by Thomas Scott
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Haven’t you heard, boy? Every cop in the state is looking for you and your buddy. They came here a day or two ago—I don’t exactly remember when—but three of them showed up and got right in my face. Had pictures of you and that other fellow…wanting to know if I’d seen you around.”
When Johnny heard that he almost panicked, but he managed to remain calm. He took a deep breath and let his voice take on a friendly tone. “Gotta watch out for those cops, that’s for sure.”
Wilbur took another drink and said, “No doubt about it. What’d you do anyway? The cops…they wouldn’t tell me.”
Johnny ignored the question, put a smile on his face, and walked over to the sets of golf clubs. “Man, do you even know what you’ve got here? You should sell some of these clubs. You could make a fortune. They don’t make them like this anymore.”
“Ain’t no fortune in them clubs,” Wilbur said. “They don’t make them like that anymore for a reason.”
Johnny shook his head. “That’s not true. I mean, look at this…a one iron with a wooden shaft?” He reached into the bag and pulled the club free. “Do you know how many people can hit a one iron?”
“Rumor is, it’s God and Arnold Palmer. I know I never could,” Wilbur said. “Not even back in the day when I still golfed. I was actually pretty good.”
“I still am,” Johnny said. “Though I don’t get out often enough. Mind if I give it a few swings?”
Wilbur leaned up against the old boat and said, “Suit yourself.”
Johnny took the club outside and though he’d never golfed a day in his life, he had seen it done. He took a few practice swings, getting a feel for the club. When he turned back to Wilbur, he was still leaning on the boat. He walked back into the garage and said, “I guess I’m a little rusty.” He held the club straight out in front of himself and wiggled it back and forth. “Still, it feels pretty nice. Anyway, what did you say those cops wanted with me?”
Wilbur had turned his back and was rummaging around the boat’s interior. “Weren’t you listening? I told you, they wouldn’t say. Just wanted to know if I seen you or not.”
“What’d you tell them?”
“I said no. It’s like I done told you before, I know how to keep my mouth shut.”
The problem for Johnny was this: He actually believed the old guy. If Wilbur had told the cops anything, they’d have already been busted, which meant the old man really did know how to keep his mouth shut. Except, a drunk is a drunk, their first and last loyalty to the bottle alone, and if Wilbur got pinched by the cops again, he’d make a deal and start talking. And that was something Johnny couldn’t let happen.
Wilbur said, “Ah, here it is. Knew I hid this in here at one point or another.” He stood up and pulled a long slender object wrapped in oilcloth from the bottom of the boat. “You want to see something worth some money, I’ll show you.” He turned to Johnny with a drunken smile on his face, and when he did, Johnny took the club and swung at Wilbur’s head, the club end burying itself inside the old man’s skull.
Wilbur dropped to his knees, then fell flat on his side, the club sticking out of his skull like a giant arrow. He still had half a smile on his face.
And Johnny thought, Huh, maybe I can hit a one iron after all.
Then he had to hurry.
He pulled the garage door down, found the overhead light, and turned it on. Now out of sight in case anyone drove by, he went to the freezer and lifted the lid. The freezer was on and Johnny got a blast of cold air in his face. When he looked inside, he found it was completely empty except for one frozen pizza sitting on a side shelf at the top of the unit. He removed the pizza, ripped the shelf out of its bracket, then went over and yanked the club free from Wilbur’s head and tossed it aside. He retrieved the cash he’d handed over for the use of the garage and stuck it back in his own pocket. When he tried to lift the old man, he discovered the true nature of the term dead weight.
He grabbed Wilbur by the ankles and dragged him over to the freezer, then with no small amount of effort, managed to get his body packed inside. He slammed the lid, and by the time he was done, he found himself sweating from the entire ordeal.
Then, just out of curiosity, he unwrapped the oilcloth to see what the old coot had been rattling on about. What he found was an old M1941 Johnson .30-06 rifle, with a full rotary magazine. Johnny smiled. Had the old man been on to him? Was he going to shoot him and call the cops? Johnny didn’t know, so he let the thought float away to wherever floating thoughts tend to go, tucked the rifle under his arm, then grabbed the pizza and went inside the house. He’d worked up an appetite.
Dakota had enough of a head start on Rosencrantz and Martin that they couldn’t pick him up on their tracking receiver. They knew he’d driven away to the east, but after that, they had no idea if he’d gone all the way over to Highway 9, or had taken one of the back roads to stay out of sight.
Martin, who was driving, said, “I’ll bet he took one of the back roads south. Some of them are a straight shot that eventually intersect with Highway 9.”
Rosencrantz wasn’t convinced. “I don’t know. I could see him doing that on the way up with a truckload of drugs. You’d want to stay off the highways as much as possible. But going back, all he has is a bag full of cash. If he stuffs that into one of those Prime boxes, even if he got pulled over, he’d still feel pretty safe. I’m thinking he takes the slow route up, and the fast route back.”
They were coming up on the last intersection before they hit the highway. “You call it,” Martin said.
“Let’s go with the highway and push it,” Rosencrantz said. “We’ve got a five-mile range on the receiver, so we’ll know soon enough.”
“Hope you’re right.”
Rosencrantz took out his cell phone and tried to call Ross. When the signal wouldn’t go through, he called Virgil. “We have a small problem…emphasis on the word small.”
“What is it?” Virgil said.
“After Dakota made the drop, we got delayed and couldn’t get out of there in time to keep him within range of the tracking device. He’s got a pretty good head start, we don’t know where he is, and I can’t reach Ross because I’m guessing they’ve got too much altitude. Bottom line, we don’t know where he is right now.”
“Where are you?” Virgil said.
“We just made the turn south on Highway 9. We’re pushing it, but so far we’re not picking anything up. Have you heard from Cool?”
“Not yet,” Virgil said. “They’re still too far out.”
“So we’re not sure if he and Ross have him either.”
Virgil didn’t want to hear that. “Hang tight, Rosie. I’ve got an idea. Keep pushing south on Nine, and I’ll call you back.”
Rosencrantz hung up and looked at Martin. “Jonesy says he has an idea. He’s going to call us back.”
Martin glanced over at him and said, “How’d you do that? Get rid of the email and the video and all that?”
Rosencrantz smiled. “Ah, we’ve got this woman who works with our unit, Becky—”
“Murton’s wife?”
“That’s the one. Anyway, she has certain talents…”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Virgil turned to Murton and said, “Remember that time a few years ago when Mac and Cora flew out to my place? You were there, and the troopers were about to go on strike. Mac was getting ready to call out the National Guard.”
“Yeah, I remember. What about it?” Murton said.
“It was the media. The story had already broken and they had helicopters flying overhead. You made a call and got them to go away.”
“Yeah. Becky got me the number for air traffic control out of Indy. What of it?”
“Do you still have the number?” Virgil said.
Murton took out his phone, scrolled through the contacts, and found the number. “Yep. Got it right here.”
“Give them a call and ask
them to get in touch with Cool in the state’s chopper. Tell them to have him descend until he’s low enough that Rosencrantz can reach Ross on his cell.”
“You got it, Jones-man,” Murton said. He dialed the number and stepped out into the hallway for a few minutes. Once he was back, he said, “They’re trying to reach him now. Said it might take a couple of minutes to figure out what frequency he’s on, but they’ll get him.”
Virgil gave Murton a tight nod and called Rosencrantz back. “Keep trying Ross. You’ll get through to him eventually. We’ve got ATC trying to contact Cool right now. When they get him, he’s going to descend into cell phone range.”
Rosencrantz said he would and ended the call.
Johnny went inside Wilbur’s house, popped the pizza in what was, he thought, the single most disgusting microwave he’d ever seen. It was so bad, he almost didn’t do it. But he was hungry, and while the microwave was filthy, he knew it wouldn’t kill him. Then, while he was waiting for the pizza to heat up, he began rummaging around the kitchen. He found an unopened bottle of Wild Turkey and poured himself a liberal amount from a modestly clean glass. The alcohol hit the back of his throat like a blowtorch, but after the first few sips, it evened out. Either that or I’ve just burned all my taste buds off, Johnny thought.
Either way.
He finished the glass and poured himself another, and he was halfway through that one when the microwave dinged at him. He pulled the pizza out and discovered that half of it was bone cold, and the other half was hotter than the surface of the sun. He set it on a paper plate to equalize the temperature, then checked the time. He still had about an hour or so before Dakota would be back. And then, while thinking of Dakota…
This:
Johnny had been dipping into their own supply of product without telling anyone. Not much, because he knew it was dangerous and addictive as hell, but it did keep his motor running, and right now, he needed the mental engine firing on all cylinders. He pulled a pipe from his pocket, dropped some meth into the bowl, and lit up. The Wild Turkey buzz didn’t exactly go away, rather it was enhanced by the chemical rush the drug provided. Suddenly, Johnny thought he could do anything. Then…
The paranoia. He knew it would come because it always did. The solution was right in front of him. Another hit.
Johnny was rolling now, his mind clear, the pizza forgotten, replaced by the words the old man had said. The cops were on to them. It was only a matter of time now. They’d have to shut down and get the hell out of the state. Maybe even the country, if that was possible. Make a little run down to Mexico. Money wasn’t a problem—though they didn’t have enough for a lifetime, they had enough to last them for a number of years, especially if they could make it to Mexico.
Then another thought, though he hated to let his mind go there. What if he got in Wilbur’s truck and simply took off? Dakota could fend for himself. He was coming back with a half-million dollars, and that wasn’t exactly chump change, now, was it? But how to take himself out of the hunt? The cops would never stop looking for him. Unless…
They thought he was dead.
Johnny took another hit off the pipe and a plan began to form in his mind, almost like a message beamed straight into his brain from parts unknown. He checked the time, then went back out to the garage to find a few things. The old man had everything under the sun in there. Surely he’d have what Johnny needed.
And he did. It took him a little longer than expected, but Johnny eventually found what he was looking for. He collected the items, placed everything in Wilbur’s new truck, ran back inside to grab the rifle, took one more hit off the pipe, said fuck the pizza, then went back outside and headed for the barn. Had to get there before Dakota did.
The air traffic controllers eventually made contact with Cool, who took the chopper down enough that a call could come through. He turned to Ross, who was sitting in the back with the tracking receiver and said, “Check your phone. You’ll probably be getting a call.”
Ross pulled his phone out, and as soon as he did, the screen lit up. Rosencrantz.
“Please tell me you’ve got him,” Rosencrantz said.
“Yeah, we’ve been on him ever since he left the drop point. He’s running straight down Highway 9, south of Greenfield, in Hancock County. Where are you guys?”
“We got hung up for a few minutes after the exchange. By the time we got on the road, we didn’t have a signal. In fact, we still don’t have one.”
“Where are you?” Ross asked.
“About five miles north of Greenfield.”
“Okay, keep pushing it. You’ll catch up. But don’t worry, we’ve got him.”
“Good enough. Tell Cool to hold his altitude if he can in case I need you.”
“You got it. Better call Jonesy and let them know he’s getting close,” Ross said.
Rosencrantz told him he would, then made the call. Martin increased her speed.
They had a rule. No one was allowed to cook unless either Hawk or Dakota were present to supervise. The whole operation was dangerous enough, and they didn’t want some brain-fried Indians trying to go it alone. As a result, when Johnny got back to the barn, it was deserted, which was exactly what he wanted.
He parked Wilbur’s new truck right in front of the building, left the engine running, then ran to the side of the barn with a roll of duct tape and four road flares. They used a 420-pound vertical propane tank that provided the fuel for the cooking operation, and the tank—roughly four feet tall and only three feet wide—sat right along the outside wall of the barn. They’d camouflaged it with a woodland-patterned vinyl tarp.
Johnny tore the tarp off, then duct-taped the flares to the sides, near the bottom. With that done, he walked out to the tents and found the man he was looking for. “C’mon, get up. I’ve got a job for you.”
“I just went to sleep. Can’t you get someone else to do it?”
“If I could get someone else to do it, I wouldn’t be talking to you,” Johnny said. “Let’s go.”
The man muttered something unintelligible—Johnny didn’t know what, nor did he care—and got to his feet. They walked back to the barn and went inside.
“We need to get better organized in here,” Johnny said. “Take those unused chemical containers over there and stack them against the wall. Then, when you’re done with that, I want the floor swept clean. Got it?”
“Yeah, I got it. Gonna take me half the damned day. Why are you making me do all the grunt work?”
“Why else? You’re my best worker. Thought you might like a little bonus.” He hated to do it, but he pulled the money out of his pocket and handed it over. “Here’s five grand for the extra work. Keep your mouth shut about it.”
The man smiled at him and got to work.
“Don’t come out of this barn until you’re done. Got it?”
“Yeah, for five grand, I got it for sure. Thanks, Johnny. You’re a straight-up dude.”
When the man turned his back and got to work, Johnny climbed up to the loft, took out his wallet and cell phone, then set them on the floor under one of the chairs. When he climbed back down, he grabbed the last remaining bags of meth, walked out of the barn, and quietly locked the door behind him. That done, he moved around to the side where the propane tank sat. He lit the flares, ran back to the truck, and drove what he hoped was a safe enough distance away.
The flares were burning bright, even in the light of day. He could see the flames beginning to peel the paint away from the outside of the tank. Time to hurry.
He grabbed the rifle, leaned it across the hood of the truck, and sited in on the tank. Now or never, he thought. He whispered, BOOM, then fired off three quick shots and ducked down, his back against the side of the truck’s front tire.
And then the barn was simply gone. Johnny felt the pressure blast and the heat from the explosion. When he looked at where the barn used to be, there was nothing left except a fireball raging away from the unused chemicals as they burn
ed. He got in the truck and headed back to Wilbur’s. Needed another hit on the pipe.
Rosencrantz and Martin caught up to Dakota as he entered Shelby County. They stayed a mile back and tracked him right into Shelbyville. Rosencrantz called Virgil and told him they were back on the signal.
Cool, who was now in radio range, keyed his microphone and radioed the sheriff’s office. “He’s passing right by you now, one block to the east. Give me a few minutes and I’ll have a solid direction for you.”
Miles acknowledged the call, and everyone looked out the conference room window, even though they all knew they wouldn’t be able to see the van.
Five minutes later, Cool was back. “Looks like he’s headed southwest on Highway 44. Standby.” Two minutes later: “Subject vehicle still southwest bound on, uh, wait one…I don’t know the name of that road…the highway bends west, but he’s still going southwest.”
“That’s South Miller Avenue,” one of the deputies said.
Henderson was nodding. “If he stays on South Miller, it turns into Smithland Road once you’re past West 250 South.”
At the exact same time that time Betty came running into the room, they all heard the sirens. “There’s a report of a major explosion,” she said. “Southwest of the town of Fenns, somewhere between South Shelby road, and South Columbus road. Volunteers are on the way, but the Shelbyville fire department has been called in to assist.”
Miles said, “Thank you, Betty.” Then to the rest of the room, “What are the chances their lab just blew?”
“They usually do, eventually,” Henderson said.
Then Cool was on the radio. “We’ve got a major explosion southwest. Target vehicle still heading in that direction.”
Miles said, “Jonesy, tell Cool to tighten up on the van. If the lab just blew up, he’s going to make a run for it.” Then, to the deputies in the room: “You guys know this county better than anyone. Fan out around that explosion and do not let that van through. Let’s go.”
