urge to punch the man in the face. “That’s what we’re hoping for. If no one answers, come back here, then we’ll stash this truck in the barn and get the hell out. Got it?”
“Okay, I get it. Be right back.”
“Make it quick. I’ve got two dead bodies in the back of this ride. If someone comes along, I’m toast.”
The other man took off, and Johnny turned the truck around. He had to wait five agonizing minutes, but when the other guy came back, he brought the news they were hoping for. “No one is home.”
“Good. Get turned around and follow me.” Johnny covered the half-mile in about forty-five seconds, then turned into the drive and pulled up right next to the barn door. The building, he thought, looked almost brand new. Instead of sliding doors, it had a huge overhead door that opened on rollers. Johnny looked up at the visor and saw a remote opener. When he pushed the button, the barn door started to roll up. Once he had the clearance he needed, Johnny backed the truck in tight next to a stack of hay bales, then grabbed the remote from the visor. After they walked outside, he hit the button and the doors closed downward. Once they were shut, they got back in their own vehicle and headed back to Wilbur’s barn.
Virgil tried to take Murton’s advice, but he found it impossible to nap on the helicopter. There was some mild turbulence, plus, the beat of the rotor blades kept him awake. He leaned forward and tapped Cool on the shoulder. “Can you give me and Murt a private intercom channel? I need to speak with him about a sensitive issue.”
Cool told him no problem, then flipped a few switches, and gave him a thumbs up.
Murton looked at his brother and said, “What was all that about?”
Virgil watched the countryside slide by for a few seconds, then turned to his brother. “I need your advice. Your guidance.”
Murton always enjoyed poking fun at Virgil. He also knew this wasn’t one of those times. “Sure, what’s up?”
“I had a little chat with Dad. He said something to me, and I’m not sure I know what to do about it.”
“What’d he say?”
“We were speaking about this case. At least I thought we were. I’m not quite sure. Anyway, he said something like he was concerned, and I thought he was speaking about me and the pills. Except he wasn’t.”
“What exactly did he say?” Murton said.
“He said that certain things are set in stone, and they can’t be changed.”
“What does that mean?” Murton said.
“That’s exactly what I asked him,” Virgil said. “He said it meant I was going to be asked to do something, and I had to say no. He said I had to refuse even if it cost me my job. When I asked him what it was, he said he couldn’t say any more than that.”
“Couldn’t, or wouldn’t,” Murton said.
“He used the word couldn’t. Then he said it’s all he knew.”
Virgil and Murton knew each other as both best friends and brothers. When Murton responded, he said almost exactly the same thing Virgil had said to his father. “How the hell are you supposed to know what to refuse? We get asked to do things almost every day.”
Virgil let out a little chuckle. “That’s pretty much what I said to him. He told me he didn’t know, and that he hoped it would come to me in the moment.”
Murton looked out the window for a long time. When he turned back to Virgil he said, “What do you need from me?”
“Like I said, I need your help. I’m afraid that whatever it is, it will be something so insignificant that I might miss it, or on the other hand, it might be something so major it’d be all but impossible to say no. I need you to check me. Try to help me figure it out.”
“I can do that,” Murton said. “I don’t suppose he happened to mention what the consequences would be if you did the thing you’re not supposed to do, did he?”
“What do you think?”
Murton thought about it for a few minutes, then said, “It’s the set in stone part that bothers me.”
Virgil looked Murton in the eye and simply nodded, his mouth drawn into a thin tight line.
An hour later they touched down on the Isabella Reservation, right next to the tribal police headquarters. When the Chief came outside, the look on his face suggested he was not pleased to see a state police helicopter next to his building, especially since it wasn’t even from the state of Michigan.
Once Cool had everything shut down, the chief stepped up to the aircraft as everyone got out. Stronghill had his badge out, as did Virgil and Murton. Cool stayed on board.
The chief stepped up to Stronghill and said, “Agent Stronghill, what the hell are you doing bringing out-of-state police officers onto federal reservation land? I know you know better than that. I’m within my rights to confiscate this aircraft and have these men arrested.”
Stronghill smiled at the man. “Chief Longhorn, I wouldn’t be here, and neither would these men if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. Besides, do you or any of your guys know how to fly a helicopter?”
Longhorn laughed, then threw his arm around his nephew. “It’s good to see you again, Tony. How’s that little white girl you’ve been seeing?”
“Patty is fine, Chief. How are you?”
Longhorn waved the question away. “You know how it is up here. Same day, different pile of buffalo dung.”
> Stronghill turned toward Virgil and Murton and said, “Chief Longhorn, I’d like you to meet Indiana State Detectives Virgil Jones, and Murton Wheeler.”
Everyone shook hands with the chief, then Stronghill said, “We need your help. Can we talk inside?”
“Well, you flew all the way up here, so I guess I better agree. It’s a good thing you outrank me.”
They all took a seat in Longhorn’s office, then Stronghill looked at Virgil and said, “I’ll let Detective Jones bring you up to speed.”
Virgil thanked Stronghill, then looked at Longhorn and said, “We appreciate your help, Chief.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Detective. I haven’t done anything yet.”
“I’m hopeful that once you hear what we’re working on, you’ll be willing to share some information with us.”
“Go on,” Longhorn said.
Virgil was about to tell Longhorn what they wanted, but the chief interrupted him. “You said your name is Jones?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you the owner of that cultural center down south? The one where we’ve been sending some of our people?”
“Not exactly, sir. I was the former owner of the land where the cultural center is now located. The center itself is owned by a non-profit called the Lucea Foundation. They provide the majority of the funding.”
Longhorn leaned forward across his desk. “Where does the rest of the funding come from?” There was no mistaking his tone.
Virgil knew he had to tread lightly, out of respect for the man he was speaking to, and his people at large. “The rest of the funding comes from a safe and effective natural gas extraction method invented by a company out of Kentucky. It’s called—”
“Sonic drilling technology, if I’m not mistaken,” Longhorn said. “A fancy way of saying fracking, isn’t it?”
Virgil nodded. “With respect, yes sir.”
